User:Team Meat/The Grim Reality of End Times
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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. |
A text message "Sorry Ash not tonight I'm washing my hair." It was MacLane he'd been waiting on a reply for ages and finally got it. He sipped his beer through the foam on the top. He finished his pint and followed it with a whisky chaser. He'd been sat around in the Butland Arms for close to three hours hoping MacLane would find it in herself to join him for a drink. They hadn't spoken since the Christmas party after he'd made a drunken pass at her.
"Huuurgh" Clarke brought the contents of his gut up into his toilet, the sparkling white porcelain sullied with his intestinal bile. He held onto the seat as he heaved again, an almighty spasm racked his body as he flooded the toilet with orange vomit. He pressed his temple and whished tonight would hurry up and be over. The young detective hadn't been this drunk in months not since, not since, Clarke didn't want to remeber the reason he was last drunk. "Huuurgh" he wretched again, nothing. Not since Christmas. He brushed his long hair from his face and headed to the sink, he threw several handfuls of cold water over his face and placed his mouth around the tap. Gurgling he felt him self wretch again, the water burbled through his lips, he spat it down the drain and headed to bed. The crisp linen sheets offered no comfort, neither did his soft mattress nor his feathered pillows. His head throbbed deep within his own drunkeness.....
Clarke slept a broken sleep, tossing and turning dreaming of death and decay. His alarm rang loud, I'm Walking On Sunshine echoed in his ears and aching brain. "Fuck off". Another day in Burdekin Alley and another day behind a desk, nothing ever happened in Malton it seemed to be the most boring of towns in the entire world. He played with his 9mm under his desk running his thumb along the barrell. He heard a phone ringing through his earphones,, he wasn't interested in another vandal throwing rocks through an old lady's greenhouse windows he'd much rather listen to his music...
"Like hell, we are anxiously waiting. Like hell, burning silently strong. Somehow we fell down by the wayside, and somehow this hell is home..." The Alkaline Trio song, Burn played on, he was tapped on his shoulder. It was the Super Intendent. A balding man with a reddish face, he was out of breath for waddling the twenty short feet across the floor from his office to Clarke's desk. "We got a call, there's been a break in and an assault in Havercroft, there's nobody else available so you're gonna have to go." Clarke rolled his eyes and exhaled. "Fine, I'll go." As he got up he noticed the distinct lack of staff around the station, no sign of any other cops.
Clarke arrived at the location of the break in. The door splintered and hanging precariously from its hinges. There was nobody to be seen. "Hello?" He called out. There was no answer, he called again, and again. after the third call he reached for his gun. He edged his way along the entrance hall towards the kitchen. There was a brownish red stain on the white wall, a hand print. A bloody hand print, it looked like soil heavy in clay underneath a layer of snow. He was a little worried. "Graaah!" A noise from the kitchen. He peered round the corner, something was in there. It looked human. But there was something crazed and bestial about him. "Freeze!" bellowed Clarke, the creature turned round. Its face gaunt and angry and decomposing. "Freeze!" Clarke panicked and raised his gun. The creature came at him. Clarke frozen, struck with fear. The creature hit him, knocking him to the ground. It's snarling drooling face loomed above his, he kicked out but couldn't shift it's dead weight from above him. The creature bit his shoulder drawing blood. "Arrrgh!" Clarke screamed in agony as the monster's teeth tore through his flesh. He squirmed free and shot. Filling the creature with lead. As he headed towards the entrance of the flat he collapsed. "Officer down, officer down I'm..." the transmission ended as Clarke succumbed to the pain. The infection beginning to course through his body. As he'd fallen to the ground he had fallen on to his MP3 player, which began to play the song he was last listening to.
"And somehow this hell is my home....."
