06-24-2016, 02:16 PM
The mercenary turned around and shot his sights over to growing number of zombies rising up from their brief graves. They groaned while pulling their bodies from the sand. It was a haunting sound—pain mixed with an uneasy hunger that could never be satisfied—, and it grew louder as more walkers emerged from the plane wreckage.
“Holy shit!” a man next to Deadpool yelled. “We're surrounded!”
He was a Syntech employee, but not a soldier. His attire consisted of a basic navy-blue button shirt and slacks, black boots, and a flap-top cap with the Syntech name stitched into the front. A label above a chest pocket revealed his first initial and last name: J. Saunders.
”Don't lose your mustache there, Saunders.” Deadpool said. He cupped the man's shoulder in his hand, and gestured towards the zombie he had snapped the neck of. ”We can cut open this guy, then wipe his insides all over our bodies.”
One of Saunders' quivering brows furrowed, his adrenaline interrupted by disgust and confusion. He went to speak, but no words came. His mind was stuck as the realization hit him: he survived a plane crash just to die in a gruesome way. James was just an ordinary guy. He made mediocre money working for a major corporation, led by a narcissistic asshole (he once asked for a raise, only for Karl to answer with sexually harassing him—“Last guy I saw rocking a mustache so confidently was John Holmes; he had a big cock . . . do you?”).
”Just listen to me!” Deadpool pulled his hand from Saunders' shoulder and swiftly backhanded him back into reality.
James shook his head a few times. His life sucked, but he still valued it, and would do anything to stay alive. He regained his composure.
“What we gotta do?”
Deadpool's plan was solid. He once saw an episode of The Walking Dead, where the group of rubbed zombie guts all over themselves, and it allowed them to escape; if it's on TV it must be true. The only issue was that the process would take time. Saunders and Deadpool—along with the other cast of characters—did not have the fortune of shelter to buy them time. Instead, they were on a rain-pelted island with a crash behind them, a forest to the east, an ocean to the west, and walkers blossoming from the sand ahead.
”I need you to buy time,” the Deadpool said.
“How?” Saunders asked. “All I got is a pistol. The clip's got 9 bullets, eleven at the most.”
The mercenary cupped his hand back over Saunders' shoulder, smiling. ”Like this.”
Deadpool shoved the Syntech employee forward. The man tried to keep himself upright, flailing his arms around in an attempt to maintain balance, but stumbled into a splash of sand.
”Thanks, buddy! I will remember you fondly!” Deadpool said, waving a last goodbye.
He turned his attention back to the undead man he had put down earlier. Time to gut. The mercenary unsheathed on of his katanas and grasped it with both hands, slamming the tip of it into the man's head. The only way to kill a zombie was kill its brain; through decades of zombie allure that was the one constant. Deadpool retracted his blade, quickly slashing it across the undead's stomach.
He glanced at Saunders. ”How ya holding up?” he asked.
Saunders replied with a gurgling sound, accompanied by muddled weeping. The undead scrapped over him as if he were a football at the bottom of a pileup. Teeth dug into every part of his arms and legs, ripping chunks of meat from his bones. The walkers that focused on his core had already opened his abdomen and began feasting on his insides. Saunders still drew breath as they stretched his intestines like a rubber-band.
”I guess I should hurry up then.”
The mercenary hunkered over his walker, shooting his hand into its guts. They were as cold as leftover spaghetti. He stirred around some before coming out with a handful of insides, which he began to smear on his clothes.
”Just a little bit longer, Saunders!”
Most of the walkers finished their fill of Syntech employee Saunders, but were not satisfied. They shot their lifeless glares towards Deadpool; some snarled, others merely groaned, but none of them seemed repelled by the new decorations on his outfit. As they uncrowded from around Saunders, all that remained of the him was a fresh carcass.
The mercenary kept faith; perhaps mimicking their mannerisms would help. He slouched his posture, and let his arms hang.
”Uggggghhhh—Urgggggghhhh—Arggghhhhh”
“Holy shit!” a man next to Deadpool yelled. “We're surrounded!”
He was a Syntech employee, but not a soldier. His attire consisted of a basic navy-blue button shirt and slacks, black boots, and a flap-top cap with the Syntech name stitched into the front. A label above a chest pocket revealed his first initial and last name: J. Saunders.
”Don't lose your mustache there, Saunders.” Deadpool said. He cupped the man's shoulder in his hand, and gestured towards the zombie he had snapped the neck of. ”We can cut open this guy, then wipe his insides all over our bodies.”
One of Saunders' quivering brows furrowed, his adrenaline interrupted by disgust and confusion. He went to speak, but no words came. His mind was stuck as the realization hit him: he survived a plane crash just to die in a gruesome way. James was just an ordinary guy. He made mediocre money working for a major corporation, led by a narcissistic asshole (he once asked for a raise, only for Karl to answer with sexually harassing him—“Last guy I saw rocking a mustache so confidently was John Holmes; he had a big cock . . . do you?”).
”Just listen to me!” Deadpool pulled his hand from Saunders' shoulder and swiftly backhanded him back into reality.
James shook his head a few times. His life sucked, but he still valued it, and would do anything to stay alive. He regained his composure.
“What we gotta do?”
Deadpool's plan was solid. He once saw an episode of The Walking Dead, where the group of rubbed zombie guts all over themselves, and it allowed them to escape; if it's on TV it must be true. The only issue was that the process would take time. Saunders and Deadpool—along with the other cast of characters—did not have the fortune of shelter to buy them time. Instead, they were on a rain-pelted island with a crash behind them, a forest to the east, an ocean to the west, and walkers blossoming from the sand ahead.
”I need you to buy time,” the Deadpool said.
“How?” Saunders asked. “All I got is a pistol. The clip's got 9 bullets, eleven at the most.”
The mercenary cupped his hand back over Saunders' shoulder, smiling. ”Like this.”
Deadpool shoved the Syntech employee forward. The man tried to keep himself upright, flailing his arms around in an attempt to maintain balance, but stumbled into a splash of sand.
”Thanks, buddy! I will remember you fondly!” Deadpool said, waving a last goodbye.
He turned his attention back to the undead man he had put down earlier. Time to gut. The mercenary unsheathed on of his katanas and grasped it with both hands, slamming the tip of it into the man's head. The only way to kill a zombie was kill its brain; through decades of zombie allure that was the one constant. Deadpool retracted his blade, quickly slashing it across the undead's stomach.
He glanced at Saunders. ”How ya holding up?” he asked.
Saunders replied with a gurgling sound, accompanied by muddled weeping. The undead scrapped over him as if he were a football at the bottom of a pileup. Teeth dug into every part of his arms and legs, ripping chunks of meat from his bones. The walkers that focused on his core had already opened his abdomen and began feasting on his insides. Saunders still drew breath as they stretched his intestines like a rubber-band.
”I guess I should hurry up then.”
The mercenary hunkered over his walker, shooting his hand into its guts. They were as cold as leftover spaghetti. He stirred around some before coming out with a handful of insides, which he began to smear on his clothes.
”Just a little bit longer, Saunders!”
Most of the walkers finished their fill of Syntech employee Saunders, but were not satisfied. They shot their lifeless glares towards Deadpool; some snarled, others merely groaned, but none of them seemed repelled by the new decorations on his outfit. As they uncrowded from around Saunders, all that remained of the him was a fresh carcass.
The mercenary kept faith; perhaps mimicking their mannerisms would help. He slouched his posture, and let his arms hang.
”Uggggghhhh—Urgggggghhhh—Arggghhhhh”
Quote:807 words, according to site (not including what's in this quote).
807/2400
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Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
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2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
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