YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE...MAYBE TWICE!
This is not the average discussion on this board. In this discussion, you role-play as a character in the apocalypse. You can interact with other characters, but please do not write as other peoples characters without permission.
One thing to remember... Good writing makes a character more badass than the supposed "kill count" you give your character... For instance, a good writer can have his character struggle on the brink of death and triumph over a single zombie, and he will be seen as more badass than some lackluster writing of someone saying "I walk in the room and kill 300 zombies..." So, keep it realistic, keep it original... and one last rule....
THERE IS NO CENSORSHIP IN THIS DISCUSSION...
MAKE YOUR WRITING AS BRUTAL, HORRIFIC, AND DISGUSTING AS YOU CAN.
THOSE OF YOU WHO DO NOTLIKE WHAT YOU READ...
PLEASE STOP READING THIS DISCUSSION FURTHER!
*THIS IS WHAT YOU KNOW*
-The zombie apocalypse has begun suddenly with no warning at all.
-Your character has it's day suddenly interrupted by the crisis of a world wide pandemic.
-There are both fast and slow zombies.
-The media is advising people to stay in their houses, and that the police has the situation under control and to not panic... but more and more TV stations have been going off the air, leaving behind more questions than answers...
Just before the local and national news stopped broadcasting, they were filling the airwaves, televised and radio, with stories of mass murder. People being killed and eaten by their attackers. Unlike a lot of people, I paid attention. For all I knew this was some crazed terrorist attempt to undermine the entire country. In my town of Carpenter, just east of Raleigh-Durham, things started quietly. We were close to Hurricane alley, so after I retired from my job in NYC and moved here, I bought a house that was "hurricane proof." Nice metal grates slide down over the windows, it had it's own generator (I added a second) and was made of brick rather than wood. After years of living in the big city, I was glad to be in a small town. Unlike some, people minded their own business once they were sure I wasn't some northern carpetbagger come down here to upset their way of life. Well, when the news went off, replaced by some bullshit FEMA (who in their right mind would trust those assholes?), I headed to the local package store (a really huge Costco) and bought several cases of bottled water, long lasting food (some of it came in tubs, seems that a lot of manufacturers were seeing the possible apocalypse, any kind as a money maker) and stocked up on ammo for my small arsenal. One thing living in the south had over the north, with my clean record and being a veteran, getting a gun had been easy. I also filled up a few jerry can's with kerosene for my generators. While loading my range rover up (a hybrid, the entire roof was one solar cell, I could also charge it off an electical feed or use the diesel engine), I spoke to a few locals. None of us were concerned about the lack of news, Carpenter was a pretty mellow area. But the talk of murders and people being eaten had us on our toes. So far, none of us had seen any of these so called "staggering murderers", only a few blurry images on the internet - which some thought was fake. But when I saw these images, the hair on my neck stood up. Going home, I passed a small exodus of cars - tourists from up north or west or south, judging from the license plates, heading for home. Some of the drivers had a deer in the headlights look about them. Driving past them, I wished them well, but the didn't look like survivors. Passing out of town towards my home - which was fairly isolated, I had my first encounter. A car had smashed into a pole. The driver must have been flying since the engine of the vehicle was mostly in the front seat. I'd been an Aviation Survival Technician in the Coast Guard, and, after 9/11, cross trained with other specialties. A leg injury, which made me limp, got me medicaled out. Pulling over across the road, I saw movement in the car. It was possible someone was trapped in there, but the rear windows were splattered with blood. Could a child or a pet have survived? Stopping my car, I opened my door and climbed out, making sure to take my .45 and crash axe with me. An updated M1911, it only carried seven shots, eight with one chambered, but the bullets could do a lot more damage than a 9mm. The crash axe was a holdover from my Coast Guard days. Made to chop through an aircraft fuselage, I'd also used it to take the head off a pirate in the Caribbean. I stuffed the axe through my belt, and, holding my pistol against my leg, finger outside the trigger guard, I slid across the street. Getting close, I could see that opening the drivers side door would be impossible. Tucking the pistol in my back pocket, I pulled the crash axe and smashed out what was left of the drivers side window. The driver sat there, half the engine embedded in his chest. Blood was everywhere, drying in great clots. But that wasn't the worst part. The drivers face and head were stripped of flesh, bite marks clear in the tissue underneath. His skull was fractured and what remained of his brains were drippy bits hanging from the wound. I stood there wondering what the fuck had happened when I heard the chewing sounds. Lifting my crash axe, I smashed out the unbroken back window. What I saw still makes me ill. Two kids were in the back seat, half a body of an adult - I guessed the mother, laying across them. Her head was also smashed, bits of glass from the windshield sticking from her face. Her torso had been ravaged by tooth and nail, and both kids, a boy and a girl, twins apparently, securely buckled in, were tearing small gobbets of flesh from her body. The girls legs were shattered, thigh bones sticking through the torn flesh. The boy was using one arm, the other shattered, hanging loose and unusable. For a few moments the bloody faced children ignored the sound of the breaking glass, too busy eating their dead parent. I stood there, crash axe in hand, staring. I'd served in the Mid, the Caribbean and a few black ops in South America, and had never seen anything so horrible. One child bent its fetid, bloody mouth to it's mother's chest, and bit her nipple off, pulling it away with a good chunk of meat and fat. It was then that the girl child turned to look at me. Her eyes were horrible, pale and coated over, blood vessels engorged. She opened her mouth and hissed, a horrible sound like a snake on steroids. I stepped back, my mind almost unable to comprehend what I was seeing. Then the boy child, still chewing part of his mother lunged for the window, snapped back only by the seat belt. Tucking the crash axe into my belt, I drew my pistol again, thinking about what I'd heard on the internet. The two children, distracted by my movement, both began thrashing and lunging, trying to escape their restraints. The seat belt holding the girl was stretching the attachment at her hip bent. In that moment, I stopped thinking of them as kids. Raising my pistol, I began to aim and, just as the seat belt snapped, fired. A hole appeared in her forehead and the back of her head exploded, throwing her small body to the seat. She quivered for a moment, and then stopped. As the boy looked up, I fired again, hitting him in the eye. The back of his head decorated the far side of the car as the window blew out, glass shattering. Breathing hard, I ran back to my car, jumped in and headed for home. What the fuck was going on?
Brandon clutched at the dirty steak knife that was stabbed into his torso and gritted his teeth in pain. Blood caked his kevlar vest where it had long since crusted over on the fabric. The scab cracked and oozed around the edges of his wound. Thank fully the kevlar vest had muted some of the force and also helped stabilize the knife to prevent too much further damage as he moved. It was still deep, and he only hoped that he'd somehow manage to find some sort of medical attention soon. "yea fuckin' right..." Brandon snarled with a grimace as he carefully rearranged himself where he sat, panting out of breath. He heard a slight noise outside, so Brandon risked leaning up enough to barely peek over the lip of the back of the drivers seat in the construction van where he was currently holed up.
Outside the world was still a mess. Buildings were still burning, and sirens were blaring away, though the medical staff driving them had long since given up attempting to rescue anyone. Either the ambulance drivers and police officers driving them were attempting to save their own skin and escape the city, or the screeching sirens of the vehicles were still on from where the vehicles had been left abandoned, often with their drivers.... or parts of their drivers... dead behind the wheel. Brandon glanced around and quickly spotted the danger. it was one of those... things. It's gait was shuffling, it's body limp as if the weight of the entire world had come crashing upon it's shoulders. It's ragged stump of a left arm ended with the mostly severed hand dangling by a few strands of muscle and tendon. It was this loose appendage that had scraped across the trashcan in the alley where Brandon had taken shelter. "Fuck..." Brandon said in barely a whisper. The "thing" didn't appear to be in too much of a hurry as it shuffled around. "Fucking Sunday driver.... Brandon said with a half delirious chuckle referring to the old people tended to wander aimlessly with no sense of urgency or purpose, other than to piss off the people around them who still had jobs and deadlines to meet. Brandon knew it could take awhile for this bastard to wander off, so he carefully resettled himself down as comfortably as he could, and thought about how the fuck he had managed to get himself into this shitstorm of a situation.
(SIX HOURS AGO)
"GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!" Brandon yelled forcefully, his Beretta 96 leveled at the people inside the slum apartment of which he had just kicked the door in. The people were hesitant to comply, clutching improvised weapons in their hands. This only added to Brandon's further confusion, and he did not like confusion. He had been sure that he and his entry team had been silent as ghosts as they approached their target. The mandatory radio silence authorizing their mission was to help ensure that no information about this operation was leaked. So to barge in and see this miss matched conglomerate of people already armed and turned towards the door was disorienting. The worst part though, was the confusing fact that as he kicked in the door, everyone insides face had changed from looks of pure terror and horror... to... relief? In all the bounty hunt raids he had organized, "relief to see him" had never been one of those emotions he had expected to see in his targets eyes.
"MAN, CHUT DA FUCK UP! DEY HERE YOU ESSAY!" One of the people screamed at him, clutching a table leg with the nails still in it. The small apartment was dirty. filthy even. Unwashed dishes and rotting garbage piled up around the sink, with dirty silverware scattered across the kitchen table and on various pieces of furniture. It was enough to make him wrinkle his nose in disgust. "I SAID GET ON THE GROUND NOW!" Brandon yelled, taking the initiative as he did to step forward and deliver an extremely efficient and bone jarring front kick to the screaming mans chest. The man's teeth clacked together forcefully as he stumbled backwards and crumpled to the floor wheezing to catch his breath with a diaphragm that currently no longer wanted to cooperate. Brandon's team flooded in likewise, and shortly all of the threats in the room were neutralized. "WarMarshall to Alamo, come in Alamo. Target secured and ready for evac. respond" Brandon, also known by his Bounty Hunting Alias WarMarshall said as he que'd the mic in his ear piece. All he received was dead air. "Fucking fuck FUCK!" Brandon thought to himself, while keeping an outward calm. He didn't know why command wasn't responding. He hadn't had contact since reaching the 2nd floor. Something wasn't right, and he didn't like it. "Coyote, secure the target, Lucky... Domino prepare for evac. We move now." WarMarshall issued the well practiced orders. He knew that as soon as the shock of their entry wore off, and the arrest of their family member was apparent, he would have a lot more trouble on his hands if they didn't move, with or without Command advising extraction. "we have movement" Lucky said, his eyes outwards, watching their escape. "Halt!" Lucky yelled. "I said halt!.... Jesus fucking christ.. Domino, what the fuck... what the fuck man!" Domino shifted his position to look in the opposite direction out the door where Lucky was positioned. WarMarshall heard it all in his mic as Lucky whispered it under his breath. He was about to tell Domino to get back on task and keep his eyes peeled, when he was suddenly cut off by a terrifying scream. "We said halt! we can call in medical atte...ARRRRRRRRRGGHHHH!!!" Domino said as he chimed in, only to be cut off as something horrendous latched onto the back of his neck. Chaos erupted as Domino fired his FNHY .45 sidearm wildly. Lucky was punching away with his own Sig p226 when he suddenly dropped, a stray bullet from the already dying and panicked Domino hitting him right in the back of the neck. Lucky's screams of terror ended in gurgles as his life blood sprayed out on to the outside concrete. A dark gory mess of SOMETHING fell upon him, ripping lucky to shreds. "WHAT THE FU---!" WarMarshall screamed, attempting to process what was happening. A sharp "thwack" sound was heard behind him. WarMarshall immediately turned and raised his Beretta. Coyote was twitching and spasming on the floor the nails from the table leg the target was holding embedded in his skull. With an unsympathetic yank, the target ripped the nails from Coyote's head, bring out with it a splay of grey and pink brain matter, which immediately brought all of Coyote's twitching to an immediate halt. WarMarshall didn't think twice before loading the target full of lead as he screamed in rage. He felt the satisfyingly wet sound of a dropped cantalope as his "2 to the chest, 1 to the head" exploded the meaty part of the targets cranium to soggy mush. Suddenly pain blossomed in his side. He looked down at the tiny fist that was held against his side. He looked into the eyes of the fat 8 year old little future delinguent that stared at him with as much fear in his eyes as Brandon felt himself. Dazed and purely out of muscle memory, the Bounty Hunter known as WarMarshall did what he had never thought himself possible... he shot that child right in the face as he staggered back.
Utter chaos was in the room. more of those "things" were coming in, attracted to the noise and feasting on the now defenseless people, all thanks to WarMarshall and his team. Brandon turned tail and ran as fast as he could, made his way out the back door, down the stairs and away as far as he could, the shock of what just happened making him completely forget everything else behind.
Brandon glanced up again to confirm that the "thing" was gone. Looking around his temporary sanctuary, Brandon, also known as WarMarshall, took stock of his situational preparedness. The construction van he was in was a mess, but functional.. varies tools and other supplies filled the interior. It didn't take long to locate the small first aid kit sitting on one of the shelves as he rummaged quietly. With as much delicacy as he could muster, Brandon prepared the items he would need. clean gauze, a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, several long elastic wraps, and he filled a clean latex glove from the first ad kit full of crumbled up paper towels he found. He loosened as much of kevlar vest as he could. it was pinned to his side by the knife and he had no way to safely cut through the tough fibers with his current equipment... WarMarshall knew what he had to do... but Brandon inside him still cringed at the thought. With a sigh, WarMarshall clutched the dirty knife. "Fucking kids" he muttered as he suddenly yanked the knife from his flesh. The scab popped as it was glued to the blade of the knife and the surrounding fabric. WarMarshall bit down, clenching his teeth together as he tried to stifle a scream of pure pain. He recovered as quickly as he could, tore the rest of the kevlar and his soaked shirt underneath off to survey the damage. The half inch wide wound glared at him, and oozed. "no arterial spurts.... no dark matter or oddly colored blood... no ragged lacerations..." WarMarshall made a mental tick down list of his operations while he panted and sweated in pain. It appeared as if the little boy that stabbed him had managed to just graze his side with a puncture wound, thankfully. No internal organ damage, no ruptured intestines. The stab was only about 2 inches deep thanks to the thick kevlar. The cold calculating part of WarMarshall's brain marveled at the sheer strength and ferocity that the kid mush have put into that stab to get through as far as he did. The rest of him simply remuttered the phrase... "fucking kids"
WarMarshall quickly swabbed down the wound as best he could. He cringed again as he inserted the nozzle of the peroxide directly into the wound and gave it a hard squeeze in an attempt to irrigate out any of the nasty particles from the filthy disgusting knife he was stabbed with. He knew that this wasn't the best procedure, but he was lacking on options and knew that an infection in the current situation would certainly kill him without serious help. He applied the small amount of sterile gauze he had from the first aid kit to the wound, and placed the hard, latex glove ball he made directly over the stab wound. Carefully, WarMarshall wrapped his chest with the elastic wrap tightly, forcing the latex ball to apply ample pressure directly to the wound to help stop the bleeding. it was only a temporary fix, but hopefully it would let him get some place safe with better supplies. WarMarshall only hoped as he sat back and rested. He could still hear Them outside in the distance. He knew he would have to move, and that the keys to the van were not here. He would have to hoof it. So, WarMarshall sat, cleaned, and repaired his level IIIA Kevlar vest a well as he could, and inventory checked his pockets. 49 rounds of Golden Saber .40 controlled expansion ammunition, 2 20rd beastly stick mags, and 1 12 rd, partially empty flush mag as all he had in the firearms department. His pockets showed his standard wallet survival gear, his paracord belt, his survival pill fobs of water purification tabs and fishing kit, and his Cold Steel Spartan folding knife. "Not much at all to go on..." WarMarshall chucked. Brandon laughed in despair.
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