Post by ghostlight on Jun 3, 2009 3:53:48 GMT -5
Giddien moved silently through the shadows, dodging around charred and ruined cars. He had seen what looked to be a flashlight in a third floor window several streets down. Making his way there he had drawn the two machetes from his back, “Never jams, and never needs reloading” he laughed to himself.
The quiet was broken by the occasional cry from the nearby dead. The door of the building was hanging by the hinges as he looked over the frame carfully he saw it, a bouquet of grenades wired to the door.; if there was a live body in there they hadn’t come through this way. He swept stealthily around the corner to check for another entry point what wouldn’t make so much noise as battering down a broken door. Not to mention blowing himself to a lovely red froth and repainting the surrounding area.
He was crouched low making his way through the ally, almost tripping over the zombie, it hadn’t been moving, no sound no sign, but it groped at him, hearing the fleshless fingers scrap at his mask. Without thinking his body reacted and the blade of the machete sank through the open mouth. It made a sickly squelch as it passed through the back of the skull, maggots and loose flesh fell from the gapping maul of the thing as the gangrenous tongue lolled under the matted black steel.
The force he had used passed through the rotten meat, the tendon, muscle and bone and biting deep into the makeshift barricade of wood and refuse somebody had clearly tried to pile up. Giddien stood slowly, his boot on the jaw of the zombie; he stomped down as he pulled the things head exploded like a Halloween jack-o- lantern. The machete blade came free as it scrapped the things teeth.
He shethed the two weapons and drew his knife and sidearm, his stance was low, passing through a broken wooden fence he scanned the small back yard. A battered swing set off to the side. A broken and discarded child’s bike had been thrown on the barricade pile. His mind raced his scenes where on fire as he moved. Something shifted under him as he crawled over the pile. He traced his hands along the frame of the intact sliding glass door, it was how you got in, and he saw that now, no trip wires, and no traps.
He forced the blade into the crack of the door, popping the small lock. The door slid open soundlessly, “thank god” he thought as he closed it behind him. Staying close to the wall he moved through the garbage, scanning constantly, his breathing calm, his hands steady. The first and second floor cleared he made his way to the third.
The sound of heavy feet on the stairs tipped him off first, at least six men, and from the sound they made, well armed. He took off; banging through a pair a closed door, diving for the first cover he found that would stand up to a firefight. His back was pressed against a heavy wooden desk. The sharp click of the slide was lost to the pounding of the blood in his ears. They knew what they were doing that was for sure, a disturbing smile crept across his lips.
The quiet was broken by the occasional cry from the nearby dead. The door of the building was hanging by the hinges as he looked over the frame carfully he saw it, a bouquet of grenades wired to the door.; if there was a live body in there they hadn’t come through this way. He swept stealthily around the corner to check for another entry point what wouldn’t make so much noise as battering down a broken door. Not to mention blowing himself to a lovely red froth and repainting the surrounding area.
He was crouched low making his way through the ally, almost tripping over the zombie, it hadn’t been moving, no sound no sign, but it groped at him, hearing the fleshless fingers scrap at his mask. Without thinking his body reacted and the blade of the machete sank through the open mouth. It made a sickly squelch as it passed through the back of the skull, maggots and loose flesh fell from the gapping maul of the thing as the gangrenous tongue lolled under the matted black steel.
The force he had used passed through the rotten meat, the tendon, muscle and bone and biting deep into the makeshift barricade of wood and refuse somebody had clearly tried to pile up. Giddien stood slowly, his boot on the jaw of the zombie; he stomped down as he pulled the things head exploded like a Halloween jack-o- lantern. The machete blade came free as it scrapped the things teeth.
He shethed the two weapons and drew his knife and sidearm, his stance was low, passing through a broken wooden fence he scanned the small back yard. A battered swing set off to the side. A broken and discarded child’s bike had been thrown on the barricade pile. His mind raced his scenes where on fire as he moved. Something shifted under him as he crawled over the pile. He traced his hands along the frame of the intact sliding glass door, it was how you got in, and he saw that now, no trip wires, and no traps.
He forced the blade into the crack of the door, popping the small lock. The door slid open soundlessly, “thank god” he thought as he closed it behind him. Staying close to the wall he moved through the garbage, scanning constantly, his breathing calm, his hands steady. The first and second floor cleared he made his way to the third.
The sound of heavy feet on the stairs tipped him off first, at least six men, and from the sound they made, well armed. He took off; banging through a pair a closed door, diving for the first cover he found that would stand up to a firefight. His back was pressed against a heavy wooden desk. The sharp click of the slide was lost to the pounding of the blood in his ears. They knew what they were doing that was for sure, a disturbing smile crept across his lips.