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The Dark Reckoning

I'll get something up today, I hope!

The Dark Reckoning

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He hurt all over, but after making tiny movements of his arms and legs, he knew that none of it was life-threatening. All the limbs were still there at least. He could hear himself breathing - the rasp of injury or sickness obvious and - to his ears at least - loud. Loud enough to give away a position or make himself a liability. Ribs? Lung? He just knew it hurt when he tried to move or sit up. The rest - bruising, swelling, cuts and gashes... that would heal in time. You sh...should leave me. Can't fight like this. You know they'll just come back with more, sooner or later... He managed to open his left eye beyond a squint, and took in the woman who knelt over him. He pushed up, using every ounce of strength he could muster, on his good arm (the right one felt all disconnected and awkward) and managed to sit up against something hard behind him. He took the small bottle of water she held out, took a swig through cracked and split lips. The words came easier after that. They'll know we didn't get too far. I killed two of 'em, at least. They won't let that go. You don't owe me nothin'. Don't go laying your life on the line for mine. You go on... get out while you can. He felt for his pistol in its holster, found it missing. The long gun was gone too. Maybe out in the street, or worse, in the vehicle or taken.

The Dark Reckoning

(do you want to revise? Or should I continue?) @Nallore

The Dark Reckoning

I re-read your latest, and I have to give you an update / correction. You seem to be examining my pack in your last post, and you mention the bloated, spoiled food cans, the dirty water... That stuff is from the dead biker, not me.

In my pack, you'll find:
-six 12 gu. shotgun shells (all different makes and types, not 100% sure about whether they'll all work. (pretty sure at least two of them are 'good.')
-a small satchel with electrical tape, boiled cotton (old t-shirt) material for bandages, a pill bottle with an assortment of different pills (you can make out that a few of them are aspirin, but many of the others just have a mg. designation on top) an 'altoids' case with a syringe and a small bottle filled with clear liquid inside, and a needle & thread.
-30' of climb cord
-three carabiners
-a flare
-three cans of unspoiled food, one more that's dented and iffy
-an mp3 player (dead battery, but has been jury-rigged with aligator clips to use an external battery some time ago)
-a compass
-an old, but very sharp Kabar knife.
-a canteen about half full with what seems to be clean water.

in my pockets (in case you're checking there) a zippo lighter (has fluid,) a multi-tool, the stub of a pencil and a small notebook, a deck of cards, sunglasses, a bandana / handkerchief, a c-wrench and a set of allen keys.

...just in case you want to revise your last post. @Nallore

The Risen: Fear the Fallen

He walked -- never run, there's a muchmuchmuch better chance of falling or losing focus and slipping up. (Alaska brand ice melter, $3.99, automotive **Now on SALE! BOGO**) Through the checkout aisle, over to where Grant-package was on the floor, giving the rotter a noogie. He looked silly, all panic and slimy ooze on his fingers. It would be a tricky shot, hitting the crawler without also plastering Grant-package. Ryan took a good swing with the bat, aiming real carefully, and stove in the corpse's brain-pan.

He whirled about, ichor dripping from the Easton's yellow-and-red lettering, and stepped back to register #4 to retrieve the pistol he'd left there a moment ago. Then, he withdrew two tissues (Simplicity! brand facial tissue, 2-ply, $.99 each, aisle 3) and wiped the bat clean, discarding the tissues in the nearby waste-paper basket. Littering was against company standards, and was a misdemeanor offence, thank-you-please. Also, it simply wouldn't do to have fallen-blood and brain-matter on his bat.

Listening intently, he remembered Grant-package-friend saying there were four. He counted the ones that had fallen. Old-lady-no-leg. One. Girl-with-flip-flops. Two. Noogie. Three. Three corpses! Ah!Ah!Ah!Ah! (Sesame Street, "Count with the Count," children's colouring book, check-out end-cap # 1 & 3, $2.69 each. Other titles available!) "Nonsense. Enough." He whirled about, looking and listening, smelling the air for any sign of the last walker.

"Grant-package-friend, you sure there were four?"

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

There's something about posting in a long-forgotten post-apocalypse RP, with little to no hope of a response, that seems right somehow.

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

...the trek took most of the morning. Walking a bike that weighed near 350 lbs over mostly loose sand and scrub ground was a fool's errand, a slog worse than running in knee-deep mud. Remember mud? heh. When he crested the last rise of the dune concealing the smoke (or what remained of it) he gave a low whistle. Whatever had happened here, he had missed it. And for small mercies, he was thankful. At least half a dozen shapes lay half-buried in the sand. Vehicles burnt and twisted from a fight that looked to have taken the lives of many. Other, smaller lumps in the sand dotted the scene. Bodies. There were no tracks left to examine, but reading the lay of the vehicles, Rig could tell that some vehicles had escaped destruction. That was good. Good for them that rode those vehicles. Bad for them that got left behind.

He flicked the spade end of the kickstand down, and after another thorough scan of the horizon, got to work. First, the vehicles. Digging out the remains was tough going, and the ones that had burned, he mostly ignored. Not much worth salvage there. There were two vehicles that had crashed, and begun to burn, only to have the fires snuffed by the storm. These, he focussed on. First was a buggy, its engine and transmission smashed and ruined. Even so, he managed to retrieve two bottles of useful life-blood. A plastic water bottle-worth of ATF, and a canteen of oil. Thirty-weight, by the taste. The driver had been picked clean, but the driver's seat was another find: still (mostly) covered in leather, the black, stitched pelt was freed to get folded and placed in his pack. The second vehicle offered up its distributer, and though the alternator looked good, Rig deemed it too cumbersome to carry. So it was left, along with some salvaged wiring, in a tin, buried in a spot he could find in the future, if it came to that.

Next, the bodies. This didn't take long. Most had burned, or were picked clean. Certainly, there was nothing left of use, really. Sure, he could have added a belt, or a pouch, but he had what he needed. The biggest find was a pistol, discarded, its barrel bent and blackened. This he stripped for small parts: screws, springs, the trigger assembly, all of which went into a tin he kept for barter or his own use down the road.

The second-to-last body, he pulled mostly free of the sand and began rifling mechanically through its pockets, when he recoiled at a sound. This one, clung to life. If barely. He drew his pistol, levelled it at the form. Stood there a full five minutes. It was barely alive. Unconscious. He holstered his piece, dragged the form clear of the sand. Male, female? He couldn't tell, the head was shaved. He flipped the unconscious form over, dragged it into the shade afforded by one of the wrecks. Either it would live, or it would die.

He spared the form another look, then went back to his bike to retrieve that fouled plug, and set to work cleaning it. It seemed, he was staying awhile...

The Dark Reckoning

...liking the start of things here.

The Dark Reckoning

The scene was a grizzly one, there was no denying it. A vehicle lay burning a hundred paces off, West. A bike lay on its side not far off. Parts and debris shifted in the ever-present sand and wind on the fissured blacktop. Blood dotted the scene, and the smell of burnt meat wafted along with the black smoke from the wreck. A quick glance around the ruined, half-toppled buildings close by showed several places that could be potential ambushes, waiting to happen. She needed to move soft and quiet, and not hang about this place too long.

The man she had shot was dead-gone. No doubt. Her shot had vaporized his Carotid, and he had bled out in less than a minute. Most of his life's essence lay pooling on the ground, and sprayed on the man that lay below him. The dead man wore mismatched boots, and the garb common to road-gangers. He had a knife at his belt, and a few pouches bulged with potential loot.**

For his part, J knew it was better to play possum than to give away any signs of life. Folk were less likely to waste a shot on an already dead man, than the living. Even freshly killed, neither corpse would reanimate for several hours. When she prodded him with her boot, he had every intention of lying still, giving away nothing. Unfortunately, J's body had other plans, despite his wanting to 'play dead.' His partial flail chest allowed only a gurgling of shallow breath, which he could not hide, despite his best efforts. His eyes were mostly swollen shut, but he could see enough to raise the derringer unsteadily, slowly aim it at this new threat.

The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He didn't have the strength to do anything else but wait for death.

** - if Morgan checks the biker's body, she'll find one unspoiled can of food (no label) and three bloated cans of spoiled food, two live bullets (one will turn out to be .22, the other 9mm) and a dozen empty shell casings, a canteen of dirty water, a bit of jerky wrapped in a scrap of clean cloth, and two polaroids, one of a girl, the other of a beach view.

@Nallore

The Dark Reckoning

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The Future...

It was the end -- the end of it all. Humanity, whatever that was, had finally slammed its hand down on the big red Self-Destruct button. The seas boiled. The bombs fell. The 'Golden Age' of man's last era was but a memory. Now all was carrion. No safe haven. No sanctuary. No friends. We are all dead. Some are just too stubborn to admit it.