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Punishment
A fairly gory story about a guy in a zombie world.
A fairly gory story about a guy in a zombie world.
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TheNameWithNoNu..
09-15-12 01:58 PM
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Punishment
09-15-12 01:58 PM
TheNameWithNoNumbers is Offline
| ID: 653016 | 460 Words
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Wet. First word coming to his mind. Second word. Red. Third word. Tired. Wet. Red. Tired. It was a funny sensation. He kept repeating the words in his head. Wet. Red. Tired. Wet. Red. Tired. Gun. He looked down at his bloodied hand. There it was. A gun. A nine-millimeter Personal Protection Pistol. Why was he holding this gun? Zombie. Then he saw the bodies of rotting flesh, the guts spread out like a three-year old finger-painting, the brains splattered on the wall, making this... this canvas of grey and green, and white, and red. Bits of bone crushed into the floor, making these cute little white islands in the endless sea of red. And then he saw the child. Curled up on the floor. Dead. Rotting flesh, a zombie, like the many other bodies. He looked nearly starved. Clothes were rags, no more. Bite mark on leg. A shot to the head. His eye dangled out of it's socket, and he could even see the color beneath the red. Brown. A hazel brown. Much like his. The hair was nearly all fallen out or scattered with the blown skull, but even he could see it's color. Black. And the child, he looked so peaceful on the ground. The teeth in mid bite on a piece of white flesh. Another body. A woman. Hair like the child, except her eyes were blue. Like child, nearly starved. But unlike child, she was not zombie. Human. Skin was white. "Human." The word surprised him as it passed out his lips. She was dead also, shot to head. Child was near leg. Chunk of flesh missing from her leg. Shirt, ripped, bloody, torn. Her face was weird, like it was speaking something before her tragic end. "Shoot me!" Memory came like a flood. Eyes, alive, begging, pleading, among the moans and groans of the crowd outside. Tears. Streaming down his cheek. Child already dead. Shot in head when bit wife. Bitten two weeks ago. Tried to keep him tied up in room, quarantined, hoped for cure. Never came. She was already turning, the hair was falling out, infected area became black. "Shoot me!" She screamed it into his face now. Pleading. He closed eyes, pulled trigger. Some broke through back door. Shot them all. Didn't care about them. Just blood and guts, perfect, like a circle around the two bodies now on the kitchen floor. They were coming. He knew it. Moans, groans, closer, closer. He could feel their teeth breaking through his skin. That would happen. If he didn't do anything. This world was forsaken. He had tried. He had failed. He placed the gun below his head, breathing shakily. This was his punishment. Blah, blah blah I need criticism and stuff. Wet. First word coming to his mind. Second word. Red. Third word. Tired. Wet. Red. Tired. It was a funny sensation. He kept repeating the words in his head. Wet. Red. Tired. Wet. Red. Tired. Gun. He looked down at his bloodied hand. There it was. A gun. A nine-millimeter Personal Protection Pistol. Why was he holding this gun? Zombie. Then he saw the bodies of rotting flesh, the guts spread out like a three-year old finger-painting, the brains splattered on the wall, making this... this canvas of grey and green, and white, and red. Bits of bone crushed into the floor, making these cute little white islands in the endless sea of red. And then he saw the child. Curled up on the floor. Dead. Rotting flesh, a zombie, like the many other bodies. He looked nearly starved. Clothes were rags, no more. Bite mark on leg. A shot to the head. His eye dangled out of it's socket, and he could even see the color beneath the red. Brown. A hazel brown. Much like his. The hair was nearly all fallen out or scattered with the blown skull, but even he could see it's color. Black. And the child, he looked so peaceful on the ground. The teeth in mid bite on a piece of white flesh. Another body. A woman. Hair like the child, except her eyes were blue. Like child, nearly starved. But unlike child, she was not zombie. Human. Skin was white. "Human." The word surprised him as it passed out his lips. She was dead also, shot to head. Child was near leg. Chunk of flesh missing from her leg. Shirt, ripped, bloody, torn. Her face was weird, like it was speaking something before her tragic end. "Shoot me!" Memory came like a flood. Eyes, alive, begging, pleading, among the moans and groans of the crowd outside. Tears. Streaming down his cheek. Child already dead. Shot in head when bit wife. Bitten two weeks ago. Tried to keep him tied up in room, quarantined, hoped for cure. Never came. She was already turning, the hair was falling out, infected area became black. "Shoot me!" She screamed it into his face now. Pleading. He closed eyes, pulled trigger. Some broke through back door. Shot them all. Didn't care about them. Just blood and guts, perfect, like a circle around the two bodies now on the kitchen floor. They were coming. He knew it. Moans, groans, closer, closer. He could feel their teeth breaking through his skin. That would happen. If he didn't do anything. This world was forsaken. He had tried. He had failed. He placed the gun below his head, breathing shakily. This was his punishment. Blah, blah blah I need criticism and stuff. |
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10-02-12 11:39 PM
knightlord255 is Offline
| ID: 662879 | 67 Words
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I think it's amazing, to a degree. You have great emotional factors about the dead zombies near the beginning, but you should try to work on your grammar slightly. I like it though, as I am currently writing a "zombie book" myself. You have a great title also. "Punishment is cool." I also like how you put the human element in the story. Keep it up man. |
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10-02-12 11:47 PM
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I like the story. It was very detail, in a lot of ways, and even some images got stuck in my head while I was reading it. There a some mistake with some grammar while I was reading it. |
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10-02-12 11:58 PM
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Sounds interesting. I look forward to reading more. |
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10-16-12 10:30 PM
TheNameWithNoNumbers is Offline
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A cigarette hung out of his mouth as he smiled. He remembered a funny fact about these. "In England, these are sometimes called fags. So, I have a fag hanging out of my mouth." He spoke the words softly, mumbling to himself, looking through a 4x magnified scope. The target had a bit of brain hanging out, a few strands of hair sticking to it. Dried blood ran down his jaded blue eyes- or rather, eye. One was missing, and the socket had maggots crawling in and out. His mouth was nothing more than jagged teeth, stained with blood. His lips had receded into his face. Eating, decaying, slowly, slowly. He was tired of this guy, he had "lived" too long for the man with the rifle. His smile grew a bit wider at the petty joke as he took the shot. Bang. Or was it zoot? The rifle was silenced, anyway. The zombie fell with one shot, the gray, green, red, all exploding violently, a flash of scrambled flesh, fragmented bone, grey matter. A little eye here and there. With one last weak groan, he fell to the floor. The explosion of "organic" matter was flung unceremoniously on the wall. "Like modern art." He laughed a bit at the crack. He took his rifle down from the firing position. On reflection, he somewhat regretted it. With only 29 bullets left for his gun, he couldn't keep wasting them on trivial matters. There were still 300,000 to deal with! Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, the man tossed out his cigarette from the nearest window. "Again!" The left side of his brain cried. "You'll fall into madness if you don't have some fun!" Right side disagreed. "Left will forsake you for moments of fun. Save your ammo, or you'll perish- and I won't be the main course when they pig out on you!" To be fair, the man reasoned, he would have to raid something for supplies soon. Right side won the battle for now. As he walked down the steps, his mind started to wander off. "What was my name again?" It was always what it had been, Calvin C. Johnson. But, he really didn't care for identity now. He could be the last human on Earth, why bother with names? "Where am I?" Flagstaff. Arizona. His hometown. The place where he was born, and 300,000 men, women, children died, and then rose again. The history of the place... well, that was a more complicated matter... Since I'm back I've decided to make a character! Like, an actual, pliable, character! A cigarette hung out of his mouth as he smiled. He remembered a funny fact about these. "In England, these are sometimes called fags. So, I have a fag hanging out of my mouth." He spoke the words softly, mumbling to himself, looking through a 4x magnified scope. The target had a bit of brain hanging out, a few strands of hair sticking to it. Dried blood ran down his jaded blue eyes- or rather, eye. One was missing, and the socket had maggots crawling in and out. His mouth was nothing more than jagged teeth, stained with blood. His lips had receded into his face. Eating, decaying, slowly, slowly. He was tired of this guy, he had "lived" too long for the man with the rifle. His smile grew a bit wider at the petty joke as he took the shot. Bang. Or was it zoot? The rifle was silenced, anyway. The zombie fell with one shot, the gray, green, red, all exploding violently, a flash of scrambled flesh, fragmented bone, grey matter. A little eye here and there. With one last weak groan, he fell to the floor. The explosion of "organic" matter was flung unceremoniously on the wall. "Like modern art." He laughed a bit at the crack. He took his rifle down from the firing position. On reflection, he somewhat regretted it. With only 29 bullets left for his gun, he couldn't keep wasting them on trivial matters. There were still 300,000 to deal with! Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, the man tossed out his cigarette from the nearest window. "Again!" The left side of his brain cried. "You'll fall into madness if you don't have some fun!" Right side disagreed. "Left will forsake you for moments of fun. Save your ammo, or you'll perish- and I won't be the main course when they pig out on you!" To be fair, the man reasoned, he would have to raid something for supplies soon. Right side won the battle for now. As he walked down the steps, his mind started to wander off. "What was my name again?" It was always what it had been, Calvin C. Johnson. But, he really didn't care for identity now. He could be the last human on Earth, why bother with names? "Where am I?" Flagstaff. Arizona. His hometown. The place where he was born, and 300,000 men, women, children died, and then rose again. The history of the place... well, that was a more complicated matter... Since I'm back I've decided to make a character! Like, an actual, pliable, character! |
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10-21-12 10:12 AM
Batcake is Offline
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Nice story! Bravo! Why didn't you continue the story? Shoot me for no reason! |
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