Albert Newman paced up and down the dusty sanctuary. Glancing to the shattered rose window and back to the church's main doors, he made up his mind. He had to get out of Shackleville. More zombies had been moving in from the north and west, and the streets were no longer safe, even in the full light of day.
Thunder boomed outside and a light drizzle began to fall. Albert gathered his meager belongings-- the rain would help him slip out of Shackleville unseen, and more importantly, unheard and unsmelled. Securing his handgun in a makeshift holster on his right hip, Albert buckled on the flak jacket he had found near the abandoned police station. His backpack was full of the rations and the makeshift medical supplies that could mean the difference between life and death in Malton.
Striding to the door, Albert picked up the other difference between life and death-- his heavy fire axe. It had been a cold day when Albert spotted the axe in the rubble of the local fire station. Almost four feet of wooden haft and a blunted red blade, it felt like an old friend as Albert hefted it on his shoulder. With one last look around the sanctuary, Albert stepped out into the rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment