---

Woodhouse swerved left, and then right; his 2015 plate RV Winnebago Aspect screeching like a banshee every time he took the wise decision to avoid an abandoned car or truck.

He'd been stupid, too stupid, to have tried to make the Palacký Bridge in broad daylight. If it weren't for the sheer weight of his over expensive, second hand motor home, he'd of gotten bogged down about a hundred sick people back. As luck would have it though, his Winnebago joyfully ploughed through all opposition; dead people, light debris, it took it all. Sure, the engine was starting to rattle a bit, and the heat gauge on the dashboard was keenly indicating a busted radiator, but he'd worry about that when he got to where he was going.

And where he was going, was the Heck outta this crazy city!

"Go to Prague, they said," Woodhouse wheezed as he miraculously avoided another stationary vehicle. "It's cultured. It's rich in heritage. You'll love it." A moped bounced off the front of the Winnebago, sending it somersaulting over the edge of the bridge. "Yeah right," he said, followed by a phlegmy cough.

The windshield shattered before he heard the crack of a rifle; Woodhouse panicked, sending the steering wheel into free-fall. The hulking motorhome lost its bearing, turned sideways and crashed onto its side with a deafening metallic thud. It screeched across the floor for several meters, rebounding off a concrete barrier before finally coming to a stand still.

---

---

Tibor had taken a big risk by firing his weapon, but what choice did he have? There was no way the driver was going to stop for him, no matter what color his uniform was. Unfortunately, he'd gambled and lost spectacularly, and as the American-made camper van flipped onto its side and bounced off the bridge's concrete barrier, he knew it would be his last fuck up in a long history of them.

The noise alone would have drawn every infected for a hundred miles, and now his get-away vehicle was a ruin. Still, there was a good chance he'd find some food in there; people with that kind of money always had food.

He swept his rifle across the bridge - no hostiles, but a distant moan from behind reminded him that time was a factor. He started moving forwards, and then the camper van's door flew open, and an old man clambered out of it.

"What in damnation is your problem, son?" the old men yelled, fixing an ill suiting straw hat. "You crashed my truck! You shot at me! What the Heck is wrong with you!?"

Tibor put the man in his sights, "Get down from there," he managed in broken English. "And go back the way you came."

"I aint going nowhere, you bull headed moron," the old man retorted, though he had started to climb down from the driver's cab.

"I count to three. You still here, then I shoot. So sorry," Tibor yelled.

The old man cracked his knuckles, which to the Czech reservist was an amusing sight; he was easily a man of sixty, perhaps even seventy, with an obese build and a hunched back. If the world wasn't ending, Tibor would have found this all sad, but to Hell with that, it was every man for himself!

"Three," he called, reaffirming the grip on his rifle.

Alexan Eliza Bowden

Pretty bored, Alexan Bowden sits on a seat in a boat, which is not hers but who cares, and watches the water underneath the Palacky Bridge. She didn't care about tomorrow, all that mattered was right now. And right now she was safe on that little boat. So why change that? She had a bag full of snacks, water, a few weapons, a map, a looking glass, fire... you know all that stuff you never care about until you need it.
She's always been prepared. Not exactly for a zombie apocalypse, but for some rather dangerous people to find her. Or the police. But she would bet the dangerous people would find her first, if anyone found her whatsoever.

Out from her very comfortable spot on one of the smaller boats that linger in the water, Alexan has been looking through her looking glass up to the actions on the bridge. She was shewing some chips and just enjoyed the silence - like always. Things went pretty uneventful first, another someone rushing out of the city, as if that is the answer. As if you can ran away from it. But soon the car struggeled and... she could hear the awful sound that the car screeching across the bridge made. "Oh man", Lexa whispered as she watched the actions get serious. A man in full military and a happy-old-grandpa like type of man seemed to be in front of a battle.

"I vote for the military guy", she tells herself; her Australian accent was full on. But who cares, right? She was pretty sure, she can stop hiding her accent so carefully. Not like she is still their biggest problem. Not like they are still looking for her, with all this mess going on. Seems like the odds are in her favor... at the moment.

Interested in how the bet she made with herself would play out, the woman kept watching the actions on the bridge. @Frengo

---

When the world started going to shit, the first people to stop caring were the ones in charge, or so it seemed. That suited James quite well. After all, if they'd cared a little more, he probably wouldn't be alive. He hadn't been the first to break out, but he'd made sure he wasn't the last.

He'd been in that cell a grand total of fourteen hours, he estimated. It was all a bit of a blur, if he was being perfectly honest. The shouting, the blood, the police tackling him. The Asian couple hadn't been his first, but they had been his first in public, in broad daylight, where everyone could see. And his first in a different country. First time he'd been caught too... If he ever stopped and thought about it, he would count a total of about fifteen, up to and including that Asian couple from the square. All but four were knife jobs. He liked knives. Liked the way he could see the blood pooling under the sharp blade as it slid across skin...

After he got out, he'd stayed with three others from the cells. He didn't know what they'd done, and they didn't know what he'd done. It was probably better that way. Easier.

The sun jumped off the smooth running water of the Vltava, and James could see a lot of the water from his perch in a windowsill on the third floor. He'd broken in around back, through what seemed to be some sort of Italian place on the east bank of the river, right by the Palacky Bridge, Fresco Vento or something. He liked being up here. Off the ground. It made him feel powerful... He heard a thud and looked down at the cream carpet, turned brown by the dirt off his boots. He'd dropped his knife. He swung his legs off the windowsill and leaned down, picking the blade up and smiling a little bit.

He'd got the skinny one first. The three he'd stuck with from the cells. The skinny one tried to keep the knife... This knife. They found it in an overturned car when they were looking for new clothes. The other two didn't see... The skinny one didn't put up much of a fight... James frowned at the memory and touched his cheek, a long cut ran from his chin up to his right cheekbone... The skinny one had put up a fight. James never learned his name. The other three didn't speak English. He'd choked the life out of the skinny one, smothering his cries for help with an old coat. Tried to tell the other two he ran away. Never got to know if they believed him...

Some of the dead ones came after them then. James and the two ones left. They hid down an alleyway. And James had stabbed both of them in the back, quite literally, whilst they waited for the dead ones to pass. The smell of the blood drew the dead ones to his cellmates as they bled out, and James had ran...

Now, he was here. Holding his dirty carving knife, and staring out a window, in a city he didn't even know that well... Sightseeing, he supposed.

In the English vocabulary, which is in itself stupendously vast, there is a bounteous treasure of words that can with only a handful of syllables sum up a situation or how someone feels in a particular situation. Equally there are endless ways to react to the world physically; countless variations of facial expression as well numerous non-verbal noises and various interpretable body languages to see. Some would argue that all of this is nonsense, others will tell you that words cannot describe everything - but how wrong they are, for there are some words that can describe countless aspects of a moment in time, for example...

Fuck.

It's not hard to see, it's almost everywhere you look nowadays. It was especially not hard to discern the fuck on the face of Isaac as he edged his way across the narrow stone corridor of doom that was the ledge of a building. The way his dry pink tongue angled out between his lips and gently quivered against the pale skin there was fuck in action, so was the manor in which he ground his teeth together - rhythmically grating the jaw left and right in alternating directions. If you were to look closely you would see the grimy and salty liquid fuck that was seeping from Isaac's every pore slowly run its course down the arch of his narrow nose and accumulate, dropping to the ground beneath in a small splash of fuck.

It would't take the most veteran of fuck spotters to see the way in which his every cautious and reserved step along the perilous route screamed the inglorious four letter word. Even the almost non-existent trembling in his bent outwards knees beneath the ragged jeans he wore, how the material on his gloves clung to the miniature landscape that every brick his hands crossed presented and the deep furrowing of his brow followed by a look to the clouded heavens as he peered down towards the distance paved street floor - all were active examples of fuck.

The zombies had been pestering him all day, following his every move as he made his way from room to room, searching and scavenging, trying to survive. He had to cut a few down, quick strikes to the head, or just a swift kick and stab if he felt particularly energetic. He had found himself a nice little handgun when the bastard who had been its previous owner opened up their eyes to say hello. Isaac had leapt back, taking the handgun and tearing off the guys finger in the process, he made for the door, but typically it was currently being used by a gang of walking day wreckers.

Hurriedly Isaac kicked the gun guy down, because he felt a surge of energetic-ness, and sliced down into his skull with his cleaver. Then he heaved the blade from its bloody captor, and slipped through the open window onto the small patio. From there he pulled himself reluctantly onto the ledge and began edging away as the hands and rasping moans of the zombies reached and called out to him, a few of them reaching a bit too enthusiastically, resulting in a gradually reducing in volume growl then a reassuring crunch-splat.

Isaac had been on a school trip when he was eight. It was boring, as most were. They saw a castle and listened to some old guy and his stories about the tower and how people were hidden there from someone the something. Then when he was fifteen he went to Spain with his language class, that was less boring. A few nice girls and constant sun, plus his friends were there to dull down the school atmosphere. However none of them came close to his current school trip, Prague with the history class.

Nothing came close to a week in a luxury hotel, followed by site seeing, boat rides and then to top it all of, the zombie apocalypse - nothing appealed more to him than freedom, and no one was stopping him now. Well, at least that was his mindset at that very second, then he heard a gunshot followed suit by what sounded like two cars crashing head on, it was a loud crash for sure, and it came from the bridge to his left. In all the commotion, Isaac forgot to breath, and so he took a quick deep breath in.

His back arched ever so slightly, pushing against the building behind him, his hands and the gloves on them were lifted from the brick wall and his booted toes tipped their heads to gravity. In an instant his heart stopped, his eyes froze and a still came over his body, then he was falling and his heart was racing, an endless onslaught of beats.

His eyes darted this was and that, flaying his arms as he searched for something to grip, anything to hold before the air he was falling through stopped and the ground began. All the while his ever dry tongue had retreated behind his chipped lips, and they were wide and reverberating as his lungs pushed out what he was sure to be the last thing he would ever hear in this life.

"Fuuuucccckkkkk!"

---

Woodhouse was at that kind of age where nothing really mattered; he called gays fudge packers, he called black people Negroes, Asians zipper heads, and of course, Czechs communists. He was from another time, where life was harsher and less progressive; the white man was the norm, and affirmative action was a joke for the fellahs down at the bar. Yeah, he came from a time that now barely existed. This didn't make him a bad man, and he always tried to overcome the demons ingrained into his subconscious from birth; he knew gays were just people with different tastes, that blacks and Asians were just people with a different colour skin - but it was still hard to shake the prejudice left to him by his parents, some sixty odd years ago.

But, with his age, also came the traditional "hard man" image. The kind of portrayal of dignified aggression that Hollywood had forgotten about a few decades back.

The Commie had wrecked his ride, probably even cost him his life - once the sickos caught up. He had a gun, he was talking tough and threatening Woodhouse with death.

Sometimes, the only thing that made a man a Man was his unwavering resolve when it came to seeing a bully put on their ass. Woodhouse saw this no different than being back on the schoolyard, surrounded by a multitude or jeering Jocks, all baying for his blood. To Woodhouse, the whole situation had become a matter of death or glory.

"Two," the Czech soldier called.

Woodhouse started walking towards him, rolling up the pink floral sleeves of his favorite holidaying shirt. "Now you listen here Son, and you wait a God darned minute. Put the gun down and fight me like a man, damnit!"

The soldier smiled broadly, but only lent further into the sights of his rifle.

There was about ten feet between the two. A second wasn't enough for Woodhouse to cover that distance, and even if he did, what then? He'd kick that young Commie's ass, that's what.

"One," the soldier said.

Woodhouse started running for him.

A voice yelled from some distance away, its words bouncing around the neatly allocated lanes of Prague's city center."Fuuuucccckkkkk!"

---

Tibor's finger put pressure on the trigger; the old man staring back at him with an iron that reminded the Czech of his own father.

"Fuuuucccckkkkk!"

He turned his head, just for a moment, in the direction of the scream.

Something bulky and heavy struck him across the midsection, and he fell to the floor, his rifle flying clear of his hands. He hit the concrete hard, the air knocked out of his body. Before he even had time to mutter "What the fuck!?", two meaty, pale and wrinkled hands were pummeling his face towards the dark side of the moon.

"Son of a bitch, you God damned Commie bastard," the old man wheezed between punches, "you think it's nice to prey on the elderly, huh? Is that what you do in this country?"

Tibor's consciousness blurred for a moment, as another punch sent a pulse of lightning across his vision. Out of primal desperation, he reached forwards through the stars in his eyes, and gripped the old man's throat with both hands and squeezed.

"FUUUCK YOU AMERICAN PIG!", he roared. He managed to shift his knee under the old man's generously sized undercarriage, and shoved with all his might.

The old man rolled backwards with a concise meat-on-concrete slap, "you filthy Commie bastard," he whined, and struggled to get back to his feet; one hand clutching his bruised groin.

Tibor pulled his combat knife from his battle harness, and sliced at the air, "you die now, old man."

The Czech soldier was angry and hurting, blood ran freely from several cuts in his face, and no doubt his nose had just been shattered. Reason had escaped, and all he wanted to do now was gut this stupid old man like a fish.

Meanwhile, both of them remained painfully unaware of a dozen walking corpses that had started to crawl out of the closest buildings. They staggered, tumbled and limped, arms reaching out in painful hunger.

Alexan finished her bag of chips and just tossed the empty bag behind herself.
She put the binoculars down from her eyes and thought about this whole mess for a moment.
The sun shined bright, the water reflected the light beautifully, there were cotton white clouds in the sky - nothing seemed like the end of the world kinda type. But it was, wasn't it?

Mother Nature has had enough of those stubborn, selfish humans. And only the strong ones would maybe survive.
The woman grabbed her travel bagpack from the side and peeked inside. She has taught herself to often check her weapons, so she'd always be prepared. It all first started when the Black Snakes came for her. She was hiding out, never staying longer at one place than necessary. Lexa had forced herself to the routine; morning - gun check, patron check, safety trigger check, mind games - middle of the day - gun check, patron check, safety trigger check, mind games - evening - gun check, patron check, safety trigger check, prepare to be in danger in the middle of the night.
Slowly this has turned into her little habit. She checked her gun all around, made sure there was no issue, she checked the patrons and pulled the safety trigger back and forth, she aimed at the bridge to test her eye sight on distance.

"Fuuuucccckkkkk!"

Lexa took the gun down, but held her finger softly on the trigger. What was that? Stupid question. Who was that? Why did they scream, basically begging the monsters to find them?!

She took the binoculars back to her eyes and duck down on the boat. Not gonna risk being seen.
First she thought the old man had screamed, but a look at the bridge told her differently.

It would make no sense that a grandpa could struggle down an army type of guy if he didn't have a benifit. Figuring the only benefit an old guy could have against a gun would be the surprise moment, she decided the scream put the military-fool out of concept.

She lowered the binoculars and searched the area with her bare eyes, but she couldn't find the source of the screaming. Alexan did make out something else though, something quiet unpleasing. The loud yelling had brought attention to their surroundings; the dead's attention.

A dozen or so of the dead were reaching out their arms, hungrily opening their mouths and with anticipation seeking for the flesh of the living.
And the two man on the bridge were not only exposed, but weren't even aware of the upcoming danger. They both were too focused on each other to notice that they had other problems to care about right now.

Lexa groaned at herself for wanting to get up and murder some already dead people. The silence on the boat had it's downside, she noticed. Her finger lingered on the trigger of the gun, she was eager to squeeze it and see a body fall to the ground and stop moving. But gun-use would be her death. It would only make another loud noise and she couldn't afford that.

"Damn you, Lex, you never learn it." She put the gun into the gun-belt around her waist after making sure it was secured. The dark-haired woman grabbed herself a rather large knife out of her pocket, threw her backpack over her shoulders and silently stepped off the boat to sneak up at the dead one by one.

She was sure her plan to make this all go smooth wouldn't work out. But she didn't care right now. There were two other people - maybe three if that scream-person was still around - to help her out. And in fact, if it really went badly, she was sure she could get away.

She was always sure she could get away.

"Fuuuucccckkkkk!"

The sound snapped James' attention back to the window, and he looked out of it with eager eyes. That was most certainly English. There. On the bridge. Two men. Squinting, James could just about make out the two figures near an overturned mobile home, that had most certainly not been there when he'd crossed the bridge himself a few hours ago. It would be nice to talk again. Out loud. And not to himself. The three from the cells had been boring, and James did not like getting bored. So he'd made them interesting to him. However, Anglophones... They could be potentially a lot more interesting.

The man pushed the carving knife into his belt with a grin and ran over the room, vaulting over the sofa, rather than running around it, in his excitement. He picked up the hockey stick he'd found in one of the bedrooms, and scrambled towards the door, excited by the prospect of meeting new people, new friends...

It took him several moments to move the table and chairs he'd barricaded the door with, and when he'd done that, he moved quickly down the stairs, past the doors of the other apartments in the building, and down into the café. He swerved in and out of the overturned tables and chairs and out into the street, holding the hockey stick ready and poised like a club as he looked up and down the road. He could see a small group of the dead ones to his right, but they wouldn't stop him getting to the bridge.

---

---

Josh was sitting down on the floor of the small café next to his sister, looking down at the white rectangular shapes that were set out in a brick like pattern along the floor. They had a fancy styled pattern on the tiles in black, and little gaps between each tile that were filled with tiny little specks of dirt or dust, or now little bits of food from what was thrown around or spilled when the dead attacked this once lovely café. They were also very, very uncomfortable. Every now and then Josh would have to shift a little bit so that his backside wouldn't go numb like it did when he sat in the same position at the cinema for three hours during a film. The tables all around the room were upturned, with one in front of the twins, concealing them from the outside and all of the roaming monsters that were too stupid to look inside to café. Both of his knees were brought up to his chest and his right arm draped across them. His left arm was left almost limp by his side. He looked over at his sister when he heard the unsettling sound of her breathing becoming unsteady, and was starting to panic before he saw her pull out her inhaler. Thank god she hasn't lost that yet.

Josh had been heading out too meet with a nice girl he had met at school the day that shit went down so he was quite nicely dressed for the apocalypse. He was wearing a pair of dark blue skinny jeans that on his right leg had a rip just below the knee. His shoes were red converse with white soles, and white laces. He was wearing a plane white undershirt and a button up flannel shirt over the top with a collar and short sleeves. It was filled with red and black squares and was fully unbuttoned at the front which is where the white shirt comes in. He was wearing a wristband on his right wrist that he bought while at his first concert for his favourite band, and a black beanie that covered his ears and most of his dirty blonde hair. He had really, really wanted to impress that girl. She was really pretty, they liked the same bands and sat together in three of Josh's classes at his new, well old, school. Most of all, she was nice. Josh had lost his party boy antics when he moved to Prague. He found it a lot harder to make friends and his confidence had deteriorated. This girl was helping him back up and giving him some company at school other than the boys he sat with at lunch. They weren't really his friends but rather an aesthetic, just so he wasn't sitting alone.

He felt his sisters hand on his and let out a little smile, looking over at her as he opened his hand and lifted his arm a little. His fingers locked with hers and he held her hang gently, it was somehow much more comforting doing this, knowing she was definitely still there. "I, uh, I don't know." The sudden question had caught him off guard, as he had been trying to temporarily forget bout the situation and think about something, anything else. His eyes wandered down to the floor and he thought for a second, the dead silence becoming more and more eerie. "Maybe we should try and find a place to hide out. Until the army comes or something?" He whispered, trying to not alert the walking bodies outside. He didn't want them coming in here.

Just then, he heard the sound of a bullet flying through the air, and he could hear the dead outside of the café changing direction, heading down towards the source of the sound. "Juliet, what the fuck was that?!" He tried to keep his voice as low as he could, and it came out as a kind of shouty-whisper. What if it's the army..? He thought to himself, naïve enough to still believe they were going to be rescued.

---

Woodhouse eyed the knife in soldier boy's hand, "ya know, a knife can go either way, son."

"Fuck you old man," soldier boy fired back, moving forwards.

Now, for Woodhouse, the most terrifying thing a man could do was stand still in the face of adversity. That kind of behavior risked messing with the mind of a potential aggressor. It was animal-based logic; posturing. Meet their determination with an even greater resolve, and watch them crumble.

He planted his feet firmly on the ground; the pain of his bruised testicles temporarily forgotten by a wave of adrenaline.

"Just know," Woodhouse said, flicking his straw hat slightly. "You come at me with that, then only one of us walks away."

Soldier boy just shook his head, his face suddenly distorted in wild anger. He inched forwards, circling left around Woodhouse, and then right. The old man stood there, watching his opponent with the kind of confidence he couldn't confidently back up with anything.

The Czech suddenly lunged; Woodhouse's right hand shot up and gripped his wrist. A fist found the old man's cheek, but he refused to let go, and launch a jab of his own. Solder boy's head shot back back; his bruised face a pressure point of pain. were Woodhouse twenty years younger, he'd of won this fight in seconds.

But he wasn't twenty years younger. He was old as Hell, with arthritic joints, a fat belly and a crappy circulation system. The Czech threw his face into Woodhouse's, and the world dimmed.

---

---

The old man went down like a sack of shit, and Tibor nearly followed suit; his face felt red raw, and he could literally taste the blood flowing backwards from his nose and into his mouth. He was dizzy, terribly dizzy... a heat butt wasn't perhaps the best thing he could've done.

"Stupid old man," Tibor cursed. He lent down, held up his knife and-

Hands grabbed him from behind, and wrenched him away. The smell of decaying flesh and damp clothes filled Tibor's half-working nostrils, and then he heard the excited moaning of the dead. How they'd got so close without him realizing was a question he didn't have time to answer. He fought with his attackers, struggling to get free of their iron-cast grips, but it was no use.

Pain exploded across his stomach as one of the infected tore into his stomach; another clamped its teeth around his jaw. He could only scream out as the most intense agony racked his body.

Then there were a series of rifle shots, and one by one his attackers fell off him. He gasped, trying for air, and unable to feel anything beneath his waist.

The old man stood over him, his face bruised and cut. There wasn't anger in his eyes, just some kind of sadness.

"Sorry, son," the old man said, and then pointed the smoking muzzle of Tibor's own rifle at his face.

A final gun shot rocked Prague's city center.

Alexan was half through to the fighting men on the bridge when they finally realised what was going on around them. The soldier didn't have a chance, his screams echoed in Lexa's ears. She kept going forward, striking the dead down one by one scarily skilled. It was obvious she did have some more experience with the knife than others.
Her feet went over the bridge smoothly and while she jumped around the bodies like she didn't care the old man fired shots into the crowd of dead. Lexa took a skilled roll over to the bridge's side to duck. She didn't need to be in the gunfire and maybe be mistaken for a walker. Or being shot by accident.

She refused to put her hands over her ears. That was weakness. But the loud sound was intense after the long time of silence she has had over the past few days. A feeling told her those days were over for good.

The old man didn't seem to notice her at first, he was too focused on the danger in front of him. Though it didn't took him too long to get rid of the rest that were standing.

He pointed the weapon at the soldier and apologised. Then a last shot was heard and the soldier was relieved from all pain and worry.

Lexa stood up and hid her knife in her belt. "And I thought I'd help you." The Australian accent came from her lips and she felt it soothingly. It's been a while since she let her be herself. "Seems you don't need any help, aye?"

Her dark hair hang messily in her face and for the first time in a long while she was feeling positive. This was her world. Nobody cared who she was before this. Nobody knew who she was before this. Nobody would bring her down. She was born for this world.

---

Woodhouse lowered the rifle, and tried to say a prayer for the dead soldier; sure the guy was a total ass hole, but no one deserved to die like that. Shooting him in the head seemed like the right thing to do, but something nagged at his conscience regardless.

"And I thought I'd help you."

The old man spun, the assault rifle held at his hip; his eyes fell upon a slender looking woman, clad in black and with the kind of skin you'd find on the Californian coast... or in Australia, if her accent was anything to go by. If Woodhouse were a young man, he might've felt a pang of primal excitement despite the underlying circumstances; she was pretty, sure, but Woodhouse had done his share of rutting. One would be surprised how boring the idea of sex became by the time they hit their 69th birthday.

"Seems you don't need any help, aye?" She said.

"Well I'll be," he said, not aiming the rifle away from her. His eyes strayed to the haphazard line of corpses she'd left getting to him. "Now when you say help, is that a funny way of saying that you want to stab me in the face and take my flashy new toy? Because there's been an awful lot of that going on lately, and honey, I'm growing real tired of it."

@Frengo

Alexan leaned against the bridge's wall. Although her mind was fully aware of the rifle pointed at her, she acted like she didn't even see the weapon.

She laughed at the old man's don't take my toy away attitude.

"Don't you worry. I feel quiet fine. Keep your toy." She lazily waved her hand at him and stood up straight. "When I thought I'd come and give a hand, I actually meant to strike down the flesh wanting bodies that creeped up on you and helped you end your friend's life over there." Lexa nodded to the Czech. She was quiet impressed how the old man won this seemingly unfair fight. He seems decent enough to not get killed off by yelling fuck.

James sat in silence on top of the campervan on its side, his legs hanging down, and the hockeystick on his lap, watching the exchange between the Aussie and the American. He blinks slowly, a small grin on his face, as the American questions the Australian girl about his weapon, he seemed exasperated to say the least.

"If it's any consolation, I won't be attempting to take it either." The young man spoke slowly and deliberately, his accent suggested a slightly well-to-do background, private school. In fact, he had been a private school boy, in Cheshire, through most of his teens. It seemed so long ago, even though he was only twenty-three. "I learnt a long time ago not to separate Americans from their guns... You're quite protective over them."

Smiling down at the two, he swings his legs back and forth slowly, not moving from his perch. "I must say... I was quite excited when I heard the cursing... More English speakers seemed appealing in this hellhole..."

---

Woodhouse relaxed, what harm could one little girl to do him anyway? He just beat a soldier's ass into the ground- well, with a little help from some sick friends, but never mind.

"Well in that case," he said, lowering his rifle. "Name's Woodhouse Smith, retired. I'd offer you my hand but I don't think we're quite there yet."

"If it's any consolation, I won't be attempting to take it either."

Woodhouse let an exasperated sigh escape his lips, "Aww, now what?" he muttered, turning to see some young prick perched on top of his camper van.

"I learnt a long time ago not to separate Americans from their guns... You're quite protective over them."

"Uh huh, and take one more step and I'll put a bullet through your limey face," Woodhouse uttered.

The young man started swinging his legs like some kind of moron, and Woodhouse felt himself done with just about everything at this point.

"I must say... I was quite excited when I heard the cursing... More English speakers seemed appealing in this hellhole..."

"You aint quite right now are ya, son?" Woodhouse said, frowning. "Look, I don't know what it is you want, but I'm three seconds from getting the Hell away from here. Either try something, or don't." He turned to the young woman. "That goes for you too, otherwise, let's get going before more of your boyfriends show up to weird me out."

The foul word dragged itself past Isaac’s lips desperately and escaped into the dead world, fleeing from him in all directions, in search of any ears willing to listen.

To anyone witnessing, the incident would be over in a second, crack crunch then splat, but each moment was stretched and slowed down for Isaac - frame per second experience.

Strands of saliva were streaking from his mouth now, abandoning ship as it sailed toward a jagged cove, seemingly floating on the cruel wind. The descent was almost at its eerie end, the lines between the streets paving were becoming sharper and darker still.

Even his flailing arms and squirming legs, previously life long friends and trusted companions, were scouring for a way out, attempting to pull away from his body, rip free and leave him to fall alone. Blood rushed through his body now, madly trying to finish its lap before being forced from its familiar home, and onto the cold stone slabs below.

Moments before death are hard to describe, but Isaac’s fancied it was something like being pulled into a black hole. A surge of irresistible force, that no matter how unnatural, feels welcoming and right.

So, in that moment he accepted his fate as it was now, he had no power over anything anymore, nothing was his to manipulate or change - everything was open to chance however. Only a few meters from the ground, inching closer with time, Isaac’s scream that was bellowed only a second earlier had caught the attention of a particularly muscular zombie.

Sprinting with ferocious and wild determination, it tumbled through the trash and various bodily masses, splashing blood and grime up its legs and splattering its torso with fresh colouring. It waited impatiently, like a child at the counter, moaning lightly and snapping its flesh filled teeth in anticipation.

Crack crunch then splat.

A soft and rasped sigh of both pain and relief poured over Isaac's body like a waterfall as he realised his life was intact, a really uncomfortable and bloody waterfall, with bits of flesh and bone in the water.

Sitting up, he grabbed his chest, just in case he had lost it mid fall, then checked the rest of his body for bruises or cuts. He seemed fine, as fine as people can be in the apocalypse. He leaned back and rested his head on the brick wall behind him, his hair tangling with the scratching edges.

A loud pang sounded above him, and his neck strained up to see it its source. A flash of metallic sharpness, then the whistling of impending doom, a handle followed by a wide blade richoceted off the opposite wall and zoomed into something with a slice of flesh.

Isaac almost screamed again, partly through stress and partly due to the shock of a flying cleaver of death jumping into his already bad day unannounced. It's blade had dug itself into the arse of the zombie, chopping its previously bun like cheek into two meat slabs.

Another breath of relief whispered through the narrow street, which for now seemed empty enough, and Isaac felt slightly safer knowing his trusty cleaver was back in his possession, but what about his -

- A second and high pitched pang sounded this time, and from much closer, bouncing of the fire escape just above him, its proximity wasn't reassuring,Isaac looked up, he saw the but of his pistol looming towards his face, and just like that, Isaac became the first person to fall three storeys, land on a zombie, avoid a flying cleaver, then have his nose broken by a gun.

Isaac muttered a stifled "fuck" just as cartlidge and pain connected, blood streamed from his nostrils and water ebbed at under his eyes, Isaac was alone with his pain, and all he could think was 'Oooooowwwwww!'.

At the end of the day, things could've gone much worse.