User:Team Meat/The Diabolical Dr. Zed
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This story is part of the Malton Chronicles. This story is fan-made, and is not officially part of any background history for Urban Dead. |
"Damn, locked." But what did Clarke hope to find. A brilliant white ambulance left open for anyone to just come along and take. He looked around, there was no signs of life. He rammed his elbow hard into the window of the driver's door. The glass shattered and splintered, one jagged piece slicing his arm. Blood oozed from the wound and ran down his forearm, dripping from his fingers. He reached in and unlocked the ambulance. Clarke took no more than a moment to hotwire the ambulance and within seconds was heading down the street on his way back to Burdekin Alley. He flicked his way through radio channels hoping for some news of what the hell was happening in this sleepy little town. Nothing, crap pop, classic FM, car ads, everything was useless. Clarke was no longer paying attention to the road, he was too busy looking for answers in the airwaves when he heard a tinny crash. He looked up. Wondered what he'd hit. He hadn't felt the jolt of any impact. Nothing. He was central to the road.
Another noise. This time a thud on the back of the ambulance's cab. He swiveled in the driver's chair to see another of those dreadful creatures. Expressionless it looked through him and raised its hand to beat on the window again. Clarke swerved sharply to the right and the zombie fell hard against the side of the ambulance. He knew he was safe, there was a glass screen between them. "Glass? Ha you idiot what's glass gonna do?" Clarke said outloud to himself, and he was right, if this thing is intent on getting to him what's a little glass going to do to stop it? He breaked heavily, the ambulance leapt forward then came to a standstill.
He looked around the cab for something to use as a weapon. Nothing. Unless. He took a large shard of glass from the window he'd broken and headed for the back doors. He threw them open expecting to be attacked but as he looked closer the thing wasn't moving. The steel struts to a surgical stretcher had impaled it against the side of the ambulance. Clarke climbed in blissful in the creatures impending demise. He searched the ambulance for somehting more substantial than some glass. "Glass? Ha you idiot what's glass gonna do?" He heard himself say again. He saw a defibrillator in the corner. It looked quite heavy. As he picked it up he suddenly became aware of a cold hand on his ankle. Then a low, gutteral moaning. Clarke turned slowly. On the floor of the ambulance covered in medical equipment that had fallen on to it was another zombie. What was once a man with short black hair and a slight moustache was now something rotten losing it's thick black hair. It heaved itself from the rubble of medical artefacts and stood before Clarke. It was wearing a lab coat and a tidy suit ruined by his own blood and that of his attacker, the zombie impaled on the stretcher had infected the good doctor. Dr. Black his name tag read. He was still wearing his stethoscope. The menacing doctor raised its arms and prepared to attack Clarke, who raised the defibrillator, ready to defend himself. It came at him with an ear drum splitting bang it hit the ground. Another loud bang rendered the other zombie motionless. Clarke looked around. He knew that sound. It was a Colt Python.
