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Professional Writing Services
S.Wallace - Amazon Customer
Gripping my ridiculous gun in one hand and the knife in the other, I followed the noises into a wooded area of the park. The motor homes and fifth wheels on this particular portion (Frenchman’s Bend according to the ‘road’ sign) were permanently placed, locked into position by makeshift basements and concrete blocks.
Some of these plots still had struggling gardens, empty dog houses out back and heat weary flags announcing in faded polyester that it was wine o’clock.
I rounded the corner. My heart laboured against the heat.
Three of the infected were gathered at the door of the largest motor home at the end of the road. Two males had arranged themselves on either side of the narrow vehicle and were dumbly rocking it back and forth between them.
They both appeared to be middle aged; huge, distended stomachs dripping from the hem of their t-shirts, bald heads peeling in the sun. Sore and weepiing as they were , their scalps were only a floor above the rheumy, cataract dull of their eyes.
A woman, a relative of the two by the look of her, was working at the trailer door, pulling at the feeble handle with all of her considerable weight. Her baby doll blouse capped her rotting arms, heavy flesh like a rotten mutton leg beneath the delicate cap of cotton sleeve.
If I had taken time, I’m sure I would’ve realized that a 2-inch pocketknife I held wasn’t going to do much but tickle the thick necks of the group before me. Truth be told, I didn’t have a plan exactly. My mind felt foggy.
Still running, I pocketed the knife and gripped the blunderbuss instead. I gripped it until my knuckles ached. I could smell them – a sweet mix of rot and bodily fluids that, in this heat, was almost as choking as the scent of kerosene. I swore I could feel it coat my tongue. Only a few breaths and it had invaded my sinuses. A bear den. I thought. That’s what it reminded me of. A filthy warren full of discarded meat, feces, and fur.
They hadn’t heard me approach. The two on the facing side of the home were too absorbed in trying to batter their way in. I held my breath and launched myself at one of the males.
Sometimes I wish I could’ve seen it. Thinking back on it, I must’ve looked like a deranged ninja, sailing through the air in gore crusted polar fleece, bringing my entire weight down on the creature's peeling dome.
There was another satisfying jolt as the solid oak butt connected with skull. I felt it, the impact radiating up my arms before blossoming into pain in my shoulders. Man, that was gratifying. The dull cracking sound even more so.
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