The surprised look on his face was soon accompanied by screaming as the newly minted Zombie pushed him backwards while frantically tearing into his shoulder and neck. A sickening noise marked an exposed iron bar penetrating his other shoulder as he fell backwards and his screams sank to quiet gasping and sobbing, marking his descent into unconsciousness.
“You have to watch out for the old ones,” John commented to the tune of Steve and his cronies jumping on the military man to pull him off. “They change faster,” he finished, going back to watching.
“Wait what?” answered Emma intelligently, transfixed on Steve attempting to kick the Zombie to pieces - he was proving remarkably resilient. “Why?” she asked finally, turning to John.
“The young have more stem cells, which the virus is working hard to make in order to complete the transformation. It needs a steady supply of Serotonin and the older the subject the more stem cells it will have to make,” he replied, not taking his eyes from the fight. Out on the floor, Steve was now holding back the Zombie as he hissed and spit at the four remaining men.
A pool of blood stemming from the impaled thug was making footing on the concrete floor tenuous at best. The military Zombie hissed, spat and wildly coughed blood as one of the other men tried to line up a hit from a wooden baseball bat.
At last the henchman of Steve managed to take the hit, crunching the Zombie’s right eye socket and momentarily stunning him.
Steve took the opportunity and grabbed the lightly struggling Zombie’s head to twist, finally managing to snap the spinal column. He dropped the 200 pound guy with little thought and the burly figure fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut. After a second, Steve turned and almost thoughtlessly kicked the downed figure in the head, finishing the job of staving in his skull.
Emma looked back to the member of Steve’s crew that had bled out so effectively – it looked like an earnest attempt to paint the floor a coppery shade of red. He was moaning softly though Emma couldn’t imagine how he was still conscious.
Steve apparently took notice of him at the same time, swiping the bat from the henchman who held it. The man moaned louder, shaking his head slowly to quibble with Steve’s intent.
“I don’t much care for his retirement plan,” Emma commented to John “but there is no denying that his method for letting someone go is effective.”
“Yeah not much room for repetitive faults,” John answered.
“Steve!” one of his other cronies called. “At least do it quickly – I grabbed three guns, they are just over there,” he inclined his head to indicate a table holding the loot by the door that Emma and John had entered. As everyone in the room looked over to it they were all treated to a view of Emma and John, peaking over rubble.
“Son of a bitch!” offered Emma, running back towards the table – a bullet pinged off a leaning stone column to her right – apparently one of Steve’s gang was a quick draw.
Jumping at the table, she managed to grab a handgun, making her insanely proud of herself for the brief second before she bounced off the tabletop and into a wall. She slid downwards and fumbled off the safety, firing off a round that hit no-one in particular but sent their pursuers scattering. John picked up an assault rifle as he ran by, ducking behind a solid looking pile of stone.
Emma peeked around the doorframe watching John for a full twenty seconds – a gunfight equivalent of a lifetime – as he struggled with the weapon, trying everything to make it fire.
His actions included but were not limited to - pulling the trigger, shaking the rifle, accidentally ejecting the magazine and finally actually looking down the barrel to try and locate the problem.
“It’s the fucking safety on the left you dipshit!” she hissed, hopefully loud enough that he could hear but not enough that their opposition would detect the gross incompetence facing them.
Covering for the delay, Emma poked around the doorframe, only to nearly have her face shot off. Chips of stone in her eyes, she still managed to fire off a couple of rounds at an advancing black man with close cropped hair. He yelled incoherently and dove for a pile of rusty metal tables and rocks, making it by bouncing off the former and getting covered by the latter. Another three bullets ricocheted by her and Emma drew quickly back, to the sound of two more thudding into the plaster on the other side of the wall.
A chatter of automatic fire, and Emma looked over to see John awkwardly kneeling behind the wall, firing the rifle that had stymied him for so long. A squawk from the other side of the room indicated that he had hit… something. A giant parrot or oversized coward, probably.
She watched one bullet sting into the rocks in front of John and a second hit him in the exposed shoulder - he half fell, half ducked back into place behind the rocks. He looked over at her and nodded, indicating without words that this was not the worst wound he had yet sustained following her stupid plans.
Emma risked a glance around the doorway, noticing a blonde youth nursing a gushing leg wound as he tried to pull himself to safety. She saw parts from two of the four remaining men peeking from around various works of debris and wisely ducked back into cover, in time to hear two bullets thud into the plaster and another whistle by.
“I’m out!” she heard a deep voice call.
“Don’t tell them, you fucking moron,” she heard Steve hiss back. She hoped her earlier outburst did not carry as far.
“Hi,” said a voice behind them. Emma swung around in surprise and was treated to a hit from a baseball bat not entirely unlike the one employed so effectively moments before, wielded by a man with black hair and a chiseled jaw.
The world exploded into stars and Emma fell back, her jaw disconnected for the second time in a couple of weeks. Fighting to retain consciousness, her mind clawed around the edges of the dark pit of nothingness that opened before it. Try as she might, a few seconds later she slipped back and into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
Actually being knocked unconscious is normally very different from the way it is portrayed in the movies – a fact with which Emma had bored people at parties in the past (a performance she was seldom invited back to reprise).
Being unconscious for more than two minutes generally means brain damage, so the fact that Emma woke up not 15 seconds later would normally be treated with relief - if she wasn’t completely disoriented and groggy to boot. Her ears were ringing, her eyesight double and her jaw was agony at even the slightest movement. Blinking rapidly to clear her watering eyes, she was able to still roughly see the surrounding nightmare, painted in fading tones and fuzzy lines.
John was standing, back to the rocks and rifle discarded, frantically holding off everyone else in the room with a mixture of speed and stubbornness. At her side was the stocky brown haired idiot who had brained Emma, bleeding profusely from a massive bullet hole in his neck.
Emma was incredibly hazy but not so hazy that she didn‘t vaguely look down to see if she had any unexpected holes. To say her confidence in John’s ability with firearms was low would be an understatement. Completing the check, she seemed to miraculously still be whole.
Looking back briefly to the man missing a large part of his throat, Emma noticed his eyes were unfocused and he was staring up at a hole in the ceiling to the sky beyond, his black hair floating around him like a halo made of crows. His breath came in little gasps and the frantic expression in his eyes said clearly that he was unready for a transition to the great beyond.
Seeing the discarded baseball bat to the left, Emma made a grab for it – it took her two attempts before she managed to make sense of her double vision and roughly fumble her hand onto the smooth wood of the bat handle. Putting the head on the floor she managed to prop herself upright – and slipped. Her already sensitive head smacked lightly back into a piece of concrete but it was enough for her world to explode into pinpoints of light and black.
The pain was becoming overwhelming, Emma couldn’t th
ink past the blackness enveloping her brain. Vaguely she saw John swing wildly at a cap wearing, knife wielding lackey of Steve’s. The swing was slowed by the bullet he had taken to the shoulder but the intended target was jostled by one of his friends at the last minute and he completely failed to dodge - the resulting hit must have felt like a freight train because the target’s head snapped back and he instantly crumpled.
Emma tried to get back to her feet but her body was unresponsive.. all the effort she exerted bought her a feeble rocking to the side.
Her eyes focusing on the object in front of her, she once again saw the stubbled head of the thug that John had dropped when she was unconscious. The beginnings of hunger stirred in her and an oily taste came unbidden to her mouth as she started salivating at the imagined greasy texture. Pulling back to herself for a second, Emma regained control. The craving wasn’t strong enough to take her over, thankfully.
Looking to the side she watched John surrounded by the remaining three of Steve’s cohorts, each of them bigger than himself. Steve himself was ignoring her for the moment, a wicked curved knife in his hand as he stalked the semi-circle looking for an opportunity to stab her beleaguered friend.
Seeing John bravely fighting against all odds, Emma tried again to get up. She managed to find a knee but slipped forward, barely managing to prevent a faceplant. Flopping like a fish, Emma drew up a leg to provide push but it slipped to the side, her left knee splaying to the side and landing her roughly back on her ass.
Steve found a small opening and stabbed John just above the kidney, the wound was fortunately somewhat shallow but the curved teeth on the blade ripped again as it came back out, leaving a wicked gash and more importantly the pain distracted John leaving him open to a solid punch to the right cheek. He managed to get an arm up to prevent a follow up but the effort was definitely showing. He was a couple of solid hits from going down and knew it. His gaze flicked to Emma, beseeching, before focusing once again on the people in front of him.
Emma knew she was no help, the baseball bat to the back of her head had ensured she was out of this fight. She had no doubt that given time it would heal but the pain and probable concussion made it impossible for her to respond to the situation. It only made it worse that they were here at her insistence, as a result of her stupid attack on Steve in the park.
Thinking back to it, Emma was reminded again of the feeling of losing control – the strange mixture of helplessness and invulnerability and in an instant, she knew what she needed to do. Her legs were weak and her head was fuzzy but looking at the close cropped hair of the expiring man John had shot, Emma felt the hunger returning. The oily taste built in her mouth, the need in the back of her mind. It was easy to simulate, she had taken a lot of damage and her body was already crying out for stem cells to fix the mess. As the craving grew she felt the point of no return looming.
This time, she rushed past it.
Each time that Emma had lost control in the past she had spent the entire duration frantically trying to become herself once again. There was something almost Zen about just giving up that illusion, she thought, as she watched through her own eyes as her body stumbled to its feet. Concerns of head wounds were distinctly secondary in this state. Unburdened by such things, her body didn’t seem to have the same problem with movement.
Steve and the remaining three minion were completely focused on John and his weakened defenses. His arms showed no less than three severe jagged cuts where he had obviously defended himself from Steve’s wicked knife. To his regeneration’s credit, the older two wounds were already closing up. Steve stalked like a wolf behind the wall of sinew that assaulted John, all of them were completely unaware of the new challenge behind them.
Emma felt herself start to run, watched a surprised Steve turn around in time to see her leap at the leftmost thug, the big black man she had shot at before. Emma watched in satisfaction as he partially turned while she was in the air, saw the angry scar on his forehead and his mouth form into an O of panic. She smashed into him and they rolled into the debris to the side of John. Emma’s Zombie landed on top, her hands instantly grabbed her victim by the sides of his head and started smashing it back into a chunk of masonry. In seconds his eyes had rolled up into his head and she twisted harshly to the left, her victory complete as the back of his head exposed his brain. She stooped to chew frantically at the spill as one of the other thugs – another young white man with black hair and poor skin - yelled, incoherent with fear at the atrocity.
John used the opportunity to level one of his slowed but deadly punches at the other man – a being too fair skinned to have ever seen the sun. John’s remarkably heavy arm conspired to crunch the side of the man’s jaw but to his credit the thug didn’t fall. A follow up punch from John to the gut set him sprawling though and as he vomited the product was red with blood.
Emma’s Zombie turned and continued to chew at the cooling brain of the dead man. Instead of being frightened or disgusted, Emma reveled in the feeling of success as her body chewed the unfortunate follower’s grey matter. A full body flush instantly took hold of her as it increased blood flow. Endorphins were simultaneously released and the feeling of wellness was palpable.
I get it thought Emma to herself. This is truly what it feels like to be at the top of the food chain.
The thug who yelled just a moment previously turned and leveled a devastating kick to her side while she chewed, her jaw popping with every bite. Her body turned and hissed at him, almost disdainfully. He kicked out at her again and she leaped, her hand catching him under the jaw and the force of her sudden jump lifting him into the air before smashing down head first into the concrete. Her satisfaction was complete when he took the turn to roll around on the concrete, all sense knocked out of him.
The fight wasn’t all going their way, however. Steve had used the opportunity and distraction to hack wildly at John’s neck. He fell backwards avoiding the worst but a spray of blood splattered the scene as he hit a metal table and rolled.
As Steve stalked forwards, John scrambled backwards on the ground trying to put some distance between himself and the dangerous knife man. His left hand was clamped to his neck as he tried to stop the fountain of blood looking to escape him yet still it trickled between his fingers and mingled with the remains of blood flowing from his shoulder to drip thickly to the ground as he slid across the wet rough floor.
Emma knew she had to help and expected a struggle from the primal urges which had kept her alive, to her surprise though, it was like passing a baton - suddenly she could move again under her own volition.
The stem cells must really be working their magic today she rationalized, stunned that she was once more in control. I would have said there is no way I would be here after the hits I just took but here I am, standing and once again under my own volition. The fact that she just thought the word volition made her feel confident she was fast coming back to herself.
Grabbing a chunk of concrete the size of a cantaloupe, Emma ponderously began stagger-running the ten feet towards Steve – her speed increasing with each poorly placed step. Steve became aware of the uneven pitter-patter pace just before Emma reached him, managing to move just enough that Emma’s swing of the rock at his head instead impacted his shoulder. It was still enough to cave his collar bone and send him sprawling with a gasp, the smug look of superiority that Steve tended to wear vanishing in an instant to be replaced by a look of terror.
With a scramble Steve had flopped over an upended metal table stuck out of some debris, an old wooden beam and some concrete – an effort to buy himself time to get his feet beneath him.
Emma was just about to jump over the barrier in an effort to keep the pressure on the head thug when she was tackled from behind. Turning roughly at the hip she turned the rough momentum back on the thug – the man John had previously shot in the leg – and sent him flying. He narrowly missed John and instead mad
e an abrupt and bone jarring stop a second later as his back slammed back into the same barrier Steve had just clambered over.
John meanwhile had stemmed the flow of blood from his neck long enough for the wound to partially close. Roughly he once again stumbled to his feet, again surprising Emma by his toughness.
Looking at each other, both were taken by how very rough the other looked. They were back on their feet but they were definitely members of the walking wounded. Knowing the fight was yet to be over though, they nodded at the same time – turning back to the barrier and jumping it with the help of the shoulder and head of the man Emma had just thrown.
Landing with a heavy thump, Emma noted creaking of timbers in the waterlogged building – if it wasn’t due for demolishing nature had avowed it would take the job on itself.
Mentally resolving to not linger a second longer than necessary, Emma and John turned to face the Steve, the man they had chased through Hell to stop. He was back onto his feet but his right shoulder was still out of alignment from where Emma had smashed it with the rock, his arm hanging near useless at his side.
He still somehow had hold of the nasty knife he had used to cut John but now it was awkwardly gripped in his left hand.
Emma made the first move, feinting in to test Steve’s reactions using his off hand with probable pain radiating up his right arm.
Pulling back she watched the knife drift inches from her cheek. If she had committed to the move she would have had her face cut wide open, possibly even taking out one of her eyes.
Her respect for Steve grew again. He obviously could keep his wits about him under duress.
John bent down carefully, achingly, and picked up a discarded baseball bat. Standing back up he brandished it like he was lining up to a pitcher and Steve licked his lips nervously. John pulled the bat further back taking a half step towards Steve, who backed up a half step in return, his feet pushing trails in the dust as he slid them slowly across the ground.