I'm not calling you a monster... Q is. Or would be, had you let him live :-p So... you've not really pointed me in the direction you're favouring but it's nice to know more about the other people in this world and how they see things. And to wonder what they might have made soup from. I guess the next thing to know is why they're still alive and not an Energizer Zombunny!
Mine The kitchen was blessedly free of body parts and gore and there was a large steel pot on a hob bubbling away. Fragrant steam rose above it, and the nearby window was covered in condensation. "Don't close the door," said the woman as we followed her in. "The Zombunnies try and piece themselves together when they think I'm not looking. But I'm watching all the time. All. The. Time." I looked at him; he looked back at me. "Fire kills them," he said. "But we'd probably have to drag them out of the room first. Don't want the building going up." "Then we eat first," said the woman, stirring whatever was in the pot. I caught a whiff of garlic and bay leaf and felt suddenly hungry. After the charnel and barbecue smells, this was a relief. "They're in pretty small pieces at the moment." She opened a cupboard door and pulled some bowls out like she knew where everything was. "I'm Monica, by the way. Which isn't very important in the grand scheme of things any more, because there's maybe only three of us left in the world and we could easily get by with 'hey you!' without much trouble. But it was my grandmother's name as well and she was tough as nails and thinking about her helps when I have to cut another person up and pretend that I don't recognise them." She set the bowls down a little harder than they maybe needed and I jumped a little. A ladle was conjured from a drawer and then soup was distributed. "No bread," said Monica with a sigh. "It'd be stale if there was, mind. The last delivery was three days ago. I think the baker brought a Zombunny with him, to be honest, but he drove off again so I can't ask him." The soup was vegetable, for which I was very, very grateful, and tasty. We both ate as though we didn't know where our next meal would come from, but Monica picked at hers and kept getting up to check on the Zombunny shamblers. When we'd finished she declared herself done too, and he suggested that we go and drag all the bodies we could find outside and build a pyre. "Cremate them," I said. "They're not human, they don't get a pyre." "Send them to hell," said Monica, with an edge of violence to her voice.
It took most of the rest of the day to go through every room in the building and haul out anything that might be a shambler or part of one, but we did it. He found a can of oil somewhere and we doused them in that and then set them on fire and stood back. A column of black smoke rose upwards and the smell was vile, but at least we might be able to sleep without worrying that something was going to try breaking down the door. As the fire started to die down and there were pops and crackles from bones splintering in the heat, a siren like that of a police car became audible in the distance.
Greg - sigh, still sore about Q? I wouldn't peg you for being the sentimental sort :P
Okay, only one more entry from each of us after this. Somehow. So let's get us pointed... somewhere.
Mine:
Smoke was still billowing from our cremation pile when the cop car pulled into the parking lot at high speed. The officer behind the wheel had to brake hard to avoid hitting us or the hissing remains of the shamblers. We stood motionless as the screech of the tires echoed reluctantly into silence.
The officer eyed us warily for nearly half a minute before slowly exiting his vehicle to be greeted by a cheerful wave from Monica. I gave her a sidelong glance, wondering if she thought she was watching a parade.
I guessed from the officer's expression he was thinking along similar lines.
"You folks doing okay?" he asked, one hand resting on the gun at his right hip as he kept the car between him and us.
"Had better days," my companion replied as though trying to get his picture on the Wikipedia page for understatement. Then he followed it up by nodding his head in the direction of the burning shamblers and saying, "Though not as bad as theirs."
"I see that," the officer said, noticeably relaxing upon hearing actual human words coming out of one of our mouths. Though he kept his hand on his gun. "Figured out the burning trick, huh?"
"We're not the only ones then?" I asked, my legs suddenly going weak and sinking into an awkward seated position.
"No ma'am," the officer replied, not moving to help me. "Not even the only ones I've found. The smoke signals are helpful that way."
"You hungry?" Monica asked, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. "Got some soup left."
"I'm good, thanks," the officer said, continuing to eye her warily. "How many bodies you got in that fire?"
"Too many," my companion replied at the same time Monica said brightly, "There's oodles of poodles in that dog pile!"
"Well," the officer said slowly after a very, very long pause, "that's good. Good work. Why don't you folks get in the back and I'll get you up to the Emergency Ops Center? It's about an hour from here, assuming no stops."
I climbed in first, making him take the middle seat with Monica on the other side of him. It was unfair and we both knew it but he didn't complain. I gave his hand a quick squeeze of gratitude as the officer turned the car around and headed for the road.
Despite the clear plastic barrier between us and him, the officer kept checking on us in the rear view, like he didn't quite trust us. I could hardly blame him, especially whenever Monica started giggling quietly to herself.
2 comments:
I'm not calling you a monster... Q is. Or would be, had you let him live :-p
So... you've not really pointed me in the direction you're favouring but it's nice to know more about the other people in this world and how they see things. And to wonder what they might have made soup from. I guess the next thing to know is why they're still alive and not an Energizer Zombunny!
Mine
The kitchen was blessedly free of body parts and gore and there was a large steel pot on a hob bubbling away. Fragrant steam rose above it, and the nearby window was covered in condensation.
"Don't close the door," said the woman as we followed her in. "The Zombunnies try and piece themselves together when they think I'm not looking. But I'm watching all the time. All. The. Time."
I looked at him; he looked back at me.
"Fire kills them," he said. "But we'd probably have to drag them out of the room first. Don't want the building going up."
"Then we eat first," said the woman, stirring whatever was in the pot. I caught a whiff of garlic and bay leaf and felt suddenly hungry. After the charnel and barbecue smells, this was a relief. "They're in pretty small pieces at the moment." She opened a cupboard door and pulled some bowls out like she knew where everything was. "I'm Monica, by the way. Which isn't very important in the grand scheme of things any more, because there's maybe only three of us left in the world and we could easily get by with 'hey you!' without much trouble. But it was my grandmother's name as well and she was tough as nails and thinking about her helps when I have to cut another person up and pretend that I don't recognise them."
She set the bowls down a little harder than they maybe needed and I jumped a little. A ladle was conjured from a drawer and then soup was distributed.
"No bread," said Monica with a sigh. "It'd be stale if there was, mind. The last delivery was three days ago. I think the baker brought a Zombunny with him, to be honest, but he drove off again so I can't ask him."
The soup was vegetable, for which I was very, very grateful, and tasty. We both ate as though we didn't know where our next meal would come from, but Monica picked at hers and kept getting up to check on the Zombunny shamblers. When we'd finished she declared herself done too, and he suggested that we go and drag all the bodies we could find outside and build a pyre.
"Cremate them," I said. "They're not human, they don't get a pyre."
"Send them to hell," said Monica, with an edge of violence to her voice.
It took most of the rest of the day to go through every room in the building and haul out anything that might be a shambler or part of one, but we did it. He found a can of oil somewhere and we doused them in that and then set them on fire and stood back. A column of black smoke rose upwards and the smell was vile, but at least we might be able to sleep without worrying that something was going to try breaking down the door.
As the fire started to die down and there were pops and crackles from bones splintering in the heat, a siren like that of a police car became audible in the distance.
Greg - sigh, still sore about Q? I wouldn't peg you for being the sentimental sort :P
Okay, only one more entry from each of us after this. Somehow. So let's get us pointed... somewhere.
Mine:
Smoke was still billowing from our cremation pile when the cop car pulled into the parking lot at high speed. The officer behind the wheel had to brake hard to avoid hitting us or the hissing remains of the shamblers. We stood motionless as the screech of the tires echoed reluctantly into silence.
The officer eyed us warily for nearly half a minute before slowly exiting his vehicle to be greeted by a cheerful wave from Monica. I gave her a sidelong glance, wondering if she thought she was watching a parade.
I guessed from the officer's expression he was thinking along similar lines.
"You folks doing okay?" he asked, one hand resting on the gun at his right hip as he kept the car between him and us.
"Had better days," my companion replied as though trying to get his picture on the Wikipedia page for understatement. Then he followed it up by nodding his head in the direction of the burning shamblers and saying, "Though not as bad as theirs."
"I see that," the officer said, noticeably relaxing upon hearing actual human words coming out of one of our mouths. Though he kept his hand on his gun. "Figured out the burning trick, huh?"
"We're not the only ones then?" I asked, my legs suddenly going weak and sinking into an awkward seated position.
"No ma'am," the officer replied, not moving to help me. "Not even the only ones I've found. The smoke signals are helpful that way."
"You hungry?" Monica asked, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. "Got some soup left."
"I'm good, thanks," the officer said, continuing to eye her warily. "How many bodies you got in that fire?"
"Too many," my companion replied at the same time Monica said brightly, "There's oodles of poodles in that dog pile!"
"Well," the officer said slowly after a very, very long pause, "that's good. Good work. Why don't you folks get in the back and I'll get you up to the Emergency Ops Center? It's about an hour from here, assuming no stops."
I climbed in first, making him take the middle seat with Monica on the other side of him. It was unfair and we both knew it but he didn't complain. I gave his hand a quick squeeze of gratitude as the officer turned the car around and headed for the road.
Despite the clear plastic barrier between us and him, the officer kept checking on us in the rear view, like he didn't quite trust us. I could hardly blame him, especially whenever Monica started giggling quietly to herself.
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