Azseth — Roleplayer Guild

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