I Don’t Always Write Zombie Fiction…

But when I do, I do my best make it a milestone post. 50 posts, baby, yeah! All of you who have followed me since the start, remember that I love you all and want to send you hugs and cookies and rainbows and unicorns and… Well, you know what I mean.

So, I dived into some Zombie RP in Garry’s Mod recently and, as a writer and RPer both, was horrified with the quality of RP there. I don’t want to be that guy, but basic grammar is a rarity, the IC/OOC bounds are blurred on a second by second basis and more often than not and I attracted way more negative attention than I should have, being a medic who healed people for free. The whole open PvP is a good thing to have in a responsible RP group, however when someone yells at me that they’re old enough to be my father (after admitting to being 14 years old), I have to raise an eyebrow as a person who is actually old enough to be a parent at 22 (23 in July!). Seriously, children in online video games are bad enough. Children in RP scenarios? Well… I’ve actually been pleasantly surprised by some in the past, but certainly not the ones in Garry’s Mod.

As a result of my ZombieRP dalliance, I was inspired to write (*shudders*) zombie based fiction, using my character as a protagonist, as I actually thought her out and gave her a backstory, unlike the vast majority of Gmod RPers. She’s ex-mafia who was funded through a medical degree in the States via drug/blood money. I say ex-mafia, because her entire crime family was killed when zombies happened. This piece that I wrote was partially inspired by the fact that the players are far too trigger happy and often are found playing as “assassins” or “thieves” or, my personal favourite, the legendary “battle asasin”!

Note #1 – I speak literally no Italian, so any of the foreign curse words that appear may, or may not, be grammatically incorrect. For that, I apologise, but I don’t speak Italian!

Note #2 – I never write zombie fiction. What is this, I don’t even…


Lia Scarcelli sprinted through the corridors of the abandoned apartment buildings. She could hear the shuffling behind her, they had reached the staircase, though it was the activity on her current floor that concerned her. She was not given the time to think about it before a walker shambled around the corner ahead of her. She stopped and turned, but the group she was fleeing had already made it up the stairs behind her.

“Screw this,” she muttered, charging through the door to her right and slamming it shut behind her, flicking the lock and pushing the nearby bed up against it. There were a few seconds of silence, a peaceful contrast to the chase from which she was still a part of. Then they reached the door.

Thump, thump, thump. The thumping would not stop on the door; an incessant drumming in her head as she propped herself against the barricaded door, sitting on the dull, worn out mattress. She was a young woman in her early thirties with long, matted, brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin had an olive hue, though her truly original colour was difficult to make out over the dirt. She wore loose fitting, brown cargo trousers, a khaki vest and a pair of black leather gloves; empty pistol magazines and a knife were held in a bandolier that extended from her shoulder to her hip and looped across her back, pistol holstered against her right thigh. She breathed heavily, resting more heavily against the door as the thumping intensified. She looked down to her left side where her arm rested against her abdomen. More accurately, it appeared to be partially stuck there. “Figlio di troia,” she muttered, peeling her arm away slowly. The blood had not clotted and the wound was still bleeding heavily. She knew that she was running on borrowed time. “Things were so much easier when I ran with the family. Nobody fucked with a Scarcelli,” she murmured as she lifted her shirt up to check the bandage. It was almost non-existent by this point. She looked around for something to use as a replacement until she could make it back to her safe house and to her medical supplies.

The room was dull, beige walls with multiple cracks in the paint that exposed the grey concrete beneath. The furniture was all broken and run down, though she noticed a vanity against the opposite wall. The mirror was totally smashed, but still Lia smirked. I wonder if the previous owner left me any goodies, she wondered. A heavy thump broke her train of thought, accompanied by the telling sound of hinges starting to give way. She immediately got up from her position, each move significantly more pained than the last. “Adrenaline is starting to wear off,” she uttered as she stumbled about the room, making her way to the windows and tearing down the curtains. The door had come away at the top and now rested against the bed. The undead crowd outside was already trying to push its way in.

“Vai all’inferno,” she yelled over her shoulder as she tore at the curtains and used them to bind her wound once again. She pulled her pistol out of its holster, a black Beretta Px4, and ejected the magazine and checking its contents. She did not have nearly enough bullets to fend these walkers off. Merda, I could always just off myself, she pondered, watching the encroaching horde over her shoulder. Her gaze then moved to the window. It was already broken and watched over the street. There were possibly hundreds out there on the ground level, attracted by her encounter with a band of local raiders. “Fuck it.”

She raised her pistol and fired at the closest walker, backing towards the window as she did so; its brains showered the far wall, fragments of skull amidst the sticky mess that had once been its head. .40 S&W certainly had some destructive capabilities when applied to a walker’s face. She grabbed onto the divider in the area where the window used to be and started to climb out, poking out into the night.

Something grabbed her leg as she pulled herself across the threshold, causing her to turn and face the threat with a panic stricken expression. She had taken too long to climb and a pair of walkers had grabbed onto her and had started to pull her back in. “Pezzo di merda!” she yelled as she kicked one square in the jaw, knocking it backwards into the encroaching crowd, but another wrapped its arms around her trapped leg from the other side. She pulled against the crowd, but she was unable to make any progress.

Then pain shot through her body. It started from her leg and worked its way up her right side to her arm that held her pistol. She raised her right arm and emptied the rest of her ammunition into the walkers that were attached to her leg, peeling them off with bullets. She instantly put her left hand down on the window pane, sending another jolt of pain up her other side, and pushed herself through and onto what used to be a small flower arrangement hanging just outside. She was unsure how long it would take her weight, so she pushed herself up and started to shimmy along the wall. Her left hand was bleeding too, she must have put it down on some broken glass in her struggle to escape, and her leg made every step agonising. She made it to a small, roofed archway that hung over the street below and took the time to investigate her leg. She was bleeding from just above the knee. The slide on her pistol was held back, signalling her lack of ammunition, though she just released it, allowing it to slide back into place before holstering it once again. She pulled out her knife and cut the fabric of her cargo trousers so that she could see the wound in more detail. Fucking walkers must’ve pushed it onto the broken glass in the struggle, she thought as she peeled the fabric away and looked at the wound clearly.

“Cazzo!” she yelled through gritted teeth. She did not need her medical degree to know that it was a bite wound, not a glass laceration. Her grip around her knife tightened as she squeezed in anger. That was it. She was done. She put her knife away and fingered over her pistol. A bullet through the brain would ensure that she stayed dead, but her lack of ammunition cut her options short. She considered the many forms of suicide open to her at this juncture. She could let herself bleed out; she could jump from the roof that she stood on; she could use her knife. She took a deep breath, wiping a lone tear from her right eye, and limped over the roof of the archway to the next building. She was safe up here from the horde at least.

She shimmied across to another window and dropped into the apartment room. It was much like the one that she had escaped from, but it was more orderly. “Home,” she mumbled shakily as she made her way to the door that led onto the corridor.

“Is where the heart is. Did you really think we wouldn’t track you down, bitch?” came a voice from her left. Two men and a woman stood, armed and well equipped. The voice she instantly recognised.

“Vaffanculo,” she uttered quietly, her tone low and sinister, but the group seemed to largely ignore it. The man in the middle raised his pistol and fired. Lia took two steps back with the impact of the shot before slumping down against the wall, falling to the side as she made contact and sliding towards the floor. Her body had nothing left to give. Darkness enveloped her vision.


Am I inspired to write more? Possibly. Will Lia become a walking corpse with a bite fetish? Possibly. The answers to those two questions are correlated with a correlation coeffic-… Too much maths talk. I’ll leave it open to interpretation.

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