damned_institute | Nightshift 66: Pantry 1

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Nightshift 66: Pantry 1

[teleporting from here]

S.T. didn't notice the nausea teleportation usually created. Because there was a sword sticking into him. Attached to a guy that he really didn't want to see. "Shit. Who invited you?" he said, gasping, and reaching his hand back to see how bad it was. It came back drenched in red. He sniffed. Licked. Red cranberry juice concentrate. The blade had gone through his shirt and into the container.

There was at least a bit of blood in there, because the ring had a stone again, underneath the goo. Also the part where there was a line across his ribs that felt like he'd been stabbed. Because he'd been stabbed by a psycho who had just given up his possibly-a-brainwashed-buddy immunity to intentional mayhem. He shoved the ring into his pocket, grabbed the pipe before Zombie Boy figured out he had something in his eye. This time it squelched out like hipwaders from knee-deep mud.

S.T. swung the pipe, which slammed into the rails of the shelf instead of turning Zombie Boy's head into a pop fly ball. Oops. "Little help here, Harvey."

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[Skipping S.T. per Sarah's request!]

Between the sudden change in location, his gunshot, and Sangamon having buried his pipe in the thing's head, they were actually doing a decent job against this monster. It was hard to see just how well when it was so dark, but Harvey clicked on his flashlight just in time to watch the zombie collapse back into yet another shelf of food.

At this rate, the pantry was going to be completely trashed, but that was the least of Harvey's concerns. Did he waste another bullet? He wanted to converse his ammo -- he always did -- and he didn't know if this thing could even die.

He kept his gun trained on it nonetheless, drawing closer to Sangamon. "Should we make a run for it? I don't think this thing is going down easy." But it moved slowly, so outrunning it likely wouldn't be a problem.

"Naah. It isn't, but the shelves might be." S.T. grabbed one of the shelving units and yanked. Sheet metal screeched on tile until it hit a pool of the cranberry-pickle-gore cocktail that was slowly spreading across the floor, and then it slid out easily. Pushing it over made the boxes of cereal on the top do exactly that thing that classroom TVs said not to. They toppled over, while the shelves were still teetering. Then it all followed.

"Let's try not to kill him. Might be a patient." The fact that apologizing for accidental murder was a bitch went without saying. Though he wasn't sure Two-Face gave a shit about any of them.

As many items as there were falling and rolling about, little notice was given when one more - a shriveled up mummy arm - fell to join the mess on the floor, not even from the owner. The mummy held little care for what happened to his body, or whatever was left of it after being clocked and shot.

What mattered was that he still held his sword and could still use it to get to what he wanted. Before attempting to rise, there was a pause as the zombie withdrew his blade, instinctively meeting the tip to the top of its sheath and sheathing it. The darkness did not stop his long since learned practice, and when his blade next drew, the mess on the floor was no more of a hindrance than the dark.

Whether by anger or the smell of blood, the mummy let his blade take him towards the direction the shot had come from. Fruit and cans rolled from the path as though being stepped over instead of through as the mummy quickly closed the distance between himself and one of the humans.

Knocking the shelves over at least put something of an obstacle between them and Mr. Undead over there, but Harvey couldn't say that he thought it was good enough insurance to rely on. And since Sangamon wasn't interested in trying to kill this thing (and honestly, Harvey wasn't either, since it seemed like it would be more trouble than it was worth), the obvious thing to do now was try and run.

Of course, the thing darted right for him again, and while Harvey had no idea why it kept targeting him, he could make a joke at his own expense about how the zombie might see something familiar in him.

Harvey tried to backpedal right for the door so that he could avoid the thing trying to slice at him again, but between the hurried movement and the fact that the floor was covered in various food items now, he lost his balance and fell to the ground, right on his behind.

"Shit!" he called out, from the pain of hitting his tailbone and his frustration with himself. Harvey tried to scrabble back up to his feet as quick as he could.

The guy-or-monster turned away, and S.T. grabbed for the pipe. He grabbed something else, shorter but long enough, and dropped it over the zombie's head as a makeshift garrotte. Bones shifted inside cloth. It was an arm. It didn't seem to be attached to another zombie, and S.T. couldn't see Target One well enough to see if he'd decided to split the difference and give them a hand. Whatever. It was sturdy enough to try to strangle him with.

Did zombies need oxygen? Shit. He'd grabbed a zombie for nothing. They were one pratfall shy of a Three Stooges short. Harvey went over. Scratch that. Comedy running away, the kind where the mice make it back into the mousehole and look like assholes but live assholes.

Except he was still left holding the zombie. Fuck.

Without his arm, and with the very same thing now encircling his neck, the mummy was unable to do anything to free itself from the suffocation attempt. If zombies had needed to breathe, this would have been more of a problem; however the only problem it presented was that it was getting in the way.

After finally hitting properly with a strike to the human's shoulder (a kind of payback) that pinned him down, the creature's mouth had opened to bite. Only teeth rose and fell, however bit something other than what would have been the face of Harvey Dent.

No blood. No flesh. Not even human anymore.

Not what he wanted.

The zombie groaned through the mouthful of himself, however did not give up either his bite or his intention towards the human before him. He did not let up his forward push, attempting to inch the restraining arm closer to the prey that he kept trapped beneath his blade.

It was hard to tell exactly what was going on when Harvey was in pain, on the floor, in a dark pantry with a zombie and a guy named Sangamon, but he managed to work out that the zombie had ended up gnawing on its own arm. That just couldn't be healthy.

The thing figured out its mistake soon enough, though, and then started to move toward him again. "Give me a break!" Harvey snarled as he finally got to his feet, leaning on the nearby shelf as his mind scrambled to figure out what to do next. One of his hands tried to find the door's handle behind him while he shuffled for his metal pipe with the other.

He flung his arm out with it, aiming to hit the thing in the chest. If he could just push it back for a second, he could get the door open.

The zombie wasn't slowing down, just squirming. It landed a solid non-teeth blow on S.T.'s shoulder, and he lost his grip with that hand. Too many hours on small craft meant that he didn't lose the arm completely, but now he was just holding one end while it gnawed on the other, and fuck if he was doing a zombie-themed Lady and the Tramp moment.

He threw the arm away as Harvey attacked. If they could skewer it, they could shove it it up on the shelves and get the hell out of Dodge. Rack-mounted zombie. Wouldn't kill it, so if it was a patient, they wouldn't have killed him. Or her. There wasn't enough uncovered to tell, and S.T. really didn't need to know. Self-defense didn't make killing people not feel like shit, so he was all for avoiding it, whether or not Harvey cared.

A swing of his still attached arm lost him his hold on the prey - his sword flailing off wildly - however the move helped to partially free the hold that had been locking him from advancing. His head swung off with the displaced arm, his bite pulling him along until he finally had the instinct to open his mouth.

That wasn't the direction he needed. There was nothing to bite.

Dust billowed from the lip-less mouth as the zombie righted his head and again tried to bite ahead. This time he met another hindrance as something lodged into his chest. He felt nothing but the force of the pipe going into him and how it slowed him once more, but he didn't stop. As much as he was unable to go through himself, he was less restricted when it came to other things going through him.

The pipe crashed through skin, shattering britle ribs and continuing through with the zombie biting furiously forward. He was close, and he was going to get what he wanted, whether through a bite or a cut didn't matter. The once flailing sword arm returned to the struggle, the blade striking out for the human in a mirroring move to the pipe's own.

Harvey watched in what he had to admit was horror as the thing's head almost came right off. It was gnashing its teeth and forcing itself forward, as if it could bite its way to a good meal.

Before Harvey could consider whether or not it was the right idea, his pipe connected with the zombie's chest, burying deep in decayed skin and breaking bones. It felt good to get a shot in, but the truth of the matter was that he'd been forced to get way too close just to get that hit in.

He let go of the pipe and made an effort to back up as fast as he could, but he'd been cornered against the wall and there was literally nowhere to go.

The sword struck forward--

And pain erupted in his middle, immediately followed by the warm, sticky feeling of spilled blood. Harvey gasped out, a choked and strangled sound, and fought the instinct to wildly pull away from the blade that was now stuck in his belly.

He struggled against the pain and the quickly growing panic, trying to be rational in a situation that was so far from it. He needed to get the sword knocked out of the thing's hands. He had to make sure it wasn't removed, or he'd ended up bleeding out and that'd be that. Maybe... maybe there was still a chance.

But Harvey's pessimism stood stronger than that. Maybe this was the moment he'd been hurtling toward since he'd received his injury. And would death really be that bad, after everything?

Harvey lunged, good solid hit. Except the pipe went through the zombie like a bike wheel through roadkill. Smelled worse than shit but wasn't slowing it down.

There was blood all over Harvey. Fuck. "You're making it worse. Hang on," Sangamon said. He grabbed for the zombie's shoulders. Throw him on a shelf, get some pressure on the wound, hope it didn't revive and cut his head off while he was distracted. Emergency trauma looked so much simpler on T.V., and here the nearest ER was filled with dog-sized rats, brainwashed patients, zombie doctors. So either it wasn't as bad as it looked, or morning needed to get cracking.

With the strike, the strong smell of blood it brought had the zombie caring little for anything more now than to get a taste. His hand released the sword and grabbed forward as he thrust his face the same way, biting wildly. The human had hit the wall and with nowhere to run, the zombie had him. His hand grasped the human's shoulder as teeth finally met flesh at the point of Harvey's neck - what would be his bite.

After tasting the blood and meat, the other human interfered, grabbing him from behind and throwing him away. A bite of flesh went with the zombie as he crashed into the shelves and collapsed onto a heap of flour sacks.

[ooc: Feel free to escape if you want, he got his bite]

As much as Sangamon might have tried to fend the thing off, it wasn't good enough. On top of the searing pain that was running through his middle, Harvey felt as teeth that were too human for comfort bit into his neck, causing him to let out another garbled noise of pain.

"Shit! Fuck. Aghh--!" Harvey jerked away wildly as Sangamon finally pushed the monster backward. He slumped to the ground, the sword still buried in his stomach, and tried to force himself to think. What did he do next? How did he survive this? Did he even have a sliver of a chance?

Maybe this was how it was supposed to end. Maybe this was a way of teaching him that all his need for revenge wouldn't lead anywhere good. He didn't know, but right now things weren't looking so great for him. He clutched at the wall behind him and tried to push himself up, but his knees had given out on him.

"Get me... out of here," he gasped.

"Bracelet, where the fuck is your bracelet, man?" S.T. had his out, but Harvey wasn't in any shape to be accessorizing. This was that old joke about the bears in the Whites and running faster than your buddy, except with a super-villain and a zombie. And one Sangamon Taylor, notorious terrorist and simultaneous humanitarian, who was too busy trying to see if there was any other way to move Harvey without dislodging the sword.

He shoved a few cereal boxes aside and squatted down next to Harvey. The neck wound wasn't going to bleed out instantly, but it was bad. He pulled his sweatshirt down over his hand and pushed on it. "We can't take it out. It's like a champagne cork, except in your stomach. Take it out, bad news. But all we have to do is keep you alive until morning." And then tie him up for a few nights while he tried to eat the rest of them, but that was minor.

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Nightshift 66: Pantry 1

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