Hello, boys and girls. I thought I would write a FanFic involving The Flood (you know, because that idea's [i]never[/i] been done before). What you are about to witness is the fruits of my labour. "But what is this story about?!", I hear you cry. Yes, you guessed it, its about zombies. However, this is different from the "Zombie Game FTW!" sticky: this is a narrative that I write, and you kind people read, as opposed o everyone writing thir own. Boring? Perhaps. Some entertianment and practice for me? Certainly. So, sit back and relax, and have fun reading the bloodsplattered story which follows: [b][u]ZOMG Zombehz![/b][/u] Pyroshark sat up on his bed, which was the first mistake of the day. The several drinks he had had the night before caught up with him in a wave of nausea and a blistering headache. The low ceiling did nothing to improve matters. He clutched his head in his hands, willing the hangover to go away, and groaned as the memory of the previous night’s events returned to his memory. Semi-consciously, Pyroshark vowed to never again challenge a stranger in a gorilla suit and a yellow hat to a drinking contest. After the hangover was relatively better, Pyroshark disentangled himself from the sheets and stumbled over to the sink in the adjoining bathroom. He filled the sink with cold water, and plunged his face into it. The water was icy cold, and he quickly withdrew his face with an involuntary gasp. After a half-hearted attempt to tame his long, unruly and now soaking-wet hair, followed by a series of minor incidents involving clothing, Pyroshark stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen. As he crossed the threshold, the queasiness in his stomach returned with a sickening lurch, for which he could not account for. Perhaps it was the baking soda that he ate before drinking last night catching up with him; perhaps it was the prospect of yet another tedious nine-to-five workday; perhaps it was the horde of bloodthirsty animated corpses clawing at the kitchen window. Whatever it was, Pyroshark was sure that this would be a long day. Elsewhere in Bungopia, the residents were awakening to various degrees of horror. Overnight an epidemic of a new regenerative virus, already christened “The zombie virus”, had ravaged the city, turning over ninety per cent of its population into slow, dim-witted, flesh-eating monstrosities. The difference was subtle. Now, with dawn breaking, the few surviving residents were responding to this unusual change in their morning routine with various attitudes: some readily grabbed the closest available weapon and headed for the nearest safe position; some found the legions of undead side-splittingly funny; most ran around in the streets squealing “ZOMG ZOMBEHZ!” at the top of their lungs. Fortunately, most of the population with intact sense and sanity were already en route to the city’s biggest shopping mall. One such group of survivors was running down Flood Avenue, in an attempt to retrieve survivors and escape from the horde of zombies in pursuit. The man at the head of the procession, gruntfarmer, was alternating between firing shots at anything that looked undead, and swearing liberally at the rest of the group to move faster. As they ran along the broad street, gruntfarmer noticed that one particular house was surrounded by more of the festering corpses. In the scant few hours since the zombies first appeared, gruntfarmer knew that only one thing drew zombies like this. Flesh. Living flesh. Knowing that survivors were inside, gruntfarmer fired a few shots from his shotgun into the crowd. The zombies around the front door fell, while the rest took no notice. After clearing sufficient space, gruntfarmer rammed down the front door and shouted inside: “Come on! Get the hell outta here!” Pyroshark was already grabbing a few sharp knives from the various drawers around the kitchen when he heard the front door burst open and a man’s voice shout in. The words were lost in the cacophonous groaning from the zombies outside, but Pyroshark knew that this particular person wasn’t one of them. In a frenzied haste, Pyroshark grabbed a few more knives, stuffed anything edible on the counters into his mouth for sustenance, and raced to the front door. An odd sight stood guard in the doorway: a stocky figure with greyish skin and some sort of breathing apparatus, clothed only in a pair of overalls. Despite the stranger’s appearance, Pyroshark wasn’t surprised; Bungopia was getting weirder by the minute, and this… [i]person[/i] obviously knew what he was doing. Pyroshark nodded to the stranger as he barrelled out the front door to join a motley assortment of survivors, most armed with whatever had been closest at hand when the zombies had struck. The stranger ran to the head of the procession, shouted to the rest of the group to “move their sorry asses”, and set off at a speedy pace. Keeping pace with the stranger, who was obviously the leader of the survivors, Pyroshark puffed a few questions while he ran. “What the hell’s going on in this town?” The stranger shook his head, “No idea, but when I woke up this morning there were tons of these bastards crawling the streets. I gathered up as many survivors as I could, grabbed my gun, and now we’re headed for the mall. Name’s gruntfarmer, by the way.” “Pyroshark,” Pyroshark replied, “So why are we heading to the mall?” Gruntfarmer shrugged, “Seems like a better place than most: fortifiable positions, plenty of supplies. Got any better ideas?” Pyroshark shrugged, “What about HCFS?” Gruntfarmer snorted with amusement; an odd half-squeak in the breathing mask he wore, “You think that they’ll let us in? That place is guarded day and night by the Ninjas, even in this crisis. Like it or not, we’re on our own.” After roughly half an hour of running, the group of survivors finally arrived at the mall. Large pools of blood and gore stood testament to a struggle between the living and the undead recently; apparently, gruntfarmer’s group was not the first to arrive here. About two-dozen shopping carts were piled up against the doorway, and rifle barrels poked out at regular intervals from the bars. As the group approached, an unseen person cried out: “Halt! Who goes there?!” Pyroshark groaned; he knew that voice. It belonged to Colonel Corbec, the eccentric old man that had lived in the house next door to him for over a decade. He was harmless enough, although his days were normally spent shouting at children who dared each other to knock his front door and run away. Now, it seemed that he had somehow gained control of the garrison. Gruntfarmer carefully picked his way between the fallen zombies, making sure that they were all thoroughly dead, and stood before the makeshift barricade. “I am gruntfarmer. I’m the leader of this band of survivors. We’ve come here looking for shelter and supplies.” Behind the barricade, Pyroshark heard a minor tussle, suffused with the boisterous voice of Colonel Corbec. After a few seconds, another voice spoke up. “Sorry about that. We’ve tried to keep him under control, but none of us can keep watch on him all the time. Hang on, we’ll move back the barrier now.” Pyroshark saw gruntfarmer relax visibly as the rifle barrels were withdrawn and the shopping carts were dragged out of the way. The gaggle of survivors quickly filed into the mall, pushing aside their brethren on the inside that stood guard. After the swarm had moved on to the vaulted halls of the mall, only Pyroshark, gruntfarmer, and the supposed leader of the mall guard stood at the front door. The man was roughly six feet tall; of a lean but muscular build; and bore the grim, haunted look of a man who had seem many horrors. Nevertheless, he greeted the newcomers with grace. “I’m Iceman Assassin”, he said, bowing his head slightly. Pyroshark and gruntfarmer promptly repeated the gesture and introduced themselves. Iceman nodded in approval. “Glad to have you here. We’ve been holed up here since midnight, and already we’ve lost over a dozen men to those things. We need all the help we can get.” “I’m afraid we’re not going to be very useful,” replied gruntfarmer, “Our numbers are mostly civilians with little or no combat experience, and we’ve been running for over two hours straight. Right now we need to rest and recuperate before we do anything else.” Iceman nodded. “I understand. Many of our number are civilians as well; the guard has been handpicked from those with a history of military experience. For now your people can rest, and then we can plan a course of action.” Gruntfarmer nodded in agreement. I appreciate your hospitality, Iceman. Right now Bungopia is in ruin; we need all the help we can get.” That's it. I've got more written, but I'd like to see what everybody thinks before I post more. Did you like it, or not? Post your comments below. Thanks for reading! -Pyroshark- [Edited on 8/19/2006]