The daily prompt is Fifty
Smoke rose in a fat lazy plume from the car bonnet, the quiet pops of the cooling engine sounding overly loud to the tense inhabitants of the stricken vehicle.
“This doesn’t look good,” she muttered as she peered into the distance.
“You think?” The thunk, thunk, of shells loading drowned out his curses.
“We’ve been in worse situations though,” she said cheerfully as she checked her own weapons.
“That’s not exactly encouraging babe,” he said absently as he put the shotgun aside and pulled a pack from the back seat.
“Sure it is. We survived then, we’ll survive now.”
He shook his head and shoved spare shells and magazines into his pockets. “Baby,” he sighed heavily. “We barely survived and we had the car that time.”
“We didn’t have Big Bertha then though,” she reminded, patting the shotgun he’d just loaded.
“True,” he said grudgingly. “But look at them.”
In silence they gazed out at the shambling bodies; disoriented, apathetic, clothing tattered, grunting and groaning as they drifted idly. There had to be at least fifty of them.
“Once more unto the breach,” her whisper earned her a glare and a hard, fast kiss.
“You know what I hate more than zombies?” He grabbed her pony tail to tug her head back, kissed her again.
When he let her up for air she gasped, “What?”
“Shakespeare. Don’t quote that shit at me,” he growled.
“Um okay. How about; yippee ki yay motherfucker?” She arched a brow at him.
“Much better.” He let her go to reach back for the other pack, sliding it on then handed her a baseball bat, and put his hand on the door handle. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She touched her own door handle and they moved at the same time. Sliding out as quietly as they could, weapons finding the familiar grooves in their hands, baseball bats slipping into place.
“Fuck baby, here they come,” he warned as the closest zombies turned slowly, drawn by the faint sound of the car doors opening.
“Okay, deep breath, we can do this. It’s a straight shot over the bridge to the house, remember where the traps are?”
“Of course.” He swung the baseball bat and a zombie lost his head with a wet thud. The shotgun came up next, Big Bertha bellowing her dislike of zombies.
“Tell me something … ” She paused to blow the mind of a zombiefied soccer mom. “Honestly honey? What are the odds of us getting home tonight?”
“I’d say, umf!” Another head went flying then Bertha roared again. “Fifty-fifty.”
“Really?” She swung her own baseball bat but only succeeded in denting the head. The thing looked a bit like Chucky from Child’s Play now. Three more blows and it dropped to the ground so she pulled an axe from its holder and severed the brain stem. “That’s better than I thought!”