Lexicon:In the open

From The Urban Dead Wiki
Jump to navigationJump to search

This page is a part of the Survival Lexicon. The information here is fan-created and should not be considered in-game canon. Please do not edit this page unless you are certain that the Lexicon has been completed.


I see it coming now. Time has slowed, slightly. Nothing dramatic – but I seem to have plenty of time to brace myself for it. I’m standing on a car - a hatchback. It’s going to have to come up the bonnet. Why is it so slow? It looks to be stalling, almost. Fuck off, it can’t… “Jurassic Park”. Clever girl. It looks to one side. I swing the axe before I turn, catch the second one in mid-lunge. Cleave. Opened up its chest. Mortal wound, but not an instant kill – and these fuckers keep going until the second they drop. I think the disease dulls their nervous system something fierce. They just plain old don’t feel pain. They absolutely will not stop. I draw the axe back. Not over the shoulder, just back enough to swing well. Cinematic iconography, dramatic posturing, it all adds up to a very dead survivor. As for the monster before me, it staggers but it tries to pounce again. A second chop. Quick. Can’t afford to time anything fancy. Clean slice this time, half a head and most of a shoulder. Kick to the mangled heap sends it back to the ground. I don’t touch the spatter on my goggles. I think the plague is borne in the blood. Kind of like real bad AIDS. It’s not carried in the air, I know that much. Crouch. The other one must be pretty fucking hungry. It speeds up. Time speeds up with it. In a flash it’s up close, clambering to get at me. It’s clumsy and it stinks. Blunt blow with the back of the axe head knocks it off balance. Reeling backwards. Cracked skull. Severely cracked – I can see fragments of bone jutting outwards from what used to be a blue eyeball. I think I know this girl. She was a cunt when she was living too. The stench would be overpowering, but true grit accepts no defeat. It doesn’t smell of death. Not like you’d think. It smells sick. Crimean hospital sick. Bile and stomach acid and the harsh tang of copper. Bubonic plague can’t step. They vomit blood for fun. This one gushes it, head lying several yards from its neck. I chop downwards into the brain stem to be certain. Returning to the first; and it’s headless too, in short order. This is why I don’t stay on ground level when I can avoid it.

For hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee 22:13, 24 December 2009 (UTC)