User:Team Meat/Rebirth
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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 bloody haze filled Clarke's eyes. Blurred vision and weak legs prevented Clarke walking straight. He had managed to stand through the searing pain and headed to his Mustang, down the stairs of the apartment he had visited prior to the attack. He placed his hand over his shoulder and squeezed. It ached like hell but he needed to get back to Burdekin Alley. He slunk into the driving seat and slammed the door shut. A sudden crash shook him, and rightly so as another of the creatures punched through his car window. "What the fuck!" Clarke accelerated away, the zombie clung to the vintage Ford. It continued to grab for him. Moaning and reaching for him, its rancid fingers scratching his arm. It's yellow nails raked at his skin tearing great chunks from his flesh. Clarke began to feel dizzy and started to lose control of his car. He ploughed into the back of a pickup slamming his head against the steering wheel. His nose shattered on impact. The zombie rolled from the car and continued rolling 15 feet down the street. Its bones breaking, cartilage shattering and putrid flesh splitting as the living cadaver skidded along the tarmac. Clarke unclipped his seat belt and staggered down the road toward the battered beast. He took his gun from its holster and unloaded a round into it. Content in the belief it wouldn't be getting back up again he returned to his wreck of a car. But before the young detective could get back in he bent over double in agony and collapsed over the bonnet.
Clarke woke in Ephrem General hospital. An intraveinous drip in his arm and his shoulder heavily bandaged. He felt tired, but quietly euphoric due to the copious amounts of morphine currently in his system. He heard a doctor talking in the distance. "It's not looking good, we're ridiculously under staffed and this disease is spreading at a phenomenal rate." He was having distinct trouble breathing thanks to the amount of packing currently in his nose. "Doctor! Doctor!" He called out. Clarke wanted some answers, he was a man of the law for Christ's sake. A man, presumably a doctor, in a white lab coat with a strange insignia on it came over. "Came down sir," he said "It's all going to be alright." He took Clarke's arm and drove a needle into it. Clarke blacked out again.
He woke several hours later, unsure of the events of the last day. All around him were other Malton citizens in varying degrees of distress, each one suffering from wounds inflicted either by teeth or nails. He threw his legs over the edge of his hospital bed and climbed out. He no longer had a drip and was feeling much better. But something wasn't quite right, he no longer ached and his broken nose was no longer broken. He headed towards the hospital enterance and prepared to discharge himself. The waiting room was deserted, the debris of a violent disturbance littered the room. No signs of life except for a young female nurse in the corner. He saw her and she saw him. She laid in a foetal position, knees curled up by her chest. He walked over to her still wearing his surgical gown. She looked up at him, her face pallid and yellowish. Her eyes had glazed over and he knew that look, he'd seen it twice already that day. The only problem was that this time he didn't have his gun. Instead he walked off outside towards the ambulance rank.
He had no car, no gun, no clothes and no idea what was going on, and in the moment that occured to him he realised something, he had to know how MacLane was.
