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nancefics*dusts the place off* Fic! I remember writing fic!
This is my attempt to get autumn and all those lovely "-ber" months off to a fun start. Plus to maybe, perhaps, actually finish something I start in my fic files. Here goes nothing. *G*
Things to do in Atlanta when you’re undead (1/5)
Author: Robin Nance
Characters: Frances Malone, Jack of all Trades
Story Type: A little drama, a little humor, and a whole lot of crack
Summary: A student and a serial killer walk into a Zombie Apocalypse. No, really.
Rating/Warnings: R-ish for language, violence and character (un)death
AN & Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my sandbox - I'll tidy up and return them unharmed as soon as I'm done playing. This was started as part of the 2010 Secret Santa Exchange at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
profiler_fans (the original post is over here) and is dedicated to my fabulous friend and fellow zombiephile ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
serialbathera.
By the time he’d blown the torso off the fifth malodorous, decomposing creature, Jack was ready to go the fuck back to Otis.
He was also pondering that Creature #4 bore a striking resemblance to the Atlanta computer geek that had been trying and failing to track his online activities, but stopping for a closer look at the now-severed head would seriously cut into his firing time. The 9 mm Glock was heating up in his hands from repeated use, he was down to his last clip of ten bullets, and he hadn’t even made it out of the VCTF lobby.
Seriously, Bundy and Dahmer never had to put up with any of this shit.
He sidestepped the grasping hand of…something wearing a security guard’s uniform, unloading two head-shots when the creature tottered up on what was left of its knees to lurch after him. It disappeared in a blast of dust, shredded polyester, and something that smelled too horrible to even think about.
And now there were eight bullets between him and really, really screwed.
Alone for the moment, Jack shook his head, a failed attempt to clear the ringing in his ears from one too many close-range gunshots. He caught his reflection in the half-shattered brass VCTF logo at the front of the security desk and grimaced. Sorry, Sherriff Boast, looks like you’re going to be the next casualty here.
He dropped the Glock onto the desk, loosening his tie and pulling at the buttons of his Otis Sherriff’s Department standard-issue shirt until he was able to unsnap the hidden padding that made up Ed Boast’s fake paunch – no sense in over-accessorizing this afternoon, not when he needed to be as fit and flexible as possible to get the hell out of the lobby and up to Samantha.
Samantha. The horrifying thought hit him like a slap in the face. Shit, his Samantha could be somewhere upstairs with those things.
It was impossible to tell if the elevators were working, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk getting stuck. The stairwells were going to be dangerous – lots of nooks and crannies for the creatures to hide in – but still a better bet. They were alarmed and locked, but if memory served him the control panel at the front desk had an override function for all access doors in case of fires or other emergencies – and this was definitely one fucking “other” of an emergency. Now to hope he hadn’t blown the thing to smithereens in the firefight.
Head bent over the control panel, thoughts split between how to coax the computer into service and how to get to Samantha, Jack never heard a thing until he was airborne.
Apparently the fuckers were pretty strong when they were pissed off.
He bounced off the back wall and hit the floor with an audible thud, somehow maintaining the presence of mind to protect his head from cracking against the marble. He could hear the creature’s footsteps as it came toward him, a strange kind of shuffling as it slipped on the slick surface. He scrambled woozily to his knees, blinking hard to clear his vision.
Well, shit, so much for those eight bullets – the Glock still sat serenely on the edge of the security desk, and there was no way he’d get to it before the creature got to him. Cursing, Jack looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon. He’d landed beside the remains of the security guard, and he swallowed down his disgust long enough to grope through the torn clothing and shattered bones. Empty gun holster, nightstick broken in three places, canister of Mace clipped to the belt – bingo. He was able to palm the Mace before he was lifted up off the ground like a ragdoll.
The creature was tall, at least six feet, and the shoulders were broad and covered in what had probably been expensive fabric. It made a continuous, wet growling sound, pretty impressive for something lacking a tongue and most of its teeth. The flesh was mottled and patchy on the left side of its face, but the right side was still intact enough for Jack to recognize, right down to the blue eye and gelled hair. He almost dropped the Mace in shock.
“Son of a bitch – Grant, is that you?”
It – well, he – seemed to hesitate for a second at the name, and Jack took advantage of the opportunity to Mace him full in the face. Grant blinked, sneezed once, then threw Jack to the ground with an enraged roar.
OK, so apparently that had been one of his shittier ideas.
Jack grimaced as pain shot up his left temple and he felt something wet and warm start to collect at his hairline – if he hadn’t been planning on dying messily within the next few seconds he’d be anticipating one mother of a headache. Grant swiped at him again and he propelled himself backwards, scrambling until his back hit the wall.
He was out of weapons, out of escape routes, and officially shit out of luck.
At some point during their struggle Grant had managed to dislodge the remnants of the brass VCTF logo from the front desk. He raised the heavy structure haltingly over his head, and Jack watched the slow-motion pivot as Grant prepared to crush his skull.
So he really was going to be crushed by the long arm of the law. Because clearly, his life had lacked enough irony up to now. Jack’s final thought was a silent apology to Samantha that he’d failed her.
His not-so-final subsequent thoughts were several versions of “holy fucking shit” as a shotgun blast blew Grant clear across the room. The brass logo dropped to the ground with a clang, vibrating in place like an oversized penny before coming to a complete rest a few inches from Jack’s head.
Jack brushed blood and plaster out of his eyes in time to see a petite woman lean over Grant’s body and deliver a second shot that pulverized his head into dust. The long dark hair and oversized leather motorcycle jacket raised a vaguely familiar vibe, one that crystallized into recognition when she turned around.
“All moldy and he still had a nice ass. What a waste.” Frances Malone shook her head, kicking empty shell casings out of her way as she made her way across the room. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Try not to pass out or bleed on me till I get you away from the front door, OK?”
There were dozens of questions to be asked and explanations to be demanded, everything from what the hell had just happened here to how she knew who he was in the first place. Jack struggled against a wave of nausea as he tried to summon his most intimidating take-no-prisoners glare.
“Your aim has improved,” he managed, and then promptly violated her first request by passing out on the spot.
part 2
This is my attempt to get autumn and all those lovely "-ber" months off to a fun start. Plus to maybe, perhaps, actually finish something I start in my fic files. Here goes nothing. *G*
Things to do in Atlanta when you’re undead (1/5)
Author: Robin Nance
Characters: Frances Malone, Jack of all Trades
Story Type: A little drama, a little humor, and a whole lot of crack
Summary: A student and a serial killer walk into a Zombie Apocalypse. No, really.
Rating/Warnings: R-ish for language, violence and character (un)death
AN & Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my sandbox - I'll tidy up and return them unharmed as soon as I'm done playing. This was started as part of the 2010 Secret Santa Exchange at
profiler_fans (the original post is over here) and is dedicated to my fabulous friend and fellow zombiephile serialbathera. By the time he’d blown the torso off the fifth malodorous, decomposing creature, Jack was ready to go the fuck back to Otis.
He was also pondering that Creature #4 bore a striking resemblance to the Atlanta computer geek that had been trying and failing to track his online activities, but stopping for a closer look at the now-severed head would seriously cut into his firing time. The 9 mm Glock was heating up in his hands from repeated use, he was down to his last clip of ten bullets, and he hadn’t even made it out of the VCTF lobby.
Seriously, Bundy and Dahmer never had to put up with any of this shit.
He sidestepped the grasping hand of…something wearing a security guard’s uniform, unloading two head-shots when the creature tottered up on what was left of its knees to lurch after him. It disappeared in a blast of dust, shredded polyester, and something that smelled too horrible to even think about.
And now there were eight bullets between him and really, really screwed.
Alone for the moment, Jack shook his head, a failed attempt to clear the ringing in his ears from one too many close-range gunshots. He caught his reflection in the half-shattered brass VCTF logo at the front of the security desk and grimaced. Sorry, Sherriff Boast, looks like you’re going to be the next casualty here.
He dropped the Glock onto the desk, loosening his tie and pulling at the buttons of his Otis Sherriff’s Department standard-issue shirt until he was able to unsnap the hidden padding that made up Ed Boast’s fake paunch – no sense in over-accessorizing this afternoon, not when he needed to be as fit and flexible as possible to get the hell out of the lobby and up to Samantha.
Samantha. The horrifying thought hit him like a slap in the face. Shit, his Samantha could be somewhere upstairs with those things.
It was impossible to tell if the elevators were working, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk getting stuck. The stairwells were going to be dangerous – lots of nooks and crannies for the creatures to hide in – but still a better bet. They were alarmed and locked, but if memory served him the control panel at the front desk had an override function for all access doors in case of fires or other emergencies – and this was definitely one fucking “other” of an emergency. Now to hope he hadn’t blown the thing to smithereens in the firefight.
Head bent over the control panel, thoughts split between how to coax the computer into service and how to get to Samantha, Jack never heard a thing until he was airborne.
Apparently the fuckers were pretty strong when they were pissed off.
He bounced off the back wall and hit the floor with an audible thud, somehow maintaining the presence of mind to protect his head from cracking against the marble. He could hear the creature’s footsteps as it came toward him, a strange kind of shuffling as it slipped on the slick surface. He scrambled woozily to his knees, blinking hard to clear his vision.
Well, shit, so much for those eight bullets – the Glock still sat serenely on the edge of the security desk, and there was no way he’d get to it before the creature got to him. Cursing, Jack looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon. He’d landed beside the remains of the security guard, and he swallowed down his disgust long enough to grope through the torn clothing and shattered bones. Empty gun holster, nightstick broken in three places, canister of Mace clipped to the belt – bingo. He was able to palm the Mace before he was lifted up off the ground like a ragdoll.
The creature was tall, at least six feet, and the shoulders were broad and covered in what had probably been expensive fabric. It made a continuous, wet growling sound, pretty impressive for something lacking a tongue and most of its teeth. The flesh was mottled and patchy on the left side of its face, but the right side was still intact enough for Jack to recognize, right down to the blue eye and gelled hair. He almost dropped the Mace in shock.
“Son of a bitch – Grant, is that you?”
It – well, he – seemed to hesitate for a second at the name, and Jack took advantage of the opportunity to Mace him full in the face. Grant blinked, sneezed once, then threw Jack to the ground with an enraged roar.
OK, so apparently that had been one of his shittier ideas.
Jack grimaced as pain shot up his left temple and he felt something wet and warm start to collect at his hairline – if he hadn’t been planning on dying messily within the next few seconds he’d be anticipating one mother of a headache. Grant swiped at him again and he propelled himself backwards, scrambling until his back hit the wall.
He was out of weapons, out of escape routes, and officially shit out of luck.
At some point during their struggle Grant had managed to dislodge the remnants of the brass VCTF logo from the front desk. He raised the heavy structure haltingly over his head, and Jack watched the slow-motion pivot as Grant prepared to crush his skull.
So he really was going to be crushed by the long arm of the law. Because clearly, his life had lacked enough irony up to now. Jack’s final thought was a silent apology to Samantha that he’d failed her.
His not-so-final subsequent thoughts were several versions of “holy fucking shit” as a shotgun blast blew Grant clear across the room. The brass logo dropped to the ground with a clang, vibrating in place like an oversized penny before coming to a complete rest a few inches from Jack’s head.
Jack brushed blood and plaster out of his eyes in time to see a petite woman lean over Grant’s body and deliver a second shot that pulverized his head into dust. The long dark hair and oversized leather motorcycle jacket raised a vaguely familiar vibe, one that crystallized into recognition when she turned around.
“All moldy and he still had a nice ass. What a waste.” Frances Malone shook her head, kicking empty shell casings out of her way as she made her way across the room. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Try not to pass out or bleed on me till I get you away from the front door, OK?”
There were dozens of questions to be asked and explanations to be demanded, everything from what the hell had just happened here to how she knew who he was in the first place. Jack struggled against a wave of nausea as he tried to summon his most intimidating take-no-prisoners glare.
“Your aim has improved,” he managed, and then promptly violated her first request by passing out on the spot.
part 2
