Quote from Uh, story?

His feet were tired, they were sore, rough raw. Of course it wasn't just his feet, his entire body was aching, he hadn't rested in such a long time. He and his friends had joked about this before, probably at school, what they would do, why it would be fun and why it wouldn't be; but none of that mattered. He had never thought anything could hurt so much, of course, he could never have imagined it could happen.

He had been skeptical at first, maybe he was a believer now, but for now his thoughts were too dazed for him to really consider what he believed. He hadn't prayed to God, he couldn't think of the words, he hadn't had the time, he didn't know who God was. What did it matter about theological existence anyways when his terrestrial existence was so fragile?

His eyes were so tired, he felt like closing them, lying on the ground and waiting for the minions of death to take him. These were not the romantic notions of some socially estranged poet, greedily and selfishly contemplating the solace of death; these were the irrational and squalid ideas of a child who had witnessed the end, feared it, and saw in it his definite end. A child tired of being at play of being a man, a child who needed a mothers hug, a child who's mother would never again hug him.

He might have noticed the ragged conditions of his clothes had he still had the care, maybe he would have felt the tears with his hands had they still had feeling in them. Maybe in a simpler time he would have quietly noted the brilliance of the setting sun, and hidden the thought away as too romantic for a practical male offspring. His eyes were too salty anyways, dried tears had blurred his vision.

Practicality spoke that he had to remain alert, that's how he'd always sold it to his friends. To survive you had to stay alert and moving, if you were moving they couldn't get you, or they were less likely too anyways. He tried to wipe the tiredness from his eyes but all he managed to do was get blood on his brow and in his eyes, it burned. But he didn't care anymore. He had watched them, death, horror itself crash through their doors, their windows. They had been asleep, you would have expected an advance warning even in this backwater town, the government couldn't really be that incompetent, could it? They had been asleep and they had come. There were screams as they were torn from their beds, and terrible terrible sounds as they were dismembered and disembowled by hungry teeth and reaching hands. He had been lucky enough to escape, the only one, he was the only one who had been too cowardly to try and save them, his mother, his father, his brother, where in the Bible does God warrant cowardice?

He knew he couldn't have saved them, he would have died just like them, he tried to console himself with this, he was alive, and if was alive so were others, they could survive. But he didn't want to survive, he wanted to die. He had spent the morning and the afternoon walking, running, staring death in the face and seeing it in the shadows. His day had been punctuated by gunshots and screams. Terrible, horrible screams. His stomach churned at the memory, but he had long-ago expelled any substance in his system so there was no danger. Screams that would haunt him till the end of his days, which, in a strangely heart warming way, he knew would be soon.

Unexpectedly, randomly he failed to find firm ground with his tired feet. He fell on the sharp blacktop, cutting a long gash along his forearm. He couldn't help it, he knew he had to be quiet, but he couldn't help it, he screamed out. He bit his lip until it bled, to stop the screaming. All of that talk about dying and he realized that it was in his nature to live, to want to live. And now he was afraid. Fear exists only as the fear of death, which is really only the fear of not knowing and he didn't know, and he didn't want to know.

The evening had long been silent, he had escaped the city limits hours ago, but he knew he was not safe. He knew they had heard him, that they were coming. Suddenly invigorated with a strong will to survive he looked around hastily, there had to be something he could use, something to preserve the one thing he had left to treasure.

It appeared as if there had been a wreck in the very recent past. There was a trail of oil toward the side of the road, and some some bent metal rods that looked like they snapped off of the wheel of the car. And there was the car, wrapped around a thick tree. It smelled vaguely of smoke. From where he was standing there was blood spattered on the seats of the car, all over, everywhere, but there was no corpse. Perhaps his end was to come sooner than he had hoped.

He reached down and picked up the metal rod, it was heavy in his hands, greasy, ridiculous. He couldn't fight, he was just a stupid kid. He skirted the car, after that, he wasn't going to tempt death when it stalked him so closely. Somehow he managed to avoid falling into listlessness, as before, though his brain was strained, his head ached, his muscles yearned for rest and nourishment and his forearm throbbed.

It took it at least ten minutes to appear after he heard its blood curdling moan. He couldn't run, he didn't have the energy, he was going to make his stand here, now, and for all time. This was the end, he knew it, but it wasn't the end he wanted, and, like all of mankind before him, he was going to fight against unreasonable circumstances to perpetuate his existence to a level that was acceptable to him, which it, of course, would never be.

He wasn't so foolhardy as to run at it. He stood still, fashioned he hoped, like a knight of yore, waiting for it to slowly lumber to him. He was terrified, he was tired, he felt like a hero, he felt like a victim, he didn't know how he felt, he felt like death.

He could see the grotesque flow of its musculature, as it flowed between the ripped, yellow, dirty skin. It's clothes were torn, coagulated blood attempted to seal them. Glass rent its body, its face mangled beyond recognition. It had been human, but he could hardly believe it, whatever it had been now it was just a soulless machination of evil. Of course it wasn't evil that created this, but the lack of pure intervention, the absence of a careful conscientious righteous observer to save its pious devotees.

It lumbered at him, no feeling in it's placid eyes, like a wax mannequin, emanating guttural calls from it's decrepit throat. It lunged, it's ragged fingers grasping the air around him. It would take down its throat, it would destroy its prey and create new life, un-life, a life of death, a life of not knowing. He swung his axle, striking the monster in the side, it stumbled to the side, some basic human physiological processes remaining, and righted itself.

It lunged again, he swung again. The sharp edge of the bent metal connected with it's neck, rending the flesh. No blood poured forth from the wound, the monsters head hung lamely, it's vertebret protruding from it's neck. Its jaw unhinged it moaned again, again it lunged. Again he swung, hitting it time in the head. The muscle and skin on its neck stretched and tore, its skull, fractured, protruded from it's torn skin, but it was still coming. Interminable.

One more time it lunged, and this was the end. It's strong hands grabbed his arm while it's teeth engraved themselves into his abdomen. He didn't feel it. He kicked out, knocking the monster from himself. He swung again, and again, and again, throwing all of his muscle behind every hit. Tendons and muscles snapped, finally its neck fractured, and it fell, pathetic to the ground; its head still writhing, trying to attack him again. But it couldn't it couldn't move. And he couldn't move.

There was his blood, soaking his shirt, there was his life spilling out onto the concrete and all he had left to do was wait for the sweet embrace of death. Maybe there was consciousness in death, or maybe in undeath. The sun was nearly set, its radiance illuminating the clouds a brilliant red. Not blood red. A beautiful red, a ruby red, it was just...beautiful.

The head kept moaning, calling to it's conspirators in death, it's competitors. He heard them before he saw them, rustling and moaning in the forest by the road. There were no tears, there was no fear. He knew he was going to die. He knew what was going to come, that was death, and freedom from life and pain.

They didn't even stop to appraise their easily caught prey, he didn't appraise them either, his vision now limited by grit and pain. They fell on him like animals, their fingers and teeth digging through his abdomen. And in his last words there were no screams, no final quotable last words, just a sigh, to be carried away and hidden in the wind. All of his effects and his works hidden in one indecipherable sigh, carried away by nature, to heard by the ears of none, to effect none, and to carry on no legacy.

Quote from Ash

Haha, I could never hope to beat your vivid storytelling, but I'll give it a try.

Quote from Schwa

I don't whether to take this at face value or not.

Probably because I am insecure.

<.<

Edit* I just realized how many typos there are. That's what I get for trying to type a story at night. :[

Quote from Schwa

I don't whether to take this at face value or not.

Probably because I am insecure.

<.<

Edit* I just realized how many typos there are. That's what I get for trying to type a story at night. :[

He was awake. There was a deeper darkness before his eyes than he had ever seen before but he was definitely awake. Wasn’t it Plato who had said “I think therefore I am”? Or was it Descartes? He always got those two mixed up. But he was definitely thinking. That was strange. He could have sworn they had been on top of him just moments before, their teeth and nails cutting into him as he tried in vain to kick them away. He had been foolish enough to look back as he ran and had tripped over a body lying in the street. He had been certain his fate was sealed, but he seemed ok.

Then the pain hit him. It was like thousands, no, millions of ice cold needles piercing his skin. It was like nothing he had ever felt before, beyond what he imagined possible. He tried to move but the pain just intensified and his muscles fought against him. He gave up and it seemed to subside as he relaxed. Then his eyes opened. The light seemed so bright he felt sure it should have blinded him but his eyes quickly adjusted. As everything came into focus he saw that what had seemed bright compared to the utter darkness he had been in was only the moon, full and bright, certainly, but no more than he had stared into many a night before. It was comforting to see it, even after all of this, unaffected, unchanging. He tried to lift his head and look around but the pain just came back again, even worse than before, and his head remained motionless as ever.

Suddenly, as if driven by some unknown force, he sat up. He hadn’t tried to – he had completely relaxed to try and alleviate the pain – but he was nevertheless, sitting. Where before had been the night sky now he could see the buildings and streets of inner-city London ahead of him. He could see a mother clutching her child in front of him, huddled up in a corner with a look of abject terror on her face. She looked young, maybe twenty five, although this past week had not been good to her, with long, brown hair, tangled and greasy from several days of running without the chance to wash or rest. Her face was dirty and her baby was wrapped in a dishevelled old ag which may, at one time, have been a blanket. He tried to open his mouth to tell her it was ok, that they had gone and she was safe for the moment, but he couldn’t. The same force that had made him sit up seemed to be holding his mouth firmly shut.

Then his arms shot out in front of him and pushed on the ground as his body went to stand. He saw a huge chunk missing from his left forearm; surely no one could suffer an injury like that and not bleed to death? The ground he had been lying on passed by his vision for a few seconds and he saw the huge pool of dark red blood he had been in. Was that all his? Could one person have that much blood in them? Now that he concentrated he could feel that he was missing other bits as well, a sizable part of his throat for one thing, and if he had been able he would have puked at the fact that that wasn’t the worst bit.

His body started to lurch forward – his arms out in front of him to maintain a shaky balance – and realisation dawned. He was one of them! The things had turned him and there was nothing he could do! The woman with the baby was scrabbling back – trying to get even further into the corner – but there was nowhere left to go. Her baby started to cry. Oh God no, he thought. This can’t be happening. He tried to resist, to stop the slow, inevitable steps taking him closer to the helpless woman, but to no avail. The pain seared through his body like the flesh was being stripped, piece by piece, and the petrified whimpers of the woman and the screams of her baby ate into his mind. Please don’t let this happen, he prayed but there was no answer. She lashed out and tried to hit him but with surprising speed his hand caught her arm as it came towards him. I’m so sorry, he tried to say as his teeth sank deep into it, causing blood to drip down his face and adding to his already soaked clothes. The child screamed louder as its mother collapsed and he saw his hands reaching for it. He watched with horror through what were once his eyes as the defenceless child was torn apart and devoured. Warm blood spattered into his face. An intestine draped from his mouth before he slurped it up like spagetti. He saved the heart until last, savouring it like a fine dessert.

He felt like a monster. He was a monster. He was a thing out of nightmares and horror films. He had just eaten a child. Could there be anything worse? Surely he was now the lowest of the low – an uncontrollable, mindless animal. He wanted nothing more than for it to all be over, for someone to come around the corner and blow his head of with a shotgun – like they always had in the films – but this was not a film. There were no heroes to fight the zombies that had risen up from the cemeteries; there was no one to end his pain. This thought was sinking him even further into despair when something on the edge of his vision attracted his attention.

It was the body of the woman he had just attacked. It was moving. Its eyes were open and it was sitting up – just like he had. Hitting him like a freight train came the realisation that he had done something worse already. At least the child would suffer no more, but her troubles were just beginning. At least someone else will share my misery, he thought. No, said another part of him, we can’t start to think like this; while you’re sorry you’re not evil – it’s just this thing controlling you. If you accept it it’s won.

The woman was standing now and together they began to lurch down the dark street. The street lights had long gone out. When the crisis started just over a week ago everyone had panicked and fled, just trying to find somewhere safe to hide. The power stations had shut down leaving people with no way to communicate and shrouding cities in darkness during the night for the first time in decades. He could see a little by the light of the moon but there wasn’t much he wanted to look at. Everywhere there were pools of blood and the occasional body where armed police officers had tried to fight the things and got lucky. There was grafiti everywhere; windows were boarded up and almost every building had been broken into, either by looters or by zombies trying to feed of the people hiding inside.

As they moved on more zombies joined them from side alleys. The things seemed to have a natural instinct to form a hoard and seek out life wherever it remained. They turned a corner and he could see a much larger group of the things ahead of him. They were all pushing against the doors and windows of a large, boarded up building – maybe a hospital or a school – with light flickering through gaps in the boards. It looked like there was another group trying to survive as long as possible by trapping themselves in. He had done that for the first few days but had gotten out when he decided that if the zombies did break in he would have no chance of escape. Looking back now with hindsight it might have been better if he had lain low. On the other hand, maybe not. He would never know.

Now he was in the mob, pushing forward with the rest, adding to the huge force that must, by now, be beginning to break that door. A figure, proably a man, appeared on the roof with a bottle. There was a rag stuffed into the top of it and he had lit the end. The bottle flew through the air and landed right in the middle of the throng of zombies, bursting and engulfing the things near it with a fireball which would leave them burning and eventually fry their brains. Now that he looked he could see several rings of scorched corpses on the floor from earlier skirmishes. They were the lucky ones, he thought.

With a splintering crash the doorway suddenly collapsed under the weight of more and more undead coming up behind. The first few zombies lost their balance and were crushed by others trying to get to the fresh meat. Another fireball flashed out of the doorway, lighting the zombie just in front of him but missing him by inches. Damn, so close, he thought but his body wouldn’t let him get close enough to light himself up. Now he was the furthest forward of the zombies and was lurching forward to get through the door to the sweet human flesh that awaited. Try to fight it, thought his inner self, but even if he could have regained control he couldn’t have fought the tide pushing him forward into the building.

There was a staircase in front of him and he could hear footsteps on the floor above him. He went towards it and started to climb. There was a door at the top of the stairs but it didn’t look as though it had been reinforced. He could hear a heart beating quickly behind it now, the adrenaline was pumping through what had once been his body, the zombie in him could smell the fear and was exited at the prospect of feeding again. He got to the top of the stairs and hammered once on the door which broke inwards. There was a young girl just behind it, rooted to the spot in terror and he leaped at her, knocking her to the ground. No! Not another one, he thought as he tried to pull himself back but once again the pain seared through him and he could see he was moving in to bite. Two clicks made him look up. Two barrels were inches from his face and the man he had seen earlier was behind them. There was an explosion. Thank you, he thought, as the darkness closed in for a second time.

Quote from zed

OK well here's my entry. Let me know if you don't want it here and I'll edit it out of the post. I wanted to try and do something slightly diferant and unusual. I hope it worked.

Quote from pandemedic

im gonna post my story, a variant of my main one EXCELSIOR, but a quick grammatical question, do you ALWAYS have to put a period at the end of a quote? IE
"Yeah, i dont like him either." or
"Yeah, i dont like him either"