Oliver Pike (ex_houndofhe416) wrote in ridgewayresort, @ 2010-05-07 22:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | jacob black, pike |
Who: Pike. Open, or narrative, whatever.
Where: The road somewhat near the lake.
When: Right around nowish? So a while after the zombies rose.
What: Killing dead things deader than they already are!
Rating: PG-13 for non-gory violence? Could get into R range, though.
Status: Incomplete.
Boy did Pike hate having an enhanced sense of smell, sometimes. He could deal with it, but man. These guys were not minty fresh.
He’d seen the posts. Planning, planning, planning. It was good that people were organizing. All the good guys doing their thing, getting together, protecting the innocent masses, that was good. He’d have been there once, in one of those squads or whatever it was they were calling them. But he wasn’t really a people person these days and definitely not big on groups. Nor was he one to take orders. He knew what he needed to know about these things, he had the skills necessary to eliminate them, and that was all he really needed. Besides, he wasn’t much of a protector anyway. About the only things he was good for was fixing vehicles and killing things, and there wasn’t much call for the former right now. So when the shit had hit the fan, he’d grabbed two pistols and a sword, helped himself to a little of that all-important anti-zombie water, and gone out into the breach to kill dead things deader than they already were. In a way, he was still saving people. It was just that he was saving the people that were dumb enough, or desperate enough, to go out into this mess without the training or the weapons to really protect themselves.
Okay, maybe he was just ashamed of how much he actually relished killing things, or maybe it was because he wanted to avoid people asking questions about how he was doing some of the things he was doing. Only two people here knew he was a demon, and he really wanted to keep it that way.
He was very successful in his zombie killing endeavors. He was a pretty good shot, and it turned out zombie necks weren’t really all that terribly different from human necks when a sword collided with them at high rates of speed. In fact, in some cases they were easier, if the muscles in the neck region weren’t working so well. Sure, decapitations didn’t technically kill them, but he stomped the heads afterward. Besides, nobody would be ridiculous enough to be wearing open-toed shoes during zombie season, right?
The decapitations saved ammo, and since that was a finite resource he needed to do that whenever possible. He wasn’t going back to the cabin unless he desperately needed to. No reason to run into anyone that might ask questions about why he’d just taken off on his own without talking to anybody, considering he didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it.
The sound of groans from up ahead on the road drew him out of his thoughts. Once he had some time to get used to the overpowering stench of zombie, he would be able to sift through it to smell blood, which would be a good indicator of when zombie contact was imminent. He also kind of hoped these things would dry the hell out already, because the only thing worse than zombie smell was soggy zombie smell. God, he was going to have to burn these clothes.
Up ahead he saw eight zombies. They saw him, too. Not a problem. He even quickened his pace into a run. Both hands began moving, one drawing one of the two pistols from the waistband of his pants, the other pulling the broadsword free from the sheath at his side. Without missing a beat he swung the broadsword back and forward, releasing it like a knife-thrower. The minute it left his hand, he reached down to pluck the other pistol from his waistband.
The sword traveled faster than he did. It spun end over end until it found a home in the lead zombie’s head, sending its ugly corpse to the ground, permanently. One. He lined up shots and fired simultaneously, still closing the distance between himself and the group of eight-minus-one zombies at a run. Two. Three. Four. It would’ve been five, but one of his shots was off, ventilating a throat rather than a head. Whatever. That left only four zombies for close combat. Four mindless shamblers didn’t even rank as a threat in his mind.
He tucked one of the guns back into the waistband of his pants, and as he passed the fallen zombie with the sword in its head, he gripped the hilt in a tight fist and yanked it out and up in a slashing motion aimed at the head of the zombie that was even now lurching for his shoulder. The sword cut cleanly through the zombie’s head, shaving off a good third of it. The zombie dropped. Five. Another was coming in from his left, and he thrust his left hand out, practically shoving the gun into the zombie’s face an instant before he pulled the trigger. Six. He heard another zombie stumbling towards him on the right, and he reversed his grip on the sword so that he was holding it properly and then simply brought it down in a vicious cleaving motion that split the zombie’s head down to the nose. Pike once again let his sword fall with the zombie’s body, tossed the gun from his left hand into his right, and fired dead-on at the remaining zombie, the one he’d shot through the throat. He nailed it right between the eyes. Seven. Eight.
Grunting in satisfaction, he stuck the gun back in his waistband and retrieved the sword from the mangled head of zombie number seven. He took a second to wipe the zombie gunk off on the zombie’s clothes, then started down the path again, the sword held almost lazily at his side.