deegee

Absolom

"H-hello?" she managed to whisper.

@Xandrya

There was certainly movement. It was dark as pitch, but after a few moments of allowing her eyes to adjust, she could make out another form. Clad in the same orange prison garment she wore. It struggled a little, but then lay still. She could hear its laboured breathing behind what was sure to be another gag.

Something had changed. It was still. Very still. And the temperature in the air had shifted, she was sure of it. Or maybe it was the dew, or the cold sweat running down her spine. No -- something about her location had changed. The sounds. The animals -- they were gone. It was like she had fallen into a hole in the world. But then, off to her left, a sound. Monkey? Bird? Now off to her right, farther away. What was that? Hyena? A scream. A call of some sort. Now behind her. The sounds began to overlap, from all sides, all directions. The warped, twisted "calls of nature" that it didn't take DeLuca long to realize were the taunts of... people. Shrieks. Cries. Mimicry, if you could call it that. These were the calls of the depraved, the lost, the barbaric. How far? Maybe 150 feet. Coming from where? Seemed to be all sides. The only consolation was, at least for the moment, they didn't seem to be getting any closer. Louder? Yes. More plentiful? Yes...

---

G R I D - S Q U A R E 4 4 - E

All was silence, once the helicopter departed. No return trip, then. my bags are packed... I'm ready to go. The zip-ties wouldn't be terribly difficult to cut, but he'd need to do it soon. They'd been cinched tight, and circulation was becoming an issue, his fingertips turning blue, and feet numb. All around were the sounds of nature, a cacophony in his ears. Sounds he hadn't heard in an age... I'm standing here outside your door, I hate to wake you up to say good-bye. Heat. Humid, stifling heat that caught in your throat, and set a powerful thirst about a body... heat like the noon-day sun in a roasting pan, in hell. A gull of some type set down on a boulder not far from him. But the dawn is breaking, it's early morn, the taxi's waiting, He's blowing his horn. There was no sign of anyone, anywhere. And though it was freeing, and he could almost rest easy knowing the Man wasn't breathing down his neck, the Gull mocked him. Already I'm so lonesome I could die...

Infectious: Zone B Archives

Yep. I'll just keep checking in. No rush. A good apocalypse has plenty of time on its hands.

Absolom

No big thing!

Absolom

@Ztlabraptor211

I was going to write all the insertions, just to space out the arrivals... but keen Deacon's arrival. It's good. I'll reply to both tonight. 😊

Absolom

IC is up!

Absolom

A B S O L O M

...more precisely, over Absolom. Or maybe, over the water surrounding Absolom. Absolom... Absolom... the inmates had whispered it, over and over. In discussions over three hots a day. In the yard. On little pieces of paper passed from cell to cell. Absolom. It was like a fart in the wind. Nobody could pin it down, but it damn sure existed. In the hearts and minds of the poor, misguided, fucked-up souls still rotting in their 6X10's, Absolom was either Boogeyman, or Saint Peter. Choking cloud of Sarin gas, or the sweet scent of 'No. 1 Imperial Majesty' perfume. Detroit, or Beverly Hills. There were a thousand different theories. Most of them bullshit. All of them far-fetched.

Nevertheless, at this very moment, two inmates -- #4542378-E6B (Berthier, Jacques) and #4777345-F7F (DeLuca, Olivia) -- were strapped into their seats aboard a helicopter, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. And, as guard Tim Olson looked at his watch, they'd be coming around any time. Some took longer, which never went so well for the Fresh Fish. One way or the other, awake or not, when they arrived at the LZ, it was cut and run. If they weren't conscious by that time, so be it. Still, Tim hoped these two woke up... he had money on DeLuca lasting more than a week.

Olson took a quick look around at the cabin. There were six guards, three on the fore bulkhead, separated from the cockpit by a hatch behind Gunny's seat, and three against the aft bulkhead. All were fully armed with an array of weaponry, and wore black tac gear, head to foot. Two waist gunners manned the twin 7.62mm mini-guns on the Huey, and in the fore compartment sat the pilot and co-pilot / gunner. It was a standard deportation drop. No goods. And aside from a few tense moments, and a very tight timeline, nothing was out of the ordinary. Tim checked his chron, signalled Gunny. Five minutes.

One was stirring. The other was either still out, or acting like it. It didn't make a good goddamn bit of monkey-shit difference to Gunnery Sergeant Mike Evans. These would go out, just like the rest. Whether they hit the ground running, or like 150 lbs of ground beef, made no difference to Gunny. He gave the signal to his men, and various weapons locked and loaded. The two waist gunners leaned out on the landing skids of the jet-black chopper as the noise, and the wind, changed. The chopper engaged its' whisper mode, and though not entirely silent, became far less deafening, which was a feat of engineering that Gunny didn't fully comprehend. Two of his men affixed night-vision goggles, and all gave the thumbs-up.

Red light on. One minute. Gunny gave the signal, the op was a go. The chopper banked now and again, decreasing in altitude and speed. Olson withdrew his knife and readied himself for the order. Five weapons pointed at the two prisoners. Five weapons, and Tim Olson's box-cutter. The chopper slowed again. Lurched. Updraft. They were over the target.

Green light on. Tim moved precisely, carefully, cutting the two straps holding the prisoners in a single, deft slice. Gunny nodded, and Tim grabbed prisoner DeLuca, while Cormier grabbed prisoner Berthier. Their movements were practiced, fluid, economical. Each prisoner was unceremoniously tossed out the open side doors of the Huey, as it hovered six to eight feet off the ground. The only difference this time, as opposed to the many other drops Tim Olson had been a part of, was that he removed prisoner DeLuca's blindfold while he sent her out, palming the cloth as he did so, and stuffing it in a thigh pocket. It would fetch a good dollar on the dark web.

On Olson and Cormier's 'Clear' the chopper gained altitude and flew off, barely on-site for more than ten seconds. Not a shot fired. No contact. Nothing. Absolom was dark like the night sky. In less than a minute, there was no sign the helicopter had ever been there.

On the ground, Berthier and Cormier had landed less than twenty feet from each-other. Their wrists and ankles were zip-tied, and they were still ball-gagged. Berthier was also blindfolded. At first, all was chaos. Disorientation, weightlessness, nausea (coming around from the heavy sedative) and the trauma of a near-ten-foot fall from a moving vehicle (mind you, not moving too fast.) Everything around them seemed to be in motion. As if they had been sucked into a tornado. But as the chopper departed, the chaos diminished. Stillness, and heat. Humid, sticky, so-thick-you-could-tatse-it heat. And slowly, the sounds of nature. Bugs, the occasional bird.

Absolom

Sorry -- crazy week at work. Haven't really been here at ALL. But I'm going to put up the IC tonight. Not ALL characters will be inserted in my first IC Post. Those that are, may reply and act right away.

Thanks for patience.

-Dan

Absolom

My Hider

Name: Deacon Edwards
Age: 39
Gender: Male
Appearance: Deacon’s a middle aged Caucasian male, standing at a confident 6’2 and in great shape. He has a pointed jaw covered in a greying stubble and his midlength hair is a dark brown. He also has dark, intense eyes.


Background / Hometown: Deacon grew up in a small town in Eastern Oregon, one of those towns where you know everyone from your neighbors to the local business owners. His first issues stemmed from the prepubescent lessons he learned from his father, a former war veteran, of how great his glory days were. His dad filled his head with these stories of how thrilling the war was and how satisfying it was to take the lives of his enemies. This seeded in Deacons head and he became obsessed with wanting to feel this feeling his dad talked about. Once he turned 12, his dad took him on his first hunting trip. He and his father hunted deer in the forests down south up north in Washington and he loved it. He loved the thrill of the hunt; the slow stalking of his pray, and the moment when he took that shot was an unmatched rush. Then there was the kill itself. Deacon savored those last moments of the deer letting out its last bleats as blood filled its lungs. This greatly concerned his father. Deacon adored hunting and carried this hobby with him as he aged. As he aged, he became a sort of shut in. He grew antisocial, but was very charismatic and well liked around town. He was a notorious womanizer and women seldom gave him the time for serious relationships. At age 26, he grew bored of hunting wildlife. The animals didn’t give him the same rush he first had. They didn’t beg for mercy. They didn’t cry. They didn’t try to run away. That’s when he did it. On his way out for monthly hunting trip, he picked up a woman on the side of the road wanting a ride to a nearby town. Instead, Deacon brought her up to his hunting cabin and set her free. It was a game. Of course, she didn’t wanna play. But she had to. Her life was the prize. He hunted her down and it was far more thrilling than any deer he’d killed in years. This became a common occurrence. By the time the police had caught up with him, Deacon had killed 2 men and 11 women. He was sent to a maximum security prison in California where he was greatly underestimated. With him having a relatively small frame, a large inmate picked a fight on the first day. Deacon verbally berated him in front of the entire prison and infuriated, the man charged him. Deacon grew into a violent rage and threw the larger man into the wall, repeatedly slamming his skull into the concrete. The guards came to break it up and, still in a fit of fury, Deacon took the man to the ground and squeezed on his windpipe. The guards pulled him off, but he had already added two murders to his list. He was sent to Absolom without any other option.

Rap Sheet: Fifteen accounts of homicide

Personality: Deacon is a complex man. Despite being a complete sociopath, he’s very smart and manipulative, and can often use his charisma to get his way. If people don’t bend to his will however, he’ll quickly grow aggressive. Despite having good people skills he’s more of a recluse and enjoys living, working and acting in solitary.

Skills: Deacon’s manipulative and smart, often managing to get into people’s heads. He’s also more than adequate with a variety of weapons, from rifles, pistols and bows to skinning knives.

Motivation: Deacon sees life as a game. All the people in it are his pawns and he can do as he wishes with them. He wants to have fun and is willing to do all in his power to have fun. Thus, his passion for hunting. Despite his brilliance, he isn’t self-aware and cares little about his own life.

Gear: A pack of cigarettes

I was inspired heavily by notorious serial killer Richard Hanson

@Ztlabraptor211

Great work! Love the character! Feel free to transfer him to the characters tab, and I think that means we have enough to begin!! I'll get the IC started tonight.

'No Escape-esque'

YO! The OOC is up... looking for more characters! (Consider this a 'bump'.)

https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/163587-absolom/ooc?page=2#post-4326465

Welcome to Geurchville [Criminal/Gang Slice of Life]

Yeah, I'm in, always was. But I'm out for writing the medics. I'd love to actually... you know... interact... with someone. But as my PC. There have been plenty of opportunities. I'll post again soon.