The roof-rack was designed for kayaks or possibly just to suggest the owner might someday be rich enough to go on Safari, but it was sturdily attached. S.T. yanked himself up one-handed, rotator-cuff tendons shrieking but holding.
He kicked at the skull of the disembowled zombie. He tried not to puke his guts (in the figurative sense, thank fuck) up. Both succeeded. The skull bent a little under his feet. But soft-soled tennis shoes are not the same as steel-toed workboots, and the zombie only stumbled back.
"Go for the head, moron. Don't they have movies in the future, or were you too much of a poxy shut-in as a kid that you spent all your time hunting for scrambled porn?" S.T. paused to kick again. "Or are you actually a space alien? No, wait, if you were a space alien, you'd have to have watched television. Lightyears of Mork and Mindy reruns."
Spider's arm was sort of wiggling, covered in viscera. "Addendum: if you're going to have a monster burst out of your chest, get it the fuck over with."
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He kicked at the skull of the disembowled zombie. He tried not to puke his guts (in the figurative sense, thank fuck) up. Both succeeded. The skull bent a little under his feet. But soft-soled tennis shoes are not the same as steel-toed workboots, and the zombie only stumbled back.
"Go for the head, moron. Don't they have movies in the future, or were you too much of a poxy shut-in as a kid that you spent all your time hunting for scrambled porn?" S.T. paused to kick again. "Or are you actually a space alien? No, wait, if you were a space alien, you'd have to have watched television. Lightyears of Mork and Mindy reruns."
Spider's arm was sort of wiggling, covered in viscera. "Addendum: if you're going to have a monster burst out of your chest, get it the fuck over with."