While there is no reason to designate a room, Jon is in room #8. Feel free to designate your character's room if you feel it necessary, but it is not required.

The CDC isolation facility is located on a remote part of Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. The facility was a last minute dump of funds and born of desperation once certain officials come to grasps with the realization of what was going on in the world: they were losing.

This project was actually done at a level of secrecy never before seen and this was thought necessary to ensure the project was done in the proper way and would not be corrupted. The building had already been under construction but the plans were just modified.

Essentially, they filled the facility with individuals who had knowledge or skill sets that the government deemed important for the world once things started to be rebuilt. At this point, the government came to a general consensus that the US, and the world, would fall to the threat. They also believed that at some point, humans would come back into power over the world, and once this was done, it was important not to “start over” from the beginning. They knew that skilled people were assets and vital to the nation, and eventually the world, rebuilding.

Some individuals were selected and went willingly. Some were not so willing and were forcefully taken into the facility. Upon selection, subjects were exposed to the infection. Any person in the facility is immune, and a great many who were selected were not so lucky.

Rooms are relatively small, about the size of a motel room. There is a small bathroom with a shower inside. The rooms have a small kitchen area also. There is enough room for some workout equipment and some individuals requested treadmills and weights. Others requested art easels, TVs, books, or other things. No weapons were allowed however.

The rooms would be pumped with gas occasionally and the people inside would be removed while rooms were cleaned and restocked. The people would wake up in their beds after and notice the rooms were cleaned. Most were made aware that this would happen prior to entering, but some didn’t make that kind of knowledge an option.

People inside were cut off to anything outside of the room with the exception of being able to speak to the guards through a comm-unit in the room. Books, magazines, movies and music were allowed, but heavily restricted.

Essentially, once the building went “active,” nothing came in, nothing went out. It was stocked for up to a year and a half. This included the guards on duty, as they had no contact with family, friends, or the government.

Floors were totally isolated from one another. Guards were limited to their floors and couldn’t access others. However, each floor had limited camera/video access to other floors and could see the larger areas, but not rooms from other floors.

Things went well for the for first 6 months, until the guards on the first floor decided to change things up by freeing those in the rooms. The guards from the other two floors watched, but did not do the same. All went well on the first floor for the first week. Watching from the videos, it was clear that the people were split into 2 groups: one wanted to leave, one wanted to stay. All was peaceful though and after days of beating the doors to the outside, and eventually using a makeshift torch to cut through the locks and the guards also using their access to bypass electric locks, they opened the doors.

And almost immediately, the undead outside pushed their way inside. Only the guards had weapons, and these were pistols. Suffice it to say, the floor was a bloody mess of dead bodies in a few moments. The guards didn’t know it, but once the doors were unlocked, they were not able to be closed or locked, so all the people inside could to was try to stop the undead horde from pushing through, and that was not going to happen.

About a month and a half later, both the second and third floor watched as the first floor was cleared of the reanimated by what at first looked like a military unit. They were uniformed and well armed and when they came up the stairs to the access door to the second floor, they breached it with explosives. Upon entering, they opened up fire on the guards within. Watching through the video monitors, the third floor guards saw that somehow there was a high intensity fire, most likely started from the explosives used to get into the door. The blaze increased quickly, and there was a small explosion before the fire system went off...which also triggered all of the doors to open as a security measure.

At this point, things go extremely chaotic as those from the second floor tried to flee. Some succeeded, some burned alive. At this same time however, the reanimated hordes began to enter the first floor and the bandit militia attacking was caught between the guards and people trying to flee the second floor, a spreading fire, and risen humans trying to eat them. Things didn’t end well for anyone, but eventually the fire was put out.

The guards on the third floor breathed easier, as they weren’t sure how truly “isolated” the floors were from one another. But they smelled no smoke, heard no gunfire, and didn’t feel the explosion from earlier.

Then, on the 29th of October, something happened...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So essentially, the RP starts at NOON on November 3rd, 2017. For the CDC group, it OFFICIALLY starts when the doors open.

For the Walkers, it will start, well, in the middle of whatever your chars are doing at noon, haha.

Reserved.

Abandoned house. Southwest Missouri.

Gunfire echoed about the ruined stone walls of the abandoned cellar their little group had taken refuge in. They were cornered, only one way out and it was flooded with the undead. Terry gave a loud curse, tossing another improvised incendiary out into the massing crowd of walkers, a number of them lighting up, flailing around briefly, catching a few more, only for the flames to die out as they collapsed, barely making a dent in the flow. They were running low on time and ammo, and frankly, it wasn't looking good in the slightest. A shout of 'reloading!' was heard, followed by a few more. There wasn't time. The flow was coming in too strong. Terry's mind rushed, crowbar seeming to leap from his belt to his hand as the first few zeds made it to the cellar doors. The first was met with a bar of iron, skull splintering and brain quite literally flying out of the back of its skull at the impact. But more just kept coming, no matter how many heads he bashed in protection of his friends, all still firing into the horde. The pile of bodies was slowing them... But not by enough.
"Fuad! Get your ass over here!"

Fuad. He had to save that little foreign bastard, if anybody. Another few heads cracked, one behind him exploding into bone and brain as the man he sought blew it to pieces with his shotgun, already making his way over.

Fuad looked back, shaking his head and fighting down panic as he watched Terry lighting the undead. He told him a few times to make EXPLOSIVES, because last Fuad checked, fire could kill HIM too. And he knew Terry would see it his way and stop eventually. Maybe tonight, if he died. Or whenever old age took him. But he wouldn't do it simply because something like logic came into play. Not Terry. He put his shotgun away to conserve rounds and looked about. It wasn't looking promising...

He was actually thankful for the light of the fire however, because the streams of light from various flashlights created odd affects and messed with depth perception, so a constant stream of non-LED light was actually a godsend of sorts...even it was only to see the swarms of zombies coming down. Several member had fallen and Fuad couldn't help but think to himself, as he brought his own crowbar smashing into the skull of a zombie with sickening, brutal efficiency, that they were going to die if they didn't come up with a way out.

"I'm right next to you, you old fuck, do you have your glasses on?" he shot back, his accent having noticeable arabic tone to it, but the form of his dialogue was impeccable, almost articulate. Where Terry was bullheaded, strong and more stubborn than smart, Fuad was the opposite; dexterous, quick and thoughtful. Where Terry channeled his rage into the face of of whatever stood before him (most likely with his crowbar or fist), and he had what could only be called tunnel-vision as he looked for more things to kill, Fuad was always looking at the whole picture. Could they win? Was this a real threat? He often had to verbally drag Terry away from situations because truth be told, there were times when it was obvious to Fuad that if he weren't there, Terry would simply have fought until either all the zombies in the world were dead, or his crowbar broke, along with his hands and whatever else he could smash then broke, until he was dead.

Fuad reached out with the metal gauntlet, grabbing another by the throat and pulling it to the ground to dispatch it a bit easier. Then he saw the window. "Watch my back guys," he said to whoever hadn't fallen still, mainly to Terry. He climbed a solid metal table and unlatched the window. Normally, this would be a serious no-no. Opening a window, let alone crawling out of it in an area that you know is crawling with zeds while unable to defend yourself was a sure way to die.

He'd take his chances there as opposed to either being eaten and turning, or lit on fire or smoked out by Terry. He opened the latch, pulled himself up so his feet were off the table, and peeked out...

Terry gave nothing but a snort, backing up with Fuad and ensuring his back was clear- No one else was able, after all. Barely any of their group survived, excluding Fuad and Terry themselves, and all of them were cornered deeper in the cellar- They wouldn't last long.

"Hurry up, Fuad! They're hording in like flies to shit! And if I don't fit through that window, I blame you!"
Because what other sensible option was there?

Thankfully, the fields proved clear where Fuad looked out, a clean run off of the little farmhouse's land and into the main road, leading all the way to a nearby city- An admittedly very, very long journey on foot. But it was their best option by far. A number of grunts from Terry suggested the zeds were closing in, causing him a bit of trouble- And an ominous lack of gunshots came from their companions, shortly followed by screams of agony. They were on their own, now...

Fuad yelled "going up" but wasn't sure Terry would have been able to hear him between the fact that his body was on the other side of the window, and it was loud as shit in the basement. He felt a loud crash more than heard it inside the cellar, but he simply pulled himself up and focused on that. He yelled into the window, "get the hell up here," and then moved to the side of the building to peek around the large country house.

He was shocked. There were easily 30 zombies that he could see, not including those cut off from his view by the house, or already inside. He moved back and saw Terry's head and arms coming out, and couldn't help but chuckle. "At least if you get stuck and die, the house will burn down around them as they eat your old, fat ass." With that, he moved to help Terry up.

The old man huffed, having only a slight bit of trouble fitting through the window before climbing free, kicking a zed or two in the face on the way. He snarled over his shoulder at the house, gesturing for Fuad to move away and rummaging in the satchel at his side a moment, tossing something.... ominous, in the window behind them. With a flick of his wrist, a match followed it in, and he set to hauling some serious ass away from the farmhouse.

As they ran, Fuad couldn't help but look over and tell Terry, "I was joking about the fat ass thing. I can tell you've been counting calories."

Terry simply flipped him off on the run. The two barely made it out of range in time before flames flickered in the basement of the farmhouse behind them- shortly before they apparently found something explosive. With an air-rending blast, the house pretty much exploded. Must have caught a gas main... Wood, glass, chunks of earth, stone, and zombie bits flew everywhere, almost entirely on fire. The wall of heat and pressure hit Terry and Fuad full in the back, sending Terry flat on his face, and no doubt sending the smaller Fuad flying. Poor guy.

Fuad hit the ground and found himself face first in the cold, wet October dirt. He spat some out and rubbed his lips, giving a few little spits before turning around. It was a fucking disaster. Most of the home was gone except one sliver of a wall and fire was everywhere, illuminating the night brilliantly. Some of that fire appeared to be moving or walking around, shambling aimlessly as if alive. And it was. Well, it was undead. The zombies were ablaze but still focusing on the sights and sounds. Fuad couldn't guess for sure if they were actually confused, so much as the sheer volume of sensory information had them reacting to too many things at once. Hopefully, they just burned out. Sometimes, they would live after being set aflame and simply be disfigured and reek of burnt flesh. The fire had to be long and intense to really "kill" the infected.

Fuad wasn't really religious, but he gave a quick moment of silence and paid respects to those that didn't make it out.

Terry groaned, getting back to his feet and cracking his neck, rubbing at his shoulder and grinning wickedly at Fuad.
"Not so proud of your damn walking bombs now, are ya, my little hajji friend? You people need a vest for something like that, right?"
Terry the racist jerk. Truth be told, he wasn't racist, and Fuad knew it, but it was a way to get under his skin. And oh, the humor.

"You redneck piece of shit. I'm not Iraqi. Sure as hell not a terrorist. And then the Shiites--you know what. Nevermind. I know you're not too fond of syllables and words other than fuck, shit, kill and," he went on to make a series of several animalistic grunts and growls. "So here: fuck off. And what do you know about Iraq, weren't you fighting the Krauts in World War 2 anyway?"

Despite the content of the conversation, both men found themselves smiling...but neither of them would admit it. 6 or so months of surviving together, living through disaster after disaster and wave upon wave of undead, and constantly battling and avoiding human bandits had developed into a unique relationship between the two.

From the outside looking in, the two could almost be viewed as bad people. Heartless. Cold. They showed almost no remorse after losing several other people in a manner of minutes. The truth of it is that both stopped feeling anything for new people many months ago. Somehow, it seemed that no matter what, those around Terry and Fuad died. Both saw it, realized it and had come to terms with it in one way or another, but they never talked about it. They'd talk about anything BUT that.

It seemed that laughing at one another, making light of the death and misery around them that came in so many forms, the only thing they had to stay sane were things like that: the joking, ribbing and making light of everything. Well, they also had each other, but good luck convincing THEM of that.

December 18th 2015.

The man sat at his desk inside the CIA South Regional Office in Oklahoma City, going over the diagnostics of a test server that they'd be shipping off to Europe. It was a typical boring day, starting with going through emails, prioritizing them and then scheduling the day and rest of the week, knowing the emails tomorrow would change the majority of the schedule anyway. Thus was the life of Jon Erikson, a Computer Maintenance Tech for the CIA. Although the title sounded mundane, there was a lot to what Jon did and on top of that, he was amazing at his job. He would build, install, set up, and then integrate servers all over the world, servers that needed to be isolated from the public, safe from the highest levels of intrusion and be networked to the upper levels of the US governments, along with that of other nations on occasion.

A lot of money was spent on Jon because he was aggressive with his job, opting to go well beyond the normal CIA book of "how to train a tech" and get involved in things like cyber security, hacking and staying up to date on what was going on in the cyber world at all times. Initially, the higher ups didn't want take the time, or spend the money, training him. That was until Jon went home and in 8 hours, hacked into a CIA database and collected all of the personal data on the director of operations himself. He sent his boss an email asking, "how much would terrorists be willing to pay for this on e-bay?"

As soon as the investigation was over and Jon was released from a maximum security facility, and his house was tore apart and searched...and his entire life combed through by agents... he was given a lot more flexibility in his schedule.

Some days were simply answering emails and trouble shooting remotely, and on those days he DID feel like a glorified comp tech, but they were also a bit of a relief from the every day stresses. And to be honest, Jon didn't like dealing with people. He preferred to do things along and would rather work remotely so he just didn't have to deal with people and their daily crap.

He looked outside and threw on a spring jacket, getting ready to head to lunch when the PING sound of an incoming email could be heard. The title was "SERVER - OCONUS" and Jon immediately groaned. He opened and read the email and his response was a somewhat loud, and annoyed "mother fucker." A few other people in the office looked at him for a moment, but one of the guys in the office who Jon actually talked to, Austin Boggs, came up over to him and clapped him on the back, asking "what's the good news?"

Jon threw his hand towards the screen, indicating to the email. "They're sending me to Turkey. Tomorrow. Un-fucking-believable."

Austin simply laughed at that and again gave him another clap on the back. "Oh man. Happy Christmas man. I guess that's why you get paid the big bucks, huh Mr I-Build-All-The-Top-Secret-Computer?"

He stared at the screen, shaking his head for a moment longer then sighed before turning to look at Austin. "Well. Looks like you're going to take me out and buy me lunch, since I'm going to be leaving early to pack my shit."

"Man we're CIA, didn't they teach you to keep your go back packed at all times?"

"Yeah, remember I had to go to Mexico a last week? My shit isn't even clean yet. And you're such a tool, those go bags are for when shit hits the fan. That's my stealth, ninja shit. Not my Fixing-Server attire."

"Yeah, because when shit hits the fan, they're going to call the CIA South and say 'quick, we need some of your deadliest techs to come and save the day!' Happens all the time Jon. We're all actually a bunch of super spies, ready to go take down super villains at a moment's notice."

Jon shoved Austin, timing it perfectly so that Boggs was pushed into and almost knocked over the big water jug on its dispenser. "Don't kill my dreams, asshole. I'm going to be the first person in this office with a confirmed kill."

"Yeah, confirmed to kill a bunch of time," Austin shot back as the two entered the elevator, heading towards lunch.

Late February, 2017...

The first nights were all a blur due to shock and sleep deprivation. Most of the days were spent running at a jog pace, putting distance between him and everything. On the fourth day, he stopped in a small clearing in between sprawling, new subdivisions and sat.

He looked around him, making sure he wasn't near anyone or anything, and he found himself panicking slightly when suddenly it hit him. He needed a plan. Running just to run and stay alive wasn't a solid plan, he needed something more, at least something to run towards.

He heard two gunshots fired far off in the distance and was roused from his thoughts. Death was everywhere and it was worse than he could have ever imagined. One would imagine that in a time of crisis like this, people would come together, nations would find a common cause, and trivial conflicts would be over looked. At first it seemed that way. People helping, offering shelter, donating things and giving excess things to those in need.

Then, bad things happened. Yes, amidst something like in infection that reanimated bodies, OTHER bad things. Nuclear weapons were fired. Countries were at war. Minor looting broke out. Then, not even an hour after he'd left Phoenix and made it out to the suburbs, 2 fighter jets ripped by over head, followed by a larger bomber of some sort (or at least that was his guess). Both dropped payloads over the city.

The. Whole. Fucking. City.

It was shocking, awe inspiring and terrifying, and that was only added to when the force of the explosions pushed everything outward, and eventually, he was forced to hide inside an abandoned car as dust and debris moved past him. He laid there, moving in and out of half-sleep, until things outside calmed down and he felt it was safe to exit. He looked around and didn't know what to think, what to make of the situation. He jogged off east, never looking back at until the city was out of his sight completely.

That was about, what, 9 or 10 days ago now, and he sat in the field, alone and with nothing but a bat, a sword and a backpack with some clothes and food. The only thing he could think of was "head east," but that was too vague. Then he thought of something. Find a small town, or maybe an isolated house somewhere and either see if they'd let him in, or if it was abandoned, stay there and find a secure and safe place to sleep.

It wasn't long before he chanced upon a new home off of a two lane highway, a two story yellow house with no vehicles parked anywhere. He made his way to the door and on it was spray painted was "Empty. Enjoy. Pray hard." After a quick walk through the house, he made his way upstairs, closed a door behind him and laid in a bed. He was about 3 thoughts into figuring out a plan when sleep over took him.

It was the best sleep Fuad could remember in a long time.

And that sleep was ruined when he was roused by a violent shake. He suddenly became aware of the words around him, people yelling. "Get the fuck up, slow."

"Now!"

At first he thought they were police, but even in his sleepy state of confusion and shock, it immediately became apparent that they were not. They were guys in clothes, armed randomly and there was shouting and arguing below, on the first floor.

There arguing below intensified as Fuad heard men arguing about something "being mine" while another said the same. Then some others laughed but Fuad was shoved and one man who was holding a shotgun commanded "gimme your shit Osama."

The other who didn't seem to be armed added "poor habibi, looks like no virgins for you."

He reached for his back, debating grabbing his sword when the argument downstairs intensified and gunshots were fired. Both of the men looked out the door, towards the stairs and Fuad wasted didn't hesitate. He picked up the sword and slammed it up with all of his force into the man with the shotgun. The sword went in through the man's stomach, just below the belly button and came up through the back of the man's shoulder blade area. There was no hollywood scream or spray of blood.

But Fuad would never forget how disgustingly hot and wrong the blood felt as it immediately spilled out onto his hand. It took a moment for the other to realize what happened, but Fuad was quicker. He grabbed the shotgun from the man's weak grip, aimed it in the general direction of the other man and pulled the trigger, just as more gunshots were fired below.

By sheer luck, the buckshot round took the unarmed man clean in the neck and lower face, and at less than three feet, the damage was devastating. "Holy fuck," he said.

Sometimes Fuad still saw that in his nightmares.

Thinking quick, he grabbed all of his gear, the shotgun and looted the bodies, then closed the door. He took a moment to listen and no one seemed to be worried about upstairs, since there was chaos below. He opened a window, climbed out and dropped down into the grass, sneaking away.

His hands didn't stop shaking for several hours that night...

02:00
February 15th, 2017

The screams echoed through the night sky as Triss and her father ran down the poorly light roads, blood still dripping from both her bat and her father's arm. The events of ten minutes ago still hadn't completely processed in Triss's head, but only one word was going through her head in this particular moment. Run.

Her heart pounded against her chest as they hopped what seemed like the hundredth fence. The lights were getting dimmer now. They must've been getting close to the edge of the city by now. She hoped they were getting close to the edge. Away from the people, away from the bodies, away from the monsters. She couldn't believe she was running this fast. Or was her father just running slow? Was he sick, like the rest of them? Had the bite already started to take effect? "No." she thought "Not the time for this. Keep running." she willed herself on, through the alleys and down the streets, past the barking dogs and car alarms. Run.

*****

09:00
February 22nd, 2017 One week after Day Zero...

They had been running for a week now, running on nothing but granola bars and juice boxes. The first night had really shown her what fear was, but instinct had kicked in and now all she thought of was "Survive."
Her father's condition had gotten worse. They'd stop for a rest and her father couldn't stop coughing. Worse yet, Triss thought she had seen blood come out once. Maybe it was her imagination. Maybe not.

That's what scared her the most. The zombies were nothing anymore. They didn't scare her much now, no. It was the fact that she may be on her own now. That's what scared the hell out of her. Being alone in a world where every living thing, and most things that weren't, were trying to kill you.

But she couldn't think like that, not now. They continued on through the brisk weather, cold trembles running through her body sucking every last bit of warmth from her. She clenched her hands in the pockets of her parka, trudging through the cold, wet grasslands, the mud under her boots sloshing at each step, freezing her feet to the bone. They hadn't seen people in days, and even the ones they had seen then were running and had no interest in them. Her fear of being alone was slowly coming true. "No, we have to keep going....he needs medecine. He needs to live." she repeated to herself, quiet enough so that her father couldn't hear.

*****

19:00
March 8th, 2017 Three weeks after Day Zero..

The crack of a match warmed her for a split second before the wind picked up and blew out the little flame of hope in her hand "Damn it" she swore under her breath, her hands trembling. She moved to the other side of the unlit camp fire, putting her back to the wind. Another crack, another flame. She shielded this one with her free hand, moving it slowly towards the small pile of twigs and with a satisfying burst of warmth, the fire lit. It was slow at first, but Triss was patient and as she added slightly bigger pieces of wood, it lit and rewarded her with a sizable flame. She stuck her hand in her bag, grabbing one of the few remaining granola bars from her bag before realising she hadn't seen her dad in ten or fifteen minutes. As she went to open it, something groaned behind her and a massive pain shot up her shoulder.

Everything happened so fast. Almost as if an animal instinct had taken over her body, Triss reacted on pure adrenaline, knocking him off with a swift elbow to it's face before running over to where she had left her bat against the tree. She picked it up in one hand, grasping it lightly with her injured arm before winding up and hitting the zombie as hard as she could across the head, before beating it to a pulp. She collapsed on the ground, completely drained of energy, only managing to crawl over to the fire before spots flew across her vision and a warm liquid ran down her arm. She lay there, bordering unconsciousness as blood flowed slowly from the bite. Then it all went black.

Three weeks after punching Tara in the face, three weeks since her last curling iron session, three weeks since she’d had a hot shower. Could that really be true? Three weeks?

Marni scrubbed her fingers over her face hiding a yawn as she trudged on. Following some small highways was the easiest way to maintain her route westward, and for the most part she had spent the time alone. Which, when considering the alternative, was welcome.

Bringing her fingers away she saw how grimy they were and felt alarm and disgust with herself. Even when on tour she had never gotten this unappealing. What would she give for a bath…Or a brush…or a Neutrogena face cleanser mask with cucumber under eye circle concealer… Maybe some Crest 3D whitening strips?

Day dreaming kept Marni going for some time before coming to a small town. One of those towns with two stop lights. She hovered on the edge of the town for some time watching, waiting. She didn’t see much movement… Marni wasn’t so sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. At this point it was a mixed bag. Did that mean most of the people were well and held up in their homes? Or sick and out wandering the planes?

Were the few straggling around survivors or victims?

Reaching to her pack she grabbed her beretta and pulled it out of the side pocket, shoving it into her coat pocket carefully before making her way towards the houses on the outskirts of the ‘town.’ Even if they didn’t have an oil free facial scrub, perhaps some of the abandoned ones had bottled water.

Marni had a water purification kit in her pack, but she liked to save supplies wherever possible. If she could drink someone else’s water she’d be twice as happy. Edging along, standing stone still whenever she heard a twig break or the wind bustle through the leafs of a tree, Marni took a good 20 minutes to cross a distance that should have taken her 5.

Again, when she was finally at the back porch she stood and listened. There was no sound coming from the house. It looked vacant…The window blinds pulled down…no cars nearby…no pets wandering around.

This was as good a bet as any. Stepping up the porch Marni pulled the screen door open and moved towards the back door. She reached for the handle and nearly jumped out of her skin when the door was opened from the inside.

Considering the difficulties she had seen with the various infected beforehand she doubted they could handle a knob. Still she was clutching her chest and panting as an older man stood there staring at her.

“What are you doing?” He snapped. Marni backed up quickly. The man didn’t look sick but maybe he was just in the early stages. Then again he probably thought that of her. “Looking for clean drinking water…” She replied lamely, scuttling to the very back step of the porch, ready to flee.

“hmmph…” He grumbled. He had a gold cross hanging from a chain around his neck. It appeared the old man was feeling some confliction on whether he should help her or not…Marni could relate…Not really. The gold did not match is pallor at all. Hadn’t anyone ever told him he was a winter, not a summer?

“Well come on in then.” He muttered, holding the door open and flapping Marni inside. She hesitated and he snapped “Well do you want the water or not?!” “Yes Sir!” She replied, automatically responding to that commanding tone.

The old man seemed surprised by her sudden formality and chuckled even, a rusty old sound . She slipped past the old man and looked about his dim house as he locked the door behind her. Beretta still in her pocket Marni didn’t feel all that worried.

“So where are you abouts?” He wanted to know, waddling over to a cabinet and producing a small bottled water. “Virginia…” He nodded. “Do you know what’s going on out there?” Marni asked, suddenly wondering if this lunatic just thought the power was out…

“I’m not stupid girl. Course I know. Whole world has gone mad that’s what…”

She couldn’t really argue with that and instead peeled the cap off her water bottle and took a sip. Fresh water… Marni was sore tempted to poor some on her face but was sure the old man would lose his beans if she did. She settled for dabbing some on her palms and wiping her face…Which probably just spread the grime around even more. Oh well. Perhaps if she moved it around correctly it would look like bronzer on her cheeks?

A low moan fluttering from the back of the house made Marni pause in her process of making her dirt shading more appealing.

Her head whipped around nervously and Marni’s hand reached for her beretta instinctively. “What was that?” she asked uncomfortably. The old man sighed. “The old lady isn’t well—Hey!.”

Marni was jumping to her feet, almost knocking over her opened water bottle. “You have her in the house!? Don’t you know what will happen? What she’ll turn into?” The man was mad! Simply Mad!

“I didn’t let you into my house to have you criticize me little missy…I have it in hand, just settle down.”

“In hand?” How could he possibly have it in hand? Marni’s green eyes bugged out of her ‘bronzed face’.

The old man looked smug. “Yes. In hand. Martha and I have been married for 43 years and I’m not about to let some illness stop that. So I’ve got her under control until they find a cure.” Exactly who he thought would be finding this cure was beyond Marni. They were all gone. There was no They. It was just Us and We and Me.

Marni shook her head but listened intently. The moaning had stopped but there were no other sounds coming from the backroom.

How had he gotten his wife contained? Tara hadn’t been that strong of a woman and yet she broke down that office door eventually. Something about whatever it was that changed them seemed to make them stronger…Or something.

“Controlled?” Marni asked again, settling uneasily back into her chair and picking up her water bottle. Might as well hydrate while she could. “Yes.” The old man replied shortly.

They sat in silence for probably a good 20 minutes before Marni caved, her curiosity getting the best of her. “how?”

The old man grumbled but stood up (with some effort) and waved her along. It was a bizarre sight. The old woman was obviously inflicted, pulling at her own skin, moaning, yanking at her chains. And that’s what was keeping her firmly in ‘control.’ Chains and chains. Around her arms and wrists and ankles and neck and torso, anchored to eyebolts in the floor . She looked like some wild animal chained up for the amusement of humans.

An odd part of Marni felt pity for the woman and she turned away quickly. And he was doing this to his wife? Then again…his wife would eat him up were she free. And surely those eyebolts wouldn’t hold for very long?

“How long have you had her like this?” Marni wanted to know, the husband was still watching his wife. “A week.” He muttered, reaching to close the door to the bedroom so Martha was no longer visible.

A week. Surely she would escape soon. Rip this man’s guts out…

“Can I crash here?” She wanted to know, indicating the couch. The old man muttered and came back with a pillow and a blanket. Marni smiled her charming cashiers smile and settled down on the sofa.

For three days she mooched off the old man and kept an eye on his old lady. For three days he fed her and gave her shelter and watered her. And for those days Marni kept an eye on the woman, watching her progress from agitated to impatient to ruthlessly fighting against her confines, lusting for their flesh. The woman would break free. Marni knew it.

So on the fourth day she shot the woman in the head, wasting a precious bullet for the grumpy old man in the hopes that he might make it. She didn’t stay long to see what he thought of the mess she had made, merely took a few water bottles and headed out, westward once more.

Leon lay in bed, wide awake. He'd been awake for around two hours, pondering on how he was going to make it through the coming days. His supplies were running low, and he was severely rationing himself. The rats that had managed to get in the night before and gnaw their way through his food and drink didn't help. Leon spent the next of that night hunting them down with his axe. He went to bed at about 3:00am, with the axe propped up against the bedside table next to the bed. It gave Leon a sense of security, knowing he could spring to his feet at any moment and end up fighting for his life against the things that had the only intention of eating him.

He sighed, swung his legs across, planted them firmly on the floor and pushed himself up. Leon picked up the fire axe and held it close as he stepped out into the hallway. He knew he was alone, but that didn't stop him making sure every room was clear before he relaxed. He'd taken shelter in a long abandoned home, that showed it. The nature outside was beginning to show signs of retaking it, and dust collected in every corner and crevice. The windows were hastily boarded up, thanks to the previous owner. As he inched his way down the stairs, the makeshift barricade he'd constructed by the front door seemed unmoved. It consisted of a sofa, a table, and a couple of drawers.

After making sure there was nothing lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce, Leon settled down in the living room, by his bag. He rummaged through it and grabbed a tin of beans and a spoon. That is what he'd been reduced to. Eating a tin of cold beans while squatting in a home that he'd only taken shelter in to avoid a large group of the infected. The light trickled in through the cracks in the boards, slightly illuminating the room. Leon wolfed down the rest of the beans and then tossed the tin in the corner, where a small hill of old tins was beginning to form. Leon grimaced as he looked at it, but stood up anyway and headed into the hall.

Leon stopped as soon as he got in. He heard a squeaking sound. The rats. Leon readied his axe and began searching the ground floor. He wasn't letting them eat through his supplies again. He stepped over to the cupboard and held his breath. Leon yanked it open. The rats came pouring out. That amount caught him by surprise, and knocked him back. Leon elbowed the mirror behind him, and the shards came crashing down upon his back. He was extremely fortunate not to be cut too badly. That was the last thing he needed after the gash in his leg from when he first escaped the rampaging undead.

The next thought on his mind was the sound. That was bound to draw at least a couple of them. And once they see one or two trying to get into a place, the others all get into the same mindset and do everything within their power to break into the same place. Leon decided it was time to move, and jogged into the living room to gather his supplies. He didn't even know if the undead were going to break in, he was just taking precautions. Leon zipped up the bag and made for the back door. But once he arrived, he forgot he'd barricaded that too. He was being chased when he first set up shop in the house, so he wasn't taking any chances.

Only, that barricade could turn out to be the end of him. The infected were now trying to get in through the front door and windows Leon could hear the boards cracking and the door about to cave in. He was busy trying to tear the back door's defences down so he could escape, but whenever he pulled one thing out, something else seemed to take it's place. He cast a glance back over his shoulder, and saw arms poking through the windows. The moans and groans were getting louder. It was like they knew they were about to get in and have their first meal of the day. Leon kept checking while he was trying to get through.

Persistent fuckers, he thought.

Leon eventually began trying to break through using the axe, and finally did it. The last of the barricade fell away, and Leon kicked down the door. Just as he did so, the overwhelming weight of the combined infected broke in, and they came tearing through the house. Leon sprinted down the garden and out the gate. He didn't know where to go. He had no car, little food and no way of getting help. Leon didn't even know where he was. Once he'd left the city, he just headed straight for the countryside to avoid masses of the infected that gathered in the cities. Leon decided to head down the main road.

He just kept walking after that. Homeless. No shelter. He had no idea on what to do or where to go. He had a pretty good set up, but now the only thing that separated him from the infected was the fact he was still alive. Leon kept checking over his shoulder and every turn. He was paranoid after that close encounter. The adrenaline was flowing through him. He was on edge, and was willing to decapitate anything that came near him, friend or foe. Leon thought he was drifting into insanity, but hoped he could hide it from anybody he came across, if he didn't have a full mental breakdown first.

Sitting alone at a small diner was a man, his only company a cup of coffee he hadn't touched, an empty glass of water, and a plate with a half eaten sandwich. He checked his watch and took another bite, washing it down with water as another man came and sat down without a word. The two nodded to each other and stared for a few moments. The one who'd been sitting was clean shaven, younger looking and had very short, brown hair while the other was a bit older with longer blond hair and a full, albeit slightly short beard.

Finally, the younger one spoke up. "Hey man." The other responded, "hey," and there was another minute silence. The bearded man spoke up again. "You uh. We need to talk. Can you..."

He stared at the bearded man, raising an eyebrow. He'd known him for some time, even done a few missions together. He also knew what he was, and what he heard in his voice wasn't supposed to be there. Something was wrong. "Yeah. Sure man."

The older of the two sat and stared at the table, the fingers of his hand tapping in some random patterns that he couldn't figure out as he watched him. Everything about this screamed "wrong" to him as he watched. Finally the other man spoke up, confirming his thoughts. "Man...I. Something's wrong."

"I can see that," he responded, taking a sip of his water.

"It's that I've been. I don't know man. Thinking. Have you ever thought about what we do?"

"Every time we have to do it."

The man gave a frustrated sigh through his beard. "No. Think. Like. Look at that couple there, what do you see."

He looked over, there was a man and woman sitting together at a table. "They are intimate and exclusive, but they haven't been together long. They didn't sit across from each other, they sat closer so that their knees were almost touching. They're laughing and flirting and don't seem to pay attention to anything going on around them. It seems as if the only thing in the world is each other."

"They're a couple, they're in love."

"And them?" The bearded man motioned to the couple across from them. He looked over, took it in for a fraction of a second. "Friends. They go to school, out for lunch. Plutonic. He's single, she's involved with someone, but he wants something with her. Not going to happen though." He could have gone on, mentioning other things about them, but he looked at the man across from him, sipped his water and asked, "what are you going on about?"

"Damnit man. You just see, you don't feel. What the fuck. I'm out man, I'm done. I can't just go on like this anymore. I stopped seeing and started feeling and I can't do this."

At this point, he didn't know what to say, how to react. He assumed this was some kind of test. The Agency had never done anything like this, but this was to see how he'd react, check if he was unraveling. He looked around suspiciously at this point, now wondering who in this diner was who...

It had to be, because there was no other excuse or reason that this could be happening. East West Six training doesn't allow this.

"Don't you ever want that? Any of that?"

"Look, I don--."

The man interrupted him, "Just. Listen. Because I can't tell anyone, but I have to tell someone. And you can tell them, tell them everything, I don't care. I can't just do this. I see that, that couple. And I know exactly what's going on, I probably know more than they do about what's going on. And I don't know shit. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. But lately, it's different. I want it. I just want other stuff."

He watched and listened staring at the man, studying him. What he saw and heard made him more nervous. He furrowed an eyebrow and tried to make heads or tails of this. He wanted to think it was a test, that this was something he was supposed to see and recognize.

But he could tell that everything that was being said was genuine. That was more disturbing than thinking this was some kind of test or set up.

He adjusted in his chair and took another sip of water, finishing the glass. "What do you want? What're you gunna do?"

"I don't know. What can I do? I don't know what I can do. I just. I want to feel something. I can see everything. I see people, families, love, hate, desire, fear. I see all kinds of stuff, and what do I have? It's empty. It's nothing."

He watched and listened and had no idea how to react. It wasn't about the situation though, not anymore. He simply had no idea what to say--which was ok because the bearded man seemed to be talking to himself more than anyone. He wasn't even looking at the young man across from him anymore, he was staring at something on the table.

There was another 2 or 3 minutes of silence before he continued speaking his thoughts. "You. Me. We're going to die some day. Maybe here. Maybe old age. Maybe in some sandy desert. Or some city. Or the jungle. Shot, stabbed or blown to shit. And we're not going to have anything. Not a fucking thing. Not even a god damn name. It'll be like we never fucking were."

He tugged at his beard in thought and stood up, exhaling deeply. "Look. Not sure what I'm going to do. But, you tell them whatever. I know you will tell them anyway. I hope you're better than me, I hope you never deal with this. Seeing is easier than feeling." He stood there as if he toyed with saying something else, saying more--or maybe he was hoping for the other man to say something.

Instead he nodded to the man as he stood there and without another word, he turned around and left.

The next morning, he was pulled into an office and interviewed by 4 other people and asked a myriad of questions regarding the meeting. He told them everything, exactly as it happened. Exactly as he was trained to do. Exactly as he knew he should.

The interview was over and the men all nodded and thanked him. He stood, opened the door and as he was about to step out, one of them said. "And by the way, Agent Jacobs committed suicide last night."

He nodded and left the office, and walked down the hallway. The only thing he could think is that he was not surprised. He saw this was going to happen.

01:00
March 9th, 2017

Triss opened her eyes to darkness. Pure and total darkness. But no, it wasn't total darkness. Little spots of light dotted the sky. Stars. She looked to her left, the campfire just barely smoldering, radiating the tiniest amount of heat in the cold of the night. She was laying flat on her back, just as she had been when she blacked out.

Wait. She had blacked out.

The realisation of what happened hit her like a brick wall, along with the pain and weakness that her injury had caused her. She lay there groaning and clawing her fingers into the dirt, her shoulder throbbing. She suddenly felt cold, her body began to tremble uncontrollably. "What's going on?" her mind raced, trying to reconstruct the events of the night before. Or was it a few nights go? How long had she been there? Questions with no answer, at least no answers that she had. She sat up slowly into a semi prone position, leaning on her good arm. She pulled herself towards the remnants of the fire, trying to warm herself. It was only when she put her hand down in the sticky, partly dried pool of blood from her injury that she realised why she felt so cold. She looked to where the pain was, but there was no evidence on the outside of her jacket that she had been bitten, besides a few small frays in the fabric.

And then a noise. Nothing too loud or scary, but loud enough that Triss froze on the spot, chills running down her spine. She forgot about the pain, the cold and the panic all in this instant. It was as if her senses were heightened somehow. She grasped her bat in one hand, moving herself across to the tree with her legs and support from her good arm, leaning against it.

And then without warning, the creature revealed itself. Clawed paws dug into the ground, beady black eyes staring at her. The creature had a jagged silhouette as if it had spikes on it's back.

The raccoon slowly approached her and Triss let out a sigh of relief, looking to the small animal "I....I d-don't have any food l-left.." she trembled, talking to the raccoon as if it could understand her. It stood up on its back paws, sniffing the air before it decided that the prospect of food wouldn't prove true and began to walk away from her, leaving her alone once again. The crickets chirped in the night and Triss swore she heard a wolf howl, but it was nothing to worry about as it sounded far away. She reached for her pack, remembering the few supplies she had collected in the sad excuse of a first aid kit. The moon emerged from the clouds, providing just enough light for her to find the ziploc bag filled with cloth and tattered bandages.

The sun had begun to rise as she managed to finally to tie the knot in the makeshift sling, supporting her wounded arm enough that the pain calmed down to a dull roar, rather than a blazing fire. She looked in her bag once again gulping down the last juice box before standing up, albeit it slowly, and walking on right past her father's mangled body. She was exhausted, in pain and running on minimal food. Her mind didn't even process the fact she had killed her father -or what he was- only hours before she awoke. And so she walked, searching for....well, she didn't know what she was searching for, only that she had to keep going or surely she'd be dead.

JULY 2008

“You should respect your elders.”

“C'mon, lady, don't make this difficult,” the mugger snapped. “Just hand it over.”

Deirdre Miller refused to budge, still holding the bag of groceries protectively in front of her. “Hell no. I worked hard for this money. I earned it. You sure as hell didn't do none of that.”

The mugger- he couldn't have been more than eighteen- sighed, pulled back his unnecessary Rams hoodie and lifted his oversized white tee enough for her to see the handle of the 9mm tucked into his waistband. “You don't want none of this, lady.”

Deirde just snorted in derision. “That supposed to impress me? Think no one's ever pulled a piece on me? Who you trying to impress, anyhow? No one's going to say 'shit, what a tough motherfucker' when they find out you rolled a fifty-two-year-old woman for three bucks and a paper bag with bread and eggs.”

The kid made the fatal mistake of trying to stare down Deirdre. She just looked right back into the young man's eyes.

The mugger broke first. He looked away, trying to play it off as if checking to see if anyone was coming down the sidewalk towards the two of them. But the woman knew she had won, established herself as more trouble than she was worth. “Now get the hell out of my way,” she commanded. “It's rude to block the sidewalk like that.”

Muttering curses and empty threats, the young man awkwardly shuffled aside, eyes cast down at his scuffed sneakers. Deirdre breezed past him, grocery bag swinging. “The 7-11 on Vandeventer is looking for help,” she advised as she passed the young man. “Check it out.”

JULY 2017

“You should respect your elders.”

The younger woman scowled. It was clear that at some point before the world fell apart she had been a monied individual- her dirt-streaked clothes were good designer brands, her speaking betrayed an excellent education. The .38 she pointed at Deirdre, however, ruined whatever positive impression she might have made. “Food. Ammunition. Anything else of value,” she ordered.

Deirdre shook her head. “Why you gonna do me like that? It's nearly a hundred degrees out. I'm an old lady, I need these supplies.”

“So do I,” the young woman said flatly. Somewhere nearby, a cicada began to drone. The two stood in the middle of Route 50, the sun-warmed asphalt soft beneath their feet.

“You're young, you got a gun, you can scavenge,” Deirdre protested. “I can't do none of that. Just let me by.”

“There's nothing to scavenge around here.”

“Sedalia is just four miles down the road,” Deirdre pointed vaguely behind the bandit. “There's gotta be plenty of supplies there.”

“I just came from Sedalia. Nothing there but a few thousand zombies and some maniacs holed up in the fairgrounds.”

“I need these supplies,” Deirdre protested. “C'mon, I'm just an old woman.”

“You want me to rob armed men instead? You're an easy target. Hand it over, Grandma.” The younger woman slowly thumbed back the hammer on the .38. “Now.”

“Where's you damn pride?” Deirdre grumbled, slowly pulling off the old gray backpack. The cans of food inside clinked suggestively together as she tossed the bag at the younger woman's foot. The bandit immediately knelt to inspect the treasures.

Deirdre was fast, much faster than most would expect a heavyset old woman to be. She was already moving forwards, her shin deliberately knocking against the revolver in the bandit's hand. Sweat and excitement had loosened her grip, the .38 slid across the hot roadway. The bandit looked up, gaping. She had been pretty once.

The heavy weight of the claw hammer came down directly in the center of the bandit's face. For a split second, Deirdre had the horrible image of her face collapsing inwards, like a basketball deflating. The woman fell forwards, her crushed face slamming to the asphalt. The arms moved, grabbing for Deirdre. The old woman brought the hammer down again, with all of her considerable weight, this time aiming for the back of the bandit's head.

Underneath the drone of the cicada, there was a sound like an eggshell breaking. And underneath the smell of Missouri in summer, there was a hot coppery scent.

After a moment, Deirdre stood, back up, panting in exertion, blood staining her scavenged clothing. “Sorry, lady,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

Fuad and Terry. Middle of nowhere, Missouri. October.
-------------

Fuad and Terry made their way off the road and stood in front of a two story country house. They'd watched it from across the road in the brush for a bit over a day to see if there were any signs of human beings. There were no noises, lights or sounds, and no one coming and going so it seemed clear for the most part. They looked the place over and it was closed up, but not fortified, which means that the people most likely left in the initial stages of the infection. The home was out in the middle of no where and there was nothing near it and it was fairly far off of the road which is why it hadn't been touched so far, or at least it didn't appear to be.

They stood there a few long moments, partly to check and make sure all was well and then another part of them didn't always like this. Sure, in the movies it was exciting and you'd find something bad ass, or maybe fight some zombies and all that good shit. There was some intense scene and they fought their way out or whatever. However in the real world, people got bit and infected, or got into shoot outs with hiding bandits. Sometimes you would shoot your way through a house, bludgeon living and dead people, only to find everything had been looted, you've wasted ammo and energy and have nothing to show for it but wounds or casualties. It was ugly business, brutal and it scared the shit out of Fuad.

Every house was different, and even the best ones still unsettled him. Seeing pictures of families, coming into homes with month old corpses...it was brutal mentally. Most people couldn't help but immediately start to piece it together, recreate what they thought happened in the dead's last moments. It wasn't usually until later that it hit the individual that they had recreated a mother killing their entire family, or that a father turned and attacked the son who smashed in the head of his father, only to find out his father killed the rest of the family and shot himself.

Each home had the potential to create nightmares at best, death at worst.

And they were about to venture into another.

"Ok. You go in first. Your bones are old and brittle and shit. And your meat is damn near expired. Zombies don't like that shit. It would be like biting a mouthful of dust. So you'll be safe. I'll wait here and. Recon. Or...whatever." He motioned with his hand for Terry to go on ahead.

Terry snorted at Fuad's words, having paused for a similar reason. His hesitation broke when Fuad spoke, and he strode forward.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be sure to point them to the special when they gripe about rotten food. Middle Eastern food."

With that quick quip, he headed for the house, hefting his crowbar and stepping as lightly as he could- Which wasn't exactly lightly. He was a big man, and this work was suited for small people, sneaking up on houses... Something he seemed to realize right around the time he reached the door and found it locked. For a bare moment, he froze, flashes of memory blowing through his mind. He used to do this to houses for a living. Kick down the doors and storm in. But back then, it was to save things. To kill fires, billowing through hallways and devouring people's lives.... Now he was no better than a looter, busting in for his own needs.

Terry shook his head with a grunt to clear the thoughts, leaning back and delivering a heavy kick to the door, just beside the knob. It flew inwards with a crack, the frame splintering around the force. He stood there for a moment after, crowbar raised and ready to whack things, before settling and wandering in through the door, now swinging on a single, warped hinge. Fuad would lose sight of him for a while, looking on with a nervous air before Terry's head poked back out of the door, him gesturing for Fuad to get over there, likely accompanied by mutters of 'lanky ass hajji' and 'wimpy bitch'. Because, well, because Terry.

Fuad stayed on the porch, near the door and listened. That was his thing. The door being kicked in wasn't exactly a tactful, smooth entry, but it wasn't such a bad thing. First, since they have been scouting the house, it wasn't likely that there were humans there, so they didn't worry about that...much. Kicking in the door would have alerted any undead however, which again, wasn't a bad thing. The noise would have got them moving and active, and it wasn't great to have a few zombies coming at you, but it wasn't great to have one waiting in a closet or behind a door when you sneak by. It was easier to deal with them like this, so long as there wasn't a massive swarm of them.

If Fuad and Terry were anything, it was efficient. They both knew their roles, knew the tendencies of the others and complimented each other perfectly--well, perfectly save for the ribbing and constant stream of racial and ageist slurs that generally accompanied anything they did.

But, at least they had the common sense to WHISPER those slurs when stealth was required...

Fuad came in and the two stepped into a large dinning room. It wasn't elegant, but it wasn't folding chairs and TV trays. The stuff here would have been of value a year ago, some decent china (as far as Fuad could tell anyway) and some silverware. There was a series of beanie babies and figurines in another, all of it useless junk now. Then...the family pictures, which Fuad pointedly avoided and as he moved by them, either took them down or flipped them, always leaving them face down.

Terry had kicked in the door and entered the dinning room first, so Fuad was to go next, and he decided to go into the kitchen. This was their thing, room by room, alternating entry. Joking aside, Fuad survived this long for a reason: he was smart and capable. He wasn't about to run into some room without thought and either be bitten or shot in the stomach and left for dead. Not in this lifetime...

He stood at the door and glanced in, listening for a moment before taking a few steps in. First look for immediate danger. Then pan out, look for where danger could come from. Then enter and at that point, keep eyes open. At that point, Terry would be looking around for supplies and other dangers, but the person entering always focused on danger while the other looked for other things of interest. On the counter was an empty Quaker Oats Easy Grits container and Fuad smiled, motioning for Terry to look. "Empty, no grits. Must break your redneck heart huh?"

Terry had, this time, been caught in the act by the redneck joke. He was looking longingly inside the can, clearly wishing it were still full. Fuad's jibe caused him to grunt, setting the can down and turning away. "Oh shut up, everybody loves grits."

He continued his rummaging through cabinets and shelves, muttering under his breath all the while and occasionally pulling the bag from his back to stuff something into it. He stopped at one drawer in particular, shifting through its contents with more care than others. Junk drawer. He always checked the junk drawer. After all, nobody else ever bothers to. It was why he had always kept his favorite small items in the back of the junk drawer. This time, he got lucky, coming up with a wooden box. From the size and shape, it was relatively easy to place it as a cigar box--one he promptly opened, resulting in a broad grin. "O-ho! Looky here, Fuad. Somebody liked their cigars." He pulled one from the box, running it near his nose with a deep sniff, blinking. "Cuban. I'm jealous. Want one?"

He snickered, clamping one in his own teeth and holding the box out to Fuad, zipping up his backpack with a free hand. His searches always ended when he found something interesting like that, after all. And hey, cuban cigars. Who wants to think about other junk in a kitchen drawer after a find like that?

"I thought you didn't like anything unless it was white," he said with a smirk. He shook his head and dismissed the cigars, he'd never smoked in his life and wasn't about to start now. If he liked it, it would be too hard to keep the habit up...

"Man, I wish there was some place in houses where they stored all of their food and shit, you know? Some place where if you looked in drawers, you might find something other than cigars. Man, some room like that in a house would be a genius idea. For pantries, and foods, those sorts of thing. Hmmmm." Truth be told, this house had not been ransacked, but it had been gone through. On top of that, the family had picture or two of them and an RV, which told Fuad that they left in that, and with most of the important stuff and most of the food. He kept watch on the two doors here and let Terry do his thing, knowing that aside from the banter, the older man knew what he was doing.

There were two doors here, well three technically, but one they just entered. Of the other two, one went outside and the other went into a living room with stairs headed upstairs, but Fuad only peeked in. They'd worry about the rest later.

Terry shrugged, taking a few moments to light his newfound cigar, and another to savor the first few puffs before wandering towards the living room door, taking his turn at breaching so Fuad could search, carefully peering in and going through the usual process before speaking.
"You'd be surprised. Anyone with money and paranoia tends to have a panic room in their house somewhere, and that IS where they store all their food and shit. Suppose the iraqi slums don't have that kind of cash or equipment though, huh?"

As always, useful advice, followed by dickish, if joking, insults.

As far as Terry could tell, the room was clear, so he gestured for Fuad to start searching for anything usable, fiddling absently with his crowbar.

The room was a typical living room with a couch, television and some end tables. He poked around in some of the end tables and found a pack of matches that he tucked away in his pack before moving on. There wasn't much, so he took a moment and moved to the electrical cords of both of the lamps and cut them free with his knife, taking a moment to wrap them up and put them in his back. Then he moved to the remote controls for the TV, audio system and gaming consoles and took the batteries out. The last thing he did was move to an oil lamp and sniffed it, debating taking the oil but opted against it as he had no container to put it in.

"Hey T, there's oil here. Have anything to put it in?"

Terry turned a flat look to him, perking a brow.

"You've been watching me throw explosive bottles around every chance I got for the past six months, and you want to know if I have a use for oil? This is an old house, I'll bet they have a basement, and either a wine cellar, or a bar. Either way, there's plenty I can use oil for if I'm right. Leave it here for now, I'll come back for it later if I find bottles and alcohol laying around. You're up on breach."

He jerked his chin towards the stairs slightly, shifting his crowbar to his freehand, wary of what might be up there despite his 'don't be an idiot' attitude at the moment. It can only be fun and games if you're waiting for someone to get hurt.

"Room, you dumbass. I could use it too, I just don't have room for it. 'Put it in' being the operative term. Nevermind." They cleared two other smaller rooms and found miscellaneous supplies and then decided it was time to head upstairs. Fuad moved up first, not moving slowly or anything since it was really a waste of time. However, when they both arrived at the top, he did take a few moments to stop and listen. This was the time he'd hear any movement of any zed that was locked away, or trapped or simply closed behind a door, because they'd sit there and attempt to free themselves because it's all they knew.

There was no sound, so he moved to the right. The only door here was a large master bedroom, door already opened, so he stepped in, clearing under the bed, and the closet slowly while Terry looked around.

Terry followed in with a generally casual air, apparently confident the home was empty at this point, aside from themselves. He set to going through the dresser and closet, under the bed, and all the usual places once Fuad made sure they were zed-free.
"So, how long before we run into a house full of explosives, you think? There's always some crazy guy making bombs in the first month or two of apocalypses like this, only a matter of time before we pass their house, right?"

Terry, you ARE that guy...

He glanced around the room then kept his eyes on the door as Terry did his sweep, rolling his eyes as he replied to the large man. "If we find a house full of explosives, you'll be going in by yourself. If I was to look for a house full of anything, it would either be beef jerky, or pussy. You can go looking for shit to explode." He was going to make a comment about the irony of Terry being all about explosives, but making fun of Fuad for being a "suicide bomber" but he left it at that, saving it for another day. "Ready to go check the other rooms?"

Terry nodded absently, sighing. "Yeah, nothing in here. You'd think people would at least keep cash under their mattress... I mean, who trusts banks anymore?" He grinned. "And you don't need to search a house for pussy, you just need to borrow one of my creations and scream something about Allah, or whatever. How many are waiting up in hajji-land for you again? Sixty nine?"

Theeeeeere's the racial joke.

"You can't even count to sixty nine, you podunk, buttfucking hillybill." Terry was still giving the room one last once over when Fuad made his way out into the hall. There were 3 closed doors, either bedrooms or offices or some combination, and a bathroom, which was open and empty. Fuad moved in and looked around while waiting for Terry to exit. He looked out the window quickly and said casually over his shoulder, "it's starting to snow again." It didn't look like much out there, but it was worth noting. Right now, it was just a little more than flurries. He went through the medicine cabinet, drawers and small closet and took a half-empty Neosporin tubed, a child's Airplanes toothbrush and two wash clothes. "You're up on the next room, rafiqi." (pronounced rah-fee-kee, meaning friend in arabic)

Terry snorted. "Hillbilly. Get it right." He followed Fuad's glance out the window, grimacing at the snow. He wasn't a man particularly fond of the cold, spending most of his life beside the heat of fire. "Give it another few weeks, we'll be buried... Feel sorry for any fuckers up in Michigan. Had a friend there once, think they were neck-and-neck with Canada most years."

As Fuad pointed out his job as breacher for the next room, he nodded, doing just that and heading for the next door in the hall, slowly shouldering it open and peeking in, only to lunge back with an explosive curse a moment later, muffled by the blast of a gun. Judging by the spray of holes appearing in the wall Terry had been standing in front of a moment before, it was a shotgun.
"YOU SNEAK MOTHERFUCKER! COULDN'T YOU HAVE RUN AT US THE FIRST TIME I KICKED IN YOUR DOOR!?"

Because really, just waiting around in one room is rude, man! Give a man a heartattack!

Fuad instinctively took cover behind the door as the birdshot ripped through the door. He could tell Terry was alright because his mouth was still working, so he took a moment to assess the situation. There were 2 other rooms, both of them behind closed doors, so they had to be careful, because more people could be in the others. Thinking quickly, he kept silent and pointed to Terry and then the other doors, indicating to the firefighter that he would clear them. Fuad then pointed to himself, removed his shotgun and pointed it at the door, nodding and indicating that he'd watch the door for now.

The shotgun was a weapon they both split, but Fuad carried it most of the time. It was a sawed off Remington 870 and currently had a full 8 shells of buckshot, which were the equivalent of gold these days. Sure, birdshot would do damage, but if you ever wanted to fuck shit up, fuck it up in a hurry, and fuck it up BIG time, buckshot was the way to go. He had another 2 buckshot shells in his pack and 2 dozen birdshot shells, but he still was in no hurry to waste rounds. At this point, Fuad had the advantage that they didn't know he was there, he had cover and a good angle, so he'd simply wait and watch the door, covering Terry to allow him to go into the other rooms. Mentally, his thoughts were racing with what exactly to do about the shotgun wielding people in the other room. If they came out hostile, Fuad would simply put them down, that was the easiest option. But they may have shot because they were scared, who knew? Fuad wasn't the type to always shoot first, ask questions later, but he was not above shooting based on simple things. Those being A: he didn't KNOW they weren't hostile and B: they just shot at Terry.

Terry nodded, clearing his throat quietly and setting to putting on the act of being alone and angry, to let Fuad keep his advantage of surprise. "Any other idiots in here that want their heads smashed in? Huh!?" He turned, leaning back and kicking in the first other door of the hall, lunging inside with his crowbar raised, only to walk back out with a quiet shake of his head to Fuad. Nobody in that room.

"How about HERE!?" The next door found itself bashed in, and again, the room was empty. Only the one room then. The people inside had gone quiet, likely waiting for a chance to fill him with birdshot again. Terry snarled, making his way back to the first door. He glanced around, grabbing a plate from a nearby mini-table, one of those decorative things people stick in hallways for no reason at all. He took a quick breath, then tossed it out in front of the door. Another shotgun blast. It was obliterated with another shotgun blast a moment later. This time, a voice came from inside. It was rough. Gravelly. The kind of voice that made you picture the man behind it as big, tough, and beefy.

"You better watch yourself big man, or I put the next shot in the middle of your chest!"

Fuad's mind raced. He didn't want to kill anyone or get into an altercation--well, any MORE of an altercation. Fuad tried to think of things more realistically and knew that the more they got into fights, situations, and shoot outs, the more likely they were to die. So his first though was, since the house seemed relatively empty, they could leave. Chances were that anything of value was already taken by the man, or the others, in the room. And they had all the advantage because they could just keep their shotgun trained on the door.

They could smoke or burn them out, but that would be pointless because essentially, they get nothing in the room because it would all be burned.

However, the only reason that it would be beneficial is because now the man, or the people, knew they were here. They could sneak out, track them, do any number of things to attack them when Terry and Fuad were leaving.

Fuad took a moment and looked at Terry, making an X with his two pointer fingers and motioning to the stairs, asking him if he thought they should just exit.

Terry shook his head slightly, making a quick eating motion, then holding his hands apart a good bit, apparently trying to say there was food in there. Lots of it. A promising first glance before he'd gotten shot at, then.

"Listen, I'm not the most diplomatic sort. I prefer bashing skulls first and asking questions later. But you look like you're pretty well stocked in there. How about we make a deal? You give me enough food to last, oh, a week or so, and we leave without any more problems. I'll even fix your front door on the way out!"

There were a few moments of silence from inside, before a single bag of jerky slid into the hall, stopping just in front of Terry's feet.

"That's all you get."

Fuad and Terry differed in situations like this because Fuad had the philosophy that "You can find more food. But you can't find another life." Terry was more headstrong and focused on the NOW aspect of things. Fuad just wanted to scream at him to take the jerky and they could leave. It was then that Fuad could see a person moving inside the room, a person who the voice couldn't have belonged to. He could hear faint whispers but it was too quiet to hear what they were saying. The only thing he thought he could hear was 'by himself'. The other guy had a revolver and could see him looking back at what Fuad assumed was the other person in the room. He held up three fingers and Fuad knew what was happening, they were coming out after Terry, most likely because he was unarmed.

Fuad silently motioned Terry away and thankfully, the large man moved immediately, making so much noise that their attention would be focused on him. In that span of a second, another finger lowered, and then just as the last finger was going to come down, Fuad let go with the shotgun. He could not see entirely, but at the distance of less than 10 feet and the fact that the person never knew what was coming, the results were disastrous and fatal. All Fuad saw was the form jerk back violently as it exploded into red and pink pieces of anything that was once on the neck up of the person.

Fuad's little surprise assault certainly brought a reaction in the form of a pair of shouts coming from the room once the third man's head exploded from buckshot. The body fell into the shot-gun wielding man who had been doing all the speaking, tangling up with him just long enough for Terry to charge into the room with a shout, crowbar raised. A third man who hadn't shown himself yet tried to block his path, to give his shotgun friend time to get free of the body. Unfortunately, he hadn't been counting on Terry's size. He was tossed aside like a sack of potatoes, a leaf in the wind. Terry's bull rush ended with him slamming his shoulder into the shotgun man and the body he was still wrestling with, sending both into the wall, only for the shotgun man to take a crowbar to the head a moment later, skull splitting open like an egg. The last man, it seemed, was left for Fuad, and he still trying to scramble to his feet after Terry checked past him.

Fuad came in immediately after Terry, focusing on the areas Terry wasn't occupying. The guy in the room that Terry knocked aside must have hit the wall pretty hard because he simply sat there, moving sluggishly and looking at if he may have been concussed. Him trying to "scramble to his feet" constituted him moving them sluggishly. Fuad didn't fire. He kept the gun trained on the main and told him in a loud, slow tone. "Don't. Fucking. Move." At this point, he assumed Terry would go about his business collecting supplies. Fuad had one job at this point--to keep them alive, and that meant keeping this other guy down, or killing him. To make sure the guy was focused, Fuad kicked him roughly in the foot and repeated himself. "Don't move."

When Terry approached Fuad from the back, that was indication that whatever he saw fit to take had been taken. He saw Terry now holding the shotgun also, so now they each had one and didn't have to share.

"Check him, we'll tie him up and leave him. He can get out and do whatever. He's not my problem.[color=f6989d][/color]"

Terry nodded absently, crouching down and going through the man's pockets, coming up with his revolver, a decent one, 44. magnum, and a box of rounds, half empty. He slipped both into his backpack, which was now brimming with non-perishables, and stood, thinking a moment before simply slamming the butt of his new shotgun into the base of the man's skull, knocking him out.
"I'm not quite cruel enough to tie him up. He might not get out. Left enough to last him about a week if he's smart, so he can move on. Small chance of following us."

He sighed, glancing to Fuad.
"Want to check for alcohol, or bolt?"

"Let's bolt. No idea if there are more, or what heard those shots. Was there anything in the oth--" He stopped and looked down at the form he had shot initially. It was slumped against the wall and turned on it's back at an odd angle. Fuad reached down and started to take off his boots. "Yeah, was there anything in the other rooms?" Nice boots, he thought as Fuad put them in his pack.

Terry shook his head, leading the way out once Fuad stuffed the boots away. "No. Everything worth taking aside from the few things we found downstairs was in with those three. Still, we're stocked for another two weeks of travel, can skip a house or two on the way." He kept a wary eye out as he trudged down the stairs, both himself and Fuad sweeping the rooms they passed with their shotguns, waiting for accomplices of zeds to leap out. None did, and they made it out through the now broken front door without any further complications. Now they just had to decide which way to go. A choice Terry seemed to leave up to Fuad, gesturing for him to lead the way.

They exited the home and made their way back to the street. Going back where they came from had it's good sides and bad sides. They knew what was behind them and that it was, for the most part, safe. But. They knew there was nothing there for them. Without another thought, Fuad turned the way they had been traveling prior to coming across the house and stayed about 15 feet off the road so that they could take cover if there was a vehicle, but they could also take it to the concrete for a smooth, even run if a large group of walkers was encountered.

After leaving, the two were silent for a long time, one constantly checking behind them to see if they were being followed. At one point, Fuad was turning around and tripped over a sign. He cursed and collected himself as Terry gave an amused snort as they both looked down at the sign.

2 miles 'til Episcopal Diocese of West of Missouri is what it said. However, there were a few bullet holes in it, and spray painted in white was WWJD OMG ZOMBS.

Fuad shook his head and the two continued walking. Finally, after the extremely long silence, Fuad spoke up. "How the hell did that guy miss your fucking gut, with a SHOTGUN. It's so huge that I'm pretty sure one of my buckshot hit your gut in there. That thing is so big, I went to piss the other night and--"

".... So help me Fuad, if you were about to say what I think you were, and that 'rain storm' I slept through was a lie, I'm wasting a few rounds from that new revolver on your knee caps."

"Scouts honor."

16:00
April 9th, 2017

The rain poured down like a waterfall. Triss was wet, tired and hungry, barely able to see five feet in front of her. The raincoat she had slung over her back was now waterlogged, just like everything else on her, having only provided a shield against the water for the first few hours. Her legs ached from having walked since the sun rose, begging her to stop for a break. But she couldn't. Every time she did, she'd fall asleep. And then the nightmares. The horrible onslaught of nightmares. Always the same picture, Triss beating her dad's head in with her baseball bat. She collapsed at the thought, heaving up what she had eaten the night before, the vile taste filling her mouth. She stayed there on her hands and knees, her tears invisible in the rain.

"Why?" she thought. "Why me, why is this happening to me...?" She coughed up the last of the horrific substance that had once been her dinner. She continued to cry out her fear, her confusion and her anger, her hands now soaked in mud. She'd never cried so hard in her life, pouring her emotions into her tears.

And then she stopped. She looked around, the rain still poured to the ground. But she couldn't cry. No more tears to cry, no more emotion to stand in her away. She stood up, her eyes no longer showing sadness and confusion. No. Her eyes showed anger, power and a burning determination to push on, to let nothing stand in her way. SHe picked her cap up off the ground, putting it on her head causing water and mud to run down her face. She didn't care anymore.

She looked ahead, the silhouette of a reanimated just barely visible in the distance. Her grip on the bat tightened, a red stain still visible on the front of it. She ran at it, her heart pounding in her chest, willing her on with the rage of her father's death, no remorse for the poor soul who turned into what stood before her. She crack of her bat against its skull was sickening, but it brought a grin to her face as the rotten insides poured onto the ground in front of her, the body collapsing to the ground. She raised the bat above her head, slamming it repeatedly into it's body, blood splattering on her clothes and face, fury in her eyes.

*****

07:00
April 11th, 2017

Her nightmares had been less frequent since her encounter with the reanimated. The blood had since dried on her face, but she had no intention of wiping it off. In her mind -however intact it still was- it showed that she wasn't to be messed with, that she'd fought and survived, unlike hundreds....no, thousands like her. She had taken shelter in an old warehouse and had found a few batteries and a small gas can which she had transferred into a plastic bottle and stuffed into her bag. The last can of soup she had found a week earlier was cut open in front of her, cooking on a small fire. The smell and heat combined relaxed her nerves, if only a bit.

Beside her, her climbing harness was sprawled out as she had taken to hanging herself on the ceiling supports to sleep at night, not trusting the integrity of the doors or the people that hadn't turned yet. It was surprisingly nice to sleep in mid air however. She rather enjoyed the feeling of floating, a false sense of security if you will.

After finishing her breakfast, as odd as it was, she carefully re-wrapped the rope and tucked it into her bag along with the harness, before taking one last look around for anything useful. She had spotted a guitar in the corner the night before, but thought nothing of it until she had woken up this morning. Perhaps it would be good for her to have a pastime in these conditions, to ease her mind off of the current situation and calm her nerves at night. She strapped it to her bag and moved on, leaving another building behind as she had done many times before.

19:00
August 15th, 2017

Overcast weather always depressed Triss. It was grey and ugly to look at, it was way too quiet and it always looked like it was going to rain. She trudged on through the soft ground, about a hundred feet from a main road. She was trying to play it stealthily and walking on the road, while it may have been easier, made her way more visible than she was comfortable with. Her baseball bat was rested on her shoulder, bouncing lightly with each step she took. She paused a moment, looking up ahead of her seeing a sparse covering of trees and open fields. Further on stood a small building, a gas station by the looks of it. She smirked to herself, the prospect of food and gasoline running through her mind. She continued on until she was just about three hundred feet from it, watching it from a distance to check for any reanimates.

After a good hour, she lost her patience and excitement took over. She began a quiet approach, her footsteps near silent as she slowly rolled her feet as she walked, a trick her father had taught her just after they had left their home. The grass brushed lightly against her body, making a small amount of noise, comparable to the wind blowing across an open field. She stopped in the ditch, unstrapping the guitar and laying it on dry ground, not wanting it to alert any nearby reanimates or people. She'd come back for it later.

Crossing the road made her nervous. It was so open, so visible. She could be seen a mile in either direction while she was on it, so she had to be quick. Adrenaline pumped through her system as she readied herself to cross. Her mind raced, both excited by the good find and scared that she may be making a huge mistake. She gave in and sprinted across the street, diving into the ditch with a quiet thud into the grass. She wanted to scream as she landed on her injured shoulder but she covered her mouth and dug her nails into her leg, trying to slow down her breathing for a minute.

After letting her shoulder calm down, she peeked up over the edge of the ditch, just enough to see her surroundings. Three cars were in the otherwise empty parking lot. She'd check those first. She looked across to the pumps, curious if they'd still work. That'd be her next stop, leaving the building for last. She ducked back down, clutching her baseball bat tightly before crawling slowly out of the ditch. She snuck over to the first car, a red sedan. She peeked in the windows and tried the door handle, which to her surprise was unlocked and showed it with a reassuring click from the latch. Looking around, she'd found a road map in the back of the passenger seat along with a few dollars in change underneath and a fork laying on the backseat. She bit her lip, slightly disappointed by the results of the first vehicle. However, she noted, it was unlocked and to top it off she still hadn't checked the trunk. She reached into the front seat, pulling the latch to open the trunk before exiting the car, closing the door as gently as possible. Opening up the trunk, she was rewarded with two road flares and a wrench. She tucked the flares in her bag, deciding to leave the wrench as it was just dead weight for minimal benefit.

Sneaking over to the next car, Triss found it locked and wasn't tempted to break in. The noise would surely attract others right to her and she didn't want to take that chance and wind up dead for a potential treasure trove of goodies. She had the building for that. She sprinted to the last car and was disheartened to find it locked as well. Time for stop number two, the pumps. Keeping her steps quiet, she wandered over to the one that looked in the best condition -which wasn't that great anyway- and hit the button to pump before grabbing the nozzle. "Here goes nothing." she thought to herself, squeezing the trigger. A few drops was her only reward and she decided to give up on the pumps completely as darkness began to set in.

Bat clutched tightly in her hand, she approached her final destination. The main building. Looking around, she saw that the door was ajar and a single light flickered inside. She'd investigate after clearing the building of reanimates, if any. She stepped inside, her bat raised and ready to strike.

(I'm gonna leave it here for you @Tomahawk if/when you want to RP out your portion.)

((( This post was written by Tomahawk and myself @Tomahawk )))

Running low on fresh water, low on food that was not a MRE, definitely could do with a few more fresh towels or something…

Marni settled back on her haunches and looked up from her pack, hands idly repacking it as she scanned the street. Where should she go shopping? Hazel eyes drifted between a few houses. One had broken windows and obviously had been picked clean. And possibly had something living in it.

The houses on the other sides weren’t much better. She needed an apartment building. That way she’d have lots of options and could go from place to place picking as she liked.

Having made up her mind on this matter Marni sighed and brought the straps of her duffle back over her shoulders, standing with a grunt. Left or right? Hmm…

Hadn’t she passed some buildings a while ago that looked pretty upscale? Or to be more accurate looked as though they had been upscale at some point. That seemed like the best place to start.

Sauntering down the blocks and up a hill soon she was at the apartment complex and at the first building. The lower units looked pretty busted up. Doors open, windows missing… The Second floor was in better shape but even more so was the third. Typical lazy people. Looters never wanted to do the hard work to get the payoff. Well Marni was an expert bargain hunter and she knew you had to spend a lot to get a lot.

Up and up she went, shifting the strap of her bag uncomfortably as she came to the third floor of the unit. Pausing she looked down the hallway. Many of the doors were closed but one in particular caught her eye. It was padlocked.

Anyone willing to lock their shit up had something worth protecting.

Marni had figured that much out during her trek across the various states and had even acquired some gear to facilitate these entries. Most of those safe houses had been abandoned. The people dead or moved on or simply not home when she arrived, so Marni didn’t hesitate to let her duffle plop to the ground and knelt to rifle through it.

Pulling out her fence cutters (every girl’s favorite accessory) she brought the giant scissor blades to the padlock and pressed. It was a thick metal and it took a few tries before Marni had any success.

Wiping her hands on her pants before returning her fence cutter to the bag Marni waited for a long time beside the apartment door listening. Surely if anyone was inside they would have heard the padlock clink to the ground? Or the grunting and shuffling around she had done to get the thing off?
With the lack of noise or appearances of anyone else Marni tried the handle and pushed open the door, standing clear of any gun shot that might be coming her way.

Again, nothing. carefully Marni peered around the door jam to see the apartment. No bodies, dead or alive visible.

This was looking pretty good. Next was entering. No wires or booby traps as she liked to think of them… (Some people had gotten really into the ‘safe house’ situation and even put grenades or land mines and so on and so forth. All to protect their lousy saltines.)

Apparently the Padlock was the only thing keeping this safe house safe, which made Marni think that maybe it was more a backup plan rather than the main deal.

Sidling inside she closed the door behind her and listened further more. Nothing.

“Alrighty then.” She muttered, rubbing her hands together before moving into the kitchen.

Water and food was what she wanted and that was what she got. After the kitchen she went for the bathroom looking for medical supplies...Only there was a huge closet on the opposite side of the bathroom and really…

How could she say no?

Ruck slung across his shoulder, 1911 drawn but down, Robin made his way down a handful of side streets, doing his best to avoid the biters. They were a less common feature as the winter drew on, but Robin knew that the moment he became complacent, he was finished. Hair tied back, dressed in layers - including a rather handsome denim jacket with a fleece collar - and steel-toe’d work boots, Robin was dressed for success - and success in Missouri, in the winter, was survival.

Pausing at a corner to take stock, Robin eyed his watch: perhaps another five minutes before he’d arrive at his eastbound safe house, just outside of Kansas City, in Independence, Missouri. It was the least fortified, given its distance from town, but it contained a handful of supplies - food, water, books, a rifle. It would do.

Habitually Marni flipped the switch for the closet lights before remembering… “Oh yeah. No electricity…”

No worries though, she had her handy dandy flashlight and soon she was oogling over some really fantastic shoe options. A gorgeous black Jimmy Choo heel was in her hand before Marni knew it and she was running her thumb over the leather in complete absorption. Why must they be 10s?! Who had lived here? A giant!? Size 10? Really? What was this lady? A drag queen?

Robin bounded up the stairs two at a time, eager to find relative safety in his tertiary apartment. He could use a nap, and it might not hurt to use some of the water jugs to clean himself up - who knew when he’d have another chance? The sight of a clipped brass padlock lying heavy on the hallway floor stopped him dead in his tracks, however; Robin glanced over his shoulder, then back at the door. No way to tell if the intrusion was recent; he hadn’t visited the safe house in nearly three weeks. He’d been busy.

Shouldering his ruck to the floor, gently, Robin placed both hands on the handle of his 1911, moving towards the door. It was slightly ajar; he poked his head around the corner, gazing into the main room of the apartment. Seeing nobody, he quickly opened the door, glad he had oiled its hinges as he silently entered the room, gun raised.

With unwavering efficiency, Robin checked left, scanned across the room with the barrel of his gun, and then shut the door gently behind him, 1911 pointed behind the door. Nobody in the living room. He resisted the habitual urge to shout clear instead turning towards the single hallway on the other side of the room, leading to the only bedroom.

In annoyance Marni reached to put the shoe back on the shelf, the thing would never fit her size 7 foot, when a noise startled her.

“OUT,” Robin commanded, 1911 leveled on the intruder’s center of mass. “Get outta my Goddamn closet, woman!”

Looking up sharply there was a man standing at the entrance of the closet. In a pure moment of absurdity Marni looked at his feet to see if the Jimmy Choo’s would be his before instinct kicked in and she threw the Jimmy Choo with a surprising amount of force and accuracy at his face.

Surprised, Robin failed to avoid the shoe; it drove into his forehead full force, leaving a tiny gash in the very center. He swore, stumbling for a moment, but regained his footing quickly and raising his gun once more.

“Shit!” She yelped, scrambling for her Beretta in her coat pocket while her other hand clutched the flashlight tightly.

“Fuck did I say?” he asked, storming the closet and taking Marni by the wrist that had dug into her coat pocket. He hauled her out of the closet, considerably stronger, and tossed her onto the shag carpet floor of the bedroom. Robin quickly dropped to his knees, one leg planted on either side of her.

Marni had enough time to try and wrench her hand free only to throw it out in front of herself to lessen the fall. Still she flopped against the carpet and coughed before there were legs straddling her and a gun at her head. Sighing Marni lowered her face so that it was pressing against the carpet.

Met her match. Damn.

Jamming the barrel of his gun against the back of her head, Robin began to pat her down with his free hand, growling. “Think this is Goddamn open season, woman? Bustin’ padlocks off, and shit. You’re lucky this ain’t my Lister Avenue hold-up or you’d be a fuckin’ stain on the porch. You hear me? You listening? What in the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

Tolerating the pat down she hoped he wouldn’t and or take her Beretta but thought that fairly unlikely. The man looked fairly upset about the whole...Shoe situation. Still really… She smiled into the carpet unhappily. She had gotten a good hit in before he drug her out.

“I was looking at your shoe collection!” She retorted into the carpet, her voice muffled. And his water and food collection but hopefully she’d be able to split before he realized that part.

Where was her duffle? It had slipped off her shoulder during the scuffle and was on the closet floor as well as her flashlight. Mannn! And the thing was still on, wasting batteries. She had been looking for a solar one, not to be all ‘green’ as was the fad before the whole...dead thing, but because it was truly more practical in a time like this.

Well. And she wanted to be able to say she was green even during an apocalypse... Ehem. Anyway.

She needed to get that bag back no matter what, it was her life.

“Didn’t realize anyone was still here…” She muttered uncomfortably, the man didn’t seem to care that he was heavy and pinning her face down. “Lots of people locked up and left thinking they’d come back but never did… How was I supposed to know this place actually had an occupant?”

Marni craned her neck trying to get a better look at the man in question. “You don’t look like the type to wear Jimmy Choo is all I’m saying…” Thumping her forehead back against the carpet she relaxed her body, listening acutely for some sign that she might be able to throw him off and make a dash for her things and then some how magically the door. This seemed a little unlikely but still…

Robin snorted, yanking the pistol out of her pocket and laying it on the ground, slowly filtering the rest of the knick knacks in her possession onto the floor. “Good eye,” he faux-complemented, shaking his head. Keeping the cold steel to her dome, Robin reached back, fumbling for one of her shoes briefly before yanking the laces clean out. He leaned forward, firmly planting her torso into the ground as he lay his 1911 on the carpet next to her M9, and began tying her wrists together.

“Can’t say the blue MARPAT NWUs are a solid idea for central fuckin’ Missouri, sailor - or did you just gank some poor fuck and snatch her uniform? Hope civilians might think twice before pulling the trigger on a bona fide U.S. Navy employee?” It wouldn’t be the first time he had seen similar tactics: two months into the outbreak, Robin and his temporary comrades had been duped by a gang of psychos wearing Marine BDUs.

Ugh. Another military man. They were so unpredictable. Half were full of patriotic pride and full of glee that the one thing everyone had jokingly hoped for had finally arrived (an honest to god zombie apocalypse) and the other half seemed to have gone rogue agent. It was hard to tell where this one fell though his typical teasing about the Navy made her think he still had some links to the life.

“They were mine, only ugly clothes I had left…” Not that he really cared the answer.

Once Marni’s wrists were secured - rather tightly, too - Robin picked up her Beretta; he examined the piece, nodding thoughtfully. “Not a bad tool, girlie, though nine mil’s gettin’ harder and harder to find.” Thumbing the slide release, Robin yanked the top half of the gun off and dropped it on the floor, ejecting the clip and pocketing it.

“What are you doing???” Marni demanded unhappily. “That’s MY gun! Come on! I wasn’t going to take any of your weapons! Not cool man…”

“Now, luckily for you, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he went on, climbing to his feet. Using the nape of her peacoat, Robin hauled her across the room and propped her up against a far wall. “What I’m sayin’ is, I ain’t gonna kill ya’. See, lot of folks would - I’m sure you know that, you’re probably a smart girl.” He cocked his head, chuckling, “Then again, maybe not. Didn’t even hear me comin’.” Robin shook his head, tapping her forehead with the barrel of his gun playfully; “Well, even if you ain’t got brains, you sure are easy on the eyes. Congratulations. Seems like a lot of effort, considering the circumstances, though.”

Ignoring her complaints the man tugged her across the floor and propped her against the wall. She was relieved he wasn’t going to straight out kill her, but taking her gun and her stuff was practically leaving her for dead anyway. “Those are $600 shoes, I’ve never had enough money to own a real pair myself...I was a little in awe…” Sighing Marni tried to get her feet up under herself.

Rising to his feet, Robin moved towards the closet, hauling Marni’s duffel out into the room and unzipping it. “What have we got here? Plenty of my shit, I’m sure.”

“Not true!” Only some. A few bottles of his water, a few cans of his food, the towels from the bathroom. That was all of his she had taken (aside from the chapstick). The rest was hers, which was the two other clean-ish uniforms, socks, ammo for her beretta, ready to eat meals, a couple pocket knives, her water purification kit and her medical kit from being a corpsman.

“Seriously man, don’t take my shit. Look I wasn’t going to leave you completely fucked. Only a few waters and food…”

Her green eyes darted over her belongings, the only things she owned in the entire world, strewn over the floor. Exposed. Naked. It wasn’t right.

“Yeah?” he teased, grinning wryly. “I’m sure.” Rising to his feet, Robin bridged the gap between the two of them and hunkered down next to her, scratching his cheek with the 1911. “You’ll forgive me if, after - what - nine months of this shit, I don’t trust folks so well. Besides, this,” Robin gestured towards the slowly weeping gash on his forehead where the heel had struck him dead-on, “isn’t exactly a white fucking flag, is it?”

“Not my fault your face got in the way…” She muttered darkly, sure he’d ignore her further.

“So you want me to let you loose, I take it. I’ll put it this way: my plan was to take my shit back, leave your mags a few blocks away so you can’t put a couple rounds in my back, and leave you one of those pocket knives to cut the laces with,” Robin gestured towards her bag on the other side of the room. “You’ll need a new shoe, but uh, there are some sneakers in the closet over yonder.”

He wanted her to fuck up her laces, have to change over into tenis shoes that were several sizes too large and then go find her clip?!!? Her face must have shown the disbelief. She should have thrown the shoe harder.

Waving his hands about thoughtfully, he leaned in close and smiled - a smile that seemed almost nefarious. “Do tell, then: why should I cut you free? I ain’t in the business of trustin’ strangers, no matter how blonde and done up they are, hon’.”

Uh oh. She didn’t really like that look. Dropping her angry gaze Marni leaned away from the man. “I didn’t say trust me...I just said be fair. Those shoes are too big for my feet. I’ll be stumbling around. Take the clip and just … Untie me and lock me in before you go?”

She didn’t want to meet his gaze nor encourage any sort of ...unwanted thoughts.

Marni had always been a pretty girl, but now that she was one of the few left around who wasn’t drooling, scared to shit or completely disgustingly dirty she was practically an underwear model.

Sighing she bit her lower lip. “Look.” Her tone was pleading. “You obviously can tell I have a thing for shoes...Please please don’t make me fuck up my only pair…”

Marni looked up to see how this was hitting the man when a sound in the other room made her head jerk sharply.
“Did you shut the door behind you?” Marni hissed, squirming such that she was slightly behind the man, hoping if someone came in with a gun or a blood thirst they’d hit him first.

Robin immediately turned towards the door, staring thoughtfully. “I didn’t latch it,” he remarked idly, rising to his feet and moving towards the exit. Peeking his head around the corner, he ducked back inside and swore. “Wolf pack,” he muttered to himself, checking his 1911. “Fucking PMC cocksuckers, who taught you land nav?”

“What??” Marni looked confused but alert. “Give me back my gun.” as an after thought she added “and the use of my hands…”

“Yeah,” he replied, glancing at her. “Fat fuckin’ chance, sweetheart.”

She scowled.

After a moment, he grinned, shaking his head: “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Robin mulled it over for a moment, furrowing his brow; if he handed her the M9, there was a chance he’d just be creating a third adversary gunning for his head. However, the odds weren’t in his favor with two gunmen in the other room - and they weren’t carrying pea-shooters, either.

Relief flooded through Marni and she scrambled to get her feet and her freedom. “Thank you!” She whispered.

“Fine,” he acquiesced, picking up the Beretta and carrying it over to her. Setting it down, Robin turned her about and quickly undid the shoelaces binding her wrists together. Fumbling in the pocket of his coat for a moment, he tossed her the 9mm mag that he’d yanked out of the pistol earlier, as well as the upper half of the feeding mechanism. “I assume you can put it back together, sailor,” he quipped, moving back towards the door and glancing out; the mercs were soon to come their way. The apartment wasn’t that big.

“Like putting on a condom.” She replied, deftly sliding the pieces back together and then the magazine where it belonged.

Even from that short amount of time of having her hands tied Marni’s hands were tingling and she flexed her fingers trying to increase circulation as she stuffed the shoelace into her pocket.

“Closet,” he ordered, pointing as he sidled up behind the door to the room, flattening himself against the wall. “Come out blazin’ when you hear my signal,” he added, in a tone that left little room for argument.

Signal… Really? Marni rolled her eyes but moved to the closet with those beautiful shoes. Hard not to get distracted but with her ear peeled and her eyes leveled on the small crack in the door.

Moments later, the two mercs entered the room; Robin’s heart fluttered as the door pressed against his chest, but the first man into the room did not push any further. The two of them entered proper; the first, a blonde, clean-shaven man, the second bearded, with brown hair - both in street clothes with utility vests. They were carrying submachine guns.

Marni had a moment of panic in thinking that the man would let them find her in the closet and then escape on her own. Stupid stupid following his directions. She was just so relieved he had untied her.

“Forget to check your corners, asshole?” Robin roared, shoving the door into the man bringing up the rear; he was knocked off balance, stumbling forward, and Robin followed him to the ground. The two men squabbled with their hands for a moment before Robin managed to wrap his thick, strong fingers about the merc’s jaw, raising his head up and slamming it into the floor with a meaty thud.

Marni’s fears were quickly put aside as the man jumped out, attacking the nearest. This scuffle made his companion turn in surprise and that was all Marni needed. She cocked her beretta and stepped out, bringing her gun level with the side of his head and pulling the trigger.

The blast was disgusting and matter spattered the neighboring wall and Marni’s ears rung with the sound. Gore was splattered across her face and turning she looked at the two on the floor with a grimace and leveling the beretta at the two.

“SHOULD I SHOOT YOU TOO?” she asked way too loudly, her hearing apparently affected.

Robin glanced up from the merc he had pinned to the ground, who was no longer struggling in any significant way; the back of his head was partially caved in, blood oozing out across the carpet. Staring at Marni for a second, Robin went back to work, dismounting his prey and hauling him up into a sitting position; he wrapped his arm about the man’s neck and began to squeeze, muscles taught - and after a moment, wrenched the thug’s head to one side, breaking his neck. “Fucking blood money-takin’ prick,” he muttered, shoving the lifeless corpse onto its stomach.

Robin eyed his 1911, lying on the other side of the dead merc, and slowly rose to his feet. “You askin’ me?” he inquired, grinning. “Could’ve let them waste you, y’know. Didn’t, did I? Make a decision, sweetheart, I ain’t got all day.”

“WHAT?” She shouted again before shaking her head. The other guy was clearly dead and she lowered her gun to that it was only pointed at his knees.

Bringing a hand away from the beretta she rubbed her ear as the ringing started to subside. “Friends of yours?” Marni asked, shifting in her boots, one of which was too loose. She wanted to sit down and put her laces back on but she wasn’t totally sure the stranger wouldn’t just tie her back up. She did just kill a man in front of him with no reaction at all.

That thought brought Marni back to the realization that her face was dirty. Guck!! Wrinkling her nose Marni rubbed a palm across her cheeks which really only smeared it more.

“Somethin’ like that,” Robin replied, visibly relaxing. “Here,” he reached down, tossing her a stray water bottle that had rolled around to his side of the room; “Clean yourself up. I’m gettin’ my shit and beatin’ feet. No tellin’ who - or what - that bullet might bring to my doorstep.” Robin picked up his 1911 and left the room.

She caught the bottle easily and looked at it. Her vanity combated with the need to preserve resources. Rolling the bottle in her hand she nodded shortly at his comments and watched the man leave the room. He was right. Shooting the guy was a short term solution. Now she wouldn’t be able to take a nap or raid the closet further.

He opened up the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, removing a flimsy particle board false bottom and yanking out a somewhat weather-worn M4, checking the magazine before slapping it back into place and shouldering the assault rifle by its strap. Robin slunk out into the hallway, keeping an eye on the stairwell as he picked up his ruck and carried it back into the kitchen; thoughtlessly, he began to stuff it with as many bottles of water and cans of food as he could manage. Once he was finished, his eyes darted towards the bedroom door, wondering whether or not he should simply abandon the woman.

The Compromise Marni came to was that she could only use a ¼ of the bottle to wipe off her face and hands with one of the uglier sweaters in the closet.

She changed quickly out of the bloody clothes and with the already besmirched sweater wiped the fronts down efficiently before folding them up and stuffing them into her bag. Next she corrected her lacing problem and shouldered her bag.

The man was still there, she could hear him rifling around in the kitchen. Uncertainty gripped Marni. Should she let him go and then leave on her own? If she hung around she had the chance of being caught by another undesirable. But she could go through the apartment even more and pick up whatever goodies he left…

But she didn’t want to be alone in a place with only one exit...Not when the lock was busted and she had just attracted all sorts of trouble with that gun shot. But she had no other way, that guy was too big. There was no way she could have wrestled him the way the stranger had with his dude.

Blinking and shaking her head Marni realized she had been standing still staring at the bedroom door for maybe a minute or more. It was quiet in the other room. Had he left while she zoned out?

When was the last time Marni slept?... She wasn’t sure.

With a sigh she pushed open the bedroom door and was startled to see the man there. Her brows arched and they stood sizing each other up.

“Well…” She reached up to adjust the straps to her pack uncomfortably. Bringing her lower lip between her teeth Marni felt awkward. “I suppose you’d want to travel with me now huh?” She smiled at her attempt of a joke. “Being such a good marksmen and all…”

“Two’s better’n one,” he remarked, rubbing his chin. “Trouble is, I don’t imagine we trust each other all that well.” Adjusting the ruck and rifle on his shoulders, Robin sighed, crossing his arms. “I ain’t the most accustomed to traveling with people I don’t fuckin’ hate, though, so it might be refreshing. There’s a reason I was tryin’ to get away from those Blackwater wannabes.” It wasn’t worth mentioning that he had just spent the better part of a year working alongside them, of course.

“I don’t really expect either of us are looking for someone to trust so much as someone to not eat us…” It seemed fair enough. And really he could handle a gun and a fist. Better to have him close to keep an eye on him rather than worrying that he might be out there.

“We could both stand somebody to watch our back, though - and at least I know you went through BCT, if nothin’ else.” Though Naval BCT wasn’t exactly hoofing it, Robin mulled, shaking his head. “I’m leavin’ town, headed east, for Waynesville and Leonard Wood. Figure maybe the Marines held out up there, even if Uncle Sam ain’t around to give ‘em orders. You know how Marines are: dumb, and prone to routine. They’re probably on fire watch at Leonard Wood, wonderin’ where brass went.”

Marni nodded. She felt torn. She had been headed to Colorado to check on her folks, but at the pace she was moving and at the rate people were dying. Marni frowned. She stood a better chance of finding her folks if she wasn’t on her own...

He chuckled ruefully, watching her for a moment. “Name’s Robin,” he offered.

“Jenkins…” Her hazel eyes flickered to the door and back. “So Leonard Wood it is then… You got a map?”

“I do,” he replied, jerking his head back to indicate his ruck. “State map, had it for ages. It ain’t a difficult trek, though: we just gotta follow seventy east ‘til we hit the national park, then cut south on highway fifty-four straight to Waynesville. You ready to go?”

“Yeah, let’s make like a baby and head out.” And with that Marni gestured to the door and hustled after Robin out of the apartment. So odd how life could turn out. One minute handling some beautiful Jimmy Choo’s and the next blowing a strangers brains out and following a different stranger in the wrong direction.

Father Logan Dubois’ Journal-February 16 2017,
So, I’ve never had a journal before but the state of the world requires recording. My name is Father Logan Dubois, I am a Catholic Priest and exorcist. I am currently thirty-one years old and my birthday is October 22. Two days ago the world ended, and I mean that in a literal sense. I was in the middle of my homily in Mass, hopefully whoever finds this will be able to understand what I just said. One of my congregation, a man with who I was great friends, bit into the neck of his neighbor killing him instantly. In what seemed like forever but was probably no longer than a few minutes, the entire church was filled with blood.
Only four people, including myself, were able to escape the church. We ran out of the back doors where a lone woman police officer was standing, gun raised. She fired behind us, hitting many of the crazies before we were all safely in her car driving away. I must have looked a mess, my clothing drenched in stinky, smelling blood. It didn’t take long for the survivors to discover that these events were connected to the disease that had been spreading rapidly across the world for the last few weeks.
We have taken shelter at St. Jude’s Catholic High School, of which I was the chaplain. This ‘colony,’ as it is being referred to, is headed by Marcus Schroder, the father of the young officer who saved my life only days ago. It is fitting that we hide under the arms of the patron saint of desperate situations. Maybe God will have mercy on those of us who are left.
And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works.-Revelation 20:13

May 5, 2017

Stacey Schroder breached the door to the next house quietly and efficiently like she had done hundreds of times before. She had her Glock 22 raised searching for any sign of trouble within the structure. It was a single story house with a garage on the left side. She entered into the living room with her partner, a man from the ‘colony’ whose named was Jake. Or at least she thought it was Jake. He was one of two newbies on the crew for this trip. The other three scavengers in her group were spread out in the other two houses on the street corner.

She wore her navy blue police uniform and Kevlar vest as she did for every scavenging run. She had her hair pulled back into a ponytail. The man next to her was a black man who was much taller and much larger than she was. She allowed him to check the living room and kitchen while she checked the bedrooms and bathrooms. She breached each carefully, luckily there were no creeps in sight.

She entered the first bathroom and threw her backpack on the floor. The first thing she checked was the medicine cabinet. Of course it was mostly empty except for a half empty bottle of aspirin and a small pink razor. That goes in my personal stash. She put the two items in one of her side pockets and checked the shower for any hygiene products. Nothing.

For the hour or so it took for them to clear the house they came up with relatively little supplies. It was almost as if someone had been there before them.

“Hey Jake, did you get anything good?”

“Nah, only like one can o’ beans and some nudie mags.” The large man said.

Before she could respond she heard a loud pop from outside, unmistakably a 9mm sidearm. “Fuck” She cursed under her breath. The two scavengers ran to the front door to see who had been dumb enough to fire off a round. Probably the kid. She thought.

Sure enough, when she got to the door she saw Kevin. He was not quite in the position she had expected though. A burly redneck man held the kid with his arm around his neck and a sidearm pointed at his head. Stacey raised her own weapon in less than a second.

“What the fuck is going on here?” She demanded, the redneck laughed. Which irritated her to no end.

“Northern girl huh, why don’t you put the gun down and we can come to a little agreement?” He said not hiding the fact that he was observing her body.

“Put the kid down and I won’t blow a hole through your damn skull.” She said demandingly. As if on cue, four more rednecks all as dumb as the first stepped out of the house Kevin was scavenging. Also as if on cue her back up walked out of their house. The group stood in a circle each pointing their weapon at someone else, a regular Mexican standoff.

“Baby, you can have the kid back if you show me that ass. Been a long time since I’ve had any cop pussy.” The lead hillbilly said back. She had had enough of him.

“Stacey, just give him what he wants. I don’t want to die.” Kevin was on the verge of tears. Pathetic, and he volunteered for this job?

“He’s not getting a damn thing.” Stacey said back.

“Now hol’ up,” Jake said before approaching with his hands raised, “I’ll give you what I got if yo’ just hand over the lil’ man.”

“You tell your nigger to stay right where he is.” The leader said, with that one of the others pointed a shotgun at Jake’s chest.

“Stace please.” Kevin asked, his voice even more shaky.

“Kid if you don’t shut up I’ll shoot you myself.” She replied. He sunk down a little, almost as if he had accepted his fate. The redneck responded to that with a
smile. Jake again tried to approach but was quickly stopped by another curse from the shotgun wielder. The two other men in Stacey’s group held their weapons at the ready.

“Alright honey bun, I’m about tired of this shit. Drop your stuff or we’ll kill every last one of you.” The redneck had lost his ‘charm.’ He pointed his gun away from Kevin and straight at Stacey. That gave her the shot.

“No.” She said in a matter of fact tone.

“Have it your way bitch.” The boss said. One loud boom was heard before Stacey could get off a shot. She hit the leader right in between the eyes before he could fire a round. Kevin fell to his knees and ran in her direction with his hands over his head. She turned to her right and fired two bullets into the shotgun wielder’s chest. He fell back to the ground with a thump. It was then that she realized what that boom was, Jake’s body lay on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. He was done for.

Within seconds another of her team was dead. The odds were even. Kevin hid behind the doorframe inside the house completely useless and the bandits were pressing in on her third partner’s location. She backed up inside the house and grabbed the kid by his shirt and pulled him up. He had tears streaming down his face.

“Make yourself useful and go get the damn car.” She yelled before reaching into her right pocket and pulling out the keys.

“I.. I never got a license.” He said, still crying.

“GO GET THE FUCKING CAR!” She yelled as she smacked him in the face. She was pissed off and couldn’t think of what else to do. He obliged and took the keys from her hands and ran out of the back door with his hand covering his face. Maybe I hit him to hard. She thought for a second.

She looked over to where her other companion was. Michael, another cop. He seemed to be holding his own, he had even killed one of the bandits. That wasn’t the end of their problem though, some creeps were being drawn to their location. Luckily they were moving slowly so she assumed they were just ones and twos. She fired her pistol at the nearest bandit but couldn’t get the shot, he was taking cover behind a dumpster and pouring on fire in Michael’s direction.

She heard her cruiser speeding in their direction so apparently the kid had gotten there without getting killed. He sped into the center of the road, hitting two mail boxes and putting himself in the direct line of fire. She ran out with a curse. My dad is going to be pissed when he sees the car. She fired four times into the back of one of the bandits, the one not behind the dumpster. She jumped into the passenger seat and Michael ran to the back. The creeps were getting closer.

When they were all three in the car Kevin floored it. It seemed like he smashed into every possible zombie on his way out but they eventually got away. She turned around to see a similar scene with the last surviving redneck, who apparently had a few more friends parked some distance away. Within a minute they were speeding in opposite directions.

Father Logan Dubois’ Journal-May 5 2017,
Stacey’s scavenging team returned today with two casualties. That drops our total to 42 survivors. God only knows how many more we are going to lose. I’m going to the colony council meeting tonight, apparently there are many more of these Texas bandits out there. The young man who accompanied the group this time, Kevin Fairbanks, is taking it pretty hard. I’ve often spoken to this young man, he seems to have trouble with letting things like this linger. It took two months for me to help him recover his self-esteem after he arrived. His family was turned and he ran. Hopefully he doesn’t fall back into depression.

“You’re completely sure there was no peaceful solution?” Father Logan asked Stacey. He stood there with his arms crossed slightly annoyed. Most of the ‘council’
was talking in circles. It was time to end this discussion.

“No you jack ass, there was no peaceful solution.” Stacey was obviously upset. She still hadn’t quite calmed down. It didn’t help that Marcus had berated her not thirty minutes ago. “What, do you think I just shot those guys for the hell of it?”

“No, but I do think you got excited and didn’t look at the situation from all angles.” He replied. “Regardless, what’s done is done. We need to figure out what we do next.” He continued before she could respond.

“Agreed.” Lieutenant Marcus spoke up. “If this group is as big as young Kevin was led to believe we need to prepare for battle.” He said. The six other council members that sat around the circular table were silent. Father Logan, still standing grunted.

“Something to say father?” One of the other members, a former city council woman named Sarah… Something asked.

“I agree with Marcus, we should prepare for the worst.” He said. “But I don’t think we should shoot at first sight. Both groups lost people, we need to try to solve this without further killing. Humanity is spread thin as it is.”

“Agreed.” Marcus said again. Logan began wondering if he should have accepted that offer to be on the council after all.

“What I want to know is how we even know these guys know where we are.” Stacey spoke up again from her seat.

“Kevin told them, he had a gun to his head.” Logan answered.

“He should have taken the fucking bullet.” Stacey said, flashes of Jake’s dead body and later reanimated corpse lingered in her mind.

“Oh, wonderful advice. Maybe you should tell that to all of our teenagers who volunteer to help the colony.” Logan said, his tone was sarcastic and humorous but he meant every word. And it was supposed to sting.

“Alright enough, if we see these Texan bastard approaching we will arm everyone who is older than 15. Father Logan, you and councilwoman Jules will be our negotiators.” Marcus said. Jules, that’s her last name. The priest just nodded, and with that the meeting was adjourned.

Father Logan Dubois’ Journal-March 10 2017,
We finally met with the Texan group. It didn’t go well, the former city council woman lost her life along with one of our body guards. 40 survivors. We returned a little over an hour ago, Stacey’s open hostility towards me has never been more evident. The entire colony is on high alert, and we have turned away at least six survivors this week against my advice. Hopefully God protects those poor souls. The colony is going to war, its first war. Hopefully it will live through the conflict.
“For the Lord your God walks in the midst of your camp, to deliver you and give your enemies over to you; therefore your camp shall be holy, that He may see no unclean thing among you, and turn away from you.” Deuteronomy 23:14

Village of Pualmo. Just north east of Brasilia, Brazil.
June 26th. 2016. 0235 hours.
________________________________________
It was a war zone in every sense of the word. Recently, the LNO had been carving out areas of South America, battling cartels and governments, and winning. Eventually, the capital was taken and the US Embassy was surrounded, essentially being held hostage which led to a US and Brazilian led invasion to take back the compound.

Air raid sirens were going off, gunfire and small explosions were constant, and at this time of night, those various flashes lit up the night like fireworks. There were occasional screams, people yelling in the distance, and people running down the streets to flee when they thought it was safe. The smell was constantly changing. One moment, gunpowder was in the air, while the next it could be simply flames. The stink of death was there also, and so was the smell of destruction in the form of dust from any of the myriads of buildings that were destroyed to more or lesser degrees.

The night sky was not dark; it was lit up bright and orange and then riddled with huge, distinct beams of search lights. It was a war zone.

Itchy made his way through the streets, sticking as best he could to dark spots, keeping out of the open as often as possible. He was in Fallujah with Marine Force Recon and Syria with the U.S. Army and both were hellish. This, this was something else. This was an entire city tearing and shooting itself apart.

Itchy was alone, but he'd come here with a group of 3 SEALS. Unfortunately, one was wounded, and another killed, all because a girl with a doll was somewhere unexpected, and she screamed. Since then, the four had been under attack or avoiding patrols of LNO paramilitaries. When pinned down, the two men simply told Itchy to go, that they "got this." One injured man, limited ammo...Itchy figured they were dead and that they had given him the means to escape the building and get to the target. The whole revenge thing didn’t apply here, he wasn’t going to “get the objective for them” and all that. But he would accomplish the mission.

He could see the roof of the target building ahead and was about to exit an alley and cross the street when 2 modified Mercedez's ripped through the street. Itchy ducked back into the alley for a few moments before poking out his head and making sure it was clear. He raised his silenced M14 SOCOM to his shoulder and moved quickly across the street. He heard soldiers yelling, not more than 100 yards behind him, but that didn't concern him now.

He moved through the next alley and came to another street, one that was almost void of activity. One would not think that less than 50 feet away was the General of LNO, one of the most powerful and feared men in the world, a man capable of going to war with the United States and Brazil.

The man Itchy and the group had been sent to kill.

He moved across the street and along the front of a building when around the corner came two LNO soldiers. He would have let them go but they were about to turn in his direction. The first shot caught them both unaware as it took one in the temple. The second soldier hardly reacted, but turned fast enough to take this round in the right eye socket. Itchy moved and stepped over them, hardly noticing and not caring that one of those he stepped over was a boy that couldn't have been over 14. The AK 47 seemed to be bigger than both of his arms.

He dragged the bodies inside the building and continued on, peeking around the corner at the target building. Again he was about to turn the corner and make his way to the building when a small convoy of about 6 vehicles, including one armored personnel vehicle, raced up to the HVT's building and troops deployed in protective circles. Obviously, they were there to move the General. Itchy cursed under his breath and decided on a rather simple plan. Not the smartest, not the safest, but the objective was the objective. He could worry about consequences later.

He waited for a moment or two, but laid down on the floor in the prone position, the most stable for firing, and he began to relax, finding his breath and focusing. The General walked out a moment later, stopped to point and bark an order that he never finished, because from less than 50 yards away, Itchy fired a 7.62mm round that ripped through the man's neck. The men around him raced into action, a few shielding the body of the General while the vast majority of the over 40 men focused on where the shot had been fired from, and that focus was in the form of dozens of rounds being fired every second. Itchy moved quickly, feeling and hearing rounds whip past and impact homes and the ground around him. He went to take cover in a building but as he was, soldiers behind him opened fire and an SUV shot around the corner and opened fire. Itchy moved to the alley, bullets slamming into the wooden home all around him, showering him with splinters.

He was almost at the end of the alley when he heard the distinct sound of an RPG behind him. He didn't move fast enough and projectile hit a dumpster behind him and Itchy was unconscious almost immediately.

For the next 2 hours and 28 minutes, Itchy was held and tortured by LNO members as he moved in and out of consciousness. When asked who he was, he'd give them his name and answer questions. "Justin Beiber. Delta Force. Here to kill Adolph Hitler. Remember the alamo." Most distinctly, he remembered the drill and how as it went in, it pulled his skin with it. And how it bit into bone. And the smell. He could hear screams, but they seemed far away. But they were his.

He remembered just hoping to die. He remembered those 2 hours and 28 minutes more clearly than almost any other event in his life.

Itchy KNEW he was going to die and was simply trying to make it happen sooner. At one point he blacked out as his body dealt with the pain, only to wake up to the room being lit up brightly, mainly from the outside via high intensity search lights. Someone picked his chin up and Itchy heard "--of ours" before passing out again. Jon could see that the man was out of it, in some state of shock, but he could see the man smiling when he came to. “You’re good brother,” Jon said. He was saved. By some unfortunate happenstance, coalition forces stumbled upon the building and breached. Itchy would live. He's also get a commendation. When it was handed to him, he looked up and saw a face. It confused him and he dropped the commendation as the boy looked at Itchy. It was one of the younger boys Itchy had killed, where and when, he couldn't remember. Maybe it was all of them.
________________________________________
CDC Facility, Fort Leonard Wood, MS.
October 30th 2017.
________________________________________
Jon sat up suddenly. He looked around, confused and panicked. The military channel was on the TV and there were explosions and gunfire as Marines fought in Hue City. He looked at his bed. His hands were on his back. He was sweating.

Something wasn’t right. He remembered the award being presented. There was no flashback then. The man accepted the award with a smile and a handshake. The problem was, this wasn’t the first dream. His dreams were slowly being invaded by distorted flashbacks. And more recently, he began to have flashes while losing focus while he was awake.

It had to be what was on the TV. Next time, he'd turn off the military channel and try to find baywatch or some show that would lead him to a lot more fun of a place. Then after over 7 months of isolation, something hit Jon. He went to the channel guide and began looking for SOME form of adult entertainment....

Leon lay in the back of the four-door pick-up truck as it trundled along the deserted highway. He'd been picked up by some fellow survivors who were heading for some kind of safe haven they'd supposedly heard about on their radio. When they found him, he was a shell of a human. Malnourished, dehydrated, on the verge of death. Out of sheer kindness, they'd loaded him into their truck while he was drifting in and out of consciousness, listening to them debate on what to do with him. He clearly wasn't dead since he'd thanked them for their kindness, though it was just in a whisper.

They'd already searched him for bite wounds and, upon finding none, allowed him to stay. The group, consisting of two men and two women, fed and watered him, which he was extremely grateful for. They seemed to have supplies in abundance but, at least to Leon, his definition of lots was considerably different to others since he'd been living off scraps for just over two months. During this time, he'd managed to keep hold of his trust fire axe that had been with him since day one. He hadn't needed to kill anything, or anybody, though, since he spent most of his days hiding and wasting away, waiting for death to take him.

As the clouds began to group together and blot out any light, Leon found the strength to sit himself up. He gave the group a reassuring smile and sat, hunched over, on the wheelarch. Leon thought about his co-workers he'd abandoned back in the city, but decided that it was for the best. A natural selection, of sorts. Only the fittest survive, and Leon was still alive. He sighed and looked at the road ahead. There was a truck that had crushed a sedan against the barrier in the middle of the road, blocking the entire thing. Leon heard the driver of the pick-up curse and the vehicle slowed down to a halt. There was no way around.

"Well, now what the fuck are we going to do?" Asked the driver.

"Man, it's dark," his passenger replied. "I don't wanna be out at night."

"What if we head back to that gas station we passed a few miles back?" Queried one of the females.

The driver nodded, did a U-turn and drove back in the direction they came. As they did, Leon helped himself to a water bottle, and swigged from it, making sure none of the others noticed. He placed it back where it came from as they reached the gas station. The group began to make sure the coast was clear before setting up tents and other sleeping arrangements inside the store that adjoined the gas pumps. Leon was confined to a sleeping bag outside the tents since they only had enough for the original four, or so they said. Maybe they didn't trust Leon. Maybe Leon didn't trust them. But, for now, Leon drifted off and got some much needed sleep.



Leon awoke to one of the loudest screams he'd heard in his life, not too dissimilar from the ones he'd heard during the first few days of the rising. He literally burst out his sleeping bag, clutching his axe. The man and woman who were in the tent next to the one the scream was heard from got out too, clutching their weapons. His was a baseball bat, hers was a table leg. The screams were still going, and Leon could see the silhouettes of the two inside the tent scrambling. One seemed to be trying to get away from the other. Eventually, Leon saw blood spurt across the tent side. The zip began to open up and two bodies fell out. It looked like the man had turned and was now feasting on his female counterpart.

Then, the moans and groans of the undead outside began to get louder, much like they did when he was hiding in a suburban household two months back. They were coming. They had heard the noise, which acted like a homing beacon, and were advancing, growing in number. The woman saw this, and immediately got spooked. She leapt towards the back exit, and opened it up to her own doom. She was ripped outside and devoured by the five infected beings waiting. The man, who Leon recognized as the driver, was closest and shut the door, sealing her fate. The two look at each other. They were trapped inside with one of those things and about fifty more outside.

"Shit, man, shit!" The driver exclaimed. "We're gonna fuckin' die!"

Leon looked at him, and then outside. The undead were pressing against the door and windows now. And they wouldn't hold. The cracks were already beginning to appear. In all honesty, he didn't know what to do. There seemed to be no escape. The woman outside had stopped screaming, so she was probably laying in two halves with the undead picking at her internal organs. The two inside seemed to be eating each other, so they were pre-occupied and didn't care about Leon and the other man. Leon paced around, trying to come up with some kind of miraculous escape plan to save himself and his new ally.

Leon remembered that there weren't too many around the back, so maybe they'd still be occupied with the other woman. He steeled his nerves, yanked the door open and prepared for death... But nothing. His idea was correct, and they were actually in a corner, still snacking on their human hors d'oeuvres. He turned back to beckon the driver to follow, and he did. But he was too quick. The driver slipped on some blood, courtesy of his two undead friends, and hit his head. Leon strode back to help but, as he did, the glass caved in and the undead poured inside the gas station, and straight for the two.

Leon made a decision on the spot, and nabbed the driver's keys just as his leg has grabbed by a member of the undead ranks. Leon tore off outside just as the driver was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the seemingly-endless waves of infected, where he was promptly ripped apart and turned into a human meal. Leon made it to the pick-up just as the undead noticed him, and leapt inside. He locked the doors and switched the engine and headlights on. They illuminated the store, and Leon could just make out the driver pleading for help and mercy as he was bitten, torn and scratched at from every angle.

Leon looked away and drove off into the night. He could have saved him. All he had to do was pull him up. But then Leon might have been too slow. Had he deliberately left him behind? Had Leon just used the person he helped as bait just so he could get away safe? Leon glanced back. All the supplies were still there. A tear rolled down his cheek. He couldn't decide if he was turning into something he didn't want to be. The things he'd seen, especially in the city on day zero, would be enough to change most. He congratulated himself on making it this far, and told himself he wouldn't stop until he was dead, even if that meant doing whatever he had to to survive.

07:00
September 1st, 2017

Triss strummed lightly on her guitar, having learned to play fairly well when she was younger. She played lightly as the fire slowly burned down to a small bed of coals, waiting for Emmie to wake up. She looked at her watch. “Seven o’clock….c’mon Emmie…..wake up...we have to go.” she mumbled, resuming her quiet but sad song. The strings were cold in the morning breeze, yet they felt so natural as they brushed against her fingers, effortlessly playing a tune.

A small shiver ran down her back as the morning sunlight rose over the trees. She smiled lightly “Good morning world….please don’t kill me today.” she thought, glancing across the treeline for movement. A small breeze blew her hair around and made her aware of how quiet it really was out here. No cars, no people, no sounds of the city at night. Only the two of them. Two against the world.

“I don’t wanna,” Emmie groaned, shifting in her sleeping bag angrily. She made a curious, high-pitched noise expressing her displeasure and sat up, fussing with her bedhead. “Where’d you get a guitar, anyway?” she asked, half-asleep, massaging her eyes with her fingertips.

“My dad paid for piano lessons, when I was younger… I think I can probably still play a few chords… I was never very good at it.” Rising from her bedroll, Emmie began to piece her things back together, placing them inside her pack, rolling up her bag and tying it to the back of the backpack.

Emmie yanked the map of Missouri she’d found in a BP out of one of the pack’s side-pockets, unrolling it and examining it thoughtfully for several long moments. “So… we’re… I think we’re pretty close to the fort,” she mumbled, rubbing her cheek. “I’m not really sure. Probably like… ten or… twenty miles, maybe? I mean, that’s not that far.” Not for two reasonably fit young travelers, anyway - though Emmie frequently wished she had taken her cardio more seriously before… all of this.

“We got anything left for breakfast?”

Triss layed the guitar at her side, looking over to Emmie “I got it a few days back, found it in a warehouse, still in good shape.” She would watch Emmie with a slight curiosity as she packed up her things. She looked around. It was way too quiet.

She looked to Emmie “I tried piano once, never really liked it all too much.” Her stomach growled, reminding her of the ugly truth the two of them faced. Limited food. She walked over to take a peek at the map Emmie had out “Goodie, then we should be there in a day’s time, maybe two. We should probably keep an eye out for any other buildings, take our time getting to the fort.” She often wondered if this supposed fort was actually real.

She began to look through her bag at Emmie’s question, she was also curious if they had anything else to eat that hadn’t gone bad yet. She tossed her climbing harness and rope aside and dug deep into her bag, hoping for anything at this point. “How does canned peas, beef jerky and kool-aid sound?” she said, almost in a sarcastic tone, laughing to herself at the odd assortment of food.

“Sounds like…” Emmie trailed off, rolling the map up and sighing. “Sounds like I miss McDonalds. I’d kill somebody for a Big Mac - seriously!” She shrugged her shoulders, pushing messy blonde hair out of her eyes. “I’ll take the peas, jerky, and kool-aid, though.”

Fifteen minutes and one vaguely sad meal later, Emmie felt a lot better: she was visibly more alert and upbeat, no longer suffering from morning hunger. “Okay!” she declared, glancing southwards thoughtfully. “There’s an old supermarket, like, half a mile that way - you wanna see if there’s any food left? I mean, it’s doubtful, but hey… you never know what might have been pushed underneath a shelf or tucked away, or something. Besides, if Fort Leonard Wood is a bust, we need to find more food - y’know, so we don’t… starve, and junk.”

Triss swallowed the last of the cold canned peas with a shudder. She’d never liked peas, but they they tasted twice as bad when they were cold, though she was grateful that they actually had food. She tossed the can into the mostly burnt out fire before re-packing her things into bag and tossing it over her shoulder. “While having food is nice….why did it have to be peas!” she shook her head “Yes, the supermarket sounds like a good idea. No more peas. Maybe some corn, but no damn peas!”

She took a large gulp from her water bottle before clipping it back to her bag and looking to Emmie “Lead on, you know where you’re going. Quick question though.” She kicked the remaining coals to spread them out so they would burn out faster. “What’s at this fort that you need so badly? Do you think there’s even anyone still there?”

“That’s the rumor,” she replied, adjusting her pack on her shoulders and trudging south, Triss in tow. “Alex - she’s a friend I was traveling with - she and her friends said that… there had been rumors, a few months back, that Leonard Wood was safe. It’s the only military base for, like, hundreds of miles, I think? There are Marines there, I guess, and it might be a safe place to stay. We could have, like… beds… and food, maybe.”

And maybe her father was waiting there for her.

Climbing over a downed tree and cutting into the sparse Missouri woods, Emmie glanced over her shoulder at Triss. “So, do you have any family left? Anybody that might be out there?” She looked forward again, marveling at how quickly the leaves had come off the trees as autumn settled in. Emmie shrugged deeper into her woolen jacket, wishing it was warm again already… and if this felt bad, she couldn’t imagine what the real winter would be like.

Triss’ face went blank at the question. She suddenly saw her father’s face, then herself beating the creature he had become to death with her bat. She felt like she was going to puke. The disgusting sound of bone being crushed resonated through her head. She shook her head, trying to get the thought off her mind “N-no….I don’t.” There. That’s all she had to say. She looked at her bat. She wanted to say more, wanted to let the guilt out, the anger. “I beat my dad to death….he had turned.” she said, the words echoing through her mind.

She went silent, looking down at the ground as they trudged on, the memory of that moment flashing through her mind repeatedly. The blood, the sound, the panic. She looked to her shoulder, the pain of the wound still present, though faded. She whimpered quietly, then looked up, hoping Emmie hadn’t heard it. She didn’t want her thinking that she was soft. She wasn’t soft, she was tough. She had killed. She had survived.

Emmie stopped, turning around. The pain and the anger was clear on Triss’s face, and Emmie could only frown - knowing all too well the terror of having to murder what was once a living being, having to clean blood off of yourself and sprinting in terror, heart racing, pouring sweat. Life was… considerably less fun, these days.

“Hey,” she murmured, walking back towards Triss and putting a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “I’m sorry… that’s… horrible. I’m… sorry you had to do that - but - but it’s better than… letting him stay like that, right? I’m sure he wouldn’t want that. I wouldn’t want that.”

She watched Triss, biting her lower lip, uncertain of how to help the girl. The breakdowns weren’t uncommon, she knew - truth be told, she’d been having one of her own when they ran into each other. “Um…” she started, and then grinned. “Hey - what was your dad like? Was he cool? I… I love my dad, but he could be a real pain in the ass, sometimes,” she giggled, putting an arm around Triss’s shoulder. “And the jokes, too - like he thought he was funny! Ugh!”

Triss had no idea what to say. She wanted to scream. Her dad had been the only thing she had for the longest time. Now he was gone. She’d thought about what would’ve happened if it had been her instead of him, what he would do without her. She looked up to Emmie, sadness in her eyes. “He was everything. He taught me everything, helped me with everything. And now he’s gone.” she almost yelled. She looked down and walked past Emmie, tears running down her face.

An hour went by. An hour of total silence. The memories were running through her mind. Memories of when life was good, when she had her warm bed to hide in, a meal to come home to, a father to love. She wanted her old life so much, there was nothing she wasn’t willing to do to get it back. She looked to Emmie, a slight twinge of guilt running through her. “My dad was kind. Every night when he got home, we’d go out to the field and we’d play ball. He’d help me with homework, comfort me when I was down. He always knew what to say and when to say it. He was my person. And now. Now he’s gone, and I don’t want to talk about it because I fucking killed him.”

She walked on in silence, clutching the leather handle on her bat, remembering the sound of the baseball when she hit a homerun in the final game of her last season. She’d do anything to see him one more time, but she knew that would never happen. All she could do now was press on.

“You don’t have to talk about it, but…” Emmie paused, frowning - a sadness in her voice. “You didn’t kill him. That wasn’t your dad, Triss, that was… some thing that looked like him.” She considered saying more, but she had made her point, and just then - the pair of them crested the final hill before a sweeping supermarket came into view! It wasn’t a supercenter or a megamart or whatever, but it was big enough, and it might still have something worth taking.

“There we go,” Emmie said, smiling. “Maybe we can find something to eat that doesn’t suck. Hey, maybe they’ve got… like… a McDonalds. I bet I could get those stupid friers to work… if there was electricity. Oh… I guess the freezer wouldn’t work either, then. Oh, gross - eight month old meat.” Emmie faked a gagging noise.