Like a Valkyrie to War

Jack assessed the weapon in his hands with a sense of horrored awe. This was his first time holding an automatic rifle. At least one of this quality. Something truly built for violence and evil, with efficiency and destructive power far beyond that needed for home defense. Unless you were defending your home from an army.

It was cool to the touch and surprisingly light, like the conscience of a sociopath. It smelled like metal and the faintest oil, unsullied by the dirt and filth of the space in which Ron had kept it.

It was… aesthetically pleasing. The solid, rectangular structure of the main body contrasting with a variety of ornate textures and gaps. Its dim black finish couldn't stop it from gleaming, as if shining with a mechanical glee.

The top of the gun had a space to hold a sight, blended into the front half of the body and shaped like short reptilian frills. Behind these, the top of the weapon formed a smooth half-hexagon until it reached the butt of the stock. Within the lower half of the stock was a gap with a specialized bar, built to allow the user to attach a variety of straps, currently sporting one made of disappointing nylon.

Above the trigger, the safety was easy to identify, even to Jack, a lever twisting between a white "S" or red "F". The grip was textured with soft plastic on both the handle and the portion of the body in front of it, which then tapered into a tube-like muzzle. The actual length of the weapon was shorter than he expected, about that of a forearm, likely because it loaded the magazine near the butt of the gun.

Taking one of those magazines out from his fanny pack, it slit into the feed and easily locked in place, a quick press of a button at the base allowing it to fall back out. Every part of this rifle spoke of optimization towards its intended use, and he swore it knew it.

Jack felt himself filling with both confidence and doubt. Confidence that this weapon, with enough skill and ammunition, could clear his neighborhood or maybe even a small town. However, Jack felt doubt becuase he knew he didn't have the skill to do that. Even with the undead literally banging on his door, he didn't fully understand how to use this thing.

Luckily, he had Ron's phone. Drawing a diagonal line on the screen to bypass security, he whispered one last gratitude to his late friend, the lazy bastard.

Speeding through Utube in what had to be record time, he skimmed a few videos on rifle arming, aiming, and even jam release. Finding what he thought were the same mechanisms on his rifle (the guns looked different, but should work similarly... right?) he mimed each action once or twice until he heard the sound of glass breaking downstairs. That would have to be enough practice.

By a quick count, it seemed like each magazine held about 20 rounds. That meant he had 120 pre-loaded shots to play with. However, there had to have been many more people living in his nieghborhood before the fall, so each bullet would have to do the work of two.

Marching down the stairs, rifle in hand, Jack felt the building momentum of a storm. He was like a warrior god, descending from Valhalla to war with giants of frost. Each of his steps was the pounding of a drum, echoing a call to battle.

The threat of these things surrounding his home had been weighing on him; hurting him. And because of that a dark, hidden, ugly part of his soul was yearning for this. To rebel against their oppression in the most primal way. To rip the threat out by its roots. However, Jack was out of time to explore this rationally. He had to let it guide him.

He collected the pot lid and the shotgun, putting the lid and recently acquired rifle in Red Candy's basket, leaning against the drone. He didn't have many shotgun shells left, but had a feeling he'd need it first to escape the encirclement on the house. The rifle barely fit in the basket, but would stay, making it easier to switch over when the time was right.

Mounting his new ride and practicing the movements of her operations in his head, he found the Candy's controls were intuitive to him. So long as he remembered where everything was, he could probably drive her successfully without issue.

Turning her key, she roared to life… in Jack's imagination. She actually released a soft electronic purr. Either way she was alive and with luck so was he.

He awkwardly maneuvered her around in the open space infront of the hallway, turning to face the passage to the back door. He knocked over a few things in his haste, and must have made a significant clatter, because impacts soon arrived on the front door next to him.

They were soft at first, like a friendly new neighbor knocking to announce a visit. However by the time Jack had fully turned the machine towards the back of the house, those impacts had turned into pounding thumps and the ripping of fingernails into wood. There were human sounds too. Gutteral almost-words, moans, and hungry, panting gasps.

Had they sensed him somehow? Smelled his breath? Felt his heat or what remained of his sanity? Could he have ever escaped something that would tear itself apart just for the chance to hurt him?

Jack shook his head to dispel those thoughts. He began to manuever the Candy down the narrow hallway. Away from those things. He tried to focus on getting a feel for the Candy's handling, practicing acceleration, turning, and braking in the narrow space as best he could. But he could only do this for about half the length of the hallway before the door gave sounds of cracking and splintering.

Hearing that, he started speeding towards the exit, scraping against the walls as he worked to keep her steady. He winced as he imagined the marks on her finish. More importantly, the attacks on the door behind him grew even more frenzied at the sound, as if they knew he was getting away.

The sunlight welcomed Jack as he reached the back door and ensured nothing was waiting to pounce on him from the backyard. He really wanted to ramp out of the house in a blaze of glory, but there was a bit of a ledge on the door and Jack was worried about the mobility scooter tipping. Luckily, he had enough time to gently walk it over and across.

Jack had just mounted the scooter again, one hand gripping a handle unsteadily, the other his shotgun, when a crash reverberated from the front of the house. The sound of hurried, thumping footsteps began to approach him from the way he came. There was no turning back now. No time to breathe.

Jack sped his Red Candy through the backyard towards the outer corner of Ron's former home. He would go around the outside of the house and break through the crowd of undead while their attention was (hopefully) still on the front entrance.

Then... they would die. Or he would. Jack pulled the smiling black demonic mask over his face. Reaching the corner, once again caught in his own momentum, he couldn't keep himself from whispering one last dumb quip.

"To war."