Status: This writing is a bit dated. It'll progressively improve through the series.
Pandemic
Clicking and Sandstorms
22:23 Hrs, September 11th
Carter St., Glandice City
Vincent's feet touched down onto the asphalt as he whipped around, shrugging the M1-Carbine off his shoulders, ready to retaliate against an ambush.
There was nothing.
He slowly edged his way down the street, blinded by the darkness, almost oblivious to his surroundings. There were flashlights in the office building but he didn't dare bring one. Anything that stood out as unusual would've caused a horde of zombies to storm at him. Light would've been like a beacon signaling meal time. He moved about the wreckage of vehicles that clogged the streets with care.
Memories attempted to push their way into his mind as his passed a friend's house, his school, his burnt down home, but fear overpowered the memories and heightened his senses.
The silence was broken by a short groan, followed by several more, then faint clicking. Vincent knew the sound. The infamous clicking. It meant a zombie, usually several, was near. Over the past year it had been discovered that it was a zombie's toe nails that produced the noise. An evolutionary trait given to infect more victims, their nails were over an inch long and around a sixteenth of an inch thick, and constantly secreted the infectious parasites. The drawback was that their movements were often given away by the drumming of their toe nails against hard surfaces.
The sound suspiciously died away.
Several minutes passed as Vincent continued on tentatively, afraid that each pile of debris he passed would house a zombie. A few hours later he was outside the new city limits, the desert entombing the rest of the city.
It wasn't a desert like most imagine, with mountains of pure, rippled sand dunes completely void of all signs of life. It was a flat, rocky expansion. Dried out plant life dotted the landscape, along with twisted formations of steel. The relics of what humanity once was.
Vincent pushed his way through the forsaken land, a harsh, cold wind continuously combating him. Dirt became one with the air, irritating his throat every time he took a breath. He knew enough from radio transmissions that this was standard weather for the northern desert. A true sandstorm was said to be like a hurricane except instead of rain and wind, there was rock and sand. Anyone trapped inside one was never seen again.
Suddenly the wind picked up and he was blown backwards. Regaining his balance, Vincent shielded his eyes from sand, looking for a place to rest until the wind calmed down. The sand was stinging his body, and he had lost his sense of direction. There was no way to see anything beyond arms' reach through the pseudo-storm, especially a red flare in the distance.
Some time passed as Vincent searched for shelter until he found a dark silhouette through the sand. Approaching it inquisitively, he realized it was an overturned truck. The front was buried completely, but the back of the truck struck out of the ground. He sat underneath it, his body thankful for the shelter. Vincent took off his backpack and laid it down, using it as a pillow. He held his M1-Carbine close to him as he fell asleep.
Carter St., Glandice City
Vincent's feet touched down onto the asphalt as he whipped around, shrugging the M1-Carbine off his shoulders, ready to retaliate against an ambush.
There was nothing.
He slowly edged his way down the street, blinded by the darkness, almost oblivious to his surroundings. There were flashlights in the office building but he didn't dare bring one. Anything that stood out as unusual would've caused a horde of zombies to storm at him. Light would've been like a beacon signaling meal time. He moved about the wreckage of vehicles that clogged the streets with care.
Memories attempted to push their way into his mind as his passed a friend's house, his school, his burnt down home, but fear overpowered the memories and heightened his senses.
The silence was broken by a short groan, followed by several more, then faint clicking. Vincent knew the sound. The infamous clicking. It meant a zombie, usually several, was near. Over the past year it had been discovered that it was a zombie's toe nails that produced the noise. An evolutionary trait given to infect more victims, their nails were over an inch long and around a sixteenth of an inch thick, and constantly secreted the infectious parasites. The drawback was that their movements were often given away by the drumming of their toe nails against hard surfaces.
The sound suspiciously died away.
Several minutes passed as Vincent continued on tentatively, afraid that each pile of debris he passed would house a zombie. A few hours later he was outside the new city limits, the desert entombing the rest of the city.
It wasn't a desert like most imagine, with mountains of pure, rippled sand dunes completely void of all signs of life. It was a flat, rocky expansion. Dried out plant life dotted the landscape, along with twisted formations of steel. The relics of what humanity once was.
Vincent pushed his way through the forsaken land, a harsh, cold wind continuously combating him. Dirt became one with the air, irritating his throat every time he took a breath. He knew enough from radio transmissions that this was standard weather for the northern desert. A true sandstorm was said to be like a hurricane except instead of rain and wind, there was rock and sand. Anyone trapped inside one was never seen again.
Suddenly the wind picked up and he was blown backwards. Regaining his balance, Vincent shielded his eyes from sand, looking for a place to rest until the wind calmed down. The sand was stinging his body, and he had lost his sense of direction. There was no way to see anything beyond arms' reach through the pseudo-storm, especially a red flare in the distance.
Some time passed as Vincent searched for shelter until he found a dark silhouette through the sand. Approaching it inquisitively, he realized it was an overturned truck. The front was buried completely, but the back of the truck struck out of the ground. He sat underneath it, his body thankful for the shelter. Vincent took off his backpack and laid it down, using it as a pillow. He held his M1-Carbine close to him as he fell asleep.