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Jack "gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress. Sorry." He looks at this guy sitting here. This guy slumped against the other wall who is probably dying but his body hasn't admitted it yet. He knows it, the guy knows it. The loving zombies who have them trapped in here know it. "Sorry for being so unoriginal." Nice way to wake up after the first good nap in days. He notices he's not really sweating, even though he should be. That's probably bad. The rain comes down harder on the corrugated metal roof and the zombies start screaming happily. They'll probably figure out the makeshift barricaded door before long. They'll be in before the sun comes up. He decides not to think about it. This other guy's not talking, just breathing and staring. They sit for a while. Might as well pass the time. "So there I was, waking up in bed with this Brazilian Goddess. We were at her place, some penthouse on the Upper East Side. Do you know the kind of body I'm talking about, here? Brazilian women. Jesus Christ. "Anyway it's my week off but my cell keeps going nuts and all I want to do is pretend last night is going on forever. But that's not working so I answer the drat thing. "Turns out, the skyline is now short two very big buildings. I'm short my brand new corner office and probably half of my co-workers." Why am I even talking about this? 9/11 was nothing, just.. nothing. "Well I loving started paying attention after that. Most futures traders don't give a drat about the future. They spend each day caught up in micro trends and guessing games. And every night doing blow and chasing tail. But after the WTC was gone I started loving paying attention to the future. I realized how vulnerable we were, all seven million of us. Hanging out on this island with these tiny little exits. Just a bunch of ostriches with our heads in the sands, paying too much for eggplant parmigiana and waiting for one good disruption to turn Manhattan into a nightmare. "At first I made a bunch of stupid moves. Spent too much on the Executive Deluxe Office Parachute, took skydiving lessons. It didn't take long to figure out that gravity wasn't my problem, all the other people were. And they would have guns. So I got a pistol and learned to shoot. It totally freaked out all my hip, liberal prep-school friends. Now right now I should say 'I hope they are doing okay' but I know they aren't. "What's that? Yeah, prep-school. Wasn't going to end up at Goldman out of public school. I guess Grandma had some money, because it was Choate to Harvard to the Street, just like that. Mom never took charity except when it was for me. It broke her heart that I didn't keep up the violin after 10th grade but I figure one performer in the family is enough, right?" Where did this guy come from, anyway? Just popped up out of nowhere. Lucky for him he found me. Well, except for that hole somebody tore open. gently caress, it's raining even harder. "So yeah, then we had the huge power outage in oh-three, and all the nice New Yorkers were so proud of themselves. No violence, neighbors getting know each other, blah, blah, blah. But it lasted what, a little more than a day? That's not even enough time to thaw a steak in a closed deep freeze. "And then, I swear to God this is true, I Saw It Coming. I know, I know it sounds like bullshit but I saw it. The same way I knew when October pork bellies were going to take a dive, I saw this whole mess on the horizon. No specifics, just the message. The end is loving near. "And I'm sitting here on all this imaginary money and it's not going to be worth anything soon, right? I put a squad of ex-Blackwater mercenaries on a retainer. Called themselves 'The Rough Riders', which I know sounds ridiculous. Bought a nicer gun. Made contingency plans for about six different likely degrees of collapse. Discreetly put big caches of supplies near my possible retreat locations--which is what I'm doing here, by the way. "I even, poo poo, I even bought a fuckton of gold and silver. Ha ugh.. ha ha.. oh man. That was my one true fuckup. I thought this was going to turn around and I'd still be rich. Oh Jesus it hurts to laugh ah hah ah ah." Deep breath. "You don't know how hard I tried to get my mother to understand. I needed her to be ready, too. When the ball dropped, we needed to be off the island in under 30 minutes or we were simply going to be dead. I spent so much time with her in those last six months. That was one of the few good things about the world ending. All that time with her. "And after all my efforts, she dodged the bullet. Heart attack got her just two weeks before it happened. Isn't there something in the Bible about envying the dead? And my girlfriend left me about the same time, not sure why. So when it did happen, it was just me." Maybe when this poor guy dies I can use him as a decoy? "The whole Cerebrosus thing went from overblown media hype to serious oh poo poo pandemic, but for a while it still seemed managable. I knew though. I knew it was happening that morning when I turned on the faucet. New York has really clean water, it comes all the way from the Catskills. That morning when my fingers and eyes started to burn after washing out my coffee mug I knew it was time. "I made some calls, pulled some triggers. The Riders were inbound to the rendezvous point in under 30 minutes because I was paying them a lot of money and they still thought that meant something. I took a cab down to the Battery, and everything still seemed normal. The sun was just coming up on the towers and the cranes at Ground Zero. It felt kind of lame. What if I was wrong? "Then. Oh God. Hoo. I heard the subway screaming. I mean the people, I mean I don't know what I mean but poo poo I ran like hell for the waterfront. And I'm running--I still don't know if this next part really happened-I'm running and I turn the corner and Battery Park is completely covered in crows. I mean covered. They were just sitting there on the grass and the trees and the benches and as I ran through them they just sat there and watched me. "I tore out onto the ferry dock and the Riders were there in the boat I'd bought them. I left Manhattan for good at 6 in the morning. I only ever heard a little about what I left behind, but it was enough. "Funny thing about that morning. That was the first night the dreams stopped. I used to have great dreams, big long epics which I could never remember. And like every single night. But that night I didn't dream. Just slept. And it's been that way ever since." poo poo is he passing out? No, just tired I guess. "Everything went as planned for a while. And the name of this plan, Contingency #5, was Fort Ticonderoga. We cruised up the Hudson, again everything looking normal. Got through the lock at Troy no problem, down the canal and into Champlain. Do you have any idea how easy it is to take a fort defended by volunteers from the historical society? Ah ha .. ha. "We haul the entire supply cache out of storage nearby and get to work turning the place back into a real fort with steel and concrete. Then we let the historical society go at dinner time, expecting the cops to show. But they didn't. Not right away. And by the time they did they weren't cops anymore, you know. "Hard not to smile about this part. We started getting a lot of visitors. People had my idea, but I had it first. If they came with guns, we sent them packing dead or alive. There was only one way in, and it was to pay. I had the supply, they had the demand. And the more people we took, the higher the price tag got. It was a really simple system. Feudalism, that was the other name of Contingency #5. We took in smart people who were well-prepared and they kept us stocked. I really enjoyed being with the Rough Riders. Once it was clear that we didn't have an employer-employee relationship anymore, I got more respect. gently caress, I'd basically saved their lives. When the visitors stopped being people and started being zombies, it seemed kind of fun. Some of them, like me, were young enough to have grown up playing shoot-the-zombie video games. They showed me how to use a shotgun at close range because my Sig wasn't doing poo poo. They were friends. We kept our people safe and we had at least a year's worth of supplies. We even had some kit which could distill the acid rain for us, because I had spent a lot of money on that kind of thing. We did really well, because I had seen it coming." Not going to think about it. "So yeah. No more fuel. We are done with the boat. Contingency #3 is supposed to be around here, if I can connect roads with the map in my head." Not going to think about it. ... Wait, what? Must have.. did I nod off for a second there? Raining harder. Cold. Oh drat he does not look good.... ... gently caress. gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress. I am looking at a loving floor-to-ceiling mirror. They are getting louder. When was the last time I ate? pre:7/10 HP Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 20:38 on May 11, 2009 |
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May 11, 2009 18:06
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SPOILERS POSSIBLE BELOW, like any sheet which gets updates.pre:Jack Caulfield, Successful Futures Trader 160/-44 (initial values) Attributes [+85] ST 10 DX 10 IQ 12 [+40] HT 11 [+10] BL: 25 HP: 10 WIL: 14 [+10] PER: 13 [+ 5] FP: 11 BS: 5.25 BM: 5 Weight: 205 lbs. Height: 6'1" Build: Mildly Athletic Age: 29 Appearance: Average Cultural Familiarity: Western Languages: English (Native) Wealth: Wealthy [+20] Advantages [+63] Absolute Direction [+5] Charisma x1 [+5] Hard to Kill x1 [+2] Intuition [+15] Less Sleep x2 [+4] Lightning Calculator [+2] Photographic Memory [+10] Talent: Business Acumen x 1 [+10] (+1 react rolls: business partners) Talent: Mathematical Ability x 1 [+10] (+1 react rolls: Engineers/Scientists) Perks [+2] Alcohol Tolerance [+1] Deep Sleeper [+1] Disadvantages [-40] Impulsiveness (15) [-5] Insomnia [-10] In a suit and tie Jack Caulfield once looked like any of a dozen other young smartass jerks who frequented the offices, bars, and overpriced restaurants of Wall Street. And 16 months ago that stereotype would have mostly told the story. Now he looks a lot like any other survivor who has seen death one too many times. A closer look reveals that he must have had it better than most. Although he is exhausted from a trying journey, his body is not a gaunt wreck of near-starvation, as many are. Jack was eating well until fairly recently. He has managed to keep his thick sandy-blond hair from becoming a shaggy mane, possibly even with scissors. His unshaven face has barely been coming in for a week. He's a bit tall with a medium build. He talks fast, looks you in the eye, and while he isn't exactly handsome he leaves a strong positive first impression. When he concentrates he chews a thumb, but doesn't bite the nail. He smiles genuinely when he's trying to explain to someone exactly why they are wrong. pre:Character Points Initial CP 160 Earned CP 59 Advantages 211 Disadvantages -35 Sum 176 Unspent 43 Change Log 5/25/09 - [+4] Bought Dreaming 14: Will/H+0. 8/ 5/09 - [+1] Observation 12: Per/A-1 8/ 5/09 - [+1] Fast-Talk 11: IQ/A-1 8/ 5/09 - [+1] Diplomacy 10: IQ/H-2 9/20/09 - [+5] Bought off Wounded[-5] 11/24/09 - [+4] Reduced Phantom Voices[-5] to Quirk[-1] Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 19:36 on Jan 20, 2010 |
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May 11, 2009 18:07
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Jack There is one small benefit to discovering you've been hallucinating an entire person and that you are trapped by zombies. Things get a lot simpler with one less body. No time to think about possibly being crazy because being dead sounds much worse. Except becoming one of -- no time to think about that either. Need some energy. gently caress rationing, this is a critical inflection point. He twists open the dry box, tears into one of the last Power Bars and starts eating, thinking, and paying attention. I need to get to shore, with my stuff, be ready to shoot if I have to, and get a lot of distance between me and the zombies. Then I need to know where to go to get out of this acid rain poo poo, preferably somewhere with clean water. gently caress. Last things first. Jack fishes in the duffle bag for the GPS device. It is bulky with a large screen, intended for permanent mounting on the boat. He's lucky it has reserve batteries. The signal has been completely unreliable, but the in-memory maps have literally saved his life--allowing him to navigate to this deep Virginia inlet. The device doesn't have a lot of road-map detail, but it has coastal towns, loading docks, etc. He thumbs the zoom out to a five-mile radius centered around where he *thinks* he is and pans around, committing relevant details to memory and looking for the mostly likely shelter from the storm. Of course, he may not be where he thinks he is, come to think of it. Okay, now I just have to get off this death trap. Really only two.. no three ways. Over the dock, under the dock, through the water. Do these things swim? A trapdoor is lifted on the underside of the structure and a sandy-blonde head sticks out. He holds a pair of waterproof binoculars and looks around with the help of a bright LED flashlight. He turns his attention first to the underside of the long wooden dockway. Are there any handhold? Or big open spaces where the things could get through and get at him? He always found monkey bars to be easy enough as a kid, though he never did them with twenty pounds of gear. That way is probably not a good idea, given the eyeless things appear to "see" you wherever you go. And at the end of the dock, can he make out more zombies still actually on the shore anywhere? Or are they all apparently at his doorstep, hungry for... actually they don't seem to hunger for anything. They just want to tear you to shreds. He shifts to look at the murky, rain dappled waters. Acid striking salt. Terrible for his gear, but it can't be that deep or they wouldn't have needed to build this thing so drat far out just to get boat access. There's the dry box and he can waterproof the rest a bit. Hopefully if I have to go that way there will be sandbars and a shallow shore. Jack looks down and realizes how extensive the rust has become on the large motorboat lashed to timbers just a few yards away. He'd sort of though he might come back to the boat with some gasoline from the cache, but it is starting to look like a lost cause. gently caress it. Maybe he can use it against the zombies. Ram the supports so they come raining down on him? He doubts it'll even turn over again. It is a whole lot of metal and wood. It could burn. Jack gets back up, closing the trap. He stops for a few seconds to let the pain in his abdomen die down -- he's going to need to use some of the painkillers from the first aid kit when he makes his move. He draws his pistol and peers around the corner down the hallway to the barricade. He doesn't much feel like getting closer but he needs to know just how bad it is. How many of them are there? Measure the risk honestly. Estimate the return conservatively. Make the loving call and act swiftly before conditions change. What's it going to be, Jack? Over, under, or swim? pre:Computer Operation 12, Photographic Memory, Absolute Direction: to pick a destination once gaining the shore. PER 13, Intuition, Gambling 13: to figure which strategy has the best odds of success Imaginative Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 23:48 on May 11, 2009 |
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May 11, 2009 23:45
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Jack I guess they can swim. Okay, that's one zombie on the boat I can see. Probably more in the cabin. gently caress the boat. He'd never actually gone in the red waters, but he'd spent enough time breathing its fumes and tasting its spray. It wouldn't kill him, not right away. If it comes to it he'll risk the drop and the swim, but he's hoping it won't come to it. Jack takes the waterproof document bag, pulls all the useless papers out, and tosses them on the armchair. If he has to go in the water maybe he can at least keep his pistol dry. Everything valuable that can fit goes in the dry box, especially the GPS. He puts on a poncho, as if that might help. Now he's going to find out just how badly the zombies want to come in. He gathers anything he can find that looks flammable and loads it into the armchair. Slowly and carefully, he pushes it down the hallway, leaving it about ten feet shy of the barricaded exit. Just in case, he examines the ceiling of the hallway. If there's a weak or rusted spot in the roof that he can tear open to let some rain in on his side of the armchair, he'll do it because this idea needs all the help it can get. He shreds papers and pulls all the stuffing out of the cushions. He takes out three flares. Taking a deep breath, he lights them and puts them to the papers and stuffing. Once things start igniting, Jack goes back to the room, grabs the TV tray and looks for any other larger items that can burn. One by one he places these things against the smoldering chair. When he is done he walks wearily to the far end of the hallway and slumps against the wall. Ah poo poo, too much lifting today. My loving bandage is probably coming off. And I forgot the loving asprins. No time now. Jack draws the pistol and double checks it. He pulls out the magazine and shoves in two more rounds from the supply at his belt. He replaces the mag, thumbs the safety off, aims it down the hallway, and waits. To keep his nerves in check, he explains this idea out loud one more time to himself. Just himself. "Okay, if this works, there will be a big-rear end flaming hole between me and the zombies when the barricade fails. Assuming they aren't long jumpers, they'll fall into the surf trying to get to me. I've never seen a zombie smart enough to hold back and they clearly don't mind being down below. Maybe I'll get lucky and roast a few." "Eventually, the floor is going to burn out from under the fire. Even if none of them fall for it I can pick them off without danger of getting close to them. Once the rain puts the fire out and the pier is clear one way or another I'll be in much better shape. That is, provided I can get past the hole. Jump or swing or maybe some do some creative construction. That's the best case scenario. There are contingencies but I'm not going to think about them right now." "And for once I hope it keeps raining. Too much fire would be bad." pre:Impulsive, Imaginative, Wounded Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 07:53 on May 13, 2009 |
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May 13, 2009 06:33
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Jack "drat you are a crazy motherfucker, Jack." It's Bull's voice. Bull was the captain of the Rough Riders, and it's the sort of thing he said whenever they played poker during those long happy months at Ticonderoga. "Why would you ever take a risk like this? You are gonna die, man." You talked the same trash when we played no-limit, Bull, but who walked away the winner almost every time? I'm not crazy. I know crazy, I was heads-up with Phil Hellmuth once. It's like I keep telling you, tight and aggressive. You lay low and make your move when you are in a position of strength. When you come, come strong. "Don't talk poker at me, man, you cut off the best escape route and trapped yourself in a burning building." "Shut UP Bull!" Jack finds himself shouting out loud. Still talking to nobody, not the best sign. But he has a point. "Look, with a pier full of zombies and the boat infested the only other road to shore is the water. That sounds loving awful." "So that fire is going to keep the zombies back. If the rain puts the fire out at the right time, then I've just successfully built a moat and bought time. If the fire gets bigger and uncontained, I'm going in the water anyway." "My outs are lovely but the pot odds are enormous. The best play is to raise and pray that the gutshot draw hits." His torn and bloodied abdominal muscles twinge at that. Gutshot. Hilarious. Talking out loud about poker really does help, though. Joining the high stakes game had been a stupid thing to do, but he'd taken Hellmuth for 300K that night at the Bellagio. It's an important memory. Makes him feel in control. Jack watches stoically as the head of the zombie comes through the window. He waits, and aims. Bull's voice returns, more quietly. "Still a crazy motherfucker." pre:Phantom Voices Guns: Pistols 12 Gambling, Games:Poker 13 If they come through the fire before it makes a hole in the floor he will take one good headshot, holster the gun, grab the duffle bag, and drop feet first into the water out the trapdoor.
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May 14, 2009 04:28
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Jack He feels his adrenaline rise and his heart rate quicken as the door opens. Too loving fast. Hasn't burned long enough to weaken the floorboards. What's worse than a zombie in your face? One that's on fire and doesn't give a gently caress. gently caress. He puts both hands on the gun and takes a deep breath, trying to slow his pulse, get some control. Once again he wishes there had been a shotgun in the boat. This first shot matters a lot. pre:Guns: Pistols 12 As soon as the first zombie gets through the fire, Aim for 2 or 3 seconds and then Attack with 3 shots(bonuses from Braced and Aim). A headshot would be nice. Follow immediately with up to 2 more shots if he's still moving toward Jack on the next turn. Edit: Mukaikubo answered some gun questions so I'm going to say the pistol is: SIG Sauer 226 .40 S&W (fine) 2d+2 pi+, Acc 3, RoF 3, Rcl 2, Shots 10+1(3 seconds to reload) It has night sights, which I just learned are little radioactive glow in the dark dots on the sights so you can aim properly in low lighting. For the record I now know dramatically more about handguns than I used to. Thanks BD! Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 14:04 on May 14, 2009 |
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May 14, 2009 06:14
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Jack Oh gently caress oh gently caress that thing is NOT coming near me. No no no no no. Gagging on the smell, Jack stumbles back toward the trap door room. He fires wildly three more times at the mass of writhing, burning flesh. Someone screams, probably him. Then something catches his eye. What the gently caress? Has that window been there the whole time? How messed up am I? A split second later he remembers what he's supposed to be doing and snaps his head back around to watch the body for any signs of movement. pre:Attack and Move. Ammo: 4/10 in pistol, 18 on belt.
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May 14, 2009 16:29
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Jack For a moment, Jack feels like he'll never be able to take his eyes off the burning corpse. He finds that he is mechanically repeating himself, "not moving. not moving. not moving." His paralysis passes in a wave of euphoria as Jack realizes he's done this alone. For the first time he's faced down one of these things without any backup ... and he's still alive. He lowers his gun, looks out the window and almost laughs out loud. Nice work, Jack, make a crazy plan to fight an army when there were only three of them. Four if you count boat girl. He steps carefully to the back of the window until he can just barely see the infected on the pier. Keeping an eye on them, he chambers a round and quickly swaps in the remaining full magazine from his hip. To be fair, I've only ever seen them in the huge swarms we got at the Fort. Maybe these two will be "helpful" and come in the same way that one did. I could hop out the window and just outrun them. Jack looks at the window to see if it can easily be opened. He glances back at the corpse. Can he step around it safely to lure them in? Is that a.. cell phone? Oh gently caress what if I can catch it by breathing these fumes? Jack takes a step or two into the room and picks up his bag. Hurriedly he goes back to the window, pulls out and puts on the emergency gas mask, and looks for the zombies. pre:Per 13, Stealth 7, Intuition 3 second Reload. Ammo: 11(gun)+4(belt)+8(belt) With all my little pistol revisions, I got the magazine size wrong, it should be 12+1, but I'll go with the wrong value until I'm out of combat. If Gaist allows, I will retcon the capacity, but not Jack's ammo total.
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May 14, 2009 23:15
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Jack His heart almost stops when he gets a better look at the zombie in sweats. It looks like the worst sunburn ever. gently caress. Jack's seen this once before. There were two, maybe three of these things among the horde that night. They were .. doing things to other zombies, turning them into weapons or bombs. It was brutal and devastating. If it weren't for these sunburned zombies, he might haveNOT going to think about it. He has to admit the fire is burning way too quickly, and getting dangerous fast. The gamble isn't paying off. But the fire is still on Jack's side because Jack has a brain. He looks about in desperation. There's no slowing down the adrenaline now. He was groggy enough to miss the window. What else did he miss? gently caress it. I'll be dead before I think of something. Jack throws the window latch and heaves it open as hard as he can. One way or the other, he'll be off this pier soon. pre:want to see if the window opens wide enough to get through before posting more actions.
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May 15, 2009 03:59
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Jack Something about this feels very wrong. There's a sourness in the pit of his stomach and all of his previous bravado drains out of him. He pulls back inside even as the room gets hotter with the influx of new oxygen. There's no way I can deal with that thing. I'm not getting out of here dry. Jack shoves his gun in its holster and straps it in. No time to use the plastic bag. He tears the gas mask off and shoves it under his belt. No time to stow it. He throws his duffel bag over a shoulder. No time to secure it properly. Time to swim. Jack moves to the center of the room, almost surrounded by flames now. He jumps, feet first, through the trapdoor into the blood-colored surf below. He tries to keep his body straight. As soon as he surfaces, he swims for his loving life toward the shore and doesn't look back. pre:Intuition Swimming defaults to 7. Spend FP and even HP if it comes to that as long as he doesn't go below 5/10. Hard to Kill x1 Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 05:19 on May 15, 2009 |
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May 15, 2009 05:13
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Jack Cold. Pain's almost too much. Haven't done any real swimming for years. Can't think about anything. Just kick. Just pull. The shore? The cheerleader thing is in the water. The boat then. Jack shuts down his panic, his fear, his frustration. He has to be purely analytical, he has to or he'll die. He can barely see through stinging eyes but he knows the boat is the nearest solid thing. Jack does his best to swim wide and around toward the rear of the craft where there was a low step. All he wants to do is avoid the zombie until he can shoot at her from a position of strength. pre:Edit: I got some good advice and am changing the plan to "get on the boat" Intuition Water Move 1 Sez here don't need another roll for 5 minutes to keep swimming. Will need to check against HT for lost FP while swimming all out. P. 354 for full rules I guess. Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 16:25 on May 15, 2009 |
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May 15, 2009 06:13
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Jack He watches, stunned, as the body of the cheerleader disappears. His elbows stay locked, two hands on the pistol, his breathing constricted. He holds his position and waits for it to reappear. Wind drives caustic rain in sheets over the deck, battering him as he waits. His body begins to tremble uncontrollably from cold and shock and exhaustion. I should be dead. He wills himself to hold the pose as long as he can until finally his body wins the battle and he must roll over to retch on all fours. The bile and the tainted water burn his throat. "Oh God, oh Jesus. Ungaah. Aaahhgh." Everything goes out of focus and Jack thinks briefly that he is going to pass out. His eyes turn upward and he sees colors and flickering light. His haze is finally broken by the sound of a very large piece of glass shattering. That loving mirror. Jack realizes that he's still on a boat underneath a shack which is now nearly engulfed in flames and burning ever hotter despite the rain. He gets to his feet and decides to hope that there was only one zombie on the boat after all. Pistol at the ready, he moves through the cabin toward the bow. On his way he spots a vest-style PFD and puts it on quickly without buckling it. He steps out cautiously to where the line attaches the boat to a thick wooden pier support. He can see the other end still lashed near the rickety access stair. Apparently the line unlooped itself a few times at this end, which is how the craft drifted out under the shack. His eyes search the stairway and the pier for any signs of movement. Per 13
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May 15, 2009 18:30
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Jack Jack holsters his pistol and makes sure the bag and vest are secure. Grabbing hold of the line, he pulls with all his might to bring himself toward the stairs. He feels the last bits of the bandage adhesive pull away from his skin, leaving his wound open and the plasticky paper slipping around under his armored vest. He blinks fiercely at the pain and stinging rain and pulls hard until finally the boat gains momentum and careens toward its anchoring point. Jack feverishly pulls in the line to its tightest extent and braces himself in an attempt to keep the swinging boat somewhat close to the landing. This was so much easier a few hours ago. He jumps onto the structure as soon as he gets a clear moment, waiting for the boat's ceaseless motion to be rocking toward his goal. Landing hurts. Everything hurts, his side feels like its on fire. But the pistol is out again and he climbs the stairs with a purpose. When his head reaches the level of the pier, he leads with the gun, pops up quickly and checks once again for any sign of the zombies. "Hoping they are all burned to a crisp, Jack? They were people once." This time it's Marla's voice. He ignores it.
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May 16, 2009 04:42
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Jack Jack mounts to the top of the pier in relief. He turns to run down the last length of the pier, away from the boat, away from the zombies, away from the idiotic fire which might have saved his life anyway. He's going to make it safely to shore, and he knows it. The old rush of victory on the trading floor comes back like it was yesterday. Endorphins and pain bring him a new focus. He starts to run when he spots the bird. The memories of Battery Park pull him up short near it. Why is it sitting out in the rain? He feels an odd sensation of expectation, as though something were about to happen. Maybe he is going crazy, but not crazy enough to sit around waiting for the zombies to catch him. So as he passes the bird he says the thing he's often wished he thought to say a little more than a year ago to the hundreds of them lining his path to freedom. "What the gently caress are you looking at?" As he runs down the pier, he wonders if there are any New Yorkers left who would appreciate that. Alright, time to get my bearings, fast. Right now I need a dry place to hole up and I need it to be zombie-free. Running 10, Intimidation 14 Absolute Direction + Photographic Memory to take a stab at which way to go. Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 05:44 on May 17, 2009 |
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May 17, 2009 05:39
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Jack He peers back over his shoulder just the once, but it is enough to see his fears realized. Jesus gently caress what is it doing? Jack sprints straight away from the shore, headed inland. His bloodshot and burning eyes search for the road which has to exist if people came to this shack by car. After a hundred yards of all-out sprinting he slows and dares to look behind him again to see if the thing is gaining on him. Jack knows he can't keep that pace up very long. He's not a terrific judge of distances, but if it is getting closer he should have a vague idea of how long he has until he's caught. Hopefully long enough to turn around and put it down. Don't know anything about sprinting, but I'm guessing it's FP-spending time? Running 10 Per 13 Lightning Calculator for the guess.
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May 18, 2009 04:08
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Jack His breathing starts to falter as he lopes down the path toward the mailbox. That sprint did him no favors. He can hardly think through the pain, and the crow doesn't even register. It's not going to get tired. Zombies in the movies never get tired and this one is doing some loving trick out of the exorcist now. gently caress it. I'm still the one with the gun. He slows his pace to the point where he can draw the pistol from its holster. There's nothing to take cover behind and no reason to do it. He's either going to drop this thing now or he's going to quickly learn how to reload while running for his life in an acid rainstorm. Jack spins around and takes his stance. Sometimes when your body is exhausted it is too tired to make anything other than a perfectly athletic motion. He feels his feet plant with comfortable, aching solidity and takes aim at the sunburn zombie's head. I can get more ammunition at the cache. No need to ration the bullets. If the cache isn't there, I'm dead anyway. Jack pulls the trigger. Interrupt the following with a sprint down the road if the zombie gets within 20 feet and is still advancing. Ready: Draw Pistol, both hands (braced) Aim: 3 seconds Attack (determined), 3 shots at +6 (+1:braced+2:aim+3:acc) Aim: 2 seconds All Out Attack (determined), 3 shots at +6 (+1:braced+1:aim+3:acc+1:determined) (repeat the 2 second aim/all out attack if possible. There are 10(?) bullets). Guns: Pistols 13 SIG-Sauer P226 .40S&W (fine, very reliable): 2d+2 pi+, Acc 3, Range 160/1800, RoF 3, Rcl 2, Shots 10+1, 3 sec reload Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 19:01 on May 18, 2009 |
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May 18, 2009 17:29
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Jack What the gently caress.. arms getting longer? Realizing that his necessary safe distance from this freak just got larger, Jack scrambles away frantically and turns to run down toward the road. Christ how many bullets do I have left? I can't think. He mentally replays the sensation of firing at the thing. Okay, six shots. I've got five--no four bullets left. Funny that he'd suddenly think of beer. The cache would possibly have beer, if he made it there. He can't concentrate enough to recall the procurement invoice. Alcohol was the only currency left at Ticonderoga, it was what they used to make the poker games real. For some of the uglier mercs, it also was how they managed to get some play. Jack reaches the road and yells in surprise, having somehow forgotten the huge crow at the mailbox. Cursing and shaking, he chooses a direction which keeps him farthest ahead of the zombie. He's not sprinting now, just getting a little more distance, just getting far enough ahead. He starts to wonder if his skin is burning away in the rain. He punctuates each painful stride now with an audible exclamation, it is quickly becoming almost a mantra, calming him and centering him. "gently caress, gently caress, gently caress, gently caress, gently caress, gently caress, gently caress." After gaining a little distance on his pursuer, he turns, wipes his stinging eyes, and brings the gun up to make another stand. "One last stand," a voice says in his ear, but he doesn't recognize it. Brace and Aim for 3 seconds to gain a combined attack bonus of +6. All-Out Attack (determined) at +7, 3 rounds. Time permitting, aim for another 3 seconds. Jack will let thing get close to its new "arms length" to get off one last good shot. All-Out Attack (determined) at +7, 1 round. Run like hell. Guns:Pistols 13 SIG-Sauer P226 .40S&W (fine, very reliable): 2d+2 pi+, Acc 3, Range 160/1800, RoF 3, Rcl 2, Shots 10+1, 3 sec reload Ammo before firing: 4(gun), 4(belt), 8(belt)
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May 19, 2009 17:14
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Jack Jack's eyes widen and his head jerks back reflexively as the thing's eyes pull a lobster and its head seems to explode in a mist which even a Smith & Wesson .40 hollowpoint can't claim credit for. "Huh." So that's it. I live to die another day. Huh. Numbly, he stumbles across the street and does the only thing he can think of in his current state of mind. He reads the mailbox, and checks for mail, wary of the big black bird. He needs to know where he is or fatigue and the storm will get him as surely as that zombie would have. Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 16:32 on May 20, 2009 |
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May 20, 2009 05:34
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Jack Goby, Goby, Goby.. Jack closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to recall an image of the electronic map of this stretch of Virginia on the southwest bank of the Potomac. People thought a photographic memory was magic, but it was really just a slightly more in-focus version of the normal thing. He'd been aiming for Fairview Beach but... yes! There it was, to the west, Goby. He'd overshot by less than a couple miles. Not bad. Details are fuzzy, he had assumed he would land where he meant to land and only memorized that route. Need to look at the GPS before starting the big hike. gently caress that, need a roof, need to lie down, need a new bandage, and need to figure out if I can make it there without finding fresh water. Not for the last time, he wishes he'd had enough gas to go up the Rappahanock instead. He starts thinking out loud. "I know there's shelter back toward Fairviw Beach but it could be full of zombies. Might be a farmhouse or country home around here but that could have zombies too. gently caress, better just assume they are everywhere and find something defensible. Lots of room to see them coming but with a roof... like the corner of a high-school gym or something." He looks at the bird. It wasn't normal, a bird just sitting there so close to him that. Unless it was a New York pigeon, the rat with wings. But crows don't act like pigeons, right? Did it nod at him? Did this one follow me from the dock, he doesn't remember seeing it land. The gently caress does he know about birds, anyway? "Okay, what you think I should do, rear end in a top hat?" Jack has been hallucinating, spilling his life story to no one, hearing dead people, and fighting zombies. Talking to a bird seems a lot less strange than it might have once. Swearing at the bird felt good, too. Besides he's always talked his ideas out. Got him some strange looks in the office before he had a door he could shut. Photographic Memory Absolute Direction
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May 20, 2009 17:04
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Jack "Holy poo poo!" Before he has time to react the bird is actually attacking him. Jack instinctively puts his hands up to cover his face, dropping the gun. He twists and turns blindly, trying to shake it off. In his terror, he falls to the ground, rolls a few feet, and then frantically crawls back to the gun, grabbing it and aiming wildly, looking for the crow. A moment later he realizes he hasn't been harmed further, and spots the bird sitting placidly a yard or two away on the ground. He aims at it and yells. "What the gently caress, man?" For all he knows, it's about to sprout crab claws. There was never any mention in news report and medical journals of cases of cerebrosus in animals other than humans, so this is probably something new. Maybe it's rabid. Can birds get rabies? No, rabid animals go crazy and don't stop attacking, like that raccoon in the story on This American Life. Jack sits up and starts feeding all of his remaining ready ammunition into the gun's magazine. He keeps a close watch on the bird. Instead of angry or threatened now he just feels tired and confused. "I mean, what the gently caress?" Current Affairs: Headline News - 12; Research - 12 Per 13 Gun capacity retcon GO. Ammo: 13/13(gun)+0(belt) not planning to shoot, just freaked out.
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May 20, 2009 20:39
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Jack "I'm starting to wish I'd requested something with more kick than just Prozac in my medical package." Jack comes to a decision. He gets to his feet and holsters his gun. He's going to find the first shelter he sees and stay there until the rain ends. Then he's going to walk until he gets to his cache, which should take less than five hours under normal conditions. Until then he's going to try not thinking about anything else. Checking his bag to make sure it's secure and nothing has fallen out, Jack turns and begins walking east down Belvedere Drive. He ignores the crow. Fairview Beach is this way, but he's planning to avoid it if he can. He steps to the side of the road and walks under a pathetic overhang of dying or dead trees. It's a mostly symbolic effort to lessen his exposure to the rain. He begins to pass the time as he has for days now.. recalling all the wonderful supplies and comforts he should expect to find when this nightmarish excursion pays off. It's still a pleasant, calming, activity, but now it also raises his spirits, because he knows he's finally close. Jack keeps his eyes out for driveways, and anything with four walls and a roof.
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May 20, 2009 23:07
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Jack Just standing on this tiny porch with the barest of protection from the rain is enough to make Jack painfully aware of the raw stinging from every patch of exposed skin. He'd been just up to cataloging the dried foodstuffs when he finally saw this place. Part of him knows that he would have felt significant trepidation at the sight of the dilapidated house two years ago, when the worst he could expect would be racism, inbreeding, and maybe a brandished shotgun. It looks like a palace now. At the sound of a crow's caw he feels a cold shiver on the back of his neck. Turning around he is instantly positive that this is not the same bird. In fact he knows this is the third bird he's seen today. Jack feels panic starting to rise. Either something unexplainable is happening with these birds or his sanity is farther gone than he thought. But he pushes the fear back and locks up the questions and the implications. He has to stay alive first. He can think later. Jack draws his pistol and turns back to the house. He beats on the frame of the screen door with the butt of the pistol. "Hello? *cough* Hey, hey Zombies! Can you see me now? Aheh..a-*cough*. Come get me you fuckers!" They aren't smart enough to set traps. He waits a little while, listening to the rain make normal sounds on the roof and eaves, smelling the rot from the porch. He wonders who the NASCAR guy in the portrait is, he wonders if there's anything useful inside, he doesn't think about birds. When finally he is convinced that that the house is empty, Jack steps inside. Cautiously, he peers in the kitchen, looking for towels. The first thing he has to do is dry everything off, especially his gun.
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May 21, 2009 20:43
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Jack Jack shoves a pile of unpaid bills and some dirty melamine plates off the table and puts his soaked bag down on it. He blots his stinging face, shoulders and hands with a towel. Taking a seat in a kitchen chair, he picks up a washcloth, disassembles his pistol and dries it meticulously. gently caress. Saltwater and acid. Gun oil is going to be my first order of business when I hit the cache. He spreads out his belongings on the table, hangs the dripping bag over the back of the other chair. With a sigh he reaches for the dry box, opens it, and pulls out the first aid kit. Might as well get this over with. Taking off his shirt hurts. Taking off the knife-proof vest hurts a hell of a lot more. Jack pulls out the antibiotic ointment, some gauze, the largest self-adhesive bandage, and tape. Steeling himself, he looks down at the raw skin just starting to form over wickedly torn muscle tissue. He had braced a makeshift spear against a charging zombie. He starts drying the skin around the wound, but avoids putting the questionable fabric to the actual raw tissue. When the shakes start, he's ready for them. He doesn't faint at the sight, not anymore, but it takes him a very, very long time to put a new bandage on. When he's finally done, he feels like he's just run a marathon and his gut is tied in knots. He closes his eyes and exhales, lights swimming under his eyelids. He wants to sleep right now, but he can't let himself, he's too exposed. Jack is so tired it takes him another half-hour just to reassemble the gun and put his vest back on. The pistol goes into the holster, which stays unsnapped. He stumbles into the living room and collapses into the recliner. He stares at the cracks in the plaster ceiling. Of course he can't sleep. Of course. His body aches. He starts doing that deep breathing bullshit his ex-girlfriend taught him and lets his mind relax as best he can. Dull numbness gives way to quiet meaningless chatter. The chatter goes away and there's another sound. Something familiar. A faucet being turned off? Then the voices come back, all of them, all at once. Images rush into his head unbidden. He is too weak to resist, the memory is upon him. A moan escapes his lips which quickly grows to a wail, a shout, a scream. His body shakes with the force of his cries, deep gasping sobs. He's drowning in a tide more insistent and pervasive than the red ocean which still encrusts his shoes and saturates his pants. It carries him away, he is helpless. And finally when there is no energy left, no salt, no voice--finally Jack Caulfield sleeps. First Aid 8+?? (default IQ -8=4 thanks to incompetence,+4 non-stress+??whatever gaist thinks for taking a long time and having maybe done this once before.) Insomnia
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May 23, 2009 05:19
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Jack He should have known the dealer was selling him a line about that alarm system. He really didn't give a gently caress but the kid seemed hungry for an upsell. What kind of car was it again? Wait why did he buy it? gently caress it, leave it for the morning. He can always get a cab. He looks at the form under the sheets and smiles. It's been a long time since I pulled this kind of thing. I think. Well there's a time tested way to remember her name, at least. He goes over to the woman's coat and quietly feels through the pockets for a purse or wallet.
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May 24, 2009 06:09
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Jack Phoebe, huh? drat, that name doesn't ring a bell at all. I've never gotten smashed enough on a bottle of champagne to forget a name. Weird. This whole place didn't add up. If she was with Bradford and Galt why the hell are they in this shithole? Doesn't Virginia have nice convention centers for hooking up with hot investment bankers? gently caress what was with the cold in here? He goes over to fiddle with the temperature controls on the window-mounted register but gives up quickly. Instead, he reaches for the phone to call the front desk. Shithole or not this was loving ridiculous. NO loving PHONE? Right. Shithole. He doesn't feel like getting dressed just to argue with a mouth breather at the front desk. Maybe he can just warm up in bed. Jack tugs at the loose ends of the floral-printed comforter and tucks the corners in neatly at the foot of the bed. He slips back under the covers where he stares at the ceiling and tries to warm up his hands and feet. Maybe he can just get back to sleep. ... Nope. No way I'm falling back to sleep. Too much adrenaline from that car alarm. How did she sleep through it, anyway? Maybe she didn't. He rolls over and gently puts his hand on Phoebe's shoulder. A subtle squeeze. "Hey. You awake?" Alcohol Tolerance Charisma x1 Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 06:57 on May 24, 2009 |
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May 24, 2009 06:41
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Jack "Hey you won't believe this. That alarm? That was my car. Windshield completely smashed. Probably some meth-heads or something." A pause. "Did we drive here separately? I'm sorry I'm a little out of it. Hey are you feeling okay, uh, Phoebe?"
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May 24, 2009 07:02
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Jack Wait, a rental? Man, I can't think straight at all. We must have had a hell of a party. Jack looks at her face, trying to put it together with the vague pleasant physical memories from earlier that night. She's stunning. He usually doesn't do half-bad but she is... fffuck. She's unreal. He idly wonders if they used anything a little more intense than the champagne, but he didn't see any telltale signs of that. Maybe in the bathroom. "You cold? I'm loving freezing." He scoots a little closer to her in the bed, for warmth. Hopefully she was still feeling good about being there with him and wouldn't freak out. Body Language
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May 24, 2009 07:17
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Jack Wait, blinking? Jack looks at the clock. If it's blinking that means there was a power outage, which means who knows what time it really is. It could be nearly dawn. When was his flight anyway? Dammit, can't even remember that. He rolls away from Phoebe, grabs his watch and looks at the time.
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May 25, 2009 03:49
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Jack Okay, still the dead of night. And this amazing-looking woman in bed with him doesn't seem to be having any trouble remembering things. Jack is accustomed to opening up to his lovers, there isn't a lot in his life worth hidingyes there is. But nothing was a quicker turnoff, for either of them, than appearing to be going nuts. At least he's sure of their relationship now, how that works. Jack turns back over and caresses Phoebe's face. "I just have to use the bathroom and then I'll see if I can't find a solution to our little temperature issue." He smiles at her and slips briskly out of bed. Being so disoriented infuriates him. He can't relax until he at least tries to get some easy answers. On his way to the bathroom he rifles through his coat for the e-ticket confirmation he always prints out. Got to find his flight time, he can set a watch alarm. Jack flips on the bathroom light and grimaces, eyes adjusting slowly. Shithole. Just splash some water on my face and see if I put something up my nose last night.
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May 25, 2009 04:23
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Jack Seeing the drugs brings on a sensation of relief. This explains a lot. He's going to have to blackball that provider, the poo poo was clearly bad. Still, something felt odd about deciding to party, what with all the ... something. Something out of place, but he can't put his finger on it. Jack sets his watch alarm for 7:00. He always travels light so he doesn't need much lead time at security. Just enough buffer to call them a cab and give the rental company the bad news. He looks at himself in the mirror. When did he get that patchy sunburn, it looks pretty lovely. But looks are overrated. Time to get reacquainted with Phoebe, this time in his right mind. He smiles again and shakes his head in wonder at his luck. In a much better mood and still not remotely sleepy, Jack turns off the light, puts the watch on a night stand, and slides back into the bed. This time he scoots in on Phoebe's side, pressing himself against her warmth. His arms reach out to encircle her waist and his lips find her earlobe. "So who chose this terrible motel, anyway?", he whispers playfully.
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May 25, 2009 04:50
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Jack He shifts comfortably and happily under the covers. God she smells good. His half-crooning whisper continues. "Well I'm sorry I chose so poorly but at least we have a good reason to keep each other warm." Jack's hands make a few quiet forays onto hip and stomach. The part of Jack which is always analyzing can't help but remember how similar this is to the give and take of the trading floor. A more poetic soul might be appalled at the cliche, but it's simply true that the market helped him learn some very important subtleties about a gentle approach to women. And vice-versa. "So I can't sleep, and you are feeling cold," he teases, "I really only know one good way to solve both our problems, and I'm just too tired to think of any others." He accompanies his implied question with an appropriately suggestive scrape of a fingernail across bare skin. gently caress, who needs sleep?
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May 25, 2009 05:28
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Jack She tastes of figs and exotic spices. No drug could possibly be as intoxicating. He hopes he never sleeps. Or if he's dreaming, that he never wakes.
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May 25, 2009 06:01
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Jack His body jolts awake in the fetid country slum. The words "gently caress, my flight!" die on his lips as cruel reality creeps in to his consciousness. A moment later they are replaced by a smile. He can still feel her against his body, really feel her, and feel the buzzing after-effects from what they did together. He hasn't had any dream in years but even before those stopped he had never dreamed like that. If he could dream like that every night, the apocalypse would be a lot more bearable. He reflexively hits a button to turn his watch alarm off and gets out of the recliner, prompting new and creative complaints from his abdomen. His lips are dry and his stomach is ravenous. He's halfway to his gear in the kitchen when the thing that is wrong finally hits him. Why is my watch going off? In fact, why is there a watch on my wrist at all? Jack stares at the thing strapped to his left wrist. It's his, alright, or was. Swiss chronograph, waterproof, jewelry grade. He wore it in his old life, in New York City. But he left it there, too, left it in his old life. His breathing starts to quaver. Jack stumbles, just makes it to the kitchen table and sits heavily. He stares at his arm. The action of sitting causes a strange tickle against his skin. He reaches under the tactical vest and draws out a half-sheet of crumpled but undeniably dry paper and reads it uncomprehendingly. My seat is confirmed for a 9:15 flight to Memphis, Tennessee. What. The. gently caress. Jack drops the paper to the table and holds his head in his hands, elbows resting on crinkling plasticized tablecloth. His breath comes in gasps, adrenaline pumps, he nears hyperventilation. Jesus gently caress I'm losing it, I'm really losing it. God drat God drat how do you dream about something and then wake up holding it it just doesn't ... and it's dry and ... and I AM in Virginia but ... and I set it to 7:00 I REMEMBER 7:00 exactly but .. no no "no no No No NO!!" The final angry repetition transitions smoothly from inner thought to vocal-cord-bruising shout with such force that the noise itself shocks him. Just need something to eat. Without calories my brain will keep deteriorating. Just make it to the cache and none of this will matter. Not the drat crows, not imaginary watches, not even fantastic women desperate to screw me in my dreams. Just eat and make it to the cache. Feeling light-headed, he pulls out the half-eaten MRE and finishes what is left of the "beef stew", mashed potatoes, spackle-like peanut butter, and moist crackers. He decides to save the tail end of the water and the final energy bar for an emergency -- i.e. if he doesn't make the cache today. Working frantically, Jack reviews the GPS to confirm his guesses and memorizations. Yes, he should be less than a four hour determined hike on the roadways from Port Royal, VA. He reloads his belt ammo clips, packs everything back into the duffel, shoves the flight confirmation paper into the dry box without looking at it again. He's determined not to think about it. Jack steps onto the porch, praying for dry weather but willing to go in the rain. The cache is his only chance now. He's determined not to think about it. He crunches on rot and gravel toward Belvedere Drive. The watch hangs on the end of his arm, a telltale dead weight. He can't not think about it. What. The. gently caress. Jack's mind churns as he starts the last leg to his salvation. He replays every moment of his lucid dream, rejecting every sane or insane explanation he can think of for the presence of the watch, the paper, and yes, the incredibly real feeling of a pair of lips upon his. He finds no answers. Spending 4 CP to get Dreaming 14 (Will/H+0) Total Ammunition: 12+1 rounds (gun), 24 rounds (belt, two mags), 16 rounds (pack) Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 05:13 on May 26, 2009 |
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May 26, 2009 04:55
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Jack He does succeed in giving the appearance of ignoring the birds, but their undeniable presence is one more sour spice in the mixture of confused thoughts brewing in his mind as he hikes along the humid road. Then he sees the spilled truck cab and the prone bodies. gently caress me, what is this? An accident, an ambush? "Ambush for who, though, Jack? Could be for you." Bull's voice. The odds of this ending well seem slim. He really wants to just climb a hill and make a wide berth. But his curiosity is strong, and he suspects that his sanity might be improved by having some real company. Jack's pistol is out and he's already approaching the bodies carefully, eyes peeled. "Really. That's your reason for doing another motherfucking crazy thing. Man, you can't just think with your dick in this kind of situation." Jack doesn't answer the memory of the mercenary. He knows that Bull is probably right. Last night's dream hangs about him in cloying sweetness. Thanks to the feelings aroused in his sleep, his best reason for saving a woman might just be the most basic reason of them all.
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May 27, 2009 22:30
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Jack When he realizes he's too late, he lets his gun hang at his side and stares up at the unfeeling sky for a bit. The crow's cry renews his whirlwind of thoughts and causes his stomach to churn. He'd killed at Ticonderoga, or at least been involved in killing. But it was gangs and marauders, men stereotypical in their evil nature. After a while it was just zombies and that wasn't even really killing. But he hadn't been up close and personal with death, not even at the very end. Jack takes a deep breath and looks down at the nameless corpses. It's a bad decision. He should just keep going. He's so close. But he can't just leave them there to rot in the sun, forgotten bits of matter leaching away into the earth or digesting in the gut of a scavenger. They were people. Jack holsters his pistol and grabs the woman's corpse under her arms, preparing to drag her off the road into the forest. He tries not to look at the blood or the wounds. Huh. How long has she been dead? He looks around in sudden alarm. Why had he assumed the killers were gone? gently caress.
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May 28, 2009 03:41
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Jack gently caress. "No problem. I'm frozen. Look you might have the wrong idea, I just got here, I didn't hurt anyone." Jack's entire body is stiff, but he doesn't feel afraid, just oddly detached. Somehow, the idea of the watch and the confirmation paper still feels more upsetting than a gun pointed at his back. Joe Anglican fucked around with this message at 05:41 on May 28, 2009 |
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May 28, 2009 05:13
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Jack If she's still talking she's still willing to do business. And she might be a bad shot. "Look," he yells, "I was just going from point A to point B here when I found these people already dead. I wanted to HELP." This last word catches uncomfortably in his throat, which probably makes him sound unconvincing. "Maybe you can tell me what ideas I should have about you and then we can discuss weapons when they aren't pointed at anyone." He pauses, trying to remember the last negotiator or hostage crisis movie he watched. "My name's Jack. I'm worth a hell of a lot more to you alive than dead. Let's be smart here." Charisma x1
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May 28, 2009 06:01
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Jack He almost smiles to himself. This is a good sign. "For starters I'm valuable alive because you've already decided you aren't the kind of person to shoot a guy in the back. Otherwise that would already be over with and we wouldn't be having this nice chat." Jack begins to slowly put his hands up, letting the body slide to the ground, and turn very slowly toward the speaker. He's not going to ask permission because it's time to establish some ground rules. He's in charge here. "So I'm most valuable to you as a symbol of the fact that you are still a halfway decent person." He squints toward the hillside. "And you know I'm not in a gang just by looking at me. I'm out here for myself and I know what I'm doing. How many people left who really know what they are doing? That's valuable." "But lastly, I've got a working GPS receiver in this bag. And I know how to use it." Jack doesn't know if the GPS is valuable or not, but no way in hell is he going to give away the real prize.
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May 28, 2009 06:13
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Jack He keeps a non-commital smile on his face and his hands where she can see them as she makes her way towards him. Bull whispers in his ear. "She didn't do this, not with that rifle. Too many bullet holes." He takes in her details as she approaches, realizing just how alone he's felt this past week. "I've got a pistol on my left leg but it's going to stay right where it is as long as that rifle keeps pointing somewhere else. Look once you get down here I'm going to finish burying her and her kid, feel free to help. Did you see the people who did this, miss.. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?" She could still be a threat or a competitor for resources at the least. Can't lose the edge just because I'm nearly dead and probably crazy. No, not crazy. The watch isn't just crazy. It's something worse.
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May 28, 2009 22:00
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Jack He grins at her sassy refusal to give her name, but says nothing about it. Easy to read. No way she's going to shoot me now. "Great, sure. You just keep an eye out, that works fine for me." As she goes, he takes a good look, sizing her up, wondering if he can guess anything about her age or her background. "Huh," Jack says to himself, and turns to his task. There's nothing wrong with a little sweat equity to cement a new partnership. Jack looks past the rig and examines the country just off the road, looking for somewhere easy he can make a shallow grave or maybe just pile some rocks. What was that called? A cairn or something. Finding something suitable, he returns to the bodies. He drags what he's thinking of as "the mother" adjacent to the gravesite, then carries the child and deposits it next to her, trying not to look at it or get too much gore on himself. With the most rudimentary of improvised tools and his bare hands, Jack Caulfield digs a grave for the first time. He buries the child in the mothers arms, because its the only way he can think to do such a thing.
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May 29, 2009 04:37
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