Post by Deleted on Aug 31, 2015 21:02:25 GMT -5
"You'd think a little town had some more of this, he said looking at what he had on the table. "So much for southern hospitality."
He had scavenged around town trying to find some food, water, cigarettes or whatever else he could still find that was worth a dam. Heck even biters were on low reserve. Since he got there he had only encountered and down a couple. Of course, the dead weren't as satisfactory as the living. A good chop with his machete right under the jaw and they went down without much pain or plead. Not fun at all. He couldn't even shoot them. Despite how much he loved to shoot, it was wiser to conserve ammunition for those dreadful ambushes of the dead, or to put down two legged predators with a brain and other instincts asides from feeding.
"Whatever." Scooting the wooden chair some so that it leaned against the wall and he faced the closed door of the deserted house, he placed his feet over the table. "This will have to do." On the table, a box of cigarettes and a sealed Jack Daniels bottle were placed pretty closed to him. Also by him he had a couple of glasses he had managed to clean as much as he could with a rag. Granted he would prefer and likely would drink straight out of the bottle, but there was a touch of decency and throwback relevance to having the glasses there.
On that day, he wore a dark pair of blue jeans and a dark grey v neck t-shirt. As usual, his Glock was tucked under his shirt on his belt, and his Kel Tec carbine was leaning against the wall next to him. "Well, cheers to whatever," he said as he went to reach for the bottle to open it, stopping in a moment to hear what he thought were footsteps just outside the door.
He had scavenged around town trying to find some food, water, cigarettes or whatever else he could still find that was worth a dam. Heck even biters were on low reserve. Since he got there he had only encountered and down a couple. Of course, the dead weren't as satisfactory as the living. A good chop with his machete right under the jaw and they went down without much pain or plead. Not fun at all. He couldn't even shoot them. Despite how much he loved to shoot, it was wiser to conserve ammunition for those dreadful ambushes of the dead, or to put down two legged predators with a brain and other instincts asides from feeding.
"Whatever." Scooting the wooden chair some so that it leaned against the wall and he faced the closed door of the deserted house, he placed his feet over the table. "This will have to do." On the table, a box of cigarettes and a sealed Jack Daniels bottle were placed pretty closed to him. Also by him he had a couple of glasses he had managed to clean as much as he could with a rag. Granted he would prefer and likely would drink straight out of the bottle, but there was a touch of decency and throwback relevance to having the glasses there.
On that day, he wore a dark pair of blue jeans and a dark grey v neck t-shirt. As usual, his Glock was tucked under his shirt on his belt, and his Kel Tec carbine was leaning against the wall next to him. "Well, cheers to whatever," he said as he went to reach for the bottle to open it, stopping in a moment to hear what he thought were footsteps just outside the door.