I Own Cows
Woodhouse Smith, American Retiree.
Woodhouse eyed the knife in soldier boy's hand, "ya know, a knife can go either way, son."
"Fuck you old man," soldier boy fired back, moving forwards.
Now, for Woodhouse, the most terrifying thing a man could do was stand still in the face of adversity. That kind of behavior risked messing with the mind of a potential aggressor. It was animal-based logic; posturing. Meet their determination with an even greater resolve, and watch them crumble.
He planted his feet firmly on the ground; the pain of his bruised testicles temporarily forgotten by a wave of adrenaline.
"Just know," Woodhouse said, flicking his straw hat slightly. "You come at me with that, then only one of us walks away."
Soldier boy just shook his head, his face suddenly distorted in wild anger. He inched forwards, circling left around Woodhouse, and then right. The old man stood there, watching his opponent with the kind of confidence he couldn't confidently back up with anything.
The Czech suddenly lunged; Woodhouse's right hand shot up and gripped his wrist. A fist found the old man's cheek, but he refused to let go, and launch a jab of his own. Solder boy's head shot back back; his bruised face a pressure point of pain. were Woodhouse twenty years younger, he'd of won this fight in seconds.
But he wasn't twenty years younger. He was old as Hell, with arthritic joints, a fat belly and a crappy circulation system. The Czech threw his face into Woodhouse's, and the world dimmed.
Četař (Sergeant) Tibor Švec, Aktivní záloha (Army Reserve).
The old man went down like a sack of shit, and Tibor nearly followed suit; his face felt red raw, and he could literally taste the blood flowing backwards from his nose and into his mouth. He was dizzy, terribly dizzy... a heat butt wasn't perhaps the best thing he could've done.
"Stupid old man," Tibor cursed. He lent down, held up his knife and-
Hands grabbed him from behind, and wrenched him away. The smell of decaying flesh and damp clothes filled Tibor's half-working nostrils, and then he heard the excited moaning of the dead. How they'd got so close without him realizing was a question he didn't have time to answer. He fought with his attackers, struggling to get free of their iron-cast grips, but it was no use.
Pain exploded across his stomach as one of the infected tore into his stomach; another clamped its teeth around his jaw. He could only scream out as the most intense agony racked his body.
Then there were a series of rifle shots, and one by one his attackers fell off him. He gasped, trying for air, and unable to feel anything beneath his waist.
The old man stood over him, his face bruised and cut. There wasn't anger in his eyes, just some kind of sadness.
"Sorry, son," the old man said, and then pointed the smoking muzzle of Tibor's own rifle at his face.
A final gun shot rocked Prague's city center.
