06-25-2016, 01:17 AM
Zombies. Why did it have to be zombies?
Somehow, throughout the ex-trooper's entire existence in the Omniverse, Abner always managed to wake the dead. Searching for Omni? Better fight these zombies first. End up in Tier Seven? Bash some more zombies. Get lost in the Pale Moors? Well, he’d actually fought dragons that time, but that had been just the beginning of a really strange month all around.
Somehow, seeing these zombies triggered some instincts from his earlier days, and Abner charged at the horde like a deranged linebacker. He just as quickly dropped down and slid behind a stray piece of mutilated metal from the wreckage. He didn’t exactly need immediate cover from a crowd of stumbling corpses, because this obviously wasn’t a firefight, but there was no sense in questioning a good habit. Abner’s blaster rifle still hung across his chest on a sling, so he was able to quickly grab the weapon and maneuver it up into his shoulder pocket. With the weapon steadied, he aimed down the sights at the first of many zombies.
There was no time to count ammo, but between the spare magazines and shells he had stuffed into his bulletproof vest, he knew he could get through a few skirmishes. The problem was, now he knew that he wouldn’t be able to summon more to his side when his current, reasonable stock dwindled away. Fortunately, this was less of a problem with his E-11 Blaster Rifle and its automatic recharge energy packs. This removed any worries he had about conservation, for the time being, so he went to picking off as many of the reanimated corpses as he could, pacing the shots so he wouldn’t overheat the rifle.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the trenches they were crawling out of. The sand had been parted and the zombies were gathered closely together as they rose from their graves. With a spark of inspiration he had an idea that might work, but he sure as hell didn’t like it. Not that he was experiencing any sort of moral dilemma, but he simply would have to expend a precious resource. Son of a bitch.
Abner moved from his unnecessary cover, and ran forward in another full sprint. The one-time stormtrooper leaped forwards, slamming his right leg into the nearest snarling zombie with a fierce jump kick. The undead creature flailed as it was knocked backwards and collided with several others, sending them all back into the pit. Abner, for his part, landed with only slightly more grace than his target. Immediately reminded that his joints weren’t as good as they once were, the man stumbled forward to prevent himself from faceplanting, not aided in the least by all this damn heavy equipment he'd insisted on bringing along. His volley of curse words ran concurrent with the moans of the undead nearby, and in his mind they were all communicating similar thoughts, just in their own way.
Abner finally regained his balance and stopped himself, and then snatched his shotgun from his back. He racked the slide to pump a shell into the barrel, and immediately fired it at a nearby zombie that hadn’t ended up back in the hole. Abner grimaced as he drew one of the freshly looted flasks from his pockets. He hated this so much. Being a Prime was supposed to mean he didn’t have to do this MacGyver shit anymore. He held the flask up high, downing just a little bit of whiskey and appreciating its burn on his throat.
“Motherfucker,” Abner grumbled to himself as he took one last look around.
Abner grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt, under his vest, and gave a firm tug. The fabric tore with a loud rip as he peeled just a thin strip off the lower portion. It took all of his willpower to shove the piece of cloth into the open container of alcohol, and then take a match and light the end on fire. Abner shook his head in some cross of disbelief and annoyance, and then threw his Molotov cocktail down at the pile of zombies. It collided with one’s head, but did not immediately break or ignite.
“Oh, goddammit,” Abner continued his streak of communicating in exclusively foul language. Just the same, he pumped another shell into his shotgun’s chamber and fired down at the flask and the zombies it sat on.
The resulting burst of fire surprised the hell out of him, and he stumbled away from the scene of immolation thankful to still have eyebrows. The fire drew some attention, so Abner slung the shotgun back over his shoulder and drew the blaster rifle again, and proceeded to shoot his way back to the group. Hopefully that had helped thin the herd a bit. To be honest, the way things were going he wouldn’t be too torn up if he’d just set the whole damn island on fire, either.
Somehow, throughout the ex-trooper's entire existence in the Omniverse, Abner always managed to wake the dead. Searching for Omni? Better fight these zombies first. End up in Tier Seven? Bash some more zombies. Get lost in the Pale Moors? Well, he’d actually fought dragons that time, but that had been just the beginning of a really strange month all around.
Somehow, seeing these zombies triggered some instincts from his earlier days, and Abner charged at the horde like a deranged linebacker. He just as quickly dropped down and slid behind a stray piece of mutilated metal from the wreckage. He didn’t exactly need immediate cover from a crowd of stumbling corpses, because this obviously wasn’t a firefight, but there was no sense in questioning a good habit. Abner’s blaster rifle still hung across his chest on a sling, so he was able to quickly grab the weapon and maneuver it up into his shoulder pocket. With the weapon steadied, he aimed down the sights at the first of many zombies.
There was no time to count ammo, but between the spare magazines and shells he had stuffed into his bulletproof vest, he knew he could get through a few skirmishes. The problem was, now he knew that he wouldn’t be able to summon more to his side when his current, reasonable stock dwindled away. Fortunately, this was less of a problem with his E-11 Blaster Rifle and its automatic recharge energy packs. This removed any worries he had about conservation, for the time being, so he went to picking off as many of the reanimated corpses as he could, pacing the shots so he wouldn’t overheat the rifle.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the trenches they were crawling out of. The sand had been parted and the zombies were gathered closely together as they rose from their graves. With a spark of inspiration he had an idea that might work, but he sure as hell didn’t like it. Not that he was experiencing any sort of moral dilemma, but he simply would have to expend a precious resource. Son of a bitch.
Abner moved from his unnecessary cover, and ran forward in another full sprint. The one-time stormtrooper leaped forwards, slamming his right leg into the nearest snarling zombie with a fierce jump kick. The undead creature flailed as it was knocked backwards and collided with several others, sending them all back into the pit. Abner, for his part, landed with only slightly more grace than his target. Immediately reminded that his joints weren’t as good as they once were, the man stumbled forward to prevent himself from faceplanting, not aided in the least by all this damn heavy equipment he'd insisted on bringing along. His volley of curse words ran concurrent with the moans of the undead nearby, and in his mind they were all communicating similar thoughts, just in their own way.
Abner finally regained his balance and stopped himself, and then snatched his shotgun from his back. He racked the slide to pump a shell into the barrel, and immediately fired it at a nearby zombie that hadn’t ended up back in the hole. Abner grimaced as he drew one of the freshly looted flasks from his pockets. He hated this so much. Being a Prime was supposed to mean he didn’t have to do this MacGyver shit anymore. He held the flask up high, downing just a little bit of whiskey and appreciating its burn on his throat.
“Motherfucker,” Abner grumbled to himself as he took one last look around.
Abner grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt, under his vest, and gave a firm tug. The fabric tore with a loud rip as he peeled just a thin strip off the lower portion. It took all of his willpower to shove the piece of cloth into the open container of alcohol, and then take a match and light the end on fire. Abner shook his head in some cross of disbelief and annoyance, and then threw his Molotov cocktail down at the pile of zombies. It collided with one’s head, but did not immediately break or ignite.
“Oh, goddammit,” Abner continued his streak of communicating in exclusively foul language. Just the same, he pumped another shell into his shotgun’s chamber and fired down at the flask and the zombies it sat on.
The resulting burst of fire surprised the hell out of him, and he stumbled away from the scene of immolation thankful to still have eyebrows. The fire drew some attention, so Abner slung the shotgun back over his shoulder and drew the blaster rifle again, and proceeded to shoot his way back to the group. Hopefully that had helped thin the herd a bit. To be honest, the way things were going he wouldn’t be too torn up if he’d just set the whole damn island on fire, either.