Dead Silence -- IC -- AYoungWarthog & dman0649 GMing

[AYoungWarthog]

Brooklyn: a bustling cesspool of drug trafficking, organized crime, and drunken gweedos talking shit at you while you walk past the bar. The air was thick with a sleet-induced fog as Max pulled his sedan up to the curb; a man in a black Armani suit sat on a nearby bench and dropped what remained of a cigar on the ground as the agent opened his door. Max wore an identical suit, though his associate wore sunglasses, that of which were tilted down as Max approached. He shook his head, fixed his glasses, then began to walk up the sidewalk; Max followed behind him. The duo remained silent for a time, and it perplexed Max—Jonathan had informed him of the case’s severity, so why was he completely quiet? The agent moved to speak, but Jonathan cut him off. His compatriot’s voice was a crackling baritone, and it never failed to give Max chills.

“There is a family at the corner of the block that seems to be acting very strangely. The couple next door reported that there have been strange sounds coming from the Akerfield residence. Mary, a mother of four has recently come down with a particularly potent sickness. She has recently perished, and we are going to identify her body and retrieve a sample of her blood,” John stopped under a store’s awning as he finished speaking, and Max fell in place next to him, lighting a cigarette as he began to reply.

“Doesn’t sound nearly as severe as you made it seem, John; do you feel it was necessary to change my assignment?” the special agent cocked an eyebrow at Jonathan as he inhaled sharply awaiting a response.

“You haven’t the slightest idea what the ramifications of contamination could be, Mister Parkes. There is a strong possibility that this woman isn’t the only one who’s come down with this sickness… We have to pump the family for information, retrieve a sample, and deliver it to the lab as soon as possible.”

Without another word, John began to walk once again, and Max fell in step beside him, keeping his eyes open for any pedestrians who might compromise their assignment. Nobody seemed to be too suspicious, so the duo progressed without difficulty. The house on the corner was a shabby looking flat that appeared as if it was ready to collapse at any moment, but John rapped sharply on the door nonetheless. They waited for a moment, and after the sound of sliding locks perforated his eardrums, a pale looking man cracked the door open. His long brown hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed for days, and the foul smell of decay wafted into Max’s nostrils as he poked his head out of the door.

“May I help you?” he said in an antagonistic New Jersey accent.

Max reached into his jacket, withdrew his wallet, and flashed his badge at the man, “Good evening, Mister Akerfield,” Max started, tucking his badge back into his jacket, “my associate and I are here to investigate your wife’s corpse.”

Akerfield narrowed his eyes at the interloping agents, and then scowled deeply before slamming the door in their faces. John looked at Max, sighing before knocking on the door again. No answer followed, so Max decided to act before the widowed man had a chance to reset the locks.

He slammed his shoulder into the door, and the shoddy wooden portal snapped off of the rusted hinges with minimal effort. Though before Max could so much as dust himself off, he felt Mister Akerfield’s fist rock his head to the left. He grunted in surprise, then tucked his body toward the ground, spun on his heels, and propelled himself toward his assailant. He threw his left arm outward as he ascended, and hooked it under Mr. Akerfield’s right arm as he made contact; the surprised man slammed to the floor under Max’s grasp, and Jonathan quickly kicked him in the temple, knocking him unconscious. Maximillian rose to his feet with a disgruntled groan, dusted off his shoulders, and then withdrew his .357 pistol. He didn’t feel safe in the house anymore after that, and he was not willing to taking any chances. He heard the familiar sound of John loading his 1911, then pulled the hammer back on his own weapon; the gloves were coming off. The duo tentatively tiptoed through the house with their weapons at the ready, and it wasn’t long before they found themselves pressed on opposite sides of a doorway,, listening tentatively for activity on the inside. The smell of copper radiated from under the door, and Max counted to three before they both kicked the door in.

What they saw was nothing short of horrifying. A woman leaned over the corpse of a young boy, and it’s organs were splayed randomly over the bed. The woman’s hair was caked with blood and bodily fluid, and her mouth was buried in the toddler’s chest cavity. She lifted her head in confusion as the agents gasped, but barely had time to groan before Max lifted his weapon and split her head open. Brain matter splattered against the wall behind her, and her eyes sputtered blood as the corpse fell limply to the floor. The martial artist took a hesitant step toward the two corpses, but stopped himself as he heard John scream bloodcurdlingly behind him. He whipped around to face his comrade, and saw a teenage girl burying her teeth into his throat, ripping a large chunk of muscle and flesh off of his friend before swallowing it without chewing. Max dropped his pistol in shock, and the weapon fired into the wall as the pistol made contact. Before he could move to help his friend however, Jonathan pressed his pistol into the harlot’s mouth, squeezed the trigger, then turned the weapon on himself and sprayed his cranial fluid all over Max’s jacket.


Stepping inside the top floor landing of the guard tower, the German looked into the agent's eyes. They were coated in a sheet of ice, as if nothing could leave and nothing could enter. The weight of his rifle on his shoulder began to dig through his field jacket and windbreaker, both German Flecktarn in color, as he spoke, “Mein freund, was machst du g’rad’?”

The agent quickly shook his head from left to right, forcing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose as he came back to reality. He glanced quickly at the German soldier, then replied with a simple German accent, that of a Berliner, coating his German, “Nur .. Erinnern. Ich denke, der Colonel fängt ein wenig kribbelig bekommen. Denkst du, wir sollten reingehen?”

“Nach Ihnen,” Daniel said in a very throaty Karlsruher German, offering the door to the Agent before stepping into the large watch tower office behind him. The room was covered by old monitors that no longer worked, a desk, a radio station, and a gun cabinet with a catwalk stretching around the exterior of the room. Sitting at the desk, looking out at the yard was a relatively old man smoking a large cigar, half burnt away and barely smoldering between his lips.

As the duo entered the impromptu control center, Colonel James Hawthorne let his cigar fall from his lips, then stomped it out under his heel before glancing at Max, "It took you gents quite a bit to show your faces. Are you nervous, Maximillian?”

Max shifted nervously as the officer cross evaluated him, and he directed his eyes to his shoes before curtly replying, "No sir, I was simply awaiting my associate. You seemed rather urgent when you hailed us-- what seems to be the problem?"

James exhaled sharply as Max shifted his gaze, and spun on his heels as a vein began to show itself on his temple, "You will speak to me as you speak to a superior, Mr. Parkes. Raise your eyes to me when you speak. I would like to imagine I’m quite the attractive chap for fifty. Now... On to business." The veteran waved his arm in the direction of a large oaken desk sitting in the center of the room, then moved to sit in a comfortable leather chair, lighting up a second cigar, “Have a seat gentlemen, I don’t bite,” he added with his Londoner accent.

Max glanced at his companion nervously, and then strode tentatively across the tiled floor with a slight air of hesitation surrounding him. He placed himself in a simple wooden chair, and focused his attention on the man before him. Much more confident around military officers, the German Hauptman took a seat and held his head high, staring coolly at the Colonel. The British man nodded in his direction before leaning back in his chair. Sighing heavily, Daniel attempted his best English, though it came out with his thick, throaty accent, his consonants were harsh and his vowels were heavy, "Herr Oberst, I think we should begin.”

“The problem...” Hawthorn began, taking a deep drag on his cigar as he gathered his thoughts, "is that Petrenko has been interrogated twelve times, and continuously refuses cooperation. How do you suggest we solve it?"

"Like any officer would in the time of war, Herr Oberst," the Captain replied calmly, "we break him... He is a warrior like we are, he should not be shown quarter..."

Intrigued, the Colonel leaned forward, “I’m listening…”

Narrowing his eyes, Daniel turned to the agent and spoke in rapid German, ‘‘Sagen Sie dem Oberst, dass ich glaube, dass die zwei von uns sollte ihn zu verhören, ohne Gnade. Wir sollten ihn körperlich so, dass er mental einbrechen. Für die Liebe von allem, was gerecht ist, gibt es kein Gesetz und bestellen Sie hier, wird es nicht eine Regierung oder eine höhere Offiziere, die hart auf uns zu schaden eines Kriegsgefangenen sein.“

A wide grin broke its way onto Max's face as he listened to the soldier speak, and he cleared his throat as he leaned against the desk, "My associate and I are thinking that torture would be a useful asset in this interrogation. There aren't any higher-ups threatening us for cruel and unusual means of extracting information, so what boundaries are there to break?"

James's eyebrows lifted slightly as he considered the possibility, and a sparkle made its way into his eyes as he took another drag of his cigar. "I think Daniel's on the right track here… What sort of methods are you proposing, Jerry?"

Raising his eyebrow, the German chose to ignore the insult, and turned back to the agent, again speaking in German, “Ich glaube, ich sollte, dass das Sprechen tun ... Ich spreche Russisch. Während ich ihn locken zu einem komfortablen Zustand des Geistes, können Sie brechen ihm ... Körperlich ... Tat ihm weh. Sein Leben bedrohen ... Tötet ihn nicht, sondern verletzte ihn so gut du kannst. Wenn er zu kooperieren ausfällt, könnten wir immer hängt ihm kopfüber an seinen Knöcheln über den Turm Gehweg mit Seil, bis er unseren Bedingungen zustimmen will.“

Max grinned further as Daniel spoke and then relayed the information to his superior, "We'll do the old good cop, bad cop routine. Daniel'll lure him into a false sense of security, seeing as he speaks the Ruskie around here. Then I’ll be the bad cop, and hurt him as much as possible without damaging him too severely. If all else fails, we'll resort to drastic measures."

Hawthorne eyed Max with interest as he spoke, then replied, "Drastic measures?"

Max put on his most polite smile, his pearly whites glistening slightly as he tilted his glasses down. "We'll tie him to the flag pole and throw snow balls at him until he submits."

"Herr Oberst, I will enter the interrogation room now. I will greet him, then Max may follow," Daniel said as he stood. Leaving the room before the Colonel could say otherwise, he entered a small broom closet repurposed as an interrogation room for Vladimir Petrenko. He was tied to a chair across a coffee table from Daniel with a small lantern lighting the room. Setting his rifle down, the Captain sat across from the old man in a prison jumpsuit, and smiled, "Dobryy denʹ, tovarishch doktor Petrenko. Eto khorosho, chtoby uvidetʹ tebya."

Max followed Daniel into the closet before closing the door behind him. He slid around to Petrenko's blind side, lit up a cigarette, and leaned against the wall.

"Dobryy denʹ, Kraut . Vy nakhoditesʹ novoye litso. Ty zdesʹ , chtoby popytatʹsya ponyatʹ "zverstva" Materi- Rossii?" the old doctor said in Russian, leaning forward.

Daniel smiled, "I am not going to try and understand Russia's mistakes, Comrade Doctor, only speak to you... There is no need to call me a Kraut," Max attempted to act nonchalant as his acquaintance soothed the Russian, but began to fidget with his fingers as Daniel continued.

"Chto vy khotite obsuditʹ , nemetskiy idiot ... ?" Petrenko asked coolly.

Staring into the Doctor's eyes, Daniel sighed, lifting a picture of a beautiful blond girl with a curvascious body holding two baby boys, "Eto moya semʹya , tovarishch doktor. You killed them... I think it's only fair that you try to offer a reason as to why."

Spitting on the floor, the Doctor grinned, "Because they are German. Your people don't know how to lie down and quit, like the rest of NATO... No offense, tovarishch idiot, but I am finished talking. Let me die in peace."

Max took a confident step toward Vladimir, cracked his neck twice, and then cleared his throat, "Oh, really?" Without an ounce of hesitation, Maximillian set his left heel against the smooth tile of the closet, then pivoted his body to the left; he swung his hips to build momentum as he kicked his leg out, and a loud 'CRACK!' echoed through the closet as Max's foot smashed against the frail man's ribcage. He howled in agony as his chair toppled to the floor, and Max sat him back up before placing his face inches away from the Doctor's, “I'm going to give you exactly ten seconds to rephrase that statement, Dr. Petrenko. Or I’ll break the other half of your ribs."

Gasping through his agony, the doctor spat blood on the table and looked up at the American, "Rasskazhite vashu sobaku zdesʹ, chtoby nikogda ne vozlozhitʹ ruki na menya snova," he commanded.

Daniel merely smiled, looking back at the Doctor, "Tovarishch Doktor, he may lay his hands on you as many times as he sees fit... But he needn't do that if you just talk with me.”

Max smiled politely at the doctor through his ranting, and backhanded Petrenko as Daniel replied. "Try and stop me, you scum coated piece of excrement. I'd like to see you try."

"This is against the Geneva conven---"

"And Feniks wasn't?" Daniel cried angrily before wrangling in his agitation and taking a deep breath, "No, Tovarishch Doktor, there are now more Geneva Conventions of United Nations... My family is dead, your family is dead, his family is dead... There are no more fucking rules, da pomozhet mne Bog, I will end your life if I have too!"

Max cracked his knuckles as Daniel's tone sharpened, then leaned against the table and allowed his cigarette's cherry to hover inches away from the doctor's nose, "Choose your words carefully, or you'll be using a different kind of cane to get around. To be more specific-- a white one with a red tip. Will you cooperate or not?”

"Why in the world would I cooperate..." the doctor grinned menically, "what is in it for me?"

Max gripped Petrenko's throat tightly as he finished speaking, squeezing his delicate windpipe with his vice. "The continuation of your existence. When I let go of you, you're giong to tell me what I want to hear," He released his grip a moment later, and then threw his glasses on the table before staring directly into Petrenko's murderous gaze.

The Russian Doctor spat on the man's glasses before grinning, "If you want my cooperation, you're going to have to do better than that, American."


"How about free roam within your cell block, and any supplies you might need to help us combat the virus?" the German asked.

"Now we're talking..." Petrenko smiled, as he leaned forward and began thinking deeply.

Max stared at the sputum-coated lens of his Rayband glasses, then stared into Petrenko's pupils with murderous intent, "You listen to me, and you listen good," he paused for a moment, drawing his .357 and shoving it into the doctor's mouth, "say one more fucking thing I don't want to hear. Insult me again, I will blow your brains all over this FUCKING CLOSET. DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME?"

As he elevated his tone, he drew the hammer of his weapon back, his finger hovering over the trigger. Sensing the doctor's hesitation, he spoke again. "DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?"

Raising his hand to lower Max's, Daniel cried out in German, "Genug! Er hat sich bereit erklärt helfen, so lange wie wir finden ihn liefert... Have you not, Comrade Doctor?”

As Max removed the weapon from the doctor’s mouth, Petrenko coughed slightly before speaking, "Yesli ya svobodno peremeshchatʹsya moyey kamery bloka ... I grazhdanskoye lecheniye ... I will cooperate.”

"He says he will cooperate if he is treated civil and allowed to roam his cell block freely,” Daniel translated quietly before exiting the room in agitation, no longer wishing to remain near the murderous doctor.

"Good choice." Max smiled at the doctor before wiping his glasses off on the man's shirt, but stopped for a moment to look into his eyes, “Just so you know," he began casually, brandishing his KA-BAR and holding it to the man's field of vision, "For every step you take backward, I'm going to cut you. And for your information, I don't cut shallowly. Be sure you continue your cooperation."

Without another word, Max exited the closet and approached Hawthorne and Daniel, "It's done. We have his assured cooperation… Though you might want to hail some medical personnel; he's coughing up blood, and probably has a few broken ribs. He might need a psychologist, too...”

Hawthorne cracked a grin at Max's sarcasm, then simply said, "As I imaged he would. Now, I've sent two gentlemen to find the people you pointed out might be valuable assets to the mission. They've been told to meet you in the baseball fields. If you want them to stay there, I imagine you two should get your arses moving."

Daniel stammered for a moment before slinging his rifle onto his shoulder and following Max as he took off down the stairs with intent. As they exited the tower and felt the bitterly cold wind of the winter air, thick grey clouds approaching on the horizon bearing heed of a terrible blizzard to come, Daniel lit himself a cigarette as Max did the same, “Warum gehen wir zum die Baseballfeld?”

“Hawthorne sagte mir, er schickte ein paar Soldaten, um unser Volk von Interesse zu sammeln. Das ist, wo er sagte, sie würden uns treffen. Meiner Meinung nach, ich glaube es war eine verzögerte Treffpunkt .. Es ist eiskalt hier draußen,” Max answered as he trudged through the gravel outside the ball fields.

"Es ist auch vor allen den Zivilisten ... Warum würden wir uns über eine militärische Situation vor Zivilisten treffen?“ Daniel inquired, “Ich mache mir Sorgen, dass sie eine Szene machen, wenn sie herausfinden, was wir tun!“

The special agent considered Dan's words for a moment, and then grasped the handle of his pistol. "It's as simple as this. If they begin to make a scene, we threaten their stay in the prison. Unless they call my bluff, I think they'll shut the hell up."

Beginning to see the crowd of ten people awaiting the last two's arrival, Daniel scoffed, "Zwei deutsche Gebirgsjäger, ein britischer Fallschirmjäger, ein Vereinigte Staaten Marinekorps ... Und sieben Zivilisten ...? Das ist, was Sie vorschlagen Hawthorne sammeln?"

“Führen Sie einen von ihnen sogar wissen, wie man ein Gewehr umgehen?" Daniel inquired in German as they entered the baseball field through the back-stop and stood on home plate in front of the group, "Ich hätte lieber Soldaten über Scheißzivilist.”

Max cleared his throat after the lengthy discussion in Deutsch, then began to speak in English once further, “Before I begin to enlighten you as to why you've been hailed... If any of you want to know the truth about the virus... Listen carefully. But you should know that the second you are enlightened of the truth, you are not permitted to relinquish the information to anybody. By holding the weight of the information on your shoulders, you are also devoting yourselves to a military operation within the city of New York. If you wish to leave this prison, stay here. If you want to stay here, and never leave again... Leave now. I'm not stopping you,” Max waited for a moment, then lifted his eyebrows in surprise, "Alright, none of you? We'll see what you think in around thirty seconds. All of you, state your names and your former occupation. After you do so, it will be your last chance to leave."

Daniel stared on, waiting for the shocked civilians to introduce themselves. A storm was brewing on the horizon, and within their hearts.

[Red Beret]

Oliver Mercer

It hadn't been so much a last stand as a panicked gaggle, a bunch of factory employees trying to be the first to get off the damned floor, each and every one trying to be the last one out. Nobody had seen it coming, though there was one man among them that didn't seem the slightest bit surprised that it should happen. After all, Oliver Mercer supposed he had seen worse than rioting civilians. Maybe he hadn't been expecting bloodthirsty monsters wanting to tear him limb-from-limb with their bare hands, but there's life for you. One tries to escape one's past and get on with one's life and possibly one's future, and one's past comes right back to bite one in his bloody rear end. Mercer didn't do much talking--he'd decided to shut up around the idiots he worked with so that they'd stop poking fun (not that he cared, it was just hard to be productive when someone was trying to show you their impression of... well, you). Instead, he calmly picked up the nearest heavy object and proceeded to survive.

All right, perhaps it wasn't as simple as that. Several people had climbed into the steel that dominated one end of the warehouse, some had made a mad dash for the doors leading into the corporate part of the plant. Mercer himself had gone with these fellows, though arbuably without using the same panicked manner. He simply didn't care enough to panic, if something killed him today, he'd be perfectly content to let it--well, the non-soldiering part of him felt that way. The soldier in him, however, was not going to let him go so easily, bloody bastard. He'd grabbed the first thing he thought would let him bash a man's skull in efficiently and proceeded to use it to defend himself. He'd even attempted to rally his fellow workers, but in their panic, they weren't particularly loyal to anyone who wasn't them. Plus, they didn't really respect him anyway, did they? No, it had been up to Mercer to escape on his own.

The following few days had been hellish at best, a complete nightmare at worst. The police and the military had both failed to eradicate the bleeders, and as best he could tell back then, they might have buggered off completely. Of course they were just running off to form a perimeter. Of course they were going to be right back to save the day. Of course they wouldn't bring a bleeding stupid Kraut into the picture to try and scare everyone with his bloody Yank attack dog. Of course they weren't going to gather up anyone with the slightest hint of warmth in their bodies and try to make them fight for humanity, or whatever propoganda they were going to be using for this particular case.

Mercer had roamed the streets for a few days, during which he'd managed to acquire a proper pack, a decent rifle and a decent knife, ammunition and whatever he could raid out of some poor old woman's medicine cabinet. Luckily, she'd had a husband, and while it was unfortunate that both of them should perish, in their dementia, to head wounds that seemed almost as if they were made by the same blunt object, Mercer conisdered it a plus that he wasn't going to have to wear Lady's Speed Stick under his arms for the rest of the goddamn apocalypse. That's what it was, wasn't it? The bloody apocalypse. In his travels, he managed to stumble across the prison complex known as Sing-Sing, where he supposed he was more than willing to be conscripted into somebody's slapdash fighting force in exchange for safety--when he wasn't busy being part of somebody's slapdash fighting force, that is.

To make things worse, he was sure that he'd spotted James Hawthorne himself strutting around the damn complex like a rooster with its head turned upside down. That damned beret of his. Mercer didn't know the Colonel personally, of course, but one didn't make sergeant without learning a few things about one's own military, and there was plenty of talk at the supply yard. Not to mention his name had been circulating around the net. Mercer had been fortunate enough to see what jolly old England had been up to while he'd been gone, and though it should have, it didn't surprise him that they were busy invading Russia like a bunch of fucking nutters. That's what you got when you got involved with Germans, of course, but there's life for you.

He'd done his best to avoid the military personnel during his brief stay, but it seemed that someone thought he'd make a good soldier... so much for leaving the past behind. He hadn't been asked so much as dragged out into the yard to stand with the others. Time for an able-bodied warm body to do what warm bodies do, eh?

And of course, who better to order the warm bodies about than some Kraut officer and his Yank attack dog. The Kraut struck Mercer as more than a bit snotty, the Yank struck him as more than a bit unhinged. He hoped for his own sake that he was misjudging the two of them, but a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that he wasn't. He knew from his short time in here that Jerry was an officer, but he wasn't quite sure about the Yank. Maybe he'd gotten on the Kraut's good side by browning his nose. At any rate, it was the Yank who spoke first.

“Before I begin to enlighten you as to why you've been hailed... If any of you want to know the truth about the virus... Listen carefully. But you should know that the second you are enlightened of the truth, you are not permitted to relinquish the information to anybody. By holding the weight of the information on your shoulders, you are also devoting yourselves to a military operation within the city of New York. If you wish to leave this prison, stay here. If you want to stay here, and never leave again... Leave now. I'm not stopping you."

Mercer took the time during the man's pause to reflect on what that meant. Sure, they weren't going to be stopped going out the door, not with an earful of information about a multinational military operation in New York City. They might be shot in the back as they went, or maybe the bloody bastards would be nice and leave them to the elements. Who were they going to tell, anyway? Everyone in the city had already either seen or become one of the damned things, it's not like there was a bloody secret to keep. After looking around (a bit smugly, Mercer thought), the Yank lifted his brow, as though surprised to see people still standing there.

Of course they were still there, the rest of 'em signed up for it, didn't they? The Yank continued with his little speech.

"Alright, none of you? We'll see what you think in around thirty seconds. All of you, state your names and your former occupation. After you do so, it will be your last chance to leave."

Well, he'd been expecting more than that from it. Names and former occupations, eh? What a bleeding load of it. They could've at least found out that much before asking people whether they wanted to risk their necks for a bunch of bleeding ruperts. Seriously, where was the military at a time like this?

Seeing that the others were looking a bit nervous, and feeling a bit indignant as well, Mercer decided to go ahead and get it over with.

"Mercer," he said, though to some of the others it might've sounded like he'd said Muh-suh. His accent wasn't particularly bad, but it did come with growing up as a middle-class lad in London, "I've got a job in a fact'ry on the other end of town. I suppose that makes me a fact'ry worker, innit? Anything else you'd like t'know? Maybe cut the bloody theatrics and gimme a bayonet so's I can do a cleaner job of charging forth an' all that? If it's all the same to you, gov, I gotta be back in time to catch the soaps, so let's get on with it."

[Charlie Sheen]

Running was all Kenneth ever knew. He ran from the cops, from other thieves, and from himself on more than one occasion. So it was safe to assume that when shit started getting serious in the city's underbelly, he did just that again. He was caught between a rock and a very wet hard place when his quote unquote friends decided to eat each other and look at him like some sort of dessert. They had all gathered in the sewers for what was supposed to be some sort of thieves guild meeting, but in a few short hours after arrival, several of the purse snatchers were dripping with blood. Their blood, and those around them. The infection spread so fast that none of them were prepared; not even in their sanctum were they safe, and Kenneth knew he had no alternative. He wasnt sick; at least he didnt think so or feel like it, and he wasnt taking the chance of being gobbled up like an hors d'oeuvre. He had to run.. But where..

He grabbed his belongings, what little there was, and made a bee line for the nearest sewer entrance. Which was unfortunately right where the others were heading as well. Even those who were trying to turn their friends inside out for fun. He couldnt fight his way through twenty men, and he could barely tell the difference between those infected and those simply covered in their own filth. He was so lost, so confused, and so close to giving up that he nearly missed his opportunity to escape. A very brief, and faint glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak and hellish situation... Someone had dropped a flare gun near the ladder exiting the sewer, and it was possibly the only weapon anywhere nearby that could help him.

With a quick sprint forward; moving in between those too slow or fat to hustle, he slid through the thick waste on the sewer's floor, and rolled to the one chance at freedom. With a quick snap of the wrist he picked the weapon up and pulled the hammer back. "No other option" He whispered, but the sound of his voice was lost to the cacophony of brutal grunts and horrid screams. With one arm shielding his eyes, and a quick breath to steady his nerves, he pulled the trigger and the flare burst forth. He aimed at the portal to the surface world, and when the light exploded into the sewer, everyone who wasnt ready was blinded in an instant. The flare leaped upward and into the sky; free of the filthy underworld, but before it began its descent back into the city, Ken was on the move.

He used men and women; infected and undead, as a walkway towards his survival. With one foot on a shoulder, one hand on a head, and with a tremendous effort to stay aloft atop the sea of moving bodies now blinded and fighting to gain some ground, he hurled himself at the ladder. Slamming hard into the wrought iron bars, and smashing his shoulder into the concrete wall, Ken nearly lost his grip, but was saved by an instinctive flooding of adrenaline that kept him climbing even when his hands began to grow numb. His climb seemed endless; men and women tearing at the bars, at each other, at anything and everything below him, but when it seemed there was no true escape, fresh air and sunlight flowed over him in a wave. His hands held fast to the sewer grate's lip as he pulled his body free, and when his pack cleared the opening, he finally took a real breath of relief. Now he had open streets, alleyways, options. He had choices to make, and chances to take. He wasnt going to die in a hole, surrounded, and with no way out.

Caught in his moment of hope, Ken was taken by surprise when a hand missing two fingers snagged his shoulder, and spun him around. The thing attached to the hand and arm, was no more a living being than the concrete it stood on. Blood ran from a mouth that was missing a bottom jaw, and three quarters of its chest was torn apart by gunshot wounds. The creature growled and reached out again, but this time found only air, as Ken moved aside and began to run. He gave one sidelong glance at the creature as he took the first corner headed away, and that last look would be one he could never forget. His first look at the end of the world; his first sight of the creatures that would kill or turn every last human they could find. It was a horrid revelation to have at that moment, but there was nothing to stop it.

There were roughly ten blocks between Ken and some form of safety. Ten blocks filled with fleeing civilians, hungry, flesh eating undead, and only god knows what else. Ten blocks.... that seemed like ten thousand. He needed only to get away, get free from the things that lurked in every corner, but that simple idea was an infinitely more difficult task.

It took nearly six hours to cross the threshold, to spot the prison's fortified and secure walls. Six hours of running, jumping, and hiding. Ken was tired, damn near exhausted, and his legs burnt like never before. He had played hopskotch over dead bodies, hid inside dumpsters, and leaped from building to building, all to get away.. But there was no getting away.. The things were everywhere, and each time he thought he could take a break, he was surrounded once more. He was growing more and more weary of each passing shadow, of every alley or dark corner, and his anxiety was taxing on him severely. He couldnt spare a second to catch his breath, let alone have a much needed smoke, and he was fearful he might never again have a chance.

The last two miles was a daunting sprint; straight forward, with nothing in the way, and Ken put every ounce of energy he had left into it. He dug deeper than he ever had before; pushing himself harder and harder, as the security of walls and fences grew before him. He could hear the destruction and terror behind him fading into obscurity as he neared Sing Sing. The beasts were obviously too preoccupied with the population left to wander the streets, to chase after him, and for that he was undoubtedly relieved... But the task at hand was still one that needed his attention. A large fence, razor wire, train tracks, another wall... "damn" Ken thought "Its not going to be easy is it"

His last errant thought regarding the destruction behind him faded, as he jumped and grabbed the first fence. He climbed like a monkey and placed his pack atop the razor wire for added protection. Quickly rolling over the dangerous wall, and falling to the ground with a bounce and slide, he nearly fell down the embankment that lead to the tracks. His thighs ached, and his ankles were sure to scream at him later, but there was still one more menacing obstacle before him. The walls surrounding Sing Sings baseball field. Ken ran across the tracks that cut through the prison compound, and when he reached the fortified walls, he was nearly out of breath. He could barely feel his legs anymore; barely aware they existed at all, and he was beginning to fear he might never clear the obstacle laid before him.

At wits end.. Tired, afraid, shaken, bruised and battered, Ken was on the verge of breaking down when he found his way in. When he saw what could only be described as his only option. The wall surrounding the baseball field was large; far too tall to simply climb, but at the corner of the field: Where the guard tower rose higher from the wall, a bridge ran across between the halves of the prison facility. It was as high off the ground as the wall was tall, but he didnt need to reach the top of it to get to it. He only needed something to grab, something to pull himself up a little higher.

With a bit of his energy restored, and the idea of safety propelling him, Ken backed up a few feet and made a dash for the corner. He ran headlong at the solid wall, and at the last moment his feet left the solid earth. He was given three steps up the wall before he turned and leaped away from it. His body flew through the air, and with more luck than skill, he caught a hold of a support beam underneath the walkway. He bloodied both of his hands squeezing the rusted and dangerously worn down beam, but if he fell it would surely break his legs. He grunted and groaned as he struggled to pull himself up the beam towards the catwalk. Each inch an excruciating journey, and when he reached the point where the bridge neared the wall, where the beam stopped, he nearly passed out.

He reached up, barely able to move, and grabbed a bar that ran parallel to the ground. He adjusted his grip, and held on for dear life....Swinging by his fingertips, maintaining what grip he had left, he brought his legs and up let go. He moved only a few feet forward, but it was just enough. He snagged the underside of a stair, or possibly another support rung and there he hung. His mind began to go blank, exhaustion almost dragging him into unconsciousness, as the last step of his journey teetered on the edge of his vision. He needed only a few more feet and he could climb the outside of the walkway, leap onto the wall, and from there get down into the baseball field..... All he needed to do was move.....

Finding the strength; the instinct to survive driving him, he made the final few feet, and clambered up onto the walkway. In a stupor he stared at the wall. Now impossibly far away, darkened by his own failing depth perception, the task at hand seemed no more possible than flight... but it was still the only chance... He couldnt go back across the walkway, into the other side of the prison compound, and he wasnt about to walk the streets with the monstrosities that waited for him.. He had only one option.. To jump

------

Waking from a rather unpleasant sleep; eyes burning, legs sore and ankles swollen, Ken nearly fell over when he tried to stand. He was atop the wall; having made the leap... or.... something. In all honesty, Ken didnt remember how he made the distance, or even if he did. He knew he was no the wall though, and he knew he felt like ten different shades of shit. He was still unbelievably tired; his body sore and his arms limp at his sides, but he was safe for the moment. As safe as anyone could be when the dead were once again living, and the living were becoming the dead.... With as much effort as he could spare, Ken grabbed his pack, and made his way into the guard tower. He found the doors open and unlocked as he got inside, and thankfully so.. He had no idea how to get down if they werent. Moving down the small set of stairs that allowed guards to enter the baseball field, and opening the door to the inside of the compound, Ken was startled beyond a doubt.

"People.. here" He could barely believe his eyes when he saw a group of people standing in the field, and he was almost certain he was dreaming until he heard their voices. He couldnt tell right away, but none of them seemed sick or injured, and at that point in time, he didnt really care. He walked as best as he could; across the field towards those gathered nearby, and when he reached the small group he dropped to one knee and almost collapsed. His ears rang and his head lolled forward as his absolute exhaustion once again tried to take away his control. He could barely speak, the words a jumble of deep breaths and shallow whispers, as he lifted his head and addressed anyone who could listen, or would listen.

"my....... names...... Ken.. neth... I..." Leaning forward and bracing himself with one arm, Ken tried futilely to regain his compusure, but failed so miserably that instead of continuing, he simply fell asleep... Out cold near instantly...

Unlike many others that had found safety early on, and made their way to the prison before it was too late, Ken had made it there under much different circumstances. The underground was disease free for some time; many of the inhabitants never getting sick, or never returning if they did... So when the infection reared its head in the darkness of the sewers, it was far too late.. The city had already been overrun, and death was already more common than life... So when Ken arrived at the prison to find so many people gathered and waiting, he could care less who was talking, who was in charge, what was going on... He wanted to take a fucking nap.. and he did... of course, he didnt have a choice in the matter

[Whiskey]

Carson Everett

New York City

Deep, thunderous laughter erupted in the air as jokes were being tossed around the small games' room inside the fire station. The sound of cards being shuffled about and banter-esque insults exchanged between one another. Five men, most of them large and muscular due to the nature of their jobs, were seated around a circular oak table. The table had large cut and burn marks from knives, cigars, cigarettes, and other leisurely items being placed on it over the course of its lifetime. Three fire-fighters and two Emergency Medical Service personnel were playing a game of Texas Hold 'Em, poker. It was all they could do, really. The trucks and vehicles had been cleaned, inventory had been done, the daily chores taken care of. As evening rolled around, all that had to be done was wait for a call and waste time.Even though it was technically illegal and against the rules, the five were gambling. Not money, no, instead they were gambling for menial things- Such as chores, nights on call, and food. The table was littered with empty pepsi cans, tobacco paraphernalia and food wrappers in the middle was their emergency radio. If there was a fire, of course, the alarm would go off- but if dispatch called for an ambulance, they'd give a call. One of the burly fire-fighters, in a unique New York accent called out, "A'ight, Carson, hurry up and fuckin' deal. I'm growin' a god damn beard here." The fire-fighter proceeded to stuff a lit cigar in his mouth and take a puff.

"Calm your tits, Frank. We're getting paid by the hour, you oughta thank me for taking my time. It's a slow night. 'Sides, maybe the facial hair will help make you look less like a woman," Carson's accent, contrary to the native New Yorkers, was a mid-western accent with a very slight Texan twang to some of his words. It was nights like these that greatly eased the stress that came with the job and they didn't come as often as Carson would hope.

"You kiddin' me? With the way your girlfriend's look, Carson, you might start hittin' on me if I had a beard." With a grin plastered on his face, Carson started dealing out the cards expertly, and gave out the rules of the game. "Holdem, dueces are wild. Lowest spade splits the pot-" Just as he dealing out the last card, the radio in the middle of the table, the 'pot' as it was called, interrupted. Three loud beeps rang out, and a 9-1-1 dispatcher's voice crackled out of the radio. "Ambulance 2-11, we got a call requesting assistance at 3526 Eastchester road. Law Enforcement personnel are already on scene, calling it a 10-45. One victim is code one, one victim, code two. Classified as a 10-91. Ambulance 2-11 will be on location, 10-99. Over." Despite the severity of the call, numerous grunts and moans of defiance cascaded over the group. Carson stood up, his tall, lithe fraim towering over the slouched over firemen. "Sorry, gentleman, looks like I can't take your precious possessions this hand. We'll be back. Let's hit the road, Joe!"

Carson playfully slapped Joe, the other paramedic on the back before taking a light jog out of the room, up some stairs and slid down the infamous pole. A few seconds later, Joe came sliding down and the two made their way professionally to their designated ambulance for the night, grabbing their essentials and equipment. As they approached the ambulance, the other two paramedics on call that day were already in the ambulance, engine running and waiting. Carson climbed into the passenger seat, Joe took his position in the back and before Carson's door even shut, fuel was fed to the large and powerful diesel engine, causing the Ambulance to surge forward, lights and alarms flashing. Carson took a look at his watch; thirteen seconds. Such an unlucky number...

It was a stormy and dreary evening. Thunder cracked in the distance and the windshield wipers on the ambulance were on. Carson picked up the radio and keyed the mic, "Ambulance 2-11 to Dispatch, we are en route. Can you give us a 10-7? Over." He had the address memorized and the driver seemed to know where he was going, but you can never be too sure... the voice on the dispatcher unit seemed irritated at the question. "Roger that, Ambulance 2-11. Location is 3526 Eastchester road. Law Enforcement are on site and waiting for your arrival." Carson nodded and gave the appropriate acknowledgement, the infamous '10-4'. His heart pounded and raced as adrenaline coursed through his veins. It was the pre-work jitters that he got on every call, yet seemed to dissipate as soon as the work started. The Ambulance was racing at nearly eighty miles an hour and the traffic signals were being manipulated by the EMS paramedics as the ambulance raced to its destination. As the driver turned onto the street, Carson analyzed the situation at a glance.

Two NYPD interceptors were outside of the house and officers were outside. The scene had been secured and a tape-line peremeter established. The ambulance skidded to a halt and the scene soon exploded with action. Carson nearly jumped out of his seat, grabbing the equipment and ran towards the house. An officer kindly lifted the yellow tape to allow the paramedics entrance to the scene. Carson made a bee-line to the man who looked like he was in charge and what came out weren't questions, but demands. "Take us to 'em, quick-like." The officer didn't hesitate.

"They're right through here. We have two officers already inside. They're giving first-aid, but they're hurt pretty good..." Carson looked at the chubby officer that was leading them and heard screams ahead. He didn't wait for the fat ass to take his sweet time, Carson shoved the tubby cop out of the way and made way, the three other EMT's following his example. Carson entered a medium-sized bedroom and looked around. The room was a mess, to say the least. A man lay off in a corner, his head had a gaping hole in it and his brains, mixed with some blood for good measure, painted the wall behind his body. A woman was on the ground, her throat looked as if it had been ripped open- bitten, almost. Blood was still cascading out of her neck in copious amounts with no end in sight. Carson quickly jolted forward and moved the two officers out of the way, barking orders to them.

"Come on, out of the way, out of the way. Give us room. Joe, get them out of here, will you?" Carson and another EMT put on gloves and protective gear as the other went to investigate the dead man in the corner. "Alright, apply pressure here. Give her a pain killer, then put the gauze on her. Lather it on heavy, tape it quick, we have to get her to a hospital. Clear that airway, or she'll cough up blood. Keep that head still. Joe! Get a stretcher!" The orders just kept coming as the pair worked tirelessly to stop the bleeding. In the middle of it all, a series of loud bangs came from the closet, a few feet away. The door shook and the hinges cracked. Carson stopped and looked at his partner. "What the fuck... Did they not check the closet?" Looking to his left, he noticed the paramedic that was giving a time of death to the dead man was encroaching on the closet; Carson assumed he was going to open it. "Don't be stupid, get the police back in here." His warning was justified as the banging sounded dangerous and the fucking hinges cracked for godsake.

"They could be hurt, Carson!"

"I'm telling you, do not open that door!"

As the door knob was turned, one final bang was administered to the door and the EMT went flying across the room. Carson sheltered the woman's neck to prevent it getting dirt or wood chips into the wound, or making new ones. Out of his peripherals, he saw what looked like a man charging the recently flung paramedic. Timothy, the paramedic assisting Carson, leapt up to help. Not witnessing something like this, ever- not even in Afghanistan, Carson started to do something he wasn't used to. He started to panic. Fountains of blood were spilling in the air, and what seemed like a human arm was being used as a bludgeoning weapon. He couldn't get the details as everything was happening so fast... A guttural moan was muttered by the way and Carson looked down at the woman. "Ma'am, just stay calm, we're here to help-" Once again interrupted, the woman suddenly leaped at Carson with amazing strength.

Taken off guard and seriously out-muscled, Carson struggled on the ground. His arm was pressed against the woman, the... thing's throat, staving it back while his hand fumbled for something on his right side. Through the whole ordeal, Carson floundered and finally found his saving grace. He found the needle pouch on his surgical bag. Prying one of the needles out, in a quick, fluid motion, mustering all his strength, Carson shoved forward with one arm and the other came crashing down on the woman's skull - the needle pushing all the way through, penetrating and destroying her brain. Carson crawled away, breathing hard and shaking. His brain didn't have the educational level to discern what was happening. As the image of the woman, leaking brains from her head was burned into his head, his gaze turned to the two other EMT's. From the looks of it, both of them were dead and... horribly disfigured. A crouched figure was making noise as it busily chomped away on human flesh and organs.

"What the fuck are you..." Carson's voice startled the creature and it turned towards Carson with hungry, sick eyes. Carson immediately regretted making noise. With almost no warning, the cannibal stood and lunged at the already mentally and physically drained paramedic. Suddenly, his ears rang out as gunshots echoed in the small room. The charging figure was put down, however the gunshots continued and eventually... they turned into loud knocks, metal on metal...

--

Carson awoke from his slumber, sweating and heart pounding as he relived the nightmare. He located the source of the noise. A man, no, soldier dressed in all camouflage stood by the jail cell that Carson was currently sleeping in. His rifle was tapping, rather loudly, against the wrought iron bars. "Alright, already! Jesus. Soldiers' make the most annoying alarm clocks..." Already, the gears in Carson's head was turning. Something was wrong. Besides the whole people not staying dead and eating humans, no, something was wrong right now. Carson was a newcomer to the prison, but he figured British fuckers didn't normally rouse innocent people from slumber- specifically with loaded rifles. As Carson rose from the cot he hade made his home on, his icy blue eyes ran over the paratrooper that woke him. "You're a little short for a paratrooper." He smirked at his own Star Wars reference. "I'm guessing you're not here to cuddle up and keep me safe?" The paratrooper's face remained stoic and his facial expressions never changed.

"Mr. Parkes and Herr Adler have ordered your appearance. They don't like tardiness," His voice was irritated and authoritative. The man obviously wasn't going to budge.

Carson noticed the man had his finger hovering over the trigger, yet not quite on it. That wasn't safe operating procedures, unless the British training had severely lost its competency. Carson was guessing defensive procedures had been taken. He eyed the short paratrooper up and down once more before opening his mouth, "Alright, Papa Smurf. Don't get short with me... Now, hypothetically, say I don't want to go...?" He was well aware of Herr Adler. He had never spoken with him, but working in the medical bay, he saw a lot of the military personnel in the prison. From what he had gathered, Herr Adler was one of the higher-up types. In response to Carson's insult and question, the paratrooper shouldered the rifle and now his finger rested on the trigger. The rifle, however, was not aimed at the paramedic. Carson was a smart enough man, he knew what that meant. Cradling his head in calloused, weary hands, Carson sighed. The jail cell was open, and Carson slithered through. Motioning with his hands, Carson piped up again.

"Lead on, Mr. Frodo," The paratrooper scoffed, turned on his heel, and started to walk away, ignoring the sarcastic EMT behind him. "Friggin' Brits. Can never take a joke. Didn't even crack a grin. Say, were you one of those royal guards back in the day? You know the ones, never move or smile? They wear skunks for hats?" His attitude was becoming more and more hostile. Ever since he arrived at this prison, it's been nothing but work, work, work, barely any sleep or rest, and no respect. Even after the infection outbreak, the prison was just- a prison.

Soon after, the paratrooper had led Carson to a baseball field. He was in rank and file with about eight or nine others, none of which he recognized. In front of him, he saw a a man dressed in German camouflage, Carson asssumed that was Herr Adler, and he didn't recognize the other gentleman. This one, by process of elimination, was probably Parkes. The others gathered around him seemed to have no likeness to any of them. there was no pattern, no connection atwixt them. In fact, it seemed that they were rallied here either by random, or by complete and concise order. The more pieces that were put together, the more confusing the puzzle got. In the middle of Carson's personal investigation, he heard the American man speak. Something about staying in the prison, or leaving, and names. He couldn't tell, nor, really did he care. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know who these people were, and he most definitely wanted a fucking stiff drink through all this. So, the initial plan, since he didn't hear what the man wanted, was to smile, wave, and look pretty.

When he heard a British accent sound off, he thought for sure it was the prude of a paratrooper who dragged him here, but instead, it was a man not too far off from Carson. "Mercer. I've got a job in a fact'ry on the other end of town. I suppose that makes me a fact'ry worker, innit? Anything else you'd like t'know? Maybe cut the bloody theatrics and gimme a bayonet so's I can do a cleaner job of charging forth an' all that? If it's all the same to you, gov, I gotta be back in time to catch the soaps, so let's get on with it." So, apparently, it's story time. Name, occupation... Carson looked down at his shirt. On his left breast was stenciled, "Everett" and the abbreviation EMT-P was on the shoulders of his shirt. On the back, the letters, "FDNY" were printed. "Hell. Poor guy can't even read..." Carson muttered under his breath. This time, before speaking, Carson raised his voice so that he could be heard. "Everett. Former U.S Navy Corpsman and EMT for the Fire Department of New York." Another glance was taken over to the paratrooper, who stood smugly, and Carson added, "Nowadays, however, it seems I'm a personal bitch. Are we here to get our leashes?"

[Bantling Bee]

What time was it?

Thea stood up shakily, disoriented. Her limbs ached, and she felt a stinging pull across her shoulder. With some effort, she untied the knot situated under her opposite arm. The bandage she had wrapped around her chest and left shoulder unraveled slowly, ultimately revealing a gauze pad. The telltale sign of a carmine stain blossomed across the thick cloth. Thea winced as she removed it and felt the newest clot peel away from her skin. In the dusty light, she could see the undulating lines of her makeshift stitches.

Oddly enough, there was something grounding about that moment. Thea found herself again wondering what time it was. The room was small, and it made her feel anxious. The air was cold and stagnant. She surveyed her wound again. It seemed to be healing nicely, despite the macabre assortment of colors. Despite this, Thea knew that the best course of action would be to clean it again. She grabbed her one of her two remaining antiseptic wipes, and began to scrub. It was cold to the touch and goose bumps began to form on her tan arms. As she rewrapped it, Thea’s mind reconstructed the events that had lead to the injury.

She had always known that she wouldn’t have been able to stay in the woods forever. Yet, venturing beyond her campsite was something that hadn’t crossed her mind until absolutely necessary. With her supplies, she assumed that she would be able to stay in the Adirondacks for a few months—at least until the following autumn. It had been a difficult winter, however, and she had found herself relying too heavily on her dried food. At that rate, she would have to risk venturing into civilization more quickly than she had anticipated.

Thea had been relying predominantly on plants for subsistence. Hunting often proved too noisy, and too difficult given her weapons. And she needed to save the bullets. Given everything that had happened, she was certain that the bullets would be the most useful for protection. On that particular morning, she was raiding a squirrel’s forgotten cache not far from where she had set up camp. She was on the move constantly, both concerned that she would be discovered and aware that a nomadic lifestyle was more conducive to finding resources. That particular morning, she was gathering acorns and other nuts from a squirrel’s cache in a hollow log. The ground was frozen underneath a heavy coating of snow.

It was cold, and Thea found herself shivering. In years past, she and her brothers would have made snow forts and had snowball fights until their parents called them in from the cold. But that was long ago, and a cup of hot chocolate or a warm bath were mere artifacts of memory now. Instead Thea was alone, gathering seeds and nuts with numb fingers. Thinking about the past almost always proved bad for her morale. She tried to focus her mind on the woods around her. It was quiet, and she could hear birdsong in the distance.

She finished her scavenging after a time and stood up to brush the snow off of her legs. As she was doing so, she heard the muted sound of voices accompanied by the dull crunch of footsteps in the snow. Thea froze and spun around. While she attempted to ascertain the direction of the noises, she briefly contemplated concealing herself behind the log. But even the most novice of trackers would be able to follow a straightforward set of footprints like hers. Thea grabbed the revolver that had been holstered at her side. She pulled it out and ran her thumb nervously over the hammer.

And then she saw them. Half a dozen Children of Heaven walked calmly through the woods, following the path that her footprints had carved into the snow. Thea Sheridan wasn’t a coward. Thea Sheridan was also not an idiot. And despite her stellar aim and her ability to blend in with the trees, she did the smart thing. She ran. The Children were fast, but she knew the woods better. They gave chase for miles, and Thea zigzagged through trees. All the while, she was clutching her revolver. At a certain point, she thought she had lost them. She stopped to catch her breath, only to hear the ‘pop’ of a gunshot. A hot searing pain rippled across her shoulder almost simultaneously. “Fuck,” she muttered, darting behind a tree.

The unmistakable sensation of cold liquid on her arm, and the continued sting of her shoulder made her start slightly. Thea knew that she had been shot, but she wasn’t immediately sure how bad it was. The blood trickled down her upper arm, soaking the sleeve of her shirt. She ran on still though, certain stopping would mean death.

It was many hours later, closer to twilight when she felt safe enough to stop. Her lungs and shoulder ached, but she had managed to evade them—for the time being. Since it was getting dark and colder, Thea assumed that they had either stopped for the evening or had given up entirely. Although she was physically fit, she had started to feel woozy from exhaustion. And her shoulder still ached. The bleeding had mostly subsided, but the wound still oozed enough that she wasn’t comfortable with leaving it. Wincing, she pulled out her first aid kit. It was a relatively complete kit. Up until that point, she had been lucky in the woods. He had also been conservative. Although cuts and scrapes were common when she was gathering food, Thea had resisted utilizing bandages or antiseptic cream except when absolutely necessary.

Opening the kit, she saw with satisfaction that she still had multiple gauze pads, antiseptic wipes, and bandages. She also noticed that she had the forethought to put her matches and needle and thread in the kit. With some effort, she threaded the needle. She set it down on her lap, looping it through the fabric on her pants so that it wouldn’t fall on the ground and be lost to the elements. Her shoulder was throbbing, and it protested against her movement. But the sun was setting, and building a fire would be too risky. She would have to do it with what little light she had naturally. Fortunately enough, the cut wasn’t particularly long. She could also tell by examining it that the bullet had grazed her, and was not lodged in her shoulder. She wiped off a large portion of the semi-coagulated blood and stared at the cut more. It wasn’t as deep as she had assumed. But it was still deep enough, and although it was on her non-dominant side, it was still deep enough to make her feel nervous. Thea needed to utilize both of her arms on a daily basis.

She recited what she could remember from her first aid training. “Numb the area,” she muttered aloud. Thea grabbed some snow from the ground and wrapped it in a small bandage. Finally content that her shoulder was sufficiently numb, she lit a match. After passing the needle through the flame, Thea began to stitch. Her fingers were still shaking from the adrenaline in her system. The area was mostly numb, but Thea could still feel a faint sting as she punctured the skin with the needle.

Sewing was one of the few skills that her mother taught her that Thea ever found much use for. And, despite her reluctance to learn it as a child, she was somewhat proficient at it. At any rate, she was proficient enough to stitch up a gash in her shoulder that was only a few inches long. With just a small sliver of light left in the sky, Thea cut the rest of the thread off of her stitches.

Thea sat back and surveyed her work. The thread was black, so it was noticeable. But, her stitches were even and of a good size. Running her finger gingerly over the area still produced a twinge of pain, but it would heal with time. She didn’t remember having fallen asleep that night, but she awoke several hours later. Dawn was creeping over the trees, and Thea was able to survey her surroundings for the first time since she had fled. Her original campsite had been located in the Sundown Wild Forest. It was an area that she knew well, having visited there often as a child. If she had to guess, she was probably near Lundy Road. Although it was probably unnecessary, she wanted to put as much distance between her and the Children of Heaven as possible. So she kept walking.

Heading south initially seemed to be the best bet. Moving toward the city was the best place for her to blend in. Perhaps she was being overly cautious, but that was for the best if the Children were chasing her. Thea had heard rumors about the Children of Heaven before she had gone into the woods. Most of what people said about them was a convoluted assortment of fact and urban legend. Thea was not a paranoid person by nature. She was, however, cautious when it came to large groups with as much firepower as was wielded by The Children. While Thea certainly didn’t believe that magical powers had been bestowed upon them by Bigfoot, she was concerned with their tenacity when it came to pursuing someone who had gotten in their way. ‘Gotten in their way’, however, was known to include things like minding one’s own business in the middle of the woods when it came to The Children.

Heading south allowed Thea to navigate freely between the woods and the highways. She slept for a few hours at a time, being sure to make camp away from the main road where she was likely to be seen. At this point, she was unsure where exactly she was heading, other than towards Manhattan. Hopefully she would eventually be able to head back into the woods. Her stay in the city would be temporary at best. Yes, there were more resources. But there was also more competition for those resources.

On the third day of walking, it had begun to rain. The visibility was difficult, and Thea pulled her jacket over her head to keep dry. Her combat boots had begun to be caked with snow and mud. They weighed her down slightly, and she was beginning to feel the effects of days without adequate sleep. It was at that moment that Thea made a promise to herself: she would stop and rest at the next possible opportunity.

She began surveying the landscape around her as she walked. The prevalence of trees had dwindled substantially in the past day, and she was starting to see burned out houses and cars abandoned in the street. Her hand never left her holstered revolver as she silently walked through the old neighborhoods that had once been full of color and noise. She passed a park with an eerily abandoned playground, all the while searching for shelter. Yet it would take several more hours before she would find it.

Sing Sing. Thea had heard that it was occupied by the military now, and that it was safe from The Children. Had she been a religious woman, she would have considered it to be a miracle. A feeling of intense relief engulfed her and she found herself thanking the god she no longer believed in. Her father and older brother had both been military men. As such, Thea trusted them far more that she otherwise might have. She approached the gate with her hands in the air, praying that the guards were not too trigger-happy. To her surprise, there were no guards to be found. She looked around several times, trying to establish their whereabouts. “Hello?” she called out in a shaky voice. No one answered.

A chain-linked fence with barbed wire stood imposingly before her. Thea approached one of the fence’s posts and began to climb. Getting past the wire was difficult, and she received multiple cuts from the wire. But she utilized a corner post to brace herself, and was eventually able to leap from the top of the fence. Tucking and rolling, she still hit the ground hard. She lay there for a few minutes, staring up at the darkening sky. After her head was clear, she sat back up and examined her surroundings. Where were all the soldiers? She crossed over a railroad track and saw a large narrow building. Ducking inside, she maneuvered around the darkening space until she managed to find what appeared to be a utility closet. To her surprise and relief, it was unlocked. A small, dusty window looked out onto a baseball diamond. There was a sink and just enough room on the grungy floor for her to curl up and sleep.

Thea wasn’t sure how long she had slept for, but she awoke feeling well rested and disoriented. Her wound was clean and now she needed to figure out where to go from there. Although she hadn’t seen any soldiers the night before, Thea assumed that they would be her best chance of finding supplies. She also didn’t want to be sneaking around if they were the “shoot first, ask questions later” sort. Tentatively, she opened the door of the closet and peered out into the corridor.
No one was visible or audible, and Thea walked down the hallway slowly. She was still somewhat concerned with being shot at again. Yet she saw no one until she walked outside the building itself. “Stop,” a loud male voice commanded. Thea immediately froze and slowly raised both of her hands. She turned around slowly to come face-to-face with a man in a uniform and pointing a weapon squarely at her chest. Seeing her posture, he lowered it slightly. “Are you a civilian?” he asked. Thea nodded and he lowered the weapon so that it pointed at the frozen ground. “Come with me,” he said. His tone made it clear that it wasn’t a request. Nodding, Thea walked in stride with the man. She had no idea where he was taking her, but assumed that he was not planning on taking her prisoner. Perhaps to be interrogated?

If it was to be interrogated, however, it was the opposite of how she imagined it would be. Instead, the solider lead her the baseball field she had seen earlier. Several others were already assembled there. Judging by their apparel, they were civilians too. Thea could see some of them eyeing each other nervously. “Wait here,” her companion commanded. She stood next to a man who was wearing what appeared to be a jacket from some sort of industrial job. No one spoke, and it seemed to be making some of the others uneasy.

Thea’s musings were interrupted however, when two men walked out onto the field. The two had been conversing in what sounded like German. However, one man began speaking in English as he stood in front of their group. “Before I begin to enlighten you as to why you've been hailed... If any of you want to know the truth about the virus... Listen carefully. But you should know that the second you are enlightened of the truth, you are not permitted to relinquish the information to anybody. By holding the weight of the information on your shoulders, you are also devoting yourselves to a military operation within the city of New York. If you wish to leave this prison, stay here. If you want to stay here, and never leave again... Leave now. I'm not stopping you.” He paused then, and Thea’s internal skeptic wondered if it was because he was legitimately waiting for people to protest, or if it was to create dramatic effect. When no one protested, he continued. “State your names and occupations.”

The man to her left replied almost immediately in a British accent “Mercer.” He was, apparently, a factory worker. The man then made some quip about getting charging into battle, and still getting back in time to see the soaps. Next up was a smart mouthed man who was named Everett who also made a joke about being summoned. Before anyone else could speak, however, a young man came panting onto the field. He was clearly exhausted, and Thea (and she assumed the rest of those present), turned to look at him. The poor boy could barely get any words out before he collapsed onto the field. Thea stared at him for a while, and then turned back to the man addressing the group. There was an awkward silence while everyone tried to gauge everyone else’s reactions. No one spoke for almost a full minute.
Thea stared at the man on home plate evenly; those who knew her would say that a faint glint of mischief was detectable in her eyes. “Sheridan, Thea,” she said, breaking the silence. “Welder. Botanist.” She maintained her steady, even gaze. Then, she motioned to the young man on the ground. She stared back at the man on home plate. Meeting his eyes, she continued serenely, “Maybe someone should take care of that.”

[Sir Beowulf]

It was sunny the day the world ended.

Just a routine day for Lou Panzetti, your average plumber. He'd done his rounds, gone to various homes to check what was wrong with their plumbing. It was actually easier than you would think. Of course, he didn't enjoy cleaning out the damned toilets, but the rest of it was clean, good work. Not like smashing in skulls to survive. Not like steali- looting. No, no. Everything was just normal for him. He liked his job. He didn't care that he was overweight, and he met some really nice people. For example, Mrs. Pertoulli, a widow he visited from time to time. She was a real nice woman, often gave him a treat for him fixing her pipes.

But not after he had to smash her head in with a monkey wrench.

Again, it'd all be normal that day. He was on his way towards Mrs. Pertoullis' home to check up on her pipes. Sure, the people he'd seen on the street had been normal. The people in the cars, normal. Lou had walked up to the front door of the Pertoulli house and knocked. The missus answered. Something was a little odd with her. Her skin was very pale and it looked like she had trouble breathing. Her hair was a bit disheveled and her pupils were small points in her eyes. It was rather freaky, but it was probably just the sickness that was going around.

"Yous okay, Miss Pertouilli?" Lou had asked.

"Oh, I'm fine, deary. It's just a cold, I'll be better in a jiffy."

"Well, alright Miss. So, whas' the problem?"

"Oh, it's that darn faucet in the kitchen again. You know the one, right?"

"Yea, I remember. I'll make sure to fix it up quick, Miss Pertoulli."

And so, Lou walked into her home. It was a nice place, a little old, many trinkets and photos lined the walls. Lou always noticed the photo of Misses Pertoulli and her husband that stood on a shelf next to the front door. He quickly got to work in her kitchen, doing the routine pattern of checking every pipe, making sure each one wasn't rusting. He quickly found the problem, the main pipe connecting to the faucet was bent at a forty-five degree angle. Odd. But, Lou didn't question it, that wasn't his job. He hummed a small tune while he worked. Soon enough, he replaced the pipe and made sure it worked just fine. He stood up and turned around.

"It's fixed, Miss... Pertoulli? Yous alright?"

In front of him was Mrs. Pertoulli. Although, something was obviously wrong. Her pupils had contracted so they were pinpoints, and the red veins were bulging. She breathed heavily, wheezing as she stared at him, animalistic hunger in her eyes. Lou's hand gripped tigher around the wrench in his hand when Pertoulli rushed straight at him, screaming a high pitched wail.

For a ninety-pound, sixty-three year old woman, she could hit pretty damn hard.

"Gah! M-Miss Pertoulli! Stop! It's me, Lou!"

Lou wrestled with the beast woman, her jaws snapping inches from his face. Grunting, he brought up the wrench and slammed it hard into the old woman's head. Her eyes dilated for a moment and then she shuddered and stopped moving. Dead. Blood dripped down the wound he caused. Lou's eyes widened. Almost cartoonish red stuck to his wrench, interspersed with bits of pink brain matter. He dropped the wrench and it clattered to the ground.

Ah! Shit. Shit. Misses Pertoulli... I didn't mean it! I didn't! Lou was barely able to contain himself. He paced back and forth around the dead body of Pertoulli.

-~-~-~-~-~-

Lou shook himself for a moment, remembering where he was. He was in a small group of people.

(W.I.P. too lazy to poot it in a Word file.)

[jumjummju]

A lone scientist ran straight through the amassed alien forces, mowing down enemy soldiers with a pulse rifle of sorts, until one of them got a lucky shot off, and killed the theoretical physicist. Then Catherine reloaded her last save, vowing to get Gordon Freeman through those damned Combine this time if it meant the death of her. Though, only having 12 health points left didn't help. After yet another doomed attempt, in which an exploding barrel flew at her face at terminal velocity while on fire, Catherine started wondering if it would be worth it to backtrack for any health pickups she may have missed, until her friend, Leah, with her long blonde hair and particularly well-endowed chest, barged into the dorm with her usual lack of grace, dislodging a tissue box off of a nearby desk and causing poor Cathy to nearly have a heart attack as she jumped to her feet, which gave Leah something to laugh at.

"It's not funny!" Catherine snappily protested, the unmistakable glint of anger in her eyes.

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't expect to surprise you!" Leah said, in between laughs. Catherine sighed, in an attempt to keep from brutalizing a nearby wall out of rage. "Anyway, I came to invite you to a party some of the others are having. There'll be hot guys there!" Leah said excitedly, obviously sincerely wanting Catherine to come.

"No way am I gonna go to a party with both sexes there. They always end up becoming those parties, and I'd like myself to stay unshamed for a while longer!" Catherine replied.

"It's not gonna be one of those parties, I swear! There's only going to be a little alcohol! Come on, it'll be fun!" Leah replied, relentlessly cheerful.

Catherine pondered about it, then grudgingly accepted the invitation. "Oh, fine. But if another guy drunkenly hits on me again, I'll punch his face out his asshole." Catherine replied sarcastically, with a hint of a grin. Leah jumped for joy and started (quite forcefully) leading Catherine by the hand. She certainly found Leah's boundless energy exhausting.

Upon entering the dorm, Catherine was assaulted with cheers from several men and women alike, the party apparently in full swing and most of the patrons already halfway under the table, considering all the open beer cans. Catherine immediately was glad she came, since the apparent choice of music for this party was, in fact, the Downward Spiral, Catherine's favorite album. More specifically, Closer was playing at full blast.

As the party continued, Catherine was enjoying herself, even if she refused to drink any of the beer lest she become stuck in one of those parties, somehow. As it turns out, blasting a song in which the chorus is "I wanna f*** you like an animal" and dancing in a room that leaves 2 inches of space between persons somehow ended up in it going down a more erotic path. First some of the guys (and Leah, for some reason) started taking off their shirts, and Leah wasn't wearing a bra. Catherine was just busy dancing over in a corner regardless, until one of the more inebriated girls came up and, out of the blue, sloppily placed a big wet kiss on Cathy's lips until Cathy nonchalantly wrestled her off. Cathy didn't mind that it was a girl - she didn't care either way in that regard - she just didn't really enjoy the fact that it tasted like being kissed by a beer keg. It was about this time that Cathy started thinking about returning to her dorm: After all, she was still in the middle of Half Life 2 Episode 3, which just finally came out after years upon years of being delayed by Valve. Until she noticed one of the guys was a little more rough than usual.

He was biting a girl's neck; softly at first, causing the girl to giggle. Then the girl winced in pain, until blood appeared and she nearly started screaming, however the man had already bitten down on the poor girl's windpipe by that time. This is some fucked up foreplay eh? Cathy snarkily thought to herself, as the image took a moment to fully process. Then she realised just what HAD happened, and panicked, sprinting out the door and closing it shut, leaving all the people still in there. She stood outside the door for a bit, catching her breath, until she heard screaming coming from inside. Catherine bolted.

-------------------------------------------

Catherine awoke bleary-eyed as the sunlight... wasn't actually visible from where she was. She supposed one of the cons of using an old prison's holding cells as residential spaces was the lack of natural lighting, but Catherine was an interior decorator. Or fully awake for that matter.

Cathy tried to fall back asleep, and rolled over to get into a more comfortable position. Unfortunately, fall off the top bunk is exactly "comfortable." "Uuuugh," Catherine moaned, rubbing her bruised ribs as she tried to get up. Her roommate (or, more appropriately, cellmate), an older Australian woman named Addison, groaned "Oi, quit yer complainin', luv."

"Oh, stuff it, abuelita," Catherine tiredly replied, standing up slowly and stretching. As far as Cathy was concerned, mornings could die in a fire. Though the clock on the wall showed that it wasn't exactly morning, per say. Nevertheless, being forced to wake up, ever, should be grounds for execution. "The cap'n wanted to see ya down by the field," Addison added, as blunt as usual. "Oh, great. I get to be lectured at. Joy." Catherine snarked. Cathy finished getting dressed in her hoodie and beanie and donning her quiver, before leaving the cell and traversing to the field. When she approached the baseball field, an armed dude (that couldn't keep his eyes off of Catherine's backside) was standing guard.

"Um, I was apparently called down here," Cathy said to the man. He just silently waved her in, and as she went in, he watched her back. In a literal sense. Catherine took her place in a lineup of some people, before silently awaiting the main guy in charge of the camp. The group was asked for their names. The first guy stated his name as... Musuh? Macer? Catherine couldn't tell from the accent. The next guy that went up appeared particularly beat up, and identified himself as Kenneth before zonking out on the ground. Next was a guy named Everette, who introduced himself without breaking the beat despite the now unconscious man on the field nearby. Then a woman named Thea mentioned something about helping the collapsed guy. Catherine ignored her stated, plainly and concisely (and with a small smirk), "C. Rola, Liberal Arts major."

Not the best job in the world. But it did have parties.

[AmazinglyVivid]

Time seemed to pass more slowly inside the towering walls of Sing Sing Maximum Security prison. This proved especially true for Olivia. Her first night there was spent in the overcrowded prison infirmary, among more than a dozen groaning men and women recovering from various injuries or illnesses. For what felt like hours, she laid on a thin bedroll on the ground, listening to the whispers of the doctors and volunteer nurses. She'd passed out soon after her arrival but, as it turned out, all that she suffered from was dehydration. That seemed to be very common in this new world. People were either too wary to drink anything that wasn't in a bottle, and got dehydrated, or they drank something out of some polluted body of water, and got sick. It seemed to just be a matter of picking how you wanted to go. But then, so was everything in this new, nightmarish world.

The next morning, she'd recovered, and was immediately put to work. She was assigned to helping out in the very infirmary she'd stayed in the night before, as it was critically understaffed. She was no nurse, but she had something of a crash course during the following days. Even though most people with even basic medical knowledge were sent there to work, they were still critically understaffed. Olivia did everything from dispensing medicines to assisting the actual doctors in surgery. In the six days since she'd started helping there, she'd had less than twelve hours of sleep. And yet, she found her little routine almost comforting. She was helping people, after all. Society had collapsed, countless people were dead, and their species was likely doomed. But, so long as she could help these few survivors, she felt at ease.

She was in the middle of wrapping a wound in gauze when the soldier came into the room. Well, from his uniform, she guessed that he had been a prison guard before, but just about anyone who could point a gun was a soldier, now. He stood at attention, waiting until she'd finished wrapping the long white bandages around another young woman's leg. She winced occasionally, but showed no other outward sign of pain. Only after the other woman had left the sterile room did the soldier speak. "Ms. Olivia Welch?" He asked, politely. She gave him a tired smile, and nodded. "You need to go to the baseball field as soon as you can. It's important."

Again, she nodded. "Okay, then. I'll head over there right now. Do you know why?" Every word, every bit of voice inflection betrayed her half Texan, half Louisianan heritage. Her time in New York had done quite a bit to rid her of her Southern drawl, but it was something that would always be a part of her speech. The 'I's became 'ah', 'there' became 'thar', the whole nine yards. Through her own ears, the change was all but unnoticeable. However, for most others, it was impossible not to notice.

"I'm not sure. All I know is that it's Daniel Adler and Max Parkes who want you, and that neither of them are really known for their patience," He advised.

"Go ahead. I'm sure that we'll be able to hold the fort here until you get back," Said one of her fellow nurses, a dark skinned woman by the name of Anna.

"I'll be back soon," Olivia assured, before turning and leaving with the young soldier. He walked next to her in lockstep, not exactly escorting her, but something close to it. He was under orders to make sure that she went, after all. They walked through the halls of the prison, which were now mostly empty as the men and women who lived there went about their assigned duties. Even children, all but the very youngest, were put to work. That made it all the more unnerving when they saw the occasional child laying down in a cell or playing in the hall. Olivia offered each one that they passed a kind smile. Few returned it. It seemed that even children recognized how little there was to smile about nowadays.

Finally, they came out onto the baseball field. Olivia imagined that it had once been well manicured, but it had a long time since anyone could devote resources to such things, and the grass had grown high from neglect. The warm skin touched her skin, even as the cold air bit at her. She pulled her jacket tighter around her small frame, and slowly approached the small group that had begun to form. Others who had been gathered, like her, she imagined. Their faces ran a full gamut of emotions; some seemed curious, some seemed bored, some seemed annoyed to even be here.

Olivia fell into the 'curious' category. Although she was also rather antsy to get back the infirmary, she couldn't help but wonder why this particular group had been gathered. She took her place near its edge as she pondered this thought. The only thread that seemed to link them was that they were all relatively young and in good shape. Well, as good a shape as anyone could manage while fighting off the constant threat of hunger. Unfortunately, this observation didn't offer much in the way of ideas as far as why they were all there. Time would tell, she supposed.

And so it did. Not long after her own arrival did two men walk up. Both were tall, clean shaven, and very well built. More than that, they both seemed to radiate an aura of control. They were leaders, and she picked up on that immediately. No wonder people in the prison spoke of them as they did. The two men had approached deep in conversation, not that Olivia could understand one word of it. They were speaking German, it seemed. At any rate, they quickly switched to English, explaining why they'd been brought there. Or rather, explaining that he would explain, after they committed to whatever it was he was talking about. What an odd way to go about things.

Curiosity and unease mingled inside of her, as she considered leaving on the spot. She was smart enough to know that you always read the fine print before you sign a contract, and you always know what you're agreeing to before you agree to it. But his words sparked a certain interest to her. To know the cause of the virus, that was the first step to curing it. But a military mission? She was no soldier. Sure, she knew how to hold a gun, but she'd barely been able to keep herself alive in those weeks after New York fell. Why would they have picked her for this, in the first place? Maybe they really had chosen at random.

The first among them who spoke up was a British factory worker who introduced himself as Mercer. Then, before anyone else had a chance to speak, a worn looking man ran on the field, seemingly from nowhere. Olivia's first instinct was to rush to his aid, but she hesitated. In a world like theirs, running to the side of a random stranger could easily get you killed. As she considered what she would do, another young woman introduced herself as Thea. She stated that her occupation was both welder and botanist, an odd combination to say the least. Then, she suggested that someone 'take care' of the stranger. When no one did, Olivia took it upon herself, slowly walking towards him, watching for any sign that he was not actually unconscious.

Yet another woman spoke up, giving simply a name and her major in college, as Olivia checked the fallen man, Kenneth's, vital signs. He was alive, and didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. But, still. "I'm Olivia Welch. I... I didn't have a real occupation. I've done pretty much everything. But a majority of my jobs have been in construction and food service, with a bit in the medical field, too." There weren't many medical jobs that accepted non-college graduates, but she'd worked just about every one of them. "Before this meeting continues, I think that we should get someone to carry this guy to the infirmary."

[Red Beret]

Oliver Mercer

Barely had Mercer introduced himself when some kid (who looked slightly less alive than some of the zeds Mercer had happened across and even that was being generous--the kid looked like death warmed over) approached the line. He did his best to form up, but from his angle, Mercer could see that he was having trouble standing up. It figured that someone like that would be called on for this special little detail. The kid managed to introduce himself as Ken...neth before dropping flat onto his face. Mercer shook his head, but didn't say anything. He wasn't going to be the one closest to the kid when he reanimated.

The next person to introduce themselves seemed less than troubled by Kenneth's collapse, and introduced himself as Everett, former corpsman, currently serving this fine institution as a personal bitch. Something about the man made Mercer think they'd get along. At the very least, he'd be able to tolerate the man. It was nice to feel the bonds of comraderie slowly knotting together, even if they were knotting together around the necks of a few poor lads and ladies who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.

The fourth (having included himself in the tally) was a woman, and the only one so far to offer up both of her names. Sheridan, Thea claimed to be a welder and a botanist, two career paths that Mercer couldn't see fitting together very well, but it wasn't his bloody life, so he supposed he'd silently congratulate her on her diversity. She was the only one so far who seemed concerned for the unconscious lad, though to be fair she could have been the first to be concerned enough to bring it to someone's attention. Another woman had split off from the group and was already checking Kenneth's vitals. Mercer had seen her around, was pretty sure she worked in the infirmary, though he couldn't be certain.

Mercer thought to himself that he wouldn't really care for the fifth of their number, who introduced herself as C. Rola and stated that she was a liberal arts major. That would be bloody useful for whatever they were doing, wouldn't it? Mercer didn't care much for college kids, and though he hadn't really had time to form a negative opinion of Kenneth as a person, he instantly knew that he disliked C. Rola. He'd been a sergeant long enough to read people, and she seemed the archetypal self-absorbed bitch. Probably the type to think everyone wanted a piece of her. Mercer had dealt with women like that before, there was really no fixing the problem.

The sixth person to speak up was the woman who'd gone to Kenneth's aid, and it turned out her name was Olivia Welch, the second member of their little party to give both of her names (in Mercer's opinion, first initials didn't count). By her account, she'd dabbled in a bit of everything, though she didn't really relate her work experience, so it wasn't one hundred percent certain that she was good at what she'd done. She seemed to be good enough at doctoring, or at least nursing, and Mercer could respect that. She and Everett would probably combine to be an effective medical force for them if they were to leave the prison grounds, which he suspected was going to happen eventually. You didn't gather a bunch of people together and tell them that they were about to partake in top-secret shenanigans without expecting them to leave the safety of whatever shelter they'd become accustomed to.

"Before this meeting continues, I think that we should get someone to carry this guy to the infirmary."

Mercer was about to volunteer (a nasty habit he tried not to partake in, unless it was going to get him out of something nastier), but before he could, the Kraut had signaled two soldiers to do it for them. They attempted first to revive him, but he was out cold. They carried him off, and Mercer understood that the little meeting they were about to have was going to turn out to be important after all. At the very least, the rupert thought it was going to be important enough that they couldn't take the time to have an infirmary break... bloody typical, it seemed as though there wasn't going to be an easy way out of this mess. Maybe getting a leg blown to bits or an arm gnawed off would do the trick...

[AYoungWarthog]

The Hauptmann stood calmly, the bitter wind nipping his face under the rim of his camouflaged cap, and listened to the introductions of the group of civilians with irritation. With what military prowess did he earn a group of such useless peoples to fight a war with? Did the Colonel actually believe him a miracle worker? Did the rumors of the Wolf of Moscow actually seem real to some idiots, and was there anyone who truly believed that Adler could not manipulate even the weakest of civilians into true soldiers? Why would the British moron think him the man to lead such a ragtag force? Maybe the stripes on his shoulder were the highest of any surviving military official besides the Colonel, but that meant nothing when it came to fighting a guerilla force like the Children as well as the hordes of unspeakable terror in the city that he had so barely escaped the last time.

“Mercer,” a man in a factory jacket said quickly, his accent noticeably British, “I’ve got a job in fact’ry on the other end of town. I suppose that makes me a fact’ry worker, innit? Anything else you’d like t’know? Maybe cut the bloody theatrics and gimme a bayonet so’s I can do a cleaner job of charging forth an’ all that? If it’s all the same to you, gov, I gotta be back in time to catch the soaps, so let’s get on with it.”

Theatrics? Who the hell did this had-been think he was talking to? He remembered Mercer’s file quite well. A British Royal Army drop-out, or so Adler claimed him, who had worked in back-stock and supply. A moronic form of quartermaster barely able to wield a bloody rifle, let alone combat a stand-up army in urban warfare in the middle of winter, Mercer was a pitiful excuse for a recruit to Adler and Parkes’s Task Group. Rolling his eyes, the German officer stood still though, not giving any information or hint of his attitude to the group through body language, simply staring blankly at the eyes of each who spoke.

The next man that spoke was a new sight to the Hauptmann. He stumbled into the baseball field, oddly stepping one foot over the other in a lollygagging way, as if his focus was split between staying conscious and not tripping on an invisible rope in front of him. His eyes were unfocused and his hair seemed ruffled as he staggered to the head of the group. Daniel thought him almost humorous, a laughing matter beyond anything else, but he kept an unamused look upon his face as the man gasped, “My… Name’s…. Ken… Neth… I…” he finished with a quite perfectly preformed collapse, falling forward on his face in front of the group of civilians and lying their unmoving.

Daniel shook his head in disgust as he turned and looked out the back of the backstop. The clouds were growing ever closer and the wind whipped viciously off the river and up the compound towards them. Staring blankly, he muttered dully in German to Max, his lips barely parting, “Wie werden wir den Krieg mit Ihnen?”

The FBI agent shrugged quickly, nodding off the question as the Hauptmann returned his gaze to the group as a man in a printed shirt spoke up, his voice carrying well on the cold air, “Everett. Former U.S. Navy Corpsman and EMT for the Fire Department of New York. Nowadays, however, it seems I’m a personal bitch… Are we here to get out leashes?”

This man was Adler’s kind of person. A real useful tool, for once, he thought. A Navy Corpsman with advanced medical training would more than likely prove very useful considering the rest of the squabbling idiots that the Colonel had presented him with. Running his hand over his short hair, the Hauptmann pulled his case of cigarettes from his jacket and lit one before replacing the case and taking a long drag. He almost cracked a smile at the man’s sarcasm. A well-trained military man, and a strong-looking one at that. A woman was next, a beautiful one, a woman that reminded him of one of the women he had had one of his rousing affairs with in the mountains of Afghanistan. Though, he thought, she was most definitely not Arab. That was for sure. Her eyes met Adler’s and a hint of something fowl rolled over him as she spoke, “Sheridan, Thea. Welder… Botanist…” she said coolly, motioning to the man on the ground, “Maybe someone should take care of that.”

Next, a fat man with a stereotypic American aura stepped forward, not striking Daniel for anything other than a slob, as he made a brief introduction, “Lou Panzetti, plumber and appliance worker with a bit of electrician to boot.”

Raising an eyebrow, Daniel nodded curtly. An electrician might prove useful in the coming weeks, but as for now, he was useless as was everyone else in the Hauptmann’s eyes. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, the German flicked a bit of ash to the dirt and continued to smoke casually, barely paying any attention at this point. There was no reason to give any care, as they were all useless to him in a real fight save for the four real soldiers. And then, what could six trained fighters do against an army?

“C. Rola, Liberal Arts Major,” another woman said with a smile as she looked on. Pretty talk, useless knowledge, Daniel nearly spat on the ground. She was a pitiful excuse for a recruit. Again, the Hauptmann thought, what was the Colonel thinking when he sent out his dogs to find these scraps of meat to throw into the fray? A college girl who was probably no older than eighteen, what use was she against a group of lawless rapists, murders, and desperate sociopaths? Nothing. Shaking his head, Daniel watched for the last civilian to step forward, "I'm Olivia Welch. I... I didn't have a real occupation. I've done pretty much everything. But a majority of my jobs have been in construction and food service, with a bit in the medical field, too. Before this meeting continues, I think that we should get someone to carry this guy to the infirmary."

Olivia Welch, a blond haired, beautiful woman of her early twenties, caught the Hauptmann’s eye. She reminded him greatly of his late wife. A pang of longing struck him heavily as he flicked away the last of his cigarette and nodded. Lifting his left hand slightly and giving it a wave, to British Paratroopers from the dugout ran over to the fallen man and lifted him in their arms, carrying him swiftly toward the infirmary on the other side of the tracks. Clearing his throat, he gave a simple command in German to the two Bundeswehr troopers standing amongst the group, “Ihre Namen, bitte.”

“Unteroffizier Karl Schunder, Gebirgsjägerbataillon zweihunderteinunddreißig,“ the older and thinner of the two men cried with ferocity, giving a true military introduction. He clicked his heels and offered a salute as he shouldered his designated-marksman rifle and placed his helmet on his short hair. The second of the two soldiers did the same, except for the fact that he left his large machine gun lying on the dirt, “Herr Hauptmann, ich bin Gefreiter Karl Ruben, Gebirgsjägerbataillon zweihunderteinunddreißig.”

Nodding coolly, Daniel waved to the two English speaking soldiers who did the same, offering their name and company.

“Lance Corporal Michelle Williams, United States Marine Corps,” a brown haired woman stated before a Englishman sighed, not wishing to seem to enthused, “Sergeant Robert Michaels, His Majesty the King’s Second Royal PARA.”

Raising his eyes to the rest of the group, Daniel cleared his throat once more, his English coming out quite accented, “You have been gathered here, some of you quite by accident it would appear to me, to serve in a special operation being called Operation Heilen, a series of excursions into Manhattan and Brooklyn in an attempt to find medical equipment to assist in Doctor Petrenko’s modification of the known virus you have all been held witness too. This operation will see the death of some involved, no doubt, I cannot guarantee the survival of all of you I am afraid, and will also include the securing of FOBs in the city, ammunition dumps at former military bases, fuel depots such as gas stations, and any other resource that the Colonel might see fit. Mein Name ist Hauptmann Daniel Adler, Gebirgsjägerbataillon zweihunderteinunddreißig, aus Deutschland, and I, as well as my partner Mister Parkes, will be the officers to your military experience. I will say this only one more time, if you wish to leave, do so now before we begin our briefing…”