Machete
Well-Known Member
Five Bullets
5, 4, 3, 2...it comes as a slow realization, with no fear as one might expect, that I only have one round left in contrast to the seven I started out with. As they pound at my office door I realize t hat leaves out the ‘last stand’ option I had been hoping for to satisfy myself in how I went out. Not that it matters much, when they start eating my corpse the last thing they will probably think about is how I went out in the end. I look down at the pistol with its one bullet, a Colt .45 bought for me by my wife, which she gave to me as a gift before I went to work yesterday morning...and I’ve been holding it close ever since the outbreak happened. I had five bullets when I was walking through the halls this morning but now I only have one, I’m trying to scratch my brain as to when I used four of my five bullets and it doesn’t hit me at first until I remember the first person I shot this morning. His name was Greg Perrault, a member of the security forces in this wing of the complex. He was shuffling along in the men’s locker room when I came in on him. He had slowly lurched around and stared at me with pale gray eyes. Before he could raise his arms and let out that creepy moan they all have I raised my own arms, the pistol included, and squeezed the trigger. It caught him right between they eyes and I was thanking my uncle for taking me to the range when I was a kid as I had fled from the moans of those outside...and I can’t even remember what I had been going to the locker room to do, but I probably didn’t get it done. Then the second person comes to me.
Anthony Wallard, or at least I think it was him because the person I shot had been wearing his brand of loafers. He was a nice man who had stood around 5’8, which made him one of the shorter scientists in the facility. He had curly red hair that had become matted down with plenty of blood and his hazel eyes had faded to that signature light gray. I had been walking through the lab, checking to see if anybody else was still alive when he jumped me from behind a table. I put an arm at the front of his throat and stopped him from taking a bite out of me before I managed to make him paint the table’s top surface with his brains. Once again I fled from the moans and didn’t get what I had wanted to do done. I stare down at the Colt and wonder, that’s two bullets...but what about the other three? Then I slowly smile with a sort of sick glee that looks so wrong on my baby-face features yet it feels so right as I remember Angelica, my secretary. When I say I want her on the couch she turns me down, calling me a pervert. So when I found out they were coming I simply locked the door and listened to her scream and pound on it even as they were pulling her down to the floor to have dinner. Later, after the ones who had eaten her must not have thought me important enough I waited until I heard her shuffling to get up, opened the door a crack, and shot her in the top of her head: sending pieces of her beautiful blonde hair all over the floor in a splash of satisfying glory. I had felt an almost uncontrollable sick glee when I shot her, nobody tells me ‘no’ when I demand something.
Then there was bullet number four. After searching my brain far longer than any of the others, watching my gun as if I thought the answer might suddenly appear on the slide, it came to me. The man, like all the others, would have seemed of no real importance to anybody who heard them but to me the name ‘Adam Langley’ means the world. He was my main competition through all these years with White Umbrella and I absolutely hated the man for it. Twice he gad tried to steal my ideas. Twice I only beat him to our superiors’ offices by mere minutes. I shot him when I was in the lab again, looking for something that would put me to sleep for a while, because there was not the proverbial snowball’s chance in hell that I was going to be able to sleep through the first, and what now looks like the only, night trapped in the facility with all of the moans outside my door. I had been looking through the medicine cabinet when I heard the shuffling followed by a deep moan. I had whirled around to see him standing there, pale gray eyes that had once been green and two thirds of his raven-black hair...and his scalp for that matter, was missing. His lips had turned purple from a lack of oxygen and on his left hand all of his fingers twitched save for his index finger, which was gone. I had slowly brought my pistol up, not paying any attention to his blood-stained lab coat and khaki pants. I waited for him to get halfway across the room, not trusting my shaking hand’s accuracy as I tried to draw bead on the center of his face. Then with the squeeze of the trigger I planted a round straight in to his right eye that made the back of his skull explode. I had grabbed a nearby bottle of pain killers and had ran for my office.
Three hours later I listen to them pounding on my door as I slowly pull out the pain killers and pop off the top. I grab two, not paying attention to the dosing instructions, and pop them in my mouth. Then I slowly grab the gun and put it to me head. Now I know who the fifth bullet is, a man driven to the brink without seeming to act like it even in his current situation. William Hartson is the last of five bullets.
Okay, this was basically something that came to me and I knew that if I didn't do it, that I'd forget it. This took me around an hour to write and I just wanted to know what everybody thought of this random Umbrella scientist recounting his days.