Posted by
Catmman on Wednesday, October 29, 2008 10:07:42 AM
Panic is welling in your gut.
“How could I be so stupid?” as you realize you forgot to reload your shotgun.
The intruder is reaching, straining towards you, arms outstretched. Torn, fleshy hands grabbing for you in a desperate attempt to – what?
You know –
TO FEED!
You somehow manage to push your panic down and reach into your ammo pouch for some shells. “Load one at a time.” “Just keep some distance.” You grab a shell, slam it into the magazine; then another and another and another - slow and methodical, like your attackers steps. You cycle your bolt, chambering a shell.
You shoulder the firearm – BLAM! The intruder, the attacker falls; his head rendered a coagulated mass of brain matter, bone and tissue blown onto the floor and the wall behind.
You notice you’ve retreated from the front room of your home into the living area. You have two options: You can head back upstairs, or you could go out the backdoor into your backyard.
“Think!” you tell yourself. You’ve taken out two attackers already in your home. More are trying to get in. Sooner or later they will. The front window is already broken, blocked only by the body of your first kill. Those outside will get in, breaking the window further, crawling over the motionless, headless corpse currently barring their way.
“Think!” You know there are at least eight to ten more of these whoever, whatever they are outside your house trying to get in. You can barricade yourself upstairs, but you could get trapped. You don’t have time to really barricade the stairwell so the only barrier between you and anyone getting in your house would be a locked doorway. No way out onto the roof from any of the bedrooms – yeah, you’d be trapped. You could hold out awhile, but for how long?
You can go outside, out the backdoor. You didn’t see anyone out back earlier and you haven’t noticed anyone trying to get in from the back of the house. You would be exposed, yes, but more maneuverable. You know your neighborhood and the streets around where you live. These people don’t seem to be very fast, perhaps you can outrun them, get help. But go where? What help?
Screw it. You’ll burn that bridge when the time comes.
You decide to take your chances outside.
You switch off your Surefire light and head to the back door. You take just a few seconds to let your eyes readjust to the dark.
More glass breaks, moans louder than before, more numerous, meet your ears.
“Time to go.”
You unlock the back door, open it and slip outside. You close the door behind you as quietly as possible. You step to the side of the door away from the window glass so you can’t be seen from inside; hopefully you weren’t noticed.
You take notice of the cool night air, a slight breeze ruffling your hair. You stand for a few minutes, taking some measured breaths – listening, looking.
The yard looks clear. You step off the back porch into the soft grass. You take slow measured steps, not rushing but alert. “Well smart guy? You’re outside. Now what?”
The only ways out are either over a fence into a neighbors yard, or over to the back yard gate and into the area where you really don’t want to be – the front of the house and the street where you witnessed a murder earlier. You hear moaning and scratching from the fence by the gate anyway – “So much for the gate.” you tell yourself.
Crashes from inside your house grab your attention. You glance towards the back door of your now invaded home and notice movement. “Time to hop the fence,” before they follow you outside.
You sling your shotgun and shambled over the back fence into your rear neighbor’s yard.
Hands grab you, pulling your hair, your arms, grabbing at your feet.
You begin to scream, only to have it muffled by a hand grabbing your throat…
To be continued…