Pre-AN AN: I've had this first half-draft for months, but could never manage to continue it, and it even led to me being unable to think of other things and get all...stuffed. A little while ago I burst, (Not like that, I swear) and now I think I'm ready to start again. I hope all of these ANs' don't annoy you guys too much. C:

AN: I hope I'm not doing something too crazy...

But then, I have never gotten far enough in a story to really show off my imagination.

Oh, by 'imagination' I of course mean gore descriptions. ^^

I hope you like it, I spend ho-work really hard to think about details.

Ah, if there's one thing I like more than cupcakes, it's blood.

But as with everything, there are more than 2 options.

I swear it's just ketchup in the batter. ^^

I dare you to try running away. :3

...hah...hah...hah...

I held the shotgun in both of my hands, clutching the glorious piece of metal as close to my body as possible.

"Uh...Tiff? You okay, buddy...?"

...hah...hah...hah...

I flicked out my tongue, and let myself taste the barrel. The bitter taste of gunpowder, and the choking smell of smoke. I could almost feel the heat on the barrel from it's last discharge. It's a complete fantasy, but even so...

"Do you need to sit down or something...? There's a couch, maybe you should sit down and rela-"

"Imma fuck them up."

I take a step toward the door, paying no mind to Luke's petty attempts to stop me. If I don't use this divine artifact of titanic proportions this instant, I'll stick this barrel down my throat as far as it goes, and pull the trigger myself.

"Wait! Tiff, calm down! Let's talk about this, okay?" Luke is so cute. The way he waves his hands in his innocent panic is adorable, the same way a puppy whining when you close the door on it.

"I'm done talking." I've had enough of this shit. Of this farce. Of this fucked-up situation I've been in my whole life.

The three new faces slowly turn stiff, and they slowly back away. Smart, that. I admit I'm a little deranged right now.

"Yeah, but maybe we could wait, maybe think this through and come to a better solution?!" That's some sound logic, Luke. If you weren't such a bitch, perhaps you could be a public speaker. But I have a secret weapon, a trump-card-

Logic doesn't work on me.

"I'm tired of waiting." I've put up with this shit for fourteen years. I'm sick and tired of letting oppurtunity get away, just because it's, 'the smart thing to do,' or, 'it makes sense,' or, 'there'll be consequences.'

I advance on the door, Shotty in hand. I can feel the physical closeness, the bond that we share, and as such, I will give the most meaningful name to this piece of heaven.

"Please, Tiff! Think about what you're doing!" HAH!

When have I ever thought, since a pantsless-man walked out of the trains' bathroom and attempted to renact one of my favorite scenes from-ahem, since he walked out.

"I thought about it. Me and Shotty are in agreement, which makes the decision unanimous." Shotty told me to shoot them. I listen to the voices in my head. Who doesn't?

I take another step forward. The door is snapping and cracking, clawed hands reaching through the holes. Already, the steel pipe is mostly bent.

Luke is standing between me and the door. He's a fool.

"Look, I'm horrified that you already named the shotgun, and I know you don't value my opinion, but please reconsider."

I close my eyes, and look at Shotty.

...hah...hah...hah...how...how many...how many times...

Have I dreamed of this moment?!

Fourteen-years! Fourteen, fucking years, of pushing a button on a controller and watching someone else blow the zombies' brains out.

Do you know what that feels like!? To have everything you dream of stolen from you on a daily basis!? I went to tournaments, I participated in events, I got the DLC, the expansion packs, the easter-eggs, did the beta testing, and sweat blood to become the best player in the world!

...and you know what?

I'm sick and tired of it.

I look up, and shove Luke aside. He makes one, final plea.

"Please, Tiff! Just wait a little bit, we can come up with something! Anything! Just be patient!"

A good suggestion. There is but one problem.

"PATIENCE TAKES TOO LONG!"

In a neighborhood devoid of life, not even a dog remains.

Streets lie silent as the grave, without a single soul to walk the miles of pavement. Cars are crashed or parked. Traces of fire remain, but have long since been choked out.

Completely silent, that is, except for an 8-story apartment building.

An old building. Not young, but not dilapidated. Although the steel handrails had to be removed as rust became a huge risk, the residents had lovingly built new rails made of good hardwood. Although not as strong as the steel that was there previously, it could still hold the weight of at least ten people.

Crowded impossibly tightly around a single door are 56 clawed, fanged, and perfect monstrosities. If their intelligence had allowed them to back-off and allow a running start, the door would have given long ago. As it is, they can barely move except for those in front who can somewhat claw apart the door.

A strange clicking noise cuts through the screeching.

*click*

The clawing and howling intensifies. The long-haired monster in front is screeching in indignation, crushed against the door, but unable to make any meaningful marks against it.

*click*

Through the holes in the door, the foremost monsters see a a five-foot-six figure, dressed in oversized clothes, hat pulled down low to cover their face, and short black hair. Loading a shotgun. Beneath the hat, a mouth drawn in an impossibly wide crescent is trembling. The tongue is protruding to the left, and the figures' teeth are biting down so hard on the bottom lip that a line of red begins to drip from its' chin.

*click*

One by one by one by one, the bright-red shells. Held by quivering fingers, inserted with a solemn reverence, as one would handle an artifact handed down by god himself. Well, the figure doesn't believe in god. But if a thousand priests watched the care and exactness of this motion, a thousand-and-one would all exclaim with praise.

A pitch-black barrel the shade of midnight appears in the midst of the convulsing figures like magic. As one, they pause their struggle for a moment to look at this impossibly dark object. Like primitives before a god, their eyes' dimmed, the light stolen from their eyes.

The long-haired monster in front stares this dark god in the face. The howling and screaming come to an abrupt, and sudden, halt. All attention focuses on this black portrait of divine might. As if the whole of the earth were holding its' breath, anxious to witness the advent of a new and glorious god of death.

And like a god, this object imparted fire and damnation. Like the hail of a blizzard, shining shrapnel erupted from the mouth of this faithless-idol, ripping and obliterating all within its' path. Bringing death and peace, as only tiny pieces of metal accelerated to ridiculous speeds can.

In short, Tiffany fired the shotgun.

With the first shell, the three monsters in front went down in a sprawling, twitching heap. Others around them howled with fear, pain, and anger.

I giggled. And pulled the trigger again.

"Boom~hehahehahaha!~"

Luke mumbled dejectedly behind me.

"He's completely lost it...I'm sorry I couldn't stop you, Tiff...I'll apologize to your victims in the after-life...if they make it there after being severely ass-raped by you."

"HAHAHAHAHA"

Boom~Boom~ oh, it's empty...

Heh, I always wanted to shove someone off a balcony.

Eleven had gone down, while hardly any of the others were unscathed. Well, that's okay. I wasn't aiming for the zombies.

They were healing fast. But I'm faster. I looked behind me, towards the only person in the room who hadn't pissed themselves, or looked like they were going to.

"Hey, blue-hoodie, could you hand me whatever you used to break open this door?"

The guy mumbled something, grabbed a sledge-hammer lying against the couch, and handed it to me. I nodded my thanks, then turned and kicked the door.

On the other side, forty-five bodies felt the shock, due to them all being packed tightly together, then redoubled their efforts to break the door. As they surged like a tide against the hinges, I delivered another, stronger kick. An inch opened between the door and the monsters.

I closed my eyes, and imagined myself in an expansion less white plain.

In the distance, a roiling cloud is gathering. Thunder and explosions abound within it. All this time, I've been keeping that part of myself separate, apart. Now, I embraced it.

Adrenaline and strength flooded me as I returned to myself. A mere blink had passed. Yet now, I was full to the brim with emotion that made me want to scream and tear my hair out. It made me want to grab the nearest person and grind their face into the ground with my shoe, until their brain and skull have merged into a squashed mass.

It makes me feel very, very, angry. The forty-something zombies outside hurl themselves against the door, and I hear one of the hinges snap. Then another one. Then the pressure recedes, as they bounce off from their own force.

Now, when they are on the back foot. I snap the bent and twisted shower-curtain that had been holding the door closed. It breaks like a twig underneath such solid impact. Unsupported by this piece of metal, the door, labeled number 66, is hanging off of a single bent, twisted hinge.

I take all of the anger I've been holding in since I was four-years-old, and channel it into my shoulder tackle of the door.

The hinge snaps. The door comes out, but instead of falling, it rushes towards the clumped-up gaggle of monsters, off-balance from their own efforts. Behind them, a wooden railing weakened by shotgun-fire tilts. The door closes the distance like the jaws of a great beast, pressing the forty-bodies against the weakened railing.

One body against forty. Impossible.

This should not work. One person cannot overcome the difference in numbers. And yet...

The railing groans, squeals, then snaps.

And sends forty-five monsters, one door, and an enraged girl six stories down.