Survival, Among Other Things (IC)

[Count Epsilon]

Another restless night. What could it possibly be that's been forcing you to toss, and turn all week? What could it be that's got you waking up every hour? Out of everything that could have awaken you - the predatory wildlife, the ravenous bandits, or the looming threat of pneumonia - it's the familiar sting of the icy wind against your ears that does the trick. You force yourself to sit upright, grunting as you do. Your breath is more visible today than yesterday. Even though it's the closing months of Winter, the weather only seems to be getting colder. You've been contemplating traveling South for sometime now, but the legends of the "village killers" are what have stifled your desire to venture.

In fact the very idea that two men could have garnered a reputation that can be likened to that of the entirety of the bandit sub-culture is so daunting, and unsettling that it has every settlement you know of on edge. But for some reason, the settlement in which you find yourself now just doesn't seem to care. They're a notoriously strong, but welcoming community, and don't inherently fear anybody, but rather ponder their nature. This may be one of the reasons you've decided to hunker down here.

Today is a different day from most of the others that you've spent here; rumors have recently surfaced that a group of hardened travelers, ages and genders varying, discovered a radio transmission informing listeners of a refugee site; a place of order and safety. They're supposed to embark today, or tomorrow.
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Damian Blackwater

"Just another miserable fuckin' morning on this miserable fuckin' planet," Damian says with his deep, raspy, overtly masculine voice while he pulls a factory-made cigarette out from behind his ear and places it between his lips. He flicks the Zippo's cap and lights his cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind.
His housemate and longtime friend Munich says, "You're pretty pessimistic today, Dame."
Damian sucks on his cigarette and shrugs, coiling his face in a defeated sort of affirmation. "Yeah, well I d'no what t'tell ya, Nick. I gotta fill this here bag," Damian kicks a satchel, "with water, dried fish, salt packets, and canned foods. Then I gotta fill this bag," Damian points to a duffel bag at his left, "with clothes, ammunition, tools, and survival gear to prepare for this uh...3-month-long journey we got ahead of us."
Munich shrugs, "I still don't know why you're even bothering with this shit man. I mean, I don't wanna sound like the pessimistic one now, but you gotta think...what if nothing's down there?"
Damian pulls the cigarette from his lips, and sits in the lawn chair on the balcony of their inhabited housing unit and says, "I can't afford thoughts like that, Nick. Thinking like that is what drives men to the brink of insanity. 'Why am I still here? Why am I even trying? What's left for me?' It's all a bunch of self-pitying, sob story bullshit."
Munich starts laughing, "Sounds like you've got a grudge with compunction."
Damian walks into the dirty kitchen, and beings filling his satchel with essentials, "I've spent too much time in its company to just be OK with it, Munich. I mean Jesus Christ, right? Who the fuck has the time to worry about shit like that? Who has the time to be predisposed with 'poor me, what am I going to do' or 'oh god, what have I done?!' There are more important things to focus on."
Munich didn't want to, but he had to agree. "I know, you're right. You're right, really. It's just...you know, why are you gonna beat up a guy who's already beating himself up, right? Why kick a sorry dog?" Munich walked into the kitchen and began helping Damian.
Damian says, "I don't mean to sound like I'm bashing anybody, Nicky. It's just...everybody's lost somebody. Everybody is in a bad fuckin' way out here. You know? But you don't see me, 'er you losin' sleep over what's done and dusted. We understand that if you hold onto the past, then the present leaves without you."
Munich starts laughing, "You're one poetic sonuva bitch, Dame."
"You're one to talk," Damian winks at Munich, then turns back to packing the bag, "I mean, 'grudge with compunction?' That's some next level shit."
The pair laugh for the first time in a week, though neither can figure out why. Maybe they're both trying to ignore the overwhelming presence of the looming departure that Damian is going to undergo. These two have been through Hell and high waters, so this wasn't going to be easy for them. They were like brothers.

Damian Blackwater was 37, and had been the "sheriff" of Mosby Town since he'd arrived 15 years ago. He replaced the late, great, pre-plague police officer Harvey Lee Mosby only a week after his death. Now it was time for the 3rd sheriff of Mosby Town; Munich. He was short, but stocky, and wasn't afraid of anybody. But he wasn't the kind of guy who wasn't scared of you because he knew he could take you, which he could, but he wasn't scared of you because he just understands people. On one occasion somebody threatened to murder Munich and set his home on fire, to which Munich replied with "are you OK? You can talk to me." You could say that ig there was anybody fit for this job, it was he.

Damian stepped into what was known as the "town square", albeit it was hardly a shape at all, and stood before his friends. "We all been here a long time, known each other a very long fuckin' time." Damian sucks on his cigarette and tosses it into the dirt, "we've lost a lot of our people. Lost a lot of our time...but we kept pushin', and here we are, right? On the other side, in greener pastures? Perseverance." Damian sighs and puts his hand on Munich's shoulder. "This man will be taking my place when I leave. He's a good man, and many of you know him." There's a long pause as everyone stares at Damian; tension in the air. They don't want to see him go, but they sympathize for him. "Be safe..." Damian is escorted to the gates of the settlement by Munich, and the two men hug.
"You take care." Munich says.
Damian pats his back, "You too, Nick."
And Damian heads off.

[Cfowla]

Gregor Minkowsky
If it weren't colder than hell, it was just a notch warmer than heaven. The sting of the wind buffeting Greg's face made his eyes water in protest. The saline tears ran back like rain down a window pane, and crashed into his thick, brown hair as he pushed forward. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The storm clouds rolled in overhead. Greg had no fucking clue where he was.

He rummaged into his sack for some water. He had found a stream that wasn't frozen about three miles back. Whether it was north, south, east, or west, he still had no idea. All he knew was that he wasn't dead yet, and he could make out some smell of civilization in the distance.

It had been a long time since he had seen other people. Not in three months. He had eaten game and berries for nearly six weeks, and he was starting to enjoy squirrel marrow. He whittled in his spare time, and dozed off when he could. Keeping on foot kept him warm, though his chafed skin suggested otherwise. Though hard as he may try, he never seemed to block out the wind enough to keep his face from bleeding and flushing.

But, as he reached the top of a hill, he saw a group of people off in the distance shaking hands and hugging. A farewell of sorts. For the first time in several weeks, Greg smiled, and began to walk with a lope.

[CavalierTunes]

Brooklyn Mitchell
The soft dirt beneath her shoes felt like deep massage. After five hours of walking down an abandoned stretch of highway – all grey and asphalt – it was a relief to feel the Earth underneath her once more.

It was about a week ago that the faded message made its way to Brooklyn's old AM radio. She remembered it as best as she remembered anything for the past week. It echoed positive phrases in a few languages. In English, she heard, "We are here…we have food…" or something like that. Everything since her father died had been a blur, and this was no different. What was only a week seemed like it had been both much longer and much shorter at the same time.

Telling her friends and neighbors that she was leaving to find the refuge was bittersweet. Knowing she'd never see them again carved a hole in her chest; but she found it necessary to move on in a dramatic fashion after a death. Her father once told her that "nothing ever dies, things just change." Somehow, that was not as comforting as a memory, as it was when she was twelve and her face was slashed by a bandit.

She took the old Chrysler and drove south after saying her goodbyes. She wasn't sure where she was going; and she knew she didn't have enough gas to make it very far. But, if she kept traveling south, she was sure to find something; maybe another message from the refuge, or another person heading there as well.

Her car broke down some miles back. She grabbed her small bag and started walking until the concrete slowly faded into green. She heard sounds in the distance…a good distance. There was a town nearby, she was sure of it. The town might have supplies, or people who haven't heard of the Refuge. Of the citizens in her old village, a stable one with about fifty residents, she was the only one who believed the message about the Refuge. Maybe if one of her neighbors had believed that there might be a utopia still out there, she wouldn't be journeying alone.

Being alone was never a problem for Brooklyn. But taking advantage of the Refuge without at least trying to bring other people a long would have been a problem for her. She was raised to believe that, despite her circumstances, there were still people out there that were less fortunate than she. And, even if they were more fortunate, it was still her duty as a decent human being to care for them. In good conscience, she could not go south alone…at least not without trying to bring someone else.

She followed the noises until she reached a small, wooden, sign in disrepair that read "Mosby Town." From there, it was only a short trek until she reached Town Square.

[Count Epsilon]

Damian Blackwater

The pessimism that was only characteristic of Damian as a young man had returned in tenfold; it underlined every thought, making itself a barricade between he and a clear mind. It crippled every effort to find the value in keeping his stride, in moving forward, in fighting to keep his head above water. Every step felt like added weight, and every breath in felt shorter, and every breath out felt longer. More air went in than came out. His head started throbbing, and his palms began sweating. 3 minutes out of the camp, and he's already fallen victim to an anxiety attack. "Fuck..." He swallows, stumbling into a rock, slumping against it. He reaches into his backpack and takes out a bottled water, turning the cap. He knocks back half the bottle and wipes his mouth. Panting. Panting...
Panting. . . . . "Nngg..." He grunts, placing the bottle in his bag. He rests his head back and looks to his left. He can see the settlement. Then he looks to his right...he can see the border. "Fuck. Fuck!" Damian, for the first time in as long as he can remember, doesn't know what to do. He smacks his face with both hands as if he hopes to snap out of some sort of daze, or to shake himself from a dream. He raises from the snowy rock, and suddenly knows what he wants to do. What he MUST do. And that is to carry on.

He turns to his right, head hung, and begins walking, when suddenly something catches him off-guard. He hears footsteps unfamiliar to him. He slowly comes to a stop, moving his hand over his hip, unlatching the weapon guard of his hip holster, groping the handle of his Glock 21, and begins to pull it from his hip. He suddenly pulls the firearm from his holster, and positions the gun in a way not unlike that of a gunslinger from the wild west. The barrel points straight ahead at a man's abdomen. The tension in the air is embodied by the steam that fumes from Damian's ears.
"Who are you?"

[GreenReaper]

Plains of fallen ice lay scattered about before his eyes, icy layers of death that mimicked the cold beating within his own chest. The winds howled even as his voice had long ago ceased to do , raging against a world forsaken and unjust. Here a lone stranger gazes into forever and nowhere , keenly aware that nowhere and forever are all that remain.