Final Moments

[Dizzle229]

Hey guys, this was written as kind of a throwaway story to get some constructive criticism. It's my first attempt at real writing beyond "1 tiem der wuz dis n000b nd he wuz liek phr33 st00f pl0x k i ad more 2morow". It's takes place in the universe of Brian Keene's The Rising, but other than the universe it has no connections to the book series. All characters/events are original.

***********************************************************

 

Ken Ortiz looked around his home of three months. A claustrophobic underground bunker, a steel coffin whose only distinguishing feature was the ragged mattress on the ground. He had been out of food for three days, and he savored the current as he swallowed the last gulp of water. He dropped the useless bottle. It clattered to the ground, the loudest sound he'd heard in a week.

 

It wasn't a top-of-the-line military bunker like you see in war movies. It was just a typical Cold War backyard box, buried in the ground with a hatch that opened into the shed. He was in his front yard when the rising began.

 

He knew he wouldn't be able to survive down there. But what was worse? Death by thirst, by starvation... or by what had inherited the world he once knew? He pondered that question for what seemed like a long time. Ken was the son of Cuban immigrants, and although he had been raised an American, he had always admired his heritage. Despite what his parents had taught him to believe, he approved of how Castro had ruled the island nation. He had done what he had to do to stay in power. What more could be expected of a leader? Growing up, Ken had had two idols: Fidel Castro, and Niccolò Machiavelli. Both had believed in the same policy. The ends justify the means. Machiavelli had encouraged leaders to do whatever it takes to stay in power. Castro had utilized this philosophy, and now Ken was too, doing whatever it took to survive.

 

Thinking of the dictator, he thought more about what it meant to be Cuban, and, to his surprise, was reminded of Tony Montana. Besides Castro, it seemed ol' Scarface was the only Cuban icon he could think of. But thoughts of the crime lord only spurred him on.

 

At the end of Scarface, Montana knew that he was defeated. He was cornered. But that didn't stop him. He went right outside and faced his fate. He had gone down in a blaze of glory. Suddenly, Ken felt brave. Better to go out there and fight than to waste away in this sardine can. He grabbed his Walther P99 from the floor and inserted his last 15-round magazine. He considered what he would be up against.

 

He knew that the dead were not the ones he had known. They were inhabited by something else, something very evil. He also knew they could use weapons. He thought back to what had happened up until that point.

 

***

Old man Hatcher across the street had died, and his poor wife had found him in his favorite chair. Ken had watched as the paramedics carried him out of the house on a stretcher. One of them thought they heard him try and speak, and leaned down to check his pulse one more time. The corpse bit a chunk out of his throat.

 

The medic hit the ground, and bled to death withing a minute. His assistant attempted to stop the bleeding, but eventually gave up. As he shook his head in bewilderment, the old man had undone his bonds and threw a hard punch at the terrified EMT, and Ken had rushed to help him. While Ken and the paramedic had thrown the corpse into the back of the ambulance, it cried out "I heard your friend scream on his way to hell!" He continued shouting what sounded like obscenities in languages neither of the men recognized.

 

His friendship with the medic, who had collected himself and introduced himself as James, was short lived. As they held the back door of the ambulance shut, Ken heard a faint yelp from James, muffled by the sound of the gunshot. James slumped to the ground, his chest a gaping hole. Ken turned to face an undead police officer, wielding a shotgun.

 

"Whaddaya know? A cop when you need one!" the creature had cackled, as it raised its gun for another shot.

 

Instinctively, Ken lunged forward and tackled the ghoulish cop to the ground, and jammed his finger behind the trigger. He realized its throat was cut from ear to ear, and there were several bullet wounds in its chest. He managed to get control of the gun, and turned to make a break for his house. He tripped over the body of the first dead medic.

 

Ken had landed on his side, and a trickle of blood ran down from a cut on his face. He tried to get up, and was horrified to find the dead medic grinning at him.

 

"Injured? Just come here and let the good doctor fix that right up." The zombie EMT reached out and clawed at Ken's wound. He let out a scream of terror and pain.

 

The ambulance doors opened, and what had once been the cheerful old Albert Hatcher fell to the street, and began crawling towards the two. He had been a paraplegic. The corpse officer had gotten to his feet, and watched the struggle with delight. He licked his lips, and some of the skin fell away, widening his grin.

 

Ken bashed the reanimated medic in the face with the butt of the shotgun, and there was a sickening crunch as its nose collapsed into its skull. It momentarily released its grip, and Ken got up and spun around.

 

He aimed directly at the cop, and felt the powerful kick.

 

The shot had found its home in the zombie's sternum. It stumbled back, but was otherwise unaffected by what should have killed it. Then he remembered the old zombie movies he used to rent on the weekends.

 

"Worth a try..." he panted.

 

He adjusted his aim, and obliterated the zombie's head. It dropped to the ground, and made no attempt to get back up. Ken sprinted toward the house, and looked back for just long enough to see James stand.

***

It was all Ken could do do grab his Walther and laptop, then head for the bunker. The shotgun, out of ammo, was discarded. Not like he was going to find shells for it any time soon. He'd sealed the hatch and that became his home. He'd used the laptop as his window to the outside world. His only window.

 

Reports came in from all over the world. It was global.

 

After two months, there was almost no traffic. Only a few broadcasts were still being streamed, and there were less and less every day. By this time, Ken had abandoned hope of being rescued by the army. There was no more government.

 

There was one guy that Ken liked to listen to, who streamed a broadcast using the name Suffolk. Suffolk was a survivor who had fought from Maine to South Caroline. He'd found a laptop in a house, and barricaded himself in.

 

His news was no better. He reported that there were lights on in Ramsey Tower in New York City, but that this was likely a trap by the zombies.

 

"Great" Ken had remarked, "so they're setting traps now."

 

The rest was even worse. They were able to drive cars. Suffolk even told about seeing a helicopter, and shooting off a flare, only to find that he pilot was undead. It had attempted to crash into him, and he'd barely escaped.

 

Maybe worst of all, he'd encountered a large national guard unit in Gettysburg. They had everything: tanks, Humvees, even a helicopter. Suffolk had watched through his binoculars the brutal efficiency with which they ran the town. Forced labor, public executions... he didn't stick around to find out what else was going on there.

 

Suffolk had continued to broadcast until two weeks ago. Then Ken was alone in this claustrophobic underground bunker in the suburbs surrounding the dead city of Chicago. But a week later, Suffolk made one last broadcast.

 

His eyes were glassy and dry. They stared unblinking; His eyelids were gone. The skin on his face sagged, and his nose was gone. His hair was matted and crusted with dry blood.

 

"Good evening, viewers!" he'd said. When he spoke, he sounded like he had glass in his throat.

 

"Tonight, we have a very special show."

 

He put his hand, the ring finger missing, onto his cheek, and with once tug he wrenched the skin from his face.

 

"This is your world now. Surrounded on all sides by the dead. Give yourself up now, and we promise to make your end quick. There is no hope for you."

 

The broadcast went dead.

 

That was a week ago. Now, as he checked his ammo one last time, Ken climbed the ladder, hesitated a moment, and thrust open the hatch.

***

 

Will finish it later. Constructive criticism is appreciated!

[teh_pwning_ore]

Hey guys, this was written as kind of a throwaway story to get some constructive criticism. It's my first attempt at real writing beyond "1 tiem der wuz dis n000b nd he wuz liek phr33 st00f pl0x k i ad more 2morow". It's takes place in the universe of Brian Keene's The Rising, but other than the universe it has no connections to the book series. All characters/events are original.

***********************************************************

 

Ken Ortiz looked around his home of three months. A claustrophobic underground bunker, a steel coffin whose only distinguishing feature was the ragged mattress on the ground. He had been out of food for three days, and he savored the current as he swallowed the last gulp of water. He dropped the useless bottle. It clattered to the ground, the loudest sound he'd heard in a week.

 

It wasn't a top-of-the-line military bunker like you see in war movies. It was just a typical Cold War backyard box, buried in the ground with a hatch that opened into the shed. He was in his front yard when the rising began.

 

He knew he wouldn't be able to survive down there. But what was worse? Death by thirst, by starvation... or by what had inherited the world he once knew? He pondered that question for what seemed like a long time. Ken was the son of Cuban immigrants, and although he had been raised an American, he had always admired his heritage. Despite what his parents had taught him to believe, he approved of how Castro had ruled the island nation. He had done what he had to do to stay in power. What more could be expected of a leader? Growing up, Ken had had two idols: Fidel Castro, and Niccolò Machiavelli. Both had believed in the same policy. The ends justify the means. Machiavelli had encouraged leaders to do whatever it takes to stay in power. Castro had utilized this philosophy, and now Ken was too, doing whatever it took to survive.

 

Thinking of the dictator, he thought more about what it meant to be Cuban, and, to his surprise, was reminded of Tony Montana. Besides Castro, it seemed ol' Scarface was the only Cuban icon he could think of. But thoughts of the crime lord only spurred him on.

 

At the end of Scarface, Montana knew that he was defeated. He was cornered. But that didn't stop him. He went right outside and faced his fate. He had gone down in a blaze of glory. Suddenly, Ken felt brave. Better to go out there and fight than to waste away in this sardine can. He grabbed his Walther P99 from the floor and inserted his last 15-round magazine. He considered what he would be up against.

 

He knew that the dead were not the ones he had known. They were inhabited by something else, something very evil. He also knew they could use weapons.

 

***

Old man Hatcher across the street had died, and his poor wife had found him in his favorite chair. Ken had watched as the paramedics carried him out of the house on a stretcher. One of them thought they heard him try and speak, and leaned down to check his pulse one more time. The corpse bit a chunk out of his throat.

 

The medic hit the ground, and bled to death withing a minute. His assistant attempted to stop the bleeding, but eventually gave up. As he shook his head in bewilderment, the old man had undone his bonds and threw a hard punch at the terrified EMT, and Ken had rushed to help him. While Ken and the paramedic had thrown the corpse into the back of the ambulance, it cried out "I heard your friend scream on his way to hell!" He continued shouting what sounded like obscenities in languages neither of the men recognized.

 

His friendship with the medic, who had collected himself and introduced himself as James, was short lived. As they held the back door of the ambulance shut, Ken heard a faint yelp from James, muffled by the sound of the gunshot. James slumped to the ground, his chest a gaping hole. Ken turned to face an undead police officer, wielding a shotgun.

 

"Whaddaya know? A cop when you need one!" the creature had cackled, as it raised its gun for another shot.

 

Instinctively, Ken lunged forward and tackled the ghoulish cop to the ground, and jammed his finger behind the trigger. He realized its throat was cut from ear to ear, and there were several bullet wounds in its chest. He managed to get control of the gun, and turned to make a break for his house. He tripped over the body of the first dead medic.

 

Ken had landed on his side, and a trickle of blood ran down from a cut on his face. He tried to get up, and was horrified to find the dead medic grinning at him.

 

"Injured? Just come here and let the good doctor fix that right up." The zombie EMT reached out and clawed at Ken's wound. He let out a scream of terror and pain.

 

The ambulance doors opened, and what had once been the cheerful old Albert Hatcher fell to the street, and began crawling towards the two. He had been a paraplegic. The corpse officer had gotten to his feet, and watched the struggle with delight. He licked his lips, and some of the skin fell away, widening his grin.

 

Ken bashed the reanimated medic in the face with the butt of the shotgun, and there was a sickening crunch as its nose collapsed into its skull. It momentarily released its grip, and Ken got up and spun around.

 

He aimed directly at the cop, and felt the powerful kick.

 

The shot had found its home in the zombie's sternum. It stumbled back, but was otherwise unaffected by what should have killed it. Then he remembered the old zombie movies he used to rent on the weekends.

 

"Worth a try..." he panted.

 

He adjusted his aim, and obliterated the zombie's head. It dropped to the ground, and made no attempt to get back up. Ken sprinted toward the house, and looked back for just long enough to see James stand.

***

 

Will finish it later. Constructive criticism is appreciated!

this some how reminds me of rick on CNN

[Dizzle229]

...anyone? :???:

[iiLy]

pretty good no lie, Im no writer but If i could give any Criticism/Advice, I would say that at the beginning it felt like a post apocalyptic story so i got led away from the Zombie story you were going for, but good luck your stuff aint half bad ;)

[Dizzle229]

pretty good no lie, Im no writer but If i could give any Criticism/Advice, I would say that at the beginning it felt like a post apocalyptic story so i got led away from the Zombie story you were going for, but good luck your stuff aint half bad ;)

Thanks :thumbsup:

 

To give some background, it is sort of post apocalyptic (I guess since I'm using the universe of another story, I can discuss stuff that may not be mentioned in this one). Humanity is pretty much screwed by this point because its not just an infection. Anyone who dies anywhere for any reason besides brain damage is reanimated. Actually, I don't want to explain more. Go read The Rising and City of the Dead. NOW.

 

Edit: Didn't expect to have this much more to write, the next chapter will be the end. In the mean time, I updated the original post.

[Dizzle229]

Happened again, I keep coming up with more and there's always that ONE MORE CHAPTER lol.

 

 

The shed was empty. Ken climbed up onto the floor and reached for the handle. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly opened it. For a few seconds, he was blinded by the light.

 

Despite this, it wasn't very bright out. Thick, dark clouds hung in the sky. Ken noticed that his backyard was clear of the undead, and moved out of the shed. He surveyed the area. It was quiet.

 

A robin sat in the wilting tree on the far side of the yard. Ken glanced at it, and thought nothing more of it. Until it spread its bent wings and glided towards him.

 

It clawed at his eyes, and he felt a trickled of blood running down his lip. Finally, he seized the bird by its head and slammed it repeatedly into the wall of the shed. He shook his head in disbelief.

 

"Birds? The [bleep]ing BIRDS too?" he said under his breath.

 

He raised his handgun and walked slowly toward the house. A swishing sound caught his attention. He turned to face the pool. Its water was brown from months on neglect. The water rippled, and Ken could make out the vague outline of something sloshing about at the bottom. Not wanting to make any noise just yet, he set down the gun and picked up the net he'd used to scoop bugs out in the summer. The detached the net, and turned the metal rod to face the pool.

 

The top half of a decayed head broke the surface. Its hair was coming away in places, and its flesh was brown and pockmarked. Rotted muscle was exposed at the cheeks. Its eye sockets sat vacant.

 

Ken instantly thrust the pole throught the monster's forehead, and it sank back to the bottom, the pole still lodged in placed. He picked the gun back up and started again toward the house. This time the movement came from the behind the sliding glass door.

 

Bradley, Ken's German Shepherd, brushed his face against the glass. One eye was gone, and his fur was matted and bloodied. His belly was swollen, and had burst on one side. His entrails dangled from the wound, and dragged on the tile floor behind him.

 

"Damn", Ken thought, "I had forgotten all about Bradley! Poor guy probably starved to death."

 

Bradley rammed the glass with whatever muscle was left in him. When he finally crashed through, Ken raised his gun and dispatched the beast with a single shot the the head. He proceded into the house.

 

After a brief search, he found that the house was clear, and he looked out of the window to the front yard. A crowd of undead had gathered, and were heading towards the house. Ken recognized James, who pulled something from the now decayed hole in his chest, studied it for a moment, then popped it in his mouse.

 

There were dozens of them, and Ken had 14 bullets left. He was ready to go down fighting.

***

 

I'll finish it later.

[Dizzle229]

Edit: Dammit, can't do what I was trying on this forum.