Chapter 4

Here's the fourth chapter.

The trees that stood guard on the sides of the road thinned, cars and trucks littered the parking lots and streets, imprisoning their mangled and breathless operators, as the skin-tickling breeze carried the smell of decomposing flesh over the still buildings and thriving trees into Paul’s nose, forcing him to smother his face into his sticky shirt-sleeve. He slowed his pace and took slow breaths, acclimating himself to the dead wind that swept his senses into the crypt that the stench spawned from. His right hand dropped to the grip of his revolver, sweat darkening the leather. His left hand tore off a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt, wrapping it around his mouth and nose, the thin fabric and the smell of his sweat slightly filtering and covering the smell of the putrid flesh that swirled in the air.

Paul picked up his pace, his wooden legs carrying him as he hobbled down the street, weary of every sense. The road turned into a three-way intersection, to the left conjoining with the main road after about a length of a football field, while the road that kept going straight wound through apartments and small neighborhoods. Hell stood at the end of that path. Paul stopped as he took the turn on the left. He bent over, placing his hands on his sore knees, rubbing his legs through his jeans as sweat cascaded down his face and congregated at the tip of his nose, smashing together, losing grip, and tearing through the air toward the warm pavement. Paul closed his eyes, letting the stinging sweat run over his eyelids, as his mind tore books from the shelves and inspected each page carefully, examining each detail, pilfering each bit of information for any sort of idea as to where to go after he gathered the supplies he needed.

He stood up, adjusted the ripped strip of T-shirt around his mouth and nose, and continued onward. To his sides were houses, their property shallow but stretched far to the sides. Each one looked similar, the product of mass-production for living space. All of them were surrounded by flimsy chain link fences, some with children’s toys laying on the wild grass, others with lawnmowers or grills that stood like a lone mountain on the Red River. The most similar aspect all of the houses held was remnants of human inhabitation. If the wind wasn’t so recurrent dust would surely have conquered the tools, packaging them for another time.

Exiting the thin street lined with houses, Paul entered onto the main road. Even more cars and trucks sat idly by than on the other streets, hording vehement creatures inside their steel hulls. Breathing the foul air in a deep gulp, Paul sped up and weaved through the multitude of cars that sat and stared at him under the fascinated sun. Keeping his right hand on the grip of his revolver, his eyes whipping from one car to the next, checking for broken windows or slightly opened doors, he made his way along the road and into the first shopping center.

Six stores bordered a rectangular parking lot: A book store, yarn shop, electronics store, a computer shop, vacuum shop, and finally the store Paul was looking for, America’s Finest Guns. The windows of all of the stores (except for the book store and yarn shop) had been smashed and shards of glass were scattered along the sidewalk, their seared edges gleaming in the sun’s optimistic light.

Paul drew his Raging Bull revolver from its holster, holding it out in front of himself, his index finger laying flat across the trigger guard and his thumb posed to the side of the hammer. He crept up to the broken window of the gun store, the large letters spelling AMERICA’S FINEST GUNS looming over him as he shifted his eyes from left-to-right, scanning the interior of the store. There was glass on the ground and many of the clothing and equipment racks and shelves were empty or were a disarray of various products. The counter had papers and pens strewn across it, dust piling up on the bulky gray monitor that sat behind an equally dusty keyboard, and only two guns hanging on the wall behind the register.

Paul stealthily stepped over the shattered window pane, ducking under the glass that still stood intact. He stood up, his left hand joining his right hand in support of the revolver. Slowly reaching out with each foot, he took a steady, cushioned step, making his way to the counter. The silence of the town disturbed him, throwing his psyche into a paranoid fray, driving him to focus on what could be waiting for him.

He recentralized his thoughts on the gathering of the ammunition he needed. Leaning over the counter with his gun poised ahead of his face, Paul looked over the counter. There was a small blotch of blood, its color a faded brownish-red, stretching along the floor, clinging to its surface. There was no body from which the blood came, but the supplier could have gotten up and meandered to some other location or just been a regular person fighting for a gun with many other terror-stricken people. Paul didn’t mind it too much, he just needed some ammo and he was out of there.

He leapt over the counter, brushing a piece of stiff, dried paper onto the floor. Kneeling down, Paul began searching through the bottom of the counter for the ammunition he needed. He put his revolver on the floor and began pulling out the boxes, reading their labels, and reaching above his head and placing them on the top of the counter. There were only a few boxes of ammunition left, not that there were too many to begin with, but he found two boxes of what he needed. The label on both boxes read, in bold black letters: .44 Mag. Paul slid his backpack off his shoulders with a stiff but practiced motion. He yanked the zipper down and shoved the boxes into his pack, zipped it back up, and slung it back over his shoulders, cringing as the straps settled back into the grooves they had formed during his trek to town. With forty extra rounds for his revolver, he began looking at the remaining boxes, praying to nothing in particular for what he needed. In the deepest pocket of the counter, he retrieved a half-empty box of .308 Winchester rounds. He opened up the box and counted them. Ten rounds and they weren’t even as powerful as the other ones he had for it, but he figured he’d take what he could get. He shook his head as he untied his jacket from around his waist. Holding it up in front of him, Paul slid the box of ammunition into the left pocket and lowered his jacket again, tying it back around his waist and picked up his revolver from the floor.

Paul leapt back over the counter and began walking cautiously out of the store, back over the window pane covered in broken glass. As his left leg came full over the window pane and his foot touched the ground, a numbing groan etched itself in the disgruntled breeze. Paul snapped back to his ready position with his revolver. The Raging Bull’s sleek surface reflected the light of the sun back into the sky as the barrel honed in on the sound.

The grinding, guttural moan came from inside the electronics store. Paul didn’t want an encounter but he also didn’t want a horde of them after him. Inching toward the broken window, he looked through the store. The ground was littered with electronic appliances like DVD players and small TV’s. Some of them had blood on them. Paul kept looking into all of the places he could from his position. There didn’t seem to be anything, however the groan was louder now and the fetid stench in the air was more prevalent.

Paul backed away from the window carefully, deciding to just move on to the grocery store. Another gurgling groan dribbled out of some hidden corner in the store, but Paul kept backing away, turning on his heels and quickly walking back to the main road where entombed zombies waited for him, lusting after him with their starving eyes.

Reviews

[Flame DM]

Run Paul Run! Now i have to read the next chapter to see if how Paul fares out when he finally realises zombies are on his tail! Another great chapter! - Flame