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Outpost: Part III

Written by Pirkid on October 2, 2009
Part I
Part II
Scientific Inquiry I



Union Station on Friday afternoon contained the same allusion as a overcrowded pig sty in a disgusted farmer's backyard. Dozens upon dozens of civilians, equipped with free newspapers, dripping ice cream, or a $1.39 burger, shuffled and bumped into each other, playing the world's largest and least fun game of Twister. Amidst this chaos, Rebecca hurried to the east seating area, hoping to secure the last plastic backed chair available. She squeezed in between a couple interlocked at the lips in a sensual farewell, fidgeted her way through a throng of pre-schoolers and their hapless caretaker, and witnessed an ambling old lady with a triple-pronged walker making her way to Rebecca's seat.

"Oh, no, you don't." Sliding on her heels (a feat revered by males and females alike), she plopped down into the chair, dropping her shoulder-bag beside her and releasing a heavy sigh. The elderly lady ambled by, blind. Rebecca sighed again, reaching into her jacket.

It had been a long day.

As a pharmaceutical accountant, Rebecca had been up to her neck in request forms and invoices from pharmacies state-wide, all over the new proposed cure to some sort of infection that had taken over the East Coast. With her two interns gone, she was quite literally exhausted. Moreover, her boss had a row with her only this morning about her two unofficial sick days, streaming from the strange cold her ex-fiancee had given her a few weeks ago after making an unexpected visit. Sick, tired, and hungry, she reluctantly pulled out a worn 24-pack cigarette and slid a cancer stick out, fingering for her lighter buried deep in her trenchcoat pockets. Lighting the stick, she fell back on the chair and inhaled deeply. The rancid smoke burned her throat and made her tongue feel fuzzy, but it was a high that she desperately needed.

As she continued to puff, occasionally checking her watch and the train schedule, she felt a presence behind her. A smooth hand reached out and plucked the cigarette from her mouth, bringing it upwards. Rebecca looked up, furious. A young man was taking a puff of her cig.

"Ah, my black widow, once again I suckle at your evil black teet." He sighed, took the cig out of his mouth, and held it out to a steaming Rebecca. She stood up, snatching the stick from his hands and throwing it vehemently to the floor.

"You owe me a new cigarette, good sir!" The words stuck in her mouth as she choked on a small puff of regurgitated smoke.

"You owe me a date, my sweet flower." The man winked at her, hands in pockets.

Rebecca was instantly disarmed. The man's voice was velvet, his skin and pallor smooth and unnerving. He was wearing a light leather jacket that bound tighty to his slightly toned frame, and black too-long slacks. His shoes shone with a white brilliance that distracted Rebecca's focus.

"Err, um.." The man was unnaturally charming. Rebecca had never been a stickler for tall, dark strangers (in her dreams, perhaps, but not in reality), and she tripped over her next sentence.

" dare you..that was my..who just does that?!" She was still furious.

"Final boarding call for Train 2L44R, departing to Kingley, Litou, and Cambridge. Final boarding call for Train 2L44R at Gate 7!" The automated, robotic female voice echoed across the station, shielded by the loud chatter of the civilians. All around her, the people in chairs got up, picking up their bags and proceeding to the gate.

"Oh, my. I guess this is farewell, although it pains my heart so. We will meet again, my love." The man blew a soft kiss and swiftly walked away, disappearing in the moving mob.
Absolutly bewildered, Rebecca leaned down to pick up her bag when she noticed an unlit cigarette lying on top, tied to some sort of business card. Unraveling the note, she smiled slightly at the man's cheek.

"Richard Gao, at your service," the note said in fancy, golden script. Rebecca pocketed the note, tossed the cigarette in the nearby bin, and hurried to join the group squeezing through the gate.


The screaming did not stop. The blood, everywhere, painting the walls and streets.
At last, revelation. The Apocalypse. Final Day. The last stand of man against beast. The survival of only the very best.

For Tal'rak, today was the day he has been waiting for his entire life.

He walked down the rainy street, immune to the sound of destruction and chaos about him. It was a beautiful symphony to him, the rain pittering on the ground, the echo of civilians screaming and beasts roaring vibrating against the tall skyscrapers, and the quick pace of his footsteps on the wet floor.

"One, two, one, two.." He counted as his feet splashed on the ground. "Three, four, three, four, everyone dead on the floor.."

His left eye twitched slightly. There was a long scar on his neck that ran the length from his right ear to his lower left collarbone, black like tar. His skin gleamed with a light tanned brown,

"Can nobody destroy it quite like me, drown it just right through the night like me..."


Rob Geller was running down the block, many of the pertaining stores on the street closed. Panting, he looked back at the restaurant, which was now ablaze. The cars in the parking lot were being smashing in by the massive one-armed behemoth. Slipping on the slick concrete, he fell into a puddle, spraying brown water all over him. He got to his knees and looked back again. The mutated..things were now leaving the restaurant and sprinted up and down the street. Two of them were heading for him as he sat there in the puddle, the occasional showers from the grey overcast sky drenching him every few seconds.

Alarmed, he groped around with his hand instinctly. His right index finger swept across something sharp and metal. Reaching, he grasped the small cleaver that he had dropped when he fell into the puddle. He stood up, his hand tightening on the cleaver, dripping with water and Boomer bile.

"Come on! Over here!" He yelled out at the two sprinting humanoids, slightly delirious. He spat on the floor.

"I'm waiti-"

One of the zombies had shot out a long tentacle or tongue that had wrapped itself on Rob's left foot. Startled, he tripped and fell hard on his back. The zombie began to jerk its head backwards, dragging Rob along the wet floor easily. Rob, trying to reach the tongue wrapped around his foot with the cleaver. The other zombie caught up to Rob and attempted to stop, but slid on the slippery concrete and slid past him. Turning around, the zombie jumped up and landed on Rob. Rob kicked up with his right left and kicked the zombie off him before the zombie's claw could dig into his flesh. The Smoker continued to pull Rob along the floor. Reaching with a sit-up, Rob arched his back and hurled the cleaver at the Smoker. Surprisingly, it hit the zombie in the middle of it's arm. The Smoker flinched, flailing wildly as it attempted to remove the embedded weapon. The tongue now slack, Rob unraveled his foot and stood up, only to be knocked down by the second zombie who had gotten up. Struggling, he pushed the zombie away, running towards the confused Smoker. The Infected gave chase, sprinting. Rob was not a very good runner, and the zombie quickly caught up.

There was a loud crunching sound. Skidding, Rob turned around to see the Infected flying through the air, hit by an incoming taxi cab. The driver fell out of his chair, scrambling to get up. The taxi itself was battered and bruised, the hood now covered in blood.

"Get that tongue thing!" The driver yelled, pointing to Rob. Rob turned and was hit in the face by the tongue of the Smoker, who had recovered from the attack. The cleaver remained embedded in it's left arm. Rob fell on his back again, he heard a small crack as he made contact with the concrete.

The pain was excruciating. He felt like his spine was on fire. His body continued to be dragged across the floor. Rob closed his eyes in pain, unable to muster enough energy to fight against the pull.

Suddenly, the tongue slackened again. Rob opened his eyes. The cab driver had shot the Smoker in the face with a USP, and was standing near the cab door, a small stream of smoke floating away from the barrel. The Smoker fell onto it's back and moved no more.

Rob's vision went slightly blurry, his mind floating in purgatory between consciousness and unconsciousness. He witnessed flashes of random people standing above his body, then his shoulders cried out as someone dislocated them. He saw the dashboard of an old taxi, and someone dabbing at his eyebrow with a pink gauze pad..


Rob came to in the shotgun of a taxi cab, bleary-eyed and hungry. Beside him, driving the taxi nearly 130 mph down an abandoned street, was a black man, stocky, the same man that had ragdolled the infected beast and shot the tongue thing.

"Where..where am I?" Rob looked around. Scenery whizzed by, inconspicuous.

"You're safe, brudda, my name's Jamal. I saved your white ass back there on Pennymelon Crecent. Man, what a fruity name for a street. No wonder the first zombies of the city attack there." He chuckled, his small mustache fluttering with the draft of the air conditioner.

"Z-..zombies?! What are you-"

"Zombies, brudda! Meng, they were all over you. Lucky you're alive, I got you into my cab and drove off before those damn storekeepers asked questions. I'm sure they were entertained by the dead zombies in the street, har har. Cowards, come out after the fight's
done, eh? They can all suck it, fags." He guffawed to himself.

Rob's back and shoulders were burning. He felt a small trickle of blood from his eyebrow.

"Brudda, how your shoulders be? I accidentally screwed 'em up when trying to get your fat ass in the car, you're damn heavy for a chef. Do you eat all the food you make?" He laughed again.

Rob rotated his shoulder blades. They seemed to be fine, but he was still a bit paranoid.

"How did you..why were you on that street?"

"Ah, meng, that's a long story..."

Continued in Outpost: Part 4

~Pir <3

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October 2, 2009
Submitted on

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March 20, 2009

Pirkid's blogs


Fri Oct 02, 2009 05:14 AM +

I like imagining his accent ^^ It sounds awesome in my head

Fri Oct 02, 2009 05:17 AM +


Fri Oct 02, 2009 05:18 AM +

yah mon.

he is total Jamaican rasta man. I know it.

Fri Oct 02, 2009 12:15 PM +

I realize now that I'm not popular enough to be in anyone's story. No one ever includes me. Oh well. Too bad for me I guess. GJ!

Fri Oct 02, 2009 12:47 PM [Edited once ] +

True13lue said: I realize now that I'm not popular enough to be in anyone's story. No one ever includes me. Oh well. Too bad for me I guess. GJ!

Give me a character name and job, (and age if you want), and I'll put you in next. :) :3

EDIT: You just missed the sign-up is all, it was a long time ago. I'm a slow writer. >>

Sat Oct 03, 2009 11:21 PM +


Sat Nov 07, 2009 07:15 PM +

Wow pretty good so far!
I can tell your proud, cause of the way you shouted at me when I told you I didn't read it yet. xD


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