[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Smith reached the doorway first and turned back to help me.I was ten feet from the door and wondered how long I could go on pressing forward without some dead fucker’s teeth sinking into me.I kept spinning around in circles, ensuring no ghoul could attack me from behind.Smith and the guy slugged away zombies from the doorway and yelled at me to keep going.I felt a giant hand grab me by the scruff of the back of my neck and drag me through the doorway.I was glad Smith was as strong as a bull and not for the first time had saved my ass.The other guy slammed the door and bolted it at the top and bottom.I slumped onto the floor breathing heavily from exertion and relief.Dead hands slammed into the door from the outside and a crescendo of moans and frustrated shrieks echoed around the narrow corridor we found ourselves in.“We’ll have to hurry and get to the upper floor before that lot smash their way in through the door,” the old guy said.I noticed he wore a clergyman’s white dog collar around his throat, which was tucked inside a navy blue shirt.His face was wrinkled in worry and his brown eyes loomed large when the small lenses were directly in line with his pupils.Smith hauled me to my feet and we followed the clergyman as he hurried along the gray concrete floor of the corridor.The building smelled of damp and mold and had the soulless vibe of a derelict construction.The cracked window panes were covered from the inside with metal sheeting of some kind.The protective metal covers had small, round holes bored into them at a space of every few inches.The holes were large enough to allow daylight to penetrate the gloomy corridor but small enough to stop the grasping hands of the undead reaching through.We followed the clergyman up a flight of concrete steps and through a heavy steel door, which resembled a prison type enclosure.He swung the door shut and slammed heavy duty bolts into place at the top and bottom.We stood in another dim corridor with open doors to rooms on each side.“This way,” said the clergyman, in a raspy voice.We followed him through a doorway on the right of the corridor.The room was small and cramped with a brown, wooden desk, too big for the room dimensions, sitting in the middle of the floor.Four huge, leather bound armchairs surrounded the desk, with two positioned at each side.The clergyman moved to the window and looked down at the street below.The upper floor windows weren’t covered with the metal sheets like their lower level counterparts.Grubby netted curtains hung over the window panes to obscure the view from outside.“That’s good, they haven’t breached the building so far,” he muttered.He gestured for us to sit in the armchairs and reached into a filing cabinet, retrieving a bottle of Irish whiskey and three small glasses from one of the drawers.Smith and I slumped into the chairs and the soft padding immediately felt comfortable.“God save us,” the clergyman huffed, as he poured three shots into the glasses.He set the two other glasses in front of Smith and I then downed the contents of his own shot in one hurried gulp.“My name is Chaplain Michael Brady, glad you’re both still with us.What brings you two out this far?”“I’m err…John Smith and this is Brett Wilde.We’re in a kind of sticky predicament.” Smith leaned forward and propped the notice board on its end at the side of the chair.“Thanks for saving our…thanks for saving us,” I butted in, trying my best not to use profanities in front of a man of the church.The Chaplain poured himself another shot and sagged into an armchair opposite us on the other side of the desk.He slid the bottle towards us but we hadn’t yet touched a drop of our liquor.Smith necked his whiskey back in one swallow and I attempted to do the same.The liquid seemed to leave a scorching trail from my mouth to my stomach and I fought the urge to cough.Smith took the bottle and refilled our glasses.“Mind if we smoke?”The clergyman smiled and gave a wave of his hand that told us to do as we pleased.Smith took out his packet of smokes and tossed me one before offering the Chaplain the battered pack.He shook his head.“I haven’t indulged in smoking for nearly thirty years and I’m not going to let this terrible situation start me off again.”Smith lit us up and Brady reached for a small china dish on top of the filing cabinet for us to use as an ashtray.“You said you were in a sticky predicament, John,” Brady said.“I think we’ve all had our fair share of those over the last few months.But what kind of situation are you in?”“The bottom line is, we need some diesel for our boat out on the river, probably a couple of miles back south,” Smith said, then went on to explain our quandary in full detail.The Chaplain listened, raising his wispy, gray eyebrows in shock at regular intervals.“These are troubled times,” Brady sighed when Smith had finished his debriefing.“I was a practicing Chaplain on this base for nearly ten years and I never thought I’d live to see anything this bad and so intensely terrifying [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Smith reached the doorway first and turned back to help me.I was ten feet from the door and wondered how long I could go on pressing forward without some dead fucker’s teeth sinking into me.I kept spinning around in circles, ensuring no ghoul could attack me from behind.Smith and the guy slugged away zombies from the doorway and yelled at me to keep going.I felt a giant hand grab me by the scruff of the back of my neck and drag me through the doorway.I was glad Smith was as strong as a bull and not for the first time had saved my ass.The other guy slammed the door and bolted it at the top and bottom.I slumped onto the floor breathing heavily from exertion and relief.Dead hands slammed into the door from the outside and a crescendo of moans and frustrated shrieks echoed around the narrow corridor we found ourselves in.“We’ll have to hurry and get to the upper floor before that lot smash their way in through the door,” the old guy said.I noticed he wore a clergyman’s white dog collar around his throat, which was tucked inside a navy blue shirt.His face was wrinkled in worry and his brown eyes loomed large when the small lenses were directly in line with his pupils.Smith hauled me to my feet and we followed the clergyman as he hurried along the gray concrete floor of the corridor.The building smelled of damp and mold and had the soulless vibe of a derelict construction.The cracked window panes were covered from the inside with metal sheeting of some kind.The protective metal covers had small, round holes bored into them at a space of every few inches.The holes were large enough to allow daylight to penetrate the gloomy corridor but small enough to stop the grasping hands of the undead reaching through.We followed the clergyman up a flight of concrete steps and through a heavy steel door, which resembled a prison type enclosure.He swung the door shut and slammed heavy duty bolts into place at the top and bottom.We stood in another dim corridor with open doors to rooms on each side.“This way,” said the clergyman, in a raspy voice.We followed him through a doorway on the right of the corridor.The room was small and cramped with a brown, wooden desk, too big for the room dimensions, sitting in the middle of the floor.Four huge, leather bound armchairs surrounded the desk, with two positioned at each side.The clergyman moved to the window and looked down at the street below.The upper floor windows weren’t covered with the metal sheets like their lower level counterparts.Grubby netted curtains hung over the window panes to obscure the view from outside.“That’s good, they haven’t breached the building so far,” he muttered.He gestured for us to sit in the armchairs and reached into a filing cabinet, retrieving a bottle of Irish whiskey and three small glasses from one of the drawers.Smith and I slumped into the chairs and the soft padding immediately felt comfortable.“God save us,” the clergyman huffed, as he poured three shots into the glasses.He set the two other glasses in front of Smith and I then downed the contents of his own shot in one hurried gulp.“My name is Chaplain Michael Brady, glad you’re both still with us.What brings you two out this far?”“I’m err…John Smith and this is Brett Wilde.We’re in a kind of sticky predicament.” Smith leaned forward and propped the notice board on its end at the side of the chair.“Thanks for saving our…thanks for saving us,” I butted in, trying my best not to use profanities in front of a man of the church.The Chaplain poured himself another shot and sagged into an armchair opposite us on the other side of the desk.He slid the bottle towards us but we hadn’t yet touched a drop of our liquor.Smith necked his whiskey back in one swallow and I attempted to do the same.The liquid seemed to leave a scorching trail from my mouth to my stomach and I fought the urge to cough.Smith took the bottle and refilled our glasses.“Mind if we smoke?”The clergyman smiled and gave a wave of his hand that told us to do as we pleased.Smith took out his packet of smokes and tossed me one before offering the Chaplain the battered pack.He shook his head.“I haven’t indulged in smoking for nearly thirty years and I’m not going to let this terrible situation start me off again.”Smith lit us up and Brady reached for a small china dish on top of the filing cabinet for us to use as an ashtray.“You said you were in a sticky predicament, John,” Brady said.“I think we’ve all had our fair share of those over the last few months.But what kind of situation are you in?”“The bottom line is, we need some diesel for our boat out on the river, probably a couple of miles back south,” Smith said, then went on to explain our quandary in full detail.The Chaplain listened, raising his wispy, gray eyebrows in shock at regular intervals.“These are troubled times,” Brady sighed when Smith had finished his debriefing.“I was a practicing Chaplain on this base for nearly ten years and I never thought I’d live to see anything this bad and so intensely terrifying [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]