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Blood On the Moon

Rotted arms swirled, trying to grasp him. He ran, ignoring the pain in his hip and knee, knowing if he succumbed to the pain, he was as good as dead. Mouths yawned wide, lips pulled back in a snarl, the dead pursued him through the streets. Every side street he looked down was clogged with the walking dead. Every fire escape was crawling with the dead, trying to sup upon his living flesh.

He ran further ahead, and just as he thought he was free from the horde, he slammed into another wall of clutching hands. He tried pulling away from the throng, only to be sucked into it. He screamed as he felt the teeth shred into his flesh, and rotted fingers plunge into both eyesockets, as well as shred open his abdomen and spill his intestines all over, for the unholy feast to begin.

With a start, Ben lept out of bed, screaming at the top of his lungs. He came down on the floor with a thump, and collapsed in pain. "Not again. Please." He muttered as he lifted himself into his wheelchair. With a frustrated rolling, he managed into the bathroom, and grabbed a bottle of morphine pills. He dry swallowed two of the pale green pills, ANd went to look at his bank balance again.

Sure enough, the royalties were there. Never did he imagine he'd be able to make a living off his nightmares. They had subsided for a couple of years, but he had monkied his way through it all. From the book sales, he had made a tidy sum of cash. More than enough to afford his tiny one bedroom apartment, as well as keep him in a middle class dream lifestyle for the rest of his days.

But the new nightmares he had been having lately brought with them a new sense of urgency. Deep down, he had always known the hellish visions were of things to come. With a shyaky hand, he called down to the gun range he visited.

"Yeah Sharkey, it's Ben. You still selling your guns? Yeah? Ok. How much again? Yes, I also want the AR-15, and that p-90 you have. How much ammo you got for it? How soon can you get more? Well, get all the rounds you can in 48 hours together, and I'll buy the lot. Yes, I know it'll raise eyebrows with people. Just do as I ask Sharkey. Dude, quit being an ass. You know me. Like I'm pulling a Columbine here. Just throw in that Five seven. Yeah. I know you have debts to pay off Sharkey. Tell you what. get it all done, and there's an extra five grand in it for you. Good. I'll be over today to get what you have, and in 2 days to get the rest. Later."

Sharkey was nicknamed that because of severe gambling debts that had caused him to go to a loan shark many times. He knew most of the weapons he was buying were probably either stolen or of questionable legality, but he also knew SHarkey would keep his mouth shut. With that, he called a cab.

Fourteen hours later, he came home, most of his at the ready money spent. He logged into his bank account, and slid everything from his savings accounts, into his checking account. He also called the twenty four houtr customer service hotline to ensure them it was him making those purchases. Then, with a sigh, he began getting his purchases put out of the way, and installing some of the hardware he had also bought.

With luck, the generator would be there soon. The outside closet would allow air in and out, but muffle the sound of the generator going. He started getting things he knew would be useless soon, and hauling them all to the dumpster. He needed room for things for survival, not comfort.

Before he went to bed, he replaced the front door with a solid steel door. From a distance, noone would realize it was any different than the other doors. With that and the inner shutters he had installed on the front window, he felt he'd be relatively safe. With a gasp of pain, he swallowed more pain medicines, glad he'd stockpiled extras of all his medicines, and collapsed in a sweat laden ball on the bed, still wearing the clothes he had started the day with.

Comments

( 6 comments — Leave a comment )
themagestorm
Mar. 4th, 2008 07:44 pm (UTC)
Just an FYI, I have never made a dime at this. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to get some of that money floating around. Gods know I could use it. But hey, it's a story, and if the man who's suffered nightly death gets something for his nightly torture, then so much the better.
(Deleted comment)
themagestorm
Mar. 5th, 2008 01:46 am (UTC)
Not quite in one piece. However, relatively all right. Just been rather embarassed by that damnable writer's block.

And for those that don't understand why I'd be embarassed, it's like going up to a really attractive person, and getting things going really well. You're about to get their number for a possible date, when suddenly, your sphincter loosens and you fill your pants with foul smelling sludge from your bowels.

Sorry to paint it so disgustingly and so vividly, but then, it wouldn't be me.
(Deleted comment)
themagestorm
Mar. 5th, 2008 06:42 am (UTC)
I hear you. I'm actually thinking of something that's been not done yet, as far as zombie journals. Might want to catch me on the gmail, as while it might be a grand idea, it might be a not good idea in practice.
(Deleted comment)
( 6 comments — Leave a comment )

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