Allison Brenner (lilmissbrenner) wrote in immune_ic, @ 2012-09-04 16:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2011 [09] september, silas |
WHO: Allison and Silas
WHAT: Allison finally wakes up!
WHERE: Quarantine.
WHEN: Slightly forward dated to 5 September 2019; Morning.
RATING: Low-medium? Probz low.
STATUS:: In-progress
Allison would forever connect the smell of old person with the attack. Funny how olfactory sense and memory worked. She had dreamed about it. All night. She recognized Nelson Park. It had a baseball diamond. She'd gone there a few times with her dad to run the bases and practice her batting.
She was getting close to Sing Sing, at least from what she could remember. Maybe a twenty minute walk? But that was speculation. She had no reason to go to the prison before, so she really didn't know how far out she was. She had her dad's sawed off shotgun, just in case, though the park was eerily zombie free.
She'd have continued on her trek across the park, had she not heard something coming from the dugout near first and second base. A scraping noise? Shuffling?
And that's when she heard it.
"Help me," it came. Barely audible. Someone was hurt?
Cautiously turning on her heel to head toward the dugout, she pulled the shotgun to her shoulder, resting against the strap of her backpack. One could never be to careful. The shuffling continued, progressively getting louder as Allison got closer.
Then the voice came again. "H-help m-me." It was low, almost a growl, rather than the higher pitched plea she thought she'd heard moments before.
The next bit happened in the blink of an eye. Allison had come up on the stairs to the dugout, but hadn't started descending them. She was looking for what she thought was an injured person. What she wasn't expecting was the Waker that tackled her upon seeing her, knocking her to the ground. Like the ominous scene in so many movies, the gun had slipped free from her hand, only to rest on the ground just out of arm's reach. The backpack on her back didn't make moving any easier, and landing on it had helped to knock the wind out of her.
Crap.
And the Waker was on her. There was slobber, and the smell of death, and fury as it tore at her clothes --her skin. Once she could breathe again, it made her nauseous. She was going to puke if it kept breathing on her. She pushed at the zombie's face. Like that was going to do any good. But it sure beat getting her face munched off by a cannibalistic infected corpse. She didn't focus on the burning pain from the scratches.
In a panic, Allison was trying to scoot her way close enough to her gun to grab hold of it. If she could get a shot off, she might stand a chance. She wasn't going to go down without a fight. If her father could stand up to a Smasher, she could stand up to this. Right? God she hoped so.
And as quickly as it began, it was over. Being small, and having more than basic cognitive function, Allison had wriggled her way free long enough to retrieve her shotgun. And thankfully she knew how to use it. The Waker hadn't let her get far before it sunk it's teeth into her ankle, and dragged her back toward it across the dusty ground. It was now or never. Life or death. And Allison wasn't ready to die just yet. She turned just enough and fired.
The Waker sputtered and collapsed. Allison could feel the dead weight on her. She scrambled out from beneath the corpse, stood as best she could, and pumped the shotgun. The empty shell fell to the ground by her feet and she aimed at the back of the zombie's head. Double tap. Dad had always stressed that. Make sure that they are dead. Make damned sure that they aren't going to come at you again. And she did. The zombie ended up with 12 gauge buckshot in it's skull. She was more than sure it wouldn't come after her.
But that didn't mean that other zombies in the area hadn't heard the shot. That was the problem with shotguns. They were loud. They attracted things. Especially undead things.
So now she was bleeding. Mostly from the bite wound at her ankle --which wasn't too awful, but bad enough to bleed, but there were a few scrapes and scratches on her body as well. She needed to get out of the open. Or she was most certainly zombie food. Her gaze set on a house across the street from the park. That would have to do.
She started off across the field now, a mix of a hobble and an outright stumble. Putting weight on her ankle caused it to scream at her, but she could still walk on it. That was a good sign, right?
The last thing Allison remembered was passing out on the couch in what she presumed to be an elderly person's house. The couch was an atrocious floral print and smelled like mothballs and old person. Ugh.
But the bed she woke up in most definitely did not smell like old person.
She sat up now, panic returning. Where am I? Initial thoughts.