Post by apncameron on Jul 12, 2011 5:46:17 GMT -5
The smell of bleach clung to her nostrils as she began to mop. How the pungent scent slipped past the surgeons mask was beyond her, yet the paper partitions failed to spare her senses from the overpowering stench. Cameron didn't mind. Home was now where the bleach was, and really it was better to put it down than to go without. Not only did the stringent properties of the liquid limit the chance of bacteria brought on from all these dead bodies jumping to the woman, but the odor also seemed to conceal her own tantalizing scents from the zombies a bit. Ever since she first slipped through the floor and out of her former club, the dancer had taken to hunkering down in isolated apartments such as this; places emptied of the undead who had no doubt moved onto meatier hunting grounds. The utilities still worked- though she kept the lights off for obvious reasons- and food which did not perish always filled the cupboards. Soft beds and studios with remnants of the order their former owners had brought to them were good for the mind, and these abodes kept the creeping inevitability of her plight from being overwhelming.
After a long day of carefully navigating around the horde of meat mongers, this was her ritual before sleep. The quiet swish of the mop threads across the floor scratched at an itch in her psyche which needed soothing- a familiar noise which made the faces of the zombies she had to put down today and the friends she lost a month ago retreat. Even Cameron was forced to admit that she had been alone for far too long recently, four weeks of solitude was an excessive amount of time to go without having a verbal exchange with anything besides an infected person she was in the process of putting down. Much longer and she'd be mumbling to herself and growing facial hair. Yeah, fuck hermitting for now, the next group she saw with a vacancy for a stripper with a shotgun could count themselves blessed with a plus one.
There was no sense of loss for the evacuations that had dried up, for Cameron had never clamored to their false safety. Of course infected would show in those places and it was certain things would also get out of hand. Jumpy enforcers and twitchy trigger fingers promised a death that the unknown mouth in the crowd failed to deliver. No thanks, she had gotten as far away from La Guardia as she could. Instead instinct had led her to a stalled squad car which was empty of life but full of firepower. From the front seat she had pulled her new babies; a single pump action shotgun, and shiny black Glock. With these weapons in hand she never looked back at the sawed off she had been toting, already it felt as if the thing had jumbled her organs up real good. The exchange for more traditional police force firearms was paying dividends already, as gun ammunition was at a premium. The backpack she lugged around had a few semi-automatic pistol magazines and shotgun shells. Hell there was even another fully loaded Glock rattling back there (with the safety on of course). The load didn't limit her maneuverability too much as she wasn't carrying an entire armory. There was no need. If she ran out there were police cruisers all up and down the streets of Queens, their insides begging for her enterprising fingers to seize their payload.
Tonight was upkeep night, and running water was at the top of her list of things to track down. No soap, in fact no ancillary scents of any kind, these undead could smell better than her sanity was comfortable with. How many times has she peered down from a rooftop only to see a pair of red-doused eyes staring up at her, fixed in on her exact location regardless of how quiet she fancied herself? Her nails were also getting a bit on the long side, and that would not do. The nails were still civilized, yet a prolonged clipping of the ones on her toes might impair her mobility and then where would she be? Finally with the mopping done for the night (the air sanitizing had preceded), Cameron slumped on a sofa in the T.V. room. Relaxation was slow to come and even with the precautions she took a gun was never out of reach.
Tomorrow she'd find someone healthy to break the monotony of death-death-death-reload-scurry. There was always tomorrow.
After a long day of carefully navigating around the horde of meat mongers, this was her ritual before sleep. The quiet swish of the mop threads across the floor scratched at an itch in her psyche which needed soothing- a familiar noise which made the faces of the zombies she had to put down today and the friends she lost a month ago retreat. Even Cameron was forced to admit that she had been alone for far too long recently, four weeks of solitude was an excessive amount of time to go without having a verbal exchange with anything besides an infected person she was in the process of putting down. Much longer and she'd be mumbling to herself and growing facial hair. Yeah, fuck hermitting for now, the next group she saw with a vacancy for a stripper with a shotgun could count themselves blessed with a plus one.
There was no sense of loss for the evacuations that had dried up, for Cameron had never clamored to their false safety. Of course infected would show in those places and it was certain things would also get out of hand. Jumpy enforcers and twitchy trigger fingers promised a death that the unknown mouth in the crowd failed to deliver. No thanks, she had gotten as far away from La Guardia as she could. Instead instinct had led her to a stalled squad car which was empty of life but full of firepower. From the front seat she had pulled her new babies; a single pump action shotgun, and shiny black Glock. With these weapons in hand she never looked back at the sawed off she had been toting, already it felt as if the thing had jumbled her organs up real good. The exchange for more traditional police force firearms was paying dividends already, as gun ammunition was at a premium. The backpack she lugged around had a few semi-automatic pistol magazines and shotgun shells. Hell there was even another fully loaded Glock rattling back there (with the safety on of course). The load didn't limit her maneuverability too much as she wasn't carrying an entire armory. There was no need. If she ran out there were police cruisers all up and down the streets of Queens, their insides begging for her enterprising fingers to seize their payload.
Tonight was upkeep night, and running water was at the top of her list of things to track down. No soap, in fact no ancillary scents of any kind, these undead could smell better than her sanity was comfortable with. How many times has she peered down from a rooftop only to see a pair of red-doused eyes staring up at her, fixed in on her exact location regardless of how quiet she fancied herself? Her nails were also getting a bit on the long side, and that would not do. The nails were still civilized, yet a prolonged clipping of the ones on her toes might impair her mobility and then where would she be? Finally with the mopping done for the night (the air sanitizing had preceded), Cameron slumped on a sofa in the T.V. room. Relaxation was slow to come and even with the precautions she took a gun was never out of reach.
Tomorrow she'd find someone healthy to break the monotony of death-death-death-reload-scurry. There was always tomorrow.