doclinkin wrote:I envy you your Kukri knives. I do okay myself: I use a Ditch Bank Tool sometimes. Depends on my mission that day. But if I don't need both hands, I like it. It's like a hooked machete on the end of an axe handle. I like the chop and the option for distance
Wouldn't mind one of those ditchbank things. Two problems with a kukri -- 1) it's not very long. Ditchbank lets you keep some distance. 2) The blades do get dull. Found me a sharpener in Fayetville right before they fire-bombed the place. Which was a stupid f*ck thing to do. Only thing kills the Zs is massive head trauma. All the fire-bombing did was set them on fire. Nothing quite like getting chased by a flaming Lewis.
Poncho.
Who woulda thought we could get self-defense techniques from Jamison? Next you're gonna tell me you got marksmanship ideas from DeShawn Stevenson? 'Bout the only thing I got from The Shawn was a blind-ass, fool-hardy self-confidence that damn near got me killed when I came upon a school bus filled with 35 kindergartners. Thought I could liberate the kiddies and get 'em to safety. Only problem: they'd turned. Except, their eyes hadn't got milky yet, dunno why. Maybe something to do with age. Maybe they hadn't been turned long enough.
Oh. The other tip: they don't sell marbles anymore I don't think, but if you can get a case of loose ball bearings from an autoparts store, or crack a supermarket vending machine full of superballs, then you can buy a couple critical seconds if you need it. Slip and slide. Runners don't zigzag all that well, and tend to faceplant if you give them a slippery surface. On tile floors or stairs a squirt of floor polish works pretty well.
Reminds me -- finally found a use for that black gunk that comes out of the Zs when they've been stilled. It's slippery as hell -- almost like motor oil or some...uhhh...personal lubricant. Barnabas figured it out by slipping and falling in the crap. Before the guys at Bragg got him.
Came in handy one night. We thought we had a safe place to rest -- a whole frigging herd marches up on us. We ran like hell, cutting 'em down as we went. Got a good lead on one herd, but when we got to the top of a hill, we saw another one vectoring in. We kept running -- Barnabas lugging like 6 milk jugs full of this black gunk and refusing to put it down. Finally got a cemetery and found a mausoleum. He poured this gack out all over the sidewalk and steps. Then we set up.
The Lewises got there first. Slipping and sliding and falling. WHACK! Dead. So, we got into a rhythm. Practically an industrial operation. Two guys cracking skulls, two guys clearing bodies. We must've slayed 300 Zs that night.
Kev. Funny that you're still flacking for the RV industry. That sounds like the life, what I wouldn't give to just get on the open highway and drive somewhere where there's nobody, and take a deep breath and I don't know, cry or something. I get stuck in my little survival routines and forget there's maybe something else. It's almost like I feel I need the danger to remind myself not to relax. Stay sharp.
Shxt. Hear something. Later. I hope.
Wish I could go back to flacking. Maybe when this is over.
