Roleplayer Guild - Roleplay Forum

HarlequiNxHorroR · #1 (**permalink**) 06-11-2009

Today is July 7th, 2015. From the eldest to the youngest this day holds more significance than any other day in the calendar year. Some refer to it as Judgment Day, others Doomsday but no matter the name, the sequence of events that happened on this day two years ago changed the lives of everyone on the planet. Some speculate it all started with that first meteor shower on April 23rd, 2011. It was rumored to be the only one of it’s kind and despite the thousands of rocks that burned against the Earth’s atmosphere, only one managed to penetrate and touch down in the small town of Lost Springs, Colorado. The city was quarantined shortly after the government and geologists went to investigate the foreign rock. A dozen pictures were released of the meteor, which was a captivating ruby in color despite its rugged texture. The city was under strict quarantine for several months before they released those still alive from the deadly flu that had struck its inhabitants- though there were rumors leaking across the Internet of a government conspiracy surrounding the small town, nothing was ever proven. The media and the public patronized the Government for their decision, but as time passed the incident was quickly forgotten… until the two years and month later to the date. June 23rd, 2013 a second meteor shower said to rival the first rained across the skies. Only this time, hundreds of the ruby rocks penetrated the atmosphere. Some found nothing but ocean, while others crashed into cities, forests, deserts and small towns across the world.

Two years ago all eyes were turned to Mexico as the outbreak of a deadly virus swept across the nation, two weeks after the second meteor shower. Mexico had received several of the mesmerizing meteor rocks on their soil. The virus that followed was unlike any the world had encountered before. It plagued the living with terrible and debilitating symptoms, and even more horrific it seemed to bring the dead back to life. It turned brother against brother, parent against child, and lover against lover as the virus seemed to urge the carnal instincts of man, turning them into nothing more than cannibalistic lunatics. Efforts to contain the highly contagious strain were futile and the more panic that spread into the heart of the Mexicans, the more they tried to flee across the border to the United States.

The United States managed to secure their borders for a grand total of 48 hours and 32 minutes, before the massive hordes of the infected overwhelmed the troops stationed there. The virus struck the citizens of the U.S. swiftly and without mercy, it held no prejudice against whom it inflicted and it seemed there was no way to stop the horror that was quickly enveloping the United States like an estranged nightmare. It had seemed there was a sanctuary on the Eastern sides of the states where the infected had yet to cross, but this sanctuary was shattered when symptoms of the virus appeared in New York City. New York too had meteors touch their soil. Hundreds of meteors had penetrated the Earth’s atmosphere on June 23rd 2013, and so it seemed that every place where these meteors had touched down on soil, the virus became eminent. It overtook entire Cities within days, entire Countries within weeks, and soon it seemed there was no safe place left on the planet for the human race.

There was mass panic throughout the world. People turned barbaric, killing one another for fear of being infected. Pillaging and looting tore cities apart. The hands of doomed men committed rape, murder and sacrilegious crimes so heinous that no amount of repentance could allow them to pass the gates of Heaven. Those citizens still sane cried out to their governments for guidance. Some assisted their people, but most did not. As the struggle for survival became dire, people came together as best they could throughout the epidemic and created Safe Haven’s throughout the world, most have fallen while few have stood strong throughout the years.

The world as we knew it has changed. World Wonders, which were expected to stand the test of time, have fallen to ruins. The Great Wall of China has been shattered, The Eiffel Tower of France has collapsed, and the Statue of Liberty is nothing more than a memory claimed by the sea. The greatest of cities now lie in shambles, some still glowing red into the night skies with no fire crews to extinguish the flames. Roads leading in and out of the cities are piled high with the wreckage of cars as thousands upon thousands tried to escape. Torn limbs and bodies so disemboweled that the virus could not claim them litter the streets, decaying where they lie. The ethereal cries of the infected pierce through the air as they wander the lands infuriated searching endlessly for the living to feed on.

Roads and Highways to the west that had seen so much travel in the past are now abandoned and lost to the desert sands. The streets and pavement to the east are cracked and reduced to rubble with no one to maintain them. Nature has run wild, growing sporadically with the fertilizer of the deceased, across the lands and sprouting wherever it sees fit, claiming many streets and roads that are now impossible to traverse.

There are few towns that the infected have not overrun and destroyed in their search for fresh flesh, and even fewer that the living themselves didn’t ruin in their insane panic. All that humans had worked hard to accomplish is slowly dissipating into nothingness, reclaimed by the Earth in a sadistic manner of purification. Still, those who have managed to survive this Hell work to reclaim that which they once knew, praying for the day when they can return to the life that was stolen from them. Many have reasoned that without sustenance the infected will simply starve to death, though through some means they have managed to survive. Other’s reason that there is still somewhere in the world that is free of infection, if only they could find it. Some believe that this was the destiny of the world, and the infected will only die once every living soul has been claimed. Others simply cling onto the life and sole existence they have, running on instincts to survive. People may speculate and reason all they wish but one thing remains for certain: This is a war now; us against the Infected…and we’re losing.

While the majority of the infected seem to lack the intelligence to be competent in battle, they outnumber us severely. For every hundred we kill there always seems to be a thousand more to take their place. Whereas for us, for every man or woman lost to the infected it feels like a thousand gone. Whatever path a person has chosen for this life, they are a solider for the human race. In the end only one of us can win, the infected or the humans.

HarlequiNxHorroR · #2 (**permalink**) 06-11-2009

Courtney 'Flare' Williams

Night driving never really bothered Flare. She was left to her solitude, locked away in her small tank with very little interjection from her cohorts over the military radio. Emerald eyes scanned across the infrared and night vision LCD screens projecting the images of the outside world into her own private one. Her gaze was vigilant and secure, shifting at even the slightest notion of movement.

It was rare for Flare to lead the convoy, but hers was the only vehicle in which the night vision was still in tact. Brukeval- the convoy leader had veered off of I44 in attempts to make it to the Mark Twain National Forest in Missouri to visit that section of the Brotherhood for trade and rest. The problem was, electricity had long been cut and the night was black as pitch. Dark, ominous clouds heavy with rain drowned out the light of the moon and the thick blanket of stars. It was a gamble to leave the highway, but the silly Tom Tom, insisted it was the fastest route, and it took them straight through Steelville, MS. ’A good place to refuel and loot.’ Flare recalled Brukeval’s words.

“You see anything Flare?” A deep baritone voice, thick with Russian accent questioned over the radio. Without tearing her eyes away from the screens, slender white-gloved fingers crept across the side panel of the tank, closing around the radio and bringing it to her lips.

“If you ask me one more time I’m turning the tank on you.” She said dryly before replacing the radio. There were several series of laughter and various quips from several the men leading up the caravan behind her. ‘I like it when Flare gets feisty! Oh she told you! Come on Flare baby why you gotta be so mean?’ All of which the Pyro ignored.

They were easily still an hour away from Steelville and thus far the roads had been treacherous and the going slow. The sounds of night creatures were drowned out by the roaring hum of the ever-moving convoy, which presently consisted of 15 various vehicles. The way was rough and the path littered with debris, but it did little to stop the larger vehicles, which simply plowed over them or pushed them out of the way for the smaller ones.

The next twenty minutes passed as uneventful as the first, during which there had been little contact over the radio aside from the boys joking with one another over. Soft rhythmic thuds were heard as the clouds began to unleash their rain in the area. It was a light drizzle but it was still a hindrance nonetheless as it turned the dirty roads into a muddy mess.

The slender woman brushed a few stray golden locks from her soft features; the gentle click of the metal from her labret piercing against her teeth filled the small cabin as she observed the screen. She narrowed her gaze, her wide eyes squinting slightly as she knelt forward while focusing on the image. She struggled to see ahead through the rain and the darkness. The lights beaming from the trucks behind her helped slightly with the clarity but the look on Flare’s face was easily discernable as disappointment as she began to make out the image. She slowed her tank to a stop, listening as the engines slowed and hummed in idleness. She adjusted the strap on her corset top and leaned over to snatch up the radio again and brought it to her lips.

“Looks like we got some blockage boys. Get the floods out so Smasher can see what he’s smashin’.” Flare said replacing the radio, satisfied by the almost unison ‘Roger that.’ She heard from the boys. Meanwhile the blonde pulled her silken tresses back behind her head and tied it up in a ponytail, keeping it out of her way. She heard the trucks behind her beginning to shift subtly, so she did the same, urging her tank to the right side of the road to give more room for Smasher’s vehicle. Satisfied with her positioning she hoisted a floodlight near the back of her cabin and made her way towards the top of the tank through the hatch.

Rain pelted lightly against her bare skin as she made it half through the opening. A cursory glance behind her gave her a brief view of several of the convoy members bustling about their vehicles to provide some light. After some brief positioning, Flare was the first to switch on her floodlight, and there were several groans and protests uttered through the radio. More and more light from the caravan beamed forward and rested on a massive arrangement of wrecked cars and trucks, rusted and dilapidated from their years of being exposed to the elements. It was apparent that the citizens of Steelville had meant to flee and the wreckage was as far as the light could reach and beyond.

Flare’s head turned at the sound of a roaring engine just in time to see Smasher fly past her with his wrecking mobile- which was really nothing more than an altered bus with a reverse steel plow attached to the front. Smasher wasn’t much to look at, and he wasn’t much in way of intelligence, but he most certainly loved wrecking stuff.

“Smashaaaaaas goin’ smashin’ Wahoo!” She heard Smasher chime on the radio and she let out a aggravated sigh and lowered her forehead to rest in her palm in an expression of irritation. Seconds later she heard the deafening smash of grinding metal as the wrecking vehicle collided with several cars. The first few cars were pushed and collapsed towards the side of the road, but it was evident that the wreckage was too severe to pass through in a timely manner. Flare grabbed the radio, her bangs plastered to her forehead from the rain and spoke again.

“Well Bruke, what’s your call? With wreckage like that it could take days to get through, oh will you stop it you idiot!” Flare screamed abruptly as she watched Smashed put his vehicle in reverse and give another furious ram against the cars, which did little to alleviate the blockage in the road.

“I’m with Flare, we should head back to the highway.” A familiar voice, Douglas said through the radio. Flare turned again in her tank looking back towards the blinding floodlights of the caravan, knowing that Brukeval could see her even though she couldn’t see him.

“There could be a side road into town.” The Russian voice of Brukeval offered over the radio.

“Yea ‘an it’ll probably be just as fucked as ‘isson.” While the voice wasn’t Flare’s it mimicked her thoughts exactly. Several other’s issued either their agreements or rebuttals but at the sound of Brukeval’s voice the others went silent.

“You mean to tell me that you ‘aint got any treats in that goodie bag of yours Flare?”
Another grinding crash caused Flare to jump and whirl back around towards the wreckage.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Smasher, stop smashin’!” She screamed, casting a wicked glare over her shoulder before lifting the radio to her lips once more.

“Oh sure I’ve got treats, that is if you want every bloody Zed within a 20 mile radius to know we’re here- that is if Smasher hasn’t done it for us already,” She said wiping the rain out of her eyes and looking out towards the surroundings on either side of the road. Through the darkness she could see the area was lightly forested, though not overbearingly so. Years of neglect left the place littered with various debris and more than once the blonde saw things that were just out of place like worn down rubble of televisions, clothes, and toys. Things that people had tried to leave with. “Besides,” She added. “I don’t like wasting my stuff if there aren’t any Zed’s around anyway.”

“You know you’re not British right? You can’t say ‘Bloody’.” She heard over the radio from some one or another.

“How about you let the grown ups talk for a minute and silence yourself before I silence you permanently- Smasher don’t you even think about it.” Flare hissed into the radio, with an abrupt look towards the wrecking vehicle that was already well on it’s way into reversing for another useless blow. At the sound of her prompting the vehicle screeched to a stop and she didn’t let her gaze shift from it until she saw it was in park.

“I’m not asking you whether you want to use your explosives, if you have them I’m telling you to use them.” Flare turned slowly towards the floodlights, the lower half of her body still concealed inside of her tank and narrowed her gaze on the vehicle she was sure Brukeval was in. After a moments consideration she offered her middle finger in response to the order before disappearing inside of the tank.

“Williams, Dougie I’ll need your help with the wiring. I’ll also need a few people to watch our backs, I don’t know how deep I’ll have to go to clear it enough for Smasher to get through.” She spat into the radio before throwing it aside. At the sound of his name Smasher was quick to add a ‘Smassshinnn’ over the radio to which the blonde rolled her eyes and went to work. She quickly grabbed several articles of leather clothing and put them on, not desiring having any bare flesh exposed when in danger of the infected. She found a black beanie and crammed it quickly on her head. She rummaged through her compartments in the tank, grabbing several items as well as her famed duffle bag.

When she exited her tank she was surprised to see a nearly a dozen of the men all suited with their weapons and ready to go, Williams and Douglas standing eagerly but vigilant beside the tank.

”Got yer gun?” Douglas asked as Flare hopped from the tank to the ground. She started walking towards the wreckage and with her free hand that wasn’t carrying her duffle bag withdrew one of her M9’s from their holster at her belt, before replacing it. Douglas nodded his approval and the group followed her. She was sure to give a deathly glare towards Smasher as they passed his vehicle, he returned the stare with a dimwitted, wide and partially toothless smile.

“Well gentlmen,” She said as she crested the hood of a car, standing tall and peering off into the distance, which didn’t look very promising. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

braioch8201 · #3 (**permalink**) 06-11-2009

The roar of the wind was lost in the roar of the motor. Blakes eyes swept the desert sand around him. He supposed he had met and finally had crossed the line into Arizona. It didn't matter anymore, as it was, the whole of what had once been the US was now wasteland of overgrown forests, crumbling buildings, and swirling desert sands. He'd filled the bike up not too long ago, the gas cans on the side of his bike still had enough to last him for a little while, but he would have to stop before he headed North again.

He lost himself in the wind, the feel of the sand on his face was a minor irritation, nothing compared to the release of the open road. He'd always been one for being on his own, even when he was together with others, he always found his way away from other people.

He'd met a group of infected recently, small game in comparision to some of the things he'd run into. Only about five of them were roaming the southern end of California, small fries really. He passed a small set of huts, guards with ancient and worn guns patrolled the edges of the shacks. They gave a visibly hostile look to Blake as he blew past them. He didn't care that they didn't like him, nor that they didn't want him anywhere near them. He really could give a shit less about all of that.

All that mattered to him was the wind, the road, the guns on his back, and the infected that lay somewhere on the path before him.

elcidcampeador · #4 (**permalink**) 06-11-2009

The time of day didn't matter at all, Orlando was such a bizantine cluster of shared apartments and nightlife bussinesses that criminals were equally active at noon as they were at midnight. One such criminal had been raping and murdering young women for almost a whole year, and believed himself to be completely uncatchable... unfortunately for him he was right, and the police never caught him.
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Christian Reyes suffered from a nearly crippling case of insomnia, his brain was so muddled by the fog of mental exhaustion that he literally went through several days at a time without even producing conscious thoughts, but he still managed to work two separate bartending jobs and engage people in a facade of normal conversation almost nobody could diferentiate from the real thing.

As he walked to the apartment he shared with another four men, consciously oblivious to the world but still managing to greet almost everyone he crossed paths with, his mental fog was pierced by a muffled scream and the crash of several metallic trashcans. A man was pinning a young woman against a wall, blocking her mouth and nose in an attempt to make her pass out; Christian saw none of this, all his tortured psyche registered was that somebody was being assaulted by a humanoid form... and that's when he blacked out.
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The criminal was panting excitedly, never before had he done this so close to an apartment complex, and the rush was intoxicating; so concentrated was he with his perverse attempts that he didn't notice the black-haired man advancing towards him with a combination knife-brass knuckles. He finally realized the danger he was in when a metal-encrusted fist crashed into the right side of his face.

Tranced to the point where he was completely unaware of his surroundings, Christian proceded to savagely tear the criminal to shreds; his first punch was followed by a hooked pull that sliced the man's cheeks and tounge in half, next he grasped his victim's hair and shoved him against a wall and severed his spinal cord by piercing his neck. The criminal died almost immediately, but the black-haired and black-eyed bartender wasn't finished yet; next he pulled out the knife and caved in his victim's forehead with four bestial punches.
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Immediately after he murdered the man Christian regained full consciousness, and in a rare occurence of memory failure believed that he had just taken down a Zombie; he turned on the woman, who sat petrified at the gruesome display, and saw that she was bleeding from a cut on her shoulder... once again, his mangled consciousness percieved the innocent fact as a sign of danger and he blacked out

Ten minutes later he was disposing of his blood and brain-covered clothes in a trash bag and taking a shower without even a single recolection of what he had just done. A block away two corpses lay in an alley, one was a murderer-rapist who had evaded capture (not that the police tried all that hard) for a year, and the other was his new would-be victim.

Kingdom · #5 (**permalink**) 06-11-2009

"Oh, come now. You always were so depressing sometimes." Someone joked, her voice melodic and sweet. The person she was talking to just looked down and shook his head. "Now that isn't true. And you know it." He replied in the same joking manner. His voice was that mid-point between high pitched and heavy baritone. He looked up again and took in his surroundings. He was in a diner, The Desert Hole to be exact, with a girl who was most likely around twelve years old. "Oh come now Daddy. I was only jokin. Its nice to see you again. How've ya been?" She asked the man, now known as her father. "Well Claire, since you asked. Work's been goin good e'er since the news told of the happenins in Mexico. Everyone's afraid its gonna be the end of the world, and they plan on livin through it." He replied. They both started to laugh. Neither of them actually believed the stories. But, nonetheless, the Father was prepared.

Suddenly, the doors to the diner burst open, and in the doorway stood a masked man with a pistol. "Alright! Everyone get down! Move and I shoot!" He yelled to everyone in the diner. Some people screamed, but everyone followed the order. The man walked over to the cash register and pointed the gun at the quivering cashier. "Put the money in the bag! Now!" he barked, shoving a duffel bag in the cashier's chest. Still quivering, he followed his orders. But for a solid five seconds, the burglar's back was turned. Never one to stand idle while evil ensued, the Father crouched low to the ground and quickly made his way to the burglar. On his way there he had arced out so that he was behind the burglar, only twelve feet away. He looked to his right and found an unoccupied chair. He picked it up, realizing that it was a bit heavier than expected, but still manageable. Grabbing it by the backs, he started to hustle towards the burglar.

But the Father wasn't fast enough. By the time he was within possible striking distance, the burglar had turned around, and was now fully aware of the man coming at him with a chair. Thinking quickly, he fired the gun twice. Both shots connected. One in the Father's left forearm and the other into his thigh. But the thigh shot was after the bullet had gone through the wooden chair, and even then it had only grazed the thigh. Following through with his actions, the Father brought the chair crashing down on the burglar's head. The aforementioned smashing completely splintered the chair. Although the blow struck, the burglar still had the gun and had only fallen to his knees. Whereas the Father was loosing blood, on a knee, and was now without a weapon.

But now, some of the other customers had renewed courage seeing the man take two bullet shots and still hit the burglar. Three men were now on their feet with chairs, sharp utensils, and even a metal cane. The three men surrounded the burglar and pinned him to the ground, kicking his gun from his hand. The cashier called the police, and Claire was at her Father's side and crying. "Don't worry now, Claire. Daddy is gonna be just fine."

As the Father stood up, other voices could be heard. The next thing Terry knew is that he was being rattled and shook until he came back to reality. "Wolf!" Came a whispered yell in an attempt to wake Terry from his slumber. Groggy and still half asleed, his first reaction was to grab his Walther p99 that was next to his head. But when he saw it was someone he knew, he halted the urge. "What is it, Fox?" He asked Fox with an agitated ring.

"Come look for yerself, laddie." Was Fox's reply, thick with his Scottish accent. Fox helped Terry up and brought him to one of the windows of the building they were currently in. The morning sky blinded Terry at first, and he shielded his eyes by moving a hand infront of them to allow for easier recuperation. When he was finally used to the light Fox hand him a pair of mangled binoculars, which he peered through to searched the horizon. "No... Damn." Was all he had to say. "I've already told Bear about it. He is advising we get out of here now, before they get any closer." Fox explained to Terry. He was worried, and it was easily noticeable in his voice.

Terry let out a small sigh as he continued to look through the binoculars. "Do we have any kind of explosive? Something we can use to at least diminish their numbers?" He too was getting a little upset and agitated by what he had seen. Actually, what he was still seeing. Fox started to pace in a circle as he always did when he thought hard. He stopped pacing, and looked up at Terry. "Well, not exactly. But, this city used to manufacture all kinds of things. Which means they have machinery here." Terry just gave him a quizzical look. "Machines tend to go boom, Wolf. You still got some Molotavs? Cause we're gonna need'm." "Of course I do. Freshly made two days ago. Whatcha got in mind?"

Before Fox answered, he ran to the area he had been resting in, and grabbed what looked to be a self-made map of the town. And as a matter of fact, it was. Fox's main job was to make maps of the towns around the Brotherhood's cave. And he did it well, taking in much detail from each city and drawing it on paper. But, anyways. Fox came back to the central room and spread the map on the table, using his gun and other heavy objects to keep the map down. "Ok. This spot right here has lots of metal-working machinery. Not the easiest to move, but we do have about an hour till they get here." Fox told Terry, first pointing to a large factory and then to the window they had previously looked out of. "Ok, so we move some machinery. Big woop. It'll take alot more to make them combustible." Terry retorted, his arrogance kicking in. "I knonw that. But if you look here, you see a gas station. And its still got got some juice innit, I'll reckon." Fox retaliated back, slightly hurt.

Now Terry was eating his own words. "Alright, so we move some of the machines to the gas station, pepper the area with said gas, then set it ablaze? Simple. I like it." But Fox wasn't done yet. There was a reason he was called Fox, afterall. "That's the gist of it. But, there's more. The path they're takin right now won't bring them to the gas station. Sure, some of them will be, but not enough to make all this worthwhile." Before Fox could go on, Terry interrupted him. "Which means that they are goin to have to be lured over there, I'm guessing?" "Cerrect." Leaning back, let out a long and exasperated sigh. "Alright, fine."

braioch8201 · #6 (**permalink**) 06-11-2009

As he drove, desert sands blowing by him, the blazing sun beating down on his body. He noticed a dark set of figures far down the road. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, squeezing the throttle harder as he rocketed forward. Within no time the figures grew larger and he realized what he was seeing. A group of infected all over what looked like a rusted and beat up grey van. He scoffed, a set of infected over a vehicle only meant that a group of travelling humans had been ambushed. As he approached at his high speed he made out the distinguished shapes of about 12 infected, all beating and pulling at the vehicle mercilessly.

Suddenly the back door swung open and Blake heard the unmistakeable sounds of gun fire as the infected were drove back. From what he could see, the shots had only taken about one or two of them down for good. Steadying himself he pulled the Uzi from the holster on his back. Aiming carefully he let out a spray of bullets that tore through the bodies of the infected. He blazed past them, squeezing the brake and twisting the handlebars, circling him around in a 180 as he pulled the throttle again. A couple of them had ambled up from the ground, their bodies dripping with blood from their bullet wounds.

Aiming his bike he slammed into two of them, knocking them onto the ground hard. The impact shook the bike, he almost lost control as he steadied himself and pulled on the brake again. This time he pulled himself off the bike, kicking down the stand. He twisted around, the sun behind him now. He could see clearly what had happened in the past moments. A man had appeared from the van and had tried to kill the infected, he'd taken three down with him, and had crippled another one of them to mere crawling. The remaining eight had finally got ahold of him and killed him.

Eight of them remained, two of them struggling off of the ground. His eyes narrowed as he pulled out the pistols from the front of his belt. The sound rocked with the sound of the bullets as three of them dropped with bullet holes appearing in their foreheads. Another rushed at Blake, he twisted from it's grasp, it's momentum carrying it forward, Blake barely looked back as one the gun in his right hand rose and squeezed off a round into the infecteds head.

A second one had taken advantage of his distraction and rushed at him, grabbing ahold of his shoulders, knocking the guns from him. Blake grunted as he kicked forward, shattering the infecteds knee, buckling it for a moment. It growled fiercly as Blake delivered an upward punch to it's chin, sending it reeling. One of the two who had fallen had raised itself and staggered towards Blake, without blinking, he pulled the Magnum from his holster and squeezed off a round, dropping the infected. His turned position left him open to the others attack as it had recovered from his punch. With his right hand he gripped the blade in it's sheath on his waist. Twisting around, he felt the rough muscles, tendons, and spine as his blade sliced through the infecteds neck. It groped for a moment blindly and then dropped in a bloody heap. The remaining two, one from Blakes actions, the other from the deceased man's, both struggled vainly on the ground, slowly crawling at him.

He wiped the blade on the clothes of the infected before resheathing it. Holstering the magnum, he walked over and picked up his two pistols. Walking carefully he place a bullet in the two remaining infecteds heads. He stood for a moment and stared around the blood stained highway. Then his glance fell on the bloodied body of the dead man. He walked with an easy stride over to the man's body and without hesitation squeezed a round into his head as well.

He heard a soft scream from behind him. He turned swfitly the guns held out at the noise. His face didnt' alter as he made out the figures of two kids and a woman in the back of the van.

"Please...help my mom and my sister," the little boy next to the two women begged.

It was then that his eyes noticed the blood inside the van, running down the tracks of the interior. His eyes shot up to the two women and then the little boy, the mother watched him wearily.

"Who's been bitten?" His voice came out, cutting through the warm air around them.

The boy who couldn't have been more than 13 or 14 looked at him, "no...no one..."

The mother shook her head, "Kevin....stop...my daughter and I...we saved him from it."

Blake nodded, he motioned for the boy to come to him. The boy adamently shook his head, the mother through her labored breathing spoke, "Kevin...go with the man...do what he says."

The boy glanced between his mother and sister and Blake himself. He kissed his mother, "I love you mom..."

She smiled weakly, "and I love you..."

Blake's face remained unchanged throughout all of this as the little boy crawled out and stood by Blake. Blake's eyes did not move from the two women in the back of the van.

"Kevin," his voice frigid, "go wait by my bike real quick."

The boy glanced back and forth between them and shook his head. Blake's glare was focused down on the boy, "if you want me to help you, and them, then you will do as I say, or you will be left."

The boy felt hot tears in his eyes as he ran from Blake, around the van and by the bike.

Blake stared at the empty space and then back up to the women. He picked up the guns, one aimed at the two women. The other woman, who must have been about 15 or 16 whimpered in fear. The mothers eyes widened, "wha-"

Blakes voice cut her off cold, "No chances."

The sound of two guns going off simoultaneously made the boy jump as he waited by the bike. Tears spilled down his cheeks, he may be young but he knew what had just happened. Blake holstered the guns and walked to the bike. Ignoring the boy he threw his leg over the bike and knocked the stand back up as he started the engine. After a couple of minutes he glanced back at Kevin.

"If you plan on leaving this place, I'd advise you get on."

Kevin looked at him angrily, "you shot my mom and sister!"

Blakes face didn't change, "they weren't going to be human much longer."

The boy swelled up at the matter-of-fact tone that Blake used, "you're an asshole! A heartless asshole."

Blake barely blinked as he raised a finger and pointed in the direction of the encampment he'd driven past, "there's a group of people living in that direction a couple miles back, good luck in getting in."

"But wait, you said-" Kevin's voice sounded startled but was cut off by the sound of the engine as Blake gunned the engine, steering the bike in the opposite direction he'd pointed Kevin.

Blake's eyes narrowed, no pity, no remorse, compassion lost, humanity lost, he had his guns, his bike and the open road filled with plenty of infected. A cold smile curled on his face, and that's all that really mattered to him.

Dagnir en Gurtha · #7 (**permalink**) 06-11-2009

"Now you look here 'Ace' I don't give a crap what the contract says we ain't...." The boss's voice faded away as Rourke took out his ear-piece and pocketed it. He didn't care what they had to say, he was going to finish his contract.

A shot rang out, echoing in the canyon below. The infected, a mile and a half away, collapsed as a bullet flew threw his head. The other five in the group turned, looking for where the shot had come from. Rourke was a mile up, hidden in the bushes, and the echo made it nearly impossible to locate where the shot came from, especially for the mindless infected, but they looked around just the same.

Rourke's hand flew from the trigger and worked the bolt on the top of his rifle, ejecting the used casing as another round came up from the clip into the chamber. The move had become so automatic Rourke could no more stop it then he could not jump when surprised. He took his time, slowly drawing a bead on the next infected. He held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. His aim was perfect, as it always was, and the bullet went straight through his head.

This time they were looking for him, and the bright flash of gunfire was hard to miss, They started their way up the road, which came right towards him. He thought he could probably take another down before he had to run but killing them had never been the point. He got up slowly, they were a mile away, no need to rush. He started away around to the opposite side of the canyon to the place where the team had set up a impromptu way down.

They had used 5 or 6 ropes of varying sizes to make it all the way down, and it was still dangerous, but what wasn't in his life anymore? He didn't care, his contract said he was going to go down there and so he was, even if there was an enemy salvage team coming for it.

It was an extremely secretive hard drive, left behind in he invasion, and now the scientist who had owned it was willing to pay a solid amount for it. Rourke didn't know why he wanted it or what was on it, and neither did he care, it was his contract and his word, and that was binding.

Finally landing at the bottom of the canyon he tried to remember where the map had put the hard drive. After a few seconds it came to him and now he did rush, knowing there could be other infected still in the town. He ran for it, broke down the door to the rotted door to the house and ran inside. He started looking around and after a few minutes found the computer. He pulled the cover off and pulled the hard drive out, careful to make sure it didn't get damaged.

"Shit!" He had just then realized he didn't have the case for it, Sara had it, and Sara had run with the rest of them. he looked around and found a pillow on the ground nearby, he put the hard drive in it, hoping it would be safe enough for the walk back. He knew Corvey and his team would be waiting at the top of the rope, and the infected would be walking back down the road, as they still hadn't finished off eating all the people in the town. That meant he had to either find another way out or brave one death or the other. He considered trying to hide and wait but knew it would never work, these creatures could smell the living and he wouldn't last 10 minutes. Only 3 left, last he checked, maybe he could charge them, get one or two with his revolver, and run on past them. That wouldn't work either, he couldn't kill them all and the ones he didn't kill would follow him till he died, plus he had no way of knowing whether or no the group had gotten bigger, they somehow always seemed to gain more and more number at the worst times.

He started running as he continued thinking, out the front door and towards the nearest canyon wall, where he could make his choice of which way to go. Then it hit him, and he froze in his tracks. It would take a lot of luck, but it might work, just maybe. He turned back around and looked around the town, looking for two building high enough and close enough. When he spotted a pair of old apartment buildings, both 3 stories high, right next to each other he ran for them, hearing an infected moan down the road a little he knew he had no time.

He ran straight into the nearest building and right up the stairs, stopping only once to grab a chair. Once he got to the roof he close the door behind him and used the chair to prop the door closed. He took a knee and tried to steady his breathing, staring threw his scope and staring at the ridge-line looking for one of Corvey's bunch.

He knew they didn't have a sniper, he had told them it was a mistake not to, but they were an arrogant bunch. As he had hoped Corvey was standing right along the ridge, looking to his right and talking with Jack. He knew it was a horrid shot, taken from a knee, without adjusting for the wind or range, and it was going up, but he also knew they would leave if he started picking them off. He held his breath and waited for Corvey's head to fly back, as the infected's had, as his bullet penetrated the skull.

Rourke's aim wasn't quite that good, Corvey took the shot in the chest, but went down anyway. He was lucky the shot had hit at all, but he didn't have time to be happy about it, the infected were already kicking the door and trying to knock it down. Rourke didn't even check to see if Corvey's team left, he just ran to the side of the building and jumped. He landed on the apartment building next to it and ran down the stairs.

He hit the bottom just a few seconds before the zombies broke down the door and found he was gone. He ran for the rope up and started climbing, the zombies close behind. He got to the top and found the area empty, that was one thing he could be thankful for. He turned around and took out his knife, cutting the rope and allowing the infected still on it to fall to their death.

Rourke let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, that had been too close. He started walking back to Reno, cursing the team that had left he without a ride. It was gonna be a long 10 mile walk and he was gonna be sore tomorrow morning.

winston smith · #8 (**permalink**) 06-12-2009

Charles was looking at the wreckage of the main convoy that his group had detached themselves from three nights earlier from a safe distance through a pair of binoculars that he had found in a house in Pemberton.
He could see at least 20 zombies wondering aimlessly over the wreckage of the convoy. Three nights ago, this convoy was home to over 2,000 men; now it was home to over 3,000 bodies.

Charles knew that the remaining band of men with which he had survived were in no state to pillage the convoy's remains despite the vast quantities of materials that were present on board. Charles also knew , however, that securing even a quarter of the supplies could sustain the remainder of the Condemned for a matter of years. It was worth the risk, better risk a quick death at the hands of an overwhelming horde than suffer from the ravenous pangs of hunger. He would return to Pemberton to announce his ambitious project to the others as at the moment he had nothing but a single pick-up truck and two other men to help him make an assessment of the damage done by the horde. It was clear that there were no visible survivors but the damage to the vehicles and presumably also the good they contained was minimal.

The other men that were in the seven lucky vehicles that managed to pull away from the convoy before its' ambush had Stayed in Pemberton and tried to establish a secure perimeter and to assess the state of the small town.

A several hour long drive later...

It had been almost 48 hours since Charles and the other two men had left Pemberton to investigate the state of the convoy but already much had changed. A large bonfire illuminated the center of the town as a welcoming beacon for the scouts. The towns' two gas stations had been siphoned out of all the fuel possible before electricity was shut off. After wards the pumps had to be powered by ,ironically diesel powered generators for the survivors to completely obtain all the fuel possible. A trench has been dug between the town Hall and the local church providing at least minimal safety for those who would spend their first night in these buildings.

In the town hall only one room was lit, and it was in the center of the building so that no light would betray the existence of the survivors to others by shining out of a window. When Charles and the other two men entered, to give their report , they saw Sean "Drake" Kilroy leaning over a table upon which a large map of Norther Florida was placed.
When Charles took a closer look he noticed that different places were labeled based on the information that recent newspapers and isolated broadcasts had reported. Each town on the map was classified as either: empty, zombies, survivor or unknown. The vast majority were unknown.

Drake obviously noticing Charles entrance by the shadow that the latter had caused when he obstructed the paraffin lamp growled.
" What the hell have you got to tell me? Can't you see that your blocking the light?! "
Charles tactfully stepped away from the light to go around the table.Briefly lookign at the map he found the road where he had been 9 hours earlier, pointed to it and said:
" The convoy is undamaged, at least a couple of dozen vehicles are still usable, the Container trucks also seem to be fine but their is a a problem. The bodies on the road are a feast for the zombies who are probably gonna' stay there until a fresher source of meat is available to them. Only when the Zombies are gone do we really stand a chance at retrieving the supplies."

" Fuck! " replied Drake, "That means that we have to wait for them to move onto to another town to feed and for all i know that could be us."

"Well, i do have an idea"
replied Charles cautiously

"Are we gonna' hear this wonder or are you just going to stand there and keep it to yourself?"
replied an obviously irritated Drake

Khronic · #9 (**permalink**) 06-12-2009

A lone man in his early forties was hunched over an operating table that was fresh with maroon blood. His attire was a dirty white lab coat, wearing a maroon bathrobe underneath it. His hair was comparable to a person that had just woke up, very messy and unorganized. Just like the room he stood him. The 300 square foot room, once used by surgeons of Reno Memorial Hospital, had been transformed into the private researching center of the most infamously unknown celebrity of Reno. It was filled with medical devices, everything from microscopes varying of size to jars that held murky water with what seemed to be random body parts. He was rumored to be the only Virologist left Western side of the ruins of America, and even to be said the only of his kind in the entire country. But those were just rumors.

Yet again, rumors were the only source of news in post-apocalypse.

The man, known as Dr. Heraspa, was lost in the beauty of a deceased male infected specimen. Both of his hands sported what used to be stark white latex gloves, now plagued with crimson gore and blood. His right fingers nimbly maneuvered a scalpel as he carefully cut a line in the specimen's lower torso. A line of blood slowly poured out of the intrusion and the Virologist grinned, extremely happy about the bargain for such a fresh zombified sample. He made another cut parallel to the one he just made, causing a small river of blood to trail down the pale body of the infected. He was tempted to brush away the beads of sweat that trickled over his forehead but forced to push away such thoughts.

All it would take for one drop of infected blood to enter his mouth, nose, or even his eye. Such careless mistakes were for the arrogant and foolish. Dr. Heraspa then made another cut perpendicular to the first and second, forming the 3rd line of what seemed to be a square. Cautiously not to become overly excited, he made the 4th and final cut with his medical tool then excavated the two inch by two inch square of flesh and put it on a nearby medical tray. The man would probably use it for other research, but his main focus was the body that lied before him.

The male zombie must have put up a great fight. It was six foot and four inches in height and must have weighed at least 225 pounds. Dr. Heraspa was certain this one had caused problems because of the about 19 bullet wounds that lined its body, many of them from high powered rifles and assault rifles. It even had 4 bullets lodged in its brain. Those that delivered the body to him said that this one had survived not one. Not two. But three headshots then finally collapsing after a forth one had pierced its skull.

The funny thing was, the doctor couldn't close its eyelids. After trying about six times, they just came back open, staring at the white ceiling tiles. At first it was unnerving, as if it would jump up and maul him at any second. But Dr. Heraspa was having a ball, even talking to the dead corpse from time to time.

But now the man was deathly quiet with the task at hand. The flesh square removed at the lower torso, he positioned his scalpel to lift up the skin in search for a certain organ. He was looking for the liver, one of the organs he had yet to test. He knew the human body like the back of his hand, but these infected were almost another story. Their organs had tendencies to reposition themselves in awry places. This disease was insanely complex and when Dr. Heraspa was mere moments to figuring out what made it tick, a new find would throw everything out of place. It was frustrating for the scientist because it was as if the virus was mocking him. It was almost as if the disease would open up, allowing for the man to get a peek. Then when he was almost there, the disease would change and laugh at him, sneering at his pathetic attempts.

Dr. Heraspa slammed his fist on the table, causing some medical instruments to rattle. He then pointed to the body that laid on the table, his eyes wide with anger.

"You can't hide from me forever! I'm going to figure you out you motherfucker!"

The infected corpse didn't reply, but continued to stare at the ceiling. Dr. Heraspa then noticed something. It appeared the corpse was suddenly smirking. The scientist stared unblinking for a few seconds.

Abruptly he screamed, "So you think that's funny wise-guy! I'll give you something to laugh about you sonnovabitch!"

He took a step forward and raised his arm holding his scalpel, then slammed it down on the zombie's forehead. It went straight through its skull with a satisfying crunch. Dr. Heraspa took a step back and cackled, raising his head towards the ceiling.

A door opening behind him made him turn around abruptly. As he turned his arm suddenly twinged in pain. Dr. Heraspa cursed in anguish as he looked down to see an empty syringe that was lying vicariously on the table behind him had stabbed him in the forearm. He ripped it out and threw it at the door at which a head of a man in his early twenties appeared. The head fearfully retreated, then waited a moment before returned.

"Are you calmed down yet? Your going to go bat-shit crazy if your alone all the time," the man said as he peeked at Dr. Heraspa from behind the cover of the metal door.

"How about you worry about being a nice secretary for me, because we all know you can't do anything else Steven," the scientist threw back as he quickly took off his latex gloves and covered his fresh wound. "Any word on that salvager that's getting my flash drive?"

"Nothing yet Jacob," Dr. Heraspa's secretary started, "He hasn't come back into tow-"

But before he could finish, Dr. Heraspa was in his face roaring at him. "You never call me Jacob! Ever! You may think were gay lovers together, but you are a dispensable moron. If you died tomorrow I would have another of you in an hour!"

Steven had backed up, even though he was two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. After waiting for the scientist to cool down a bit he said, "Should I get you when he comes?"

"Yeah, yeah. Not like he would want to talk to an idiot like you anyway."

Steven then peered into the research room that the scientist spent more in than anywhere else combined. He then noticed a scalpel that protruded from the corpse's skull.

"Practicing for some melee combat I see," the young man jeered and quickly leaped down the hospital hallway like a gazelle, from the crazy scientist that had chased him for a few strides throwing curses and retorts at him.

Dr. Heraspa then laughed a little as his secretary exited earshot. This was by far his favorite middleman that aided him when it came to talking to the public. His humor was refreshing, but the scientist returned to his room, checking on his self inflicted wound. It was still bleeding freely, a small trail of bloody trickling down his forearm. He couldn't return to work on the corpse until his wound was closed in fear of becoming infected himself.

He then looked at his specimen. Although the scalpel was sticking out of its forehead, its mouth had returned to a ghostly smirk.

"I'll make sure I chop you up into little bits before I dispose of you. Then I'll throw you into the furnace in the basement."

The corpse just stared at the ceiling and wore its unnerving grin. Dr. Heraspa manned a nearby microscope and put the newly cut 2x2 flesh square underneath it.

Another day for the weary scientist.

elcidcampeador · #10 (**permalink**) 06-12-2009

Once he finished showering Christian dried up quickly and threw on some boxers, although he hardly even registered it consciously the reason why he was so agitated was because his run-in with the rapist and his victim had cost him nearly an hour of his day; he made up for it by reviewing the daily SFSS (South Florida Security System) transmitions on the single computer console shared by the five housemates at the same time he prepared and ate breakfast. Set ups like this, where a goup of 4-6 bachleors (or bachleorettes) shared a single 2-3 room apartment were common in this area of Orlando, and allowed those that participated to accuire resources that many families went without (such as the computer console).

Christian's breakfast was so ridiculously massive that one of his roomates joked he ate more in that single meal than most people ate in an entire day... actually, this breakfast was a little bit larger than that. It sarted off with a mixture of granola, bee honey, strawberries, bananas, yogurt, and different berries (all grown in the old Everglades); next were six eggs, three prepared scrambled with turkey ham and pork chorizo, and the other three made over-medium and served alongside two red beef tamales (red refering to the type of spices used when preparing the tamales). Along with these two courses he drank a glass of orange juice, a glass of whole milk, and a glass of carrot juice.

This gargantuan meal couldn't be consumed all at once, but his habit of writing down any transmission from the SFSS that was even remotely related to a possible Undead outbreak allowed him to safely eat the monstrous meal without risk of a gastrical apocalypse. Anyone observing him while he ate would have first been mesmerized by the body-wide tattoo of chains that seemed to be protuding from Christian's back and trying to pin him down, but their realism was nothing compared to the hole from which they emanated; this crevase was a work of gristly art, the metal was covered in an irregular film of blood and muscle and around the rim a simple sentence could be read.

"YO SOLO SE QUE NO SE NADA"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Once he conquered his abomination of a meal the mexican bartender gave the SFSS anouncements (pretty standard stuff, nothng he hadn't seen before) one last skim and turned off the console; electricity was an expensive comodity and preserving it was second nature. Next he went down to the tiny storage space he rented out at an overinflated price, after electricity and intelligent conversation, space was one of the rarest things to have in the overpopulated cities of South Florida Haven; after checking that there was nobody following him he opened the small space and made sure his rifle was oiled and clean (not that it could have gotten that dusty in the 24 hours since he had last checked it) and then made an inventory of the amunnition for both the rifle and his handguns.

And so he continued for the next four hours, performing his daily information and preparation ritual with almost metronome timing; giving no signs to the world that what he had done earlier even bothered him.

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