Old Dog, New Tricks

[EreWeGo]

*Re-posting for the new forums, just for shits 'n' giggles!*  

 

 

Hey all,

been inspired by some of the great stories on the forums so far. Thought I'd add/start one of my own. This is "inspired by and loosely based" on PZ - it's not an exact play-through turned into a story, but it's definitely PZ that got me started.

WARNING: My character swears a fair bit, so if you don't like profanity, then probably be best not to read this one. Anyway, here goes:

 

 

Old Dog, New Tricks Part I

I hope I die a good death.

Maybe it’ll be in my sleep - just close my eyes one night and never wake up - that seems like a pretty sweet deal, or maybe in a “blaze of glory” – going down kicking and screaming, hopped up on whiskey and pills, yeah, that’d be alright with me too I guess. I just don’t want to go out with a whimper – snivelling in the corner of my safe-house, the smell of puke and piss filling my nostrils as I cry out for my mama.

I’ve never been one to back down from anything, yet here I am, barricaded in some strangers God-damn Townhouse, no power, living on canned Tuna, (I fucking hate Tuna), soda, and stale bread. I hate those fucking – those…things, for forcing me to live like this, constantly on edge, every minute of my waking moments laced with fear and uncertainty. Thank fuck for the liquor and meds I’ve picked up along the way, sometimes it’s the only way I can get some sleep…

It still feels kinda stupid to call them “Zombies”, but what other term sums up some shambling un-fucking- dead thing, intent on eating your face off? ”Living-challenged, reanimated cannibalistic corpse” just doesn’t have the same ring to it, so for now, “Zeds” it is.

The first time I saw a Zed I thought I’d lost my fucking mind. Maybe I did a bit, I don’t know. It definitely changes your view of things when you go to see what the noise is in the apartment down the hall, only to be met by something that looked like it’d been dragged underneath a bus for a few blocks. It was the guy from 6b, (I recognised him from his stupid “Kiss me, I’m Irish” t-shirt he wore most days), and at first I was so shocked, I couldn’t understand how he could be grinning when he looked so messed up. Except he wasn’t grinning, I could see all his teeth because most of the flesh on his jaw had been ripped away, jagged flaps of skin hanging like a blood-stained beard. I could see the tendons and muscles moving as he growled in my direction – a wet, guttural sound. A hungry sound.

I remember back-pedalling like crazy, grunting in pain as my back slammed into a desk, trying to get as far-as-fuck away from Mr 6b as possible. I could see huge chunks of flesh missing from his out-stretched arms, and deep scratches and, Jesus, were those bite marks around his throat? I reached behind me, trying to find something, anything that might keep this thing away from me. My hand closed on something cylindrical, and before I had time to think I plunged it into 6b’s face, again and again. He stopped advancing, collapsing sideways to the floor, the pen I’d used in my frenzy sticking out of the socket where his eye had been, a bloody jelly-like fluid oozing from the wound.

It was only then I noticed the stench – the thick, acrid odour of decomposing flesh enveloping me, and I’d puked until my throat was raw, my eyes streaming with tears, lines of snot and vomit dripping from my chin. I can tell you one thing - I made finding something better than a fucking pen for a weapon one of my first priorities. After that first encounter, survival instinct kicked in, and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since – surviving.

So why am I writing this? Gives me something to do mainly, it’s not like I can take a leisurely Sunday afternoon stroll to the park and sun myself while reading some shitty novel, I’m afraid those days are long gone. Now this ain’t gonna be a day by day, hour by hour journal of my life. So if you’re expecting a “Dear Diary, today was just the best day in my life! Bobby-Jo just asked me to the prom” type dealio, you can stop reading right-fucking now.

Anyway, like I said, it gives me something to pass the time, and sure as hell beats talking to myself, (although I’ve been catching myself doing that more and more recently). Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’ve got nothing to do, what with trying to outrun, hide from, and fight masses of walking fucking-dead things, as well as trying to scavenge for supplies wherever I can, but you gotta be careful, and lay low a lot of the time… Speaking of which, time for me to try and rest a bit. I might do a supply run in the morning, and the meds are starting to kick in, so I’ll continue this next chance I get… (Assuming there is one of course).
M

[EreWeGo]

Old Dog, New Tricks Part II

Jesus, my hands are still fucking shaking – that was too damn close! My arm hurts like a bitch, but I think it’ll heal up okay. I’ve popped a few painkillers, (washed down with a shot of Whiskey for good measure), so I’m starting to feel a shit-load better – could’ve been fucking worse, that’s for sure!

You know that old saying about an old dog and new tricks? Well, that shit’s just wrong – (although to be fair, whoever said it probably wasn’t thinking of a “Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse” old dog.)

I’ve learnt a few new tricks and tips over the last couple of weeks as it happens – like why getting drunk while on a scavenging run is a bad fucking idea. (I know, it sounds kind of obvious, but it’d been a rough couple of days, and, hell, it seemed like a good idea at the time). Trying to out-run a group of hungry Zombies when you can barely stagger in a straight line and you’re seeing double is something I can definitely not recommend.

On the up side, the empty Whiskey bottle came in handy for another new skill I can now add to my resume; it was the perfect size for making a Molotov cocktail with. (I realise it doesn’t take a fucking rocket-scientist to understand the concept of making a Molotov, but it was still kinda cool to fashion one myself, and successfully use it. )

I’m using the term “successful” very fucking loosely – next time I won’t be sticking the rag into the bottle until I’m close to actually using it. It’s also a bitch of a weapon to carry round in that state – I managed to stuff it into my jacket pocket, but also splashed a decent amount of petrol over myself in the process. In my defence I did assemble it in a hurry, in semi-darkness, and while I was fair shitting myself. (I was on a supply run, and was just about to leave the apartment I’d been searching, when I noticed that half a dozen Zombies had decided to have a fucking Book Club meeting or something just across the street from me.)

At least I had my trusty bat with me, and if it’d been one or two Zeds, I probably would’ve just taken care of them, or at least tried running past them, but Six or more? Different fucking story, and they were blocking my escape route. That’s when I’d noticed the gas can, remembered I still had the empty Whiskey bottle from my earlier “Hundred-yard Stagger from the Un-dead” fiasco, and quickly assembled my new weapon.

So there I was, readying myself. I sucked in a few deep breaths, grabbed the Molotov from my pocket, and inched open the door. I could see the Zeds milling around the front of the alley I needed to go through on my route home. I flipped back the lid on my Zippo, ran my thumb across the wheel and held it close to the end of the rag. In a couple of seconds, it was ablaze, unfortunately so was one sleeve of my jacket. There I was, holding a lit Molotov in my left hand, staring stupidly at my right arm in flames, and now I also had the attention of the Zeds across the street. I may as well have had a fucking Neon buzzing above me, “Zombie Special of the Day – Flame Grilled Dumb-Ass Survivor”

I’m fucked if I know how, but I managed to struggle out of my burning jacket before I turned into a Roman-fucking candle, juggled the Molotov, (and nearly dropped it), tossed it toward the group of advancing Zeds, and beat the flames out on my arm as I dashed around their flaming, flailing reach. I thought the normal rotting, decaying stench that emanated from the Zeds was bad – try adding burning rotting flesh to that.

So, this old dog has learnt a couple of new tricks; how to make a Molotov cocktail, and also how not to use one, all in the same day. Things could’ve turned out much worse of course, and it’s a timely reminder that a simple fuck up could be the cause of my own demise. That’s just one of the challenges, (aside from the flesh-eating un-dead wandering the streets), that I face every day. I think some of the biggest dangers are actually self-induced: boredom, carelessness, impatience, emotions to name a few. Then there’s the physical dangers: injury, sickness, accidents, (could’ve broken my stupid fucking neck one supply run, got too cocky jumping down a flight of stairs and miss-judged the landing, I was a bit bloody and bruised for a few days. I take stairs a lot more carefully now).

I mentioned early on that I wanted a good death if…when…it comes. I’d hate to have survived all this - shit, just to make a stupid fuck-up like forgetting to shut a door or window, or setting myself on fire. The problem is it’s a bit of a vicious circle - you need to be alert, aware, all the time; it only takes a small screw up, but keeping up that level of attention is fucking exhausting.

Speaking of exhaustion, I’m pretty knackered. The pain in my arm’s faded to a dull ache, so I think I’m gonna sign-off and get some sleep, I got a feeling I’m going to need all the energy I can get to survive for much longer in this fucked-up City. ..
M

[EreWeGo]

Old Dog, New Tricks Part III

The streets are pretty quiet tonight; I’ve only seen a few small groups of Zombies stumble their way past my new safe-house. What fucking day is it anyway – Thursday, Friday? Shit, maybe it’s Happy Hour at the “Un-Dead Bar and Grill” downtown or something, I’m just happy it’s looking like an uneventful evening.

Considering those God-damn nightmares out there seem much more active at night, I’m glad I’ve always been a bit of a night Owl. It's not exactly easy to relax when you can hear those fuckers shuffling around outside, wondering if you make-shift barricade will hold if they discover where you’re holed up. I can happily get by with four or five hours of sleep at night – or during the day for that matter. I worked as a Security Guard before…well, before the World turned to shit, and quite enjoyed the solitude and peace of my nightly rounds, and the shift work never bothered me.

I always was a bit of a loner I guess - not in a “black clothing, white makeup wearing, dissect some road-kill” kinda way, but I never had any problems spending time by myself. Don’t get me wrong, I do like people, hell, I had family and friends too…had…I um…I don’t think I’m quite ready to talk about that yet, maybe another time.

‘Course, the problem with people is that they’re, well, human, and that means they come with human traits and emotions – both good, and bad. I mentioned that it’d be a bitch to have survived this long only to make some tiny fuck-up that takes you out of the game, but maybe even worse than getting killed or injured through some stupid fuck-up of your own making, is when it’s someone else’s fuck-up that brings a Zombie horde knocking at your door. (Well, scratching and clawing at your door anyway). The un-dead fuckers populating this county ain’t the smartest of creatures, (the simple mechanics of opening a door seems a little beyond their comprehension), but that’s not to say they’re not dangerous – what they lack in limited cognitive skills they more than make up for in pure predatory instinct, and sheer numbers.

Anyway, as I was saying, it’s not just my own shit I have to watch out for, I also have to worry about what some of those other dumb-as-fuck survivors decide to do. I was sitting in my safe-house the other night, just dozing off as the booze and meds worked their magic, when some fucker comes bursting through the door, goes screaming by me and makes his way toward the back door. I near shit myself as I fumbled for the baseball bat beside me on the couch.

“Hey! What the fuck?” I’d yelled, my heart thumping so hard it felt like it was gonna punch right through my chest. No answer, he just kept running, flung open the back door and disappeared into the darkness.

So now I’m just standing there, wide-eyed, breathing fast, and it was only then I realised the front door was still wide open, and whoever this prick was, he’d been running, fast, and it wasn’t hard to guess from what. As I turned to the door, time seemed to slow down to a crawl. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, and saw the first of at least a half a dozen Zombies shuffling through the doorway.

“Oh for fucks-sake” I mumbled, before tightening my grip on the bat, and I swung hard at the first Zombie as he – it, lurched toward me , stringy pieces of some poor fuckers’ flesh visible beneath its dirty, bloodied nails. The bat connected flush with the side of the Zeds face, I heard the crunching sound as what was left of its cheek bone and jaw collapsed and splintered, several teeth clattering to the floor. The Zombie took another step, collapsed to the side, only to make way for the next monstrosity aiming to rip me to pieces. This ones’ skin on the bottom half of its face was hanging in shreds, exposing a full set of teeth, making it look like it was fucking grinning at me. I kicked the open door as hard as I could, and was rewarded with a satisfying thump as it slammed shut, giving me some precious seconds to escape. I turned and ran, bolting out the back door where my unexpected visitor had left. I wasn’t thinking of all the tools and supplies I’d managed to scavenge, or my journal, I was just thinking I needed to get the fuck away…fast.

I’m not embarrassed to say I sprinted down that street in a fucking blind panic, trying to put as much distance between me and the Zombie horde as I could. I haven’t been back to the safe-house since then. I need to resupply first, and I’m setup okay in my new abode for a day or so, but I plan to get back to my original safe-house and maybe clear the area, or at least see if I can get some of my stuff back. It really pisses me off to think of all those hard-earned supplies I had to leave behind, all because of some wanker not knowing how to close a fucking door. I’ve decided I’m going to move around a bit more, have a few safe-houses scattered around. It’ll make supply runs a bit easier – especially on those occasions when I’m running later than expected, and darkness is closing in.

This time, I’ve taken the effort to barricade all doors before I head out or go to sleep – what’s a few extra minutes removing the boards when I leave or wake up, compared to having some asshole start a fucking Zombie house-party where I’m sleeping?

Dawn’s just breaking. I suppose a month or so ago I’d probably have thought it was a beautiful sunrise. Now I just tick off another night where I haven’t become some rotting, flesh-eating cadavers’ next meal. It’s even quieter now, not a shuffling Zombie in sight, and no sign of life. Might catch a few hours before heading out. Just need to check those doors first…
M

[Pacho]

Great story! A lot of work put into it

[Tweek]

What are the character stats? 

You could turn this into an awesome cyoa story

[Whittos]

A work of art!

[EreWeGo]

Thanks Whittos, appreciate the comment!