Grayeson, Madison and the Reverend, Second Floor
Climbing had been an unwise idea, for John was no abseiler. He was a stupid, grossly overweight loser with serious mommy issues, who had deteriorated into total insanity. His arms, large from flab rather than muscle, burned intensely as he fought to keep himself falling to his death. Casting a downwards glance froze him briefly, as he contemplated the possible end of his existence.
No.
The recent friend he'd established inside his head was a great life coach. Where before he had found only darkness and fear oweing to a life dominated by his mother, he now found courage coupled with homicidal rage. Not that he saw it that way of course; if the world was ending, John may as well take a few Chinks with him, leave more room for non-savages who'll no doubt have to survive in the urban wasteland long after his own death.
Voices erupted above, emanating from his room.
Fuckers. They're going to kill you, John. You're going to die.
John's insanity crumbled momentarily, and he regained some sobriety. His eyes welled, his nose started dribbling snot. He didn't want to die! And his arms, his arms hurt so much!
But it does not have to be.
"How?" He asked, struggling to break through his sobbing fit.
The window. Break it. Kill. KILLL. KILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL.
John looked forwards, he had reached as far as the second floor. High enough still to be fatal, but low enough to really stick it to these self reighteous fuckers. All of those people that smirked at him behind his back, who cussed his mum. All the pretty girls who looked at him with pity, and all the men who looked at him with disgust.
They would all die.
Placing one meaty foot against the glass window of fuck-knows-who's apartment, he pushed himself away, suspending himself in the air for but a brief second, until all of his weight came rushing back towards the glass. It shattered, just as John's hands felt the rope lose its tensions. If he wasn't too busy crashing through the window, slicing his legs, chest, arms and face on thick shards, he'd of had the cognitive capacity to realise he almost died.
But he didn't. Because he was Death, the Destroyer of Worlds, and his cause was just. The rope had simply been sliced by the glass, just as he had been.
Speaking of which, John looked down at the floor, blood quickly pooling around him. And that was when he realised he was not alone.
Andrew Zeller, or rather, what was Andrew Zeller, stood before him, mouth agape in an unnatural and painful looking way. John struggled to his feet, snot and tears still fresh from his moment of sobriety, and stared back.
It is an obstacle. Dispatch it. The door beyond is all that matters. Kill, KILL!
John obliged, lifting his .38 up from his boxers and pulling back the firing hammer, he fired right at Andrew's head, watching it explode into fragments of brain and congealed blood. The bullet continued, smacking into the door and passing beyond. [Hitting no one, fucking dice] His ears ringing from the shot, he stumbled forwards on legs that burnt with every movement- courtesy of the many cuts he had sustained.
He passed by a mirror, gave it a quick look, and saw nothing but blood cascading down his large form.
You have come along way, John.
"Yes," he replied, smirking.
He placed his hand on the door, shoved it open and came out onto the stairwell. Madison Ripley, that disgrace to God, as John's mother had lovingly put it, had her back to him. Rather than firing out babies, she thought herself a man, and worked as one. An afront! The macho, I'm tough-look-at-me! marine prick also had his back turned, and he was someone else John's mother disliked. In her mind, the war in Afghanistan was an evil- bred purely by society's acceptance of faggots.
Then there was Reverend Johnathan McDougal. John Marcel knew the man well, his mother had seethed at the Holy man's incompetence when it came to reading the bible. He was too soft, too compassionate! God demanded an eye for an eye, and the Reverend was the kind of man who would consul a fucking homosexual.
"Forgive yourself father, for you have sinned," John Marcel said, cackling.
The priest turned, just as John pulled the trigger, and his neck exploded into ribbons of blood. He fell to the floor, gasping for air and choking on frothing blood.
Nicholas turned his attention away from the battle at the stairwell, but not quite quickly enough. John aimed and fired, the round tearing through Nicholas' shoulder and sending him into the waiting arms of a Stage One. But Nicholas was a tough son of a bitch, and quickly tore at the Stage One's clothes in an attempt to get some purchase. After steadying himself, time slowing down as his body pumped itself with adrenaline, he planted his forehead into the undead creature, sending it cartwheeling into its friends behind.
Madison stood, mouth agape at the John's menacing appearance. She was a brave one though, and quickly recovered, running forwards with her axe held high. John smiled as he fired another round, the bullet grazing her head. It was a far from a fatal wound, but she span with the force of the bullet tearing across the side of her face, and wound up on the floor.
"YOU SHOULDA STAYED IN THE KITCHEN, HONNEY!" John roared, half in insane anger, half in merriment.
He raised the gun at Madison's crouched form, and pulled the trigger.
*Click*
He pulled the trigger again.
*Click*
"Wh-?" He managed, before he noticed Madison getting steadily to her feet, and Grayeson reaching for a firearm of his own. "Oh fuck."
He backed off into the room from which he had came, kicking over a solid oak coffee table, and ducking behind it. He checked the pistol, heart thudding with excitement and fear, and found that the cylinder had jammed. He smacked it against the hard floor a few times, and that freed it, but now he'd lost his element of surprise.
Don't die like a dog, John.
"I wont!" He managed, lifting himself over the coffee table and poising his .38 at the open door. "COME GEEEEEEEEEEEEEETTTTTTTTTTTTT ITTT!"