On the Move: Difference between revisions
m
→top: replaced: “ → " (13), ” → " (13), ’ → ' (21)
(Created page with "“Come on! Just a few more yards!” I can feel the blood pounding through me, my head hurts, a gash on my arm is screaming for death. My feet are blistered to hell and back, my vision is dimmed and dimming, like someone is playing with a slider in the back of my mind. Why the hell did it all have to go down today? Why couldn’t I have gone in the first wave, just disappeared into the faceless mass of others in the now writhing horde of zombies. The effort to move will...") |
m (→top: replaced: “ → " (13), ” → " (13), ’ → ' (21)) |
||
Line 1:
Chiron
It was a few days prior, the outbreak had already spread far and wide, the cities in riot mode attempting to deal with it, the military already declaring martial law in some places, and in others, the military was doing clean-up operations. The fires spread, the dead walked, the living cried, and no other soul on the face of the earth was content. It was over, contact with radio signals became infrequent, most stations left on the air were numbers stations, most that were around were automated. The shortwave radio bands were lit up, sounding like bad resistance movements from across the globe, frequencies from Paris, Hamburg, Berlin, Moscow. Each one pleading with some invisible station requesting armed support, food, or water, it never works though, the aid never comes. I was in charge of operating out one ham radio, attempting to broadcast on every channel. The same hiss of static pouring from the radio day in, day out. The last operator killed himself, a bullet through his brain, to avoid becoming the undead.
I figured screw it, my coms buddy had left the room, the leader was most likely going to tell us to cut coms with Xeno-44 anyways, so
Soon the horde that I had agitated was drawing in on the ally. The
I walked downstairs, a grin cracked across my face, as it had been decomposing for a little while.
{{by-cpwuser|Carmenpasta}}
|