and Peterson watched while he scrambled for his gun. Surely, he knew he couldn’t use it, Peterson prayed. He couldn’t fire with gas everywhere. Tag did realize it. He gave up going for his gun, and was now reaching for his knife.
But before he could pull it out, the fat zombie grabbed him from behind, and was bringing her mouth down right for his shoulder. There was no way for Tag to respond to this one in time. He was about to lose a chunk of flesh.
Suddenly, there was a gunshot. Peterson was shocked to see Dr. Washington, leaning out the chopper, holding a handgun, aimed right at the zombie’s face. In one clean shot, he his the fat zombie’s square in the far head. Miraculously, he didn’t hit the bird, or any of the gasoline spraying all over the place.
Washington had just saved Tag’s life, and that was for damn sure.
But still, it was the dumbest thing he could’ve done. Firing a pistol so close to the chopper, and with gas everywhere. He’d nearly jeopardized the mission.
Tag finally extracted his knife, and, with an arcing blow, put the blade right through its temple. He left his knife embedded in its head, too startled to pull it out, and the zombie collapsed to the ground.
Peterson finally caught up with them all, Sharon just a few yards behind him. The first thing he did was to try to shut off the gas pump. He hit all the switches, but it wasn’t doing any good. These old gas pumps were unfamiliar to him, and gas kept leaking everywhere. The fumes were becoming overwhelming.
“BACK IN THE BIRD!” Peterson yelled.
Tag quickly, gladly, got back into the chopper.
“You, too!,” he yelled to Sharon.
“I’m going with you,” she yelled, stubbornly running behind him, as he fanned out towards the others.
Slowly, the others saw him running towards them. Veteran soldiers, they all turned on a dime, and ran back to him.
As they did, Peterson could suddenly see countless zombies starting to exit from the out houses, from all directions, to completely enclose them. In just a few more minutes their position will be over run, for sure.
Peterson scanned the grounds, counting the team, as everyone else filtered back into the chopper.
“Where the fuck is Spooky!?” he screamed.
Everyone looked at each other, but nobody seemed to know.
Suddenly, on the horizon, Spooky exited the hangar, pulling down his shirt, and running with a limp. Why the fuck was he limping?
Peterson could give a shit. He was more pissed than he’d ever been.
“Where the fuck are you doing?” he yelled, as Spooky came close.
Spooky looked down, ashamed. He should be.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “I had to piss.”
Peterson looked him over carefully. Was he lying? He’d never trusted this Intel bastard. He was just like all the other Intel—filled with lies.
“Why are you limping?” he asked.
“Sprained my ankle, sir. Tripped . It was dark in there.”
“You weren’t only stupid,” Peterson snapped, “you also defied an order. I should kill you right now,” he said, staring him down, fuming.
Spook looked down with just enough humility to make Peterson change his mind.
“I’m really sorry sir,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
Peterson looked him down, hard. He felt he was hiding something, but he didn’t know what. Finally, grudgingly, he nodded for him to enter back into the chopper. He had a about two hundred zombies heading his way, after all. He’d have to deal with this dumb fuck later.
Peterson was the last one in the chopper, and as he got a head count, he saw they were all there. He nodded to Tag, who immediately lifted up.
Just in time. The zombies were not more than twenty feet from the chopper. Just a few more seconds, and they would have been toast.
As Peterson looked down, he saw all that gas, still pouring out of the pumps, still spraying everywhere.
What a waste , he thought.
And then, he remembered.
Peterson reached over, grabbed Washington, and stripped him of his
But before he could pull it out, the fat zombie grabbed him from behind, and was bringing her mouth down right for his shoulder. There was no way for Tag to respond to this one in time. He was about to lose a chunk of flesh.
Suddenly, there was a gunshot. Peterson was shocked to see Dr. Washington, leaning out the chopper, holding a handgun, aimed right at the zombie’s face. In one clean shot, he his the fat zombie’s square in the far head. Miraculously, he didn’t hit the bird, or any of the gasoline spraying all over the place.
Washington had just saved Tag’s life, and that was for damn sure.
But still, it was the dumbest thing he could’ve done. Firing a pistol so close to the chopper, and with gas everywhere. He’d nearly jeopardized the mission.
Tag finally extracted his knife, and, with an arcing blow, put the blade right through its temple. He left his knife embedded in its head, too startled to pull it out, and the zombie collapsed to the ground.
Peterson finally caught up with them all, Sharon just a few yards behind him. The first thing he did was to try to shut off the gas pump. He hit all the switches, but it wasn’t doing any good. These old gas pumps were unfamiliar to him, and gas kept leaking everywhere. The fumes were becoming overwhelming.
“BACK IN THE BIRD!” Peterson yelled.
Tag quickly, gladly, got back into the chopper.
“You, too!,” he yelled to Sharon.
“I’m going with you,” she yelled, stubbornly running behind him, as he fanned out towards the others.
Slowly, the others saw him running towards them. Veteran soldiers, they all turned on a dime, and ran back to him.
As they did, Peterson could suddenly see countless zombies starting to exit from the out houses, from all directions, to completely enclose them. In just a few more minutes their position will be over run, for sure.
Peterson scanned the grounds, counting the team, as everyone else filtered back into the chopper.
“Where the fuck is Spooky!?” he screamed.
Everyone looked at each other, but nobody seemed to know.
Suddenly, on the horizon, Spooky exited the hangar, pulling down his shirt, and running with a limp. Why the fuck was he limping?
Peterson could give a shit. He was more pissed than he’d ever been.
“Where the fuck are you doing?” he yelled, as Spooky came close.
Spooky looked down, ashamed. He should be.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “I had to piss.”
Peterson looked him over carefully. Was he lying? He’d never trusted this Intel bastard. He was just like all the other Intel—filled with lies.
“Why are you limping?” he asked.
“Sprained my ankle, sir. Tripped . It was dark in there.”
“You weren’t only stupid,” Peterson snapped, “you also defied an order. I should kill you right now,” he said, staring him down, fuming.
Spook looked down with just enough humility to make Peterson change his mind.
“I’m really sorry sir,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
Peterson looked him down, hard. He felt he was hiding something, but he didn’t know what. Finally, grudgingly, he nodded for him to enter back into the chopper. He had a about two hundred zombies heading his way, after all. He’d have to deal with this dumb fuck later.
Peterson was the last one in the chopper, and as he got a head count, he saw they were all there. He nodded to Tag, who immediately lifted up.
Just in time. The zombies were not more than twenty feet from the chopper. Just a few more seconds, and they would have been toast.
As Peterson looked down, he saw all that gas, still pouring out of the pumps, still spraying everywhere.
What a waste , he thought.
And then, he remembered.
Peterson reached over, grabbed Washington, and stripped him of his
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