“Shake, Ramble and Roll.”
You know what really makes me irate? There seems to be this disconnect of what a private investigator really does, and what Joe Schmoe thinks a P.I. does. Maybe one of these days I’ll get a film crew to follow me around. It’s not all about jealous husbands and hot divorcée’s.
Like right now for instance.
Now I will admit that my mouth tends to get me into trouble now and again (more now, than again I suppose). This leads me more and more into situations like I’m in now.
Before I get too involved in trying to pull my ass out of the frying pan…again, I figured I should introduce myself. My name is Alistair Sheppard. I’m the owner of Fallen Angel Investigations. Sad thing is that I’m most likely going to buy the farm before the paint dries on the door.
I work take care of things that go bump in the night. Things that people refuse to acknowledge.
You’re welcome.
I was surrounded by Shamblers. I didn’t pick up the cloying sent of death quick enough. This wasn’t going to end well one way or another.
I didn’t pack particularly heavy for this jaunt, hadn’t planned on dealing with the shambling dead. I was armed with was my trusty SIG, with an extra clip. Oh, and magic – not much mind you I’m still learning the ropes.
I could do some minor stuff, but nothing that would have the desired effect on Shamblers. I did have my shield ring, though I hadn’t recently charged it. Hell knowing my pension for luck it might not have a charge at all.
If the residents of Portland really knew what was in the “Shanghais Tunnels” they wouldn’t come within a mile or two of it.
Ignorance is bliss right?
The stench of rotting flesh and death was getting to be almost more than my cast-iron stomach could endure.
It didn’t take me long to realize they were pushing me back into a choke point. Once that was completed they’d have a warm and tasty snack. Shamblers, are they byproduct of a vampire turning gone bad. They’re also used as pawns, cannon fodder. Like their Vampire creators, to turn you into a Shambler they need to bite you, though it didn’t matter where.
I slowly cleared the Sig from its holster activating the laser sight. Shamblers really didn’t have a brain the way we think of it, not a single one of them paid any attention to the weapon now in my hand.
I had to make sure I kept count of how many bullets I had left. I didn’t have enough to mow through the lot – but it could at least hold them off until I could get back above ground.
The only way to put down a Shambler is a shot to their dome. Hitting them center mass will slow them but not enough to make a difference.
I took aim and started shooting.
One at a time they were going down, their heads spewing black ichor where a brain had once had a home. I kept firing keeping my back to the open tunnel ahead.
I thought things were going well, as I backed my way down the tunnel towards the entrance. But apparently my assessment of the situation was an overly optimistic one.
Once second I’m emptying a clip and going for the second one. The next thing I know a white hot pain exploded behind my eyeballs followed by the engulfing feeling of dread as my world went from white to darkness.
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