There was a whinny and a clack of hooves on the asphault as Blackie galloped for her master. Blackie was a stunning mare, aptly named for her ebony coat and mane. Bob had found her on an abandoned farm not too far from the coast so he took her in.
Blackie reared and neighed, throwing the Creeper off balance. Bob took his chance and grabbed the mares reins, swinging up onto her saddle. He pulled his cap lower to his head and snapped the reins,
"Ya!" He ordered in fustration. Pain attacked every inch of his torso as Blackie jolted forward into a scarily quick canter.Blood soaked his shirt and he moaned weakly. But he was determined to get to Los Angeles; he had to get to Gerard and the gang. That is...if they're still alive...
After a few minutes, Bob demed it safe enough to pull Blackie back into a walking pace. Her breathing was heavy and laboured as was Bob's. Bob snatched his canteen up, only half of it had water. He sighed and pulled his horse to a stop, hopping off quickly, he opened the flask with shaky hands, hissing as agony burned from the bites, if he didn't get First Aid soon he would die and he knew it. Bob raised the water to Blackie's muzzle and tipped the whole contents onto her dry tounge. She lapped it up greedily, savouring every drop and began to catch her breath as Bob placed strips of cloth as makeshift bandages over the wounds. Blackie snickered, as if she were concerned,
"S'okay gurrl." Bob slurred, getting back on the saddle, "S'okay." He stroked her mane softly before putting her into a trotting pace.
Blackie was Bob's only friend. Sure, she was a horse, but Bob had a way with animals, especially horses and he bonded easily with them, speaking their language with his body and voice by making clicking, snickering, whinnying and snorting sounds to communicate. Bob had fixed Blackie up, cleaned her down to rid her of her mangy hide, he had brushed her coat, untangled every last knot in her mane, fed her, watered her, and nurtured her back to health. Blackie meant the world to Bob and he was sure as heck never gonna let her go.
Green scenery blurred by and a sign reading;
'Welcome to Los Angeles,
The original number had been scrawled out beyond recognition and replaced by a crude squiggle of the number zero. Underneath all that was written,
"Turn back, you crazy motherfucker before they get you."
More concerningly, right next to that message was a bloody hand print that stretched to the bottom of the board.
Bob forced down his doubts and continued, Blackie's metal shoes clopping loudy in the deserted streets.
Houses were delapidated, cars upturned and dead Creepers littered the floor every now and then. Bob drew his 10mm pistol he had found from his holster and spun it slowly on his finger. Suddenly, Bob's vision blurred and his head spun wildly, unable to focus on anything.
He slumped forward onto Blackie's neck for support, his eye heavy and barely open, tiny slits just about showing the boy that ran up to them. His lip ring sparkled and his red hair with black fringe fell in front of his face. He snapped his fingers in front of Bob's face. Bob just stared, cofused. The boy shouted something but it was lost to his ears. Frank- Bob recognised the hair and lip ring anywhere- took Blackie's reins and led her aside as Bob wobbled in the saddle.
The world spun insanely, getting faster and faster. Bob could taste bile in his mouth but he hadn't eaten properly in a week so he could only retch violently. Then his eyes rolled back and his head slumped forward.
And then there was only black.