Oh the temptation to title this one ‘Kids With Guns’, but there’s such a little thing as Overkill, which rather suitably is a word that fits right into context about now.
Some may ask why I, HH, a guy in favour of peace and against killing, have a fully-stocked weapons cache in my time machine?* Simply, for the same reason a single person may carry a condom in their wallet: on the off chance that things get very eventful.
Things here…wherever we are…have hardly been a snooze-fest. I had to trade in my usual coat and hat for less favoured – i.e. cheaper – ones because everything’s becoming a rather lumpy red. I’ve been meaning to ask Alice why we’re here, but if experience teaches me anything, I think I can just ride it out.
Pretty noisy ride. Fun though, give someone a gun and they’re happy. Except pistols, which as any zombie game teaches you, are useless. Crossbows, on the other hand, are much more popular. Womble’s did a great job of saving him from being deconstructed by the love child of Chuck Norris and mad cow disease. Alice, although a minor, is more than handy when armed. She reminds me of Noodle – boy, did she miss out.
Then, after far too long tackling chains that could’ve written the book on Rust Evolution, we managed to move slightly beyond the hordes, into an abandoned building. This gave me a chance to question Womble’s ability.
“So I’m guessing morality issues and an alcoholic thirst aren’t all we took away from Rapture?”
He holds out a hand, just for a closer look. Tricky in the semi-darkness, but looks like the result if dinosaurs could get exzema.
“Yeah, I found one of the slugs.”
“How did it taste?” Nice one, HH, priorities.
“Like an oversized Bloody Mary with too much salt.”
“Huh. Strong stuff.” Certainly explains your recent collection of dissolved-sleeves-shirts.
I go to suggest a poison-tipped arrow upgrade, when the lights start to come on.
“That wasn’t us, right?” I ask. The two shake their heads.
Darkness starts to leave, revealing in its exit the interior of a hospital. I’m going off shapes alone; if I didn’t know how to discern gurneys and life support machines, I’d think we wandered into the Dirt, Debris & Dried Blood Exhibition.
Two clicks behind me suggest my friends have reloaded. I do the same, and prepare to break a Zombie Apocalypse Golden Rule:
“Let’s split up.”
Womble gives Alice a quick “Yes, he does this all the time” Look, and turns back to me. “Go on, then.”
“Zombies don’t know how to rewire electronics or even flick a damn light switch. Someone in here isn’t infected. This is either a rescue mission, or just a chance to talk to a local who isn’t drooling red.”
“Yeah, fair enough. I’ll look after Alice.”
“Alright.” Thank God he suggested it. She doesn’t talk much, and our awkward silences are impressive, near three dimensional. We reach a corridor junction; they turn towards Intensive Care, as I go for A&E.
“Still got your key?”
A pause sits between us. What do zombie hunters usually say at times like these? Give ’em hell. This isn’t the end. That’ll do, pig.
It actually just turns into an odd salute. He taps two fingers against his temple and I, hands full, make a weird salute motion with the shotgun, and we part ways.
It’s us, it’ll do. We’ll be fine, he’s a walking cyanide capsule and I’ve got regeneration.
Though I’ve never considered that little trick in reference to zombie culture…I’ve got something to think about during this little expedition…
*Not your basic, ice-breaker kind of question. We’re talking pneumatic drills crossed with flamethrowers here.