Post by Deleted on Sept 12, 2015 19:36:01 GMT -5
Aaron snorted, sitting up. The house still stank of rotting wood and shifting dust. He coughed, his own movement causing those particles to drift into the air. He was shirtless, a scar on his chest- Afghanistan. That was...the dreams he had. Surprisingly, the sleepers in the world around him were never in his nightmares...only the blood and screams and steaming, stinking meat of his comrades legs and arms and brains spattering the cabin of the hum-V due to an IED explosive. The sleepers were just that0 weird little zombies with meat suits. He could hear them outside his door- it seems while he slept, they followed him from town. He yawned, grabbing his gun off the bedside table and the knife from the post. He scratched his balls through his camo pants, walking for the door and swining it open. Two stumblers.
Swinging his hand overhead, he embedded his knife in the first ones skull. He left it there, for now. Grabbing the jawline of the other, he pushed backward, slamming it's spine into a wall. Pushing the gun into his knee cap, he blew one out, using the Sleepers own meat as a silencer. He immediately blew out the other one. He let it fall, sniffing and groaning, before stepping around it and into the bathroom. He set down the cut on the countertop and washed his hands before sighing and turning back. Stepping around the Z's snapping jaws he went back into the room and pulled out his knife, turning and throwing it to stick into the second ones skull. Nice and quiet like.
Then, he would head for the shower.
He loved little places like this. Tucked away, with their own well, pump and heat generator. Coves in the hills that gave him a little R&R. No need to kill zombies. No need to keep fighting. Shit...if it wasn't for his siblings, he'd probably be back in Oregon rebuilding his home. Aaron wrapped a towel around his waist, the six minute shower doing what it could to clean him off before he was filthy again. He re-dressed, and took a deep breath. Turning, the sleeper from earlier was crawling into his bedroom. He would turn and walk back, crouching. Apparently, he hadn't thrown hard enough. It was barely stuck in it's skull. He punched the end of the blade shoving it into the skull before he pulled it back out and clean it off with his shirt. Might as well get started with the blood. He would stand and begin to reshuffle his gear.
Half an hour later, he was out the door. A few more stumblers here and there....He hopped on his bike, sticking the piece of metal- his gun- into his holster. He hated using that thing. He winced, kicking the starter on the bike and taking a deep breath.
"One forty-three."
He peeled out, heading down the trail.
Toward Virginia, and the south.