The window smashed as Cole jumped out, the rain of flashing shapes perforating the zombies below him. He took off running, ignoring the dozens of glass-covered monsters trying to grab him.
"Fuck, what happened!?" He angrily shouted, quickly decapitating one as it staggered forward to grab his arm. He caught the reflection on the blade. It had two names on it. In his family, they had a simple tradition: every generation, the best of the clan's sons would be presented with their ancient broadsword, a symbol that showed that he and he alone was their protector. Every time a new steward for the blade was chosen, its former wielder would inscribe a name upon it, one that reflected his experience with the new steward. That would be etched onto the position of honor, directly beneath the blade's name.
His name was Toirneach Leanbh: Thunder Child.
Directly above it, near the top, was the blade's name itself: Lann Rásúir, or Razor Blade. This was placed near the front, as the old clan belief was that the blade would be sharpest where the name was. His name was near the hilt, so as to be closer to the bearer.
He refocused just in time to stop himself from barrelling into a dozen zombies. As he whirled away, he looked at their spacing. "No more than a meter apart, on average. No fun today." He sheathed Thunder Child and took out the Bren. He had used four magazines since then, and killed four dozen zombies with it.
He sighted on his first target, a little girl, possibly twelve or thirteen, and pulled the trigger. Her body flipped over, the blood lacing her hair to look like a crimson flower. He fired again, this time at a man wearing an Alabama National Guard outfit. The round penetrated the skull just above his lower jaw, carving straight into his brain. The creature dropped without a sound, as two dozen more of the zombies converged on the horde already chasing him. Acting purely on reflex and adrenaline, he threw a live grenade at the advancing horde's feet and ran.
He felt the detonation before he heard it, as a stray piece of shrapnel sliced his arm. He ignored the pain, dismissing the feeble ache as just another annoyance as he sprinted to his new goal, the town church. He did allow himself the satisfaction of looking around to see the carnage, and was heartened by what he saw. All around the blast zone were eighteen still corpses, with the other dozen still trying -and failing- to get back up; that particular bomb had had more effect than some of the others he'd tried. He turned back, and noticed that the door was open.
Something moved inside.
Before he could even twitch, a blood-soaked hand shot out, grasping him by his brown undershirt, and dragged him inside. The door slammed shut behind him. He fought back against the hand, screaming in terror, only to be silenced by a punch to the jaw. He relaxed, finally hearing a young male voice rise an octave and shriek in a Texan accent, "Ho-lee SHIT, sir! I-I thought I killed you! Or that you was infected! Or somethin' bad that I don't know about, but probably don't wanna know about!"
"Will you SHUT UP, you bloody loud Yank!?" Cole growled at the young lad standing before him. Lad appeared to be a highly accurate word, as the young boy standing before him couldn't be more than sixteen. He was dressed in military fatigues- desert camo issue, with a boonie hat cocked over the right side of his head. His left shoulder had no sleeve, a ragged scar underneath the new sleeveline showing the probable cause for the asymmetrical appearance of the man's outfit. His face was greasy and dirt-covered from weeks of no showering, and his two front teeth were buck-toothed to a slight degree. Across his back was a mighty M14 assault rifle, replete with a large scope, no doubt filled with optical features, and plenty of ammunition.
"Uh, sorry, sir. I was jus'... Jus' excited, n' all... Haven't seen another livin' bein' in months, sir." The lad's large eyes took on the look of a hurt puppy, although the rifle on his back and the gathering of dead zombies outside seemed to contradict that appearance.
"Ugh... Whereami?" Cole slurred, rubbing his jaw, "Who're you?" He looked down, and his eyes narrowed. "And why the FUCK did you bloody well punch me?"
"Oh!" His eyes brightened again, and he gave a salute so crisp you could slash a man's neck with it. "Lance-Corporal Jacob Provis, United States Marine Corps, SIR!" He barked out, and despite his shoddy appearance, Cole was impressed by his controlled movement and speech. "He looked at him quizically again. "So, sir... Are you.... English?"
"Yeah."
"Uh... Is that... 'Thing' true?"
"What 'thing?'"
"Uh, the... The thing about the teeth, sir...."
"... Ah, no." Cole looked around again, and whistled involuntarily. All around him was a small "arsenal of freedom," as he called it. At least two dozen guns were there, along with... No, wait.
"So that's it," He murmured.
"What?" Provis jibed* in the direction of his gaze, and was struck with understanding. "Oh. Nossir, no ammo. Dry as a bone." He went over to one of the guns, and patted it in a melancholy manner. "Shame, too. I mean, just LOOK at this gun, y'know? Cyclic rate of 650 RPM, uses 7.62 NATO ammuntion- it took almost twelve years to get down right."
"So, you know a lot about guns, eh?" Cole asked.
"Yessir- much good it'll do me, without any ammo to fire, or food to eat."
"No food?"
"Nope."
Cole saw the look of hope in Provis's eyes vanish, and realized what could bring it back. "Hey, I know where we can get PLENTY of food...."
*Jibe: jibing is an old sailing term, describing when a sailing vessel turns AWAY from the wind. I'm using it to describe how Provis moves to convey a slow but fairly smooth way of moving.
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