The rules are simple - shut up to make badass dick and remains close to the group
- I shoot you while charging. lead pollution, and we care.
- there is only expert
simple, in fact. Mica is not a brainy, four elements are enough wire on Forrest Gump and a shred of discipline
tonight we have both.
the way to the mall was mild, controlled, free of unnecessary noises. we killed a fucking no worries, no panic. Pirico the equivalent of a choke made of pillows.
management was such that during the climb to the third floor - home and garden-Sweden has granted a whim picking up the grenade launcher.
the grenade launcher is the litmus test of the balls. in with the wrong hand does little harm to the very virulent and on those who can still boast an immune system worthy of the name.
but Sweden is not a jerk. is diligent, rarely shoot high and parables. thins the first wave czech Republic and Russia, leaving the task to take out the bulk of the average distance, using the sacred coupled Charlie & Yuri, aka M16 & AK47.
me to task would be to remove more stubborn dirt and next to shots of buckshot. But Sweden's move caught me off guard and now I'm here with a telescope. two long range weapons and none for the near future.
but everything is going so well, why bother.
counts tanks says that there are only two, then the Dodge Charger on the ground floor, a modern version of the General Lee, on the ground will download the correct amount of torque, evacuated from this valley of tears.
commercial break
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RyPamyWotM
here we are again, and this is also the last two tanks.
Russia collects the first and throws it down the balustrade. Czech republic tries to imitate him closer to the second, but here are from the brass at low frequency.
the tank will appear directly down the hall, or three meters from Sweden, immediately sfanculando the usefulness of the launcher. czech Republic retreats while pulling a barrage of 24 rounds without any pause that Russia does what you always do in such cases: he pulls out the Molotov cocktails.
Rule 4 - to keep the petrol bombs the tank. the bastard should burn while the group sings a cappella burn baby burn.
experto the tank never dies if it is not in focus, and Russia knows it. we first sawing, saw that too, without panic, without worry. pillow.
the molotov flies over the head of the tank. crashes on a plastic plant behind him without even cause him a rash, while the giant lashes out at Sweden and kills him in a split second.
a little dazed at the scene, then emptied the entire magazine of the sniper rifle with no iron sight, for so the beast is near. the mountain of muscle and stamina in Russia comes along and makes it fly down the three floors of restaurants, chemists, herbalists and customer listening posts crossed in a second.
czech Republic and I both have time to reload and re-empty their warehouses, then move in unison on guns. Callaghan on his magnum on me ... a katana.
why the fuck I got a fucking katana? I hate all this shit of knives, I avoid like the plague. how do you explain that my field of vision is occupied by hulk and a blade forged Japanese economically in korea?
and ponder the possibility that the first, on the ground floor, the rush has probably pushed me to purchase a fallacious even try to sketch a pathetic swipe at about two tons of red fibers and gamma rays in full momentum to me. a second later I'm on the ground. two seconds after I died.
czech Republic is unhurt and is shooting behind the beast. this turns around, raises his hands as if to ask some more strength to the god of the trolls, then collapses to the ground.
now, czech Republic has the necessary experience to realize that alone, in a warehouse infested with zombie expert and not yet a full tank of petrol, the wisest thing to do is restart the level or sadly being torn to pieces without reacting .
yet seen him pick up the tank from the ground, throw it down the stairs, closer to my body and bring out the defibrillator.
zzot! return from the dead hailed from a single sentence, delivered with that unmistakable mix of Slavic accent and squealing microphone
"cover me!"
czech Republic set out these words you shoot a dose of adrenaline in the body and runs toward the stairs
lame pick the sniper rifle and look to do a shred of health that I find myself. something in a few seconds behind me aggredirà killing and letting czech Republic alone at the mercy of unstoppable horde. neglect the last shred of hope when a boomer appears around the corner, filling my fellow green vomit before it can reach the stairs.
a door behind me opens, leaving a group of employees in the running. link on me while reloading. two meters, one meter, zero.
than me, ignoring me.
are following breakneck czech Republic, covered with bile attractive. czech Republic but is faster, adrelinicamente fast zombies behind him. runs as the son of the wind.
realization of worrying about only those who are in front.
pointed his gun, looking through the viewfinder. Saving Silverman dating zooms on the stairs.
bam! one out.
bam! out two. bam! diridindin, the prize of the bailout bell.
headphone two voices coming from beyond the grave begins to rumble, no cheering.
bam! four. bam! bam! the Razer slowly slips on the pad, I'm not even breathing. are possessed by the spirit of a Siberian hunter hired by Stalin.
dirdindin BAM! BAM! that has passed? fifteen seconds? Republic is on the last ramp. the few infected my passing shots to go down Stalingrad Kalashnikov Czechs.
headphones are the screams. Czech republic collects the tank farthest reaches and the machine starts to pay
bam! dirindindin bam! bam! dirindindin!
Republic run to take the second tank, the one closest. picks it up while I see something darting toward him. is the language of the smoker. Republic tries to turn around and shoot. but does not see his assailant, not as I see it.
is hidden in a corner to me, under the columns of the first floor. I only see her tongue twisted around my friend who struggles against the machine, which should give him the freedom, with the tank solver to two feet away, unreachable.
hold my breath, I aim to thin tongue.
bam! failure. bam! man ... katana.
what the fuck?! I have the exact same strange face first, his face dell'idiota the katana, which ended the ammunition of the gun. while I let the disappointment most absurd ever produced by a video game should attack me I'll take a moment to listen to what they're screaming Russia and Sweden headphone
"GRE ..." greatest sniper of the world? greatest effort ever made? I know man, but it is not bastat ...
"GRENADE LAUNCHER, IDIOT!"
three meters from me, on the ground, from seconds seem like hours, there is the launcher of Sweden.
reached him, through what appears to be the most unbearable limp in the history of lameness. Area point about the language. just the first shot.
czech Republic is free. Carl Lewis, but is no longer an old man like me, slow and clumsy, although still able to pay for petrol as it should. it does, then stops.
why not start? why do not you turn the key the Charger and dives into the arms of a sweet red? in a life of picnic, flowered balconies, incredible beauty and children's books launched in the air of a park on Sundays?
why let the horde around him string a few moments, ever closer, more rapacious, alitante hate?
I understand now when the end is a few meters away when the charger for my brother's recent election is dangerously empty. can not leave because I'm here, with three floors and a thousand light years away. still alive.
I step forward.
the low note that should accompany the impact of my death is silenced by a deafening roar, hundreds of horses American runaway screaming, smashing windows, bend steel, bite the polished marble. pistons, spark, nitrites.
last man stand.
