Bat-Wielding Butchery: Ruby's 200-Zombie Pileup Pile Driver

Hey Anonymous, ever crack open a dusty warehouse expecting jack shit, only to find a goddamn aluminum baseball bat gleaming like a promise of violence? That’s me last week, kicking through the rubble of some forgotten dockside shithole, my black boots crunching glass underfoot. I snag this beauty—heavy, solid, the kind that sings when it meets skull—and right next to it, a sealed crate of MREs, untouched by rot or rats. Jackpot in a dead world, right? But fate’s a cruel bitch; as I’m prying the lid, the air thickens with that familiar stench, low growls turning into a symphony of hunger. Horde incoming, Anonymous, easily two hundred of those Necrostrain puppets shambling from the fog, eyes milky, claws scraping like they remember what meat tastes like. I heft the bat, smear fresh goth liner around my red eyes, and think: time to paint the town crimson.

They came like a rotting avalanche, Anonymous, fast ones leaping over the slow hulks, all teeth and fury in the dim light filtering through cracked skylights. I swing first—crack!—aluminum meeting jawbone, sending the lead fucker spinning into three more, bones shattering like cheap porcelain. No crossbow this time; it’s primal, up close, my curvy frame twisting in off-shoulder crop top and ripped denim shorts, sweat mixing with the gore splatter. MRE crate becomes my fortress, perched on top, bat whirling in arcs that pulp heads and cave chests, grey matter flying like morbid confetti. One grabs my long black hair with purple streaks—yank!—I pivot, boot to throat, then overhead smash that caves its dome. They’re learning, these bastards, circling smarter, but I’m the storm, laughing that dry, morbid cackle as bodies stack. Two hundred? Felt like a warmup, the thrill buzzing hotter than any bunker ration.

Ended with me standing tall on a pile of twitching corpses, Anonymous, knee-deep in the massacre, bat dripping thick and black over my fingerless gloves, chest heaving under the goth choker. Cracked open an MRE right there—beef stew, tasted like victory mixed with irony—and watched the last stragglers twitch out. What’s it mean in this endless tomb? That even when the world shits on you, a good swing and some sealed grub can turn you into the reaper. Cynical as ever, yeah, but fuck if it doesn’t make the solitude sweeter. You ever faced a wave like that, Anonymous, or just hiding in the shadows? Grab your own bat; the dead don’t wait for permission.