Mr. GreyesonThe dead surged up the stairs, but were repulsed by an impassable barrier in the form of a battle-hardened marine. His knife work was excellent, cold and clinical. Had the dead been capable of fear, they would have turned back at the sight of so many fallen comrades, but has luck had it, they were completely incapable.
One of them, located further at the back of the broken, squirming bodies, fell down suddenly and started shuddering as if in the grip of a seizure. For what seemed like forever, though in truth only a few seconds, it lay there twitching and jerking until suddenly it stopped as if dead. And then its eyes shot open, their murky exterior a little clearer, their pupils a little darker. It jumped to its feet in one solid movement, but stumbled slightly like a gymnast who'd goofed their landing. It peered past its comrades, who climbed and fell over their broken kin, trying to get to the marine.
The newly arisen Stage Two's addled brain managed to conjure one word.
Chaos.Suddenly it charged, batting its undead comrades out of the way, and sprinted over the carpet of squirming bodies. It lost its footing twice, but was up in the blink of an eye, before finally it came rushing at Nicholas Grayeson. The marine primed himself for a defence, planning to use his height the creature's off-balanced nature to his advantage. However, as the Stage Two rushed towards him
it threw itself violently to his left, dodging the knife blade. Though, rather than make good of the marine's failed attack, the Stage Two simply shoved him with its ragged, bloodied shoulder, and ran past.
Immediately it was hit by a bout of sensory overload. The stench of the living was everywhere, and it paused momentarily to get a proper sniff. This Stage Two had been a gym freak in real life, tanked but without the belly flab, heavy set but with powerful legs. This guy, in his living life, hadn't missed leg day.
Just then, an apartment door opened in front of him. First to emerge was an aluminium baseball bat, and then, the delicate face of a fair haired woman. The infected heard Greyeson approaching from behind, but was not in the slightest bit interested. Instead, it ran at the baseball bat, and the widening eyes of the woman who held it. He leapt into her, throwing all of his decomposing weight into her body, and knocked her to the ground.
Like an enraged shark, the infected tore at her clothes with filthy finger nails, even as she screamed wildly, trying to push him off. He was stronger however, and after pinning her, he crunched his jaw onto her nose. A small eruption of blood, and a louder scream followed- but this only excited and encouraged him. He bit her again, along the neck, pulling back a large clump of flesh and blood vessels. A mini-blood fountain spurted over him--
A rough hand grabbed the back of his tattered collar, pulling him away, and then everything when dark. Permanently.
Nicholas Grayeson grimaced, withdrawing his knife from the Stage Two's head, and cast the undead monster to one side.
He looked down upon the mutilated body of Lucy Collins, and sighed heavily. The undead assault continued behind him though, and he turned to confront the last of the horde, climbing over their immobilised comrades.
***
Everyone - Disclaimer, includes adult themes, but not graphically so. Do not be offended, I just need to make this guy sound batshit crazy.John Marcel cursed at his stupidity. He'd left it too long! He tried the door to his apartment, and found it wouldn't open.
"Smart," he said in a voice suddenly more grizzled than a two-decade war veteran.
The .38 weighed heavily in his flabby palms, and John suddenly felt hopelessly frustrated. He was Death! The destroyer of worlds! Thwarted by a couple of chink mother fuckers. His mother never liked those gooks, in fact, she didn't like anyone who wasn't white or Mexican. John, had he been capable of criticising his mother, would have thought her views on race as very self-serving. John wasn't capable of that though, so he simply followed the blinding logic instilled on him throughout most of his life.
Niggers. Gooks. Scum!
They must be purged.
Yes.
But how?
The window, you moron.
The window?John smiled broadly. Yes, of course! He turned and headed off to the window of the living room, and lifted it up. The glass shattered, weakened by the vibrations of the helicopter's assault. Some of the shards cut him, and he cursed with all of the swear words he knew, which despite his mother's best efforts, were many. Sticking his head out, he looked down.
Quite a way up.
It matters not.
I think it does, I mean, I'm no climber.
No.
Then how?
Rope in the toolbox. John's grin widened further. This was proving to be quite fun... though a sane man would have pointed out the sheer insanity of a 250 pound man climbing down the side of the building on a rope. Especially one that hadn't done any exercise since school gym class, some twenty years ago. Nevertheless, he got his rope, knotted it as best he could to the fridge, and trailed it back out into the living room. Throwing it through the window, he was relieved to see it reached almost all of the way down.
Still be a six foot drop at the bottom.
It matters not.
I know. I am Death, destroyer of worlds.
Yes, yes you are.Emboldened by the demonic voices playing in his head - though he never had a history of psychological illness - John turned back to his apartment's door, and knocked loudly.
"YOU CHINK FUCKS THINK YOU CAN HOLD ME IN HERE? SUCH HUBRIS! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU HEAR ME? HUH? I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I KNOW YOUR FACES!" he roared, his throat stinging with the force of his words. "I'LL KILL YOU, AND THEN I'LL KILL FUCK YOUR GIRL FRIEND, SHOW HER WHAT A REALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL MAN CAN DO!"
John turned back from the door, walked to the window, and lifted his legs out onto the frame. He looked down one final time, stuffed the .38 into his boxers, grabbed the rope, and with the courage of a parkour master, started a slow and uncertain descent.
