Zombi Siege 2

The ancient asphalt crushed under the bike's wheels as it rode into the ruins of Old Las Vegas. The city stank of expired flesh on an open flame: Unbearable.

What was once a beautiful yet dizzying array of neon lights and super-sized decorative buildings is now an empty ruin. Soft groans could be heard in the distance, notifying the Rider of the immense city's new inhabitants.

The bike hadn't screeched very far into the ruins before the Rider's nerves started getting the best of him. He began to look over his shoulders skittishly, expecting something to pop up from no-where and disembowel him.

The Rider increased the throttle as the groans grew in frequency. He reached the inner city, and suddenly began to feel an urge to stop.

The Rider examined his surroundings, which seemed familiar to him. To his left, a rustic themed building with its top floors completely removed; to his right, a massive dried fountain, which complimented a building that was based off of Greek architecture. It was without a doubt, the Caesar's Palace.

Suddenly, he paused.

His head cocked, and his eyes went cold. He thumbed the motorcycle's key off, pushed down the kickstand and let it lean. He drew a Glock-18 automatic pistol from the lining of his riding jacket, and checked the clip and slide. He cocked the weapon, and held it motionless at the side of his ruffled jeans. Approaching dust winds made his riding jacket rustle.

Within seconds moans became louder in the distance.

"Zeds," the driver said in his gruff voice that leaked urgency. He slowly raised the gun as figures stumbled towards him out of the rising dust.

The first figure to become more than a mere silhouette was a teenager, possibly sixteen years old. Haggard skin ridden with bite marks contrasted with his dark brown hair. His t-shirt was scattered lazily across his torso in tatters, ripped apart from what appeared to be human hands. His jeans were clean, except for a tear in the knee, from which a chunk of flesh was missing.

The Rider tried not the reconstruct what had happened to the boy, but couldn't help it. The kid was probably ambushed in a field where a Zombie had been lying on its broken legs, unable to stand, and bit him in the kneecap. The kid falls screaming, and gets his chest ripped open for his carelessness. He is bitten all over as he starts to go into shock.

He raised the Glock-18 with steady aim, and shot what was once a young teen square in its forehead causing a small cloud of coagulated blood and brain matter to spray spasmodically from his limp body. The Zed fell as if he had been lynched, legs first. No blood pooled, it rather scattered due to its coagulated thickness.

He aimed at the next one, a pregnant female, and finished her with another headshot. The next shot was the same, as was the one after that, and after that, and the same shot over and over until the wave of Zeds were through, pausing occasionally to reload.

The last Zombie dropped to its second grave as the Rider kick-started the ignition on his bike nonchalantly. He rested his Glock back home in his jacket, and sped away leaving the corpses to rot further.

His bike lurched as he switched on Turbo. The Rider swept passed more and more destruction, all growing worse and worse with each square foot. The bike sputtered and crept along slowly while the Rider examined his surroundings, expecting more Zeds. He suddenly found the end of his long trek at the mouth of an old Traffic Tunnel.

Several old chain link fences gated it off, as if a band of survivors from the First Days had made an attempt to create a makeshift barrier for themselves as they sought refuge from the hordes of Zeds. He lingered at the mouth of the tunnel expectantly. Suddenly, a fast groan passed his right ear. Before he could unholster his Glock-18, a Zed forced its way onto his arm, grasping it tightly.

The rider attempted to punch the Zed with his free arm, but the Zed had grabbed it before he could get off a clear punch. It opened its gaping mouth in attempts to bite the Rider, but the Rider had managed to free his legs from their holsters in the bike, and kicked the Zed away from his body with some force. The decaying bastard stumbled backwards several feet, and tripped over a storm drain, his head collapsing onto an old protruding piece of rebar on the sidewalk, ending its hungry "life".

After he was able to get his Barings, the Rider quickly looked up, alerted by several more faceless groans that had joined the party. He drew his Glock-18 and advanced to the tunnel. His head craned backwards when the groans grew louder behind him.

He turned back toward the tunnel. The Rider proceeded with his search for an entrance for several minutes to no avail. He considered finding another way into the tunnel, but the groans around him were growing in intensity, signaling that time was short.

He finally broke down and screamed into the tunnel. "Hello?" No answer. "Hello!" The results were unchanged. "This is Officer Lucas Alexander, LAPD. Can anyone hear me?"

Again, the answer was nil. He turned and considered forgetting his entire journey, but a strange noise escaped the tunnel.

"Are you infected?" Came a quiet voice from the shadows.

The Rider turned to the tunnel to meet the source of the voice, but found no face to be looking back at him, only a silhouette before a lamp in the darkness. "No, but if I stay out here much longer that'll change." Said the Rider. "Let me in, I've got a supply crate on my bike that you can use as collateral for my stay here."

A young man stepped forward from the shadows to the gate to unlock it. The man wore nothing more than a faded blue jumpsuit, a Kevlar vest, a pair of black converse and a navy-blue beanie as protection.

"Are you alone?" Said the man "Did any of them follow you?"

"No, but I can hear them advancing from all directions. They'll be here soon if you don't let me in."

The man held a Heckler & Koch MP7 Submachine Gun in his hands, along with what appeared to be an old pipe wrench of some kind, albeit heavily modified. He kneeled down to the bottom of the Fence and unscrewed a thick bolt. It was apparently a lock-and-key system for the gate, as the man proceeded to untighten several more bolts from other places of the gate, including parts that held in onto the concrete.

He raised a portion of the gate that the rider barely managed to fit his motorcycle through. He had only touched the ground on the other side of the gate when another voice screamed "DAMMIT! THEY'RE HERE!"

The Rider turned to the gate instinctively, and pulled his Glock-18 from his jacket. The first figure he had met closed the gate, and was retightening the bolts quickly as his allies picked off the incoming Zombies with the Rider's help. The man had finished his work and rejoined the others as a Zombie launched itself onto the gate.

The Rider shot the old Zombie square between the eyes as a cloud of thick black blood splashed from his forehead. The Zombie dropped to his feet as another had risen from the dust to take its place. The hordes seemed to be ongoing with no end, but the Rider kept on firing mercilessly into the crowd of rotting corpses.

There seemed to be a sort of pattern with his shots: head, neck, torso, torso, neck, head, and etcetera. Many of his shots served as nothing more than a minor distraction for the Zombies, while the faceless figures crowded around the Rider had managed to finish the job.

As the last corpse fell, the Rider could not help but hold his position, gun ready, for several seconds afterward. Apparently the men around him had also had some close calls as well, because they too stood ready for another wave.

He could not see their faces, but the Rider had counted at least seven other muzzle flashes that had erupted around him. How could he have not turned on his flashlight to check the tunnel before trying to gain entry? They must have had a laugh watching him try to open the gate.

"Quckly," said the voice of the man who had opened the gate. "We should head down to the Dwellings. I think that's the last of 'em."

The men then proceeded to turn on an old floodlight in the back of what appeared to be an old subway lobby. The light filled the room, illuminating every nook and cranny. There was nowhere to hide in here.

After closing what looked like a shopkeeper's gate from an old mall over the already existing makeshift barrier, the Rider and this squad of apparent mechanics left the lobby without a word.