Okay, looking back on Chapter Two of Zombi Siege, I decided it was utter crap.
I then went into word and re-typeed the entire second half of the chapter.
So, without any ado, here is Zombi Siege 2: Revamped
ZOMBI SIEGE
___Chapter Two___
Ver·i·Tas (Vârêtâs), noun: Latin for “Truth”; the only remaining government settlement, created after the downfall of Pre-Mortem civilization, this settlement was created, and is known as the headquarters to the Hostilis.
The ancient asphalt crushed under the biker’s wheels as he rode into the Slums of Old Las Vegas. The stench of the city consisted of what seemed like the stink you get cooking expired fish on an open flame. Unbearable.
What was once a beautiful yet dizzying array of neon lights and super-sized decorative buildings, is now an empty ruin. Soft groans could be heard in the distance, notifying the rider of the immense city’s new inhabitants.
It wasn’t very far into the city until the rider’s nerves started getting the best of him. He began to look over his shoulders skittishly, expecting something to pop up from no-where and gut him.
He increased the throttle as the groans grew in frequency.
He reached the interior slums, and suddenly began to feel an urge to urinate.
The rider examined the surrounding area. It seemed familiar to him. To his left, a rustic themed building with its top floors completely removed; and to his left, a massive dried fountain which complimented a building that was based off of Greek architecture appeared to be, without a doubt, the Caesar’s Palace.
He rode inward passing what were once great gleaming structures of neon and shimmering metal.
Suddenly, he paused.
His head cocked, and his eyes went cold. He thumbed the motorcycle’s key off, pushed down the kickstand and let it lean. He drew a Glock-18 automatic pistol from inside his riding jacket, and checked the clip and slide. He cocked the weapon, and held it motionless at the side of his ruffles jeans. Approaching dust winds made his riding jacket rustle.
Within seconds moans became louder in the distance.
“Zeds,” the driver said in his gruff voice that leaked urgency. He slowly raised the gun as figures stumbled towards him out of the rising dust.
The first figure to become more than a blur and silhouette was a teenager, possibly sixteen years old. Gray skin, ridden with bite marks, contrasted with his dark brown hair. His t-shirt was scattered lazily across his torso in tatters, ripped apart from what looked like human hands. His jeans were clean, except for a tear in the knee and gore sprayed around the hole.
The driver tried not the reconstruct what had happened to the boy, but couldn’t help it. The kid had probably gotten ambushed in a field where a zombie had been lying on its broken legs, unable to stand, and bit him in the kneecap. The kid falls screaming, and gets his chest almost ripped open for his carelessness. He gets bit all over as he starts to go into shock.
He raised the Glock-18 with careful aim, and shot what was once a young teen square in its forehead causing a small fountain of coagulated blood and brain matter to spray spasmodically from his limp body. The Zed fell as if he had been lynched, legs first. No blood pooled, it rather scattered due to its coagulated thickness.
He aimed at the next one, which was a blonde pregnant female, and finished her with another headshot. The next shot was the same, as was the one after that, and after that, and the same shot over and over until the wave of Zeds were through, pausing occasionally to reload.
The last Zed dropped to its second grave as the rider started the ignition on his bike nonchalantly. He put his gun back home in his jacket, and sped away leaving the corpses to rot further.
His bike lurched as he switched on Turbo. The rider swept passed more and more destruction, all growing worse and worse with each square foot before reaching his destination.
His bike sputtered and crept along slowly while the rider examined his surroundings, expecting more Zeds. He suddenly found the end of his long trek at the mouth of an old Traffic Tunnel.
Several old chain link fences gated it off, as if a band of survivors from the First Days had made an attempt to create a makeshift barrier for themselves as they sought refuge from the hordes of Zeds. He lingered at the mouth of the tunnel expectantly. Suddenly, a fast groan passed his right ear. Before he could unholster his Glock-18, a Zed forced its way onto his arm, grasping it tightly.
The rider attempted to punch the Zed with his free arm, but the Zed grabbed the Rider’s arm before he could get off a clear punch. The Zed opened its mouth in attempts to bite the Rider, but he had managed to free his legs from their holsters in the bike, and kicked the Zed from his body with force. The Zed stumbled backwards several feet, and tripped over a storm drain, his head collapsing onto an old protruding piece of rebar on the sidewalk, ending its hungry “life”.
After he was able to get his Barings, the Rider quickly looked up, alerted by several more faceless groans that had joined the party. He drew his Glock-18 and advanced to the tunnel. His head craned backwards when the groans grew louder behind him.
He turned back toward the tunnel. The Rider proceeded with his search for a way in for several minutes to no avail. He considered finding another way into the tunnel, but the groans around him were growing in intensity.
He finally broke down and screamed into the tunnel. “Hello?” No answer. “Hello!” The results were unchanged. “This is Officer Lucas Alexander, LAPD. Can anyone hear me?”
Again, the answer was nil. He turned and considered forgetting his entire journey, but a strange noise escaped the tunnel.
“Are you infected?” Came a low voice from the shadows.
The Rider turned to the tunnel to meet the source of the voice, but found no face to be looking back at him, only a silhouette before a lamp in the darkness. “No, but if I stay out here much longer that’ll change.” Said the Rider. “Let me in, I’ve got a supply crate on my bike that you can use as collateral for my stay here.”
A young man stepped forward from the shadows to the gate to unlock it. The man wore nothing more than a faded blue jumpsuit, a Kevlar vest, a pair of black converse and a navy-blue beanie as protection.
“Are you alone?” Said the man “Did any of them follow you?”
“No, but I hear groans advancing from all directions. They’ll be here soon if you don’t let me in.”
The man held a Heckler & Koch MP7 Submachine Gun in his hands, along with what appeared to be an old pipe wrench of some kind, albeit heavily modified. He kneeled down to the bottom of the Fence and unscrewed a thick bolt. It was apparently a lock-and-key system for the gate, as the man proceeded to untighten several more bolts from other places of the gate, including parts that held in onto the concrete.
He raised a portion of the gate that the rider barely managed to fit his motorcycle through. He had barely touched the ground on the other side of the gate when another silhouette screamed “DAMMIT! ZEDS!”
The Rider turned to the gate instinctively, and pulled his Glock-18 from his jacket. The first figure he had met closed the gate and retightened the bolts quickly as his allies shot down incoming Zeds with the Rider’s help. The man had finished his work and bolted back with the others as a Zed launched itself onto the gate.
The Rider shot the old Zed Square between the eyes as a thick cloud of thick black blood splashed from his forehead. The Zed dropped to his feet as another had risen from the dust to take its place. The hordes seemed to be ongoing with no end, but the Rider kept on firing mercilessly into the crowd of rotting corpses.
There seemed to be a sort of pattern with his shots: head, neck, torso, torso, neck, head, and etcetera. Many of his shots counted as nothing more than a minor distraction for the Zeds as the men around the Rider finished the job of actually killing the Zeds.
As the last corpse fell, the Rider could not help but hold his position, gun ready, for several seconds afterward. Apparently the men around him had also had some close calls as well, because they too remained unchanging.
He could not see their faces, but the Rider had counted at least seven other muzzle flashes that had erupted around him. How could he have not turned on his flashlight to check the tunnel before trying to gain entry? They must have had a laugh watching him try to open the gate.
“Okay,” said the voice of the man who had opened the gate. “We should head down to the Dwellings. I think that’s the last of ‘em.”
The men then proceeded to turn on an old floodlight in the back of what appeared to be an old subway lobby. The light filled the room, illuminating every nook and cranny. There was nowhere to hide in here.
After closing what looked like a shopkeeper’s gate from an old mall over the already existing makeshift barrier. After this errand was finished, the Rider and this squad of apparent mechanics left the lobby without a word other than “Nice bike”.
EDIT
HELLO????
Any comments? I'm getting worried that no-one's enjoying my stories anymore :-(
Zombi Siege Chapter Two Revamped
