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The Long Way Home

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The Long Way Home




Zombies don't move fast but, once they sense prey, they don't give up.


Jack wasn't sure exactly how they did it: by smell, vision and definitely by sound. Noise will always get their attention. A gun shot would be like ringing a dinner bell for them for miles in every direction. That's why he carried a 32 inch titanium crowbar instead of a rifle.


He was careful in his scrounging. He had to be to have been alive this long. He had dispatched over a hundred zombies as he plundered the pantries of the houses on the outskirts of town. Once those were picked clean, he had to go further into town. That was why he had a backpack full of Dinty Moore beef stew and forty zombies chasing him down the long road out of town into the hills.


It was easy enough to stay ahead of them at a fast walk. Occasionally one of the fresher ones would get too close and catch a crowbar to the cranium. It was easy enough four hours ago but now, Jack was beginning to sweat- literally and figuratively.


Of course he had been chased before. Ones and twos were no problem. A dozen had once followed him out into the woody hills where he had taken them out one by one. But forty?


Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap on a crap cracker.


As the shadows lengthened, Jack knew he had to make a move. Some kind of move.


Sprinting to break away from the pack was out of the question. Hours ago, that would have been his choice. It wasn't anymore. He was too deep in town when this started. Now, he just didn't have the legs for it.


If Jack was going to survive this cluster fuck, he was going to have to use every trick in his playbook and, make up a few more along the way.


He crested the hill in front of the Johnson's ranch and decided it was time to start.


Jack cut toward the wood farm fence and deftly hopped over it.


For the zombies, the farm fence proved a difficult challenge. Slow and clumsy on a good day, the zombies tried to go over or through the fence only to catch a crow bar to their heads. Jack dispensed with twelve of their number before too many made it across to his side.


With his entourage numbers somewhat reduced, he made his way across the pasture to another fence and repeated the performance.


On the second fence he was able to bludgeon another ten but his arms were burning as hot and painfully as his thighs.


Now that he had the zombie crowd cut down to more manageable numbers, Jack turned towards home.


He still had about eighteen of the shamblers on his trail but they were pretty stupid. They kept falling for the same trick.


Two more fences and they were done.


Jack made it to the stronghold well after dark. The factory was the perfect hideout for their group of survivors. There was only the front gate and a ten foot cyclone fence with a privacy barrier surrounding the entire property.


One of the kids was watching from a concealed lookout position and the gates opened and closed as soon as he was inside.


The kid on watch Randy said, "What took you so long Jack? We were worried."


Jack sighed, put his arm around Randy's shoulder, handed his pack to the kid and said, "Oh you know. Just another day at the office."

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17 hours ago, Cole Parker said:

Come on, Trab.  You're going to let  him get away with 'fourty'?

But I love the story.  Thanks, James.


Yes. I was ignoring that as being only a typo, not to mention that it's not nice to be overwhelming, immediately. ?

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14 hours ago, JamesSavik said:

Cut me a break! My auto-incorrect spell checker is a real ballbuster.

No kindling, huh. I'm finding the autocollect (ha) is ten tomes words than just two yards aglow. Some of the crepes it comes up with will sample a maize you.

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6 hours ago, JamesSavik said:

auto-incorrect - I must set it on fire 

Or... let your cat wander on your keyboard once in a while and then you can blame all autocorrect problems on kitty.

Colin  :icon_geek:

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5 hours ago, colinian said:

blame all autocorrect problems on kitty.

A different kind of kitty litter. (Literature) ??

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