Apocalyptica - a Modern Zombie Roleplay - IC

[Prometheus]

Daryl walked through the inner courtyard of the Cheyanne compound apprehensively. The compound was specially built to look like a prison, because essentially, that's what it was. 4 tall walls that kept the baddies out so you had a better chance of surviving the night. That was more than he had when he slept most nights, camping in the back of his truck. But something about this compound in particular had always struck him as more foreboding than the rest of the haven's walls. Maybe it was because it looked the role so much better. 15 foot high steel walls on all sides, guard towers, barbed wire and inside was a flat compound with the only shelter composed of vehicles or tents. He didn't trust the walls like he did his truck, either, although that was partially due to him building the truck's defenses himself. Still, it wasn't as bad as inside the mountain that stood less than a mile away. All it was to him was a maze of tiny, poorly lit corridors and the never ending trickle of water. It made Daryl wonder how so many people had survived in there for 5 years. He'd barely made it 6 months at his friend Wess's hideaway, and that was a proper house.

The camp's only real purpose was as a staging ground. Most of Cheyanne's activity had to come and go through one door, and keeping traffic off of that door was essential. So instead, supplies and excursions were organized at the camp, and returned to the mountain in a more organized fashion. Daryl preferred it that way. If anything could top off being stuck in a dark cave, it was being stuck in a dark cave with 25 other people and a wall of noise.

The day had just started. His radio's alarm clock had gone off at 6:00 AM sharp, and Daryl was out of bed and dressed a few minutes later. He'd skipped the shower. The only working stalls at the camp had lines about 4 miles long, and bathing in front of a line of people didn't exactly make the top 10 list of things he wanted to do with his morning. A fog from the mountain had found its way down around the walls, and the 7:00 sun was only just rising. A muffled gunshot would come up occasionally, usually from the direction of the town of Colorado Springs, and if you listened close you could hear the occasional zombie banging on the camp's walls. The people in the camp were rowdy and loud, even at this early in the morning. Even though it had been a couple of months, the ability to breathe fresh air and make noise hadn't quite settled in with the Colorado soldiers. Daryl couldn't blame them. After being stuck underground with 4000 other people for 5 years and coming out as skinny and pale from a lack of sunlight, a little bit of personal space could go a long way.

Across the compound was the real reason Daryl was still in the camp, and not getting an assignment or in his truck down in the town. A group of raiders had jumped his party the last time he'd been out, and his team had taken the survivors prisoner. The raiders' ambush had cost one soldier his life. With very little time or patience for criminals and no real place to house them, the Judge's committee (Colorado's version of a court) had decided in the same evening to execute them. Daryl's initial thought was that he wouldn't be sorry to see them go. He had recognized one of them as soon as he'd taken them prisoner. A middle aged man, bald, with a long scar down the right side of his face. He'd been one of the people who had put bullets in Daryl's legs outside Reno, just over 4 years ago.

The more he thought about it, though, the more Daryl questioned his own motivation. He had a personal vendetta against one of the men in particular; that much was completely clear to himself and to the salvagers he'd been with. He'd come to terms with that fact. But despite the men proving themselves as problems time and time again, he was having problems justifying their deaths. Daryl had long been of the opinion that no man should kill another, especially in a world where there was so much more to worry about. Even in the case of these men, he wasn't sure he would be able to endorse their sentence. As he walked, he wondered why he was even going to their execution. He had better things to do, after all. He could only think that maybe seeing the execution would justify the action. He had been involved in the raiders' capture, and one of them had put him out of action for months only a few years before. It made sense for him to see the thing through. Or at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Finally rounding the last turn to the courtyard where the executions were taking place, he saw exactly what he expected to see. At the edge of the clearing were 2 guards with assault rifles, watching in case things got out of hand. Being escorted in from another path were the 4 prisoners, being escorted in by 6 guards. They had definitely put up some sort of fight. In addition to all their hands being bound, their clothes were muddied, as if they'd been pushed into the soft ground of the compound on their way here. Waiting for them was a strict-looking drill sergeant with his hair put into a buzzcut and a look of distaste on his face. Daryl joined him as the prisoners were pushed and shoved into place, fighting back again as they were forced onto their knees.

The sergeant gave Daryl a grunt of recognition as he took his place beside him. “You're one of the ones that brought these assholes in.” He said.

“Yes.” Daryl replied shortly.

The sergeant growled. “Animals.” He spat. One of the prisoners had tried to get up and turn, and received a rifle butt to the head for the trouble. He fell into the mud face-down, a knot forming on the back of his skull before the guard behind him seized him by the collar and forced him back onto his knees with the other three. “You ask me, I say none of 'em are worth the bullet we're about to put into their heads. Disgusting.”

Daryl almost objected, but couldn't bring himself to do it. A voice in his head kept repeating itself. It was the one fact that would let him justify this. No alternatives. In front of him, the Sergeant took his pistol from its holster. The raiders looked him in the face defiantly. There was no trace of regret, or fear. Only anger at their capture, and hate for the man about to end their lives.

The disgust was still present in the sergeant's voice as he began. “You four,” he snarled, “have confessed to the crime of the attempted ambush of one of our supply teams, and the murder of one of our soldiers. And yet, you would not even give us your names.”

“Fuck you.” One of the raiders replied. The sergeant turned and was on him in a flash. A quick jab in the face, and the raider's nose was bleeding.

“For this crime, you have been sentenced to death.” The sergeant continued. Those particular words seemed to give him a little bit of enjoyment. The words repeated themselves in Daryl's head again. No alternatives.

“Any last words?” The sergeant asked. The raider with the bloody nose raised his head again.

“You fuckers are gonna regret this.” He snarled. “We've got big friends. And don't think they're not coming for you. You better hole back up into your little cave again, because you assholes don't stand a chance.” And with that, he laughed. It was a short laugh, like a bark, as if the thought had given him a temporary pleasure.

“I'm sure.” The sergeant replied. “And when they get here, I'll do the same thing to them.” He snapped his fingers, and a guard came forward to place burlap sacks over the heads of the 4 raiders. Once he stepped back, the words flashed in Daryl's head again. The sergeant raised his pistol, and Daryl restrained himself from stepping in. No alternatives. The sergeant fired a shot. The first raider fell over, a hole in the front of the bag from where the bullet had entered. No alternatives. Another shot, and another quiet splat as the second body hit the ground. No alternatives. A third shot, and a third body fell. No alternatives. A fourth shot, and Daryl turned away. He had things to do.

[TeDungeonMaster]

The pickup bounced along the uneven surface, the road broken and scarred by the passing of time and seasons. James doubted that the roads would even be passable for too much longer, as even their souped up pickup was having some difficulties. Although some of those six wheeler things could probably manage… The six wheelers in question was a strange mix between a tank and an armored jeep, and had been only recently developed and were in testing at the time the infection struck. From what he heard though, the vehicles were horrible gas guzzlers, and converting them into solar powered vehicles was more difficult than anticipated. Gas was running out. Maybe not quickly, but still running out nonetheless. The Colorado haven had some contacts down farther south in New Mexico and Texas that were still operating some of the oil pumps, but prices were ridiculously expensive, plus the drive was hazardous. No, the more the relied on solar energy the better. Even so, solar energy had its drawbacks, like the panels needing to be replaced, as well as relying on the sun, which sometimes refused to shine.

The truck screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, then the meager crew climbed out of their various positions. All of them were well armed, shouldering various weaponry ranging from sub-machine guns to shotguns to assault rifles, and even a sniper rifle. James, the sniper/scout of the group tightened the strap on his rifle, ensuring that the lethal weapon was secure before drawing his pistol, a Desert Eagle, and following the others. Their footsteps seemed loud in the empty city, it was quite literally a ghost town now. Their leader turned and spoke, addressing the other men with an air of authority, “Alright bitches, five minutes, in and out. Grab the best loot you can find and go. Taylors, you’re on guard duty. Feel free to grab what you see, but if we get attacked it’s on your ass. Got it?” The man didn’t wait for an answer. “Good, let’s go.”

They pushed open the doors to their target today, light streaming through the dusty ceiling to floor windows. A cheery bell greeted them, and tinkled whenever the door moved. It was a small shop, but it seemed to have been ignored for the most part by looters. A couple shelves were tipped over, their merchandise spilled out across the floor. The men spread out, weapons at ready, then gradually relaxed as the building was declared clean. James pushed open the office door, only to find the room empty, save for a single desk covered in yellowing papers and dust bunnies. Shutting the door again, he turned to his teammates to assess their progress. Some made exclamations of joy as they found their targets, others simply rummaged around tossing items away, discarding the useless ones. It was like picky kids on Christmas. James looked at the shelves, rows and rows of disks lined them, their labels faded but legible, begging him to pick them up and take them with him. It was a music store, filled with old CDs. On every trip into the city, his team leader, Sgt. Grant, took them to various music shops, letting them each take one CD, before moving on with the rest of their duties. It was a waste of time really, and they all knew it, but the superiors never needed to know. “Bob Marley!” Gerard, their heavy weapons specialist exclaimed. He kissed the CD before slipping into a free pocket into his vest, which was lined with bandoliers filled with large shiny bullets. It may have been a waste of time, but it sure did help moral.

Less than five minutes later the team was back into their seats in the pickup, Grant and his second, Miguel up front with the other four sitting in the back of the truck, which had crude makeshift seats, definitely not designed for comfort. The four men in the back showed off their prizes, then debating which to listen to first. Again, definitely not regulation. They weren’t supposed to make any more noise while in the city than necessary, as the zombies could hear the noise and were attracted to it. However, the group had never had problems with it before, and Grant never really played by the rules anyway.

James smiled as he listened to the other men argue, more willing to be a spectator than a participant. “No!” Miguel said. “We listened to your shit last time Michael! Besides, rap is utter crap!”

Michael immediately retaliated, “Ha! Coming from the guy who wants to listen to Bach! Come on, lemme let you listen to some real music!”

“Why you fucker, escúchame. La música clásica es una forma de arte, el rap es sólo hombres furiosos gritos en los oídos ass bitch!” More Spanish followed, and all of it sounded very angry.

Grant laughed. “English dude, what makes you think any of us can understand you, huh? Alright, compromise. Gerard, you have that Marley disk, right?” Within seconds, the disk in question was produced, and a few minutes later the men were laughing and singing along with “Marley’s top 15 Greatest Hits!”
They were just finishing “Three Little Birds” and starting “Every Little Thing” when the first gunshot came. Immediately Grant shut off the radio, and the whole truck went into silence, save for the low hum of the electric engine. Several more shots followed, and soon after came a scream. The team went into action. Guns were prepped, magazines checked, the truck took off, making the whole process much bumpier. James pulled the bipod for his rifle out of his pack, and quickly attached it for more stability, then adjusted the sight down as far as it would go. Then he stood, which took a considerable amount of effort as their leader zoomed through the streets towards the sound of the continuing gunshots. The squad had practiced this before, prepping while the truck was in motion, but even training could not have accounted for the difficulty presented to them here. James placed the bipod on top of the roof of the truck, then crouched, trying to keep both his gun and him from sliding off the truck as they swung around a corner. The gunshots had not sounded very far away, but the ride seemed to take forever for James at least. As they skidded around another corner, they found the source of the shooting, two men fending off a horde about seventy five to a hundred zombies less than a few dozen meters away. Too late, the men were overwhelmed and disappeared under a mass of ravenous creatures. Within seconds, the screaming of the men ceased. Most of the zombies had found new prey though, now focusing on the pickup truck that held six new meals. With a quick “Shit!” and stomping on the gas pedal, Grant maneuvered them out of the intersection back the way they had come, now with renewed urgency and speed. While not fast, nor were the zombies slow, and followed behind the truck as fast as their decaying legs could carry them.

Normally, escape should have been easy. Just drive till out of sight, then hide out and wait for the zombies to calm down. Then again, things never go as they should have, the unexpected always had a way of popping up. In this case, popping up as a zombie in the middle of the road, which proceeded to splatter the windshield with guts, then the truck running into fire hydrant. Bodies flew forward, stopped by either the dashboard of the car, or for those who were more unlucky, the hard metal in the back of the truck. Stars danced in front of James’ eyes as the back of his head hit the metal roof, denting it and tearing the skin on his head, leaving it bloody. Grant, looking out of the driver’s window, only had to take one look at the situation before yelling, “Everyone out, now!” Shaking the daze, James quickly understood why. The horde was too close to back up and accelerate again, plus they didn’t even know if the car would run anymore. Within seconds of Grant choosing a building, the team burst through the door, and immediately found the heaviest furniture possible to barricade the now semi-broken door. James worked together with Gerard to push the enormous metal refrigerator against the door, quickly followed by a leather couch. The two windows that looked out into the street were thankfully already barricaded, probably the only lucky break they had gotten so far. Grant did a quick head count before swearing, then rushing to the nearest window, James following his lead. Peering through the boards, James could see the upper body of Miguel, still in the pickup, seconds away from being swarmed by the undead. Whether dead already, or simply unconscious, James couldn’t tell. Not that it would matter now. He looked away, disgusted, not bearing to look at the man he had called his friend torn apart by the monsters. He could imagine it though. The images would haunt his dreams, the Spanish man mocking and haunting his subconscious, asking why James had not saved him. It was insanity. No, not insanity, James thought, just reality. The images still played through his mind though, taunting him.

[Shon Harris]

Autumn gripped those trees open to season's sway. Those with leaves stood proud, if a little balder, alongside hundreds, maybe thousands of coniferous giants. Among them a several bold structures of cement, wood, and metal joined the assembly. Big, bland, block buildings. Five years ago they each served an unique purpose to further student study. Just a couple of years before that, he was one of the students. Simon-Pietro Lombardi, emphasizing, not majoring since 'Evergreen did not do majors', in Visual Development. Somehow being surrounded by a handful of man-made structures and a thousand acres of forest and beachfront thoroughly convinced him to train for a job almost exclusively indoors. The thought made him cringe. Yet, the moment passed, a faint smile spreading across his face. He could be happy illustrating concepts of characters, stories, and all that. Creating the student admiring the fallen leaves. The student who sees their dreams realized, not their nightmares. He could have created a world where his Alma Mater need not be surrounded by three levels of defense and the emergency sky-bridges connecting buildings once very different were equally unnecessary.

"Can I ask you something?" Joshua inquired, his figure entering Simon-Pietro's peripheral. Patched up fatigues wrinkled at the knees as Joshua took a seat on the cement bench. After a quiet moment, Simon-Pietro paid a nod glanced at his friend, who was now taking in the view.

"How did you carry your books up those ladders? I gotta take a breath with my gear and I'm Army. Well, guess it's easier now -- taking a breath I mean, you know, without the hippies."

Simon-Pietro lowered his head. An audible laugh echoed from the ground before he looked to his friend. Gunner. Somehow despite a military career that somehow accumulated to a stint in civilian jail prior to five years of service to Legion, out of desperation of course, the man managed to keep his sense of humour. Not to mention his keen eye for a mind muddled by matters too serious for an autumn morning. Gunner stood, tugging on his friend's arm, and walked up to the railing. They looked over the upper-campus courtyard, Red Square. In the center a mass of men and women congregated for morning Physical Training. Of roughly nine thousand people who populated The Evergreen State College, half stood there. The other half had likely collected on lower-campus near in the large soccer fields by the old Residence Halls. PT was mandatory, though guards and patrols had theirs staggered to maintain security. The thought brought Simon-Pietro's eyes to the rifle leaned against the rail.

In the distance muffled snaps and pops aroused a cloud of birds from the treetops. Gunner turned up the radio attached to his vest and listened a moment. Threat eliminated, no casualties, over. Another story for the Defense Council to use as ammunition. An eerie thing, Simon-Pietro thought, hearing these identified threats, usually Legion scouts, when at one time Gunner, himself, and even Pope, a member on the Council, were all soldiers under that flag. Norah too. Well, he grimaced, she had no choice with what Emperor forced upon her. The bastard's poison charisma marched men blindly into the forest in search of his lost property. For every scout Emperor sent there were three guards among the trees, watchtowers, and brush -- each with a high-powered rifle trained. A lot of dead bodies to avoid being shamed. As much as Simon-Pietro hated Emperor and those he willfully followed him, he empathized the many who enrolled out of desperation.
How many of those people would die by Washington's arms?

Simon-Pietro felt the palm of a hand skid over the back of his head accompanied by Josh exclaiming, "Get your mind off it. I know it's weighing on you, it-- he weighs on me too. If it helps any, I find myself calmed every time I hear those reports. Not because another one's dead. That's sick. It reminds me that Emperor can't stop himself. He will come here, fully aware that all these guns and formations are primed and ready to greet him. And you know what Peter? They wouldn't be ready if it wasn't for us. He would have found this place sooner or later, and they wouldn't of known he was coming. I know I did some horrible things... But they led me to here. If you beat yourself up everyday, every night, you'll miss your target when he makes his move. So just sit back. Relax. Your time will come, and it'll all be worth it. Got it?"

Mouth agape, Simon-Pietro just stood there speechless. A few moments passed and the words sunk in. The power with which his friend spoke, the dominating, frank nature of it shook him. A sobering shake. Taking a breath, he embraced his friend and sighed his thanks.

Soon after Gunner continued pacing the rooftops and Simon-Pietro made his way to the open-air stairwell. He took the stairs down two floors, to the third floor, where he met wooden planks blocking him from the broken stone where further stairs once stood. According to his squad leader, Milo Francoise, they destroyed all ground-level accessible stairwells as soon as the Infection hit Washington's southern border. A good idea, Pietro thought, turning from out the stairs onto the similarly open halls. Soon PT would end and these halls would be filled with bustling bazaars where men and women walked shoulder to shoulder looking upon one anothers' wares. Such crowds still disturbed him, not from some fear of busy spaces, but from their similarity to Zed Mobs. Putting the thought out of his mind, he approached a ledge from which a chain ladder was hooked and unrolled. From this he climbed down and approached Red Square.

Tonight there would be a Council Meeting concerning Legion. That gave him the rest of the morning and afternoon to avoid all the crowds and maybe even find bits of the past. Gunner was right, he needed to calm down. The problem was, his old trick to doing just that wasn't exactly prevalent with Legion's roaming band of thickheaded brutes. His life was busier at Evergreen, but at least he found a moment or two to cultivate a bit of the past. Days like these brought a smile to his face.

[Aweena]

From the innermost corner of the dark brown eye came a single tear – the lonesome bead of salty water that coated the bare eye ball, stinging with minute pinpricks. It grew and grew, expanding into a river that streamed from the eyelid, tracing the bags beneath eyes that hadn’t slept in what felt like days. It fell downward, tugged by gravity, pulled over the smooth lines and abrasions blanketing the warm, brown skin of the woman who couldn’t tear herself from the knife clutched firmly in a sweaty palm. The blade glinted in the dull sunlight, reflecting the weakened rays that had failed to keep the world warm as autumn continued to roll through.

The tear built on momentum, snowballing as it crossed the gaps between orifices, slipped from her round cheek and dangled helplessly from a lip that shuddered as the woman inhaled stale, warm air, filling her lungs with the acrid scent that made her nostrils bathe in revolt. The tear wobbled, uneasily surveying the world beneath it – and then it lost its grip. Within a second it had fell through the atmosphere, the sights and sounds around it commixing into a blur of commotion. Every bit of life it ever could have known outside of the tear ducts it spent its small fraction-of-a-life in was gone when it let go.

“Are you okay?” The soft, melodic voice of a woman caught in doubt asked.
“I’m fine,” The crying woman mumbled. “I just hate onions.” One final chop and the arching strand of the bulbous vegetable was done.
“Tell me about it,” Amanda Keane snorted with a roll of her bright green eyes. The slender frame of the pregnant woman nearing her third trimester collapsed into the fold-out chair, the bushy strands of ginger hair draping around her shoulders as her body recalled the comforts of relaxation and sunk into itself. “It’s why I got
you to do it.” Amanda added with a taunting smirk.

Winifred Ross looked up at the woman she had come to grow close to over the past two years, how the sheltered innocence of a human much too young to be independent morphed into a warrior hardened by what the world threw at her. The hunting rifle she rested against the arm of the chair she occupied was a testament to how much the world had changed the former early childhood educator.

Feet pattered against the ground and brought Winifred’s attention to her right. The four half-sized humans stampeded by, laughter erupting from their mouths as they threw their heads back. The Border collie, Lady, barked in response as she chased after the cluster of children no older than twelve. A flock of birds rattled and chirped up amongst the orange-red leaves still clinging hopefully to the wiry, skeletal branches of the dark trees. Somewhere nearby the hammering restarted as Darius and Doug resumed the repairs on the newest rainwater-collector and, with the perky Charlotte in tow, Chuck strolled on by with the planks of recently-chopped wood nestled in his arms, his eyes vacant as he blocked out the stories Charlotte continued to bombard him with. Lacy called out to Aurora to show her the neat mushroom she found, and buried underneath it all, the fire crackled in its pit where the pot in the water elevated above it began to boil. There was nothing different about the day, about the bustle of life isolated from horrors and instead fixated in its own world of avoidance. It was as common as –
“Hey, have you seen Toby?” Chuck asked.
“Down by the pond,” Winifred replied, her slow, husky voice turning the Asian man. “With Sam.”
“Oh...” Chuck hesitantly said. Flickers of confusion mixed with slight disgust painted his face, and he asked, “Should I go see if –”
“No,” Amanda quickly interjected. “No you shouldn’t.” With a disturbed nod, Chuck turned around and headed back across the lot, vanishing behind the wall of the two-storey home standing guard over the makeshift common area where the chairs and benches formed a circle. Behind the sloping brown roof was the peeking nest of the watchtower, a figure Winifred couldn’t identify looking out over the colorfully withering countryside with boredom.

With the last of the onions chopped into bits, Winifred dumped them into the pot and watched them fade beneath the bubbles. She stood and dusted her hands on her dark pants, other priorities springing to the forefront of her mind and demanding attention.
“Watch that?” Winifred asked Amanda.
“Well, I’ve got nothing better to do, so...” Amanda said as she stared at the pot with disinterest.
“Brandon’s bringin’ the deer. Should be here soon,” Winifred told the woman who simply nodded.

In total eighteen other people – along with two dogs – lived in the fortified area secluded from the world by the trees that grew around it. Two layers of barbed wire fencing and messy trenches shielded it with three watchtowers standing erect in the North, West and Southeast corners. The house belonging to a member of their group that had been untouched remained when the group arrived, and in addition five RV’s and two renovated tool sheds took up residency with it. An underground pantry stocked full of preservatives, ammunition, and water promised them close to two years’ worth of supplies. Two pick-up trucks, an eco-friendly SUV and a couple of four-wheelers rested in the driveway. Compared to the luxuries and security of Havens, the Farm was nothing much – it was minor next to them. Yet without a single sighting of any Infected in a month, the Farm was the only place Winifred ever wanted to be.

In the small clearing where one of the RV’s sat, Winifred found the group of four children sitting on a torn and stained picnic blanket. All of them were watching the clouds and pointing to ones that they claimed were looking back, but when Winifred approached, they eyed her hopefully.
“Goin’ for an apple run, who wants to come?” The hands of eight-year-old Danielle and ten-year-old Peter shot into the air and waved eagerly, but Peter’s twin brother Hayden shook his head defiantly. The oldest of the group, Lacy, shyly looked away, unwilling to catch Winifred’s gaze.

“Can we pick blackberries?!” Peter excitedly asked as he hopped along in front of Winifred, galloping like a horse. Leaves crunched underfoot and the boy took pleasure in the sound.
“If we find some,” Winifred replied, though she knew they weren’t in-season. Yet, from having lived with the Flint family for almost a year, Winifred had become a trained professional in avoiding arguments with them; the simplest way was to play dumb.

As they came closer to where the trees opened into a clearing and the pond sat still, the curly-haired Toby Michaelson emerged. He was handsome with bright, childish features, though his youthful appearance contrasted the way he freely let the dark stubble on his face grow. At least ten years younger than Winifred, the teenage boy commonly accompanied Winifred on foraging and farming expeditions, but when the broad-shouldered Sam – who was seven years older than the younger boy and a good foot taller – emerged behind him, his thin lips pulled back into a sheepish grin and his square jaw red, Winifred looked away, hoping to find a distraction to feign unawareness.

The small trio of three strayed from the earthy pathway padded-down firmly from prolonged use and drifted between the trees, retracing the invisible footprints they left from their previous trip to where the apple trees grew. Roots, rocks and small slopes jutted from the ground, joining the layer of leaves and twigs that allowed the sky to peak in through the bare holes of the trees.
“Angela says we shouldn’t play in the forest,” Peter matter-of-factly said. “She said – she said, that, um, that there could be zed-heads in here.”
“Angela’s right,” Winifred agreed. Subtle hints of loathing for the other woman lingered under Winifred’s voice that the children wouldn’t understand for a while yet.
“But if there are, you’ll kill them dead, right?” Peter asked.
“’Course I will,” Winifred replied, smirking. With her arms stretched open like an airplane, Danielle trailed behind them, mumbling to herself.
“Sometimes, um... sometimes Hayden – you know, my brother? He tries to go looking for them – for the zeddies, but I tell him not to. He says he won’t die, but then I tell him that it happened to Roxanne.” The mention of the elderly woman made Winifred cringe, and with an inward sigh she quickly changed the subject.

“You see any apples?” Winifred asked, and the second the last syllable bounced from her lips and filled the air, an ear-piercing shriek ripped through her words. Winifred spun, terrified yet instinctively preparing; it took her eyes a second to register what she was seeing, but as soon as she actually saw the thin, naked figure with sallow skin and unrecognizable black marks littering its naked flesh full of open, oozing sores, Winifred froze. The skeletal figure was standing idly feet away from the small child; Winifred’s heart pounded madly against her chest and a dry lump had constricted swallowing the excess build-up of saliva in her mouth.
“Winnie!” Danielle sobbed for the older woman. The young girl stumbled backward and tripped over her own feet, and the second her small body crashed roughly into the dirt, Winifred sprung; she tore past Peter and leapt, pushing herself off the ground and slamming her weight into the suddenly-aware body. Both collided hard into the leafy ground and rolled; Winifred felt sharp shoots of panic rush through her as she found herself on her back, the violently aggressive figure on top of her. Rancid smells of shit and vomit leaked off of it and Winifred felt the bones of its jagged skeleton pressing into her stomach. A hand tried to claw at her face and it brought its open mouth down on her but Winifred thrust her hand at its neck, feeling the warm, soggy skin tear away as her fingernails dug into it. She held it in place even though it struggled madly to rip chunks from her flesh with its mouth spewing tendrils of rotten saliva. Struggling herself, Winifred reached to her waist with her other hand and fiddled with the holster until the gun came free, and in a second the explosive boom rang out in the silence of the forest. Blood, skull fragments and brain splattered the tree trunk next to them, painting a macabre mess. The body went limp and Winifred pushed it off of her, finally able to breathe, and the sobs of both children brought her back to awareness of her surroundings.

Bolting upright to her feet, still in a trance of adrenaline, Winifred looked around wildly for anything else moving. Near the tree line her own living people came rushing through, guns in tow as the alerted worry found them. The loud rustle of papery leaves and cracking branches seemed to echo on forever as Winifred stood still, thoughtless, waiting.
“What happened?” Chuck asked, the first one to reach them.
“Undead,” Winifred replied, and gently she nudged the immobile body with her foot. Others from their group had crowded around now, all of their eyes locked on the body while their mouths remained shut.

“The dead found us?” Toby quietly asked.
“No,” The smoky voice of Doug Bishop replied. “He ain’t undead. He was alive.”

[Free Faller]

“You know Rob; I really don’t get people sometimes. I mean, just because it’s the end of the world doesn’t mean people need to act like it all the time,” Cassandra explained to her newly acquired assistant as she scaled higher up the busted cellphone tower she was stripping for parts. She’d spent hours driving down different cut lines that zigzagged through the thick forest that engulfed the area all around Washington Haven before finally finding what she had been looking for. She met Robby as she had started her initial climb up the tower. He, in his tattering black suit and tie, had graciously agreed to keep her company.

It was rough going, getting to this place, because everything was getting overgrown without anyone to maintain them. Most vehicles wouldn’t even been able to get through, but luckily for Cass, she had herself a dirt bike. That made this particular find a prize for her. The vast majority of Salvagers were a lazy bunch, so if they couldn’t drive there in their big ol’ pick-ups with trailers and all that other nonsense they weren’t going to waste their time traipsing through the woods. Cassie didn’t mind traipsing at all. Her particular prey was elusive at times, but when she finally tracked it down the benefits far outweighed the cost. Like now, for instance. She was going to grab off these solar panels, which she’d probably sell when she got someplace sunnier like Reno; that was a big seller in the desert. She carefully wrenched off the bolts of the first one and glanced down at Rob. “Hey, you wanna make yourself useful or something?” she asked as she twisted herself precariously to look at him full on. He just made some noise that was a mixture of snarling, choking, and gurgling at her. “Very articulate, Robby. Thanks for that,” she added sarcastically.

With a sigh she clambered back down the tower and placed her salvage on the ground gently. She could have just lowered it down with her coil of rope, but Rob had needed to be secured to one of the steel cross beams as a sort of safety line. Well, it was safer for Cassie, at least. As she made her way back up for another go, Rob strained to get at her from the end of his rope. She gave him just enough berth to keep out of his reach. “I thought we’ve already discussed personal space bubbles, Robby,” she chided and continued on her way, “The way your dressed I thought you’d be more of a gentleman.” Since Cass only really had room to carry one solar panel on her bike, and even that meant she’d have to sit on it, she would only now be taking things she could easily place in one of her saddle bags or pockets. She’d come out here for one thing really, and that was the small transceiver box located in the middle and interface it held. Cassie had a plan for Washington Haven that she’d been discussing with some of their higher ups for a few weeks now. She was actually supposed to present it to some counsel later in the day.

The system she was devising would be the first of its kind in the Havens if she could get it right. She would get it right. The payoff promised was sweet. See, Washington had this hard-on for keeping everything as safe as possible. They had a metric butt-ton of guards, high walls, electric fences, and other things of that nature. They also seemed to have a problem with raiders, condemned, and those creepy Legion cultist dudes. All of said aforementioned groups communicated via ICOM’s, or walkie-talkies as they’re more commonly known. How did Cass know this? Well, she’d supplied many of them herself and failing that, she had other tricks that led her to that bit of information. Therefore, Cassandra was building radio frequency scanners with- and this is the best part- triangulation capabilities. Yep. She built and antenna head that was capable of not only listening in on enemy communication, but then tell the operator the direction the signal was originating from. Get two going spaced a little ways apart and you’ve got yourself a general location the size of about a football field. Get three or more and you can get their location down to the grain of sand they were standing on. All of this in real time, of course. You preemptively welcome, Evergreen, she thought wryly as she carefully snipped the wiring from the transceiver box and then tucked it down the front of her black hoodie for safe keeping.

Looking down at Robby one last time, she smiled mischievously. “It’s been a real slice, talking to you, Rob. You dead guys are sure good listeners.” The zombie strained to reach the woman perching above it, but the rope she had looped around his neck and then secured to the tower had poor little Rob at his limit. If she were to guess by the curious angle of Rob’s back and neck, if he pulled any harder the rope would peel him off the tower and send him swinging like a bank robber in a western movie. As amusing as that’d be, she didn’t have time to wait. So to hasten the process, she skittered down just out of his reach. “I kinda hate ruining your winning streak here, ‘coz I assume you’re pretty old for a Zed with that fancy suit on, but you know… Survival of the fittest and all that.” With a little salute she swung herself down and punted the zombie in the face, sending him flying off the cellphone tower. His head popped off his shoulders like a wine cork as soon as the rope went taunt.

With a chuckle she gathered her rope and made for her bike. It took her a bit of finagling to get her salvage suitably secured, but once she did Cass donned her Oakleys that had been sitting on her head, pulled on a grey Fox racing beanie, and hopped on the Yamaha. She kicked it on and sped off into the forest towards the general direction of the haven. Leaning into her turns, Cassandra slalomed through the thick tree cover and watched with mild curiosity the undead ambling out from where ever they had been hiding, following the screaming roar of her open exhaust. They weren’t even remotely a threat, not while she was on her bike. The things were too slow to keep up, and she lost them in the terrain almost as quickly as she spotted them.

Soon enough she came upon an actual road, one that would take her the rest of the way to Washington Haven. She had learned quickly that just popping out of the forest near their parameter wall was not, in fact, the best way for her to keep her face bullet free. Had she not had tapped into their radios to inform them that she was not there to rape, pillage, burn, or otherwise destroy their compound that last time she'd come to visit, that whole scenario would have ended up a lot different. Like, not being alive kind of difference.

As it was now with her traveling down one of their secured roads, she still had rifles trained on her as soon as the guard towers, gate, and concrete serpentine barriers came into view. It all looked very military official, but that was because most of the people there had been in the military. She cruised up to the entry control point and smiled sweetly at the armed guard as she came to a halt next to him. “Cassandra Shannahan, salvager and communication technology extraordinaire,” she introduced with the best bow she could manage while straddling her motorcycle, “I’ve business with your counsel.”

The younger man stared at her suspiciously as she smiled even more brightly. Then he turned and walked into the guard shack while his partner kept watch on her. She watched as he picked up a radio to relay what she had said, and came back out a moment later. “I’ve been instructed to allow you entrance, but you’ll have to wait here until your escort comes and gets you.”

“Escort? Why?”

The man cocked his brow at her. “Apparently it has something to do with you climbing up the clock tower and base jumping from it the last time you were here… Freaked a bunch of people out who thought you were committing suicide.”

She scrunched her face up in thought, trying to remember said incident. “Oooh,” she winced after a few seconds and gave a guilty smile, “That was here, was it?” He nodded at her and glanced purposefully at the parachute rig resting on her back. “Huh, my bad.”

“Yeah.”

[Noctis]

The day was a sorry grey as Marcus sat against a crumbling wall. He was on the second story of a crumbling building as he sat in a corner, so his eyes could observe the door and outside. It had been his second week within downtown Orlando Florida, and he was already hating it. Not only was there a huge amount of Zero presence milling about the once thriving entertainment city, but the weather could become as hot as sin. It made breathing through his respirator an arduous task, for he was sucking in humid air. Taking one more look around, he slowly untied his right boot. His foot had been hurting like a mother fucker all day. He had to tend to it now or it'd just keep being a pain in the ass.

"Sonnavabitch," he cursed under his breath as soon as he removed his dirty sock. A giant blister had popped on his big toe. In the past it wouldn't have been that big of a deal, but with sanitation at an all time low in this wonderful and joyful era, he had to fix it now or risk getting an infection. He didn't really want the latter. He took out his pack and begin digging. "Now where is it ... where is ... There we go."

He pulled out a half used tube of Neosporin, an alcohol wipe, and a small bandage. His hands worked in quick succession as he cleaned the blister with alcohol and quickly applied the ointment then taped it up. After everything was taped up and good to go, he stowed everything in his pack and put the sock and boot back on. He had wasted enough time sitting around.

He secured everything then stood up as he gripped the reassuring feel of his M4. Marcus took a look outside the broken wall down towards the street below. There weren't too many Zeros, a term that the Sentinels had given the zombies, and sighed in relief. If he had to, he could easily drop these SOBs, but then the echo of the shot would just draw more of those bastards towards him. He didn't really fancy another repeat of Maryland. He shifted uncomfortably from the memory as he felt his hairs prickle. The East Seaboard was by far the worst area he had traveled in. He'd wager to say it may have been on par or bested the West coast.

The acrid smell of fire filled Marcus's lungs as he sprinted within a narrow hallway. He sucked in air as he dare not look back. He knew the things were following him and he couldn't stop now. The mother and child he was trying to escort to a safe house had long since been lost to him as he cursed to himself. It was all going perfectly until the kid sneezed. Because of that, the horde had heard. He tried to save them, but they scattered the other way. With the horde in his path, there was no way for him to reach them. He had failed them.

He kept on running as he shoulder rammed a door that gave way to his weight and momentum. His shoulder throbbed in pain, but his adrenaline, pulsing with wild madness, dulled it. He scrambled to his feet and broke open a window as he looked around. The Zeros filled the streets. There were so many that they literally looked like a barrel full of fish. You didn't need to look to catch one, just reach in with your hand. Easy.

Not looking down, he grasped the ledge on the exterior of the building and pulled himself out the window. His feet slipped as he felt his gut lurch. He yelped as he swung out of control and just barely managed to hold onto the ledge. The crowd below were going berserk as those pale rotting hands reached for him as if he were a nice big juicy piece of steak dangling before their very eyes.

As he forced his nerves to calm the hell down, a terrible shriek reached his ears as he looked back. There they were, the kid and the woman. The mother was fighting them back with a rock as the kid was crying hysterically, fresh salty tears dripping down his cheeks. Marcus looked on with dread as he climbed as quick as he could. He just needed a stable surface then he drop these Zeros and give them a chance. Their eyes met briefly as the child looked at him. He knew those eyes. He had seen it many times during his operations that involved collateral.

I don't want to die.

Marcus gasped in shock as he snapped his weapon to bear. His eyes searched frantically as he saw nothing but blank space. When he was sure it was all clear, he relaxed as sweat dripped from his face. He had briefly lapsed into sleep without knowing it. He hadn't been able to sleep well anymore - especially out in the open. His chest was still pounding as he quietly made his ways to the streets and hugged the rubble. It was lucky he hadn't been spotted. There was another reason why his group wore these ventilation-less suits and mask. Not only did they know that the virus was transferred through blood and fluids, but the Pathfinder and some of the more senior Sentinels speculated that the zombies may perhaps also hunt by smell. How the mask helped? He didn't know. Plus, if they did hunt by smell, his stink would have probably given him away. He smelled terrible.

As he kept moving along the ruins, he heard footsteps as erratic breathing could be heard hearing. He crouched low as he tried to lock on where the footsteps were coming from. He knew one thing for sure though, they were headed his way. Running zombies? No way .. .survivors?

He peaked around a corner as he saw a lone woman running frantically. Her footsteps were too loud, the sound was what was going to kill her. When she got close, he sprang from behind his corner and put his hand over her mouth and dragged her into the building. She squirmed with fresh fear as she elbowed him in the gut. He grunted as many connected.

"Calm down," he hissed as he heard the moans. "I'm going to release you. If you want to live, shut up and stay down." As promised he let go of her mouth as the woman shuffled away from him. Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw him. "Shh ... later."

He shouldered his rifle and pulled out his silenced side arm. He sat low to the ground as the moaning became louder and louder until he swore the Zeros were standing outside of the wall he was leaning against. He heard more shuffling as a crowd began to gather. He looked to the survivor and pointed up then pressed his finger to his respirator. She nodded and crawled up the stairs slowly. He followed after her as his mind was running in full gear. Those things were so damn close.

As they reached the second floor, they found a room and hunkered down. Marcus stepped towards the window and glanced down below. There were at least a dozen of those things down there, but they were just standing around. He hoped and prayed something would come and draw them away.

He sat with his back against the wall and looked at the woman who was glaring at him. "I'm not a raider or a slaver; don't worry."

"Then who the fuck are you?" she asked in a snide attitude. "Military?"

"Seeker. I'm part of the Sentinel force within this area."

"Sentinel?"

Marcus sighed as he pulled off his respirator and hood. He wiped some of the sweat off his face as he sat back. "You never heard of us?"

"Does it sound like it asshole?"

His eyebrow twitched. "Check the attitude lady." He took another peek around the window and saw the things begin to disperse. "We save stragglers like you and drop you off at the nearest Haven or safe house. Better chance of survival then running around out here - like a dumbass. Were there others with you?"

"Not anymore."

He nodded as he took out a paper map. There were large red circles drawn on it, each representing a Haven. There were other markings for dead zones and such, but he ignored those completely. "The Florida Haven isn't too far. I'll drop you off there." He collected his gear and stood up. It was pretty clear now. There were a pair of stragglers, but he wasn't too worried. He put his headgear back on. "We're leaving. You good to go?"

The woman looked at him with caution then nodded. "Ya. The sooner we get there the better."

Marcus smiled as he walked towards the door with his pistol drawn. "I couldn't agree more."

[howler01]

Find supplies, anything else that you can bring back do so, location: approx Colorado area, possibly Denver. Find someone who knows the area. Go with speed and make Reno proud!

The scrawled writing on the piece of paper was hard to read, but Issac had gotten the information he'd needed. Now, it was just a matter of getting to Colorado. The last line, go and make Reno proud, bugged him. He wasn't here to make anyone proud, he'd tried to once...in Florida. How had that turned out? he'd been denied for the Team and he'd left. In his mind, it had been a slap in the face. Here he was, just coming back from his Marine duties; undoubtedly they could use him, or so he thought. The rumbling of the bus engine, with it's wire covered windows, was somewhat comforting, as it made it's way from Reno over to some compound that was closer to his destination, he hoped. Where the hell are we headed again? he thought as he sat there, trying to stare out the window, and at the same time, trying not to. There were several others on this bus, all pretty much dressed like him. Reno Salvagers, and he thought he saw one of those psycho mail carrying people in the back, just crazy enough to somehow manage to bribe their way or sneak their way on too.

Issac sat back again the bus's head rest and hoped, for the moment that they wouldn't be attacked this time out. Problem was that one could never really tell with these things. Sometimes, the rides went smoothly and only a few infected died. Other times? A bloodbath, just to get where they needed to go. Then, it hit him...Colorado Springs. Duh. He'd start there, see what...or who, rather, would be willing to forage the Denver with them all. They all stayed quiet, each man or woman lost in his or her own thoughts. For Issac, whose piercing blue eyes gazed at each of them, his thought centered still on that grapefruit sized rejection; sitting there in his mind like a paperweight that he'd forgotten to take off of his desk back home.

The Three former Generals, gray haired and slightly bearded, sat at the large table. he, and a few others stood there as they discussed each case in front of all of them. Issac was only half-listening to them, though until they got to his name,"Frost? You're good, and we...understand your statements to the committee. But, we can't verify anything you've told us. At most son, you've support role or B Team material here. We just... don't' feel comfortable sending some unknown body of work into the field. Who's to say you won't pick the wrong side when the time comes?" he'd stood there, mouth closed, fuming quietly. he responded in clipped tones,"Sir, I can assure you that I've given my life to the service of the old Country, the United States of America. I would never choose any other side, sir. Sir, if there was some way I could tell you more...about the kills and the missions, but the papers and my statements...speak for themselves, sir." The general did not seem convinced, though his eyes betrayed him slightly. "I'm sorry, we just don't have the room. There's wrong with supporting the lead team, Frost, I can assure you of that, but you're not going to be a member on it." He'd stood stiffly at attention then, just like so many other times, saluted them all, turned on his heel and walked out, never to return again.

The memory of that day still hurt. Even now, five years later, he was still bitter and angry at what he saw as nothing more than a thinly veiled boot in the ass. It was a blatant rejection of everything he'd submitted to them, trying to document his service and his record; some of which they find, but most of which they could not. Issac's expression turned bitter and grim, like a pot of black coffee and he turned his eyes towards the front of the bus, to stare out the windshield as they rumbled along; making far too much noise for his liking. But, there was no planes...or other means of fast travel really. it was either this, or ride with one or maybe two other people. Issac reached a hand behind his head and rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the muscles a little and giving a soft grunt, as various coughs echoed throughout the passenger area.

Suddenly, a quiet voice broke the silence of the cabin. "making faces at them isn't going to work too well, you know, there's these wonderful inventions called bullets. They work wonders. You've heard of them I hope?" Issac looked accords to ascertain the source of the comment and found Heather, one of their assault team members, her assault rifle sitting on her lap. How she'd joined, he didn't quite remember. She'd been some gun shop owner's daughter or something. Shooting guns all her life. She'd had to be trained, he'd remembered that much, but she'd adapted to the training well and her place was earned. She was quite respect by the rest of the team. Issac only responded with,"Bullets, right. I know what they're used for, thanks. I was just thinking about Florida, that's all Fuckin' pricks. Didn't know they had. Didn't know what they'd trained. Didn't realize that you've got to give some form of life outside of all of that to someone. Fuck them." he went silent again.

She continued with,"So...what's the trader to you, then? She your outside world trainer? Or are you two...together?"
"We're just friends. She's someone I trust. Someone who knows more about me than most ever really will. I guess, yeah, you could say she's training me in life outside of all of this. If it every goes anywhere, fine by me. if it doesn't, hat's fine too. plenty of pretty boys out there. Plenty of drunks and gamblers, too. She'll find someone, I'm sure." He sent silent once more. It had been her writing on the note. he knew that; he'd seen her write things before. but, why Colorado? What the hell was there? He didn't know, or have any fucking clue why he was even going. The dark, curved road that represented the future realm of impossibles stared back at him through the windshield of the bus; it's headlights only illuminating the next few minutes at a time. Supplies could mean anything; most likely, it was booze and poker chips. Things Reno desperately needed. Food, they had plenty of, same with people. Never could get enough booze or poker chips, though. Her note had been no more specific and it had been left under his door, which meant she didn't know...or couldn't tell him any more about this mission to the burned out hell that was the outside world.

The driver's voice broke though with a loud curse, followed by,"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a problem. I'd love to take you striaght to your intended destination, but it seems the local highway patrol wanna charge each of you a roll to pass through. I doubt any of you are carrying money. So fuck them. Looks like we're heading up and around. Gotta go through Cheyenne, but that's as far as I'm going. You'll have to find your own ways from there. Sorry." By the locla highway patrol, he meant some gang that was "guarding the border". Great. They'd already been traveling for two...or was it three days now and Issac was simply anxious to get out there...find whatever the hell it was they anted him to find and head back. The collective groan of the others suggested they fel much the same about this turn of events. No one did more than that, though, as who knew what resources the gang had..or didn't have. They could simply deflate the tires and try kilning them all right here and now, or box them in with their vehicles. It was probably better to just find a round about way in. So, though the former Mormon Empire or Utah, as they'd called it in PC Speak, they rolled. But, instead of heading directly east, they headed northeast, aiming to angle into the smaller compound, and part ways. Issac looked around the passenger cabin. He called out,"Anyone up for a trek into somewhere near Denver? Intel says there might a cache of the good stuff in there. Besides, we all know it's so desperately needed back home." He was met only with head shakes and quiet "nope" or "no." or "no thanks." from the others. Probably too heavy on the sarcasm. Oops. he thought.

Heather spoke up once more,"It's Michigan or Minnesota this time. Why the fuck are you going...oh." She seemed to have already concluded the source of his "intel" and acknowledged him with a crazy look behind her brown eyes. "She's going to get you killed...one day. Good luck finding someone crazy enough to go with you.. Don't' go gettin' yourself killed. We all need you, you know that." The other nodded, or if they were close enough, gave reassuring pats on his shoulder. Grim smile lit their faces briefly. It would be a day or so before they reached the actual compound. Then came the process of proving who they weren't, rather then who they were.

Their means of transport wan't' military in origin, but they'd tried to convert it; placing military symbols all over it, giving it a camouflage paint job and a couple of gun mounts on the roof. Someone had though up the idea of installing ladder up there, snd small nests for their gunners to sit in. Of course, those soldiers got helmets and face masks, to protect them from the wind and flying debris. Fortunately, a couple of M249 SAWS up top would deter most from throwing anything, but the occasional incident occurred every and then. It wasn't as armored as an APC might have been, but it was a little faster. Besides, fuel was hard to come by and APC's could get real cramped, real quick. Thus, unless there was a dire need to move the Reno troops through some heavily Infected area, rather than along mostly well known and traveled roads to mostly well known and safe Havens, the APC's back home went unused in favor of their bus. The Bus had been a shuttle from Vegas once, specifically to Cesar's Palace and back from the Reno area, so most called it "Armored Chariot" just for laughs. Issac couldn't redeemer if they'd actually painted that on the side, but he doubted it. Mostly an inside joke. The glass had been enforced and they'd added steel plates where they could, but again, it was o substitute for an Calcutta military transport. No one felt like gathering up the resources necessary to actually trade for one. Besides, the Haven had at least two to three, but again, those were for emergencies only.

The bus rolled on and Wyoming, for a little while anyway, would be getting a slight boost in its security.

[Prometheus]

After watching 4 men get executed, Daryl could only assume that his morning wasn't going to get any worse. Of course, he was proven wrong almost immediately. A couple of questions and half a cup of coffee (rationed) later, he was left with an even worse temper and the knowledge that he was already late for the day's assignments. Of course, this meant that he'd be stuck with the worst job and the worst partner because all the better ones would've already been picked. The worst job didn't bother him. Usually it was all subjective; the area left was either already picked over or swarming with the dead, both of which he could usually handle. It was the partner that he knew was going to ruin the trip, because he would almost certainly be traveling with Chavez.

Chavez was one of the only Latinos in the Cheyanne haven, but that wasn't why no one ever partnered with him. No, no one liked him because he was a know-it-all, and followed rules by the letter. The Cheyanne command loved him because he always brought back top quality salvage, and he got the perks of being at the top of the chain; first grabs at the showers, first pickings at the food, whatever. But whatever the results, most people could barely tolerate him. You want to listen to the stereo? Too bad, against protocol. Want to eat in the field? Too bad, it has to go back and be rationed. And there would be hell to pay if you didn't follow those rules to the letter. Somehow the commander would find out, and you'd get put on probation for a week.

In the back of his mind, Daryl knew he was being petty about it. Chavez was still just a guy, and Daryl could see why he cared about the rules so much. Hell, he'd never partnered with the guy before, and he was pretty sure most of the stuff that the others said about him was BS anyway. Still, with his current mood he wasn't very interested in humoring the thought. He needed an outlet for his pent up frustration, and being an asshole to Chavez behind his back worked pretty well, even if it did make him feel like he was back in middle school.

So before long, Daryl was in the driver's seat of his Ford with a Johnny Cash C.D. In the stereo, driving towards the mountain. For some reason, his command had decided to move the salvager meetings up to the base, which was just long enough of a drive from the Compound for it to annoy the hell out of everyone. Except Chavez. Daryl reminded himself. He smiled vindictively. He's probably fine with it.

Had Cheyanne not paid so well, Daryl wouldn't have stuck around to contend with the organizational BS. He had already started to miss the simple supply runs between Chico and Reno, just him alone with his thoughts. He went where he pleased, kept what he wanted and stopped when he felt like it. The one advantage to anarchy, He thought to himself, chuckling. No rules. He'd been considering leaving for Chico for some time now, but something kept holding him back. Hell if Daryl knew what it was; he had no friends here, and the hours sucked. Maybe he was just growing too attached to the feeling of regularity. Either way, it was always the same thing. He always told himself, 1 more mission. 1 more mission. He had done the same thing that morning. Maybe if this one went good (or bad) enough, he'd finally call it a job well done and head back to Chico. Maybe.

Before he'd gotten onto the album's third song, Daryl was outside of the mountain. The base's little “driveway” of sorts had been converted into a reception area for traders, and Daryl flashed a wave to one of the attendants he knew before pulling far right. The makeshift dirt parking lot at the end of the lane was already mostly empty, with the other salvagers pulling out after the meeting had ended. At the end of the lot was Chavez, standing with a blank expression on his face, waiting for Daryl to pull up. He was wearing the standard military garb of Cheyanne, a forest-green outfit with a bulletproof vest slung over his chest. The vests were pretty rare and highly valued; Chavez just got it because he was a salvager. Daryl didn't have his own over his motorcycle armor. The way he figured it, if something posed enough of a threat to get through that, he should be running away anyway.

Chavez popped into the shotgun seat without a glance from Daryl, shutting the door with a snap. Daryl sat silently thinking for a moment before pulling out; not a word. Don't say it...

“You're late.” Chavez said, breaking the silence.

No shit, Sherlock. Daryl thought to himself. He just grunted instead.

“Suppose it's partially command's fault. Why they moved the meetings up here is beyond me...” Chavez said.

Daryl kept a mask over his face, but was actually slightly surprised at that. He'd been expecting a lecture on how important being punctual was, bla-bla-bla... He just grunted again, instead.

They drove on in silence for a few minutes, heading back down the mountain and turning towards Colorado Springs, passing the Compound again. The stereo was still running quietly. Cash was strumming a guitar to one of his slower, later songs. He'd died before the infection had hit. Daryl was glad for it. If he ever had to kill a Johnny Cash zombie, that would suck. Above the stereo, the short range radio Daryl's friend Wess had installed onto the dashboard was silent, occasionally spitting out a ball of static.

Finally, Chavez broke the silence again. “So, do you not know how to talk, or...” He switched over to Spanish. Daryl barely recognized what he was saying. “Do you just not speak English?”

Glaring over, Daryl replied “where are we going today?”

“Oh! So you can speak!” Chavez said. He tried for a smile, but it just came out as an uneasy grimace. Good. Daryl thought to himself. Misery loves company.

Chavez dropped the smile after a second and pulled out a map from Daryl's glove compartment. The paper had all sorts of scribbles and writing on it, like most of Daryl's maps. They mostly showed the various blocked off roads, the areas he'd already searched, the areas he wanted to search, places to stay away from, ect. “Uh.... here.” He said, pointing to a corner of the city. Daryl had marked it up so badly that it looked more like a block of black ink. One way in and out, all the other roads were blocked. Residential, so zombies are everywhere. Daryl read to himself. Most of this he'd learned by himself, before Colorado had started organizing salvage teams and he'd been able to do what he wanted. Great... Chavez kept turning the map at different angles, obviously not able to make heads or tails of Daryl's chicken-scratch.

“Should be a piece of cake.” Daryl lied. Chavez took one last look at the map before folding it back up and replacing it in the glove compartment. Ahead of them, the major city's first buildings had started to pass them by. Daryl had been told that the ride into the town had been nice at one point; lots of trees on either side of the road. But come to find out, something had happened to them in the years after Cheyanne had sealed itself away, and they'd all disappeared. Most people assumed they had burned down, and the fact that most of the buildings outside of the base had been charred or completely burnt down when Daryl arrived made him think that the assessment was probably accurate.

Ahead of them was the highway, a monolith to how great humanity once was. Even though the houses on either side of it were slowly decaying, the highway rose above it all, standing against any deterioration like the infection hadn't even happened. Daryl hated it. It was mostly cleared of cars and zombies, at least for a few miles, but it was like a scar on the landscape to him. The whole world disappeared almost overnight, and the one thing still standing just reminded him of L.A. Traffic jams.

Finally, the Ford rolled to a halt outside of the pair's residential block. 300 houses, a middle school, blocked roads and the continuous monotone of almost 1000 undead groaning about how their skin was peeling off their bones. Daryl took a left into the neighborhood, stopped in front of the nearest driveway and Chavez turned off the radio. Making sure they were properly armed, Daryl hefted his machete, Chavez a pair of combat knives, and they opened the doors to the truck.

And so it began.

[Shon Harris]

Sliding metal of the bolt giving in, this was exactly what Simon-Pietro wanted to hear. With the lock circumvented the handle turned and he gained access to the rooftop. He stepped out onto the black rooftop, dried from what sun peaked from above here and then. When he attended the college A Building had all its external doors locked to non-first years. When he stumbled upon a set of long lost keys in the Library on upper-campus, A Building was one of his last ideas. The building was the tallest in all of on-campus housing. It stood as the first visible building meant for housing when moving from upper to lower campus. Ten stories tall, that is five stories taller than any other building there, meant those who gained access to the rooftop could expect quite the view. Even when the college was active, Simon reminisced, the roof was blocked by a truly locked door, and one that could be surpassed with a creative wrist and a credit card. He turned to the locked door behind him and found the glass had been broken.

The tenth floor had once been used for overflow First Years. He was not yet sure how Evergreen Haven could afford to not place haven-folk here now, but as it stood, he'd yet to hear or see a soul anytime during his visits. Secrecy was an ingredient to his hobby -- he did not mind. If another followed him into the door with the broken glass, or maybe used the indoor stairwell and somehow got through a locked door even Simon-Pietro did not have access to, they'd walk down the hall, through the common space, and find a good bit of equipment. At the end of the hall, which turned in an L shape, there was a common space. It neighbored a doorway to a short hall where four or five bedrooms branched from. In one of these bedrooms he found a heating lamp, a few dry joints, and a potted plant a while back. After a week or so wandering through the forest he finally found one of the many cannabis plants students planted in secret. Now, he was simply giving the plants his love and time until they were able to give back to him. Another month or two, maybe, he actually wasn't too sure. It'd been years since he'd practiced his green thumbs.

Low static buzzed inside his left ear. Simon reached to his radio and turned the dial before placing a finger over his ear-bud. As if talking to someone in front of him, he nodded along with the voice.

~~~

"I get it, alright. The woman's a little rowdy, but I doubt she's stupid. Oh hello Miss Stranton, I'll be your greeter today. Would you like to learn how to wind a hemp-wrap?" Simon-Pietro welcomed the imagined woman, shaking the air's hand before grabbing his rifle.

Franco watched him, eyebrows furrowed, and pointed to another weapon, "The Em-Four." Before Simon could protest he found Franco's finger raised. "Miss Shannahan is a special asset of the Haven. She'll be at the Council Meeting, and I suspect, you'll be her shadow all night."

Throwing his squad leader his best pout, Simon picked up the M4. His eyes fell from the scope, what he'd heard others refer to as an ACOG, as heard his leader's last statement. Just who was this woman? Attending the Council Meeting was a special honour achieved by a select few. He hadn't stepped foot into a meeting since Pope's induction as a member two weeks ago. Either this woman wronged the Haven in a way he could not imagine, hence the automatic rifle, or she had some sort of knowledge about current state of affairs. Suddenly, Simon's stomach dropped. A little more than four weeks ago he'd arrived with three others and information about Legion's impending threat. This resulted in his attending a single official meeting. But this woman had an armed escort, seemed known by all the right people. Could she be from Legion as well? Emperor was not beyond deception if it meant achieving his ambitions. He shouldered the rifle, mind racing, and familiarized himself.

"You've done it. Now my interest's peaked, I'll have to chat her up all night," Simon said with a tip of his head, feigning humour. In truth, he could not be more concerned. His clearance was too low to enter the meeting and no one would utter a word about the discussions within. It meant he'd have to rely on others to determine this woman's allegiances.

Together, Franco and Simon signed out of the armory. Weapons were harder to obtain for those less familiar with the system, but for those regular faces, such as defense members, it became all too easy. They'd walk in, grab a firearm and some ammo, give a signature. The simplicity to becoming armed might sicken Simon-Pietro were it not more apparent concerns. His mind yearned to wander, but Franco seemed to feel their walking together to be choice time for a briefing. Odd as it was his squad leader referenced Legion captures and raids, Zed approach rates, and the haunting reports of strange markings on trees and mutilated bodies. All standard information. All well-known to Simon. He looked to his boss with a raised brow. Neither of them sought to waste the time of others, so why all this? When it became clear Franco was either oblivious, or simply did not care, Simon returned his gaze in front of them and took a breath.

"Of course," Simon interjected, watching Franco's curious expression before continuing, "You know she wouldn't know if you were telling me haven stats or guessing her cup size. If I'm going to be an actor in your little show the least you could do is entertain me as well."

The guards had escorted the woman, Miss Shannahan, to the old front of campus. Where buses and confused parents once came to see upper-campus, there, they waited. She stood juxtaposed between two darkly armoured guards armed with automatic rifles. Seven years ago there would be SWAT teams en-route at the sight of this. Then again, he corrected, one of the guards were in fact Military Defense. He realigned his attention onto the woman. To his delight she was well put together for a crazed merchant. A few scrapes and dirt streaks told him she was in fact a traveler, and despite her unique pants, her figure suggested a level of fitness earned by more than a bit of starvation. In truth his expectation had been more a frail merchant with a bit of knowledge that had kept them alive to this point. What raised Simon's spirits above all of this did not reside in her musculature or her trade -- but her face. Shannahan looked completely unfamiliar, which at least meant that any ties to Legion were less likely.

Before Simon-Pietro could speak, Franco stepped forward, smile displayed, dominant hand resting on the grip of his slung M-4. He looked to her hands and indicated for her to raise them with a nod of his head. When it became clear his personal language was not immediately received, his smile grew a moment.

"Miss Strannahand," Franco began, his smile faltering a second as he shot a glare to Simon, "If you'd put your hands out, fingers spread. Zed aren't the only ones who've developed a taste for flesh."

Quietly, Simon-Pietro hung back. Standing behind his squad leader meant it was his inherent duty to provide cover. If the woman's hands were to shake she might panic, cannibal or strung out addict. Some would skip explanations and go for their weapon. That's apparently how Franco's predecessor took a blade to the thigh. It meant that while Shannahan raised her hands, the guards, Franco, and himself would slowly click offs their safeties in morbid anticipation. The only courtesy they'd show was keeping their barrels lowered until threatened.

[howler01]

The bus rumbled along towards what appeared to be a compound in the distance, they had surely crossed over the Wyoming border. There were lots of little houses dotting the landscape. They would eventually lead to a compound. It had to. However, for now, the bus would just roll along and they'd try not to run over too many infected and hope that residents, whoever were left, wouldn't try to play heroes or stop the bus. Issac shifted in his seat and was more than ready to just get off the bus and figure out just what the hell was so important in Colorado.

The bus rumbled slowly over the roads and it became quite apparent to all of them that were not in the lively city of Reno. The winds whistled and there really wasn't much left of the area. The bus continued to rumble forward closer and closer to the compound. The momentum slowed on the large vehicle and all inside saw the gun totting people standing guard at the gates. They noticed more and more coming out to meet them. great. here comes the welcoming party. Issac thought as the bus rolled to a stop and he shouldered his rifle bag and other gear and proceeded to walk off of the bus.

The gun turned on him and he walked off the bus with his hands up, unarmed. "Look, we're not infected, we're not evil, just let the bus continue on their way. I'm the one who's come here for something." he said. The guns were subsequently cocked and he stopped his steps towards the place. "how do we know you're not lying to us and faking it just to get at our supplies?" Frost shook his head,"I swaer I'm not Condemmed! Now, let me inside and let's just get this over with!". He was bitter and cold, and thus his tone and temper were quickly sliding into anger. Who do these people think they are? Don't they recognize the bus, me, any of us? Don't they realize that I haven't fired a shot yet, but if I did I could kill them all easily? Ugh. the guns lowered and he was allowed into the small compound.

Issac introduced himself to them all, all four men that were left where the others had gone he didn't know, as,"Issac Frost, Salvager, Reno Team. You...really couldn't tell by the cammo? The rest of the team is on the bus. They're all headed off to other areas to search. I personally was led here by a note. I don't want to savage your areas....I want Colorado. Or, at least, something in one of the towns. I'll bring something back to you guys. Anything extra that I find...it's yours." Frost scoured their faces with his own. He could see a mixture of confusion, interest, and distrust, though some respect shown through all of that. It, overall, was an interesting situation.

the situation wasn't getting any less tense, but at least they'd let him come inside. However, it seemed the guns were being lowered quite far enough. It was clear they didn't trust him, and why should they? he was an outsider to them all. That scared them, and they were unsure of his intentions, though he'd tried to be clear. Now, he just had to hope someone would come along that could validate him and understand that he just wnated to go into Colorado, pull out... something...and come back, preferably alive.