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Blackbird Dreaming - Forward The world finally came to an end, that was made abundantly clear across the media spread of pundits and talking heads, ticker updates and blogs--and those bedraggled men with cryptic sandwich boards had finally gotten their wish. Life ceased as anyone knew it, or ever cared to know it, in the mere matter of one summer afternoon. Heightening political turmoil, governmental dissonance, and the global market crashes of the major powers were simple catalysts for far more shattering consequences. There was no world war III, nor was there a nuclear apocalypse--at least, not like any foretelling ever laid out in times gone by. But the world as we knew and loved it is gone. Across the nation nuclear silos remain abandoned and unused--their buttons never pushed. No jets were scrambled, no tanks were rolled out. No offensive was staged. There was martial law, yes--for a time. But little by little, what structure remained in place was swept away like that much dust--a dryness, and desolation creeping over the landscapes. Bird flu? Hardly. But the birds definitely had something to do with it all--a madness took them, flock upon flock desperately trying to destroy themselves, as if to escape some looming terror. Tectonic activity off in the ocean, meteorologists parroting dismay--something about the Mariana Trench, of hurricanes and devastation. Has it been a year? You were lucky. At least, by some perceptions you were. Survivors, thanks to a bomb shelter and the practicality to stock it up with canned goods, and all the macaroni and cheese you'd need to repopulate the world once it ended. But those supplies lasted far less then you would have hoped--and what's worse, much of them seemed to spoil and crumble into unusable nothingness. In the early days, the Internet remained. You kept touch with others, each telling of their own situations. The outlook of the world outside grew more and more grim with each passing day. Eventually, the network was gone all at once, and you were left with older, more tried and true means-- a humble HAM radio. On occasion a crackle led to the comfort of another voice--but in time, those too became all but extinct. There is no law. No government. No order. Little seems to remained of any metropolis or major population as well. Time is short, as supplies are shorter. You had managed to scrounge together--and by some incredible endurance, survived each others' company cooped up for so long. The clock is ticking away, and there's little left for you to survive on in here--and frankly, being cooped up for so long has drat near driven you mad. It's time to leave, or it's time to die. ~~~~~ ~~~~~ Our Ensemble: Brandon Gray played by prussian advisor - A medical nurse among the staff at the Battle Creek Medical Center when stage 2 cerebrosus struck. John Markson played by Wutasumi - A librarian from a farming family, marooned into the shelter with fate's cast of the die. Raymond Tailor played by Mr. Horyd - A fairly successful horror novelist with a penchant for narrating his disturbing dreams. Jacob Benson played by Tindjin - A former marine honorably discharged for medical reasons, whose life took a turn for the worse. Evan Douglas played by Zenaida - A brilliant Electrical Engineer and hobby motorcyclist in the right place at the wrong time. Mike O'Neill played by Captain Rehab - A union construction worker and acquaintance of Marcus Chesterfield; helped build the shelter. ~~~~~ ~~~~~ For reference, check out the recruitment thread here. I will be updating this post to include ambiance, and once it is up and operational, an archival site with more background information for the audience and players to peruse. I particularly recommend checking out the news excerpts in the recruitment thread (pending their movement to a far more fanciful website) for extra background materials. This will be a survival horror game at its core, and as such may be unforgiving and perilous if care is not taken. Best of luck, intrepid cast. For those interested in playing but whom did not meet the original deadline, still feel free to post character concepts or other notes into the recruitment thread; should members of our cast perish, more characters may be introduced during the natural course of the story (though I will provide first dibs to existing players should they wish to persevere!) Blackbird Dreams - Introduction (Chapter 0) Three hundred sixty four days, eighteen hours, twelve minutes. The time since going into hiding, since that vaulted entryway reinforced with more than a foot of lead and steel came to a close. Into the wilderness some forty miles from Battle Creek, Michigan--further, from the Michigan Environmental Control offices. Each of the six of you had come under different driving needs, but the core remained unanimously the same; the world just wasn't safe out there, and it was going to get a lot worse. It was only supposed to be three months, long enough to give things time to blow over, and give Washington a chance to drive things back to order through Martial Law. But then, it was supposed to be twenty five of you. Somehow, only six had made it. When things started getting bad, reactions were varied, but the resounding call was to seek shelter among friends and family, to stock up on supplies, and to treat the circumstances encroaching on ordinary society as the equivalent to a nuclear disaster--not unlike what had occurred at Chernobyl just a month prior. A man by the name of Marcus Chesterfield had bought and renovated the bunker years ago for the Y2K scare, and most of the stock had been put into place then. Space and supplies sufficient to sustain twenty five people, thirty in a pinch, for a three month period. Some of you had come to know him, and to find your place here, then. More than half of the intended occupants would be his immediate family, friends, and their families; when things turned to be a false alarm, there was much relief, and the bunker had gone unused. When 9/11 came and went, there was a period of alarm where invitations were made--this time with some more new faces, new acquaintances. Again, however, it wasn't necessary. When cerebrosus hit its full stride, it was time to seek shelter again. Most did not make it to the shelter, including Marcus himself. There has been no word from them. The last time word was made with individuals on the outside was four months ago--a DJ in Gross Pointe. It had been the briefest of radio murmurs, before a man in an exasperated voice had quoted 'Can you hear me Major Tom?' before silence resumed. The time has come to return outside, and to face what has occurred. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 21:32 on Jan 19, 2009 |
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Jul 3, 2007 20:33
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Blackbird Dreams - Preparing to Surface (Chapter 0) June 20th, 10:14 A.M. The generator humms quietly in the background, ambiance rumbling away as pooled supplies and resources are divvied out amongst the six of you. Sir Reginald sniffs plaintively at the small pile of MREs, grunting a quiet snort before wandering back off into another room. Today will boast an anxiety riled from the deepest recesses of one's psyche. A year, on the morrow, will have passed. Half that, perhaps, since the last snippets of information had trickled in--before the networks had finally gone away, the radios silent. The bunker's inner entry door looms of dark cold steel, untouched save for the few occasions where one of you has grasped at its opening mechanisms, debating the notion of resurfacing earlier, abandoning the shelter--braving the world beyond. Nervous energy fills the air, a cocktail of excitement, tension, fear and curiosity. The Geiger counter is silent. The radio has been silent for months. Not much longer now. Not much longer at all. What awaits beyond those doors? The question has plagued your minds even from the moment they came creaking and grinding shut. Perhaps everything is alright? That's not unreasonable. Outbreaks and pandemics have been dealt with before, public discord and revolution have been meted out. Certainly martial law must have had an impact on things. Whatever the case, the importance of utilizing the la Don't trust the albino rgues that caution and level-headedness are important to the safety of the group. ~~~~~ ~~~~~ June 20th, 11:06 A.M. With much of the equipment distributed, and a makeshift Geiger counter assembled, the lot of you feel reasonably better equipped to face whatever is in store in the world beyond those twin doors. For all the time that has been spent in this shelter, Evan returns to examining the protective barriers, attempting to discern any last minute details which may have eluded him previously. Innermost to the shelter is a large hermetically sealed breech door which appears akin to what one might find aboard a submarine--and for any regard of Mr. Chesterfield, that might be from whence it came. However, there is no viewing window in the heavyweight steel, replaced during production instead with additional protection. Marcus, it would seem, had no intention of throwing caution to the wind. In a similar precautionary effort, the air filtration systems feature, from what you have garnered during your year-long tenure, several redundancies and fail-safes. As the time has come to return to the world beyond this tomb of iron and concrete, effort is brought to bear with the innermost door, breaking the seal for the first time in a great many months with precisely the sort of airy spurt befitting a pulp science fiction novella. Beyond, there is a small antechamber ten foot squared, and the larger bulkhead-framed door to the exterior looms. On the inside wall adjacent to this door is a small turnkey system, to which your group possesses two identical keys. From your understanding of the system, the door remains operable so long as a key is in place within or without, through the use of a similar access on the exterior as well. The outermost door looks extremely heavy, and is cool to the touch. Most of the mechanics behind the door are hidden from perception in the reinforced frame, and by your recollection the door was nearly a foot thick. The room is bordered by a pair of long metal benches, and a set of lockers are in the corners. One of the lockers contains a spade trench shovel, similar to military issue, and a large courier bag.
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Jul 3, 2007 20:34
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 20th, 11:52 A.M. Six gather in the entryway, performing last minute triple-checks on gear and equipment, adjusting garments and gas masks. Sir Reginald snorts a quiet whine, standing back a ways and flagging his tail as he watches the human men prepare their departure. With a twist of one of the turnkeys and a strong three cycles of the door's handle, a hiss of air spurts into the room--the dog woofs a sharp bark, then retreats back into the inner shelter some five feet. A grinding series of rapid ka-chaks, and the enormous safety door begins to shriek open in protest on long unused hinges. Light floods the chamber with increasing intensity, a far cry from the dull fluorescent bulbs your eyes have grown accustomed to for the past year. As your gaze adjusts, the wilderness beyond the breach comes into focus--a pine forest sweeping downhill before vanishing into a faint foggy mist; the sky is dabbled in ashen clouds, and the ground immediately beyond the door is a dried cracked dusty affair littered with brown pine needles. So too do most of the trees appear beyond the threshold--largely browned, dry, and in more than a few places outright barren and dead. Some fifteen yards from the shelter several car-shaped shells of rust linger in a loose row where vehicles had once been. Several windows appear to have collapsed the rust beneath them to lurch free and shatter on the ground--the rest are covered entirely with dusty grime, with pine needles caking the exterior of the former vehicles like sprinkles. The outside of the shelter's breech door is a sickly copper, a layer of thick rust hanging there as well; atop the heavy earthen mound where your 'home' is hidden, as well as roughly thirty yards further along the rest, there are littered piles of small bones and a few errant black feathers clustered around the surface points to your air filtration system. It is extremely hot, hanging at 97 degrees Fahrenheit while being a very dry heat at the same time--already you can feel beads of sweat welling up uncomfortably behind your gas masks and beneath your clothes. Beyond the sounds of one another, it is perfectly quiet outside--no birdsong, scantly any wind at all, and nary a distant vehicle from the road several miles off. From here, a dusty dirt road trails a little over four miles winding downhill through the forest, where it meets a two-lane paved road one could follow back to 'civilization'. From your recollection, there was a small gas station and convenience store rest stop ten miles east down that road--some of your had passed it on the way to the shelter. Everyone is rested, fed, and is not thirsty. Nobody is suffering any ailments. Sir Reginald has failed a fright check, and will remain timidly behind until coaxed along, at which point he will remain extremely wary of his surroundings. You are roughly 44 miles away from Battle Creek, though doubtlessly closer to smaller townships along the way. Detroit is roughly 120 miles to the north-east away, Grand Rapids 130 to the north. Edit: Knew I forgot something--inside the courier bag are three road flares and a bowie knife in a leather belt sheath. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 14:48 on Jul 5, 2007 |
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Jul 5, 2007 14:36
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Blackbird Dreaming - (Chapter 1) June 20th, 12:33 P.M. With coaxing, Sir Reginald exits the shelter along with the rest of you, and begins to tentatively sniff around the dry underbrush and foliage of the area. Off in the far distance there is the muted rumble of what could be thunder, before that smothering silence returns once more. The group's Geiger counter ticks every once in a while--but seems to indicate nothing particular dangerous about the radiation levels. Nonetheless, it -does- register some degree of rads in the area around you; it may stand to reason that it might be leftovers from that which soaked into the shelter's exterior some months prior. The G.P.S. lags for several minutes unresponsive--then suddenly flickers a single bar of connectivity, registering your location on the small green-screen display. If kept in operating order, you should be able to utilize a marker here, should you wish to navigate your way back to the shelter--similarly, markers could be left at other locations of note. With some finagling, the second G.P.S. hand-held seems to successfully synchronize with the same satellite connection. Donning makeshift head-wraps will alleviate some of the strain of the heat. Everyone should deduct a point of fatigue from their current supply as their bodies cope with the different conditions of the exterior world again. Between proper coverings, ventilation and water usage, you will be able to prolong yourselves--but the longer you push, the more you will become fatigued and exhausted, requiring rest and supplies somewhere which, ideally, is cool and comfortable.
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Jul 6, 2007 03:53
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There is a small township seven miles further down the road east from the gas station, and westward, opposite, is another fifteen miles onward. Marcus chose a fairly remote location for the shelter's construction. It is worth a passing note that Mr. Chesterfield also owned some forty acres of wilderness surrounding the build site as well. Now that folks are preparing to actually move, I felt that it would likely be helpful to the narrative and to your own reference that I actually quantify a bit on the food and water ration situation for your usage and so forth. You have thirty M.R.E. packets left in the shelter; they are bulky, inefficiently shaped, and a touch awkward to transport--they're also not particularly tasty. Beyond the M.R.E.s, which were indeed the 'last resort' meals (the prior year having exhausted 'the good stuff'), there are the previously mentioned canned baked beans. Remaining water rations are kept in large water-cooler style jugs. However, on your persons, you will be able to distribute a solid usable quantity of these reserves among: -8 canteens -2 thermos -7 'sports' water bottles -1 large thermos w/ pour tap at bottom This should give you a general idea of exactly how much of the water you'll be able to carry with you with any degree of ease. Don't worry too much about determining who is carrying what among the above listed containers for now, I will presume that at the very least the group will be taking everything but the large thermos, fully filled, on their expedition. Finally, I will note that I will be performing three flavors of updates in this game: Core updates, which will feature prominent chapter names, a lot of content, and narrative for the entire party. Supplement updates, which will be smaller, continue the chapter, and address focused narrative for whichever players have acted since my last update (in this fashion, I -will- be updating at times for only a few characters, if others have not posted for a while--I'd like to keep things going for the folks who might want to push more than a post or two in a day for a given tidbit). Technical updates, like this one, which will just answer character actions, provide roll results, or otherwise expand details on things. That said, Evan's electronics for calibrating the GPS was successful on a 10.
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Jul 6, 2007 17:33
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Blackbird Dreaming - (Chapter 1) June 20th, 3:26 P.M. Trudging your way down the path proves to be a more arduous expedition than you may have originally anticipated. In several places great dead pine trunks have presented obstacles to your progress, and most daunting and strange is the presence of a large sinkhole more than fifteen feet across and more than ten feet deep has swallowed up a large chunk of the path. Inside at the bottom is a pile of large bones grown over with fungus, which itself has dried out and formed a layer of brown dead matter. Jacob & Brandon's woodland survival skills pay off, helping to avert several points where a careless mis-step could have meant a broken ankle or worse. The G.P.S. portables also help with navigation a great deal, helping to keep on course during long stretches where the path seems to have been overgrown entirely. After several hours, an exit to the wilderness edge is in sight. By 3:26 you've finally reached the paved road, which is certain to provide far easier footing and pacing. The heat has been hammering down on you considerably, driving feverish thirsts to insist at your senses, and making it difficult to remain fully coherent at times. There is a large rusted out van in a ditch thirty yards east, in the direction of the rest stop--it's facing west, and looks to have swerved off the road some indeterminate time ago to avoid a smaller sinkhole in the pavement. This one is five feet in diameter, six deep. The husk of the van is hardly a vehicle anymore--though faint remnants of the seat cushions remain, long eaten away by the elements. A search of the van reveals a few items of potential use--there is a tool kit in the back; though the case itself has grown somewhat rusty, it seems to have largely been shielded by the van, and the tools, a complete layman's set, look to be in fairly good shape yet. In the glove box, there is a small first aid kit, a half-empty box of tissues, and a small assortment of loose items--a tire pressure gauge, an ink pen, and a pair of AA batteries. Something has eaten away the rubber from the van's tires, for they are practically nothing but rims now, save for a few errant scraps. In the distance, there is the muted sound of what might be thunder. The sky remains predominantly cloudless though, and the sun is ever the brutal antagonist on your battered bodies. Sir Reginald sniffs around the sinkhole, barks once, then trots a meandering wander east down the road. Another point of fatigue expended; it would have been two, three for some, but Jacob and Brandon did an excellent job, and both made some fantastically low rolls which I translated into much improved efficiency in your expedition. You've likely shaved two hours off of your trip to the rest stop thanks to them.
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Jul 7, 2007 01:20
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 20th, 4:52 P.M. After a scan with binoculars finds none of the aforementioned giant ants or other matinée monstrosities, the hike continues. Jacob is able to gather together some of the more useful tools from the kit and stow them among his carried belongings, and Brandon's foray finds, surprisingly, some particularly useful tidbits--particularly an assortment of pills ordinarily used to reduce rad exposure during extensive x-ray treatment--pharmaceutical know-how pays off. More than an hour of further walking--though now, with solid pavement underfoot, the ground covered in that span is considerably more efficient. A bit of joking around even manages to lighten the mood a touch, for some--with so many emotions pent up in a cocktail of brain chemistry, finally getting out and about from the shelter is boon enough in and of itself. At long last, as the sky above begins to turn orange and redden with dusk looming in the near future, the rest stop comes fully into sight after rounding a downhill bend. A small gas station / mechanic's garage combination, with a broad gravel parking lot littered with a half dozen vaguely car-shaped skeletons of rust. There are two 'classic' style gas pumps, the sorts that chipper youths once facilitated for the motorist passerby; now their derelict state is arguably a toss-up between simple age and the same rusting that seems so prevalent everywhere else. From the lot, it is difficult to assess the state of the 'convenience' shop of the main building. The windows are caked with a heavy layer of grime, dust and filth--and what little glass is exposed beneath such is plastered with deeply sun-faded advertisements and a sign warning off the criminal act of driving off without paying for gasoline tendered. To one edge of the lot are a pair of pay-phones in small half-booths, a moldy phone book dangling from a length of cord beneath one. There are deep furrows in the gravel where a heavy vehicle drove a hasty departure an unknown length of time ago--and it was sufficient, it seems, to send bits of gravel sailing off to shatter several of the windshields of the parking lot's rust heaps. Behind the main building is a small restroom structure, unisex, and doubtlessly host to some form of multiple choice condom dispenser. From a closer vantage to the convenience store, you notice now a small pile of bones and feathers which had previously been obscured by one of the gas pumps. Some six feet away, near the corner of the garage, the gravel is charred and scorched. The heavy door to the garage is shut presently, and looks heavily rusted--as does the small pinwheel on the roof of the building, a few tattered streamers hanging down from it. The glass on the door, near the handle, has been broken--and subsequently, you find the door itself unlocked. It would seem that you were beaten to the punch for retrieving usable goods from the place. Even wearing gas masks, for those who still are, the rancid stench inside of the small store building is retch worthy. The back wall, a row of cold beverage storage, has been without power for many months--and the dairy products therein have long spoiled beyond curdling. There is a sizable sprawl of fungus and mildew over most of that half of the store's interior. Most of the shelves have been picked clean. There are a few perishable foodstuffs which have long spoiled--but a search does at least turn up a single can of Ravioli which had rolled under one of the displays--slightly rusted. There is a turnstile postcard rack still mostly stocked, and half-empty boxes of various candy are still present--though the range of their edibility is dubious at a glance. The cash register has been pillaged, and is empty--and all of the cigarettes are gone. All of them. Not all of the store's stock is lost, as well--there are two pairs of 'work gloves', three rolls of electrical tape, a bottle of painkillers, and an assortment of 'party favor' class cheap plastic toys. There is a deck of playing cards as well. You find that the door to the garage is locked, and testing it--quite sturdily shut, as well. On the other hand, the door into the 'back office' of the store is opened with some insistent physical force, which will handily introduce a fresh assault of horrid odors into the building--a corpse is seated behind a cluttered corner desk, flesh essentially mummified--the corner of the ceiling is stained a dark dried blackish red, and a .22 revolver is in the right hand resting on the desk top. The revolver has a single spent round in it. Four .22 rounds are scattered on the desk. There is a rotary phone on the desk, with no dial tone. Most of the clutter in the office is of decidedly little use or interest--however, there is a small bottle of whiskey in one of the desk drawers, half empty. The edges of the windows have been duct taped shut, the vents have been covered over in duct tape, and the framing of the door has also been duct taped--though breached by the room's entry. It's getting darker outside, though at least the wind has finally decided to make an appearance, cooling things off a bit. The restroom is nailed shut, upon closer inspection, from the outside. Sir Reginald whines and tucks his tail between his legs, skulking about near the entrance to the store and pacing slow circles. One more fatigue point, but should not have difficulty recovering if comfortable sleeping arrangements can be made this evening. The gas pumps are dry, and are discovered inoperable if tested. The pay phones are also no dial tone. There is 35 cents in one of the phone change receptacles. None of the vehicles outside are in working order, and you cannot see inside of the garage. There are no windows on the restroom structure, though it smells rather awful as well. There is a stack of 'spare tires' behind the gas station, but their rims are rusted horribly. There does not seem to be any power to the gas station, and none of the lights work.
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Jul 7, 2007 05:28
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 20th, 5:42 P.M. Mercifully, the horrendous odor within the store lessens after allowing it to 'air out' for a while. Closing up the back office and returning it to being the man's 'tomb' is liable to also assist this charge. Evan finds the rotary phone to, itself, still be in good condition albeit a touch old. The inner workings are found to be very salvageable for the electronics enthusiast. Mike squares off against the garage door inside the store, digging the crowbar tightly into the door jam. A hearty, solid heave strains the door with an audible creak of wood under duress, crackling a small divot where the bar pries directly. A second shove of the crowbar resounds a loud crack-pop, causing the door to lurch open with a start and slap noisily into the wall at the end of its hinges. It's very dark inside of the garage, with no windows and the electricity in a non-functional state. The space is sufficiently large to work on two vehicles at a given time, with two mechanic's pits beneath pneumatic lifts--one of which is empty, and the other, currently raised, is hoisting a black Ford Taurus sedan. There is slight rusting along some of the trim on the vehicle, but it appears to be from typical wear and tear. Thick layers of dust cover the entire car in a blanket of borderline soot. There are a few grease and oil stains dabbled on the floor here and there, and the entire back wall is one long work bench, an array of mechanic's tools and utensils readily available--a surprising degree for such an out of the way repair shop. For the most part, everything seems to lie as if it had been left casually ages ago, simply covered over with dust. Allergies run wild in the vicinity. On the wall by the door through which you've entered, there is a small cork board with various sheets of paper posted, and next to it is a small rack upon which a set of car keys has been hung. The keys appear to match the Taurus, and several unidentified keys also occupy the chain. A small refrigerator is found in the corner of the garage; inside is a thoroughly molded-over lump wrapped in plastic which you presume was a sandwich at some point, and two Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beers. In the distance, there is a rumble of what sounds like thunder. June 20th, 6:54 P.M. It is now dark outside, with dusk having come to pass. The rumbles of thunder have grown more frequent, harbinger of an inevitable storm system moving through the area. Just shy of seven o'clock, a patter of rain begins to pepper the gravel lot and rooftops in fat dollops--accompanied by a quiet hiss, and small trails of smoky vapor wisping away from the growing wetness outside. As the rain shifts to a downpour, the hissing in turn becomes a cacophony, the grounds outside growing outright vicious in the torrent. What was scattered vapors becomes a roiling mist, tendrils of the sticky fog caressing against the structures of the rest stop, and threatening to penetrate through open doors and other crevices. Sir Reginald whines, and finds sanctuary in a corner of the garage beneath the work bench. Thunder rumbles a near deafening loudness, but there is no sign of lightning in the storm outside--which seems quite ready to continue on for a long while. John locates a folding table and four folding chairs behind a stack of tires in the garage, re-igniting the promise of preoccupation while enduring the passing of elements outside. Evan rolled 13 on his electronics check to condense the Geiger counter 'portable', and though it takes him a good while to complete the compacting of the device, he will shave two pounds off of the weight and make it considerably easier to handle and store. Rest itself will restore 2 points of fatigue, and having a full meal with water will restore the rest. Sir Reginald needs to be fed at least half a ration to be sated. The pneumatic lift, you find, will require some mechanical know-how to repair, or alternatively sufficient damaging of the base of the mechanism to bring the car down. The former method will, obviously, provide a far less damaged vehicle. The latter will present a degree of danger for whomever stands in the mechanic pit beneath the vehicle when it comes down. The rain, as you can certainly gather, is not particularly inviting, and is visibly corrosive. It is highly inadvisable to venture out into it. Exposure to the mist produced by the rain to exposed skin will produce burns and inflammation, should any have the misfortune of discovering this first-hand. The rain continues unabated for nearly three hours.
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Jul 7, 2007 15:14
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 20th, 11:46 P.M. The mist lingers for a full hour after the rain finally ceases, billowing and shifting around outside and leaving moist streaks against what little glass you can see through. From time to time, faint bits snake in through the hole in the store's door--and whilst on watch, you could swear you hear faint scrabbling, scuttling sounds. But then, your mind could simply be playing tricks on you. Scarce as the duo is, the beers are surprisingly palatable, if lukewarm. Most of the postings on the cork board are of little significance; a few coupons here, a missing cat poster, a sheet of local phone numbers, and an invoice from over a year ago for a transmission order for a minivan. The pneumatic lift does check out to be oil-based, and the appropriate measures to the lines ought to let the Taurus down 'gently'. Hazardous as it may be, the rain nonetheless seems to bring down the ambient temperature a lot, at the cost of making things a touch too humid for comfort. Shedding fatigues will go a long way towards relieving grungy discomfort--but the likely-hood of maintaining fresh attire in the coming days is quite questionable. For most of you, the night passes by excruciatingly slow--anxiety and tension from having finally returned to the world at large far outweighs the fatigue and exhaustion from the day's heated expedition--and one can't deny, as well, the faint nagging uncertainty of the many wrongs which must yet pervade the country beyond this meager place. Sleep does not come easy, and even when it finally does, nightmares plague what dreams materialize in slumber's murky embrace. It's a long night, made longer by a seemingly endless parade of questions and doubts. Tomorrow would bring with it a further expedition still--and with it, discovery of the state of affairs for an actual population center. June 21st, 7:46 A.M. A wristwatch alarm goes off at some point, but what rouses consciousness to the lot of you is the feverishly insistent barking of Sir Reginald. He stands at the store's entrance, fur on end and hackles raised, snarling and rattling off throaty warnings--with his tail tucked between his legs all the while. Out across the gravel lot, near the roadside, stands a figure out in the sun. Perhaps six feet tall, a man remains motionless, garbed in a torn and dirty pair of coveralls, littered with dark moist stains. His skin is covered in a dried black substance, and it is only after getting a more careful look of him that you notice two particularly unsettling things--the tips of his fingers are torn down to the bone and pointed, and his eyes are a pair of dark, empty sockets. Though he seems to have ignored Sir Reginald's barking, he seems to rouse with a sharp jolt when observed, hunching forward and 'staring' at the building. Cracked lips draw back to reveal a mouth full of broken and jagged teeth, and the main wails across the lot. "I SEEEEEEEE YOOOOU!" The man begins to advance towards the door with jerky, rigid steps, wheezing and cackling.
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Jul 8, 2007 00:42
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 7:53 A.M. Sir Reginald continues barking wildly from inside of the store, growling to a frothy fervor when the man advances before the canine retreats with a yelp and a whine on Jacob's arrival, relinquishing 'guard' of the situation to his human master. With a closer look of the man, Mike finds the dried black substance to look like a at which psheen of congealed and hardened blood, as if the man had sweat out his own and then baked in the sun afterwards. His coveralls sport a name tag with "Jack" written in a half-cursive sewn scrawl; from amidst the tears in his uniform, Mike sees that the man is extremely gaunt beneath the baggy garments, and looks as though he may have had conditions of starving for quite some time. Several yell back and forth, and the man continues his approach, stalled only momentarily by Mike's advance with crowbar in hand. Eerily, 'Jack' seems to register the wielding of the impromptu weapon, and is given brief pause--long enough for Mike to note that not only are the man's eyes empty sockets, but appear to have been bored out even broader than the original openings--largely, it seems, as if the flesh had been eaten away surrounding the ocular cavities after whatever hollowed them in the first place. As much as he aims to keep a bead on the man, Mike can't help but be distracted, ever so briefly as it is, by the talk between Brandon and Jacob--and in that window, 'Jack' lunges with a shriek, clawing at him. Mike is able to react in time to lean away from the blow, receiving a trio of gashes against his shoulder where three clawed fingertips find purchase. It is clear to Mike that the man was trying to reach for his eyes, instead. Further invitation certainly not necessary, a swing of the crowbar responds to 'Jack', which he ducks from, surprisingly spry on his feet! Shouting and chaos ensues in the next several seconds, each seeming to stretch on for minutes apiece. John nearly fumbles in his haste to cock and aim his rifle on the man, who tries once more to slash at Mike's face, who steps back fully from this blow--retorting with a frantic heavy swing of the crowbar. The blow lands with a loud crunch, right to the side of 'Jack's head, splintering a piece of skull off as casually as chipping a tooth and causing the man to reel. Dirt and gravel is kicked up, Sir Reginald barking furiously from within the store while the others are still rousing within. 'Jack' shrieks bloody murder, lunging for Mike in spite of his head wound, missing again as Mike backpedals away from him. Brandon scrambles to pull the .22 he picked up the day prior--and a shot rings out from John, but whizzes past the man without striking him. 'Jack' swings successfully against Mike, but misses his targeted slash--Mike's dodge of the blow isn't enough to avoid the swipe altogether, and he takes 2 hit points of damage. Mike swings wide, in response, but 'Jack' dodges by a fairly large margin, by which point John has cocked, and begun to aim his rifle for a clear shot. 'Jack' swings again at Mike, but misses this time as Mike is ready for the swing. John almost critically failed his shot, Brandon's slow reaction time has only gotten his revolver out at this point.
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Jul 8, 2007 04:37
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) Jacob's staff clatters to the gravel below, Mike stepping away from the man as quickly as he can. More shouting, with Sir Reginald wildly barking--adrenaline pours into your systems so thickly that things seem downright surreal. John fumbles desperately to ready another shot with the rifle, and another shot rings out when Brandon squeezes off a quick round with his .22 pistol--the shot goes wide, zipping where 'Jack' was a second ago--but the man is fast on his feet, too fast. The man wheels on Jacob and laughs a high-pitched squeal that makes your ears hurt, before lunging out--he manages to step back in time, but just barely, those clawed fingertips actually nicking the end of his revolver with a metallic tink. John tries to follow the man with his rifle, firing off another round--this zips past him and shatters one of the store's windows, cutting the air a hairsbreadth from Raymond's head inside. As 'Jack' lunges again at Jacob, his clawed fingertips find purchase, and he grabs at his elbows, squeezing, those claw tips sinking readily through fabric and flesh alike. Jacob feels his forearms tremble, and an awful turn of his stomach at the realization that this man might very well be about to pull his arms off. Sir Reginald slams into the man, jaws clamping down around his throat with a vicious snarl--and he lets go of Jacob's arms to claw wildly at the canine. This gives Jacob an opening, and with his arms feeling somewhat numb with what is doubtlessly shock, he still gets a shot off with his magnum nearly at point blank range. With a loud boom and the crack of shattering bones, a fount of blood and bone shards spatters out from 'Jack's back and onto the ground in a loose stream, several severed and destroyed veins twisting about pumping spurts of blood into the open air. He staggers, punctured heart spasming visibly to Jacob, whom for a fleeting moment could swear he saw something move by it before disappearing. 'Jack' gets hold of Sir Reginald, and hurls him off, the canine's body tumbling through the air before bouncing off of one of the gas pumps with a wet smack and spinning off into the gravel. He's still going! "Your eyes, your eyes, YOUR EEEEEEEEEEEEEYES!" he howls. Mike has an opening, and the shotgun at hand by now--and takes his shot. It clips the man in the shoulder, spinning him to face the store. He shrieks, charging the building, which prompts Evan to fire; the shot also hits him, but barely slows him down. Jacob, body gorged on adrenaline and all the more heightened by emotion for his dog, squares off his firing stance uninterrupted, and manages a nigh perfect shot into the man's back--a massive blow, again, this time shattering shoulder blades, severing his spine, and sending pieces of lung and his sternum spraying--a few scattered bits hitting Evan and Mike in the store. Still mid-stride, the man's knees wobble underneath him then go out, and he collapses to slide for a foot and a half before becoming still at the store's doorstep. His body spasms once, and his lips curl into a broad smile, before he ceases moving altogether. Dark blood begins to pool and run among the gravel now. Mike moves away from 'Jack' a fair distance; John begins to cock and aim his rifle again, and Brandon fires off a round but misses 'Jack' as well. He's fast! poo poo is he fast! 'Jack' takes a swing at Jacob, who just -barely- manages to avoid being hit. Mike/Raymond attempt to retrieve the shotgun, now that 'Jack' has abandoned pursuing Mike. John fires another round and misses again. Jacob steadies his stance, receives a grievous set of puncture wounds that threaten to sever his arms at the elbows, takes 4 points of damage, then fires squarely at 'Jack's chest in the opening Sir Reginald provides, dealing nearly max damage. 'Jack' shows Sir Reginald the exit. Mike/Raymond will have gotten Mike's shotgun in his hands and him into a firing position during the gap afterwards, while John struggles to prep another round. Mike hits a glancing shot, which somehow draws 'Jack's attention back to him. He charges the building, which gets Evan to fire and hit with a solid, but not particularly damaging shot. Jacob rolls a critical success to hit, and this time -does- roll max damage. That's all she wrote for 'Jack', who finally drops dead.
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Jul 8, 2007 14:56
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Brandon succeeds his preliminary bandaging, staunching the bleeding that Mike and Jacob are suffering and restoring 1 hit point of damage. Even with this, Mike will find the three gashes stinging quite badly. Brandon will also recognize that the wounds threaten to fester in very short order after the gashes. His application of copious antiseptic seems to drive this off, however. Brandon will want to apply antiseptic to such injuries as quickly as possible, in the future. Jacob's arms are throbbing with sharp pain, and his forearms feel partially numb and weak. By sheer luck no tendons seem to have been severed, but the ligaments and cartilage of his elbow joints have been damaged, and it is Brandon's assessment from his Physician experience that Jacob should avoid any heavy lifting or excessive strain on his arms until they have had time to fully heal--lest he potentially suffer permanent damage to his arm strength. John avoids landing on the puke, but he certainly smells it.
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Jul 8, 2007 22:05
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 9:33 A.M. With 'Jack' well and truly dead, things become calm once more--but the lingering sense of dread is hard to shake in the aftermath of the attack. Sir Reginald is found with shallow breathing, a broken leg, and nearly a dozen deep scrapes and gashes from grinding along the gravel surface of the lot in his impact. Using a lot of gauze and several splints, he can be stabilized--but the canine won't be in fit condition for some time, and without proper veterinarian expertise treatment will be touch and go at best. Once he is no longer trying to maul you, 'Jack' still remains a grisly sight. Caked from head to toe with copious dried, blackened blood, the flesh beneath has been severely burned and warped in acid rains. His coveralls have a nearly 'bleached' appearance to them, though it has been covered over many times by dirt, grime, and filth in general. Not only are his fingertips exposed bony claws, but several other patches of his flesh have been eaten away to reveal the musculature and sinew beneath the epidermal layers--and by the visible tissue damage and tearing, he was likely operating without a sense of pain. There is a wallet in 'Jack's back pocket, revealing via a Michigan driver's license to be one Jack Simpson, 6ft 1in, with blue eyes and black hair. His date of birth is 7-14-1971, and his address places him in the small township east down the road. There is also $24 in cash, a credit card, and a series of family photos and portraits depicting his wife and two daughters. In his front pocket, keys are found, which you discover to match the locks of the gas station and the make and model of one of the rusted out vehicles in the lot. He is also wearing a Casio digital wristwatch. 'Jack's eyes are gone entirely, with no discernible inner workings left in the sockets. His figure is emaciated, what patches of skin remain have become tough and leathery, and the vast bulk of his internal fluids seem to have sweat through his pores with regularity. His teeth are broken and jagged, as if he had attempted to chew on a number of disagreeable materials which won out in tensile strength. With further examination, several open sores are found at various places on his body about the size of a quarter each. Three healed-over previous gunshot wounds are also found. With the hydraulics worked with directly, the Taurus is brought down successfully without damage to the vehicle. Since the keys are on hand, you unlock the car and pop the trunk in short order. Inside the vehicle there is some clutter on the floorboards--empty 20oz bottles, some papers, a Meijers plastic grocery bag. The glove-box contains a box of tissues and a container of moist sanitary wipes. In the trunk is a half-full jug of windshield washer fluid, a set of jumper cables, a portable jack and a spare tire. The Taurus could 'comfortably' seat five. Six and a dog would be rather cramped. It is 96 degrees Fahrenheit outside, with a predominantly clear sky.
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Jul 9, 2007 01:36
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 12:26 P.M. Sir Reginald nuzzles Jacob's hand weakly, and after a wrenching silence, is mercy killed. There is no question that the canine had saved him from a horrific maiming--nor the group a rude awakening amidst dead companions. However, putting him down serves only to further punctuate the overarching message of the morning, that the world has grown to be a very cruel, very dangerous place. Inside the garage, the Taurus requires a bit of mechanical know-how to get the engine to turn over, but after cleaning up the spark plugs and re-securing the battery, the sedan's ignition pulls through. It has 64,278 miles on it, and a little over half a tank of gas at present. The radio works, in a manner of speaking--receiving a lot of test signals and dead wave static. Opening the garage door proves to be a tricky undertaking, as the mechanism has jammed and corroded extensively. Ultimately, it is easier to demolish the rusted shutter door's rails with the aid of blunt instruments and muscle, allowing you to peel the sheeted gate away sufficiently to pass the car out. In an afterthought, you also notice the Taurus has a sun roof. Everyone receives 2 character points. Tindjin receives an additional character point. The Taurus 'should' be good for roughly 112 miles before it requires more gasoline. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 07:11 on Jul 9, 2007 |
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Jul 9, 2007 07:08
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Outside, the pumps are long inoperable; if they weren't already ancient -and- rusted completely through, the fuel reservoir has been tapped dry by opportunist motorists long ago. You'll be able to find several lengths of rubber tubing which actually was intended for precisely the design you have for such, in the garage. Four more empty gas cans are found inside the garage. If nothing else, the Taurus has decently large trunk space. Should you favor the idea of returning to the shelter, your trip downhill had encountered quite a few points where the vehicle just plain would not be able to traverse, between downed pines and the enormous sinkhole you had encountered previously.
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Jul 9, 2007 13:38
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 21st, 1:29 P.M. Departing from the rest stop, a sense of emptiness and dread gnaws at you. The morning's meal does not sit well in your stomachs, and as the body of 'Jack' lay there baking in the sun, flies have begun to gather, enticed by the scent--it seems that they, at least, have survived the apocalypse well. One could only figure as such. It's onward, and out onto the road. Depositing the bulk of your gear in the trunk proves a phenomenal boon on your still-weary bodies, and coupled with the greater discovery--that the Taurus has functional air conditioning--makes even such a cramped ride far more comfortable than one might have previously anticipated. Though the next township is not particularly far away now that you're on wheels, going is far from a fast clip, as the road presents a number of fairly frequent obstacles even in a mere seven mile stretch. For the most part, these present themselves in the form of pot-holes, breaks in the pavement, and at one point a pair of fallen trees. Pine forest continues to border the road for several miles, before the northern side of the road thins out, gradually revealing rolling hills. A year ago, the view would be scenic under any regard--but now, vast dead zones blotch and pockmark the wilderness, countless acres of brown and withered trees. Rounding another bend, you find full view of the township just two more miles ahead. From this distance, already you can see numerous burnt-out buildings and streets cluttered with trash and debris. Using your range-finder binoculars you are able to get a far clearer assessment of the place from your present vantage point; 'Welcome to Brady Heights' a half-decomposed wooden sign declares in letters almost entirely worn away. There are several points down the 'main' street where cars have piled up and rusted to near nothing. Storefronts are smashed open, looted in days long passed. As you draw your gaze to the municipal city hall building, a dozen nearly skeletal corpses are hung from the rooftop over the hall's large clock-tower--which, according to a placard, was donated in 1957. A few parking lots and side-streets also contain large sinkholes, like the one you had encountered back in the wilderness near the shelter. At the far end of town to the east, past a number of small neighborhoods, you can see an especially large rusted husk of what must have been a fire engine--parked in such a fashion that it seems to have been used as a roadblock, as it is wedged to block off the street entirely. Most of the suburban homes are in ruins, either burnt to the ground, smashed and torn apart--or in a few cases, have had vehicles driven directly into them. The state affairs left the township in you judge as a mixture of panicked pandemonium and residual anarchy in the aftermath. Things seem rather destitute and desolate, with no signs of movement or life--until you catch a brief glimpse in passing over the northern edge of 'downtown' Brady Heights--there is a small two-floor brick building, and you can see a man on top under several large table umbrellas, the sort used in deck furniture. At the base of the building are more than a dozen rotting corpses. The man appears to be talking into a CB Radio, and holding a rifle underarm. A little over five miles driven.
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Jul 9, 2007 17:03
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Evan is able to pick up on the man's radio mid-sentence after scanning carefully through the frequencies. "--s what is left of 'em. Not much else left here, so wrap up your poo poo and get ready to roll out. I'll let you know if the boogie man comes out." "Yeah yeah, just don't you loving ditch me. Listen, Dodson's found what looks like a main shaft; sit tight, we should be out in twenty, just need to confirm." "Roger." After a few moments, a pillar of gray dusty smoke rises up from behind one of the civic structures near the center of town.
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Jul 9, 2007 23:40
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 2:12 P.M. To avoid attracting unwanted attention, the Taurus is stowed off the road and out of plain sight--between the elevation difference and dried brush, the dusty vehicle does a remarkable job of pulling off 'natural camouflage'. With this done, your fatigues allow you to belly down along the side of the road with a clear vantage using your binoculars. After that, it's the waiting game. While observing the man on the roof, you take in more details; there some kind of footlocker he's keeping the CB radio on, and the man himself looks to be in his mid to late thirties with short-cropped black hair and a five o'clock shadow. He's wearing what looks like police riot gear under further observation. From the building the man is on, he has a clear vantage point down the entire length of the main street--and though some of your view is obscured by buildings in the way, it also looks like he has line of sight across several parking areas behind structures--over towards where the billowing is coming from. June 21st, 2:28 P.M. Silence and inactivity are pierced by the distant crackling of sudden sporadic gunfire. The man on the rooftop quickly puts the top back on a canteen then returns to the CB. "Talk to me." "Dodson was right. We've got some pitons down, but we're going to need the rig, because we are not loving climbing down there for shits. Ted's dead." "No time. We've got activity coming in from the north, and gently caress if I want to get stuck on another roof."
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Jul 10, 2007 02:58
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Through the binoculars you see the man on the building look at his CB and then fish out a pair of large binoculars, scanning around the city. There is radio silence for a few moments, before a third voice responds. "Copy I hear you sir, please identify yourself." There is a rumble, and a fresh billow of dusty smoke belches out from the building. The man on the building picks up his CB, but you do not hear him.
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Jul 10, 2007 03:43
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June 21st, 2:38 P.M. With the position revealed, not long after you see the man on the rooftop turn his binoculars in your direction, before talking into his CB again. A few moments later, the radio crackles once more with the third voice. "How many are with you, Markson?" The other voices have cut out of active conversation it seems. You hear another loud rumble from the east side of town; pulling out down the street is a large semi truck cab, with a winch setup not unlike a tow-truck's--though it looks rather large, and like it can manage a lot of torque. Rumbling a deep bass down the street, it pulls in near the plume of smoky vapors, before you're unable to see it due to the building blocking the way again.
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Jul 10, 2007 04:29
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Jacob watches the man on the roof starting to scan the area around John with his binoculars, clearly searching out the remaining five indicated over the radio. There is another rumble from the vicinity of the smoke pillar, and it blackens considerably before your eyes. "What's your location, Markson?" the third voice chimes in over the radio. Jacob can still see the man on the rooftop looking in your direction. "And where you from?"
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Jul 10, 2007 04:49
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"Come into town, you'll be a lot safer, Markson. Will meet you there." The man on the rooftop takes another drink from his canteen, then disappears behind the umbrellas. You briefly catch glimpse of the top edge of the roof's door opening, then closing. Another rumble issues from the smoking building--but a different rumble reverberates off to the west, where the sky has darkened in the distant horizon.
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Jul 10, 2007 05:09
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June 21st, 3:15 P.M. The two mile walk the rest of the way into town will take a bit of doing and time, but luckily it's downhill at the very least. You'll pass, for the most part, more potholes and roadside debris, and a lot more dead vegetation. Seeing Brady Heights from a more level standpoint offers far less of a notion of precisely what is where. Once to the edge of town, main street boasts several pileups of rusted out car frames and a particularly large sink hole. Some three blocks down, to the north, you can make out the building the man had been standing on--'Bridget's Books'. You can barely make out the column of smoke over the buildings to the east of you--it's still a pretty solid distance away from you however. Brady Heights, up close and personal, is the very image of a placid little community with a population under a thousand sent spiraling out of control. One would be hard pressed to identify an unbroken storefront window along the main street, and you note now periodic sight of skeletal corpses--some trapped by debris, some piled into the back corner of a trashed alleyway, huddled together. Passing the front steps of the municipal city hall, the building's quaint architecture seems lost with the presence of a broken and scattered barricade behind entryway doors torn from their hinges or shattered hollow. There are scorch marks--and indeed, many of the buildings and vehicles alike look to have been burned out at some point. Those who remain uphill see little additional change from their vantage point. The man does not return to the roof again, though his CB radio remains on the footlocker there, unattended. Nor has anyone exited the front of Bridget's Books since he went inside. As Mike and John pass an intersecting street, they get a glimpse down the road to the building the semi had pulled up to earlier. In the middle of the road is a body in a very poor state, a woman whose features are rather similar to 'Jack's at the station--most pointedly, her lack of eyes. A caw is heard, and a crow lands to perch on the corner of the book store's roof, peering down at you with beady eyes. Clarification: The woman's corpse is on the side street, about a block away, in the direction the semi had been spotted earlier. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 05:44 on Jul 10, 2007 |
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Jul 10, 2007 05:40
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June 21st, 3:24 P.M. Arriving at the front of Bridget's Books, Mike and John find the door altogether missing from the entrance, and the near dozen or so corpses strewn about the street not far from it. Most of them are fairly decayed by now, however. The stench is absolutely terrible without the ventilation of gas masks, coaxing retching sensations. No radio this time--just the first voice you had heard over the radio. "Easy with that shotgun, Tex." Towards the back of the store, inside, the man from the roof is poised behind a counter with his rifle ready--albeit not pointed directly at either of you. He is garbed in full riot gear, though he isn't wearing a helmet. Curiously, you notice a machete sheathed at his hip, and a radio strapped to his shoulder. "You're Markson?" he nods towards John, though apparently rhetorical, as he immediately follows up with "Militia? Army?" though with the latter mention he quirks an eyebrow, eying John's 'staff'. His own armament appears to be a high-powered rifle with a visible clip and a scope. "What are you doing here?"
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Jul 10, 2007 06:06
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"What 'things' wandering around?" he scowls visibly and glares. "You've got some nerve. It isn't all the same to me, because there's two of you, and I can hear you just fine from back here." The inside of the book store has been roughed up considerably, but hardly ransacked like most of the other vendors down the street. It would seem that demand for books was not so high in the end. There is a large metal case on the counter, by the register, which is a dark matte green. "You want supplies, go scavenging."
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Jul 10, 2007 06:23
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"If by the 'things' you're referring you mean plague victims, they've already been dealt with." he spits to the side, rolling his shoulder to tighten his rifle's strap a tad in his grip. "You're not gonna want to be here when poo poo does go down. If you're -not- military, then shove off and move on, the town's long dead and we won't be here long." ~~~~~ Those remaining uphill feel a sudden tremendous rumble underfoot, accompanied by a loud crack muffled underground. In the meantime, north of Brady Heights, the sky has begun to darken drastically, clouds rolling in from the northwest with alarming speed. Back in the vicinity of the pillar of smoke, gunfire erupts in a chorus of chaos, and three separate new voices all vie for radio time, shouting and screaming nigh incomprehensibly. The man in Bridget's Books, moves a hand to the radio on his shoulder. "gently caress!" He grabs the metal case on the counter, then bolts through a door behind the counter, the sound of a door being kicked open following not long after. The blackbird atop the building begins to caw wildly. John and Mike feel the ground rumbling faintly underfoot.
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Jul 10, 2007 06:44
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June 21st, 3:40 P.M. Compared to the silence previously experienced, the plethora of loud and wild noises is a veritable cacophony of adrenaline and tension. Mike is the first to notice that added to the mixture is now an increasingly -worse- stench than that of the bodies outside. Something in between acrid rotting meat and sulfur. Not long after, Mike feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he watched John hurriedly trying to pick through scattered piles of books on the floor. As if the symphony of gunfire and the screaming over the radios had not been enough indicator of something terrible transpiring, the light outside of the book store dims suddenly and dramatically, clouds having roiled to block out the sun. With a final excited caw, the blackbird takes to flight, wafting away from the structure on beating wings. John scarcely notices another, smaller 'aftershock' to the earlier rumbling tremor--he's spotted an excellent condition compilation of the collective Sherlock Holmes mysteries in an aisle. As he hurries closer to the tome, faint wisps of smoky vapor unfurl from a hole in the floor behind it, just shy of two feet in diameter. Something moves down in it--and he hears the faintest echo of muffled gunfire from the hole--though this sound is overtaken by a scrabbling, scratching sound. Emerging from the dark depths of the hole a gaunt pale face appears, misshapen and askew--asymmetrical. He hauls and drags, feverishly eager to climb free of the tight tunnel, wholly black eyes locked intently on the man stooped so close. As it nears the surface, and John, its lips curl back into a broad wicked smile, jaws beginning to clatter rapidly, creating a crackling, keening sound. Mike hears an unholy high-pitched squeal from not far from John. A few spattering droplets of rain hit the pavement outside. From the hill, the remainder of the group observes the semi cab and two other vehicles driving quickly eastward towards the edge of town. From the rearmost vehicle periodic muzzle flashes appear accompanied by the sound of rapid gunfire. Some strange lumpy mass, perhaps the size of a grizzly bear, bolts down the street in pursuit of the vehicles. Thunder rumbles over the city, and with a sudden crack, a bolt of lightning arcs from the sky and strikes the lightning rod atop City Hall.
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Jul 10, 2007 13:52
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 21st, 4:00 P.M. Mike and John beat feet for the main steps of City Hall--and Mike gets more than he bargained for with his fleeting glance, seeing the misshapen man emerging from that hole giddily cackling and squealing. Even armed, the prospect of loosing a shotgun round at that thing is too much standing still for one's own good. Still, hauling down the main street, the thing does not seem to follow the duo out in the open. Thunder rumbles once more overhead, another arch of lightning splitting the sky and cracking down into a stop sign on the opposite sidewalk, flaring up a shower of sparks and shrapnel. Something about the storm seems downright freakish and sinister--and the fat drizzle that dapples at the two is uncomfortably hot and irritates whatever flesh it -does- find, indicative of what a proper downpour will reap. The remainder of the party, loaded up into the Taurus, does their best to navigate down the remainder of the hill and into Brady Heights. Jacob is faced with some tricky driving to avoid obstacles in the street, from rusted car pile-ups to wreckage, the felled front of a building, and an enormous sinkhole with a decidedly more unsettling air about it than those previously encountered. The report of gunfire has grown somewhat distant by now to the east, though it does continue from time to time--the triage of vehicles long gone by now. As the rain begins to fall more heavily, a faint mist sizzles from the blacktop of the pavement, Mike and John reaching the awning at the front of City Hall scantly in time to avoid any serious acid rain. Inside of the building, however, the two receive more than they bargained for. The entire entryway is literally piled with corpses in various states of decay, and the smell is nearly enough to make knees week and heads light. The Taurus pulls into sight, a mere block away now, and the two holed up in City Hall see a surge of movement at the southern edge of town--more than dozen individuals, striding headlong through the rain as they are scathed and sizzled against their exposed flesh, seeming unhindered by the pain of the acidic fluid. The lot of them seem to be clamoring for entrance to the vehicle, though slow as it goes it remains out of their reach as of yet. "Stop!" they cry. "See with us!" they wail, a mixture of male and female voices pleading--though the faces to whom they belong are all possessed of hollowed, empty sockets. There is a rumble again, and the floor shakes within City Hall. Behind Mike and John, tile begins to buckle in upheaval, dirty and splintered understructure sinking readily into a widening hole in the floor. The two catch glimpse of eyes within the recesses of the unholy pit gaping before them, and Mike can't help but squeeze off a round from his shotgun, though to seemingly little effect. Jacob pulls the car around to the base of the steps, honking the horn insistently. Rain sizzles against the poncho covering the sun roof, and the dirty on the chassis of the Taurus seems to melt readily away beneath the rain. As of yet, however, the paint job of the sedan seems to be holding up to the caustic downpour--but then again, the rain has hardly begun to start as of yet. Mike and John expend two fatigue points hauling rear end for dear life. Jacob does some successful tricky driving to avoid getting the Taurus stuck through some particularly tight turns and obstacles. There are more than twelve apparent Cerebrosus victims approaching from the south, still about a block away. Inside of City hall, Mike and John are subject to a fright check, which both fail to a minor degree, and will thus suffer some roll penalties till they stabilize. The hole which has opened up within City Hall is about forty feet away from the two, at the base of the main staircase in the structure. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 00:53 on Jul 11, 2007 |
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Jul 11, 2007 00:30
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Mike and John successfully rejoin the rest of the group in the Taurus. Viable routes are north and east, though you could also conceivably turn the vehicle around and attempt to drive through the cerebrosus victims, back to the south & west. The rain is still not especially heavy, though it does irritate skin exposed to it. Foul smells hang in the air, even inside of the Taurus at present.
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Jul 11, 2007 01:12
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Maneuvering the vehicle is about as tricky as it had been approaching from the south. To make matters worse, not long after you pull off from the municipal City Hall building, the glass quadruple doors of the entryway buckle and explode outward to make way for a grizzly-bear sized mass of flesh, eyeballs, and screeching doom. Clawing deep scything gouges into the pavement of the steps, it begins a hot pursuit of the Taurus, heedless of the very obstacles which slow your own progress down! Just off the edge of town, there is a concrete bridge over a river. At best, you may be able to drive at 30mph in these conditions, and to make matters worse the rain on the pavement seems to be making your tires stick! Edit: Removed North. Not trying to lead you folks on. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 02:00 on Jul 11, 2007 |
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Jul 11, 2007 01:41
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 21st, 4:06 P.M. Lightning booms across the sky, lighting up the beast as rain begins to hammer the scene around you now. With a proper glimpse of the thing, you immediately wish you hadn't--though it is similar in size to a bear, it looks like anything but. Instead, its very existence is a crime against all that is good and wholesome; each of its four misshapen legs is in actuality a lumpy cornucopia of melted and scarred flesh, composed of several formerly 'human' limbs--arms and legs twisted together as casually as vines might encircle a tree trunk. The 'head' of the beast snaps and gibbers with more than a dozen toothy mouths, but worst of all are the eyes. Dozens of them, some bloodshot, some milky, all of them darting wildly, ceaselessly searching. It is as if man piled onto man, woman onto woman, and their collaborative flesh ran and pooled together. Jacob's glimpse in the rear-view mirror is just brief enough to return his eyes ahead, whereupon he swerves barely in time to avoid hitting the creature Mike and John had fled from in the book store. It leaps at the Taurus, bouncing off of the rear driver side door with a wet smack. Behind you, the beast rears its 'head' and roars a terrible chorus of wailing cries that make your head hurt. It takes several awkward lumbering steps after the fleeing vehicle, loose red flesh slapping against the pavement and leaving sticky trails of gooey skin and pus. BOOM! Thunder crackles, and lightning strikes a lamp post not far ahead, sending sparks and shards of glass flying. The traction on the Taurus becomes difficult--a combination of slightly melted rubber and hydroplaning streaking skids. Lumbering hurriedly in your wake, the beast wheezes large trails of phlegm from its many orifices, but has difficulty keeping up once you pick up speed. Jacob swerves again, weaving amidst pot holes and debris--it would seem that you're nearly in the clear. With a heavy shudder and a sound like flesh being crackled like bubble-wrap, the beast rolls a large lump of flesh sharply. The back window of the Taurus spiderwebs cracks around a hole the size of a quarter as a sharp foot long bone buries into the dashboard. John feels a sharp pain--the trajectory scathed his right shoulder. Tires screech and squeal as another, final, sharp turn is made successfully without spinning out of control. Behind you, the beast seems to now decided to occupy itself with the flock of cerebrosus victims--and faintly, over the rain and distance, you can hear them wail and scream, begging for mercy's favor as the creature begins gorging upon their still-living flesh ravenously. Jacob pulls away from the edge of Brady Heights, and is very nearly in the clear. Ahead lies the bridge out of the north end of town; there is a deep furrow in the ground which had been a river long ago. Fluid still flows in the recess, but its true content is questionable at best now. The bridge does not seem to be in the best of shape--a large hole having crumbled out from the lane opposite your own. The fabric behind the back seats sizzles with rain leaking through the hole there, hissing loudly. Louder still is the WHUMP that resounds when John's friend from the book store lands atop the Taurus's trunk, gashing deep gouges into the steel of the vehicle with its claws in a display of shocking ease. It begins giggling madly, smile spreading wider, and wider, and wider until the skin begins to rip and tear, exposing more and more of the teeth in its jaws. This display is sufficient opportunity for a shot to be taken from one regaining their nerve inside the Taurus--the hitchhiker bounces from the rear of the car, and vanishes into the gap in the bridge, the report of a splash sounding from the 'river' below. June 21st, 4:36 P.M. Brady Heights has all but disappeared in the distance behind you, and it isn't long before you've driven clear of the acid rain once again. To one side of the road, a rusted sign is passed, upon which you barely make out: 'Battle Creek 28' Some amazing success rolls for evasive driving by Jacob, bravo. John takes 2 hit points of damage. Deduct a round of shotgun ammunition for sending your salient stowaway off the vehicle. The Taurus has taken an undisclosed amount of damage. Roughly 12 miles worth of gas is used up in the above narrative. 2 fatigue points from everyone. You're all feeling very hungry and thirsty. Edit: As Prussian has mentioned to me, the cackling of your unexpected passenger was not far off from the 'noid' of old dominos commercials, but hardly so light-hearted. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 04:12 on Jul 11, 2007 |
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Jul 11, 2007 04:09
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John takes another hit point of damage from bleeding. Mike staunches the bleeding, and between him and Brandon, they will be able to bandage one hit point of damage. The back windshield of the Taurus is essentially toast save for some broken-up edging glass and frayed wires which had been built into it for the rear defrost system. The tires are essentially bald now, with significantly reduced grip. Dashboard damage has screwed up the A/C pathway to the driver's seat. There has been damage to the suspension--nothing too serious right now, but it can easily become a slippery slope. The trunk has deep gashes where the steel has been peeled up in a series of metal curls. The exposed surface beneath has begun to rust.
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Jul 11, 2007 13:14
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Evan attempts to radio the previous frequency, but receives no response, and hears no further radio chatter. Scanning through the frequencies does not produce further signals either. In an effort to boost the signal gain, Evan works with the Taurus's antenna, albeit with a great deal more difficulty than he originally anticipated. When what he -has- managed is rigged up, no further signals are found even still--and it is brought to attention that the antenna for the Taurus is, at this point, nearly entirely rusted through.
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Jul 11, 2007 19:09
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The Geiger counter reports a significantly higher radiation level in comparison to the ambient ratings. The GPS unit is somewhat limited in just what it displays, but if the trio of vehicles were heading to the next population center east, it would put them roughly thirty five miles from your present position.
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Jul 11, 2007 19:53
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 5:21 P.M. The portable GPS, hardly a photographic aerial view, does not reveal the presence of any particularly private locations as you scan around further areas upon it. It will take a few side roads to get there, but you ought to be able to arrive at where you believe the others went by nightfall. In the aftermath of the earlier downpour, the road remains groggily slick for quite some time. Silence hangs in the humid air, broken only by the rumble of the Taurus' engine and your own actions. No birdsong, no insects, seemingly nothing else beyond your vehicle's confines. Some thirty four miles of driving in a little over an hour--not bad time, but the road had been kinder on you than before in this trip. The last vestiges of day are a gloomy overcast, gray dullness hanging in the sky. No sign remains for the city ahead of you now--the main road into the west side of town, however, is blocked off by several police barricades in the gap of a tall brick wall. They appear to have been put into place recently. Scrawled on the nearby wall is "DANGER: STAY AWAY!" accompanied by a slew of posters which have been eroded incomprehensible by the elements. South a ways a large broad pit has been dug; piled up in the center is an immense mound of charred and blackened corpses, burnt together--there must be at least forty bodies. From where you are, looking into town, you can see larger structures 'downtown', similar to how things had been in Brady Heights. In particular, here, you can see a large Wal-Mart sprawl built further uphill to the north; the entire city seems to have been built along the contour of a valley's floor. The Taurus remains in driving condition, but will provide a degree of difficulty increase for driving rolls should the need for them arise down the line. Edit: Ugh, particularly tired right now, excuse some of the formatting here. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 05:00 on Jul 12, 2007 |
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Jul 12, 2007 04:50
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Please take a moment to re-check any consumables/munitions which have been expended as a party, to get an idea of current available resources. This city is larger than Brady Heights, but larger portions appear to have been ravaged and demolished. Scrutiny will note several locations in current sight where small explosions seem to have gone off, with scorching of the nearby concrete surfaces. Little that isn't concrete remains intact for most of the structures nearest to you--it looks more like a miniature warzone at this entrance to town.
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Jul 12, 2007 15:50
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 5:51 P.M. Above the sky slowly bleeds over into a reddish orange swell, the sun beginning to set off along the western horizon. Soon it will be nightfall, the nature of the 'civilized' sprawl before you up to debate. Then, something most curious draws your collective attentions. First, you hear a faint noise slowly wafting through the air. It's coming from the Wal-Mart's parking lot. It's... music? Listening more carefully, you can make out a particular 'tried and true' classic playing over the outdoor speakers to the building--'Ave Maria'. And as the sun continues to set, another wonder--there is light coming from the front of the building, aglow behind the entryway from within. At an intersection again, you catch glimpse of a small cat wandering across the street slowly. A touch startling, at the turn of the hour the bells of the church begin to droll and ring, echoing across the still dusk air. Something is beginning to stir deeper within the city. The radio crackles to life, but only static emanates.
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Jul 13, 2007 12:59
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 6:01 P.M. Looking through the range-finder binoculars, John notes something else at the front of the building at Wal-Mart--there is a large, albeit rather sullied looking white banner, in the middle of which is a red cross. Along the face of the building, where shopping carts might ordinarily be stowed, there is the framework for several long tents. Their canopies, however, seem to have been battered by the elements. The parking lot to the place is a veritable vehicular graveyard--more than a hundred rusted out husks, many of which are in legitimate parking spots, but the bulk of which seem to have been abandoned every-which-way in some long-passed rush. As the static continues to drone over your radios, something very faint crackles and pops in the midst of the white noise. Straining to hear it, you can scarcely make it out. "...help me..."
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Jul 13, 2007 13:26
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 21st, 6:06 P.M. Ave Maria, Gratia plena Maneuvering around another broken and scattered roadblock, you begin to navigate the rowed aisles of derelicts. A layer of grime and filth seems to cling to the rusted wrecks up close--as if the rain had done little to cleanse what had been countless tons of automotive assembly. Nearer to the entrance, vehicles have been tightly packed to form a half-circle around the front of the Wal-Mart building; while it had appeared a wild rush from a distance, it becomes clear that someone must have gone out of their way to reposition them this way. Maria, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena Music continues to crackle free from the store's outdoor loudspeakers. One blares drearily on--the quality not particular--from atop the well-rusted lamp post nearest to the Taurus--a small blue box partway up the metal shaft labeling this as the 'B' section of the parking lot. Some one hundred feet away from the building yet, and you're forced to stop the vehicle--several rows of spike strips have been laid out across the parking lot's pavement down this main aisle, a wall of vehicles crammed together three deep to either side. This, it would seem, is someone's sanctuary. Ave, ave dominus, Dominus tecum Spread across the hood nearby of what may have been a truck is the sun-dried remains of a woman--what organic mass remains on her has become leathery and dried out. She's dressed in a well-worn business casual attire, and a pair of 'chucks' sharply contrast the rest of her outfit, the laces on one dangling untied and forgotten. Judging by the hole in her blouse and the dark stain around it, she was shot from a distance. Down the aisle, you can spot at two other bodies, one collapsed on the pavement, on their back--another, nestled into a cracked and broken windshield. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, Et benedictus Nearer to the building as you are, the static crackling over your radios intensifies. "...please...oh God please...don't leave me..." Over the crest of the entry awning, perched amidst the Wal-Mart letters, more than a dozen blackbirds watch you keenly with dark eyes, all of them abjectly silent. The sun dips lower on the horizon, casting crimson designs across the dusky sky. It's hot, you notice again rather suddenly--sweltering, even. The smell of rust, old rubber, and decay assaults your senses. Behind you, the city appears warped as if a part of a heat mirage. Had the others really come through this city? Et benedictus fructus ventris, Ventris tuae, Jesus. The glass has long been removed from the many doors of Wal-Mart's entrance. In its place, chain link covers the openings, intertwined with copious amounts of what appears to be barbed wire. The two center-most doors are wedged open, and dozens of shopping carts are strewn about filled with large lumpy garbage bags, torrents of flies whirling and buzzing around them. Stench...enough to turn your stomachs. Not far inside of the building ahead, you can see what look like a series of floodlights setup to keep the interior lit. Power, somehow. Perhaps a generator or two. Ave Maria You're hungry, and will need to eat soon, lest your bodies suffer some of the consequences. You're all also down three additional fatigue points, road-weary and exhausted--remember, this is the same day in which you'd dealt with Jack and plenty of other adrenaline-drenching moments. You're worn out. The triage of vehicles -must- have passed through the city here. I am giving the benefit of the doubt that folks moved the outside barricades in order to drive the Taurus into town--they would not have been hindered from doing so. However, if the others you had seen driving in this direction had passed through, then they must have replaced the barricades after passing. They may have had something to do with the graffiti outside of town, as it looked fairly recent. I will preemptively note that the Geiger counter clicks softly, slightly above-average radiation levels near the Wal-Mart.
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Jul 13, 2007 16:22
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There is no response to Jacob's yelled inquiries inside, though his voice does echo for a short ways. Some of the blackbirds shift positions and ruffle feathers as they re-seat themselves above. "..someone's th*static*? Hello?! Hel*static*u've got to *static* Please!" "I'm held" In the background, you heart metal hinges shriek "NO!" the sound of a loud drill fires up, and the radio cuts out to nothing but static once more.
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Jul 13, 2007 19:35
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