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#DeadEndTours: Hurting Fields
Paperback
Series: #Deadendtours, Book 2
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ISBN13: 9798874412203
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: Feb 17 2024
Pages: 202
Weight: 0.61
Height: 0.43 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: Feb 17 2024
Pages: 202
Weight: 0.61
Height: 0.43 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
Hurton Airfields, known locally as Hurting Fields, is an abandoned military airbase. Experiments were conducted on this site that saw miraculous healing; the creation of diabolical monsters; and the awakening of the dead. But that was more than twenty years ago. Now, for those going on the #DeadEndTours urban exploration of Hurting Fields, no one is expecting to encounter any of those monsters. No one is expecting to meet the walking dead. Which means the latest group of tourists are in for some big surprises. From the book:
It's as simple as this, said Sergeant Miller, raising his Glock 17 to the creature's forehead and squeezing the trigger.
There was an explosion, deafening in the hollow acoustics of the hangar. Something flew from the back of the creature's head and then it fell to its knees and collapsed, unmoving and lifeless. The stillness of the night seemed to thicken as the after-echoes of the gun's retort rippled through the darkness.
Don't waste your time shooting anywhere else, Sergeant Miller told his troops. His voice, ordinarily loud, was raised to a parade drill bawl as he went through the impromptu demonstration. Forehead only. Front-on. A hit anywhere else on the body is a waste of time and bullets. And we're in no position to waste time or bullets today. He kicked the lifeless thing at his feet. And don't bother with any of this 'double-tap' shit. These things don't have the imagination or the ability to play pretend so, if it stops moving, it's definitely dead and you can worry about the next one.
Another of the creatures came at him from the shadows. He raised his Glock, waited until it was less than a metre away, and fired again. The gunshot sang louder than a rattle of thunder. The creature fell to the floor like a marionette with the strings cut.
Feel free to help me out whenever it doesn't interfere with your valuable schedule, the sergeant added sarcastically. I hadn't realised I was leading a platoon of tree-hugging, vegan pacifists who all want to sit down singing John Lennon songs and tugging each other off, rather than helping me deal with this zombie fucking outbreak.
The silence was broken by a platoon of a dozen privates shaking themselves from a horrified stupor. There was the metallic click that came from well-practiced professionals arming their rifles. There was the sound of shuffling boots against the asphalt of the hangar floor. All of this was supported by a background chatter of muttered apologies, as the group scoured the surrounding darkness.
How many of them are there, Sarge?
I don't have that information, Miller bellowed. But, I think it's upwards of a hundred. It's fair to say we're outnumbered.
Are they really zombies, Sarge?
Zombies is as good a name as any, Sergeant Miller replied. But you can call them whatever the hell you like. Geeks like Willoughby say the walking dead. La-di-da officers with their private educations call them reanimated corpses. I call them Liverpool fans.
One of the privates, Auton it sounded like, grunted a bark of laughter at this. He asked, Why do you call them Liverpool fans, Sarge?
Another one of them came running from the shadows. Mine! Miller shouted. He extended his Glock, waited until the creature was a metre away, and then squeezed the trigger. There was a deafening bang. Something wet shot from the back of the creature's head. And then the zombie had fallen, motionless, to the floor.
I call them Liverpool fans, Miller said, smiling. Because their brains have stopped working and they all need shooting in the face. It's the same reason why you'll hear some squaddies call them James Corden fans.
Are they infectious, Sarge?
Why? Are you thinking of dating one, Willoughby?
Miller paused whilst a couple of privates chuckled at this reply.
There was an explosion, deafening in the hollow acoustics of the hangar. Something flew from the back of the creature's head and then it fell to its knees and collapsed, unmoving and lifeless. The stillness of the night seemed to thicken as the after-echoes of the gun's retort rippled through the darkness.
Don't waste your time shooting anywhere else, Sergeant Miller told his troops. His voice, ordinarily loud, was raised to a parade drill bawl as he went through the impromptu demonstration. Forehead only. Front-on. A hit anywhere else on the body is a waste of time and bullets. And we're in no position to waste time or bullets today. He kicked the lifeless thing at his feet. And don't bother with any of this 'double-tap' shit. These things don't have the imagination or the ability to play pretend so, if it stops moving, it's definitely dead and you can worry about the next one.
Another of the creatures came at him from the shadows. He raised his Glock, waited until it was less than a metre away, and fired again. The gunshot sang louder than a rattle of thunder. The creature fell to the floor like a marionette with the strings cut.
Feel free to help me out whenever it doesn't interfere with your valuable schedule, the sergeant added sarcastically. I hadn't realised I was leading a platoon of tree-hugging, vegan pacifists who all want to sit down singing John Lennon songs and tugging each other off, rather than helping me deal with this zombie fucking outbreak.
The silence was broken by a platoon of a dozen privates shaking themselves from a horrified stupor. There was the metallic click that came from well-practiced professionals arming their rifles. There was the sound of shuffling boots against the asphalt of the hangar floor. All of this was supported by a background chatter of muttered apologies, as the group scoured the surrounding darkness.
How many of them are there, Sarge?
I don't have that information, Miller bellowed. But, I think it's upwards of a hundred. It's fair to say we're outnumbered.
Are they really zombies, Sarge?
Zombies is as good a name as any, Sergeant Miller replied. But you can call them whatever the hell you like. Geeks like Willoughby say the walking dead. La-di-da officers with their private educations call them reanimated corpses. I call them Liverpool fans.
One of the privates, Auton it sounded like, grunted a bark of laughter at this. He asked, Why do you call them Liverpool fans, Sarge?
Another one of them came running from the shadows. Mine! Miller shouted. He extended his Glock, waited until the creature was a metre away, and then squeezed the trigger. There was a deafening bang. Something wet shot from the back of the creature's head. And then the zombie had fallen, motionless, to the floor.
I call them Liverpool fans, Miller said, smiling. Because their brains have stopped working and they all need shooting in the face. It's the same reason why you'll hear some squaddies call them James Corden fans.
Are they infectious, Sarge?
Why? Are you thinking of dating one, Willoughby?
Miller paused whilst a couple of privates chuckled at this reply.
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