The Humvee was surrounded. They seemed to know that vehicles sometimes contained a tasty, gooey center and were always eager to examine ones they had not seen before. Well, it may have been the fact that there was a steady stream of gore sluicing off the bumper, evidence of the last group I’d come across on my drive to this location.
They saw me as I stepped out of the shattered glass doors of the Sheriff’s station carrying a duffel bag full of pistols. Like an idiot, I’d just walked right over the pile of glass, too caught up in the elation of some new firepower to exercise proper sound discipline. Mac followed me outside and gave me the, “machete or shotgun” look. I dropped the bag and replaced it with my twin .45s. He got the message and it was game on.
In the end, he did get to use the machete; his 12-gauge lay at the entrance to the station, empty. My pistols were dry and I finally let go of the table leg I’d used to bash in the head of the last of them. We’d done a little redecorating. Mac was more nervous than happy; the gunshots were bound to attract any zombies in the neighborhood, and upon returning to the Humvee, his fear was realized.
The odds were now roughly fifty-to-one. I got the “we should have used the machete look” from Mac as we grabbed the bag of guns and high-tailed it out the back. I remembered seeing a beat up panel van around the corner that’d at least get us home.
Welcome to the game that plays in my head each night.
I just wrapped up a 15-year game art career because of these visions. Someone once used a word to describe my condition: Vidiot.