Tales From a Tarnished World
It's been almost 6 months since the start of the Undead Armageddon. In typical fashion information as to why and how the dead rose to consume the living is unknown. A handful of survivors litter the cities and towns of North America, and presumably the world. These are their stories:
Tales From a Tarnished World
I
The tarnished one slunk down the alleyway toward Jim, and Jim was afraid. This wasn't the first time he'd had anything to fear from these shambling humanoids. They'd threatened him before, but each time he'd figured a way out, had been in a position of power. It was just stupidity, being caught in a blind alley like this. Purple lips, folded over from scarring and overeating spread wide, the reek of sewer and rot of yellowed teeth stood out to Jim. He watched as another, and another joined their rotting companion. The city was filled with them. Zombies, most called them. Tarnished ones, Jim liked to say. It was poetic, angelic, it gave them a sense of dignity they otherwise lacked. He rubbed his beard and realized that his nose was running, but that didn't really matter right now. It was cold out, but there were a quadtuplet of shuffling undead appearing before him. Huffing, snuffling the air, tasting his brains and blood with their tongues, feeling his human warmth from yards away. Jim held two pistols a .45 automatic that he could barely control; it was more useful against human looters and scavengers. Loud and dramatic but a bit too powerful for him to control accurately-- when using it he tried to aim low, and a .38 special which was perfect for him. It was light and quick with minimal kick. Unfortunately he only had 2 rounds left in the .45, and 3 left in the .38. He'd need to score direct head shots on all four Tarnished as they shuffled down the brick row toward him, all the casualness of weekday shoppers. There was no way. Maybe he'd score two hits with the .38, that was his average; but surely he'd be able to smash some legs and hammer some torsos with the .45, enough to be able to hop over snapping, stinking jaws to freedom. Freedom, what a joke. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. The Tarnished had finally locked onto him, he could tell-- their glassy eyes rolled in his direction, slack jaws worked absently, creaking joints flexed and blackened fingernails clawed the air in his direction. All four let out a soulless moan that, no matter how many times he heard it, still threw Jim's skin into goosebumps.
He cocked the handguns, steadying his aim, and let loose a short burst of lead from the .38 as be backed up to the wooden fence behind him, through his peripherals he could see no fire escapes, no rear exits, no basement windows. As his back hit the fence, and two of the zombies' faces splashed into red paste he could tell that behind the wood fence was a chain link one, doubled up protecting the alleyway behind him. Two twitching tarnished beings hit the floor, the third lost an arm but didn't seem to notice and the fourth, as healthy as it'd ever be, hissed at him. It paused, bent its knees and brandished sharp black claws. This is new, Jim thought, as the armless tarnished hobbled toward him quickly. He snapped a quick shot at the armless one, a thick led slug smashed through its neck and shattered its spinal column with a thick gout of black fluid. Jim was used to the smell, like stagnant water and maggots. The thing took a few more automatic steps then dropped to the filthy floor as its head partially separated from its neck-still barely holding on through rotting sinew and gristle. Its legs still working half-heartedly and it did spasmodic parody of Curly from the Three Stooges, kicking around in circled on the gore streaked pavement. The last zombie hunched its back and continued to crouch. Its lifeless eyes, black with disease scanned the alleyway. It could feel him, Jim knew it. It could feel his warmth, his heart pumping fresh blood through his vascular system at 70 beats per minute. He had one shot left but this wasn't the normal run of the mill zombie. He pointed the automatic, cocked back the hammer, aimed and thought, they're evolving.
Jim fired, the pistol snapped his hand back and his eyes closed involuntarily as the handgun ejected the hot shell. He heard the shot hit, with a resounding crack, against the stone of the alleyway floor.
Shit.
Jim opened his eyes to find the tarnished one, the zombie, the undead monster sprinting toward him. He had enough time to throw his arms up in front of his face hoping to block those half inch talons that grew from the creature's fingertips. A tattoo of footsteps, a growl and a leap. It jumped! Tattered clothing, or skin flapped, and a throaty purr filled the air. Then a noise, a loud one that Jim couldn't quite process and a rain of liquid upon him. The noise, with his eyes closed, sounded a lot like a shotgun blast. But...how...?
Jim opened his eyes, he was covered in black ichor but he was alive. He swung around and saw a burly, heavily muscled man with days old stubble and a thick mustache hanging off of the top of the fence, presumably come from the alleyway beyond. He held a shotgun that smoked and reeked of sulfur and cordite.
“You alright?” He called at Jim, and Jim nodded. He noticed the fence climber had a rifle strapped to his back, a six-gun on his hip and was wearing camouflage pants. He smiled a big old Teddy Roosevelt grin behind his mustache and gunsmoke and Jim hated him instantly, despite the life saving intervention.
“C'mon over. I got a hideout on the roof.” The mustached man leapt from the top of the fence to a waiting fire escape. “Good thing I hopped the fence when I did. Nice shooting by the way, but you might want to think about shooting that .45 two-handed.” He began climbing up to the roof. Jim didn't instantly follow.
“Squeeze and aim with your right hand, and steady it with your left. Still, nice shooting.”
It was bad enough, Jim thought, that I have to deal with zombies. Now I have to deal with survivalist assholes too? And with a sigh, Jim climbed the fence to safety.