Marineking

((Just a couple of things I want to clear up. First, I know theres a... bit... of swearing in my post, but I figured my character, especially in this situation, would seem laughable if he didn't curse a lot. Also, a small question on zombie-physics. For one, I'm assuming it's the standard brain-to-head for killing, and everything else is pretty much useless? And secondly, do zombies get stronger at night, weaker in daylight and such, or just pains in the asses all around?))

Bang! Bang!

The bullets ripped through the distance toward the monster, one of them missing target and landing under the neck, but the second one buried itself solidly into bone and brain. With a couple of vehement curses, James whipped open the chamber on his pathetic little revolver and pushed bullets into it as fast as he could. "Max!" He shouted, his head whipping to all sides, "Max, dammit, where the hell are you? I'm doing all the fuckin' work over here! Max!"

Finally, as he was closing up his gun, he spotted his last companion. Poor bastard was lodged up against the wall, with two dead zombies on him, one that had begun feasting on his throat, and the other his crotch. Several jokes too shoddy even for one of James caliber surfaced before he could stop them, but instead he just growled deep in his throat and whipped around, his boots pounding in the opposite direction as fast as they could. Just because he'd killed the last one in sight, that didn't mean there wasn't a shitload more waiting out of sight, especially in the darkness that smothered everything.

After a few minutes he slowed a bit and checked his stuff; he was running low on bullets, just about three and a half full-loads left; his knife was firmly in place at his belt, and his gloves waited patiently in a fanny-sack around his waist; his coat was also pretty messed up, with a big tear down the side where a zombie had tried to bite through his leg. All in all, he'd gotten out of that pretty well, at least better then his most recent group of crackheads. He'd gotten lucky and found a pretty big one, but with size came a measure of safety, and thus arrogance. The women and lazy-ass men had decided they were perfectly fine in their precious Wal-Mart, despite the fact that it was only a matter of time before the zombies found a way in through the very breakable glass-door. James and Max were smart enough to pack some food - a share of which James just happened to be carrying in a small pack on his back even now - and got the hell out of there. They visited again later on, but there was nothing left of the place.

James swore again, and then again for good measure. He'd been with Max, just the two of them, for a while, and he'd started liking the guy. Smart, resourceful, and a fellow user of his survival instinct, he was not only a valuable ally, but was beginning to turn into a good friend. It was damn typical; the one guy worth living in this hell of a city was not only one who didn't, but one who died in an extremely undignified manner.

Shaking the thoughts out of his head - the man was dead, so forget him! - James came to a stop at the corner of a street, leaned up against the wall, and breathed in truckloads of air while pointing his gun around the compass just in case. The street sign was missing, so he didn't know where he was, but all in all, he didn't really care either. Wearily, he began moving again in a direction picked at random. To stay still was death.

He hadn't been moving long when he hear gunshots up ahead. In turn, his legs sped up, and he zeroed in on where the sounds were coming from, all the while praying to every videogame-god he knew that the bastards hadn't learned how to shoot yet.

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