Friday, July 23, 2004

   A Tribute to Perfection

He raised the simple black pistol's alloy sights up to level the barrel with his oncoming foe, a shambling monstrosity that some chose to call a 'zombie'. He'd soon be calling them relatives. Of course, all of this was unknown to Mr. Albert Wesker, whose task at hand was simply to stop this once-human in its tracks. It was perhaps ten feet away at this point, and Wesker's train of thought was still at the station. Yet to leave for its destination, which was the idea of concentrating on pulling the trigger to end this thing's semi-life. Hmm. My, it is ugly. The aquiline nose was rotted, and a pale shade of whitish-green. Looked as if it were to fall off at any second, in fact. Seven feet away. And my, what ugly facial features. The left half of its face had been clawed right off; from the way the marks started at four fingertip-sized gouges towards the top of its cheekbone and dragged down horizontally towards its mouth, Wesker half-suspected the stupid thing had been eating itself. At five feet of distance betwixt himself and this putrid excuse for an enemy, he took note of its clothing. A near-intact laboratory coat, stained with brownish splotches here and there. Dried blood, no doubt. From the smell however, he had guessed that somewhere along the stages of pseudo-decomposition this thing's bowels had lost all control and fallen out along with its waste. Disgusting at best. Two feet away, and nearly ready to grab Wesker's arm, the thing almost grinned. Or perhaps that was just the left half of its cheeks being gone that gave the effect. Wesker was too busy concentrating on the tiny details of those teeth to really notice the big picture, it was hard not to notice how they jagged in all different directions. It looked like a yellowish rock formation, with all sorts of chips and dents here and there that resulted in some of them being blunt and others being razor-edged. Either way, it looked to make for a nasty bite wound. Bite wound? Oh, yes. Bite wound. What would happen if he didn't do what he did. Wesker somewhat decided that the thing was too close to waste a perfectly good .45 ACP (Automatic Colt Pistol) round on this sack of flesh. In compliance with this, he removed his left hand from the pistol and lowered it. Rather, he simply used its sheer snail pace to his advantage quite well. Darting forth whilst ducking forward a bit as to avoid those bony fingers, he did what nobody ever would do to a zombie - move into melee combat. The thing opened its jaws in anticipation, a long pillar of semi-acidic saliva holding up between its upper and lower jaws. Wesker, who slammed his right foot down before him to cease his advance, immediately swung his right arm up, bending the elbow towards the monster's jaw. The pistol in his hand added a good deal of extra weight, which came in handy when he slammed the butt of the thing into the poor creature's chin. Underhanded pistol whip, literally as well as figuratively, seeing as the creature was too ensnared by its own infected condition to stand a fighting chance against it. Now Wesker didn't know his own strength, because he found it a bit of a pleasant surprise when the entire lower jaw drove itself upwards through the roof of the zombie's mouth, ridged teeth protruding right into the stem of its brain. The sound effect to accompany was rewarding, something reminiscent of a pile of bones being smashed to bits over a giant wet sponge with a sledgehammer, maybe a few ketchup packets tossed in for that extra 'splorch'.The last thing on the creature's mind was it's teeth. Of course, that was easily enough to finish the thing off for good, which Wesker realized when it flew back and upwards a good meter. It landed on its crooked feet for a moment, before slumping forth, rotten tongue hanging out and nearly licking its killer's dulled black boots. Wesker, who was now busying himself by wiping off the butt of his pistol on a piece of cloth he carried around for getting unwanted residue off of his weapons and person, merely arched a dark blonde eyebrow. "Well... Who would've seen that coming," he stated to himself in a dulled monotone, his expression as bland as ever, secretly proud of his accomplishment. Must've been a lucky hit, since he didn't think he was all that powerful. Humans had their limitations, after all. Ah well, no reason to go over the fine details of why it happened, the point is that it happened regardless of such things. Hearing more disgruntled moans and groans echoing down the dim corridor, and now spotting two dark figures trudging down the pestilent halls with rusted metallic walls doused in a mixture of various bodily mixtures, he holstered his sidearm. And what a sidearm it was. A SIG-Sauer P220, a stocky but never-burdensome black pistol possessing an aluminum frame for weight reduction, and currently outfitted to hold a magazine carrying seven of those large .45 rounds he had selected for this task. The man removed his right hand from the pistol holster on the right side of his hip, and instead grasped the single-edge bowie knife handle coming from the leather sheath on the left side of his hip. He simply pulled, and out came the blade, facing the same direction as the smaller knuckles on his hand. The bottom of the handle was near his thumb, in his classic knife-fighting position. It combined power and speed, along with finesse, at the cost of some range. With that, he relieved his body of all tension, arms hanging down by his sides idly. And so he waited for them to come, contemplating the long day that lay behind him, and the longer night ahead.

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