RIDE! ~ Pt.6
Oct. 29th, 2011 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonThe Coffin Hop continues...
RIDE!~Pt.1
RIDE!~ Pt.2
RIDE!~ pt.3
RIDE!~ pt.4
RIDE!~ Pt.5
13 minutes to go:
Mitch is cruising parallel along the side of a small park when the handlebars begin shaking violently in his grasp. The front wheel starts trembling uncontrollably and Baby begins bucking wild under the seat. He wrestles the bars steady and it’s all Mitch can do to keep from crashing on the spot. Light pumps of the brake steady the balance and he manages to wobble to a halt, feeling every bump off every crack he passes run through his body, spreading wider the crack of panic fracturing across the windshield of his attention.
No, no, no, no… please no! But no matter how hard he tries to will another option into being he cannot deny the obvious: a flat tire.
Mitch throws up the goggles and hops off Baby.
Kneeling down while steadying his bike, he mechanically pinches the front tire, even though a casual glance would confirm that there’s barely an asthmatic breath left trapped in the tube.
Biting his lip beneath the respirator, Mitch recons the scene. There are five Infected total, all in the park and all children. The contagion has hit them especially hard. Their trembling is noticeably more uncontrollable. Their gnawed limbs flail with an air puppet’s abandon, their groans high pitched and vaguely reminiscent of swine squeals. They stagger through the sparse terrain of the park’s playground, advancing through the swings and slides and spring-mounted rocking horses.
C’mon man, a voice whispers in his head and says no more.
Thoughts shift from panic narrative to a steady calculation of instincts. There is nothing left to think, no words because he already knows exactly what to do.
He straightens up, taking Baby by the top tube and the seat post, flips it over and balances it resting upside down.
Kneeling in front of the tire, he steadies the rim, flips the quick-release lever on the axle and yanks free the tire. He rummages through his saddlebag and retrieves the tool kit buried and blanketed in the folds of an old bandanna. Looking up, he glances behind him.
Four of the five children are shambling in closer, with one tangled in the chains of one of the swings, straining hopelessly against his tether, to reach Mitch. Between them is a small fence, chest high and enough to slow them down.
He begins un-wrapping his kit when a motion in front of him sparks off his peripheral vision.
A full grown Infected; snarling through a mangled grimace, a crooked neck perched unnaturally on a permanently shrugged shoulder. One arm is paralyzed to the side and the other gesticulates wildly towards its prey. It is twenty feet away at best and closing.
Mitch reaches back into the bag and removes a fistful of Roman Candles along with his lighter, laying them down carefully at his knees.
S’okay, man… you can do it.
He slips the rounded end of the tire tool between the rim and tire. Slowly, he jiggles and slides the tool down the rim until he pops the two free.
The squealing has picked up and the fence behind him is rattling. A glance up confirms ‘Daddy’ Infected a few yards away now, along with a spread out creep- flock dawdling down the street from both directions.
Mitch slides a second tire tool through the rim, repeating the process from the other side until the tire pops free in his hand. Quick, steady fingers skin the tire from the wheel with an economy of motion. When it’s free Mitch sets the tire down calmly, picks up one of the Roman Candles, lights the fuse, looks up and aims the sparking end towards the rotted visage hovering only a few steps away.
Sparks trickle and hiss menacingly. The creep shivers and advances steadily towards Mitch, despite the eyes obviously locked on the phosphorescent glow of the candle’s tip .
The hissing ends with a soft puff as the candle heaves a Technicolor flare straight into the creep’s face.
Wailing with bestial pain, the Infected goes staggering blindly past Mitch, its pace quickened under the damage and goes toppling over the fence.
Mitch reaches back into the saddlebag, praying he remembered to… but yes, yes, he did pack the extra tube. Frantically, he peels open the box, shakes the tube out, finds the air nozzle, twists the cap off and dives back into the bag, this time with a small, handheld pump in his hand. He slips one edge of the tire back into the rim, lines the inner tube inside the tire, taking care to match the valve up through the rim’s valve hole, and begins to carefully tuck the rest of the tire back into place.
A dull thud crashes behind him, one he can barely register between the relentless shrieking of the burning Infected and the squealing of the creep-kids. He glances behind him and one of the little bastards has managed to topple themselves over the fence. It’s a little girl with pigtails and no lower jaw. Unable to get back up under the seizures wracking her lithe physique, she instead begins to crawl towards Mitch, slapping her arms forward and using them to drag her body closer.
Mitch drops the pump, picks up a second Roman Candle, lights it, and aims.
Another swoosh of ignited air, another electrified rainbow heave, and the flare hits just inches in front of the kid’s face, sending it to shriek horrifically.
In answer, a series of wails, groans and growls rumbles along the road.
Scanning around, Mitch realizes they’re starting to get closer and bringing plenty of company.
Then something else yanks his visual sweep along the street.
There on the rooftop, four houses behind, he sees people.
Real people. Though there’s some distance and gloom between them, he can tell by the way they’re scurrying around the ledge that they’re infection-free.
“Heh,” Mitch snorts, balances the tire between tucked legs and picks up the pump. He pops off the cover, attaches the nozzle to the tire’s valve, locks it in place, extends the pump’s arm and begins furiously pounding in air.
With each pump, the Infected flock moves in another step closer.
Focusing, Mitch pounds faster, watching the tire swell with each breath rammed into it until it can expand no more. Not wanting to overdo it, he pops off the pump, a brief hiss of air escaping from his efforts to trap it, and bounces it satisfactorily twice off the pavement.
Stepping forward to attach the tire back to the front forks of the bike, something grabs his ankle.
Skin horribly burnt, with smoke trailing from the hair, the crawling kid-creep has snagged Mitch’s boot and is trying to drag her half-face forward to take a bite.
Mitch shrieks, kicks his leg free and jumps back – toppling ass- backwards over the bike to collapse tangled over its frame.
The kid launches a shaking arm forward, slaps a hand down and pulls herself in closer to her meal.
Mitch, looking at the world upside down, can see the Infected massing around, only scant yards away. He pulls himself backwards, away from the kid, ignoring the pain shooting up his back and his right arm. Freeing his legs of the bike’s frame and still somehow clutching the tire, he manages to scramble back to his feet. He steadies the bike up, attaches the tire to the forks, locks down the quick-release lever, flips Baby over and remounts her.
With a boot thrust off the pavement he launches himself back into the race… barely registering the resounding bump as he rides clean over the little girl’s outstretched hand.
RIDE!~Pt.1
RIDE!~ Pt.2
RIDE!~ pt.3
RIDE!~ pt.4
RIDE!~ Pt.5
13 minutes to go:
Mitch is cruising parallel along the side of a small park when the handlebars begin shaking violently in his grasp. The front wheel starts trembling uncontrollably and Baby begins bucking wild under the seat. He wrestles the bars steady and it’s all Mitch can do to keep from crashing on the spot. Light pumps of the brake steady the balance and he manages to wobble to a halt, feeling every bump off every crack he passes run through his body, spreading wider the crack of panic fracturing across the windshield of his attention.
No, no, no, no… please no! But no matter how hard he tries to will another option into being he cannot deny the obvious: a flat tire.
Mitch throws up the goggles and hops off Baby.
Kneeling down while steadying his bike, he mechanically pinches the front tire, even though a casual glance would confirm that there’s barely an asthmatic breath left trapped in the tube.
Biting his lip beneath the respirator, Mitch recons the scene. There are five Infected total, all in the park and all children. The contagion has hit them especially hard. Their trembling is noticeably more uncontrollable. Their gnawed limbs flail with an air puppet’s abandon, their groans high pitched and vaguely reminiscent of swine squeals. They stagger through the sparse terrain of the park’s playground, advancing through the swings and slides and spring-mounted rocking horses.
C’mon man, a voice whispers in his head and says no more.
Thoughts shift from panic narrative to a steady calculation of instincts. There is nothing left to think, no words because he already knows exactly what to do.
He straightens up, taking Baby by the top tube and the seat post, flips it over and balances it resting upside down.
Kneeling in front of the tire, he steadies the rim, flips the quick-release lever on the axle and yanks free the tire. He rummages through his saddlebag and retrieves the tool kit buried and blanketed in the folds of an old bandanna. Looking up, he glances behind him.
Four of the five children are shambling in closer, with one tangled in the chains of one of the swings, straining hopelessly against his tether, to reach Mitch. Between them is a small fence, chest high and enough to slow them down.
He begins un-wrapping his kit when a motion in front of him sparks off his peripheral vision.
A full grown Infected; snarling through a mangled grimace, a crooked neck perched unnaturally on a permanently shrugged shoulder. One arm is paralyzed to the side and the other gesticulates wildly towards its prey. It is twenty feet away at best and closing.
Mitch reaches back into the bag and removes a fistful of Roman Candles along with his lighter, laying them down carefully at his knees.
S’okay, man… you can do it.
He slips the rounded end of the tire tool between the rim and tire. Slowly, he jiggles and slides the tool down the rim until he pops the two free.
The squealing has picked up and the fence behind him is rattling. A glance up confirms ‘Daddy’ Infected a few yards away now, along with a spread out creep- flock dawdling down the street from both directions.
Mitch slides a second tire tool through the rim, repeating the process from the other side until the tire pops free in his hand. Quick, steady fingers skin the tire from the wheel with an economy of motion. When it’s free Mitch sets the tire down calmly, picks up one of the Roman Candles, lights the fuse, looks up and aims the sparking end towards the rotted visage hovering only a few steps away.
Sparks trickle and hiss menacingly. The creep shivers and advances steadily towards Mitch, despite the eyes obviously locked on the phosphorescent glow of the candle’s tip .
The hissing ends with a soft puff as the candle heaves a Technicolor flare straight into the creep’s face.
Wailing with bestial pain, the Infected goes staggering blindly past Mitch, its pace quickened under the damage and goes toppling over the fence.
Mitch reaches back into the saddlebag, praying he remembered to… but yes, yes, he did pack the extra tube. Frantically, he peels open the box, shakes the tube out, finds the air nozzle, twists the cap off and dives back into the bag, this time with a small, handheld pump in his hand. He slips one edge of the tire back into the rim, lines the inner tube inside the tire, taking care to match the valve up through the rim’s valve hole, and begins to carefully tuck the rest of the tire back into place.
A dull thud crashes behind him, one he can barely register between the relentless shrieking of the burning Infected and the squealing of the creep-kids. He glances behind him and one of the little bastards has managed to topple themselves over the fence. It’s a little girl with pigtails and no lower jaw. Unable to get back up under the seizures wracking her lithe physique, she instead begins to crawl towards Mitch, slapping her arms forward and using them to drag her body closer.
Mitch drops the pump, picks up a second Roman Candle, lights it, and aims.
Another swoosh of ignited air, another electrified rainbow heave, and the flare hits just inches in front of the kid’s face, sending it to shriek horrifically.
In answer, a series of wails, groans and growls rumbles along the road.
Scanning around, Mitch realizes they’re starting to get closer and bringing plenty of company.
Then something else yanks his visual sweep along the street.
There on the rooftop, four houses behind, he sees people.
Real people. Though there’s some distance and gloom between them, he can tell by the way they’re scurrying around the ledge that they’re infection-free.
“Heh,” Mitch snorts, balances the tire between tucked legs and picks up the pump. He pops off the cover, attaches the nozzle to the tire’s valve, locks it in place, extends the pump’s arm and begins furiously pounding in air.
With each pump, the Infected flock moves in another step closer.
Focusing, Mitch pounds faster, watching the tire swell with each breath rammed into it until it can expand no more. Not wanting to overdo it, he pops off the pump, a brief hiss of air escaping from his efforts to trap it, and bounces it satisfactorily twice off the pavement.
Stepping forward to attach the tire back to the front forks of the bike, something grabs his ankle.
Skin horribly burnt, with smoke trailing from the hair, the crawling kid-creep has snagged Mitch’s boot and is trying to drag her half-face forward to take a bite.
Mitch shrieks, kicks his leg free and jumps back – toppling ass- backwards over the bike to collapse tangled over its frame.
The kid launches a shaking arm forward, slaps a hand down and pulls herself in closer to her meal.
Mitch, looking at the world upside down, can see the Infected massing around, only scant yards away. He pulls himself backwards, away from the kid, ignoring the pain shooting up his back and his right arm. Freeing his legs of the bike’s frame and still somehow clutching the tire, he manages to scramble back to his feet. He steadies the bike up, attaches the tire to the forks, locks down the quick-release lever, flips Baby over and remounts her.
With a boot thrust off the pavement he launches himself back into the race… barely registering the resounding bump as he rides clean over the little girl’s outstretched hand.