GM Story Post

Act I, Scene I: The Virus

Wednesday, August 13th 2019
Detroit Michigan, The United States of North America
0500



“We’re lucky Detroit was never properly hit. Down to two filters.” Marc Osias tightened up his gas mask, taping it to his homemade hazard suit. Beside him John Grimm had taken up a position to keep watch over him as he moved into the city. Mostly. Sightlines were haphazard in ruins which suffered heavy rioting like Detriot, and he’d be pretty much alone once he entered the biozone. Knowing someone he trusted had his back gave him the courage to go in there.

There was still good stuff to be found in the zones. Not many people had both the gear and the guts to head into them.

His voice came out muffled as he finished taping the suit closed. “Keep a look out, all right? I don’t want to get jumped out there.”

Marc gave a last look to Helga before lowering himself down the building they’d climbed into for shelter. From here it was all ruin and two hours of air.

As he crossed into the deepest area of the zone, Marc felt himself shudder inside. The same cold shudder of the unknown he’d felt each time. He’d have to move very quickly now since he had twenty minutes of air available.

He spotted a military convoy - the remains of one anyway. It looked untouched. As Marc approached he spotted the USNA biological symbol on a briefcase. A faint light glimmered by the handle. Despite his racing heart and mounting fear about what would be inside the case he decided to take it. It was then that something moved in his peripherals, and he heard the characteristic draw of air through a gas mask filter - other than his own. “

Jameson walked casually through the ruins of the apocalypse. Upon first entering such a hostile zone, he had attempted to remain stealthy. Yet quickly he realized he was more than likely the only living thing in the poisoned lands. What was there to hide from? And even more so, even if he wished to hide, each breath was ragged and loud through the filters of his mask.

His hair was long and the snout nose of the gas mask seemed out of place against a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and military jacket. He wasn’t overly afraid of what poisons may be touching his skins. He had learned long ago that Death was inevitable, especially in this strange new world. His rifle hung limply from a sling over his shoulder, and he was half tempted to whistle to himself, both for the humor of the situation and to stave off the eery silence of this ruined land.

Walking down a ruined street, he spotted the remains of some form of government convoy, and upon drawing closer found it as ruined as the rest. He hoped dully for more munition among this ruined party, and approached with the nonchalant attitude of a man sure he was alone with nothing but the ghosts of the damned.

Yet Jameson wasn’t scared of ghosts or monsters under the bed anymore, for he knew Man was the only true Monster he need fear. And a Monster he would find.

His first alert was the sound of a sharp breath through a gas mask, yet it wasn’t his breathing. At first, he thought he had misheard. That perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. Even so, he would drop to a crouch and ready his DPMS Oracle. His heart would race quickly, and his first priority was to take control of his breathing. He wondered if maybe one of his companions had followed him into this ruined place, but knew that none of them had a gas mask, or any form of protection from the death fumes of this place.

Hearing a slight noise moving slightly from the other side of the convoy truck he was standing near, he would duck his head down to find he wasn’t insane. A person obviously stood on the other side of the vehicle, as he could see their boots. He took aim with his rifle and prepared to fire a vicious round through the feet of the man standing on the other side, wishing to be cautious of his safety. He could only wonder who this person was, or what they were doing there.

Yet as he would take aim, a deep humanity in Jameson would stir, and the thought intruded into his mind that he did not know of this person wished him harm, or deserved his bullets. His finger twitched slightly on the trigger, and he nearly sighed before realizing it would be too loud.

“Dammit.” Jameson whispered before deciding to take a more humane approach. He would move swiftly, wishing to utilize the element of surprise. He would move swiftly and silently to the front of the truck, before leaping into a coiled roll to confront this stranger. As Jameson would roll into a crouched position and ready his rifle, he would yell;

“HANDS UP, MOTHERFUCKER!”

But only boots greeted his vision, unoccupied by a wearer. A gasp came to his lips, unsure if he was truly going mad, or…

“NRRA, you so much as blink and you’re done.” Marc’s voice was emotionally dead and loud in the quiet ruins. He’d dealt with looters and rioters plenty Pre-End.

When Marc noticed the man he now had his Model 327 trained on he’d taken a pair of boots from the corpse of a soldier and placed them where he was standing before the stranger noticed his presence. He’d crawled away under some rubble and ended up behind his would-be killer.

“Drop your weapon, hands behind your head, and move away slowly. You are trespassing on USNA territory. Name, rank, and allegiance. Now.”

He didn’t really give two shits about the United States of North America or the National Resource Reclamation Agency any longer but government agencies were intimidating and effective tools in keeping threats suppressed.

Looking down his sights, he cursed the city. He didn’t have time to play sheriff in the middle of a goddamn biozone. He needed to know if the stranger had friends.

Jameson turned to the clever opponent and would smile at him to attempt to defuse the suddenly tense situation. Realizing the man can’t see his face, he instead would laugh openly in the face of the one holding the gun to him. He could hardly take what he said seriously.

“Trespassing? Definitely seems like I’m interrupting some important activites here.” He said sarcastically, and then continued; “ And you mean the United States of Nothing?” Jameson would make a great sweeping motion with his arm, as if to indicate to look around them.

“I’m not scared of jar-heads or Uncle Sam, stranger. Though I am scared of that.” He nodded to the man’s weaponry, aimed squarely at him.

He knew at this point his opponent would be able to fire a round into his chest before he could properly fire back, and had little choice but to drop his rifle to the ground, shrugging as he did so like it was of little importance to him.

“My name is Jameson Deschain, and my allegiance is to none but myself.” Though he lied slightly in his allegiance, he had told the man the truth in his name.

“Come now, if this is my End, at least tell me the name of the one who would end me.” He replied with his own question.

Marc had almost pulled the trigger, but didn’t in the case that the man had friends nearby. When he heard the man’s name he stood silent for a beat. There was no way this was the same Jameson Deschain from Pre-End…. but he had to be sure. The Jameson he knew never would have travelled alone.

“Jameson Deschain,” His voice had a twitch to it, “ Of Cheyenne, Wyoming. Where are your friends, Jameson? I know you wouldn’t have left them.” He hoped that attaching a location to this Jameson would make the man try to correct him, or at least confirm his identity. If it was the same Jameson…. Marc was used to sweating in his suit but not from anxiety. The fucking suitcase is what he wanted, not ghosts from the past and rapidly dwindling air supply.

“I am Marc Osias.” He decided that the man’s life depended on what he said next. Too much breath spent on conversation in the center of the zone would kill them both.

Jameson wished he could wipe the rapidly accumulating sweat from his brow, and wanted to hurry up and die or get the fuck out of here. The man appeared to have heard of him, which seemed to strange to him. He had lead a militia, and worked among other prominent members of the Resistance. But had he truly reached this level of Infamy..?

“You are well learned of my ways, stranger. I would not leave them, if not for the fact my original companions in fate are all dead.”
A flash from the past streaked across his mind like a lightning bolt, and he saw the face of his fiancee sprinting into the darkness of a nearby wood as total darkness descended, and the only light to be seen was the flash of gunfire. Never seeing her again..

A chief lieutenant of his rebellion, Jacob Hastings, loyal to the bone and polite to a fault, lay dead in a ditch with a bullet hole above his right eye, having taken the bullet in a successful attempt to save Jamesons life from a ambush.

A goliath of a man, easily 6’3 and several hundred pounds of muscle, the Enforcer of his group, one Ryan Gasner had taken a solid round of buckshot to his abdominal during the same ambush, and had died in Jamesons arms.

Another of his lieutenants came to his mind, a face he had nearly buried in trauma and mental blocks. But he shook his head, breaking the fierce trance the ghosts of the past had on him. He smiled slightly at the idea that after his long road, perhaps he would be reunited with them once more.

“Marc Osias?”

He felt the wind nearly rush from his body, and it took considerable will to keep him standing. He was nearly positive he was truly mad now, if only because he couldn’t fully grasp that Osias would be even alive in this chaotic world, much less right before him. He was unsure of how to continue.

“Surely it can’t..?” He felt a sudden urge to rip off his breathing apparatus, and to remove the strangers as well. They were hot and cramped, and he felt the urge to see the face of this stranger. To confirm it was truly he from so long ago.

He felt suddenly awkward and unsure, much more experienced with rapists and rebels than a strange friend from the past.

Marc finally lowered his revolver. “Whether we knew each other or not we are running out of air. If you’re the same Jameson Deschain I knew from 2009 then.. fuck I don’t know. Warren is to the north of here outside of the zone. If you want to talk, meet me there before sundown. Tomorrow I’m gone.”

He hated this risk. Jameson hadn’t come up in his thoughts since the NRRA days. It was very unlikely that the stranger would shoot him now. Hazard suits were valuable, and if Jameson wanted to kill him for his gear he’d probably never make it out of the zone in time for any of it to matter.

Marc holstered his gun and rushed to the truck to retrieve the briefcase. He wanted to look around the convoy more but needed enough filter for the bioweapon he was coated in to die off. He took a last look at Jameson before rushing away. He called out over his shoulder.

“Convoy’s all yours. Take whatever you want but you want to get the fuck out of here pronto. After you get out of the zone keep your mask on for a half hour. Whatever’s in here can’t survive outside of the zones for that long. You’re lucky it’s just airbourne.”

Once he got out of the concentrated area he changed direction, double backed, and made sure he wasn’t being followed. There was more time on his filter out of the centre of it all. He remembered the briefcase and quickened his step.

Jameson scrambled to his gun first thing, and quickly picked it up. The stranger seemed to move with a equal swiftness, both seemingly frightened by the encounter and eager to leave this place. He saw the one claiming to be Marc grab a strangely official looking briefcase and scurry out of sight, calling out a last bit of advice over his shoulder as he went.

He decided to give only a cursory look over the ruined convoy once Marc left, still attempting to find ammunition. Finding little, he did seem to find a similar briefcase clutched in the arms of a dead soldier with no boots on. Prying it from the dead, cold, hands of the fallen soldier, he would turn to find the sun high in the sky, reaching its zenith.

Taking off at a light jog, he was eager to rejoin his new companions and tell them both what and who he had found. His thoughts swam confusingly in his skull as he moved with a quick and relentless pace back along the familiar trail to his camp, unsure if he truly should go and meet with this stranger masquerading as an ally from a time now long since past.

Yet as he closed in on the border of his encampment, he knew he had no choice in the matter. Fate had brought these two men together on this day, and he doubted he would so easily be freed of Osias, even if he wished to be.

Wednesday, August 13th 2019
Detroit Michigan, The United States of North America
1100

While Marc decon’d he thought about all that had happened. Jameson here? The whole thing spooked him. The guy looked like he’d been torn ragged by the End. Then there was the briefcase. Marc already noticed that he’d grabbed the wrong briefcase in his haste. What he knew now was that the reason the biozones never disappeared even though the pathogens should have died out was due to their engineering. He knew that they’d been changing and would eventually change into a form that wouldn’t die off rapidly. He also knew that whoever Jameson was didn’t matter as much as what he most likely had: the other suitcase containing the research.

The briefcase he found was full of papers detailing the pathogen, its purpose, where to deliver the research, and how to effectively stop it. Marc laughed bitterly at it all. A stolen superweapon sold to rebels across the world will mutate within a year and a half to two years of deployment. They were on six months away from year one. And a ghost from his past has the cure.

He climbed back into the building occupied by the only two people he trusted and laid it all on them. However they got the other briefcase, it needed to get to Camp Lejeune, Virginia. Fast.

Marc Osias

Marc's gear jingled as he climbed up the side of the building. The rustles of his clothing, his boots scraping against the wall as he scaled, and the occasional grunt dissipated into the silence of the Detroit ruins. The sun was high, yet no birds flew. No insects chirped. Every biozone and surrounding areas were like this. Silent. Empty. Dead.

Even after all this time he couldn't shake the weak feeling that overtook his body every time he went into a zone. He hefted himself up and met a sight that had become familiar to him. Helga was rummaging through her bags, the odd strand of blonde hair protesting her otherwise neat hair. Within a moment it was tucked back into place. John was looking into what distance he could make out through the scope on his Mauser, chewing absently on a piece of jerky. A small fire popped at the end of the room. The rest of his gear was nearby.

"We have a problem." He said, opening the briefcase at their table. "We all know that the zones came from stolen biologocal weapons. Turns out, it started right here. These documents," he said while motioning to the papers and computer discs inside the briefcase, "Contain the entire development history of what they dropped. It's a virus. Twelve hour incubation period. Death within twenty-four hours at the longest. Everything we already know. But....

Until now we all thought that the virus died after forty-eight hours inside the zone and fifteen minutes outside of it. Standard bioweapon development. Turns out, as long as they're in the zones they can survive. They change.

This isn't a weapons grade virus by the strictest definition. It's medical. Was supposed to be the next step in a cancer cure. First they wanted to make it have a short lifespan. Kill the cancer and die off. No room for mutation. Somewhere along the line they worked in a dormant stage. Kill the cancer, die, then go to sleep for a while. Eventually the sleepers die off. Next step was to make it non-lethal. Start animal testing, ramp up the virus' targeting abilities. Make it viable against cancer cells only. Then HeLa tests, etc, etc, cure. Guess which stage of development they were at when the rebels stole it?"

Marc let it sink in.

"They got to making it dormant. Problem is that they had problems in testing keeping it dormant. After a while the strain would change. It'd annihilate everything it came across, then go dormant. Then the thing would just die randomly. Genetic degradation, environmental damage, or something else. They worked in a hotfix at the labs up north. Self-regulating genetics and the ability to take resources from the environment. It wasn't supposed to be more than an interesting development - a milestone unrelated to the project but still noteworthy on its own. So it was supposed to be shipped down to the lower states, a Camp Lejeune in Virginia with either a cure or something damn close. A kill bug, anti-virus, inoculation, I can't tell. That data isn't on the papers. Could be on one of the discs or drives. Lejeune is supposed to have the facilities to deal with this.

Problem is that the rebels happened. The shipment was postponed. Research continued and the new virus had an interesting characteristic that developed. After a couple years of being dormant it woke up.... with the ability to survive outside of the carefully cultured environment it'd been designed to work in. Current evolution projections put it at a year and a half to two years before it could wake up "in theatre." It's been "in theater" for six months now."

He looked from John to Helga, then back to the briefcase.

"There was another one of these. When I was down there I came across somebody else. It got tense, but nothing happened. I grabbed this one instead of the other one. Guy's name is Jameson Deschain. I knew him from before. Sort of. Told him to meet me in Warren today. I was hoping we could set up first, make sure he's not a threat, and figure out who he actually is. If he is Jameson then we might be able to take him along. Guy is - was - smart and capable. If not, we do the usual shoot and loot. Thing is, now he has the other briefcase. The one with the samples. The shipment with the actual cure.

What do you guys want to do?"

Marc gritted his teeth. He'd just learned about the end of the end of the world and the time frame they had to stop it - if they could even stop it. And now he'd shared it with the only two people he trusted. Today is one hell of a day.

Jameson Deschain

Jameson closed in on the abandoned shopping center that was the hub of a small settlement on the outskirts of the desolated Detroit, also the hub of his small group of friends. He walked idly down the cracked and beaten road, and passed the small and humble sign that read;

“Welcome to Taylor”

Welcome indeed. His rifle was slung loosely over his shoulder now, and the suitcase he had taken was held lightly in his right hand, bumping lightly against his legs as he walked. He noticed it seemed to have an aura of cold about it, radiating outside of the suitcase and cooling his legs as they bumped into it.
Entering the small shopping center, his eyes found a welcome sight. Brenton was buried underneath a vehicle, hard at work attempting to get it operational again. His cat circled the vehicle, meowing lightly on occasion. Jameson liked the feline companion, as it was still simple and innocent. He was glad for the skills and company of the mechanic.

The tall but lengthy Carter was sitting on the small conveyor belt of a check-out lane, writing furiously in a small black book. Neither of the two men seemed to notice his presence, and he had to cough awkwardly before their concentration was broken. He would motion for them to gather ‘round him.

“Alright lads, I’m back from Detroit, and I’ve got some serious shit to lay down with you guys. I found a man in the ruins named Marc Osias, someone I used to know long ago. We had a standoff, but nothing came of it. He told me the location of his camp outside the ruins, and I believe would have me meet him there before dusk.

Further, I saw Marc grab a strangely official suitcase on his way out, and found one of my own. Let’s take a look, eh?”

Laying the briefcase on the same conveyor that Brent was sitting on, he propped it open. A thick cloud of frozen smoke would pour out of the suitcase, and inside appeared four vials appeared, three of an ice blue liquid that appeared thick in viscosity, and each vial appeared to have a strange glowing blue light all its own. Yet the last was red and a appeared thinner in its substance. As the frozen smoke cleared, it appeared that one of the three vials of blue had long ago been broken, and the blue liquid had dried and died inside the case, No doubt an effect of the rough ride of the convoy, or the death of its carrier.

“What is it?” Asked Carter in awe.

Jameson shrugged, unsure himself of the strange substance.

“I’m not sure, but I do know that it looks important. I plan on leaving to go meet with Osias, and see if he knows anything of it. I plan on taking the briefcase with me, though hiding it right before we get to the camp. That way, even if Marc does shoot me and loots my stuff, he’ll never get that briefcase. I would not ask of you to follow me, as chances are good it could be a trap, or ambush. ” Jameson’s mind flashed to a previous ambush, and he removed the snout-nosed gas mask from his face, shaking his shaggy hair to clear his mind of the past once more.

He closed the case and turned back to the door, making his way back out into the street, and turning left towards Warren and Marc’s encampment. Looking back as he walked, he found both Carter and Brent would follow on this strange new quest.

Johnathan Grimm

Detroit Michigan

0500

As Marc climbed down to the ground level of the building John sighed heavily while looking at his rifle.He did a quick daily check for rust, dirt and other defects. Upon completion he slid the action and looked into the magazine to ensure there was still 4 rounds in the magazine. He slid the action forward with a nice solid clink, a sound he'd come to love.

John lowered himself to a prone position at a window. He placed himself inside a shadow to ensure that no glint would be visible from his scope as he watched Marc from afar. He could now see Marc walking out of the building walking with a slight haste. John brought the rifle up to his shoulder and the familiar smells of the oak and gun powder rushed into his nostrils. For half a second he remembered the times he used to take this rifle hunting with his Dad. John kicked the idea from his head; he had no time for idle recollection. Looking through the scope of his rifle he scanned the area ahead of Marc watching for any kind of movement. Sometimes he wondered why he did this since no one ever went into the damn zones. At least, if they did they didn't live long enough to make it out alive.

Several minutes passed and Marc was about a mile away now. John hated it when he wandered out this far. John [/i]could[/i] put a round through a man’s chest at a mile without much trouble but anything past that was near impossible without a larger caliber round. He looked ahead of him a little farther and could make out what looked to be some kind of military convoy. Grimm knew that was just out of his range and he that it was exactly where Marc was headed.

He sighed and muttered a string of profanity as Marc walked up to the trucks.

Marc had began rummaging through the truck when John noticed a figure moving through the landscape.

"God damn it." John said loudly.

Helga looked back at him rather confused: John didn't speak often and his deep voice was almost startling.

"What is it?"

"That motherfucker’s outside of my effective range. If someone else is in the zone I may or may not be able to shoot them before Mac gets himself killed"

John fiddled with his scope making adjustments for the range. When he looked back through the scope he noticed the figure was gone. He guessed that he was behind one of the trucks. He shifted his view to the far end of the convoy and in a split second he saw Marc turned around with his gun pointed at the figure. The unknown man began setting his weapon on the ground.

"Come on, you son of a bitch, give me an excuse."

While he was witnessing the situation he began to faintly hear the sounds of gunfire and people screaming. A flashback to the memories of the battles before the government fell. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Grimm reverted to the weapons training he'd been given and modified. He began murmuring to himself again.

"This weapon is an extension of my body. My judgment is quick and my aim is true. My enemies will fall before me. In the name of the all father Odin. Aim, breath, squeeze and kill."

As the altercation appeared to end Marc walked back to the truck and grabbed something. John couldn't tell what but by how quickly Marc moved it had to be something important. He kept his sights on the other man, focusing on keeping his friend safe. The man appeared wiry and looked like he didn't have a lot of experience with weapons by the way he brought his rifle up. Marc was out of the man’s reach now but John still watched jim to see what he was up to. The odd man went to the same truck and grabbed something similar to what Marc had grabbed. He walked off in a hurry as well.

John let out a slight sigh of relief as he got back up. Suddenly he realized that he hadn't moved in hours and had some personal business to take care of.

John tended to the small fire in an off-room while he waited for Marc. He moved to a different window and watched while Marc decontaminated. .

Time passed with the usual nothing happening and John heard the sounds of Marc stumbling back into the building. Everything else was dead silent. John glanced at Marc and saw the briefcase with the letters "USNA." It caught his attention and when Marc started talking he had to pay attention.

What Marc said came to no surprise to John no reason he could explain.

"If you think we can trust this guy I'll give him a chance. I've known you since we were both scrawny fucks in band in middle school. You and Helga introduce yourselves and get a deal worked out. I'll sit back about a hundred and fifty yards out in case they try anything. Once you know you can trust them call me out and we'll be on our merry little way."

Marc’s face clouded over. “I don’t know if I can trust Jameson. Not…. not anymore. Maybe once, but that was a long time ago. Let’s not take any chances here. Jameson never was alone before and I doubt he’d be alone now. You see which direction he headed in?” Osias hoped Jameson was farther away from Warren than he was. Old friend or not, he who has the advantage usually walks away alive. He didn’t plan to kill Jameson or his friends. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if they could travel together.

John stared right into the fire, he could feel the heat coming from the fire on the scars on his face.

“He was headed south-south-west. We stopped in that hole called Taylor on the way up. Same direction. They probably stopped there too.”

One of John’s scars started hurting. It was that one. The one that ran along the bottom of his jaw. He wasn’t very superstitious but every time this scar hurt something bad happened. Not many things frightened John, but this scar hurting was one of them.

Carter Dawley

“You can’t get rid of us that easily.” Carter smiled, posting his fists on his hips. “If you’re divin’ into a trap then we’ll dive in right behind you.”

Carter adjusted the straps of his backpack, helping to make it fit on his back more snugly. He pondered what the substances held in the vials could be. His gaze was fixed on this mysterious briefcase that his ally had found.

Carter kept hold of his little black book as they walked, the contents being his personal thoughts and one of the few things he refused to share with his allies. He had been writing on the pages of this book since everything went to shit, it took his mind off things. Carter didn’t know why or how, but the book helped him cope in the dismal, hellish wasteland that he had to inhabit. He stopped, slipped his pack off of his back, unzipped the side compartment and tucked his journal inside.

Carter took notice that one of the two water bottles he carried was empty, he made a mental note to replenish it as soon as possible. It was surprisingly hard to find a clean water supply, he made a second mental note to be sparing with his remaining water bottle. No more sharing with Brenton's cat.

Before throwing the bag back into its original place behind him, he removed his firearm from the inside. He cocked it, holding it at his side as he continued to walk with Jameson and Brent. Carter anticipated danger, the thought unsettled his stomach. He still stuck by his allies, he had to, for they were all he had. Carter didn’t know if he could handle another dead loved one, if Jameson or Brent were to perish it could tear him apart in many ways and levels. He was a broken man, any further damage would shatter him completely.

Carter shook his head, blinking a few times, trying to clear his troublesome and useless thoughts. His eyes wandered around his surroundings, taking in the scenery. It was peaceful, quiet. The only sound coming from the small group's footsteps and the occasional chirp of a bird. Carter sighed, his gaze shifting straight ahead. He decided to break the lingering silence, uncomfortable with it.

“So... you knew this Marc guy...?” Carter spoke softly, a sign that a lot was on his mind. He looked to Jameson for an answer.

Helga glanced around at her surroundings from the building’s room, looking through a windowsill that, at one time, had been filled with a pane. The city was in shambles, well, everywhere was. She squinted, placing a flattened hand on her forehead, shielding the day’s light from her eyes, and glazes over the ruins in closer detail. The overgrowth of ivy that thrived vivaciously from the towers of abandoned cement and brick simply amazed her; how could anything, even ivy and weeds, manage to live through such places as this? Upon observing more, she looked at the broken windows, the vacant offices in them, the spray-painted graffiti containing all different colors and political banter, and the broken signs of businesses that once thrived during a time she just barely experienced. The silence was also something to make note of: nothing made a sound except for the wind and the movements they made. The lack of noise could be unsettling to any newcomer, but by now, Helga had adapted to the unreal quiet.
It was a mood-dampening sight, really, but she couldn’t allow the ruins around her to affect her overall disposition. She was alive, which, thinking of how lucky she was to be a survivor, was enough to lift her mood from the depressing view. Besides, she was supposed to be the one to keep the emotions positive in their group. What good would a negative person do in a situation like this?

She let out a little laugh as she realized how lost in thought she had become, which was something she does particularly often. Helga watched as Marc walked farther into the bio-zone until he became out of her eyesight, wondering how this scavenge would go.

This lifestyle, traveling in a group, was certainly one that she never experienced before, but in a strange way she felt more safe being with Marc and Grimm than when she living as a nurse in Canada. Oh well , she thought. It is what it is.

Time passed on with Marc still inside of the zone, and Grimm mentioned he caught sight of someone other than Marc through his scope, almost making her jump. She watched, widened green eyes unable to see what was happening, but had her focus on it. It was almost as if the mention of a confrontation made her whole body stand on edge. She remained in silence after her question, and calmed down when the heat apparently died between the stranger and Marc.

“I’ll start a fire.”

She watched as Grimm had walked off, and observed around the room in search of a decent place the fire. This corner would do well, gathering around the supplies she needed and forms a temporary fire pit. Helga already had firewood suitable for the fire itself, having foraged for them earlier that day. She sets up the dried firewood in a suitable arrangement, having learned the ability to do so when she was younger, from observing her father. There isn’t anything that I can use to start it, though. Not quickly, at least, she thought to herself, trying to think if there was something around her that she could use.

Oh! She realized where there may be something useful. Marc did leave some of his supplies as he went into the zone. I wonder if he has one? I hope that he doesn’t mind I go through his belongings . She went to where his bag was located, carefully rummaging through what he left in search of something to help aid the start of it the fire, making sure to place everything back in order. She didn’t want to make it look like she was nosily poking around in his things, and had no idea how Marc would react if he found out what she was doing.
“This would work!” Helga exclaimed softly and to herself, having found what she needed: a firestarter. She starts the fire without too much trouble and steps back, watching as the small spark spread with speed among the wooden pieces. She sits down on the floor that surrounded the pit, memories flooding back suddenly of when she first attempted to start a fire. Helga and her father had gone camping for the day, their mother to be waiting at home upon their return when the night fell. She was rather young, but couldn’t remember exactly how young; fourteen at the most. Her father showed her how and she attempted herself, guided by his help. Helga let out a laugh as she gazed into the fire, remembering how then she would struggle then throw a tantrum about how she couldn’t get the flame going, and then just giving up entirely. How different I was then. Helga found herself to be amused at her childhood silliness.

Helga placed the firestarter exactly where she had found it, and got up quickly, hearing footsteps, only to see Grimm walk into the room. Before he had walked in, she had frozen in place, looking like a doe caught in the headlights. Regaining her composure, she let out a sheepish laugh.

“You startled me.” Saying to him, her accent thicker than usual due to her own embarrassment. Helga went over to where her own belongings were, and gave a sideways glance at Grimm while he tended to the flames. Do they trust me any? And if they do, how much? I hope that he didn’t see me going through Marc’s bag in search for the firestarter. He may think I was doing something suspicious. She didn’t have a strong sense of boundaries established among the terms of how much she’s trusted by the two of them. It’s only been a short time since she joined them back in, what city was it? Oh, yes, it was called Toledo a city in just as poor a condition as this one if not worse.

She removed the contents of her backpack with care, placing them on a cleaner part of the building’s floor, and took inventory. The shovel was strapped along the side of her bag already, so she didn’t need to remove that. The shovel was a bit rusty with sanded wooden handle, but had been barely touched otherwise otherwise. Helga looked at her small record player next, smiling a bit as it seemed to be such a random thing to own in a time like this. She only owned one record, which had been a one-sided 45 rpm of Kitty Kallen’s “Star Eyes.” Maybe someday I’ll be able to come across more, she hoped, having listened to the little vinyl too many times. Helga neatly placed the record player back into her backpack, opening up her doctor’s bag next. Everything was still in place, first-aid kit and all. She layered the medical bag on top of her record player, and looked into her drawstring canvas herb bag. It was khaki, and hadn’t contained anything yet, having not been able to find anything useful just yet. She didn’t own much, but saw no need to.

Helga was happy to finally see Marc return, but that bit of relief to be had from his arrival was short- lived; the news he had come back with wasn’t good. Once she had caught up with what had happened, she spoke what they thought they should do.

“We should go find Jameson.” She said, unable to pronounce his name correctly with her accent, “If what is in the other briefcase is of that much importance, do we have any other options?” She paused, and looked over the two, her expression serious, but soon lightened up a little. “We can do this. I definitely feel that we can.”

Perhaps what she said hadn’t been the truth, but it was what they needed in such tense of a situation. She managed a smile.