"No thanks, dude. And I read Playboy for the articles." Right now, he would read it for the articles if he thought he could find a copy. The information drought was killing his brain cells. Much longer, and he'd be drooling like the thing walking over (no, through) its fallen comrade. He could only imagine what it'd be like for a serious journalist.
Wait. Spider? Serious? Was that a glaring contradiction? He hopped down from the roof and contemplated the possibility while he scooped up the gas cap as the only thing within reach to keep from skinning his knuckles on zombie eye socket. Naah, all journalists were nuts. Sometimes that meant screwing the story in the Harbor, though usually it just meant empty promises and tell-alls at restaurants that damned well better have beer. And sometimes it meant Zombie Hunting 101. Time for show, not tell.
He aimed for the bridge of the nose. Classic self-defense move. The ones they taught to girls and long-haired protesters of any gender, on the grounds that someone would come for them eventually. It was supposed to drive the nose into the brain. Instead, the nose just squashed. S.T. twisted, and the cap turned, and then clicked wetly.
The zombie toppled over backwards, gas-cap still protruding like a gameshow button in Double Dare: Back From The Dead. He stepped on it, and the requisite goo put in a cameo.
"Let's get the fuck out of here. The sales staff are circling."
no subject
Wait. Spider? Serious? Was that a glaring contradiction? He hopped down from the roof and contemplated the possibility while he scooped up the gas cap as the only thing within reach to keep from skinning his knuckles on zombie eye socket. Naah, all journalists were nuts. Sometimes that meant screwing the story in the Harbor, though usually it just meant empty promises and tell-alls at restaurants that damned well better have beer. And sometimes it meant Zombie Hunting 101. Time for show, not tell.
He aimed for the bridge of the nose. Classic self-defense move. The ones they taught to girls and long-haired protesters of any gender, on the grounds that someone would come for them eventually. It was supposed to drive the nose into the brain. Instead, the nose just squashed. S.T. twisted, and the cap turned, and then clicked wetly.
The zombie toppled over backwards, gas-cap still protruding like a gameshow button in Double Dare: Back From The Dead. He stepped on it, and the requisite goo put in a cameo.
"Let's get the fuck out of here. The sales staff are circling."