|oh shit, zombie town. (light RPing for fun)
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|Author:||madadric [ Mon Aug 07, 2006 4:32 am ]|
|Post subject:||oh shit, zombie town. (light RPing for fun)|
Okay, just a fun little RP for shits and giggles.
(ooc)Milton, a small town in the middle of nowhere in an unnamed western culture country has become under seige by zombies. The outbreak started small, but quickly decimated the population and now there are only a handful of survivors. There has been no contact from the outside world for two weeks, and the collapse of the only bridge over the wide gorge to the west means that the only escape is over the mountains surrounding the town's valley in a bitingly cold winter.
Milton has a convenience store, a drug store, a hardware/machinery store, two guns stores, (one which also sells collectors' swords) and four pubs.
You can either be a local, a visitor, or someone who knows the dark secret behind the zombies. (which will be voted on in the poll)
I'll be playing adric, a drifter, but without any of his powers.
Let's have fun and start posting! (/ooc)
He was woken by sunlight. A cold, brittle beam of frigid morning light split the shadow of the basement in two, and hit a dusty mirrorball stored in an equally dusty cardboard box. Shards of the light refracted from the multifaceted surface, and some of the stray slivers of light struck his face.
It was a mildly unpleasant awakening, but certainly not the worst he'd had this last week. At least there wasn't the smell.
He gave a slight involuntary gag at the memory of the stench of decaying meat, a smell he'd encountered enough times that he now always breathed shallowly out of habit.
The man untangled himself from the nest of blankets and pillows he'd made on the top bunk of the house's basement, which must have also doubled as a spare room when the building's owners had been among the living, and not lying on their mattresses in the bedrooms upstairs, the bedding sopping with their own decaying fluids.
Adric raked his unkempt, scruffy deep crimson hair out of his face, and rubbed the night's sleep from his strange eyes, red iris' with yellow pupils.
He leaned his head over the lip of the top bunk, and spoke to the mass of blankets on the bottom bunk.
"Hey, wake up. it's time to go find some breakfast. Hey!"
(OOC) anyone can be adric's travelling companion, either long-term on only just met during this crisis, once again, first poster gets to decide, or you can start yourself wherever you like in or around the town. Have Fun!(/ooc)
|Author:||Reason [ Mon Aug 07, 2006 8:16 am ]|
John scratched his head, smearing engine grease across his brow. He'd been working on his damn car since late the night before, and had almost gotten it running several times, only to have it putter and die at the last instant. He had become dangerously close to just taking his big wrench (which he had dubbed Henry Lawrence III one night while drinking) which he kept close to him at all times and just having at the engine.
He had narrowed the problem down to the main lead and the head gasket. The former was being a fucker and the latter had cracked. John always prided himself on keeping the thing running without actually going to a real mechanic's shop or replacing any parts. Now it looks like he was going to break the two year record.
He scowled at the car and put his tools away, turned off the lamp and his sterio which had been blasting the 'Stones all night and headed to the door that led into the kitchen from the garrage. He grasped the handle and let himself inside calling, "Sarah!"
"Sarah, you up yet?" John walked over to the sink. "Sarah, you're goin' to be late for wor--" His words caught in his throat when he saw a line of blood on the floor.
It unsettled him for two reasons; one, it was blood, and two, Sarah was a neat freak, she would have cleaned it if... If it had been nothing. John unhooked Henry from his toolbelt and hefted the heavy piece of iron, the coolness and weight reasuring him.
Cautiously he followed the blood from the kitchen, through the living room and into the hallway. His breath caught in his throat when he heard a moan. A deep sound, nothing Sarah could make. He walked over to the bedroom door--which was ajar--and pushed it open with the toe of his boot.
The sight that greeted him almost made his knees buckle.
A man in a slovenly buisiness suit, with no right arm and intestines hanging to the floor, was contently eating the left thigh of his wife.
For the longest time all John could do was watch in utter shock. Sarah's eyes had gone dull, her face almost peaceful in death. Likely it was shock that took her.
Slowly the man turned to him, his deadened eyes looking at him in puzzlement before his lips parted with hungry longing. Quicker than John thought possible the man--well fuck, it's a zombie--got to it's feet and charged, single arm grasping.
Arms strong from years working with engines and wood, John cocked Henry Lawrence III and swung with all his might, splattering the zombies head like a fucking melon.
The rest of the zombie fell to the floor in a anticlimactic hump. John followed suit, slipping numbly to the floor, his shoulder pressing against the doorframe. His hands shook uncontrollably, and it was hard to breath. He was angry with himself. He was angry becaus he was not crying. He should be. His wife was dead. She had been murdered while he was fixing that fucking car. He had been not fifty feet away. Unable to hear her scream because he had been listening to the Rolling Fucking Stones. She was dead. And it was his fault.
He looked over at her and found her looking back.
"Oh fuck no." John whispered.
He shot out of the room, rehooking Henry to his belt and ran to the front door. He ran through it and slammed it closed behind him, never slowing. Town was only six miles away.
/OOC Edit: Spelling corrections and sentence restructure... sometimes what I type doesn't come out the way it should.
|Author:||Gruff Old Man [ Mon Aug 07, 2006 9:28 am ]|
(OOC: I may get in on this when I know what the cause was...since I plan to be someone who knows something about it...Ironic I know. Just PM when it's been worked out mad...or if it gets of the ground to start with.)
|Author:||Rand Al'Tor [ Thu Aug 10, 2006 9:08 am ]|
"Right, see you girlfriend." Sergio waved out the client. "And tell your handsome hubbie to come along next time. He's got really soft hairs. They need to be taken care off properly. And be careful. The town is absolutely insane tonight."
His client having left, Sergio started cleaning up his barber's shop, humming 'I will Survive' to himself.
Then the bell rang as someone entered. Sergio turned and smiled. "Good afternoon, welcome to... oh my...."
The figure in front of him was staggering inside. A young man with ripped clothing and bloodcoated hair.
"Oh, you poor darling. Have some nasty thugs roughed you up? COme and .... ack!"
The man suddenly lashed out at him, and Sergio had to jump back. The creature raised his face, and Sergio could see his dead eyes, bloodstained teeth and... open skull.
"My stars..." Sergio said breathless. "STay away... stay away or I'll give you SUCH a whopping." His hand went into the cabinet.
styling gel... no
Magnum .44 ...just fabulous.
He pulled out the revolver, held it with two hands and took aim. "Now sugar, this is your last warning."
The zombie advanced
and collapsed with a bullet straight between the eyes.
Sergio took the phone and dialed the police, but nobody replied. A quick check revealed that the TV and radio were out as well.
"Oh fiddlesticks. It's like one of those horrid zombie movies Josh was such a fan of." He walked to the door, putting the open sign on closed. "I can't believe this is really happening. If it was some sexy vampires or something, but no..." He went upstairs.
"But if they think that I'm going to let them mess up my pretty, little barber shop, they don't know Sergio Lancaster."
Ammo, check, rations, check, soap, check Portable barber set, check
"Three nasty preahcers, six thugs and that ghastly Mrs Thompson from nextdoor haven't made me give up."
belt with holster, check boots with spurs, check, three sets of stunning but durable clothes. Check. A fetching neck-scarf, check.
"I better find some others though. I do hope they'll send the military in. I can't resist men in uniform. Ooooh, reminds me."
Condoms in case he got lucky, check. His latest copy of Spartacus in case he didn't. Check.
He left the shop and locked it behind him. The streets were desolate, but Sergio thought he could hear moaning from far away. His blond hair was carefully combed, and his white trousers, purple shirt and blue vest were immaculate. A burgundy scarf completed the look. In his hand he held the powerful revolver.
He was humming 'I will survive' again.
Two weeks later Sergio had not met up with any military men yet. In fact, he hadn't met more than a few survivors. It was quite the downer. Fortunately, it seemed most of the looters didn't consider hygeinic products to be a priority, so at least he still looked good. Food was scarce, but on the bright side, he had been trying to lose some weight.
Yawning, he rose from his latest resting place on top of a launderette and prepared for another day of looking for fellow survivors.
|Author:||Reason [ Thu Aug 10, 2006 11:01 am ]|
Thirty minutes later John was walking on the road to town. He had tied the arms of his coveralls around his waist and was carrying his toolbelt slung over his shoulder. Running six miles with a heavy wrench and all sorts of screw drivers slapping against your leg was not a good idea. His thigh probably had a big fucking bruise from Henry.
He had seen all manner of zombie on his little hike, from the fast kind that'd run you down to the slow, almost comically awkward kind. The former he introduced to Henry in a most profound fashion, the latter he tripped and continued on.
Emotionally John was numb. Running around a countryside killing zombies and watching your wife become one was something that should knock your wind out. Though now that he thought about it, they were talking about getting a divorce. No, no, no. She was dead, even if she were his ex-wife he'd still have to be sad about it. Maybe.
"Whoo! It's like Twenty-Eight Days Later and Land of the Dead com-BINED!" He said, callapsing another zombie skull with a one-handed swing of Henry. "Or maybe it's closer to Dawn of the Dead. I don't see these f-UCKS using machine guns. Then again, Ving Rhames isn't around EITHer." Two more zombies he didn't have to worry about.
He kicked a cheerleader zombie away who was missing a foot. "Maybe I should find a house on a hill, like Night of the Living Dead. Board up the windows, find a shotgun and Winchester," he dipped his shoulder out of the way of grasping hands and quickened his pace to get a little distance from the shambling zombie.
"Nah, only the Red head and the dick lived in that one. Which movie scenario had a mechanic who survives in it?"
John crested a small hill and was able to see the town. He felt slightly better about his situation--until he was grabbed from behind.
"Geoffame!" He yelled, flailing. He let go of his toolbelt and grabbed the hand that held his should, finger digging under his collerbone, and bent over suddenly. The zombie flew over him and landed hard on the pavement. With a snarl he stomped on the back of it's head with his heel, and he could feel the crunch of bone under his foot.
"Fucker!" He kicked it again.
After he spun around to make sure there were no zombies running at him, he looked back at the town.
"Ten, maybe twenty minutes. Then I visit the gun store."
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