Crouching, James crept down the narrow alley, his revolver held next to his head with the hammer pulled back. Ever so carefully he came to the corner and stopped, shoving his gun out around the corner before following with his head. The street was littered - no, more like completely trashed - with mutilated corpses. The fresh blood yet heavily decayed bodies told him they weren't anyone he should feel sorry for. He examined them the best he could from where he crouched, straining his usually great eyesight to it's weary limits. He wasn't an expert, but by the way the bodies were deformed, he could tell they were done by human hands. Even if the zombies had learned to shoot, they couldn't possibly be that good.
Not dropping his guard, he rose to his feet and began creeping along the wall around the corner, heading in the direction the most of the corpses were "pointing" at. He kept his gun at the ready, holding it away from his body with his right hand and keeping the left on his knife handle. He stared at every every window and ducked into every alley; his every muscle strained for sudden release. The danger of the situation got his blood pumping, and he even grinned slightly. Imminent death couldn't do much to keep the excitement down in him for long, sometimes it just made it sweeter. He'd always lived his life on the edge, never regretting a moment behind him, and this seemed to be what he was born for; to creep along in the night and fight every moment for his survival. Damned sure wasn't boring, at the very least.
Finally he approached the building at the end of the street and ducked quickly into another alley, scanning it with his gun to make sure no zombies were inside and then crouching down and opening his ears. He listened carefully, and sniffed occasionally. Sometimes, you could smell or hear a zombie long before you saw them. His caution payed off a few moments later when he heard what he thought were voices. Straining, he was just able to make out a few words, spoken in a damned unintelligible southern accent. Well, at least he was living, and knew how to a use a gun, and unless he was talking to himself, he had friends.
Holding his gun above his head, he stepped and and said, in a voice that he hoped wasn't loud enough to attract anything, "Don't shoot!" But he still kept his hand on his knife.
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