Seldom Six Feet Under

Chapter Three: Dead Men and Marijuana

          Passing by the infected, military trucks roared down the street. Geared up individuals steered the front, ignoring the infected that screamed at them and tried to follow. They had a half a dozen dead chasing after the trucks, gurgly screeches escaping their throats. One of the four trucks had two petrified survivors in the back, wrists bonded together. The lady was curled up at the man's side, both frozen in shock. Her mouth was open ajar, trying to form words. The man beside her nudged her gently, shaking his head of disapproval. She pressed her trembling lips against one another, squeezing her eyes shut.

      Men in similar uniform were waiting for these trucks by a set of large, metal gates. The fence was enclosing a large, protected medical facility. The riot gear wearing guards gripped onto the chains and pulled the gates open, allowing the trucks to roll on through and park in the parking lot, which the fence claimed as its own, as well.

      A helicopter flew overhead, roaring loudly in the sky. It's blades were loud enough to draw in any infected for miles, yet none really bothered to look up and chase it. It was theorized that it was because the infected knew they couldn't reach it. Had they landed, though, perhaps they would react differently. But the helicopter safely set down on the landing pad on top of the hospital.

      A man stood near the roof exit, watching as the helicopter slowly lowered onto its designated circle. His long, dirty blond hair drifted from the strong winds that the blades created, although his matching beard remained still. He wore a dress shirt with a bullet proof vest over it, his sleeves rolled up; Like a detective in a crime show. His hair dropped down along his back as the chopper successfully landed. The pilot unbuckled and wriggled out of the seat, gazing over at the long haired man. He smiled widely, stepping down from the chopper. "Hey!" He exclaimed, approaching the taller male.

      The man crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes down at him. It was silent between them for a couple moments, before the pilot spoke up. "Winds were great, thanks for asking," he muttered sarcastically, strutting past him and taking a pack of cigarettes from his forest green winter jacket, with pink fur along the rim of the hood. Despite it being the end of order, his jacket remained tidy and soft. The plush was comforting to him.

   "You aren't wearing your gear," the other man spoke up.

   "Do I need to?" He turned on his heel to face him. "I mean, I'm flying in the sky!"

   "Therefore making you an easy target."

   "For the dead?!" He questioned jokingly.

   "For people, Chris."

      Chris, the pilot sighed. The man had a point. A fur, winter jacket and a purple turtleneck couldn't save him from a bullet. His hair was dirty blond shade, a black and white checkered bandanna was around his head making his hair stick and prop up to complement the look. If there was one thing he never took off, it was his sunglasses. Whether he was inside or outside, he always wore them. There wasn't anything wrong with his eyes, however. He just couldn't bear to part with them. His signature look, he called it. "You're such. A. Bum!" The pilot whined, lighting up his cigarette and taking a drag from it, forcing the smoke up into the sky as he kept his head tilted back.

   "I don't care," the other continued. "If I catch you out there without your gear again, you'll lose your chopper privileges."

   "Yeah okay, mom!" He turned on his heel and strutted towards the staircase. Both went their separate ways. The stylish man hopped down the staircase, leaping from the last three steps and clicking his heels together playfully. The sound of him touching the ground echoed through the rest of the hall. He snickered and finished up his cigarette, crushing it in the ashtray that he had kept on the railing. It was a miracle it hadn't lost its balance. There were about two dozen cigarettes in there already, and all of them were from him.