This began as a quick thought in my head but, like all thoughts I have, it occupied my mind and would not leave, or let me get back to Chronicles of the Enchiridion, until I wrote it down.
Yes, it looks like it's my turn for the ill-faded "Zombie Apocalypse" story. Whoo. But honestly, I don't feel that there are many strong ones on this board; or, at least none that get thick of what makes the zombie apocalypse the zombie apocalypse. It is about your own humanity and survival. Very rarely is there ever the survival aspect, where those left are clambering for whatever they can to live on just one more day. It's only partially about the actual guns and killing.
I'm already covering a different kind of apocalypse with my biggest story, Chronicles of the Enchiridion. However, I hate that I won't get the bone-crushing blunt of the end of the world based on how I have the events of the story laid out. So, here's this.
ANYWAY,
This has influence from S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (though I never played it) and has very Russian vibe to it. This first chapter can be rated T, but any others that may be added will probably pump this to M.
This story was named after the song that inspired it: "On the Road" by The Red Army Choir. I would recommend listening to it at least once during the story. And, if you must, clutch your SKS and stiff a good shot of vodka.
Enjoy.
The cold winter air billows fiercely across the empty, barren plains outside of town. It chills to the point where muscles tense and the very bones seem to be no more than ice.
On the road; another step to nowhere.
Rigby the raccoon braces himself against the chilling gust of wind. He brings up his right hand to shield his face. He wishes it would stop. Every day it hounds and batters his being. Everyday it seems a message to give up; to abandon everything.
His dense, heavy wool coat blocks most of the deluge. The olive color provides good camouflage at least, but it reeks of the dead man he took it from. Despite its convenience, he keeps the hood down in the off chance that maybe... just maybe... someone he knows will recognize him before they riddle him with lead.
The wooden SKS rifle dangles loosely in his left hand. The bolt is drawn back and the collapsible bayonet is folded underneath the barrel. Across his coat sits a vest just as ugly and torn as everything else Rigby carries. It holds everything from stripper clips for his rifle to lighters, a flashlight, his water canteen, and some loose rounds. In a holster on his belt is a cheap revolver.
He was never very good with a gun, hell he never even fired one before this all started. Benson taught them all the basics at least. That was two weeks ago...
The sack on his back digs deep into his shoulders. His tarp sits pulled over it.
Everything is patchy and torn to shreds, but it's his livelihood. It's all Rigby has left.
Another step to nowhere.
Rigby looks to his right. Across the hills and valleys, dead, pale grass pollutes as far as the eye can see. It fits the matching gray sky overhead. The road he walks is as barren and empty as Rigby's world.
It's been six days since Rigby has seen another living soul... other than them. The last person he saw was foaming at the mouth and contorting his body in unholy, bone crunching positions. His eyes were glassy and his hair was falling out. Rigby had the decency to end his short life there and then instead of letting him return more unearthly than when he left. He wasn't proud of taking his wool jacket, but Rigby would need it more than him. The risk of infection didn't matter to him. If what happened to Muscle Man happened to him at this point, he wouldn't mind. But if it did, he wouldn't let it be from a bite.
If one of them does bite, if he is lucky, he will probably die quickly as the chest rips open and organs toss carelessly from the body. This is only if they are not killed after the first brutal gnaw. It's better than the agonizing pain of turning.
"How long has it been?" Rigby ponders momentarily.
With his mundane routine of walking to wherever the road leads on, it's all too easy to lose track of time. Has it been a month since this started? Two months? It might as well be ten months of winter.
All he knows is that he lost sight of Mordecai and the others two weeks ago when they were swarmed. The burning question of who's alive and who's dead still haunts him and adds to the sleepless nights of wonderment.
It's getting dark. Night will come soon.
Rigby ventures from the road into the woods a few hundred feet away. These are some of the only exceptions to departing from the guiding hand of the road.
Rigby finds an toppled dead tree, the roots forming a cove. Perfect. He takes some worn extension cords and rope from his bag as well as untying his brown tarp. He ties it across several trees, angling it away from the cove and facing the road. Once that is done, Rigby scurries through the woodlands around him collecting dead branches.
The wood is piled into a tee-pee and the leaves on the bottom are lit with two matches. Matches are less valuable to waste than lighters. The campfire lies between the tree and the tarp. Thank Christ Thomas was able to teach the rest of the park crew how to build these things.
The tarp keeps the light and heat angled towards Rigby while shielding it from sight of any desperate passerby looking to kill.
The raccoon sheds off the vest, then his coat. His fur bristles in the open air. The fire keeps him warm at least.
Rigby rests against the tree stump. His SKS lies cradled in his arms with a fresh ten-round stripper clip in front of him.
He lies motionless, but awake. It takes the painful memory of Eileen being torn from his arms to make him cry himself to sleep. He dreams about playing video games with Mordecai and slacking off. One of them interrupts their playful session and coats the walls in the blue jay's blood. It's better here, it always is stains the walls.
The raccoon jerks himself awake, rifle immediately pointed around him. His heart pounds fast and loud enough to seemingly be heard for miles.
It takes a minute of realization that he's still alive and his weapon is still unloaded before he calms himself.
He wipes the tears from his face. He hadn't realized he was crying so hard.
Nothing of the fire remains except thin streams of smoke.
The stomach groans loudly. Rigby pulls one of the few cans of corn out of his bag. This will have to be eaten cold. The raccoon stabs the top of the can with his k-bar from his belt and pries the lid off.
He's not ashamed to dive snout first into his food. He gets every kernel and even drinks the revolting, foggy juice inside. Food is hard to come by and he won't let anything go to waste. After wiping his face off, the lone survivor packs down the tarp, covers the fire, removes any traces he was there, and puts his damp, sweat-drenched coat and ammo vest back on.
Another day on the road.
He sulks forward, following the bends and curves of the highway he calls his unofficial home.
His feet are killing him at this point. He wishes he found some boots or shoes.
Suddenly, the wind picks up, much more brutally this time. Except now, it carries something much more deadly: snow.
Rigby is forced to put up his hood as he braces for the unbearable cold. The forces of nature grow angrier and angrier as the wind cuts through the air.
The snow blankets everything in sight in a haze of white. Rigby stumbles forward, barely able to see fifty feet in front of him. His feet waver with each step.
Goddamn, he could use some shoes right now.
With nothing to occupy his time and just the empty pavement and nature's howling banshee to keep him company, the former groundskeeper falls into a daze of thought.
He thinks back to the rest of his coworkers who were alive with him. He'd be dead time after time if it wasn't for them. Benson kept them all in line and organized. Skips was not only the calmest in tough situations, but also the strongest. He grappled with one barehanded and ripped its jaw from its skull. Thomas knew some vital stuff, but could be as useless as Rigby at times. Pops kept everyone going with his optimism, as did Muscle Man and High Five Ghost with their jokes and humor. It was nice to have. It was a blow to everyone when Muscle Man turned and Fives left. Margaret and Eileen were with them. He tried to hold her close until the end. He never wanted her to leave her side. I don't know what's more painful, her being ripped right out of my arms or being to stupid to tell her that I loved her before she was gone. He'd like to think Eileen is still alive, but he knows she probably isn't anymore. Then there's Mordecai...
Mordecai saved his life on so many more occasions than did Rigby in returning the favor. He made sure Rigby was alive. He kept the poor raccoon going after Eileen was separated. He's the one who gave him the drive to keep moving on. Rigby never thanked him as much as he should have for everything.
How am I still alive... Me... Rigby? It's just me. I'm not special at all. I was the weakest out of all of them. I even overheard Muscle Man say that I wasn't going to make it.
How the hell am I still alive even though everyone else is dead?!
Crap.
CRAP!
A pale green smog came tumbling ahead of him through the wintry curtain. He was dozing off for too long to realize what was right in front of him.
Rigby stops and throws his bag in front of him. "Come on. Come on!" he mutters aloud.
Finally he finds the worn, pale gas mask and straps it over his muzzle. The hose at the end connects to the filter which he clips to his vest.
He hates wearing it. It feels like he's monster inside of it. The bandits always wore these wretched things whenever they robbed. They do a fantastic job of terrifying whichever victim they faced.
His field of view is restricted to two, small circles surrounded in darkness. His breathing echoes through the mask. Through the lenses, he can see the green gas weave around him.
He slips the bag back on and dons the loaded revolver.
No one knows what the this mysterious, poison gas is or where it comes from. All anyone knows is that it scorches the throat as the lungs fill with blood. On top of that, they aren't hurt by it... An ambush through the smog is the most likely way to die.
Rigby's revolver quivers at his side. His SKS slings over his left shoulder and his other hand draws out the k-bar. At this range, if anything did pounce, his rifle would be useless.
The smoke here proves too thick. If the snow wasn't bad enough, it seems that the green, poisonous air extends miles in both directions.
Can't go around it.
It would be stupid to wait it out.
Can't outrun it going back.
The only way is to go right through it.
On the road, another step to nowhere...
His mask darts constantly darts back and forth, gun wavering.
HAEEEUUUGGHHFF
HUUUEEE
His breathing is emulated. It creates odd sounds in his head. It's playing with his mind. The crunch of the accumulating snow beneath his feet doesn't help either.
For three agonizing hours, he shuffles through the smog, pistol always at the ready.
Finally, the green smog clears, which gives him a sigh of relied. The snow, however, refuses to let up. The frozen whiteness blankets the ground by at least a half of an inch.
He can relax a little bit. Back into the holsters the knife and revolver depart as the SKS takes their places. Rigby does not want to waste the effort to remove his gas mask until he has to sleep.
Nightfall again.
He sets his camp against the trunk of a pine that is relatively clear underneath. As if by a miracle, he manages a lit fire.
He can't remove his stingy, smelling coat this time. It's far too cold. He'll have to just sleep with it on, rifle in his arms. He does at least remove the pale gas mask in order to fully breath in the fresh, yet dense and dry, air.
He eats a few slices of deer jerky in a plastic bag before falling asleep, again to the thoughts of Eileen and the others.
A high pitch screech pierces through the night. It cracks through the air, sounding like cries from hell itself.
Rigby jerks awake. He knows that sound.
He immediately smothers the fire with the butt of his rifle. "Oh crap oh crap oh crap!" His heart leaps from his chest.
The fire is smothered and Rigby's hands fumble with the ammo vest to his side. His eyes dart around the pitch blackness. Quivering fingers dive through pocket after pocket.
"Where is it?!"
Finally, he finds the ten round stripper clip. He unlatches the bayonet and fixes it on the muzzle. The clip slides into the catch at the back of the action. He presses the rounds into the rifle with his thumb and puts the clip in his pocket.
Slide racked forward, safety off, and finger on the trigger.
He looks everywhere. There' no signs of life. Not even the mist of breathing other than his own.
He hears another ear piercing screech.
The crack of rifles in the distance.
Another scream. This time, it's a person's.
Poor guy.
Rigby relaxes a bit, blinking at the realization of what is happening. But still, it shakes him too much.
He sits against the tree stump, rifle aimed all around.
Not a single minute of sleep was had that night.
Restless and weary, Rigby spends another day on the road.
The snow still blinds everything as Rigby trudges through. His feet feel frozen, but he presses on. Hopefully he can find the boots of whoever that was last night. Hopefully they had the common sense to off themselves first.
Nothing but blinding whiteness against the pavement.
Finally, he sees something in the distance.
A silhouetted figure.
Rigby unfolds the bayonet on his SKS.
The rounds are still in the chamber. Ten is all he has to protect his life with. Just ten.
He shoulders his rifle, just as Benson showed him.
His breathing is too heavy; surely the stranger heard him by now.
The figure is slugging around, not in any discernible direction.
Rigby clears his throat.
"H-H-ello...?" he calls out.
No response.
Rigby gulps.
"Hello?!"
The figure turns.
Glowing beady eyes meet his. The yellow eyes pierce through the blinding wind.
It's one of them.
RRRRRRWWWWHHHHHAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII It screams violently as it rushes him. It shrieks with all the fury of hell.
It's a screamer.
Oh shit!
Rigby backs up, firing wildly at the charging creature.
He lobs off only three rounds until it reaches him.
The tattered clothes of the monster sit against pale, glossy gray skin. The fingers are mutated into claws.
It leaps onto the terrified raccoon, tumbling both of them to the ground.
The bayonet of the rifle slides through the monster's chest, showering Rigby with its slimy, putrid blood.
A barrel length is all that separates them.
It shrieks again. Rigby's ears ring until he goes momentarily deaf. He's screaming with it.
It's undeterred as its jaws snap wildly, a mere foot above the raccoon's face. The clicks are menacing and the creature's teeth crack from the sheer pressure of each bite.
Rigby fires his SKS into its chest, round after round. The screamer jerks as its flesh is ripped into the air until the bullets create a hole large enough that they no longer even graze flesh.
The valkyrie still screams.
It slashes for Rigby's face. The raccoon barely ducks, panting heavily as the dirt above him is kicked into the air.
It slides further down the bayonet, jaws inching closer to the raccoon's scrawny neck.
Rigby screams as he lets go of the rifle and draws his revolver.
BAM
The round goes through the monster's head.
He fires again and again.
It slumps on top of him, dead. The weight crushes his chest.
The blood splashes over his face and coat. "Holy Sh-!" he speaks in complete shock and racked with adrenaline. Rigby wiggles his way out, gasping for air once he does. He turns and pukes across the snowy pavement.
The smell clings to him.
He yanks out his rifle; the bayonet is slightly bent.
Another scream sounds in the distance behind him.
Rigby looks ahead.
No going back; no going around.
On the road, he presses onward...
I left a lot of this intentionally vague and in the dark. I'm not sure what I want to do with it yet; whether I start the story from the beginning back and forth or keep it going with just Rigby from here.
Honestly, I think too many characters clutter up stories and can ruin something like this. If I were to go the other route, I could keep it focused solely on Rigby and his struggles for survival. Of course, there would be human foes and other dangers to keep things interesting with some friendly faces, but lone survivor stories intrigue me. Then again, the opening leaves so much for question and imagination and its making me curious as hell how everything unfolded with the rest of the park crew. Or should I just keep this a dark one-shot?
Anyway, leave me a review and let me know what you think of the story and/or what direction I should take.
Thank you guys so much for the read, even if you don't review.
(Also, I have so many stories on my plate that I have no idea if I can update this. The idea is that if I'm not interested in one story one day, there's like five or six more I can turn to. That or I don't have drive for any of them... XP If this gets enough support, I will try my hardest to write it.)