Post by Oct-taku on Sept 3, 2007 22:29:32 GMT
Chapter One: Packing
It was time to pack up, that much was certain. Alan sighed as he packed the entirety of his belongings into the backpack. It wasn’t much: a few cans of food, a double-barreled hunting shotgun, and as many 12-gauge shells he could carry. It was all he had.
Judgewood was no longer safe, and Alan, despite his reluctance, had to admit it. He moved or he died…and came back. And no one wanted to come back in Malton. No one.
His room at the Bubwith Hotel was disorganized and filthy, empty food boxes and soda cans littered the floor with newspapers and shell casings. To leave, he could easily exit to another room, via a quick leap across to the adjacent balcony. After that, out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, and outside.
Alan was planning to head through that same way again. As he walked to the balcony, his foot kicked an item on the floor. Bending over, he could easily see the handheld radio that had lost battery power only three days ago. It had been his only link to the outside, and he didn’t have a spare battery for it.
It had served it’s purpose, though. Without a transmitter, Alan was confined to merely listen to broadcasts. The good news was that he had information on the movements of any zombies in the area. Before it had lost power, that little radio had told him to get out, get out or die.
He’d spent the last three days gathering together whatever he could. He’d memorized his map of Malton, and knew where his goal was: Vinetown. It was reasonably safe, had an abundance of survivors, and wasn’t likely to be overrun. Judgewood to Vinetown. Easy enough.
Or would’ve been easy enough, if the zeds hadn’t caused the entire north-west quarter of Malton to go into “red” status, as some survivor groups called it. He’d have to trek across approximately seven suburbs to get there. Seventy city blocks, the first half of which would be packed to the brim with zombies.
Alan hopped across the short gap to the balcony next door. His feet hit the concrete with a dull thud, but that was all. The door to the room was opened, the contents ransacked by looters and zombies. He strolled down the hall, walking calmly down the stairs. Best to save his energy for later.
He walked onto the street, and headed south-east. He was halfway across Shervord Place before the first zed stopped him. Alan ran, as the undead thing began to let loose a groan. Alan’s set of internal hackles rose. He’d heard this before: feeding groans. If he didn’t get out of sight soon, he’d have a horde on his feet.
Crossing outside of the Cridge Alley Railway Station, he altered his course, turning east instead, across the parking lot of Burcham Bank. Alan chanced a look behind him, and regretted it. A pack of six or so zeds were on his tail, the fastest moving at almost the same speed as he, only a block behind. He turned south now, past the Critchell and Gibbens Buildings, then east again past Hiscock Walk.
Now in the suburb of Gatcombeton, Alan slowed down as he passed Egleton Walk. This chase was getting to him, and he needed a place to rest, if only for an hour or two. He moved quickly past the Alder Cinema and Edgar Alley to the Chudleigh Library.
Alan ran inside, shutting and locking the door. He shoved a bookcase in front of the heavy oak doors, and added a few chairs to it. He shoved more shelves infornt of other windows and doors, blocking the view somewhat. He walked into the office, dragging a chair behind him as he did. He shut and locked the door, placing the chair against the handle, so it wouldn’t open. He sat down on the floor, and slept as everyone in Malton sleeps.
He slept lightly.
It was time to pack up, that much was certain. Alan sighed as he packed the entirety of his belongings into the backpack. It wasn’t much: a few cans of food, a double-barreled hunting shotgun, and as many 12-gauge shells he could carry. It was all he had.
Judgewood was no longer safe, and Alan, despite his reluctance, had to admit it. He moved or he died…and came back. And no one wanted to come back in Malton. No one.
His room at the Bubwith Hotel was disorganized and filthy, empty food boxes and soda cans littered the floor with newspapers and shell casings. To leave, he could easily exit to another room, via a quick leap across to the adjacent balcony. After that, out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, and outside.
Alan was planning to head through that same way again. As he walked to the balcony, his foot kicked an item on the floor. Bending over, he could easily see the handheld radio that had lost battery power only three days ago. It had been his only link to the outside, and he didn’t have a spare battery for it.
It had served it’s purpose, though. Without a transmitter, Alan was confined to merely listen to broadcasts. The good news was that he had information on the movements of any zombies in the area. Before it had lost power, that little radio had told him to get out, get out or die.
He’d spent the last three days gathering together whatever he could. He’d memorized his map of Malton, and knew where his goal was: Vinetown. It was reasonably safe, had an abundance of survivors, and wasn’t likely to be overrun. Judgewood to Vinetown. Easy enough.
Or would’ve been easy enough, if the zeds hadn’t caused the entire north-west quarter of Malton to go into “red” status, as some survivor groups called it. He’d have to trek across approximately seven suburbs to get there. Seventy city blocks, the first half of which would be packed to the brim with zombies.
Alan hopped across the short gap to the balcony next door. His feet hit the concrete with a dull thud, but that was all. The door to the room was opened, the contents ransacked by looters and zombies. He strolled down the hall, walking calmly down the stairs. Best to save his energy for later.
He walked onto the street, and headed south-east. He was halfway across Shervord Place before the first zed stopped him. Alan ran, as the undead thing began to let loose a groan. Alan’s set of internal hackles rose. He’d heard this before: feeding groans. If he didn’t get out of sight soon, he’d have a horde on his feet.
Crossing outside of the Cridge Alley Railway Station, he altered his course, turning east instead, across the parking lot of Burcham Bank. Alan chanced a look behind him, and regretted it. A pack of six or so zeds were on his tail, the fastest moving at almost the same speed as he, only a block behind. He turned south now, past the Critchell and Gibbens Buildings, then east again past Hiscock Walk.
Now in the suburb of Gatcombeton, Alan slowed down as he passed Egleton Walk. This chase was getting to him, and he needed a place to rest, if only for an hour or two. He moved quickly past the Alder Cinema and Edgar Alley to the Chudleigh Library.
Alan ran inside, shutting and locking the door. He shoved a bookcase in front of the heavy oak doors, and added a few chairs to it. He shoved more shelves infornt of other windows and doors, blocking the view somewhat. He walked into the office, dragging a chair behind him as he did. He shut and locked the door, placing the chair against the handle, so it wouldn’t open. He sat down on the floor, and slept as everyone in Malton sleeps.
He slept lightly.