Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens
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PlayfulLittle1
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TheAnimalWithin
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Sitting in my room, bored almost to tears, upset I missed the chance at a good old-fashioned deadhead slaughter with Dave, I tip back the latest of what I must admit is a LOT of sips of very good whiskey I found on a recent walkabout. All of my weapons and gear are completely prepped, all of the casting and loading that needed doing is done, and the dance parties seem to have dropped off. Bored, restless, drunk....a perfect recipe for bad decisions. I nod once, firmly, convincing myself it's not THAT bad an idea, and grab one katana only, heading for the door.
I chuckle darkly as the door opens to let me out into the outside world. Drunk, shirtless wearing only a pair of cargo pants and decent fighting shoes, armed with one of my two blades. This should be entertaining, and quite possibly educational.
The door closes behind me, and the last thing the camera picks up is me tossing the empty bottle aside, raising my sword above my head, and saying to the darkness beyond the floodlights, "Ollie ollie ox-in-free, ready or not, you deadhead fucks, heeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Johnny!!!" then walking into the dark as if it were the arms of a lifelong love.
I chuckle darkly as the door opens to let me out into the outside world. Drunk, shirtless wearing only a pair of cargo pants and decent fighting shoes, armed with one of my two blades. This should be entertaining, and quite possibly educational.
The door closes behind me, and the last thing the camera picks up is me tossing the empty bottle aside, raising my sword above my head, and saying to the darkness beyond the floodlights, "Ollie ollie ox-in-free, ready or not, you deadhead fucks, heeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Johnny!!!" then walking into the dark as if it were the arms of a lifelong love.
Chaingun
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Rumbling back up to the motorpool gate, the truck is coughing and sputtering. Time to park this thing before it runs out of fuel. It has almost died more than once.
And the zombie guts that are covering the front bumper, stuck to the underside, and jammed into the tire treads are disgusting. It stinks. But I've killed so many of them that I'm out of ammo except for what I'm carrying for the Berretta 92F. Stupid small caliber pistol. I hate it. Italian trash. But it seems to work and there's a lot of ammo in mags piled on the seat next to me and there are a lot of magazines lying empty on the floor on the passenger side.
The dead just kept coming and the bullets just kept killing them. It went from being stress relief to fun to horrible to a fight for my life. And now the truck can't make it the last hundred feet. So here it stays.
And I can certainly fight my way to the door...well at least the door controls. Two rounds, three rounds, four and five, then six and seven. The dead are at least tripping the live ones when they go down. Eight, nine, ten, the bullets rip into them, bursting them, felling them like wheat before the scythe. "I am become death, destroyer of worlds," I laugh and continue firing until the magazine is dry. Drop it, keep moving, slam another one home, release the mag catch, and start counting again. One, two--miss--three--got him---four, five. They're slow but numerous. Six, seven, eight. I'm at the controls and punch in the code. One reaches for my shirt and nine turns his head into a canoe. Ten for the woman behind him, eleven for the child behind her. Twelve...missed. She's still coming.
The slide is jammed open from a stovepiped round in the ejection port. Clear the obstruction, rack the slide to chamber another, and squeeeeze the trigger as her gnashing teeth get closer. Her face explodes in a grisly mess of bone and brain and she goes down. I press buttons and the door begins to roll up. Finally. A few more rounds and I drop another mag and load another. Kicking one in the chest, he goes down, tripping two more. I fire into the one on top, hoping his weight will hold down the other two. They struggle but more are coming. I run for the door, the bad leg impeding my ability to get in quickly, but I keep firing.
Last mag. One, two, three. Four. Five. Pick the closest threats and fire. The door is going down. Six and seven. They're coming faster than I can fire. Too many. I retreat.
Eight and nine and ten. Running out. Three are in the door before it closes. I stumble over something. A wrench I left carelessly on the floor.
A shot goes wild as I fall. I crawl backwards. I fire the twelfth round and it hits low on the neck but doesn't kill the zombie. He keeps coming. I turn and crawl, scrabbling to my feet, and running. There's an APC ahead, door open, and I rush in and slam the door behind me. Two zombies are scratching at the door of the armored personnel carrier and the third is pounding on the sides as they look for a way to get at me. I'm safe, but trapped.
I hope somebody hears them in the motor pool. More importantly, I hope who ever comes down here isn't waylaid by the flesh eating horrors before they can get me out of here.
And the zombie guts that are covering the front bumper, stuck to the underside, and jammed into the tire treads are disgusting. It stinks. But I've killed so many of them that I'm out of ammo except for what I'm carrying for the Berretta 92F. Stupid small caliber pistol. I hate it. Italian trash. But it seems to work and there's a lot of ammo in mags piled on the seat next to me and there are a lot of magazines lying empty on the floor on the passenger side.
The dead just kept coming and the bullets just kept killing them. It went from being stress relief to fun to horrible to a fight for my life. And now the truck can't make it the last hundred feet. So here it stays.
And I can certainly fight my way to the door...well at least the door controls. Two rounds, three rounds, four and five, then six and seven. The dead are at least tripping the live ones when they go down. Eight, nine, ten, the bullets rip into them, bursting them, felling them like wheat before the scythe. "I am become death, destroyer of worlds," I laugh and continue firing until the magazine is dry. Drop it, keep moving, slam another one home, release the mag catch, and start counting again. One, two--miss--three--got him---four, five. They're slow but numerous. Six, seven, eight. I'm at the controls and punch in the code. One reaches for my shirt and nine turns his head into a canoe. Ten for the woman behind him, eleven for the child behind her. Twelve...missed. She's still coming.
The slide is jammed open from a stovepiped round in the ejection port. Clear the obstruction, rack the slide to chamber another, and squeeeeze the trigger as her gnashing teeth get closer. Her face explodes in a grisly mess of bone and brain and she goes down. I press buttons and the door begins to roll up. Finally. A few more rounds and I drop another mag and load another. Kicking one in the chest, he goes down, tripping two more. I fire into the one on top, hoping his weight will hold down the other two. They struggle but more are coming. I run for the door, the bad leg impeding my ability to get in quickly, but I keep firing.
Last mag. One, two, three. Four. Five. Pick the closest threats and fire. The door is going down. Six and seven. They're coming faster than I can fire. Too many. I retreat.
Eight and nine and ten. Running out. Three are in the door before it closes. I stumble over something. A wrench I left carelessly on the floor.
A shot goes wild as I fall. I crawl backwards. I fire the twelfth round and it hits low on the neck but doesn't kill the zombie. He keeps coming. I turn and crawl, scrabbling to my feet, and running. There's an APC ahead, door open, and I rush in and slam the door behind me. Two zombies are scratching at the door of the armored personnel carrier and the third is pounding on the sides as they look for a way to get at me. I'm safe, but trapped.
I hope somebody hears them in the motor pool. More importantly, I hope who ever comes down here isn't waylaid by the flesh eating horrors before they can get me out of here.
Chaingun
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Exhausted and thirsty, I am still trapped in the Armored Personnel Carrier. I was lucky; there was a backpack of MRE's and they have been able to sustain me. I can hear the three zombies outside, scrabbling and clawing at the metal catches of the door and the armored sides. Judiciously used, the four MRE's have kept me from dying in this metal coffin.
The one time I heard them quiet down, I attempted to climb out of the hatch and onto the roof. Finally standing up again, I realized that I had to pee and stood there in the middle of the motor pool and unzipped, pissing over the side of the big conveyance. The noise unfortunately roused them and re-attracted them to me. Their attempts to climb on the machine were frantic and I found myself wishing that the battery of the APC was charged. I'd simply start it up and run their miserable carcasses down. Or worst case scenario, I'd blow the horn until someone sobered up enough to come help.
But the thing is dead, like I'll be if someone doesn't come to my rescue. There's no food left; I ate the last package of macaroni and cheese this morning. And there's certainly no water.
"Ellaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Kittennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!" My yelling is driving the undead crazy. They beat themselves senseless against the armor plating and I'm beginning to despair that anyone will rescue me.
If only there was some tool or piece of iron in here that I could use as a weapon. Outrunning them with my permanently damaged leg isn't an option. A hand to hand fight might be suicide. I will have to wait a little while longer. If only one of the ladies would come help. Where's Whip when you need her? Kitten is probably playing with the yarn I left her. And Ella is probably falling down drunk anywhere. Silly hot mess that one is.
The one time I heard them quiet down, I attempted to climb out of the hatch and onto the roof. Finally standing up again, I realized that I had to pee and stood there in the middle of the motor pool and unzipped, pissing over the side of the big conveyance. The noise unfortunately roused them and re-attracted them to me. Their attempts to climb on the machine were frantic and I found myself wishing that the battery of the APC was charged. I'd simply start it up and run their miserable carcasses down. Or worst case scenario, I'd blow the horn until someone sobered up enough to come help.
But the thing is dead, like I'll be if someone doesn't come to my rescue. There's no food left; I ate the last package of macaroni and cheese this morning. And there's certainly no water.
"Ellaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Kittennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!" My yelling is driving the undead crazy. They beat themselves senseless against the armor plating and I'm beginning to despair that anyone will rescue me.
If only there was some tool or piece of iron in here that I could use as a weapon. Outrunning them with my permanently damaged leg isn't an option. A hand to hand fight might be suicide. I will have to wait a little while longer. If only one of the ladies would come help. Where's Whip when you need her? Kitten is probably playing with the yarn I left her. And Ella is probably falling down drunk anywhere. Silly hot mess that one is.
PlayfulLittle1
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Left to my own devices for a little too long, I've taken to hiding out in some of the deeper darker corners of the bunker. My own head isn't a good place for me to stay, it's dark enough some days. I'm pretty well convinced that I'm going insane anyway. I have very little evidence to the contrary. The world is overrun by the undead, and a full grown woman contents herself playing kitten? What sort of sense does that make.
Add to that I keep hallucinating sounds... yelling... things like that.
I finally decide to wander the halls of the bunker to prove to myself nothing is out there. There's no way in hell deadheads can get in here, not with Dave and animal patrolling... unthinkable.
But the nearer I get to the motor pool, the more convinced I am that this time the noises are real.
"Fucking hell," I mutter.
I race back to my room and scrounge what weaponry I can carry on my own before returning to the door, pressing my back to the wall and breathing deeply, shaking under the weight of the metal, guns and ammunition, before steeling myself, and throwing the door open, taking quick stock of the situation and opening fire on the obvious targets and yelling to Dave at the same time.
"Get your ass down here, Dave, I'm not cut out for this bullshit!" I call as bullets ricochet, some of them miraculously hitting targets as I edge closer to where Dave has been holed up. I pause long enough to heave a weapon up to him and the rapid fire of bullets starts again.
Add to that I keep hallucinating sounds... yelling... things like that.
I finally decide to wander the halls of the bunker to prove to myself nothing is out there. There's no way in hell deadheads can get in here, not with Dave and animal patrolling... unthinkable.
But the nearer I get to the motor pool, the more convinced I am that this time the noises are real.
"Fucking hell," I mutter.
I race back to my room and scrounge what weaponry I can carry on my own before returning to the door, pressing my back to the wall and breathing deeply, shaking under the weight of the metal, guns and ammunition, before steeling myself, and throwing the door open, taking quick stock of the situation and opening fire on the obvious targets and yelling to Dave at the same time.
"Get your ass down here, Dave, I'm not cut out for this bullshit!" I call as bullets ricochet, some of them miraculously hitting targets as I edge closer to where Dave has been holed up. I pause long enough to heave a weapon up to him and the rapid fire of bullets starts again.
Chaingun
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Standing on the APC, I catch the Ruger SP101 that Playful throws me. Five shots of 357 Magnum on board. Two each for the two dead men and one for the woman. NOW those fuckers are dead.
The revolver is empty and smoking. I'm tired, dirty, hurt, hungry, and...thirsty.
"Let's go get a drink," I say.
She looks at my condition and says, "I think you need a shower. THAT is a lot of zombie guts for one man to wear. Yuck!"
The revolver is empty and smoking. I'm tired, dirty, hurt, hungry, and...thirsty.
"Let's go get a drink," I say.
She looks at my condition and says, "I think you need a shower. THAT is a lot of zombie guts for one man to wear. Yuck!"
sereneone4u
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Hello Chaingun
PlayfulLittle1
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I'm too relieved to see Dave to care about how he smells. I wrap an arm around his middle and walk with him to the showers, helping peel off the disgusting remnants of fabric that will no longer pass for clothing. Those will need to be incinerated as soon as possible, I think.
As the water begins to wash the grime away I leave him and head for the kitchen, grabbing water bottles (along with a bottle of something extra) and throwing easy food onto a couple of plates, juggling the whole lot back with me to my room and laying it all out on the bed.
I go back to stand in the door of the shower to wait for Dave to finish, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, with a hint of a smile on my face.
It's nice when there's someone around to scare the nightmares away. Even if I had to help. A little.
As the water begins to wash the grime away I leave him and head for the kitchen, grabbing water bottles (along with a bottle of something extra) and throwing easy food onto a couple of plates, juggling the whole lot back with me to my room and laying it all out on the bed.
I go back to stand in the door of the shower to wait for Dave to finish, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, with a hint of a smile on my face.
It's nice when there's someone around to scare the nightmares away. Even if I had to help. A little.
Chaingun
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sereneone4u
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Chaingun
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Ravenously wolfing down the food offered to me, I pause every couple of minutes and thank playful again. I think she's getting tired of me saying thank you so much though.
And it's good to be clean even if all I've got on is a loose fitting pair of shorts and one of my old t-shirts.
"I can't believe how well you handled yourself down there. I know you don't like to fight and want not part of the outside world, but without you, I'd have died out there. Kitten, I do believe that when I'm rested up, I want to scratch more than just your ears."
Chaingun
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*grins*
Guess who is really happy right now?
I'm guessing the sweetest princess of them all?
sereneone4u
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I'm guessing the sweetest princess of them all?
How did you ever guess?
*glowing and smiling*
PlayfulLittle1
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I sit at the foot of the bed, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, my back against the wall, watching Dave eat and drink.
I shrug, "I did what anyone would, and no thanks is needed. I'd have died a hundred times over already if it weren't for you and this bunker. I can't imagine a scenario where you'll ever owe me anything."
I'm a little troubled by my own preoccupation. What if I hadn't ventured out? What if I hadn't heard him in time because I was too caught up in my own pitiful musings? I shake my head a little to try to clear out the what-ifs and concentrate on the present.
"Do you need anything else? I can get more from the kitchen if you're still hungry..."
I shrug, "I did what anyone would, and no thanks is needed. I'd have died a hundred times over already if it weren't for you and this bunker. I can't imagine a scenario where you'll ever owe me anything."
I'm a little troubled by my own preoccupation. What if I hadn't ventured out? What if I hadn't heard him in time because I was too caught up in my own pitiful musings? I shake my head a little to try to clear out the what-ifs and concentrate on the present.
"Do you need anything else? I can get more from the kitchen if you're still hungry..."
Chaingun
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Your company is plenty, thank you.
Chaingun
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Come on, you know me better than that. And you know that I know things. And I know that you know that I know things. And...
Meh, never mind.
I'm all messed up on cough syrup, so just pay me no never mind...
PlayfulLittle1
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You've always got that. Whenever you want it.
sereneone4u
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*smiles brightly*
I am happier than I have been in a decade or longer.
I would PM you but my box is constantly stuffed.
Chaingun
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*smiles brightly*
I am happier than I have been in a decade or longer.
I would PM you but my box is constantly stuffed.
You and your silly euphemisms.
But I'm glad you're happy even if you deactivated the other you.
Chaingun
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Just another reason why I tell people I'm a lucky guy.
PlayfulLittle1
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*chuckles* People? Been a while since there've been many around to tell.
PlayfulLittle1
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*fond smiles* Talking to yourself assures that you're keeping good company.
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