Christopher Wilke’s first line
Jackson recognized the coppery taste of blood on his tongue…
Licking his lips he threw the corpse of the Labrador against the sewer wall and smiled at the delicious sound of the drained corpse plopping into the shallow water that still seemed to drain through the tunnels underneath the abandoned city. The Victorian sewer system under Manchester was extensive; it’s long red brick tunnels burrowing for miles around the underbelly of the sprawling northern mill town that was once the glory of the cotton industry. But that was long gone and Jackson’s mad glare that was now reflected in the torchlight of the oncoming walkers was rabid with raged filled frustration. Thin lines of drool dripped sporadically from his chin pooling in a crevice of his top that was torn and tattered. He groaned long and low, the sound emitting deep within his throat possessing a guttural primal cry of pain and despair. He moved forward faster towards the party, who realising his state had turned to flee in the opposite direction. His moans became more frequent, louder more desperate and eager, to them it sounded like the monsters hunting cry. His halting steps made him stagger as he moved faster against his will, his flaccid limbs flopping against his body. The rancid sewer strewn water splashed against his calf, spraying the remains of bodily functions against his clothes but he was powerless to respond just as he was powerless to stop himself from chasing after the living in the depths of the sewer. The implant on the back of his neck, imbedded into his nervous system controlling his body forced him forward. Raising his arms, the gun in his hands, his sweaty palms locked their grip around the trigger. His clear mind protested but his vocal chords had been removed, once more he would kill against his will.
~V C Willow