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nonionayThe Running of the Zombies!
Here's a snip from what I wrote today--the climactic battle. Morya's running through a city with the zombies his family is controlling. He's the only one to volunteer to keep the zombies from eating anyone they're not supposed to.
The blockades were a cluster of moments. His tender, fire-burnt flesh being scraped by toppled tables and carts, then cooled by chilly zombies bumping him aside. Faces full of fear and anger, sweat dripping in their eyes like it dripped in Morya’s. When had he dropped the goggles? Throwing zombies out of the path of spears and pitchforks. Beating zombies while they gnawed on a man impaled upon a table leg. Splinters in his hands. When had he stripped the gloves? Crouch for a moment, beneath an upturned cart, until more zombies were past. Catch a breath.
The air was rank and now he knew what screams tasted like. But his burning lungs gratefully sucked it in.
Time to go. He shouldn’t have stopped. Now he had to pull himself up, make himself leave the shelter of solid wood where no one could see him, not archers nor Vitali nor his own wife seeing through the eyes of the undead. This was a little pocket of safety. But there across the road was a zombie who had somehow gotten a hold of a child. He leapt from his shelter, screaming at the beast, and the zombie actually dropped the child without even a bite. On they ran.
Here's a snip from what I wrote today--the climactic battle. Morya's running through a city with the zombies his family is controlling. He's the only one to volunteer to keep the zombies from eating anyone they're not supposed to.
The blockades were a cluster of moments. His tender, fire-burnt flesh being scraped by toppled tables and carts, then cooled by chilly zombies bumping him aside. Faces full of fear and anger, sweat dripping in their eyes like it dripped in Morya’s. When had he dropped the goggles? Throwing zombies out of the path of spears and pitchforks. Beating zombies while they gnawed on a man impaled upon a table leg. Splinters in his hands. When had he stripped the gloves? Crouch for a moment, beneath an upturned cart, until more zombies were past. Catch a breath.
The air was rank and now he knew what screams tasted like. But his burning lungs gratefully sucked it in.
Time to go. He shouldn’t have stopped. Now he had to pull himself up, make himself leave the shelter of solid wood where no one could see him, not archers nor Vitali nor his own wife seeing through the eyes of the undead. This was a little pocket of safety. But there across the road was a zombie who had somehow gotten a hold of a child. He leapt from his shelter, screaming at the beast, and the zombie actually dropped the child without even a bite. On they ran.
