Taxx, Zombie Hunter

A long, black coat is befitting a zombie-hunter.  Taxx looked at the blue sticky on the shelf above his desk.  “Christ,” he thought, “damn zombies.”  He couldn’t believe it—they had infested a children’s playground, of all things!  He kicked back, putting his feet on the desk, unfazed by the noticeable mud and grime that scraped off of his rubber boots.  If it wasn’t for the constant cold, rain, and mud, he wouldn’t have worn rubber boots.  But they were just part of an outfit that included faded grey pants, made of a baggy material vaguely like denim, a shirt that cost a fortune but was laced with strands of some experimental steel thread, and of course his long, black coat, which was doubly laced with the same material.  He scratched his head, then frowned—in the four days since he’d been home from the office, he’d accumulated a little dandruff.
    “I’ll have to pick up some Head-and-Shoulders on the way home.” He muttered.  As a zombie hunter, he was often alone, so talking to himself was something he did often, just to hear a human voice.  At least one that wasn’t  droning on about “braaaiiins.”  Jimmy in the front office was technically within earshot, but he was hardly more intelligent company than the zombies.  Taxx stared at the ceiling, chewing the mint flavor out of a tooth-pick until it frayed into annoying splinters that he had to spit out.  Then he brushed the remaining fibers off of his tongue with his hands, wiping them on his pants. Taxx was six feet tall, had messy brown hair, and deep brown eyes, which would make him a handsome visage, but he was far from a lady’s man, and killing zombies for a living doesn’t exactly provide the sense of security many women were looking for.  Of  course, if you asked him, he didn’t care.
    Why did Taxx take up killing zombies?  He’d  hadn’t been asked that in a long time, but the last time someone did, he answered plainly and adequately:
    “I don’t like them, and I’m really the only one I’ve ever known to be any good at it.  Protecting people seems to be my calling, anyway.  Makes me feel worth something at the end of the day.”
    Taxx still stared at the ceiling, through his thick black sunglasses.  Jimmy always made fun of him for wearing glasses indoors, but he never bothered to explain to him that he was light-sensitive.  Still, he pulled them off and rubbed his eyes.  Sitting up, he sighed, then pulled the little sticky off of his shelf, stashing it in his pocket in case he forgot the address.  Pulling open a few file cabinets, he retrieved his modified Colt .44, his katana, and a small bag of powder.  He stashed the two weapons in their respective holsters on his coat, and pot the bag of powder on his inside pocket.  He stood up, wishing he could get enough money for a bigger office together sooner rather than later, and cracked his neck both ways.
    Zombies had come from, in Taxx’s words, “a very complex and bullshit string of scientific phenomenon that originated when the paths of Uranus and the alleged 10th planet collided.”  This happened about 46,000 years earlier than it was supposed to, according to most scientists, who were mostly all flabbergasted at the occurrence.  Taxx wasn’t.  Taxx knew exactly why, and was damn sure of it, too—it’s because some freaking stupid terrorists pissed off the Earth when they messed with some weird ancient texts they accidentally found in the depths of some cave in Afghanistan.  They detailed an old Sanskrit charter on  blending Astrology and Necromancy, and supposedly it was originally intended for use with the Philosopher’s Stone.  Since the terrorists obviously did not have the philosopher’s stone, the results were not the key to eternal life, like the original authors had intended.
    “Now it’s time for me to clean up the mess.”  That was the other reason Taxx didn’t have many women lining up to be with him—the vast majority of him didn’t believe him about the book.  For whatever, in his words, “stupid hypocritical reason,” they could believe zombies, which they had to once they started attacking, but magic seemed to be too far-fetched.  Whatever, he thought.  “Tiffany believes me.”
    He got on his motorcycle—more economical and maneuverable than a car—and headed out.  When he got to the playground where the note had indicated, he was surprised that there weren’t any zombie hordes around—at least not yet.  There weren’t any cops, and for that matter, there were hardly any buildings or roads around here, either.  A soccer ball rolled up to him.  He dove for cover.
    A massive explosion rang out, causing the birds to squawk and fly from the trees.  He looked at where the ball came from.  A single Zombie sat in a swing, with a demented grin—which looked all the more demented considering you  could see the muscles on the left half of his face.
    “A tang-tizzle-wizz-whatzit, said the doo-dosher, and a ding-dang-dizzle does it.”  “Great,” Taxx thought.  “One of the crazy ones.  Why does it have to be one of the crazy ones?”  Some of the zombies were only half-brainless, and the other half was completely mad.  This one was the third one he’d met that had an affinity for Dr. Seuss-style poetry.  Taxx brushed himself off.
    “Were you the one that sent the note?”  He asked.  The zombie threw its head back in a throaty laugh.  The crazy ones for some reason were just smart enough to figure out how to find and lure the zombie-hunters into traps.  To be honest, it scared the hell out of Taxx sometimes—that is, before he shook it off and splattered their brains with his gun, which was something he thought was a good idea right about now.
    Taxx pulled out his modified Colt, and fired.  It was specially upgraded by a friend of his that used to be a Navy Seal, a Blackwater Operative, even a special-forces officer.  It was about twice as powerful,  but stabilized for a high amount of accuracy.  The one thing it wasn’t, however, was quiet.
    The shot rang out, and the zombie’s head was gone.  However, Taxx knew it would alert the rest of them.  A marching sound began to fill the air, quiet at first, then very loud.  The horde was coming.  Taxx knew what time it was, and pulled out the pouch from earlier.  Opening it up, he inhaled deeply as he poured the Elf Dust over himself.
    “If they’re gonna use magic, then I better too.”  He thought, the fairy powder accelerating his consciousness—and his body.  Soon, he was thinking and moving at least 4 times as fast as a normal human, though it felt like 12.  He would probably have to take a double-shot of Vodka to kill the headache later, but right now, he drew his sword—it was time to get to work.

2 comments on “Taxx, Zombie Hunter

  1. Funny that your two stories both feature guys in long black coats. Definitely curious about the game you said you were doing for this one. The melee, tech, range and magic seem like they could make for a very fun system to play in.

  2. Pingback: Samurai, My Path « Lambda Creations

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