[He thanks the damn universe every single day that he is neither capable of exploding nor spitting acid. Thank god, thank fucking god. Only, right now, he's too busy mentally cursing to thank anything.
Ryder. On second thought, hank Ryder. Because she's the one who's just shaved three undead off the pack on his tail.
He skirts away from where the sound came from, not wanting to get her stuck with too many in one place. He races down another side street and does a hop and slide over a car which helps to throw off at least one, but no more than that.
It's going well. A little bird (not his little goose) goes crashing onto pavement and a couple more tilt their heads and meander away. The pretty blue porcelain must've been someone's dear heirloom, too precious to leave behind, but too useless in this world to really make it farther until now.
He slaps another car roof and darts around the corner, past a side street to his right and--]
Shit...!
[The survivor looks up. A haggard man whose gun is ready in a moment. At this distance, the bite wound on his arm might go unnoticed and he could be mistaken for a survivor too. Or, the man might decide not to take any chances.
He bolts and he hears a gunshot behind him which he's not sure was meant for him or another undead. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where's Ryder?]
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Ryder. On second thought, hank Ryder. Because she's the one who's just shaved three undead off the pack on his tail.
He skirts away from where the sound came from, not wanting to get her stuck with too many in one place. He races down another side street and does a hop and slide over a car which helps to throw off at least one, but no more than that.
It's going well. A little bird (not his little goose) goes crashing onto pavement and a couple more tilt their heads and meander away. The pretty blue porcelain must've been someone's dear heirloom, too precious to leave behind, but too useless in this world to really make it farther until now.
He slaps another car roof and darts around the corner, past a side street to his right and--]
Shit...!
[The survivor looks up. A haggard man whose gun is ready in a moment. At this distance, the bite wound on his arm might go unnoticed and he could be mistaken for a survivor too. Or, the man might decide not to take any chances.
He bolts and he hears a gunshot behind him which he's not sure was meant for him or another undead. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where's Ryder?]