“That’s a nice idea,” She said.
We buried the bodies at the edge of the field that day. Since the bodies were far away from the house, I figured that their rotting corpses would not attract any extra unwanted attention. Each of the contaminated had a wallet on it, and after digging through it, we learned their names and place of residence. We held a mini funeral service for them as best we could, “To Jeffery Watson, and Jayson Wineman. Though we knew nothing about you, I hope that you are in a decent place now,” I said over their freshly dug graves.
“Don’t joke,” Chelsea said to me.
I looked up to her with an honest expression, “I’m not. It’s just that I wanted to say something for them, but I really don’t know anything about them. It’s what I would want if this was my fate-“
“It won’t be!” Chelsea said. She had her arms around me now. “We can both do this together. Neither of us is alone, nor do we have to be.”
“Oh? No: live together, die alone,” I
“No,” she said. “Live together, die together.”
“I like that better.”
Chapter 10
We began to train our bodies day in and out. The changes in our features and physical appearance became apparent almost immediately.
My body was fully toned, shoulders broad and defined. My biceps and triceps became solid and more reliable than ever before. Even my abs began to show through, all eight of them.
Chelsea had the greatest improvement out of the two of us. When we started, she could run three laps around the field, but would be very winded afterwards. Now, she was practically able to sprint the entire field four times around without an issue. Her swing with the bat was also greatly improved and was more ferocious.
We risked the noise when practicing with the bats. One of us would field and the other would swing at baseballs. This way one of us was running around the field, trying to catch the hit balls while the other was improving their timing and accuracy with their swings. Our accuracy with the bats improved so much that they quickly became our contaminated killing tool of choice.
Due to our training, my body was able to wield the wrench with little trouble, and the results were devastating. Heads would smash and splatter into pieces. The wrench would split skulls with relative ease and became a personal favorite weapon when slaying contaminated. In one instance, the wrench literally tore the entire face off of a contaminated, blood and gore launching out of its freshly formed orifice.
I quickly learned that the kitchen knife was useless. The cuts were too shallow for it to do any real damage, and I nearly died testing the weapon.
The contaminated charged me one sunny day in the field. Its arms were flailing as it hissed with a wild ferocity. I put all of my force behind my free arm, pushing it back. As it stumbled in an attempt to regain its balance, I thrust the knife forward, lodging it into the contaminated’s yellow eye. The blade penetrated the soft tissue easily, but only went in for about two inches and nearly got stuck in the eye socket. I stabbed again, but was off the mark. The kitchen knife collided with the top of the skull. The blade snapped like a twig from the force, a shard of the blade flying off and lodging into my arm.
The pain was immediate, a flaring heat rushing through my entire arm and up my shoulder, the blade protruding out of my bicep. I ripped it out, blood flying through the air from the initial tug followed by the rhythmical gushing of blood pouring out of my arm in conjunction with my heartbeat. I could feel the weakness in my arm, the sluggish movements due to the injured muscle. My arm was dead and useless at that point. It would be suicide to try to fight off the contaminated in my condition.
The hissing roared in front of me, and it was then that I realized that I was injured and fighting an extremely pissed off contaminated with our weapons about one hundred feet away. Those are not my ideal conditions for fighting against such ferocious creatures. It was as if I was thrown into a lion’s den with nothing but a tissue, well in this case skin tissue.
I gave the contaminated a kick to the chest as hard as my weakened body would allow. It stumbled backwards but not nearly as far as I would have hoped. It moved back about a yard or two before giving me an angry hiss and throwing its hand into my chest. I was knocked backwards by about two feet, stumbling to regain my balance while making an attempt to force air into my lungs again.
Once I managed to regain my composure, I decided that my best option at life was to make a b-line for the weapons, which I proceeded to do. There was a problem with putting forth extra energy in my weakened condition: it was cold and I was losing blood, not fast but effectively. My body was not as fast as it could have been. I was breathing heavy and taking hard steps against the cold ground, each one bringing me closer.
“Chelsea,” I called out, more as a death notice than a cry for help. I managed to make it to the weapons with the contaminated at my heels. I grasped the bat and turned but became extremely light headed and fell down, collapsing against the chain link fencing. I tried to get up again, but the feeling of life was being forced out of my lungs by the pressure of the contamianted’s hand pressed against my chest. Its body was leaning
