"We've found a good amount of ammunition," Brandon muttered, almost as if he wasn't there, reloading his gun. He looked across the pile of ammunition at Colton and Wilson who, despite knowing what was going to happen, had the blankest of expressions on their faces. "You two sure you don't need a--"
"We're perfectly fine with melee weapons," Colton snapped, raising the eyebrows around him--Jacob's eyebrows. "Thank you. Now, could we please get a move on?" Those four pairs of eyes scanned each other before skittering to the world outside.
Bullets were stuffed into magazines and stuffed into whatever available pockets there were. Colton slipped the knife he carried into his belt, and Wilson snatched up a fire axe. The wooden handle was slightly damp and covered in dried blood, some of it not as dry as he thought, but it didn't matter. There would be much more where they were headed.
Brandon and Jacob yanked the gate open while Colton and Wilson stepped through, and then pulled it shut once they were all outside. The pressure was great then; weighing them down. Either they find a cure and an explination to this entire thing, or die trying. This was most likely going to be more dangerous than travelling through the Prison; a larger lanscape, more people. More insane people who could try to kill them.
First things first: Make it across the parking lot.
Colton kept his knife out, and Jacob kept his pistol aimed into the darkness, jumping whenever one of them heard something moving in the shadows. The four of them were as on edge as they could be. If shuffling across a deserted, dead, crumbling, silent parking lot was hard for them, how would it be once they made it into the city?
"How long do you think we'll have to walk?" Wilson asked, breaking the silence. "'Till we reach the city?" He got no reply for a few long seconds, everyone else focused on watching the shadows if so much as a rat scurried away.
"No idea, my Friend," Jacob turned his head to stare back at Wilson, and Brandon stopped short beside him. Colton didn't even slow. After a good minute of staring each other down, Jacob turned away and--
Leaped back. Twenty paces ahead of him, covered in both blood that was his own and not, stood Jacob. His knife was held like a cross in front of him, the blood red blade was wedged into the skull of a person covered in his own filth; dirt smeared across his face, a torn blue shirt hanging like a sack over his arms and undergarments covering his bony legs to his knees. In the center of his forehead, blood began to drip and gush from the gash there. A screech and chuckle escaped the man's lips, and he threw back his head and laughed. Colton gripped the handle of the knife tighter, and yanked hard on it, feeling it come free. The man spun around in a circle on one of his bare feet as the blood pooled from his head around him, as if he wasn't injured. "They're at it again!" he trumpeted. "They're doomed on their feet!" Colton swung once more, striking the man in the throat and driving the knife down deep.
Brandon, Jacob and Wilson stood still behind the scene, mouths hung wide open as Colton stabbed and slashed at the laughing man. He wouldn't fall; his legs wouldn't buckle. "At it again, at it again, they're doomed on their feet!" the man droned on, louder and louder. Why wouldn't he just die?
"God damnit," Colton muttered, finally slashing through the man's stomach and grabbing onto the man's bloody throat, snapping him back. A splitening crack rang across the parking lot, and the man went still. Silent, although a pain-filled breath escaped his mouth. He fell back, his back arched, his forehead, throat and stomach mangled and bloody. Colton, panting heavily, began to shake, only gripping the knife tighter in his hand. Blood from the blade dripped into a puddle on the ground.
Brandon rushed forward while Wilson focused on waking up a fainted Jacob. He stared down on the cold corpse, and then looked up at his Son in horror. A twisted smile had become plastered on his face, one of pleasure. As if he were happy. His eyes were far off and distant as he began laughing. A laugh that could tell you everything; that they were doomed, that what they were experiencing at that moment was just a taste of hell. That laugh became a cackle, and Colton's head turned so that he could face the horrified expression of his Father. "He's dead," Colton cackled. "I killed him."
"Come on, man," Wilson snapped his fingers in front of Jacob's face in the meanwhile. Nothing. "God..." He brought his hand up, flat and high, and brought it down against Jacob's face. Surprisingly he shot up, so quick that he and Wilson butted foreheads. Wilson fell back with a grunt of pain. "Ow!" He exclaimed, but proceeded to help Jacob to his feet. Stumbling, at first, but once he managed to stand, they both turned to face the scene in front of them.
"We're going to die out here," Colton went on, slurring the sentence as if drunk. Brandon stood on his feet motionless, unsure of what to do and too scared at what he was witnessing to move. Colton spun on his heel, turnning away, the knife still in his hand. He fiddled with it, swinging it back and forth. "There's no cure to this hell," he continued. "This is permanent hell, and we're going to die."
"Stop talking like that," Brandon snapped in a low voice, and Colton spun around, a horrible twisted smile still on his face. "We're going to make it out of this alive. We're going to cure this."
"Words like that are going to get you killed," his Son whispered, a cold voice unlike his own, a lower tone. Brandon froze, he couldn't move; his lungs closed up, he couldn't breathe. "Don't you get it?" The boy did not wait for a reply from his Father; he raised the knife with a cackle, and threw himself forward, the knife in his hands and a murderous glint in his eyes.