Molotov Express
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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. |
Clarke had been living for months in Burdekin Alley, other survivors had come and gone. Some chose to leave and others had no choice. Snatched from the barricaded safety of the police station by hoardes of undead horror. Decaying hands clawing at soft spongy blood filled bodies. Pulling them into the abandoned streets to devour them. Once taken the virus would traverse the entirity of the human's body, infecting them and reanimating their dead body.
Clarke had become tired of rebuilding the barricades and fighting back the zombies. Besides which Burdekin had began to run low on resources and newcomers weren't briging any with them, they would just arrive and take what they needed. The survivors had become parasites, leeching off of the nutrients available in the form of basic necessiities, food, water, shelter. Burdekin was just about dead and Clarke wanted out before it became extinct.
He wasn't sure where he would go or what he would need so he just grabbed a shotgun he'd been carrying since he arrived in the police station all that time ago. It was a warm day in Malton and the smell of rotting corpses baking in the sun filled the air. The foul stench flooded Clarke's nostrils and made him gag. The streets surrounding the police station were deserted. Clarke headed West. There were other survivors in the street, they were heading South. One man was carrying a plastic bag. It clinked and rattled as he walked. It was obviously full of bottles. Clarke watched as they headed out of sight round a corner.
Then the screams started. A group of feral zombies had attacked the group. One of them was carrying a 9mm but the single gun against a gathering of snarling, drooling, flesh hungry beasts was of no use, particularly in the hands of an untrained civillian. Clarke ran round the street and fired a single shell into one of the zombies. It collapsed in the street, now missing the upper half of its torso and head. There was no trace of the zombie's skull except for a rotten ear lobe, yellowed, flaking skin soaked in its own blood. The zombies tore at the men, biting chunks from their throats causing great gushing wounds from which the fresh blood squirted and from which the zombies would lap at the life juice of another human survivor. Clarke looked around for something to fight the zombies back with and picked up the carrier bag.
On the side of the bag the logo for a shop in the mall was printed. Martini glasses bubbling over with little pink umbrellas in the top, with the words "Bargain Booze" in the centre. Clarke rifled through the polythene bag and removed the three bottles of Jim Beam Kentucky bourbon. He removed the lid and tore at his sleeve. With the material he managed to pull away he made three scraps, rolled them and stuffed them in the tops of the bottles. "Fall back!" he yelled at the survivors. The men stumbled from the clutches of the zombies and staggered behind Clarke.
Clarke took a cigarette from his top pocket and a silver Zippo from his trousers. He clicked open the lid, lit the cigarette and one of the scraps of material and launched the Molotov in the direction of the zombies. The alcoholic explosive blew up on contact with one of the zombies, the fire spread and quickly each one was engulfed in flames. He took a drag and lit another bomb. Throwing it into the centre of the zombies, again it exploded showering the enemy in burning alcohol. The zombies collapsed to the floor but he took no mercy. Lighting the third and final explosive. He threw it under hand at the feet of the zombies. They were once again emersed in a wave of whiskey fire. As the zombies lay on the ground, burning, he loaded his shotgun and marched over to them. He fired several shots into the burning mess on the gravel.
"We'd better get that looked at." He said pointing to one of the men amongst the groups shoulder. The other wounded men lay dying in the street, there was nothing that could be done for them. A deep bite wound, which in a short time would surely become infected. Clarke led the men back to Burdekin and decided he would put off a journey elsewhere for another day....
