Post by uwasawaya on Jun 21, 2006 20:17:38 GMT -5
This is a bit long, and I don't know how to make this indent, but this is a story I was working on for a bit. Hope you enjoy!
There was a sign above the small shop that had a cover made of aluminum, so that any rain or such wouldn't mold the old wood beneath. Not that it helped. He hated that sign. Hated the aluminum. He'd be asleep, a rarity to him, and a single drop of rain would make it's way through the gutters above and fall upon that sign every time. It always woke him up. Always made him think they were out there, making that damned noise. Every time he jolted awake he knew he was dead; knew there would be no time to get himself together enough to fight off the endless fucking waves.
He stirred beneath the musty wool coat he used for a blanket and sighed, staring out into the darkness through what parts of the front windows weren't blocked by the makeshift barricade. He could see the streetlight down the road a bit, the one that was still working. He didn't know how, but he was glad. It gave him something to look at.
It was raining again, as it did often in England he discovered. He hated the rain, not as much as the sign, but he hated it. Made it hard to see them sneaking up on you, until all you could see were those eyes, and all you could hear was their breathing as they surrounded you.
He lay his head back against the pile of garbage and miscellaneous junk that filled the old antique store and sighed. He tried not to think about how hungry he was.
- - -
Sound. His eyes shot open, looking back and forth, and then sank. The god-damned rain again. His grip on his handgun lightened.
He heard it again, helicopter blades, very distant. Warily, he climbed from his pile of trash, handgun at his side, and made his way to a peephole in front of the window.
At first he couldn't see it, but then he saw the taillights shining through the darkness. It was over the park, waiting. Its searchlight was turned off.
The choice was agonizing. If he went out, the chopper might not spot him, but the infected (that's what the news called them, infected) most certainly would if they were anywhere near, which they would be with that hovering beacon. If he stayed, he would be safe, at least for awhile. He had water, but no more food. He'd have to strike out eventually. It was die now or die soon. He carefully pulled back a black lacquered chest inlaid with mother of pearl and slowly opened the door.
The rain was like electricity to him, startling in it's cold. He moved along the storefront, keeping low, watching for signs of movement amid the corpses that lay like cast aside dolls. His ragged jeans and sweatshirt were soaked almost at once, and he forced himself to be calm, trying not to shiver from the chilly rain.
He crossed the road and into the park, pressing up against a defunct street lamp which leaned over him like an inquisitive sentinel. Nothing moved, and the chopper still held its place.
He shook himself angrily and refused to let himself feel hope. Hope was what killed his friends. Hope was what killed... her. Biting his lip to keep his concentration, he moved through the park, from tree to tree, gaining on the craft's location.
As he drew closer, he saw that it hovered gracefully above a clearing in the park. Standing behind the last tree that was between he and the chopper, he steeled himself for the dash to the craft, praying they could extract him before he attracted unwanted attention.
The moment he tried to run, they grabbed him. Hands groping, searching, pulling him back. He was so close. He began to scream, to sob, to thrash, pulling the trigger of his pistol and firing the last three rounds in a panic into the soft earth. His hand went numb as something struck it, and he dropped the gun. He screamed a name into the rain.
There was a sign above the small shop that had a cover made of aluminum, so that any rain or such wouldn't mold the old wood beneath. Not that it helped. He hated that sign. Hated the aluminum. He'd be asleep, a rarity to him, and a single drop of rain would make it's way through the gutters above and fall upon that sign every time. It always woke him up. Always made him think they were out there, making that damned noise. Every time he jolted awake he knew he was dead; knew there would be no time to get himself together enough to fight off the endless fucking waves.
He stirred beneath the musty wool coat he used for a blanket and sighed, staring out into the darkness through what parts of the front windows weren't blocked by the makeshift barricade. He could see the streetlight down the road a bit, the one that was still working. He didn't know how, but he was glad. It gave him something to look at.
It was raining again, as it did often in England he discovered. He hated the rain, not as much as the sign, but he hated it. Made it hard to see them sneaking up on you, until all you could see were those eyes, and all you could hear was their breathing as they surrounded you.
He lay his head back against the pile of garbage and miscellaneous junk that filled the old antique store and sighed. He tried not to think about how hungry he was.
- - -
Sound. His eyes shot open, looking back and forth, and then sank. The god-damned rain again. His grip on his handgun lightened.
He heard it again, helicopter blades, very distant. Warily, he climbed from his pile of trash, handgun at his side, and made his way to a peephole in front of the window.
At first he couldn't see it, but then he saw the taillights shining through the darkness. It was over the park, waiting. Its searchlight was turned off.
The choice was agonizing. If he went out, the chopper might not spot him, but the infected (that's what the news called them, infected) most certainly would if they were anywhere near, which they would be with that hovering beacon. If he stayed, he would be safe, at least for awhile. He had water, but no more food. He'd have to strike out eventually. It was die now or die soon. He carefully pulled back a black lacquered chest inlaid with mother of pearl and slowly opened the door.
The rain was like electricity to him, startling in it's cold. He moved along the storefront, keeping low, watching for signs of movement amid the corpses that lay like cast aside dolls. His ragged jeans and sweatshirt were soaked almost at once, and he forced himself to be calm, trying not to shiver from the chilly rain.
He crossed the road and into the park, pressing up against a defunct street lamp which leaned over him like an inquisitive sentinel. Nothing moved, and the chopper still held its place.
He shook himself angrily and refused to let himself feel hope. Hope was what killed his friends. Hope was what killed... her. Biting his lip to keep his concentration, he moved through the park, from tree to tree, gaining on the craft's location.
As he drew closer, he saw that it hovered gracefully above a clearing in the park. Standing behind the last tree that was between he and the chopper, he steeled himself for the dash to the craft, praying they could extract him before he attracted unwanted attention.
The moment he tried to run, they grabbed him. Hands groping, searching, pulling him back. He was so close. He began to scream, to sob, to thrash, pulling the trigger of his pistol and firing the last three rounds in a panic into the soft earth. His hand went numb as something struck it, and he dropped the gun. He screamed a name into the rain.
