~Fight The Dead, Fear the Living~

[Chanda]

Inside the Convenience Plus, corner of Minor Ave. and Rt. 23

As evidenced by the bikes locked carefully outside, the Convenience Plus was not empty on this particular morning, and those who did choose to linger inside were not the sort one would consider friendly. Three young men scanned the shelves inside, trying to find something, anything that hadn't already been picked clean. All three wore halloween masks, which made them seem even more suspicious; one was some lizard-beast, another a murderous clown, and the third chose a werewolf. All three shouted happily in Spanish whenever they would find even the slightest thing; some drain cleaner, a stray slim jim that had fallen under a magazine rack, or even an old newspaper.

Lizardman approached the counter slowly, seeing the horror that had unfolded behind it as he drew closer. The clerk had been stabbed to death and left to bleed out... or so it seemed. Awakened by all the shouting and the smell of fresh meat, the clerk opened his glazed-over, lifeless eyes and slowly began to struggle to his feet. Unflinchingly, the Lizardman pulled a steak knife from his pocket, yanking the walker close by the collar of his blood-stained uniform and plunging the blade into its skull. With the same nonchalance one would exhibit when discarding a tissue, the masked teen removed his knife and shoved the now completely lifeless walker aside so that he could continue looting.

Suddenly a cry rose up from the stock room, where the wolf-man had been sent to scavenge. In mere moments his two masked cohorts had readied their weapons and kicked down the door to the back room, although it was too late -- a hiding walker had taken a nasty chunk out of wolf-man's arm, and with all the screaming the poor fool was doing, more were bound to show up sooner or later. Sr. Clown gave a cry of despair, rushing forward and ripping his friend away from the biter while Lizardman drove his knife right through its forehead. Wolf-man's screams of terror were quickly stifled by Clown's bloody hand, and before the bitten teen could comprehend what was going on, they were back in the main room of the convenience store. The edges of his vision started to grow dark, and the sound of his two friends arguing started to grow softer and softer...

~

Kingston Street

A bright red pick-up truck roared down Kingston at a pace so fast it seemed unreasonable even in a world that no longer had speed limits. Only when it had reached its destination, a large house at the end of the street, did it come to a screeching halt. Apparently the idea of subtlety was lost on this particular motorist. Two people emerged from the car, one a rotund, ugly looking man who was as short as he was unkempt. Yellow, crooked teeth filled his twisted mouth, all framed by a scraggly grey beard that still had some bits and chunks of food in it. The other was a beautiful, and I mean ravishing blonde woman. Slender, tall, curvaceous, and meticulously preened, the two could not have been any more different. Her somewhat skimpy pink tracksuit stood out compared with his camo hunting vest draped over a greasy, sweat-stained white t-shirt and muddy plus-size blue jeans. The two approached the house warily, keeping their eyes peeled for any signs of walkers. The man clutched a pump-action shotgun tensely, doing his best to look manly in front of the girl.

"What do you think, hun? Does this'un look nice enough?" asked the man, his southern accent laughably thick. "I bet it's got a nice bed we could crawl into," he noted, lecherously. He leaned closer to the woman, expecting a peck on the cheek, when in actuality she took a slight side-step away from the revolting hick.

"Oh, like, um, I don't know if we're, like, um, ready for to sleep in the same bed yet, Brian," she responded, uneasily. "Besides, um, like, our loves goes beyond, like, the physical, y'know?" she added.

"It's Randall, Amber. Randall. And sheesh, we've been married for two months and we haven't even hugged!" spat the man. "Remember I when I saved you from your last husband? You said it was love at first sight when you saw me! What happened to that, Amber?" queried Randall, obviously a bit frustrated... in more ways than one, I might add.

"I still love you, Randall! I wouldn't have married you if I didn't! But I would love you even more if you cleared out this house for me," said Amber, eager to change the subject.

"But, hun, what if someone lives here? This could be their home, after all..." sighed Randall, looking over the old house with a bit of guilt on his face.

"Well, Randall, I don't know. But I can tell you one thing for sure. If it's just the two of us alone in there, I'm much more likely to be..."

She leaned in close. Randall could smell her perfume, she was so close. So very, very close...

"...generous with you tonight," she whispered. Almost instinctively, Randall pumped his shotgun and advanced on the house, climbing up the porch with reckless abandon. He kicked in the door with a great deal of gusto.

"Anyone in here? Come out slowly or I will shoot!" he bellowed loudly, raising his shotgun to the ready and glancing around the room wildly.

[Ambrose]

395 Highland Avenue, corner of Highland Avenue and Kellogg Avenue

The houses in the small town had long been abandoned. Few cars remained parked on the street that was now littered with the dead, friends and relatives that had transformed into something ungodly, unholy, and unnatural. Freaks.

A small boy of perhaps thirteen, sat inside his childhood home atop a massive pile of supplies. He knew he would be able to survive on his own for a good while before the need for foor or water drove him outside of the security of borded up windows and doors. He hadn't always been on his own. His father, one of those survivalist enthusiasts that had been prepared for any of the apocalyptic futures outlined in the news, websites, or bible, had left in everlasting search of more supplies. It hadn't been the first time that the young boy had been left to care for their hoard of supplies Hans style - solo. He'd been forced to mature at a rather fast pace, and become adept at caring for himself while his father made numerous trips to guarantee their continued survival. After all, one didn't amass such a large quantity of things by remaining indoors and cowering whenever a band of Freaks made their way through town.

Recently, things had been quiet enough. A few stragglers moaned and shuffled through the streets every now and then, more frequently at night, but the boy hadn't seen anything to worry him for a few days. Feeling confident after glancing through the peephole in the largest window, he scurried up through the attic and lay on his belly on the roof of his home. The sun felt warm on his back, but the breeze kept him cool. With him, he held a few pieces of dried fruit, a bottle of water, and in his hands, he looked through a high-tech pair of binoculars with combination night-vision. Everyday around this time, he would scan the roads for signs of his father approaching.

As he looked up and down the street, his eyes caught small movement in one of the houses down the street. Startled, he sat up and fixed his binoculars on the house, thinking it might be his father. As he continued to catch small glimpses of someone through the windows he realized a few things in succession. One, his father wouldn't have gone into another house on their street without first checking up on him, so it couldn't be his father. Two, from the way the silhouette moved, he could tell it wasn't a Freak. Three... if it wasn't a Freak, it had to be another living person. It'd been more than month since either him or his father had seen any other surviving humans, much less having one right near their own home.

Being the child that he was, the boy did not stop to consider the possibility that the person in that house might not be of good character, and could very well pose a threat to him, and the supplies in his home. Naive bliss filled him at the thought of speaking to another living person. He whistled loudly, wondering if that would be enough noise to capture the stranger's attention. It wasn't, and he was growing desperate to find out exactly who it was. Perhaps the Durkleton's had returned home for some of their things? They had been one of the first to leave town after the outbreak hit. Or maybe it was another survivor, looking for supplies, or shelter. Food. He looked down to his hand at the dried fruits and curled his fingers into a fist.

"I have more than enough to share with you," he whispered to himself.

The boy made his way back into the house and through the special opening he and his father had crafted when they needed to leave the safety of home. Scared that he was now out in the open, the boy moved quickly through the yards of various houses until he came upon the one that held someone inside. It was only when his hand was about to knock on the door that he realized he could have made a mistake and the possibility of him closing in on a Freak was pretty high. Breathing heavy from the run, he looked around to see if there was anything he could use as a weapon around him. A flashlight lay discarded on the grass, the back and been left open and the batteries long gone. It was small, but would cause enough damage to give him time to run back home. Outrunning a single Freak was easy, it was only when they were in large numbers that people could face life threatening danger. At least, that's what his father had taught him.

He knocked on the door lightly, not wanting to frighten whoever was inside, and then opened it. Dark and musty, the house at first glance appeared to be as abandoned as the others. "Hey," he said. His voice was low, but loud enough to carry through the house. "Hey, who's in here? I saw you from my house..."

[Chanda]

Highland Avenue, Back At The Ranch

((Cue music!))

Cold beans and saltines didn't quite constitute a feast in Clyde's eyes, but then again, beggars can't be choosers. Or, perhaps more accurately, looters can't be choosers. He was happy to have food and a roof over his head for the first time in weeks, at the very least. The smell of the two dead geeks he'd piled in the other room was making it a bit difficult to eat, however, so he elected instead to light up a cigarette and hope that the smoke would mask the stench somewhat. Sadly, it did not, and now the room reeked like a mortuary full of chainsmokers.

"Can't a motherfucker get a break? Shit..." sighed Clyde, pulling a bandanna from his pocket and tying it around his face to cover his nose. He glanced at his reflection in a wall mirror hung up across the room, and chuckled a bit; he looked like a real bandit from the Wild West with both of his bandannas on. He then realized how childish such an act was -- to laugh at one's own reflection in the mirror -- and promptly returned to eating his beans and saltines, with a look of grizzled, pensive manliness forced unto his masked face. It was almost as if he couldn't allow himself to be carefree anymore, at least not in this world.

He lifted up his mask to take a quick swig from his flask, which was nearing emptiness again. Perhaps he would search the house for a liquor cabinet; it was often the case that alcohol happened to be the thing most often left behind when people hit the road after the outbreak, something that made Clyde very happy. Taking another puff from his cigarette, he rose to his feet and began to head for the kitchen when he heard the porch creak. In a fraction of a second Clyde had pulled his trusty stiletto from his pocket and flicked it open. Hugging the wall, he inched toward the door with small, light steps. A knock at the door somewhat relieved his worries -- geeks didn't much care for pleasantries like knocking on the door these days -- but still he held his knife tightly. This uninvited guest could be exactly like Clyde, and that was what worried him the most. Despite his arrogance, he knew that if he ever met someone as consumed with his own self-interest as Clyde himself, the best option would be to run the fuck away.

"Hey, who's in here? I saw you from my house..." came a young voice from outside. A kid? Just a kid? Once again, Clyde chuckled silently to himself, although much more greedily this time. Just a kid, all by himself? Of course he was by himself. No parent would let their kid run around unattended these days. And he had a house too... if this kid managed to survive by himself for so long, his house must have plenty of supplies, ripe for the taking. And all Clyde had to do was get this kid to lead him to it. Perfect.

Thinking quickly, Clyde threw his cigarette to the ground and snubbed it with his boot before quickly pocketing his knife. He reached for his axe, but then stopped himself -- he had to make himself look less imposing to this kid; the boy wouldn't react well if some smoking thug threw open the door holding an axe and a switchblade.

"My name's Clyde. I'm going to come outside if that's alright with you, little guy," answered Clyde, softly. He tried to make himself seem as harmless as possible. He figured he might as well keep the bandit mask on; kids might like that stuff, right? They liked to play dress-up, didn't they? Clyde's childhood wasn't exactly normal, so he wasn't sure how the boy would react. Slowly and carefully he opened the front door and stepped outside to greet the boy, who was brandishing a flashlight. After closing the door behind him to prevent the stench from disquieting the child, Clyde raised his hands to show that they were empty, something of a makeshift offering of peace.

"Woah there, kiddo. I'm not going to try anything. You can put that down," chuckled the convict, uneasily. "What're you doing out here all by yourself? Where are your parents, kiddo?" he asked.

~

Kennett Street, House at the End of The Row

Miranda watched the road into town from her second story window, looking rather bored. The little girl had officially read every book in the house, ground down her crayons to nothingness, and exhausted every last escape from monotony she could fathom. Playing lookout was pretty much the only thing left to do anymore; Father wouldn't let her leave the house for anything, so she was now relegated to simply watching the road into town, either for biters or, much more lucratively, hapless survivors.

It was on this morning that young Miranda caught sight of a young man named Dexter Souza as he walked into town along Kennett Street. Pulling out her binoculars, she looked over what he was carrying. Oh yes, indeed, Father would be happy with this one. He had so much stuff to take! Father did enjoy knives thoroughly, and whatever it was inside that backpack looked promising enough. She rose from her perch at the window and quickly made her way downstairs to the living room, where her father was cleaning his rifle as he did every morning.

"Father!" she shouted, excitedly. The man, a stolid, cross-looking fellow with a clean shaven head and face, put a calloused finger to his lips, indicating that she be quiet. He rose to his feet, placing the rifle down on the coffee table in front of him. The morning sun reflected off of his sheriff's badge, which was pinned to a long-sleeved black shirt that read "Bertrand Police Dept." on the back and had the initials BPD on the front. He approached his daughter, the tall, muscled man towering over the short, blonde, rosy-cheeked girl. He leaned in close and spoke in a hushed, stern tone.

"Now, Miranda, you know we're not supposed to make noise. What is it?"

"There's a man coming into town, Father. He had a knife on his belt, and I think his backpack might be full of goodies."

"I see. Very good eye, young lady. Let's get ready to hold him up then. You remember what to do, right?" asked the man, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She nodded in response, and made her way over to the door. The police officer grabbed his hunting rifle and loaded a cartridge, pulling back the firing bolt to make sure a round was chambered. He gave the girl a thumbs up to let her know he was ready, and then hid in the living room. Miranda threw the door open and stepped onto the porch just as Dexter was passing their house.

"Hey, mister! What do you think you're doing out there? You could get yourself killed!" said the girl, in a hoarse whisper barely loud enough to be heard across the yard. "Come inside! Hurry!" she beckoned, glancing around wildly in search of stray walkers that may have heard her.

[Ambrose]

Highland Avenue, Back At The Ranch

The boy took a step back, surprised at having actually been correct in his vision through the binoculars. Having only heard his own voice for the past few days, it was a relief to hear someone else's. "Taylor," he introduced himself. The boy still remained a good distance from the other man. "Don't patronize me," he added, after taking another step back. It was a word he'd read in one of his father's books, and felt it would make him appear mature before the stranger. He placed the flashlight back on the porch and crossed his arms.

"I know I'm young, but you don't gotta talk to me like that." After a small pause, he looked the man over, and his eyes lingered on the bandana around Clyde's face. "You a thief or somethin'? Why you got that around your face?" He intentionally ignored the question about his parents. It wasn't necessary for Taylor to tell the man his mother had died and turned into one of the Freaks two months ago and that his father had left in search of supplies. It wasn't important to mention that it had been five days since his father had made his departure, and the longest he'd ever been before this was one day and a half. He didn't want to think about the fact that he'd started getting scared that something horrible had happened and his father wouldn't be returning like he'd promised. None of these things had to be shared. At least, not yet.

Taylor wanted to appear tougher, older before this man. He could tell, perhaps unconsciously, that Clyde wasn't someone to mess with and as a younger boy, he immediately yearned for his respect. His father had warned him about living humans, to be weary and careful. But when the world as you knew it has ended, and you've been left in solitude for days, you would welcome any kind of interaction.


Kennett Street, House at the End of The Row

Dexter sighed, fighting with himself not to take another swig from the water bottle he kept in his pack. It had only been a few hours since the last sip, and it was already three quarters empty. He was approaching what looked like a small town, and was sure he'd be able to find some source of water soon. Up until a few days ago he'd had it pretty easy, having found a functioning vehicle in another town. Traveling in a car provided safe travel as well as a way to easily outrun the walkers, but as the saying goes, all good things come to an end. The same had happened with the coupe. Dex had found it smarter to stay off the main highways and roadways to avoid mass numbers of geeks, as well as abandoned cars that could potentially leave him trapped. The only downside to this had been finding fuel. Gas stations came much fewer and farther in between on the backroads and without a portable tank, he'd been unable to keep his mode of transportation once it'd run out of gas.

Dexter kicked a small rock and sent it flying a few feet ahead of him. "Merda," he cursed in his native tongue. Deciding that it was better not to think about topics that angered him, he decided to add the coupe on to the ever growing list. Instead he focused on the upcoming town, and what his plan would be once he got there. He had another list of things in his mind to keep him busy at the moment, of supplies he was in need of and he took advantage of every opportunity to scavenge. After all, it had provided pretty well for him so far, he thought with a look down to his boots.

Food was a high priority on that list. He'd eaten nothing but tuna and grits for so long, he could hardly remember what real food tasted like. It was a simple meal, but something easy to find. Almost every house he'd searched through had remaining cans of tuna, it was something everyone seemed to have in their pantry. Had it been up to him, he would have taken his hand at hunting, but with out any supplies to hunt with, Dex was at the mercy of what he could find in abandoned homes.

"Hey, mister!" The hoarse whisper that carried from the home to his right caught him off guard. "What do you think you're doing out there? You could get yourself killed! Come inside! Hurry!" His hand immediately shot to the holster of his knife out of instinct, but he let go after meeting the eyes of the small girl on the porch. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't realized how close he'd already gotten to the outskirts of the town. Dexter scanned his surroundings on all sides, and found nothing to hint at any impending walkers.

He took a few steps closer to the little girl's home. "I think I'll be alright, doesn't seem to be any of them around here." Especially if a family had taken up permanent residence, he thought to himself. His eyes narrowed as he looked passed the girl to the rest of the house. "You live here with your folks? Mind if I talk to your mom or dad?" Dexter took a few more steps closer, standing at the edge of the house's yard. "I'm passing through, but if they know the area they might be able to help me out."

[Chanda]

Highland Avenue, In The Fortress of Solitude

This kid is something else...

Clyde only chuckled as the boy insisted that he not be patronized.

"Yes sir, Mr. Taylor, sir. I swear on my life, as ephemeral and inchoate as it may be, that nary a single patronizing word will be uttered from these lips forthwith," mocked Clyde, amused with the boy's own lexicological flourish. Hardened criminal or not, Clyde was college educated, and was able to tactfully utilize his words as well as any other scholar. He did not, however, have time to sit around and engage in witty repartee all day long; out of the corner of his eyes he spotted three geeks coming up the street.

"Oh yes, I'm a master thief. Deadliest Dillinger, ka-pow. That's me. I don't suppose you knocked on my door for a reason, Mr. Taylor? If we're quite done with this tete-a-tete, I think I've got some banks to rob," smirked Clyde, nonchalantly moving forward in the conversation. He really needed to either stake out this kid's place or head back inside, because he wasn't about to get eaten alive trading insults with some brat like a god damn camp counselor.

~

Kennett Street, House at the End of the Row

Miranda was a bit relieved that there were no biters around; it would give her more time to reel this fool in. Her father whispered something to her from the other room, still clutching his hunting rifle.

"Tell him I'm not here. Shed a tear for Mother. Invite him in for food. We're so close, Miranda..." he advised, from behind the couch.

"Yeah, mister, I live here with my daddy. My mommy..."

Miranda, like a true pro, dropped her head a little bit, looking at the ground with a sad expression on her face.

"...my mommy doesn't live with us anymore. My dad's out getting some stuff from the store. You can come in and wait for him if you want. We've got plenty of food and water. Are you hungry?" asked Miranda, opening the door wider and waving for the man to come inside. "My name's Melanie, by the way," added Miranda, who'd been advised by her father to use a cuter name to lure in fools.

[Spiritdragon]

Grandma's Home Brewed Soap shop, the corner of Knight Street and Melbourne Avenue

Though it wasn't particularly wise, Temero was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and staring at the building across the street. It must have been a testimonial to how many different soaps had been there that a gentle scent was wafting through the air that was still discernible. Wow, that was some potent stuff in there. Who on earth would use that garbage Temero wondered, but then another thought came to him and he paused in his motion of turning away from the store, looking back at it instead. Would the scent of that stuff draw zombies or allow him to slip through them unnoticed?

He still wasn't sure if they could pick up the scent of humans, but if they could and he used scented soap would that make any difference. Either way, Temero knew he would be needing some soap sooner or later. And some scissors, his hair was starting to look like a mess. But was it worth possibly getting himself trapped in the building to get some? Temero's fingers curled around the crowbar at his belt as he considered his options. It really probably wasn't the best idea to go in there, but he decided to do so anyway just to see if there was anything left.

Upon closer inspection Temero almost regretted his decision to near the store. The cloying scent of flowers and eucalyptus gave him a headache almost instantly, and the man paused to rub his temples irritably. Well he figured he might as well keep going now that he had gone this far and so he stepped through the broken doors of the shop, trying to avoid the worst of the glass as he did so. Walking around with sharp objects working their way through his boots didn't seem like a fun time. The interior of the store was rather dark, so Temero paused for a long moment to let his eyes adjust, not wanting to walk straight into a trap because he had been impatient.

When he could finally see the man pressed on, noticing that though a lot of the wares were missing or destroyed (which did make him wonder what sort of person would steal a crud load of soap. Honestly. Okay, okay, maybe it could be used in barter, but that would require finding another non-hostile, still living person now wouldn't it? As Temero moved slowly around the shop, scanning what was still left, he made sure to keep an eye on the street outside as well. There was no way he was going to let anyone sneak up on him; especially while he was standing in the middle of a soap shop for goodness sakes! It took him a while but he finally found some soap that was only lightly scented (though when he tried to verify that himself he realized his nose was so clogged with the general scent of the store that it was impossible to tell for sure), which he promptly tucked into a back pocket of his jeans as he headed towards the entrance again. Time to clear out and see what else was in this podunk little town.

[FMAlchemist]

205 Bailey Drive, 2nd House from the South West end

"Ridin' down the highway, goin' to a show, stop in all the by-ways… playin' rock 'n' roll," the lyrics carelessly drifted through the rooms of the abandoned one-story. Glass, paper, clothing, and other shambolic odds and ends littered the floor around the mostly toppled over furniture. Old blood stains marred the walls of the entry way, living room, and around the arching entrance to the kitchen and dining room, where it thickened and caked the floor in crusty pools. The singing was accompanied by the clink of cans as a golden-yellow clad young woman sifted through the kitchen pantry, an ear bud trailing from one ear, attached to a small, square mp3 player around her neck. Her black cap sat backwards on her head so she could get a better look as she stood on her toes and reached deep into the back of the nearly empty cupboards above the sink. A bloodied metal baseball bat rested up against the lower cupboards to the right of her ankles and her green pack sat on the table two or three feet behind her to the left, missing the fire poker she normally left strapped to the front.

Valerie had already made a run through the house for any Creeps, or, rather, Zombies or "Zombs" as she preferred to call them. With all the varying names, she never could understand why people didn't just call them by their rightful title. They were mother fucking zombies, plain and simple. Finding the coast clear, she'd resorted to singing that god-awful music that Conny hated so much- as was her usual routine. Not that she was much one for consistency. She dropped a can of beans into the pillow case she'd been filling, so far having found a package of uncooked pasta noodles, a half-full box of Ritz, some superhero band-aids, and three tuna cans. Not a bad turnout so far, if she had anything to say about it. She smiled and drummed out a beat on a quarter-full container of peanut butter before tossing it into the sack as well. "Gettin' robbed, gettin' stoned, gettin' beat up- broken boned. Gettin' had... gettin' took…," her singing slowed and softened, lifting her chin and turning her head cautiously as she pulled her arms out of the cupboard. Her voice was barely audible as a whisper as she finished the verse, "I tell you folks… It's harder than it looks-."

A very faint scuffing of a shoe across the kitchen floor sounded behind her right shoulder, along with a low, throaty, gurgling growl. Her grey-blue eyes flashed and she spun around just as a Creep came lurching at her- one grimy hand outstretched and lip-less mouth open wide esuriently. The animate cadaver of an older looking woman with short, ratty hair which was indistinguishable in color stared fixedly at her with bulging eyes, wearing a flowery bloodstained, beige nightgown. "Shhit," Valerie managed to force out with a startled grimaced before diving to the left. The Creep, changing direction, staggered clumsily in its desperation for a meal and it was a simple matter of kicking it's feet out from under it before it lay groaning on the kitchen floor, twisting and wriggling in an attempt to keep coming at her. This gave Valerie enough time to pull the hatchet from her belt. It seemed to be missing an arm for whatever reason, which was pretty good news for her. Less of a hand full. As it struggled to inch it's way forward, Valerie clicked her tongue and sighed at the pitiful sight, spinning the hatchet once in her gloved grip before raising it above her head and driving the blade into it's crown with a loud, squelching CRACK!

About 120 meters East of there, a young boy of about 5 idly tapped a metal fire poker against the dusty, concrete ground of the shed. A white, raisin-like hand gripped the young boy's scrawny wrist gently. "Sweetheart, that's probably a little too loud," she said, although it was more for her own sanity. It had been nearly two and a half hours since Valerie left them in the shed to go and scout out a house to stay in. Of course, the dumb girl likely had no idea, what with her reluctance to carry a watch. Her plan had been to do some looting first and then choose which one of the houses they wanted to stake out in. The older woman sighed through her nose and leaned her head against the cool steel shelf at her back as Malcolm began lightly scraping the tool against the ground, drawing random shapes in the layer of dirt which coated the floor. She might've been more worried about the noise, but the wind outside was loud enough to mask it. Malcolm had learned what came with being too recklessly loud since God's Wrath began- and quickly. He was a remarkably sharp child- unlike his no good Aunt. If only she could learn more from him instead of the other way around.

Valerie's plans never sat well with her, but there was little she could do besides bicker and angrily voice her discontent every chance she got. She already didn't like the idea of Malcolm always being handed the fire poker "just in case", but weeks of fighting that battle had left her apathetic about the issue. She simply took it upon herself to keep watch and make sure he didn't poke his eye out. For now there was only the issue at hand to stress about. Why did she have to spend such a long time investigating houses? They only needed one. Did she have some sort of strategy in mind or was she just looking for some excitement? Some time for herself after they had been driving for so many hours just to finally break down a few miles south of where they were now? Or was she just trying to spite her? It was always so hard to tell. But whatever her reasons, they weren't held in very high regard either way.

She'd never forget the one time they'd settled down in that Missouri house for a while with a Demon right beneath their very noses. They'd been sleeping there for three days before discovering it. "Oops- I guess I forgot to double check the basement," she'd said when the door leading downstairs started rattling late one night. Assuming there was only one and luckily being right, she'd nearly gotten her face clawed off after opening the door to kill it- and all right in front of Malcolm. Poor child couldn't sleep for a week.

"Shit," Malcolm muttered, swiping a hand across his design, evidently displeased with whatever it was he'd been trying to depict in the dirt.

"Hon- what did I say about cursing?" Conny said softly, but sternly, letting the never-ending issue that was Valerie lie as she adjusted the thin, beige shawl around her shoulders and drifted off into a light sleep.

"Hotel motel, make you wanna cry. Lady do the hard sell- know the reason why. Gettin' old, Gettin' grey, Gettin' ripped off, Under-paid, Gettin' sold, Second hand. That's how it goes… playin' in a band," Valerie continued with her own mental instrumentals as she wrapped and tied up her ear buds before restoring her pack and shouldering the sack, leaving the dead Creep where it was. She scoffed to herself and shook her head like it was all part of a bad joke while reaching over and retrieving her bat. Man, she really needed to stop forgetting to check the basement....

[Chanda]

In The Belly of the Whale

((Music cue.))

The basement was cold and smelled of blood and death. As Valerie descended the long steps into this abnormally spacious basement level, she couldn't help but notice the lack of any sounds that usually accompanied a basement such as this -- leaking pipes, a roaring furnace, or perhaps even the soft patter of rodentine feet pattering against the hard floor. Rather, the only sounds she could make out were the soft rattling of chains and the creaking of each old, wooden step as she continued to descend further into the room below.

The room was rather dim, the only two sources of light being the open door to the house behind Val and a small, grimy cellar window on the opposite side of the room. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the room, the first thing she made out were rows of gleaming metal hooks on the ceiling, from which many rusty chains dangled. It was then, at the moment when she noticed just exactly what lay at the end of those chains, that she knew where that awful stench of death was emanating from.

Corpses, human corpses, had been strung up like racks of meat in a slaughter house. All had wooden stakes driven through their skulls, a sure sign that this wasn't the doing of walkers or an attempt of mass suicide. The rows of dead bodies -- I'd venture about a dozen hung therein -- had all been, at least partially, eaten. But, once again, this did not appear to be the work of any brain-dead walker; there were clear incisions made on all the partially eaten cadavers, almost as a butcher makes when he cuts his choice meats. A great deal of dried blood layered the concrete floors with this awful, sickly brown paint. Flies ate at flesh of the older corpses and roaches scurried along the walls.

This wasn't a basement. It was a slaughterhouse. A cannibal lived here.

Almost as if on cue, the front door of the house slammed shut with incredible force, enough to rattle the chains all the way down in the basement. Valerie could hear and feel lumbering footsteps in the house above; almost inhuman, but definitely not the primal gait of a walker.

She was not alone inside the house.

~

Outside the Soap Shop

As Temero exited the store, he was great by the oh-so-pleasant sound of the hammer cocking on a revolver, a very good sign that he should refrain from making any sudden moves.

"I never did take kindly to looters," came an old, weary voice from behind Temero. "I don't know if you've forgotten this, young man, but this is still the sovereign nation of America. Freaks or not, there are still laws."

Slowly and carefully, the strange gunman circled around the would-be looter, keeping his gun, a Smith and Wesson 15-4, trained on poor Temero's head the entire time. Finally he stopped in front of the young man, and he could be seen more clearly. Wearing a ragged, thread-bare police uniform, the morning sun reflected off of his well-polished badge. He wasn't a small-town cop like Miranda's father, notably. He was a Nebraska Highway Patrolman -- a trooper. His grizzly brown beard masked a square jaw and accentuated the look of utter seriousness on his old, aging face.

"Any last words, you little thief? I don't have time to take you in, so I guess a little bit of public execution will have to suffice."

[robtheguru]

House at the end of Kingston Street

The sound of explosions tore at Roberts ears, plumes of smoke rising from battle ravaged buildings that lined the endless road his weary legs carried him down. His arm was tucked tightly into his stomach as blood dripped from his finger tips leaving a trail of crimson splatter as he ran. A hole in his upper shoulder spewed forth a raining torrent of blood, sending a rampagin tirade of pain through its entirety with each step. Cries of pain rang out around him, voices of hundreds of dying men screaming for help. They were so close to him, yet he could see nothing but the darkened road and the burning buildings in the distance. His feet then gave way beneath him and he crashed heavily onto his injured shoulder, the impact against the black tarmac a sickening squelch like walking in wet shoes. As he rolled over to right himself he spotted a pair of legs in front of him, the camouflage matching his own. He reached up with his good hand and clawed his way at the arm of the other soldier. He tried to speak but the words were lost in the ever louder cries and screams. Then as he righted himself he let out a horrific wail as the soldier stared at him with a gaping hole in his chest. He prodded at the hole with his fingers and raised his two hands, coated in the blood from the wound. His eyes began to turn pale and his flesh a green hue. Robert shuffled backwards as the other soldier let out a monstrous howl, lunging at him and sinking his teeth deep into his flesh.

Robert rose from the bed drenched head to toe in sweat. His hands rapidly swatted at his neck as he checked for bites. A sigh of relief indicated he was fine, realising that he had drifted fully back to reality. The nightmares had not stopped since his time in active military service, but they had now turned to something somewhat different. He rubbed at the back of his head, running his fingers through his sweat drenched hair as he did. He hadn't had a wash for a week, the last time he had the chance was a lake he passed, but any hope of staying there was gone when a herd arrived. The smell that trailed behind him was become pungent and so he decided to head to the bathroom.

When he reached the bathroom he was greeted by a room that matched the rather grand size of the house he was in. The entire room was tiled in real marble aswell as have a bath big enough for an entire rugby team. The sinks were adorned with golden taps and various parts of the room were lined with gold trim. He had no doubt it was real gold because everything he had seen of the house to that point had given the impression of the former owners having a large amount of money at their disposal. He approached the bath and turned the tap, his eyes sinking as a foul looking brown liquid spewed from the tap. 'That must be why they left,' he thought. He reached down to the tap and shut it up, sighing that he would not be able to have the bath he wanted. Turning to leave the bathroom he his head snapped to attention as there was a tremendous crash from downstairs. Without hesitating he was back in the master bedroom with his axe in hand, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tighter.

A voice boomed from downstairs, his accent extremely strong. "Anyone in here? Come out slowly or I will shoot!"

His mind raced through hundreds of possible scenarios in almost the blink of an eye, but they were all based on a world long since gone. This new world was one where trust could get you killed quite easily. Robert crept slowly towards the doorway and then to the edge of the ornate bannister. He leant over slightly and caught a brief glimpse a greasy, rotund man who perfectly fit his accent. He quickly took a step back to remain out of sight and began to look for places to hide. He had no intention of waiting for the man to just pass through, this was his house now and he had no intention of sharing it. Best case scenario, the man didn't actually have a gun, his threat to shoot just an attempt to draw people out. Worst case scenario, he could have had a gun and had a large group of people with him, each armed with firearms.

Back in the bedroom he looked at the large cupboard built into the wall, its sliding doors were a dark stained wood with a glossy shine. He contemplated hiding in there but instead decided on something much more drastic. He carefully began to open one of the doors of the cupboard. Once he was satisfied with the gap that was left there he picked up a nearby mirror. Moving towards the door he tucked in behind it, his axe still in hand. 'Lets do this then,' he thought. With an almighty throw he launched the mirror across the room, it's edge hitting one of the cupboard doors, shattering the glass across the carpeted floor. 'Lets see how brave this guy is.' His sole intention was to split this invaders head in two, adding further blood stains to his axe.

[Spiritdragon]

Outside the soap shop

Oh s*** Temero thought, freezing instantly as he heard a metallic click that he knew all too well. There was no mistaking it no matter how long it had been since he had heard the sound and his mind was already working rapidly as he tried to figure out what to do. "Seems to me like someone already did a number on the place anyway," he said a little sarcastically, not at all bothered by the fact that he now undoubtedly had a gun pointed at his head, though he did slowly raise his hands to chest level in deference to that fact. "What's one more bit of soap make?"

Honestly, this really was his luck now wasn't it. As if the headache wasn't bad enough... though if the guy blew his head off he supposed he wouldn't have to worry about that anymore now would he? "Morning officer," Temero added, his voice still rather surly because he just. Couldn't. Help himself. "You know I thought this 'America' you're talking about looked down upon vigilantes. What you're proposing sounds quite a bit like murder. And I don't take very well to people threatening me." Besides that if the gun went off they'd have a hoard of zombies coming down upon them in an instant and that would be death too. "That'll teach me to try to stay clean," he said with a sigh.

Well. He wasn't about to stand around and let the guy shoot him. So instead he lashed out, one hand moving to bat the gun away as he dodged slightly in the opposite direction to hopefully put himself out of harms way as he swung with his other hand, aiming for the man's jaw with a tightly clenched fist. As it turned out, boxing really helped to keep one alive. Though if he got shot in the chest in a moment he'd feel really stupid for thinking that. At least he wouldn't die hungry because he'd be eating his own words.