Another Zombie Apocalypse

[NicTei]

You know the drill:  a virulent plague turns humanity into mindless, flesh-eating monsters, and the survivors have to try and stay alive.  But this isn't just any zombie apocalypse; this is Another Zombie Apocalypse.

Full survival team included; some assembly required.

~~ Table of Contents - Chapters ~~
Click on the blue text to be taken to the chapter/Extra.

Prologue:  There Goes the Neighborhood...
Chapter 1 - Lonely
Chapter 2 - Alma
Chapter 3 - Drifters
Chapter 4 - Momma Dearest
Chapter 5 - Peek-A-Boo
Chapter 6 - The Hunters
Chapter 7 - Water
Chapter 8 - Don't Let the Bedzombies Bite
Chapter 9 - No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter 10 - Andy's Dead!
Chapter 11 - The New New Jersey
Chapter 12 - Office Life
Chapter 13 - (Un)Fortunate Lifestyle Choices
Chapter 14 - Ninjas Versus Kindergarteners
Chapter 15 - This Ain't A Scene
Chapter 16 - Party Crashers
Chapter 17 - Back on Track
Chapter 18 - Goldenrod
Chapter 19 - Arcadian Nights
Chapter 20 - The End of the Road
Chapter 21 - A Crack in the Dam
Chapter 22 - Urban Legends
Chapter 23 - Calling in the Cavalry
Chapter 24 - Underground
Chapter 25 - Zombie en Flambe
Epilogue - On to the Next

~~ Table of Contents - Extras ~~
Interview:  Dan Manson
Interview:  Howie the Zombie
Interview:  Zeke
Extra Chapter:  11.1

[NicTei]

   Alma kept track of which tents she had passed in order to get to Kane’s makeshift home.  As soon as her wrists were untied, she was going to make a break for it.  If she was lucky, she could also find out where they had taken…what’s-his-name.  She couldn’t believe that she’d never asked what his name was.  Not that there hadn’t been enough opportunities for him to give his own name.  Well, whatever; that could wait until after she’d made her brilliant escape.

   The large man had left her in Kane’s tent, her wrists still bound.  A large, vicious-looking dog with a magnificently lustrous black coat sat guard at the front of the tent, growling if she so much as thought about moving.  While she was sure she could get past it, she could just imagine the powerful jaws tearing through her stomach, blood soaking its onyx muzzle.  Just thinking about it made her wince, so she tried to focus on an escape plan.

   Unfortunately, she didn’t get very far before an imposing shape entered the tent through the flap.  Some of his intimidation was lost because he had to crouch in the tent, but from his bald, tattooed head to his heavily scarred arms, he was a terrifying sight to behold.  More piercings than any sane man would ever have adorned his nose and ears, and above each of his sunken eyes, there were rings in his eyebrows.

“So, you’re the bitch who killed some of our raiders?  I hear Momma wants me to do you Slender style,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term,” Alma said, trying to sound as sweet as possible.

“No ears, no nose.  After that, I can do whatever I want,” he explained matter-of-factly, as if he were giving her a recipe.

   He began to whistle a cheerful tune while going through a bag at the very back of the tent.  Inside, Alma could hear various metal implements clanking together, and though she was afraid of what he might be digging through, she was more afraid of what he’d end up pulling out.  All the while, the dog was watching her, drooling on the floor as its bloodlust increased.  It was becoming very clear that escape wasn’t an option, not without the dog out of the way.  She’d need an entirely different strategy.

   Kane came back into view holding a cruel hook in one hand and a long, thin knife in the other.  When he saw the fear in her eyes, a macabre grin split his gaunt face, revealing crooked, gold-capped teeth.  Crouching down before her, he reached around behind her back and stabbed the hook into the ground, pushing it through the floor of the tent and into the dirt below.  Before he stabbed the other end into the ground, he placed the ropes binding her hands under it, effectively pinning her in place.

   Before she could even start to form a plan revolving around the use of her legs, he pushed her knees up to her chest and kneeled down with his bony knees on her feet.  Now she was completely helpless.  All she could do was lie on her back, and there was no way in hell that she would do that and let him crawl over her to get to her face.  No, she was going to face this head on.

“Before you start,” she said, stopping his knife in mid-air, “is there anything I can do for you to stop you from cutting my face to pieces?  I know that I’ve killed your friends, and all, but I’ve become quite fond of my face.”

Kane laughed.  “Girl, just because we’re all in Momma’s little tribe here doesn’t mean we’re all friends.  The only one I call a friend here is my brother, Pops, and since he loves Momma so much, well, here I am.”

Alma felt a bit of hope.  “You wouldn’t want to be doing those bastards a favor by cutting up a pretty girl like me, would you?” she asked, trying her best innocent expression.

“The rules are the rules.  If I don’t mess your face up, I get the oil barrel,” the Drifter replied with an indifferent shrug before moving in closer with the knife.

“Now, you may wish that you’d found something to bite down on,” he said as he touched the tip of his knife to the flesh above her eyebrow, “because this is going to hurt like a bitch.”

~

   Dan was regretting egging Pops on.  Despite the fact that he was the larger of the two, the Drifter seemed incredibly strong for his size.  He was also incredibly fast, and hard to track in the darkness.  After being tackled to the floor for what felt like the millionth time, Dan had had enough.

   The instant he felt Pops slam into him again, he pushed back with all his might, remaining on his feet.  Wrapping one arm around his opponent’s waist, he brought his knee up quickly to hit him in the face.  Satisfied by the shriek of pain, he grinned and repeated the attack before pushing the smaller man to the floor.  Rolling his shoulders, he kicked him once again since he was down.

“Get up, bitch; I’m just getting started,” he crowed.

   With speed unlike anything Dan had ever seen, Pops rose and delivered a crushing uppercut, catching him on the very tip of his chin.  Before he knew it he was falling backwards, but his enemy wasn’t going to let that happen.  Grabbing him by the wrist, he pulled him forward into a right hook that nearly spun him all the way around.  This time, he was allowed to fall to the ground, landing on his stomach and bouncing his cheek off of the dirt floor.  His face felt as if it were on fire, and he could feel blood running from his nose down to his chin, the warm stream dribbling into his mouth.

   He tried to get up, but Pops seemed intent on returning Dan’s treatment and kicked him squarely in the stomach with enough force to lift him into the air and hurl him across the shack.  Crashing through a couple of old, dusty crates, he was dimly aware of a shadow looming over him through the haze of pain that was clouding his thoughts.  He was lifted by the collar of his biker jacket and thrown in the other direction, rolling across the dirt floor before being stopped by the rotting boards of the wall, a few of which fell in on him.

“Get up bitch; I’m just getting started,” Pops mocked.

“Great; he’s got a sense of humor,” Dan muttered.

~

   Alma was on the floor of Kane’s tent, curled up in the fetal position.  A small puddle of blood was beginning to expand around her head, stemming from a deep gash that started at her hairline and ended halfway down her neck, bisecting her eye neatly.  Kane was cleaning off his knife, still whistling a cheerful tune.  He’d started with her eye only because Momma never specified that he had to start off by getting rid of her ears and nose.  That would come later.  For now, he was just going to enjoy himself.

“Oh, grow up.  That’s far from the end, and I can tell you now that you’ll wish they all hurt that little by the time I’m finished,” he scolded, pulling her back into a sitting position.

   She was completely limp, no longer mentally present.  Kane sighed; this wasn’t going to be any fun at all.  She’d hardly screamed at the first cut, showing remarkable willpower, but that made him all too eager to break her resolve.  If she was just going to take the coward’s way out and shut down, he’d be robbed of his fun.  The last time this had happened, he’d just finished the job immediately, but that was out of the question in this case.  He was determined to have some fun this time around.

   A noise so quiet that he shouldn’t have heard it reached his ears, and he stopped his knife, turning his head slightly and listening.  Nothing.  Just Alma’s shallow breathing and…his own racing heart beat?  Why was his heart racing?  Shaking his head, he turned back to the job at hand when he heard another noise.  Turning around to face the entrance to the tent, he noticed that his dog was gone.  Usually, the mutt never left the tent unless lured with food, and none of the other Drifters in Momma’s group paid it any attention.

   Shrugging, he turned back to Alma, only to find himself staring down the barrels of two handguns, one held in front of each eye.  In a split second, his life flashed before his eyes, mostly a montage of cutting sequences, oddly enough set to a strange, psychedelic tune that sounded like it would better fit a drug-induced dream.  Two loud bangs registered in his ears, as well as an excruciating pain in his face, and then he felt nothing.

~

   Having been thrown around the shack a few more times, Dan felt like he’d been run over by a train.  To make matters worse, he kept slamming his face into the hardest things in the landing zone.  Even if the rest of his body crashed through a relatively soft, rotting crate, his nose inevitably found a rock.  He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever be given time to heal.

   Pops was cackling now as he repeatedly kicked him in the stomach.  Not that Dan felt it anyways; he was starting to fade in and out of consciousness.  Bright lights were swimming around in front of his eyes, and he reached out with his hand to try and catch one, only to have his fingers stomped on.  From somewhere in the distance, he heard thunder, and he wondered if a storm was coming.  Rain usually kept the zombies away, for whatever reason, so maybe he’d be able to lie in the shack for a good long while after Pops and Momma were gone, undisturbed by the undead.

   It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t hearing thunder, he was hearing gunfire.  Pops stopped kicking him and started towards one of the windows, only to be hit as a spray of bullets riddled the structure.  Now fully awake, Dan ignored the protests of his beaten body and scrambled behind an old shelf that was full of empty boxes; not the best cover, but at least he was hidden.  Just a few feet away, he saw the shadow of Pops slowly standing, clutching the new bullet wound in his arm.

   As he started towards where Dan was hiding, the door suddenly exploded off of its hinges and another figure hurtled in, slamming Pops into the wall of the shack.  Now that there was light flooding in through the open door, Dan could get a good look at his attacker.  He was incredibly pale, with very thin silver hair and deep set wrinkles in his face.  A simple plaid shirt the kind a farmer would wear hung loosely on his thin, skeletal frame.  He was almost embarrassed that he’d been beaten by such a wimpy-looking guy.  Still, he knew how strong the Drifter was, and was tempted to warn the newcomer.

   Another, much taller man walked in, carrying a rifle the kind of which Dan had never seen before.  It had been heavily modified to the point that it looked like something you’d see in a science fiction game.  He was also wearing some strange kind of body armor; a hard breastplate with a high collar and pauldrons accompanied knee and shin guards.  The man’s forearms were also plated in armor, though it was thicker on the right arm than the left.  All of the armor had been painted blue, and Dan could easily guess that by the slight shimmer to the fabric of the black bodysuit underneath, it was made out of a bite-proof nano-fiber that had been created early on in the outbreak for a tragically failed combat effort against the growing plague.

   For whatever reason, the man wasn’t wearing a helmet, exposing his face to the sunlight.  His skin was tan and rough, and there was a cruel scar running from his left ear to just underneath his right eye, cutting across the bridge of his nose.  With a gloved hand, he flicked a switch somewhere on the side of his rifle, beside the trigger, and a flashlight near the barrel clicked on, flashing just past Dan’s hiding spot in the shadows.  The newcomer stepped deeper into the shack, only hesitating to wipe a drop of sweat from his dirty brow.

“Hunter!  Pasty tango at twelve o’ clock!  Well, pasty tango at my twelve; more like eleven-fifty-five for you,” a voice called; it was the first intruder speaking.

   The voice was unmistakably male, but it sounded young, putting the kid in his late teens, at the oldest.  There was also something unsettling about the tone with which he spoke, making Dan shudder involuntarily.  Shifting one of the boxes as much as he dared, he snuck a peek at the speaker.  His age estimate had been spot-on; he seemed to be around seventeen or eighteen, with brown hair that flowed down between his shoulder blades in a mess of tangled curls.  Unlike the second man to enter, Hunter, he wasn’t wearing armor.  Instead, he was wearing a simple black button-up and black jeans with boots of the same color.

   What stood out most was his weapon.  Though it had also been heavily modified, it was still recognizable as a shotgun, with a pump mechanism beneath the barrel and a heavily-armored stock.  Two wires ran from near the trigger to the front, where two small, cylindrical objects were mounted on either side of a clunky-looking rig fastened to the barrel.  The only one Dan could see was obviously a flashlight, shining into Pops’ frightened eyes.

   Pops was afraid for good reason:  the barrel of the shotgun was currently jammed down his throat, the kid’s finger resting on the trigger.  There was a demented grin on his face that sent another chill down Dan’s spine, his bright brown eyes almost glowing in the darkness.  He looked to Hunter, who had already crossed to the opposite side of the room, searching the shadows with his flashlight, probably for anything worth salvaging.

“Hunter, Vicki wants to talk to him.  What say you?” he asked.

“Not now, Zeke; he hasn’t done anything wrong that we know of; he might not be involved with the gang out there,” Hunter answered, shaking his head and lowering his weapon before pulling out a radio.

“Hunter to Charity and Punk, do you read?  I’m out with Zeke in the-”

   Hunter’s message was cut off by a deafening shotgun blast that made Dan jump.  Zeke looked just as surprised as Dan was at the blast, looking down at the weapon in his hands.

“Huh.  Well what do you know?” he remarked, looking at Hunter and shrugging.

   With Pops thoroughly dead, Zeke withdrew his shotgun and stepped away from the body.  Hunter sighed and continued to make his call on the radio.  From the way he was giving orders, Dan could guess he was the leader.  In fact, he was pretty sure that the black-haired, blue-armored man standing only a few feet away from him was the same person that Momma had asked him about in the Drifter camp.  Hearing the shotgun referred to as ‘Vicki’ also stirred a memory in him, from back in the ghost town.

   He was drawn out of his thoughts as Zeke brought his shotgun up and rested it on his shoulder, shifting his weight to one leg impatiently.  Hunter finished the radio call and put the radio back on his belt.  After a few minutes of silence, Zeke made an impatient noise.

“Hunter, can we go already?  I’m bored!” he pouted, stomping his foot like an angry child and inadvertently pulling the trigger again, blowing a hole in the wall of the shack.

“Shape up, Zeke,” Hunter sighed.

“Bah.  You’re as much fun as a pissed off bee in a pile of horse crap,” Zeke muttered.

He started towards the door, but stopped, turning back to Hunter.  “Oh, and can you tell whoever’s hiding behind those shelves that if he doesn’t come out by the time I count to three, I’ll have Vicki scramble his face?”

[Chinaren]

   I like!  I like!!

[Burningplain]

Nice Chapter Nictei. Nice chapter.

[NicTei]

   Dan froze as Hunter spun around, lifting his rifle and pointing the flashlight directly at the shelves he was hiding behind.  Zeke also had his weapon up, though the light wasn’t on.  Both of them edged closer, the blue-armored leader with a stony, neutral expression and the boy with an insane grin on his face.  There was nowhere to run.

“Three!” Zeke suddenly called, but a quick slap from Hunter sent the barrel of the shotgun up, blowing another hole in the ceiling.

“Hunter!  Do not pimp-slap Vicki!  Do that to Charity, if you have to!” Zeke scolded, rubbing the place where Hunter had hit his weapon.

“Come on out; we won’t hurt you,” Hunter called to Dan, ignoring Zeke’s remark.

   Slowly, Dan edged out of his hiding place, forcing his very sore body to move in spite of the screams of agony coming from every inch of his body.  Seeing that he was unarmed, Hunter lowered his rifle, and after a glance at him, Zeke did the same, though his finger remained on the trigger.  Dan realized that he had been holding his breath and exhaled.  Even if one of his saviors was insane (and trigger happy), it was better than Pops.  He took a few steps forward, aware that he must look awful.

“Thank you,” he started, but Zeke cut him off.

“Hold on.  Vicki has something to say to you.”

Dan, afraid, couldn’t help but ask.  “What?”

“She says ‘Kiss my ass’.”

   The last thing Dan saw was the butt of the shotgun coming straight towards his face.

~

   Alma was in pain.  White-hot agony seared in the left side of her face, forcing her awake.  Sitting straight up, she realized that even though she’d opened both of her eyes, her left was completely dark.  She started to panic, but a pair of strong, rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back down with a surprising gentleness.  Looking up with her good eye, she saw a young woman sitting behind her.  She was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and a dark blue bandana over her nose and mouth, so all Alma could really see were her piercing black eyes.

   Keeping her restrained with one hand, the woman reached for something in her new blind spot, though she heard liquid running back into a bowl as a rag of some sort was wrung out.  A few seconds later, she felt something wet and cool draped on the left side of her face, pressed gently but firmly into place as gauze was wrapped around to keep the rag in place.  For a moment, a cold feeling seeped into her skin underneath the rag, but it suddenly shifted to an even greater pain than before, as if Kane were digging into her flesh all over again.

“Stop moving; you’ll feel better in a minute,” the woman said in a husky voice, holding her down with only one hand.

   Even though the pain was unbearable, Alma realized that it was very slowly ebbing away, becoming slightly more bearable after roughly ten seconds had passed.  Another fifty seconds, and the pain had subsided to nothing more than a dull throbbing sensation.  The woman released her hold when she saw the relaxed expression on her face, and she was able to sit up and take in her surroundings.

   Once again, she was in a tent, though this one was significantly larger (and cleaner) than Kane’s.  There was a duffle bag in one corner, with clothes poking out of the top.  On the other side, a small collapsible table had been set up.  A plate of food, mostly vegetables that looked rather fresh, rested on the table, and she had the feeling they were for her.  Behind her, the woman was starting to put away the bowl, which had some sort of bright green solution in it.

   Instead of asking about it, she crawled immediately towards the food; she hadn’t eaten since meeting the man in the ghost town, and it had caught up with her.  Wolfing it all down, she didn’t care if she looked like a pig.  When she’d finished, she leaned back and patted her stomach contentedly.  The woman was sitting cross-legged, watching her closely.  It was then that Alma noticed the two handguns on either side of her belt.  She barely remembered being rescued by someone with two guns; the image of Kane’s eyes getting blown through his skull had haunted her dreams while she was unconscious.

“Where am I?” she asked, looking at the woman.

“Camp.”  The response was neither friendly nor hostile.

   An awkward silence followed.  Clearly, her rescuer wasn’t interested in conversation.  A radio crackled from somewhere near the bag, but she didn’t move to get it.  Instead, she sat there watching Alma, as if waiting for her to do something interesting.

“So, um, what’s your name?” Alma asked to break the silence.

“Charity.  You’re welcome, by the way,” the woman replied indifferently.

“Oh, thanks for saving me,” Alma said sheepishly.

“It was nothing.  You’re supposed to go see Hunter now that you’re awake,” Charity said, finally standing up.  “I’ll take you to him.”

   Not knowing what else to say, Alma simply nodded and followed her as she left the tent, stepping out into the sunlight once more.  Unlike Momma’s camp, all of the tents here had been arranged in a tight circle around an open fire instead of set up haphazardly around the leader’s home.  There were twelve tents in all, each large enough to comfortably house at least three people, but beyond the initial ring Alma could see other tarps and sets of poles; shelters in progress.  However, everyone seemed to be huddled by the fire despite the relatively balmy weather.

   Charity was leading her away from the crowd, so she didn’t pay much attention.  A few yards away from the outermost tent, a man in blue armor of some sort was standing talking to a boy with long hair and the man that had been captured with her.  At the moment, he was watching the boy warily, eyes glued to the shotgun in his hands.  Noticing that they were approaching, the man in blue waved, giving them a disarming smile.

“Glad to see that you’re up and about.  Dan here has been worried about you, Alma,” he said in a warm, calming voice.

“Ha!  She looks like she’s half mummy!” the boy scoffed, resting his shotgun on his shoulder.

“Manners, Zeke,” the man warned.

Dan stepped forward.  “What happened to you?” he asked.

“Bastard tried to cut my face up.  You were there, remember?” Alma replied coldly.

“I’m sorry.  It’s my fault you were dragged into this, isn’t it?” he said apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it.  I was planning on leaving that damn house anyways,” she answered dismissively.

“Hey!  Crapfaced-Zombiesuckers!  Don’t ignore me!” Zeke interrupted irritably, lowering his shotgun from his shoulder.  “Oh, and don’t ignore Vicki either.”

“Easy, Zeke.  We’re not losing more newcomers because you don’t take to them right away,” Hunter said, stepping between the boy and Dan and Alma.

Zeke sniffed.  “Vicki did the last ones,” he pointed out mutely.

“Of course.  How could I forget?” Hunter muttered.  “Go see if Punk needs help setting up any of the other tents for the rest of the refugees.”

   Grumbling, Zeke stalked off, but not before giving Dan and Alma one last look.  Charity murmured something to Hunter before disappearing as well, hands in the pockets of her hoodie.  When they were both gone, Hunter seemed to relax a little bit.

“You’ll have to forgive Zeke; as you can probably tell, he’s not all there.  And Charity…well, let’s just say that she’s complicated for now,” he explained apologetically.

   Alma glanced over at Dan while Hunter continued to talk.  His nose had obviously been broken, and was currently bandaged extensively.  There were also bruises on his face, and when he shifted his weight to his other leg, he winced.  Just what had happened to him in the Drifter camp?

“I take it by your silence that’s a ‘no,’ then?” Hunter inquired.

“Sorry, what was the question?” Alma asked.

“Oddly enough, asking if you had any questions,” Dan replied, amused.

“I wouldn’t mind knowing why you were in the Drifter camp,” Alma answered, looking to Hunter.

The leader nodded.  “We’ve actually been following Momma’s little gang there for a while.  They call themselves the Spear Birds, stupidest name ever, and they’re notorious for their work in human trafficking.”

“What?  Slaves?  I thought that was only a myth among the Nesters?” Dan interrupted.

“That’s because the people in the settlements that participate in the human trade don’t let the other Nesters know about it.  Slave trade is very real now, though the infected make it an even more dangerous business for those that choose to get involved.”  Hunter paused a moment.  “Of course, I think it’s probably worse now than it’s ever been.  These rich people that buy slaves; one day they’re having brunch with the man across the street, the next day they’re sticking him in the guest house in the back with the rest of their staff, all because the poor bastard wandered into the wrong territory during a hunting trip outside the settlement.”

“So how do we know that you’re not just taking us from the Spear Birds with the intention of selling us yourselves?” Alma asked, tensing to run.

Hunter actually laughed.  “To be perfectly honest, you don’t.  I can assure you, however, that we’re taking you as far as the nearest settlement, which abhors slavery, by the way, and dropping you off there,” he explained.  “Of course, you’re free to come with us, but most of the refugees we rescue simply stay in the settlement we drop them off in and try to make a life there.”

“I’d imagine it’d be safer in the settlement,” Dan mused.

Hunter gave a knowing grin.  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Either way, we’re in your debt,” Alma said, cutting off Dan’s response.  “If there’s anything we can do around camp, we’d be more than happy to help.”

“Hey!  Speak for yourself!” Dan admonished, raising his hands and taking a step back.

“I’m afraid you don’t have any options, Dan.  Only the sick or wounded are getting off scot-free; everyone else has to help out around camp,” Hunter replied, shrugging.

Dan sighed.  “Fine.  What can we do?” he asked reluctantly.

“What’s this about ‘we’?  I’m wounded, see?” Alma teased, pointing to her bandaged eye.

“Oh, come on!”

“I’m afraid she’s right, Dan; until Charity gives her the thumbs up, Alma isn’t doing anything,” Hunter agreed with a grin.

   Dan opened his mouth to respond, but the closed it.  With a sigh, he left them standing there, walking back towards the tents.  For a while, Hunter watched him go.  He then turned to Alma.

“What are your thoughts on Dan?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Dan?  I don’t know.  I just met him this morning, so I can’t really say,” she replied truthfully.

“Well, do you trust him?” Hunter inquired.

   Alma thought for a moment and found that she actually did.  Whether it was because he invited her into his temporary home after he’d met her and she’d almost shot him in the face, or because he tried to make sure that she was safe when the Drifters attacked, she couldn’t say.  All she knew for certain was that she did trust him, more so than anyone else in the camp.  She noticed that Hunter was still looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer, and nodded.

“I trust him.  I don’t know him well enough to say for certain that he’s a saint, but at any rate he seems to be a decent person.  Not above bashing a man’s skull in with a crowbar, but a decent man nonetheless,” she answered thoughtfully.

Hunter smiled.  “Glad to hear it.  He said pretty much the same about you, though he did mention that you’re a tad reckless.”

“I’ll kick his ass later.”

[Burningplain]

I like it Nictei. I like it a lot.

[Chinaren]

 

[Chinaren]

Yay, finally caught up.  I've been so busy just lately I've not had time any bloody writing or reading.   

Anyway, nice chappy, but I have to say that it's a bit weird that Alma didn't ask about her injury, or try to examine her injury, ask if she'd be able to see again. 

Otherwise, good stuff.

[NicTei]

Yeah, that's a good point there, Cren.  I'll probably go back in an edit that a little bit, and it's come to my attention while writing current chapters of this that I haven't really mentioned her injury much after this.  I'll have to do some extensive editing on that part tomorrow.  ...or Thursday.  Yeah, Thursday.

Tomorrow is an Extra, by the way, assuming I can remember to get one written up after I'm done with school and work.   Have I ever mentioned exactly how much I F***ING HATE SCHOOL?

But, I digress.  Extra for tomorrow, staving off insanity comparable to Zeke's for the next nine-ten months.  Good stuff.

[Chinaren]

Yeah, that's a good point there, Cren.  I'll probably go back in an edit that a little bit, and it's come to my attention while writing current chapters of this that I haven't really mentioned her injury much after this.  I'll have to do some extensive editing on that part

It's so easy to forget details like this.  I've literally forgotten about characters for several chapters.  For example, in Tired of Death I had a tendency to forget all about Sprat for episodes at a time.   

[NicTei]

Music:  None

   Armed with his trusty bokuto, NicTei descends into the basement that housed Howie, who has miraculously been [re]revived for the purpose of this interview.  Setting down his coffee on the card table, he eyes the undead cautiously before taking his seat.  Howie notices him and slowly shuffles towards him.

NicTei:  I'm sorry that I wasn't here yesterday; it took a surprising amount of time for the Ghouls over in Accounting to get my payment straight on the tertiary resurrection order.  You were still a twice-dead body when I showed up yesterday.  Never could trust administration.
Howie the Zombie:  ...ungh...

NT:  I see.  Well, that's a bitch.  Anyways, I think we should get started.  How did you first react when the zombie apocalypse reached you?
HZ:  ~groans and reaches for NicTei with his arms~

NT:  ~leans back~  Interesting.  Next question:  How did you esca-um...you know what?  We'll skip that one.
HZ:  Argh?

NT:  Never mind.  Not important.  How did you deal with the smell?
HZ:  Grah...

NT:  Really?  I never would've guessed.  Sheer brilliance.
HZ:  ...nargh...

NT:  No, I assure you I'm not being sarcastic.  Really, this is riveting stuff.
HZ:  Mraw?

NT:  Yes, really.  If you had packed a zombie bag before the apocalypse, what would you have put in it?
HZ:  Raghraghragh!!

NT:  Are you serious?  I thought those were only for women.
HZ:  ...

NT:  ...hey, what are you doing?  Stop that...  I said stop.  Stop!  Hey, now!  Ow, that hurts!!  Son of a-!
HZ:  NOMNOMNOMNOMNOM

NT:  ...
HZ:  ...

NT:  ...
HZ:  ...

NT:  ...grah?
HZ:  ...grah.

NT:  ...braiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiins...
HZ:  ...

   The interview ends.  God help us all.

[Burningplain]

  Brilliant Nictei, absolutely Brilliant.

[Chinaren]

Great addition Nice! 

[NicTei]

   As Dan approached the center of the camp, he was drawn to a small table, where a few other men were sitting playing cards.  He could tell by the way they were ignoring the crowd a yard away at the campfire that they were some of Hunter’s men, so he figured that they’d be good sources of information.  Trying his best to blend in, he took a seat next to a short, stocky, sunburned man with bushy eyebrows and a series of brutal scars covering his exposed right arm, veins of pale white tissue running across bright red flesh.  To his relief, the dealer simply dealt him in on the next hand; no one seemed to give him a second glance.

   Picking up his cards, he fanned them out in his hand and stole a quick glance around the table, checking out the other players.  Directly across from him was a man about his height, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the tattoo of an eye in the middle of his forehead, glaring at him from underneath his bangs.  His most striking feature, however, was the stump where his left arm had been, only a few inches of flesh sticking out from his shoulder.  Dan wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly how he lost his limb, but the man caught his stare and smiled, revealing pearly white teeth.

“Let me tell you something:  never, never pick up a katana and think you can use it perfectly just because people do it all the time in the videogames,” he said, looking directly at Dan when he spoke.  “There’s a reason they practice with wooden ones first.”

The short man scoffed.  “Yeah, yeah; you got off easy, Jack.”  He turned to Dan and lifted his scarred arm.  “Damned chainsaw didn’t start right away, and I got pushed through a fucking window by a bunch of zombies,” he explained, running a finger absentmindedly along each pale line.

Dan nodded sagely.  “Same thing damn near happened to me, too.  I tried to use a golf club to get them out of my house.  Turns out they can’t really take much of an impact,” he remarked.  “Anyways, when that broke, I ran out to the shed and picked up the chainsaw, only to have the piece of crap stall on me.  I got it started in time, but they were so close I was shitting myself.”

“I got off easy?  How do you figure, Vince?” Jack asked, sounding only slightly annoyed.

“Hunter was there when you fucked up.  I was alone in a tool shop with at least a dozen of the bastards on me.  All the blood didn’t help get them off my trail, mind you,” the short man answered gruffly.

“Can we just play cards, guys?”

   The last to speak was the dealer.  Of African descent, he was tall and rippling with compact muscles that told Dan that if he wanted to, he could probably crush a zombie’s skull with his bare hands.  At the moment, though, he was simply watching everyone at the table, fixing a cool gaze on each player in turn with his deep black eyes that seemed radically different from Charity’s, despite the near-identical color of the irises.  Vince looked at his cards and cursed before taking two out of his hand and tossing them on the table.

“Hit me,” he said.

   With his good arm, Jack slapped him on the chest, grinning when he cursed even louder.  Before things could get out of hand, the dealer tossed Vince another two cards and moved on to Jack, who only took one card.  Snorting in disgust, he promptly folded, leaning back in his chair and watching the rest of the game.  The dealer took three for himself before looking to Dan.  After a moment of thought, he dropped a two of spades and three of hearts on the table, taking the cards that he was given.

“Damn.  I fold,” he said, dropping his cards on the table in front of him; the best he had was King-high.

“Smart move,” Vince said as he spread his cards out on the table, revealing four nines and a Queen.

“You should’ve followed suit,” the dealer replied, laying down his cards and revealing a Royal Flush.

   Screaming a string of obscenities the likes of which Dan had never heard before, Vince kicked the table leg, stood up, and walked off, muttering curses under his breath.  Jack watched him go in amusement before standing and excusing himself as well.  Now Dan was alone with the dealer, which suited him just fine; he had the feeling that he would be a good source of information.  While he was gathering the cards and shuffling, Dan leaned forward, extending his hand.

“I’m Dan, Dan Manson,” he stated politely.

“Emmanuel St. Claire,” the dealer replied, shaking Dan’s hand once before shuffling the cards some more.

Dan let a moment of silence pass.  “What can you tell me about Zeke?” he asked finally.

Emmanuel stopped cold.  “He’s bat-shit crazy.”

Dan waited for him to continue.  “And?”

“That pretty much covers it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Emmanuel sighed and put the deck of cards on the table.  “Do you know what he did to the last person that asked too many questions about him?” he asked.

“Well, no…”

“Neither do we.  We haven’t seen him for seven months.”

Dan tried not to think about Pops’ demise.  “What about Hunter, then?”

Emmanuel glared at him.  “In this camp, if you want to know about someone, you don’t sneak around like a weasel asking questions about them.  You spend time around them and figure it out yourself.”

“Hey, I just want to know what I’m getting into here,” Dan retorted defensively.

“What you’re getting into is one of the few decent groups of Drifters that exist in this godforsaken world.  We didn’t have to save you; remember that,” Emmanuel snapped irritably before storming off.

“That went well, I guess,” Dan muttered to himself.

   Turning his chair around, he inspected the crowd of poorly-dressed people standing around the fire.  In the middle of them, beside the flames, a petite blonde woman was passing out blankets and spare tents, giving each person to step forward a perfect smile. Much like Alma, she was wearing clothes that were a little too small for her, but no one (especially the men) seemed to mind.  As he watched, he realized that only every fourth person was receiving a tent.  Soon, it became every fifth person.

   Just as the last person approached her to get his tent, she shook her head; they’d run out.  He was going to have to find another group that would accept him.  Dan smirked; the poor guy was going to need all the luck in the world, the way he looked.  Of course, it was at that point that he realized that he didn’t have a tent, either.  Before he could give it too much thought, though, a strong hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good news, Dan; you’re on duty as of now.  You’re going with Zeke and Punk to find us a new camp site near the water while we mobilize the rest of the camp,” Hunter explained.  “We passed a river a few days ago that we’re pretty sure curved back this way, so it shouldn’t be too hard, especially not with Punk helping out.”

“But I don’t have a tent!” Dan complained.

“Don’t worry about that; we’ll arrange something while you’re searching.  Punk and Zeke are waiting for you, so I’d suggest you hurry.”

“Can I at least get a weapon?” he asked.

“You’re wearing gloves; you’ll be fine.  If anything jumps you, hit it and let one of the other two finish it off; they’re capable enough.  Go!”

   Grumbling, Dan got up and headed for the direction Hunter indicated Zeke and the other guy, Punk, would be waiting for him.  He didn’t understand why he was being forced into working the first day he got into camp.  Maybe they figured he was weak because Pops beat him up?  Alternatively, he could be going along as bait; someone to leave behind in case they ran into one of the wandering hordes that supposedly roamed the wilderness.  Whatever it was, he doubted that it was good.  Up ahead, he saw Zeke walking back and forth impatiently, Vicki resting on his shoulder.  There was also a machete on his belt, resting horizontally across his back. 

   A few feet away from Zeke stood another young man that Dan had never seen before.  He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties, around Dan’s age.  Bright red hair that was too vibrant to be naturally colored exploded from his head, styled in a haphazard way reminiscent of a rock star’s hairdo and held back by a pair of old, circular goggles.  By contrast, his outfit was comprised of dull colors:  a brown duster, faded blue jeans, and thick brown boots.  He had a hunting rifle in a custom holster across his back, and was currently running his fingers lightly across the blade of a large Bowie knife, testing the edge.  When he saw Dan coming, he slipped the knife into a sheath on his belt and extended his hand.

“The name’s Punk,” he said in a cheery Australian accent.

Immediately, Zeke rounded on him.  “No, no, no!  You don’t open your mouth unless it’s to say ‘Put another shrimp on the barbie’ or ‘A dingo ate my baby’!”

“Might as well get used to his lip.  He’s a mean little bas-ow!”

Zeke had hit him with the butt of his shotgun.  “Repeat after me:  Crikey!  Look at that ‘gator!  Kangaroo!”

“I hope to God you get your ass bit clean off,” Punk snarled back.

“That doesn’t sound like ‘crikey’ to me!”

“Um, excuse me, but don’t we have a job to be doing?” Dan asked.

Zeke looked at him as if he’d just noticed he was there.  “Oh, good!  Spitshitter showed up.  Let’s go get some gold.”

   With that, he simply walked off.  Dan looked to Punk, hoping for some sort of answer.  Instead, he just shrugged and grinned.

“Around here, we just don’t ask anymore.  We find things are easier if we just let him do his thing,” he explained.

“Even if people go missing?” Dan inquired lightly.

Punk laughed.  “Emmanuel tell you about poor Richard?  Yeah, things went south for him pretty quickly.  He managed to make it two weeks before he got a little too nosy with Zeke.  I can’t tell you how many people we’ve buried because they thought they could help him.  And that’s just the ones we found.”

   Instead of waiting to see if Dan had anything else to say, Punk started after Zeke, who had stopped and was now firing at a butterfly that was floating about.  Sighing and resigning himself to his fate, Dan jogged to catch up to them.  The minute he reached them, Zeke managed to succeed in vaporizing the butterfly, giving a creepy chuckle as small wing fragments fluttered to the ground.  Punk took the lead, though Dan waited until Zeke started walking to continue on; there was no way he was going to let that psycho get behind him.

~

   An hour later they’d stopped to take a rest.  Dan’s already fatigued body felt as if it was starting to give out on him, but Punk stopped just as he was about to mention that he wouldn’t mind a breather.  Zeke was impatient to keep moving, and simply paced about while Dan sat gingerly on a large, conveniently-placed rock.  Punk remained standing, scanning the horizon; as far as Dan could figure, he was watching for zombies or other Drifters.

At length, Zeke yelled in frustration.  “Bah!  Get up already, Shitspitter!  Gold is waiting for us!  Gold!”

Dan was tired, and he’d had enough.  “We’re not looking for gold, we’re looking for water!  Get that through your thick skull already!” he snapped.

   In the amount of time it took for Zeke to cross the few yards between them and level his shotgun at his face, Dan could’ve blinked and missed the movement.  There was a cold, predatory look in Zeke’s eyes, even as his face was lit up by a maniacal grin.  Dan dared to glance at Punk, who was keeping his back to the whole thing.  He turned his gaze back to Zeke, who was still staring at him with the same evil delight on his face that had been present when he shoved his gun into Pops’ mouth and pulled the trigger.

   Seconds stretched into eternity, each twitch of Zeke’s trigger finger stopping Dan’s heart.  Finally, Punk turned around and rolled his eyes.  Without even the slightest warning, he grabbed ‘Vicki’ by the barrel and put his other hand on Zeke’s shoulder, pulling him away from Dan, who collapsed onto the rock, heart beating hard against his chest.  There was a quick, hushed exchange between the two before Punk returned and pulled him back to his feet.

“Sorry about that.  He doesn’t handle criticism very well,” he explained before returning to his previous position.

“Doesn’t handle criticism well?  He nearly killed me!” Dan shrieked, his voice higher than he would’ve liked.

“Come on, Shitspatter!  Vicki was just playing with you, honest!” Zeke pouted, once more acting like a child.

“Zack, one o’ clock, two o’ clock, and three at eleven o’ clock,” Punk interrupted, pulling out his rifle and cocking it.

   Dan had heard zombies referred to as ‘Zack’ before, but he’d never understood why.  He’d asked someone in a Nester colony about it once, and they’d told him that it was a reference to a popular book from before the plague.  Regardless, he hadn’t seen the three zombies that Punk was now pointing out when he’d sat down on the rock, and the terrain was essentially devoid of cover; it was as if they’d materialized out of thin air, though he knew that wasn’t possible.  More likely, they’d been lying in the relatively tall grass ahead.

   Punk took aim at the nearest of the approaching undead, breathing in deeply as he brought the gun up and put pressure on the trigger, and exhaling as he pulled it.  The bang of the rifle echoed in Dan’s skull as the recoil jolted the barrel up a few inches.  Dan looked at the three clustered off to the left, and whooped as the one nearest the middle fell straight backwards, head caving in.

   Zeke stood up beside Punk and took aim with Vicki, inhaling in an exaggerated manner to make fun of his comrade.  Punk started to say something, but his words were drowned out by the roar of the shotgun, which was at least twice as loud as the rifle had been.  None of the undead went down; they were outside the effective range of the shot.  A few fragments seemed to hit one of the infected, but didn’t hinder it at all.  Punk sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Zeke, stop screwing around,” he sighed, putting his rifle away.

“Not what your sister said last night!” Zeke shouted with malicious glee as he ran towards the first zombie.

   As the creature lunged, Zeke danced out of the way with a surprising amount of grace, blasting the rotting man in the back of the head before rounding on the other one and doing the same at closer range.  The other two infected turned their attention solely to him and began to shuffle towards him, mouths agape and chins covered in the blood of their previous victims.  Laughing maniacally, Zeke pounced on the nearest one, bashing its forehead in with the butt of his shotgun.  He hit it a few more times for good measure before jumping to his feet and placing Vicki’s barrel squarely on the forehead of the last remaining infected.

“Brains, bitch!” he cackled as he pulled the trigger.

“Am I supposed to be afraid of him?” Dan asked as the zombie fell, only a stump of neck and lower jaw remaining where it used to have a head.

“I’d be more worried if you weren’t,” Punk answered humorlessly.

“So am I supposed to deal with the fear while I’m trying to sleep at night with him in the camp?” Dan inquired, wincing as Zeke needlessly shot the re-killed undead again.

“No pancakes for you, dead-ass tree-hugger!” he laughed.

“Don’t worry about him,” Punk answered, unfazed by Zeke’s antics.  “He’s pretty harmless as long as you don’t talk to him.  Or make eye contact.  Or enter his general area.  Or catch his attention.”

“So in other words, he’s harmless if you’ve never met him?”

“Yeah, that about covers it.”

“Wish I’d known that yesterday,” Dan sighed.

“Well, yesterday is the past’s tomorrow,” Zeke said as he returned, brushing a spot of gore off of his shirt and grimacing.  “But that’s not going to help us get the gold.  Let’s get moving already.”

   They started walking again, Punk pointing to a line of trees on the horizon as a possible sign of a water source.  All three of them were on their guard as they entered the tall grass, skirting the downed undead and keeping a sharp eye out for any more that were slightly more lively.  No targets presented themselves, but Dan couldn’t help but notice that both Punk and Zeke kept their weapons ready, the latter executing an exaggerated crouch-walk and humming what he probably thought was a dramatic tune.

   If Punk was right in his assumption that the trees meant water, they’d probably be at the river in an hour or so, assuming they didn’t stop again.  Given that his body was still sore despite the rest, Dan wasn’t sure he’d make it the entire way without needing another break.  He glanced at Punk, hoping to see a sign of fatigue that would mean they’d be taking a rest, but the leader was far from tired.  His eyes appeared to be taking in everything, even glancing back at his companions from time to time.  There appeared to be only one end in sight:  the trees.

   Over the next twenty minutes, they covered half the distance between their original position and the tree line, moving faster than Dan had thought.  He was holding up surprisingly well, and was fairly certain that he could last the rest of the way.  Punk took the time to reload his rifle to the full capacity while they were walking.  Zeke had stopped humming, but was now whispering to someone that wasn’t there; though he couldn’t hear what was being said, Dan thought he heard the name ‘Lucy.’

   Suddenly, Punk swore and lifted his rifle, dropping to one knee in the grass.  Dan looked up, though he didn’t see anything wrong.  Zeke started to laugh again and cocked Vicki, sprinting towards the trees as Punk took a shot.  That was when Dan saw it:  a large group of infected were just beginning to stagger out of the cover of the trees, probably heading towards the gunshots from earlier.  Some of them were soaking wet, which confirmed Punk’s suspicion that there was water nearby.  Not one of them looked particularly fresh, however.

   Zeke was suddenly in the middle of them, knocking them over with a quick cuff using the butt of his shotgun and finishing them off with a good stomp or well-placed shot.  Punk was providing support as best he could, firing slowly and carefully, not only to ensure that he was pulling off accurate headshots, but also to make sure that he wasn’t hitting the madman in the middle of the action.  Dan felt relatively useless.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked between shots.

“You can shut up and let me concentrate on shooting,” Punk answered, reloading his rifle.

“I can do that,” Dan muttered, sitting down in the grass.

Zeke’s shouting drifted back to them.  “Come on, you dead-ass pancake-lickers!  Give me the gold!”

   Without warning, he fell.  Punk cursed again and grabbed Dan by the arm, forcing him up and pushing him forward.

“Go help him!” he ordered.

“But I can’t-” Dan protested.

“Just go!”

   Wishing that he was anywhere else but here, Dan ran as fast as he could towards where the zombies were gathering.  Letting loose a primal yell that he hoped was intimidating (not that the infected had the brains to be intimidated, of course), he launched himself into the cluster as Vicki went off yet again, evaporating the head of the infected to Dan’s left and taking part of the skull off of the zombie next to it.  Zeke saw him and grinned.

“Spitshatter!  Good idea!” he exclaimed.

   Grabbing Dan by the wrist, Zeke hauled himself to his feet and thrust Vicki between his belt and his jeans.  Instead of letting go of his wrist, he tightened his grip as a serrated grin lit up his face.  Dan tried to pull away, but either Zeke was incredibly strong or he was too tired to fight back; he was caught fast.

“It’s sandwich time!” Zeke cackled as he swung Dan like a ragdoll.

   Dan heard the impact more than he felt it; the infected that he slammed into uttered a short, sharp groan before falling to the ground.  At the very end of Zeke’s swing, he tried to regain his footing, but the insane Drifter had different plans.  He swung Dan again, though this time he let go, sending him flying into another group of no less than ten zombies.  All of them went down, and as for the ‘projectile,’ he rolled along the ground, finally stopping at a relatively safe distance away from the undead.  He didn’t move.

   Zeke kept laughing as he shot and kicked and bashed the zombies into a messy, slightly green pulp, with Punk providing long-range support.  Dan just stared at the sky, wondering what exactly he did to deserve being in this situation.  To the best of his knowledge, he’d been good.  Granted, there was that one week in Vegas, but he was the only one who knew about that.  Well, him and three women whose names he’d never learned.  Oh well; they were probably zombie chow, anyways.

   Finally, the gunfire stopped.  Everything was impossibly quiet in the aftermath, to the point Dan thought he might have temporarily lost his hearing.  He also realized that, as much as he wanted to sit up, he couldn’t; his body just wasn’t responding.  Punk appeared over him, looking down with a bizarre mixture of concern and amusement.  When he offered his hand, Dan just grunted.

“Can’t move,” he muttered.

“How lazy can you get?” Zeke snorted, nudging him roughly in the side with the toe of his boot.  “Get up already, Spitshit.”

“Leave him alone, Zeke.  The last time you flailed someone around like that they died, remember?”

“Only because the dumb bitch decided she could take on a tree,” Zeke grumbled, looking away.

Punk rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, she was the one in control of her path,” he retorted sarcastically.

“If you’re about done,” Dan groaned from the ground, “would one of you help me up?”

   Apologizing, Punk crouched down and lifted him up, draping one of Dan’s limp arms around his shoulders.  Zeke was nudging each of the zombies in turn with his boots.  The group that Dan’s helpless body had mowed down hadn’t been properly disposed of, so he crushed all of their skulls beneath the heels of his boots with minimal effort, grinding his boot in on the final one with a sickening squelch and the mad grin that Dan was now certain would haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future.  Not that there was much of a foreseeable future in a world where you could have your throat torn out by the walking dead.

“Now that you’re off your lazy, zombie-kissing ass,” Zeke sneered, “let’s go get the gold!  Lieutenant Dingo-Ate-My-Baby-Crikey, take point with Shitstain!”

   Grumbling about the harassment, Punk started towards the trees, his Bowie knife in his free hand.  Zeke brought up the rear, whispering again.  This time Dan heard the name clearly:  Lucy.  He’d been right before.  There seemed to be no end to the issues that the young Drifter had, and a brief pang of sympathy for the kid coursed through him.  It proved to be short-lived.

   The instant Zeke saw the river, he let out a triumphant shout and grabbed Dan by the wrist, tearing him away from Punk.  Yelling about gold, he ran towards the river, Dan in tow and Punk running behind him, uttering a stream of curses that would’ve shamed the saltiest sailor.  When they reached the edge, he stopped, staring into slowly-moving water.  Though tinged brown, it was still clear enough to see the bottom, and therefore couldn’t hide the undead.

“There’s the gold, Stainface!  Go get it!”

   Before Dan could react, Zeke shoved him into the river, grinning gleefully.  Punk cursed loudly and threw off his duster, diving in after him.  Even under the surface, Dan could hear Zeke’s laughter.  Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, he wished he were back on his putrid green recliner drinking lukewarm beer.  Even Howie was better company than Zeke.

~

   Roughly two hours later, as the sun was just beginning to set, Hunter and the rest of the Drifters made it to the river, setting up camp and boiling water over the fire before pouring it into canteens.  They also used purification tablets, even though Dan had heard hundreds of times from reputable sources that the zombie virus couldn’t live outside a host for any longer than a few minutes.  Still, better safe than sorry.

“Hunter!  I see no waffles!  I was promised waffles, dammit!” Zeke snarled.

   None of the refugees were sitting around the fire, leaving just the Drifters:  Hunter, Zeke, Punk, Charity, Vince, Jack, and Emmanuel.  Since Dan had survived his first official mission out with Zeke, he’d been invited to join them, and since they didn’t want Alma to feel left out, she was sitting beside him.  Unfortunately, Zeke was sitting on his other side, Vicki resting between his legs at an angle that pointed the barrel directly at Dan’s head.  From the other side of the fire, Hunter sighed.

“Zeke, have you seen a single waffle iron since the plague started?  I haven’t.  Not even a frozen waffle.  Tell you what:  you find a waffle or waffle iron, I will personally fix you a breakfast for kings,” he promised, sounding exhausted.

“Well, good.  Oh, and I have one other demand before I’ll release your hostages,” Zeke responded imperiously.

“Oh?  What’s that?”

Zeke looked at Dan and grinned.  “I want to bring Shitterhead here with me on all of my missions.  I like him.  He’s funny.”

   Dan wept.

[Chinaren]

Well, it's well written as usual, but frankly this Zeke fellow is the Ja Ja Binks of your story so far. 

[NicTei]

...please explain.

[Burningplain]

*reads Chinaren's comment. re-reads story thus far.* He's Ja Ja Binks, if Ja Ja had been a person with an extremely violent personality disorder.
I like this, Zeke is an interesting character. I like how you portray him. It would be interesting to see how you handle it.

[Chinaren]

He's also rather annoying. 

[NicTei]

Thanks, but I still don't know what you mean by 'the Jar Jar Binks of the story.'  Anyways, he's supposed to be annoying:  he's lost his mind, and is basically my example of someone that you absolutely would not want on your zombie team.  Though I'd be lying if I said he doesn't turn out to be useful somehow.

Anyways, I have plans for him to change dramatically, possibly in the next part of the series, so don't assume he'll stay like this forever.  Not that he'll become sane again, but he certainly won't be exactly like this.

Anyways, I posted an Extra last Wednesday, so I've just got to remember that it'll be a few Wednesdays before I post another.  ...I'm already losing track of my schedule.

[Chinaren]

Well in a way it's 'good' he's annoying, as it shows you've made an impact with the character.  There's no criticism of your writing here Nice, it's up to its usual good standard, I just find Z rather irritating, which he is!

For JJB:

http://www.scifimoviepage.com/jarjar.html

http://www.mindspring.com/~ernestm/jarjar/deathtojarjar.html

http://www.heropress.net/2009/06/its-official-jar-jar-is-most-annoying.html

[NicTei]

...I know who Binks is. =P  Anyways, I guess you're just saying that he's irritating (it was a subliminal message, I know)?  Well, regardless, I think he gets less annoying as it goes along, but I could be mistaken.  I was trying to write a CrazyAwesome character, though.  Ah well; we'll (meaning 'you'll'), have to wait until a later chapter to see for yourself how he develops.

[NicTei]

   Even after a day in hell the likes of which he never wanted to live again, Dan couldn’t seem to fall asleep.  Punk had offered him a place in his tent, which he’d gratefully accepted.  Unfortunately, he hadn’t known that Jack was also bunking there.  This wouldn’t have been a problem, but Punk also forgot to mention that Jack snored.  When he finally managed to nod off, he had slept for no more than twenty minutes before he was awakened by what he thought at first was a chainsaw.  After that, he was unable to fall asleep again.

   Finally, he got up and quietly unzipped the flap, slipping into the boots that he’d left outside the tent before closing it back up carefully.  He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do, but anything had to be better than sitting in the tent listening to Jack trying his best to give Vince a flashback to his chainsaw incident from across the campsite.  No good ideas presented themselves to him as he waited for his eyes to adjust, so he decided that he’d just go for a walk.  Later, he would refer to this as ‘mistake number one.’

   Stalking off through the rows of tents, he wondered if he should wake Alma and invite her along, but decided against it.  Charity scared him, for some reason, and he did not want her waking up, too.  She’d probably fill him with lead before he could explain why he was in her tent to begin with.  Hell, even if he could explain, she’d probably shoot him anyways.  If she didn’t, Alma would.  After all, she wasn’t really his friend (she hadn’t even known his name until Hunter had mentioned it in front of her), so taking her on a walk would seem strange.

   Or just give everyone the impression that he wanted to get into her pants.

“And what exactly would be wrong with that?” he wondered aloud.

He stopped walking.  “Okay, not going down that road tonight.  Or any other night, for that matter.  She’s nine years younger than you are.  When you were graduating high school, she was…she was…  Well, she was nine.”

   He continued walking, now feeling much older than he had when he started his midnight stroll.  His sudden depression didn’t last for long, of course; it was rather peaceful away from the tents.  Even with the trees blocking out the moon and stars, he had enough light to keep from running into the thick trunks, though he did manage to stumble on a few roots.  Picking himself up of the ground after an extremely gnarled root managed to trip him, he took a deep breath of the cool night air.  He had been right; this was far better than sitting in the tent listening to Jack snoring.

“Better yet, Zeke isn’t here to ruin it,” he mused out loud.

   A twig snapped somewhere behind him and he froze, listening for the tell-tale moan of the infected that he was willing to bet was trying to take him from behind.  All he could hear was the chirruping of the crickets in the underbrush, so he took another step forward.  Another audible crack broke the relative silence, this one even closer.

   Whirling around, he brought up his fists and prepared to strike, but there was no one behind him.  He stood rooted to the spot for what felt like an eternity, waiting for something to move.  Branches swayed ever so slightly in the light breeze, and the brush rustled as the creatures of the night came out to hunt, but no stalker revealed itself.  Now thoroughly paranoid, he decided that now would be a good time to return to camp.

   Of course, there was one small problem.  While thinking of Alma with considerably fewer clothes on, he’d made his second mistake of the night:  keeping track of where he was going.  With the fire extinguished, he had no idea where the tents were in relation to his current position.  Every direction looked the same; nothing but the silhouettes of tall trees and the faintest sliver of the moon visible through the canopy above his head.  Put simply, he was lost, and for all he knew, there was a zombie behind each tree.  This was far from a desirable situation.

“Okay, don’t panic,” he muttered to himself just as a loud moan sounded from right behind him.

“Panic!  Panic!” he shrieked as he started to run blindly through the trees, his third mistake of the night.

   Even though he had absolutely no idea where he was going, he continued to run, rationalizing that anywhere was better than there, and he could always find camp again by the light of morning.  Of course, he could also take a break to the left (or was it right?) and head out into the field, where he’d be able to see his pursuer better.  Unless he went the wrong way, in which case he’d take his second dip into the river for the day.  While he was trying to decide, his foot caught on a root in the underbrush and, like so many would-be survivors that tried to run from the monsters in horror movies, fell face-first onto the ground.  A crazed cackle broke the relative silence, freezing his blood cold.

“Nice wipeout, Spittershitter!”

~

   Back at the Drifter camp, Hunter was still awake.  Using a flashlight, he was looking at a most blank map of the area that had extensive notes scrawled on it in his handwriting, along with various lines and arrows connecting different points, some named, some not.  After a moment of deliberation, he sketched in a dotted line that made a triangle with a small circle marked as ‘Alexandria,’ the bend of the river they were camping at right now, and another, much larger circle labeled ‘New Jamestown.’  This marked the river as a last-resort campsite for future passes through this region and a possible deviation from their usual route.

   Unlike most other Drifters that simply wandered about randomly, Hunter preferred to have some sort of order to how he moved about the wilderness.  As such, there were no less than five or six bold black lines crossing the expanse of what was once North America; these were the basic routes that he followed.  He didn’t hide the fact that each journey was planned from any of the others, but Charity, Zeke, and Emmanuel were the only ones who knew.  Most of the time there was enough of a variation to most of their treks to keep it from seeming like the same path over and over again.

   Last week, for instance, they’d run into an escapee from Momma’s camp.  She was young, and had obviously been very attractive before she’d been scarred by Kane.  Two of his men that were getting tired of the Drifter lifestyle had taken her back to the Nester settlement that they’d left a few days before meeting her.  After that, he’d asked the others for their opinion on the matter, and the unanimous decision was to go after Momma and shut her down.  The trail was hard to follow, though, but Punk wouldn’t give up that easily, so he’d gone off on his own to do recon work and find the slavers.

   A few days after he’d left, he’d returned with Zeke, who had slipped away a good seven days beforehand as he seemed to do at least once every three months.  Of course, he also had one of Momma’s men; apparently he’d caught two, but Zeke didn’t like the second one.  Interrogating the survivor and getting Momma’s position and destination hadn’t been hard.  Keeping him alive after Zeke found out he was a slaver, on the other hand, was a task.

   Hunter sighed; Zeke had never been very easy to control, but lately he was becoming even more obstinate than before.  The way he killed Pops when he’d been told to let him live was evidence of that.  Granted, he hadn’t been to a Nester settlement for a while (he was gone when they stopped most recently), which usually served to calm him down some.  The next settlement was still a few days away, so hopefully he could keep from killing anyone until then.  Not that everyone was in danger, of course; just the refugees, the newcomers.

   Letting the pencil clatter onto the top of the small plank on his lap that he was using as a table, he leaned back and closed his eyes.  Three bullets had grazed his face this afternoon, and at least a dozen more had whistled harmlessly past his head.  He had been lucky; Harrison, one of his older followers, had taken two in the shoulder, one in the other arm, and another three in his legs.  Charity, the working medic and all-around badass of the group, had managed to take all of the bullets out and fix him up, but he would still be confined to his cot for a while.  Six bullets wasn’t something you could walk off.

   The sound of a breaking branch somewhere outside the camp brought him out of the half-asleep state he’d slipped into without even noticing it.  He wasn’t wearing all of his armor; only his greaves were still fastened to his shins, but he was well-enough protected in the tear-resistant body suit that was wrapped tightly around his muscular form.  Silently, he picked up his gun and headed for the flap of the tent, unzipping it quickly and stepping out into the brisk night air.  Without his flashlight, he was having a hard time seeing in the darkness, but he wasn’t too worried.

   Raising his rifle, he peered through the scope fastened to the top, flicking a switch on the side that activated night vision.  Everything around the crosshairs turned green, and he was able to make out each individual tent between him and the figure retreating into the forest.  Hunter groaned inwardly; it was Dan.  He hadn’t been in the camp longer than a day, but the leader already had his gait and basic build memorized; this was vital during night combat, when he needed to distinguish his guys from the undead at a distance.

“Why the hell is he leaving camp?” he muttered, following the newcomer with his scope until he was lost behind the thick branches of one of the lower trees.

   Seconds after Dan passed, another figure, this one shorter, dropped out of the tree, landing gracefully on his feet.  Zeke.  Hunter rolled his eyes.  Either Zeke would bring Dan back into camp, or they’d never see the poor bastard again.  For a moment, he was tempted to follow them, but the urge quickly faded, replaced by the desire to sleep.  With Zeke gone, though, there was no one standing watch.

   With a sigh, he lowered his rifle.  He would stand watch until Zeke returned, but after that he was going straight to bed.  Whether or not Dan returned from his midnight stroll was a problem that he could take care of in the morning.

~

“Are you out of your fucking mind!?”

   Dan didn’t know why he was asking the question when he already knew the answer.  Zeke didn’t seem to hear him; he was too busy laughing, his crazed giggle seeming to echo through the once-silent forest.  By the time he stopped, Dan had already picked himself up and stormed down the small animal trail that he’d managed to stumble upon shortly before Zeke scared him witless with the phony moan.  Zeke suddenly popped out of the brush in front of him, making his heart stop again.

“How the hell did you get in front of me?” he hissed, hand gripping his chest.

Zeke arched an eyebrow.  “Um, I walked, genius.  Seriously.  Just because you walk louder than Vicki talks doesn’t mean we all make such an obvious racket, Spitterspatter.”

   Dan sighed; there would be no reasoning with this kid.  To make matters worse, getting upset and cursing him out only seemed to egg him on, much like a normal teenager.  Well, a normal teenager with a big gun.

“Why are you out here, anyways?” he asked.

“Didn’t Hunter tell you?  I’m the watchman.  I’m always watching.  Always.”

“There’s a comforting thought,” Dan muttered.

Zeke ignored him.  “I’m here to bring you back to camp.  Dangerous to wander around like this in the dark.  You never know what you could run into.”

Dan snorted.  “We got rid of the zombies earlier today.  Well, you did, anyways.  You’re scary, you know that?”

“Zombies aren’t all you have to worry about,” Zeke responded, as if he hadn’t heard the last remark.  “Slenderman just loves woods like these.”

“Wait, who?”

Zeke grinned, a sight that made the hair on the back of Dan’s neck stand on end.  “Good to know that you’ll be safe from that lanky bastard.  He only goes after those who know him, you know.”

Dan sighed and rubbed his temples; he could feel a headache coming.  “Is it too much to ask for a single sane thought out of you?” he asked.

   Zeke opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again.  He appeared to be in deep thought.  Just as Dan was starting to get his hopes up, thinking that he’d made some sort of breakthrough with the kid, he grinned again.

“Pickleweasel.”

“Perfect.  Just perfect,” Dan groaned.

[Chinaren]

That... was a very enjoyable episode Nice!

And...

“Panic!  Panic!” he shrieked as he started to run blindly through the trees, his third mistake of the night.

 

[NicTei]

Hey, and not a Binks-ian comment in sight (so far)!

Anyways, I hope Zeke isn't too grating.  I don't want him to be incredibly annoying, but I also don't really want him to be everyone's favorite; I just want him to be memorable, for some reason.  When I was in the planning stages for this one, I decided that he'd be bat-shit crazy, but also useful, and decided that I wanted even the people that absolutely hated this book to remember him, good or bad.

Anyways, this chapter was severely delayed, so you can expect yet another chapter on Monday, hopefully on schedule this time.  Even if the schedule ends up shifting to Tuesday evening posts, I'm going to maintain that it's really a Monday evening post schedule, because if I shift the schedule to Tuesday, I'll end up forgetting, and soon it'll become a Wednesday post schedule, and so on.

In conclusion, I hope Zeke has made an impression, and get ready for another chapter on Monday (or some other day of the week).

[Chinaren]

Nope, this was a good chapter, and ZZbinks wasn't annoying at all here. 

[ViP Perry Tratchett]

Having caught up with the other stories I'm reading, I've put this on my list for the next one to start, as it seems to be updated regularly.  I'm quite a fan of the zombie genre too.

[NicTei]

   By the time the sun came up the next morning, Dan made it back to the campsite.  Zeke proved to be no help at all, simply saying ‘hot’ and ‘cold.’  His first thought was that the madman was directing him to camp as if they were playing a game, saying ‘hot’ as he got closer, but he was wrong; they kept going further and further into the woods.  When they came upon a bend in the river that cut off their path, Zeke had screamed “You’re on fire, Shitshat!” and pushed him into the dark waters once more.

   After he’d climbed out, he realized that he could use the direction the river was flowing to get back to camp.  Zeke had him walking the wrong way the entire time, and judging by his raucous laughter, he wasn’t sorry.  Grumbling, he’d turned around and followed the river closely, careful to keep Zeke in front of him so that his chances of being thrown back into the water were relatively slim.  A few hours later, the first of the tents were just barely visible through the trees as the sun came up and cast a grey morning light into the woods.  Hunter was standing against one of the trees, whittling the bark off of a small branch with a large combat knife.

“Do I even want to ask what you two were doing out in the woods all night long?” he teased, tossing the branch over his shoulder and putting the knife back into a sheath attached to his thigh.

“Taking a swim,” Dan replied irritably.

Zeke didn’t seem to hear either of them.  “Do we have waffles?  I’m hungry.”

“Do you remember the deal we made last night?  You find them, I’ll fix them,” Hunter answered.

“Oh, yeah.”

   Zeke seemed to think about this for a while, looking up at the sky and scratching his head.  For the first time, Dan noticed that he didn’t have Vicki with him; his only armament was the machete that was still strapped to his belt.  All night, he’d been afraid that any retaliation against the madman would result in a shotgun blast to the face, when in reality he probably could’ve tossed him into the river as he’d wanted to.  At length, Zeke looked back at Hunter with a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“Tell me where I can hunt wild waffles.  You’ve got to have a herd marked down on your map!” he exclaimed.

   Hunter’s pained expression gave Dan the impression that he was quickly developing a headache.  Clearly, he wasn’t a fan of dealing with Zeke this early in the morning.  Not that he could blame him, of course.

“Zeke, just go pack up your tent and get ready to move out, okay?  We’re going to try and get at least halfway to Arcadia today,” Hunter ordered.

Zeke grinned.  “They always have the good stuff in Arcadia!  How many pies did I buy last time I was there?”

“Ten.  And you only ate a slice of one.  The rest went bad and brought a grizzly into our camp.”

A dreamy look passed Zeke’s face.  “Almost forgot about Bertha!  That monster fed us for a month!  Do you think they sell bear meat in Arcadia?”

“Go pack up your tent, Zeke.”

   Still thinking about bear meat and waffles, Zeke left.  Dan and Hunter watched him go, the latter wincing as the madman kicked one of the tents roughly, waking up whoever was inside.  He ran away as the tent started to open, laughing his head off and waking the rest of the Drifters and refugees.  Hunter breathed another weary sigh before picking up his rifle, which had been leaning on the tree beside him.

“I pity the guys that have to share a tent with him,” Dan remarked.

“What?  Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.  He has his own three-person that he usually sets up as far away as possible from the camp without actually losing sight of my tent,” Hunter answered, flicking the safety of his gun into the ‘on’ position.

“That’s not exactly fair,” Dan grumbled.

“Hey, if you want to try and bunk with him and survive the night, be my guest.  Just warn me about a day in advance so I can get started on your grave,” Hunter replied, starting back towards his tent.

“I see your point,” Dan admitted reluctantly.  “Still, any chance I could have a tent of my own?”

Hunter laughed.  “Sorry Dan, that’s a privilege reserved for the leader of the group.”

“And Zeke, apparently.”

“I’m not sure I’d call that a privilege,” Hunter answered after a moment of thought.  “It’s more like a condition.”

“You’re not actually going to pair me up with him when he has a job to do, are you?” Dan asked.

A devilish grin spread across Hunter’s face.  “That depends on how hard you’re willing to work around the camp.  If I think that you have a little too much free time, I’ll send you and Zeke on a little recon.  Does that sound fair to you?”

Dan mustered an exaggerated salute.  “Aye aye, sir.”

Hunter rolled his eyes.  “Go help Punk take down his tent; he always seems to have trouble, and Jack never helps much.”

   Without waiting for Dan to respond, the leader left, heading in the direction of his own tent.  Since there was nothing better to do, Dan scanned the people just getting out of their tents and found Punk.  Pushing through the crowds now filling the aisle between the tents, he got to the Australian just as he was starting to pull up one of the stakes.  He worked on the opposite stake, pulling it out of the ground and moving on to the next.  By the time he finished, Punk had just managed to get the first one out.

“Want any help over there?” he asked.

“Fuck off,” Punk grumbled.

“Okay, not a morning person,” Dan murmured as he began to loosen the straps holding the tent’s crossed poles in place.

   With Punk struggling to pull up the remaining few stakes on his side, taking down the tent was slow going.  Eventually, the Australian gave up and started to work on the poles with Dan, who wondered how the Drifter could be such an outstanding marksman but couldn’t manage to pull a stake out of the ground.  It wasn’t as if he was incredibly weak; he hadn’t been affected too badly by the recoil of the rifle, which said something for his strength.  When he noticed that Punk was also having trouble with the poles, he rolled his eyes.

“You know what?  I’ll get the tent.  You finish packing up whatever’s left,” he said, pushing the Drifter gently away from the tent.

   Punk didn’t argue at all, and Dan wasn’t entirely sure that the whole thing wasn’t a ruse to get him to do all the work.  Regardless, he finished taking the poles apart and rolling up the tent, tying a cord around it and tossing it to the Australian.  He nodded and set it on top of the travel bag he’d just finished packing before straightening up and clapping his hands together, looking at Dan.

   Before he could open his mouth to say something, a loud cracking noise interrupted him.  A few seconds later, a large branch fell from one of the trees above, landing in the three feet between them.  It was followed by another broken limb that very nearly smacked Dan on top of the head.  Punk nudged the debris with his foot, jumping back and pulling out his knife when it moved.  Dan took an involuntary step backwards as well, though he had no weapon to protect himself with.

   With a loud curse, Zeke emerged from the debris, glaring at the tree he’d fallen out of.  Punk massaged his temples as if trying to ward off a headache.  Uttering a war cry, Zeke jumped to his feet and charged the tree.  Dan winced as the insane Drifter delivered a solid punch to the trunk, immediately howling in pain and clutching his wounded hand.

“Stupid piece of zombie-shit-brains!” he shrieked at the tree, tears springing to the corners of his eyes.  “I’ll kill your woody ass and cook it for breakfast!”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that wouldn’t taste very good,” Dan remarked.

“Pun not intended,” he added as an afterthought.

Zeke rounded on him, but suddenly brightened.  “Hey, Dan!  How are you this morning?  I hope you’ll forgive my behavior last night; it was rather childish of me to scare you like that,” he said, pain forgotten.  “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

   Dan looked to Punk, who was staring at Zeke as if he were insane.  Well, more insane than usual.  Of course, that was just the problem:  he was acting normal.  Fighting the instinct to turn and run from this strange turn of events, he returned his attention to Zeke, wondering if the fall had somehow knocked some sense back into him.

“Um…that’s alright, I guess.  No one got hurt, so no harm, no foul.”

Zeke beamed.  “Glad to hear it, Dan.  Give my regards to Alma when you see her, will you?”

“Y-yeah.  Sure,” Dan answered.

“Thanks.  You’re a good man, you know that?” Zeke responded, extending his hand.

   Not knowing what else to do, Dan accepted the handshake.  The moment he grabbed on, Zeke’s face broke into a serrated grin and he threw Dan like a ragdoll in some sort of martial arts style technique that left him flat on his back in the dirt, completely winded.  Zeke stood over him, grinning in his face with a sadistic glee shining brightly in his eyes.

“I can’t believe you thought I was sane!  That’ll teach you!”

Then, a thought appeared to cross his mind.  He looked at his hand, which he’d used both to punch the tree and then flip Dan.  Another second passed before the tears sprang back into his eyes.

“Son of a bitch!” he screamed, nursing his hand tightly and hopping up and down, as if that would help.  “You’re just a tree-whore!  You put out for other trees!” he raged at the tree again.

   Pulling Vicki out of a back holster that mainly consisted of a belt wrapped around his chest with a clip that fastened onto a piece near the trigger, he leveled it at the tree, cocked it, and started to shoot.  He fired again, and again.  Since he didn’t show any sign of stopping, Dan carefully edged away, Punk wisely following suit.  They left Zeke behind, firing on the tree as he shouted a series of degrading insults at it that Dan was sure would make it wither if it actually had ears.

   All around the campsite, refugees were just finishing up dismantling their tents and stood idly in the small clearing, looking around for any sort of instruction.  Shortly after the last tent had been packed away, the same petite blonde woman that had passed them out appeared, calling for everyone’s attention.  Punk started to laugh as she stood in the middle of the crowd, waving her arms and calling to them.

“Poor Pixie; I can never understand why Hunter puts her in charge of the refugees,” he chuckled.

“Her name is ‘Pixie’?” Dan asked dubiously.

“Sure as my name’s Punk.”

“And Charity’s name is Charity?”

Punk smiled.  “You’ve got it.”

“Why all the aliases?”

Punk glanced at him.  “For some people, becoming a Drifter is a way to get away from their life as a Nester, or who they were before the plague hit.  It’s also a way to run from crimes they may have committed.  After all, the police or other authorities that work in the settlements can’t, or won’t, chase you out into the zombie-infested wilderness.”

“So what are you running from?” Dan inquired cautiously.

“Hey now, I said for some people it’s a way to run.  I’m just one of those guys that always wanted a cool alias to go with his super-sexy looks and sweet lifestyle,” the Drifter responded with a grin.

“Oh.  Sorry; I didn’t mean to imply anything,” Dan apologized.

Punk waved a hand dismissively.  “Don’t worry about it.  Besides, what makes you believe I’d tell you that I was running from something?”

“Oh, come on!  I thought we were friends!  I’m practically one of you now!” Dan laughed.

   Before Punk could answer, Zeke suddenly stepped out from behind the tree in front of them, a leather backpack on his back.  Dan stopped dead in his tracks; the dark glare that Zeke was giving him right now was enough to make him question the integrity of his bladder.  Imperiously, the madman brushed a stray strand of hair out of his face before resting his hand on the handle of the machete on his back.

“Don’t kid yourself.  Someone like you, a Drifter?  You lack longevity.  You’ll be dead before we reach Arcadia.  Either the zombies will get you or I will; it’s only a matter of time,” he sneered.

   Dan glanced at Punk.  A shiver ran down his spine when he saw that Punk already had his knife out, staring Zeke down with deadly determination.  Out of the blue, the insane grin that had haunted Dan’s every waking moment since the Drifters rescued him split the madman’s face wide open.

“Come on, dirtbags!  Time’s a-wastin’, and I want me some pies!” he exclaimed before running off towards Hunter.

Dan stared after him.  “I preferred him when he was just ‘slap you in the face’ scary.  ‘Kill you in your sleep’ scary is a little too much.”

Punk laughed, though it sounded a little forced.  “He wouldn’t actually kill you in your sleep!”

After a moment of thought, he reached back into his coat and produced a pistol.  “Just in case,” he explained.

Dan looked at the gun as Punk left to find Hunter.

“Well, that’s just peachy.”

[Chinaren]

I know this isn't an I tale Nice, but if I were Dan I'd be planning an end to Zeke.  A gun in the pocket, a 'casual' encounter and blam! Job done.

Good writing as usual old fellow.

[Burningplain]

Nice chapter Nictei.
I like the flip persona surrounding out resident crazy. It's really interesting.

[NicTei]

I know this isn't an I tale Nice, but if I were Dan I'd be planning an end to Zeke.  A gun in the pocket, a 'casual' encounter and blam! Job done.

Yeah, but Dan isn't one for killing people that are still alive, and the other Drifters have been around him too long to want to kill him; they actually kind of like him.  Alma, though...

I like the flip persona surrounding out resident crazy. It's really interesting.

Keep that split in mind.  That'll come into play later.

Anyways, since I'm in such a good mood and totally forgot the schedule of Extras, I might post another one this Wednesday.  Not sure what it'll be yet; the interviews are great, but they could also be getting a little old.  Any ideas are welcome.



EDIT:  This topic is now a sticky. =3

[Chinaren]

EDIT:  This topic is now a sticky.

Eeuuuw.  It wasn't me.  I had a tissue.