Walking Amongst The Dead
The zombie’s brains splatter all around and it drops with a thud, all thanks to the shotgun blast from the hands of, who else?
“Wanker,” he grumbles, stepping over it after he reloads his weapon.
Shaw finds himself in some kind of purgatory following his untimely death in Soda Pop Frequency, and now it seems he’s tasked to keep himself from going to the dogs for eternity.
“Murmph,” he hears down the road, just within earshot, and he throws himself behind a tree.
He peeks out to have a gander, and sure enough the zombie shuffles aimlessly across the street, eyes bulging and a big chunk of cranium missing to boot. It hasn’t noticed Shaw yet, and he seizes the opportunity to get the jump on it, scampering up behind it—
More brains. Another thud. One less obstacle to tackle.
“Poor chav wasn’t batting on a full wicket,” Shaw mocks as he continues his quest.
For just beyond our scene, you can see the road leads up hill to what looks to be a hotel of some sort, displayed prominently by the moonlight.
This has been Shaw’s navigation point, a place offering a glimmer of hope to escape this hell he’s bound to.
Shaw marches on, ducking out of the open by staying close to the edge of the path. He passes murky pond, thinking nothing of it as he continues stepping his way closer to his goal…
Until he’s jolted to a stop—
A HAND HAS LATCHED ONTO HIS ANKLE!
The zombie drags Albie into the water, and he’s knee deep until he can get a visual on his attacker—
“Piss off,” he steams, knocking it in the head with the butt of his gun, and follows up with another booming shot that drops the zombie with a splash back into the shallows.
“Plug ugly tosser!” he gripes as he pulls himself out, back onto the road.
But every shot echoes in the night, and he knows that will attract even more attention.
Shaw picks up the pace, and when he looks back realizes he’s being followed by a swarm of them.
Shaw ducks into a cabin and barricades the door. He steadies himself against the back wall across from the door.
“You arsemongers wanna play Nazi Zombies!? Well ya picked the wrong fahkin’ guy!”
He gazes out the window to his right as the indeterminant moans grow louder, knowing it’s just about game time, and sees the hotel one more time, a mere football field away at this point.
Albie needs to make it. There’s no other choice.
It’s survive, or walk amongst the dead.
The groans and slobbers have reached a crescendo outside the door. He’ll have to eliminate this last horde in order to safely make it.
“IN HERE, YA AIRY-FAIRIES!” he shouts.
The door busts open.
In they flood, one by one, and the camera zooms out from outside the cottage as they file in.
Gunshots and moans are the only sounds.
And the hotel, sitting idly atop the hill in the background looms, hopeful as ever.