User:Team Meat/III/VIII
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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. |
"You look like you could use some pants fella." Said the man with the gun. He had a Southern American accent, Texas, Georgia area, not latin America. He was wearing a pair of black jeans a AC/DC t-shirt and Dr. Marten's boots. He was also sporting an ironic Yosemite Sam moustache. "The names George, whoss yours?" "Clarke, Detective Clarke" Ash nodded as he said his own name, as if affirming his identity with himself. George reached out and shook his hand. "So, you want some clothes or not?" George asked the detective who was still wearing nothing more than a surgical gown and paper underwear. "That'd be great, thanks."
George lead Ash to his car, a beat up hunk of shit Camaro. George had had this car since he was sixteen, he was now atleast 40. They drove through the steets of Havercroft when things started to look familiar. Clarke became a little tense, this was the same area he'd first been attacked. "Do you live round here?" he asked George as he drove. "Yeah, why?" he answered not taking his eyes off the road. "Have you noticed anything strange, occurring, at all?" George shook his head "Nope, not seen nothing except what ever the hell was in the back of that ambulance." Clarke was beginning to become unnerved, he'd had limited human contact for hours and now he finally meets a man who seems completely oblivious to the Havercroft wide apocalypse. George suddenly swerved right and pulled up outside a high rise appartment, similar to the one Clarke had been earlier that day. "Okay. This is it." He said as he climbed from the Camaro. Clarke took a deep breath and put all the negative thoughts to the back of his mind. George is a good guy he figured, maybe he's just a little slow. "Do you have a telephone?" Clarke asked as they entered through the kitchen. "It's right through there, I'll go get you some pants, what are you a 30, 31?" Clarke nodded and uh humm-ed as he headed for the phone. He began to dial the number for Burdekin, he wanted to know what was going on, needed to talk to someone senior.
Click, he heard the hammer of the Python being pulled back. He spun round to see George pointing the gun at him. "What the hell?" Clarke said as he still held the phone. "Through there" George waved the gun towards a door at the back of the appartment. "Go. Now" Clarke headed towards the door. Once there George began to tell him the story of his sister. She'd been bitten, days ago but didn't want to go to hospital so he'd been keeping her chained up in a room and bringing back people for her to feed on. And now the young detective was going to be her next meal. "Get in there!" George bellowed at Clarke. "Go fuck yourself you crazy son of a bitch!" Of all the mess Clarke had been in that day, this was the worst and he'd decided he'd had enough. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way!" George pointed the gun at his face. "Now get in there!"
Clarke made a grab for the gun and got it. He twisted George's arm so it faced him and squeezed the trigger. A bullet entered the chamber and shot through George's chest between the ribs on the right hand side. George called out in pain and fell to his knees. He relinquished his grip on the gun and Clarke drove a knee into his face. Clarke moved on through the appartment in search of some clothes. He found George's room. And a pile of clothes. They were unclean but they were sure better than a surgical gown. He took a pair of jeans and a t-shrt with the slogan "I Like You... I'll Kill You Last" written across it. Unfortunately George had ridiculously small feet for a psychopath and Clarke would have to make do with just a pair of socks. Once dressed in the dead man's clothes he thought he should contact Burdekin.
There was no tone when he called. The external line was working. He just couldn't get through to the police station. He dialed again. The faint and ominous echo of the dead phone line reverberated through his ears. He moved over to George's body. A slain lunatic. He rumaged through George's pockets for the keys to the Camaro.
Clarke was ready to turn tail and get the hell out of there when he heard a loud banging and moaning from the room at the back.
He kicked open the door to find George's sister with her ankle shackled to the wall. The room was sprayed in blood and the rotting remains of other people were strewn across the floor. Clarke stepped on a lone tooth, a canine. It didn't break the skin, but it still hurt. George's sister stared at him, hungry and craving human flesh she started towards him but only got so far. As the chain held her in place Clarke lifted the gun he'd acquired. "Smile bitch." He uttered in a movie hero tone before putting a single bullet in her head. The zombie collapsed to the ground. Like a puppet cut from it's strings. As Clarke headed out the door he noticed a newspaper. It was today's. August 3rd 2007. It was an important date but why?
