Snippet #1785329

The fit had come upon Geoff suddenly as the jagged report of gunfire echoed through the streets. Even before the harsh tones had faded into the ether, he was on the ground, his wiry frame wracked by uncontrollable convulsions, eyes rolling into his skull. It had happened. He was back.

The jungle was thick and oppressive, hemming him in like a cage. The uniform itched. The bites itched. The sound of leaves rustling itched in his ears. The rifle was heavy. He couldn't see anything but green tinged with red.

BANGBANGBANG. The screams rang out. The unholy chatter began again, filling the air with red mist. The mouth of hell growing red-hot, words of steel flying from the toothless maw. BANGBANGBANG. The ground fell away, and men dropped like stones, plunging into nothingness.

Geoff blinked. Sweat dripped from his forehead, into his eyes, it's salty taste on his tongue. Ghost whimpered, pressing his warm body against him. Geoff blinked. Thankfully he hadn't left his hiding place before the fit took him. It had been months since he'd had one that bad.

Wiping his long, matted hair back from his face, he crawled out of the sewer culvert, leaning on the sharpened iron railing for support, opening and shutting his eyes against the harsh light. No walkers about. Good.

He checked himself over for injuries, and then started off again, the wolf padding softly at his heel. In the distance, over the tangle of roofs jutted the sign for the gas station, the old neon still flickering in the evening air. Geoff had spent many a night under the flying canopy, hands extended for a gracious quarter so he could eat. It would still be a place of sanctuary. Gasoline for the odd Molotov cocktail, dried food and cold drinks.

As he approached through the tangle of car-cluttered streets, Ghost began to growl, and the sound of two voices echoed down the street. One was high-pitched and whiny, the other tinged with the throes of adolescence. Fucking kids, Geoff muttered to himself as he pushed inside an anonymous suburban property. It'd do for the night, at least. He'd tackle the kids in the morning.