User:Team Meat/Bloodbath
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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 left the appartment. A scene of pure grotesque horror. He was finally on his way back to Burdekin and nothing would stop him now. He sped through down town Havercroft, Northern Galbraith Hills and never slowed down. He desperately wanted to return to Burdekin, his sleepy little desk job in boring Malton.
As he drove his mind wandered. What was special about the 3rd of August? Then, like a ray of light his mind was illuminated. August 3rd, the day NecroTech were scheduled to hold a conference at town hall to disuss their developments in cell regenration in cancer patients. They had been experimenting for quite some time on non-living cell culture. Regenerating it to once again produce living cells. This was far more advanced than any stem cell technology as rather than growing new tissue, old tissue was just reproduced. But they couldn't have anything to do with what was going on. They were researching for the good of mankind, what could have possibly gone wrong? What part of their research could posible cause the birth of an unknown disease, a living dead virus. Clarke drove on towards his destination. He'd need back up before he went storming into one of the NecroTech research facilities.
The doors to Burdekin were wide open when he arrived. He climbed out of the car and headed for the enterance. Galbarith Hills was a ghost town. There wasn't a single human in sight. Clarke edged his way to the enterance and peered round. Nobody, nothing, a little like the hospital. He crept inside, sticking to the wall. Something moved. It was the duty officer. He coughed and called out for help. Clarke could see from where he was that the officer had been torn to pieces, how he was still alive was nothing short of a miracle. There was a pool of blood around him. A green carpeted floor soaked in rouge gone brown. The officer called for help again, but before Clarke could respond they were on him. Three of the undead ripping him apart, eating his flesh. Clarke dry heaved. He made a lot of noise which drew their attention. They stood up, deformed and covered in a layer of blood. Before they could go any further Clarke put bullets into each of them. One bullet left. If the entire station was like this he'd best make a trip to the armoury. He couldn't look at the dead officer as he passed, he looked away, shielding his eyes.
Clarke rounded the corner to the armoury where several more members of staff had been slaughtered, teeth marks, scrath marks the signs of an animal attack. Yet it wasn't animals doing this. He pushed the steel cage doors to the armoury open and found another cop, this one ripped in two, his intestines laid bare on the could linoleum floor. Clarke grabbed a shotgun and a handful of shells which he duly stuffed into his pockets. He also took a pair of 9mm pistols with six clips for safety.
As Clarke continued round the station he found more signs of destruction and devastation. He sat behind his desk and switched the radio on. News... atlast... "And the town of Malton is now under heavy quarrantine, nobody in, nobody out......" As the newscaster's voice trailed on, Clarke fazed out. Unaware of the approaching zombies. He was only alerted when the inhuman ramblings became louder and closer. He took his shotgun, loaded, cocked and fired taking the zombie down. Cocked again and shot the other. There were eight or nine of them, he tried to reload again, quickly, but couldn't. He threw the shotgun down and drew the pistols. He started firing, he hit them, but they kept coming towards him. He fell back across the room towards the door of the Super Intendent's office. As he did so he let the empty clip fall from his guns and reloaded. The room filled with the smell of smoke and rancid blood, which was running quickly and heavily from the bullet wounds inflicted on the zombies. Clarke made his way into the Super's office as the zombies slowly shambled towards him. He locked the door and began looking for a way out, a way to save himself from the terrible fate others had suffered. He remembered.....
He took the 25 year malt from the Super Intendent's desk and stuffed it with paper. Fortunately for Clarke the Super was also a smoker and in the drawer was a zippo. He shot through the glass window of the Super's door, lit the paper and heaved the molotov at the advancing zombies. It exploded on impact, setting them all alight. They crumpled to the floor, burning masses of living corpses.
Clarke sat back in his superior's chair. He was hungry. He hadn't eaten for hours. He walked over to a nearby vending machine in the station and got himself a Snickers. It tasted so good, the chocolate, the nougat, the nuts, thank God for sustainance.
The entire station was coated in the blood and guts of his colleagues. The once white walls stained red. There was a smell in the air, thick with smoke from gun fire and the essence of life. Clarke returned to the enterance and began barricading the doors. He didn't want whatever was out there coming in again.
He returned to his desk and scrabbled around in the drawer, he was frantically searching for something amongst the paper clips, ligters, staples and blunt pencils. Clarke cleared his throat and found the number in his phone book. It was stored under Mac. He pressed the little green button to make outgoing calls and put the phone to his ear. It had taken a catastrophe like this to give him the courage to call MacLane.
