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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 ...poo poo. The rocket loomed like God's own angry erection. I was about to bail out when Mike swerved the truck and threw me back into Lace. Grabbing the door, I hauled myself upright. "Am I killing someone right now or are we still letting Juck sort it out?" My voice had a slight sense of urgency to it.
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May 10, 2014 05:34
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 04:32 |
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 As the rocket exploded behind the wildly veering truck, Juck barely managed to maintain her grip on a tattered rope tied to an anchor point in the truck bed; the force of the explosion threw her against the metal truck cab hard. But Juck had to hand it to Mike -- the old bastard could drive. Karen dropped the empty rocket launcher and was fumbling for a weapon. Juck was well aware that she only had a few moments to capitalize on Blackwolf's wrong-footedness. Juck slammed on the back window of the cab, and yelled "PUNCH IT, MIKE!". As the truck accelerated, Juck placed the blade of her machete between her teeth and began to try and crawl over the roof of the cab and onto the hood of the truck. Acting under fire (+Hard): 2d6+2 9 [Juck's really smart plan here is to crawl onto the hood of the truck, and then at the right moment, jump off the moving truck and attack Karen Blackwolf with a machete, because awesome]
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May 10, 2014 08:44
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 "Now this is a conundrum. Someone shoots at you, you got a right to shoot back. But I'm only in this situation because Juck is a terrible person. I'm planning to drop her off... aggressively." I can see Juck is trying to leap on Karen with a machete. That seems dumb, but this whole thing is dumb. Let's help her do dumb poo poo. With a slam on the brakes and a sudden jerk of the wheel I help Juck by throwing her straight at her opponent! Help Juck: 2d6+4 12 +1 to that roll!
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May 10, 2014 17:50
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Crawling over the roof of the truck cab, Juck felt something snag on a corner and clatter back into the truck bed -- her shotgun had been pulled out of its holster. No time to get back for it. Juck barely had time to get into a crouch on the hood of the truck when Mike slammed on the brakes, launching Juck into the air on a direct collision path with Karen, machete gripped with both hands. Seizing with awesome force: 2d6+3 5 [In retrospect, this may have not been a great idea.]
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May 10, 2014 18:07
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Trudy Barter=0 | Exp=1/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "Knowles," Trudy says, rooting through her purse, not looking at the girl in the passenger seat, "I have to concentrate for a minute, and I need your help." Knowles raises an eyebrow. "I need you to get everybody back in the car, as quickly as possible," Trudy continues. She finds what she's looking for--a tattered scrap of cloth, and holds it to her chest. "Faustina, Sam, Raj--if you can get them in here before the shrooms hit, we'll all be safe." She looks up at Knowles. "Can you do that?" Trudy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, holding the cloth, remembering her four-poster canopy bed, the floral-patterned comforter tucked around the shape of her pillows, the smell of lemon Pledge, and how everything fit her just right her pink painted vanity's chair low enough for a little girl and how important how so very important it was that things go in their places. Back then, when she was little and spent time making sure her things were just so, her rituals just made her feel better, more in control of her little portion of the world. No matter how much bigger and older and smarter everyone else was, she could always go home. She could always go to her room. But the world is different since the blight, more flexible, more malleable, and although the shapes it takes are often dark, they're not all dark. Whatever you want to call it--Momgeist, obsessive-compulsive shamanism, Better Homes and Magic--Trudy's realized that, if she spends time making a place her own, the monsters don't get in. Sometimes she can bring pieces of home with her, too. She opens her eyes and flattens the little piece of cloth on her thigh, then hangs it up in Black Betty's rear-view mirror. It's a cross-stitch, and it reads:  Threshold: 2d6+2 8 • No one with weird+2 or higher can enter across your threshold, and if they’re already within it, they must act under fire to do anything but depart. • Your threshold doesn’t protect just your living space, but any space you’re in, moving with you wherever you go
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May 10, 2014 19:02
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00  I let go of Lace and peeled myself off of the door. I had to give the old man credit, he was a terror behind the wheel. Unfortunately, us passengers were likely to wind up eating the dash if he kept it up. "Alright, Mike. You hired me to keep you safe. Karen is going to turn us into dog food just for being here, and knowing her, "We were just giving Juck a ride" is not going to fly. I can keep them busy long enough for you to get out of here, but I won't say no to a better plan." I was hunkered down in my seat as I spoke, sweeping my gaze across the area. I should have paid more attention on the approach; this was a good spot for an ambush and I'd been oblivious. Ah well. We hadn't exploded yet so there was time to fix that mistake. Read A Sitch. (roll +sharp) 2d6+1=7 What should I be on the lookout for?
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May 10, 2014 23:22
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Deacon. You're missing the forest to listen to a tree - you hear their screaming in aggregate, thirty notes played at once to make one grand atrocity of a chord. Like your group - a mosaic of polished and stained glass, uneven but packed together to make something whole - they're many-as-one. You hear their wail, you see their hands and feet scrambling towards you. They're not just hungry (they're always hungry, it's a bottomless urge, a broken reflex, an un-scratchable itch. Just like how they always hate) but also thirsty. You feel their breath on the air all around you - trace amounts of spore, floating through the air like motes of dust shining in a ray of light - and you feel their eyes on you. That is, you in particular. The eyes are floating high above you, circling around. In the normal world, as everyone knows by now, sometimes things just don't come together right. Balancing two hundred pounds of hot fuzzy animal carcass on your shoulders while trying to ride a bike with one arm is a hard thing to do - Cuff is making a heroic effort, but he keeps almost losing it, having to stop and shift his weight around. He's making a muttered chorus of disjointed almost-swears. Dill and W. are frantically combing through the piles of valuable, but not immediately useful, trade-stuff. "Where did you put that ammo box?" "You were in charge of that!" "Sweetie, please tell me you didn't sell off our ammo." "No, of course not! But I thought you had it!" And Lemur isn't even helping! He's just shouting at everyone to hurry up. Getting screamed at by wailers and Lemur while trying to focus through the swimmy-eye'd haze of the maelstrom and that chewing-on-tin-foil twinge of a closing horde is really distracting for everyone. It just... poo poo, takes too long. Before you know it, you're some of the last ones out of the scene. Short-sighted as the wailers are, that makes you their prime target. The vanguard is just starting to make it over the fence, tumbling and then getting back up. The sentries on the roof haven't given up shooting - it's noisy as hell - but they're pissing against a storm here. Your options, (or anything else you can think of) are to, Leave some really important poo poo behind, Get everything you need, but have to beat the horde back to get away, or Hole up here. The church-folk in the barn or the sentries on the central manor probably won't turn you away. There's another building with a torn-up roof and a second floor, currently unoccupied, that you could fit in and secure. ~ Faustina, Jeff's brain leak just reacts. It's not like he's dwelling on it, but his gut reaction makes it across. It really hurts him that you think he's such a piece of poo poo. He's all, I'm not a monster! but at the same time he's doubting himself and feeling like poo poo about it. And he's trying to put that out of his mind and focus on the situation. It's a mess, and it's very distracting. He keeps willing himself to shut up shut up and it's not working. No, you get out of MY head! I'm not doing this! What the hell this isn't even be possible Anyways. Here's what it's like, trying to run through the woods from a pack of the undead: completely terrifying and exhausting. They sprint and sprint and never get tired. You think, 'that isn't physically possible!' Yeah, everyone knows. That doesn't stop them. Tell it to the biters when they're pummeling the poo poo out of you and chewing off your face. You think you're in good shape? Think you can keep a steady pace up for the marathon? Well gently caress you, try forever. If you have a decent head start, and you hop over a ditch or a bush or something, you can hope they trip up, and that you're far enough ahead to not re-capture their attention by the time they recover. If they're already at your heels and no help is coming, you'll only die tired. Raj knows this. But what other choice does he have? He chokes out, "Thanks," and then holds a hand up to pull Sam along. She's all, "What the - no, we can't leave her!" and he's all, "No time! Come on!" Then Trudy shares her plan. He wonders, what the hell is this about, then? but she's radiating some kind of zen confidence so he rolls with it. So. You start shooting. Jeff, who assumes you're a worse shot than him, tries to share the sensation of how to aim good. It doesn't really help. You drop one long-dead woman in six shots with a loose grouping around the chest, clip a second with an expert (read: lucky) shot to the braincase, and the rest of the magazine seems to evaporate into nowhere as the crowd simply ignores some 'minor' holes that might have been mortal wounds on humans. Seconds later, god they're fast, the zombies are up in your business. The man in front is wearing a mold-crusted black suit and slacks, plus loafers with the soles worn away and the feet torn down to the crust-blooded bones. His face is dried out, cracked and split apart, with red-beige wafers of flat fungus growing out from them. Howling and frothing from his split-open-too-wide mouth, he slams his forearm into your side, steps on your foot, and tries to wrap you in a hate embrace. His jaws clamp down on your shoulder. Tight - you ever been bit by someone who literally wants to take a chunk out of you? It hurts. Luckily, his hosed-up black gums have no teeth, and you only get a nasty bruise from it. Knowles jams the barrel of her shotgun into what's left of his eye socket, and chucks fragments of his head across like four more sacheads behind him. Raj fires his bolt-action rifle from a little ways back (*crack, cha-chunk*) but misses everything. Jeff is rummaging frantically through Saul's pack left in the truck, trying to find something useful, but he cries out, "It's full of weed!" Sam grabbed another mag from his vest, she slaps it into your other hand and tries to guide it toward the gun. She and Knowles are pulling you back toward the truck, saying stuff like, 'come on.' But you're all getting mobbed - there is much batting of hands, swatting kicking, grasping and missing, gnashing and spitting. You manage to reload, just in time to see both Knowles and Sam in the grip of a couple sacheads. Raj is in the middle of clearing his bolt. They both need help, and they're close enough that you won't miss. Who do you save first? Also, roll for a beating ~ Trudy, a mangled, shroom-faced biter goes around the embattled group (they do that sometimes) and flings her chest against the driver-side window, almost wailing, but choking on frothy spit. She bounces off, then stands up a little straighter and just... looks at you. Usually, when meat's nearby, they'll keep thrashing until they break something down or break upon it. But she looks confused, or at least dazed. The others get back to the truck, panting, scratched and slightly mauled. Someone (TBD) is hurt bad. Faustina, your weird brain-leak with Jeff has abruptly and entirely shut off. He's looking, horrified, over the shoulder of the truck bed, right into the face of a zombie that's close enough to slap. The zombie sort of, paws at the side of the truck, like it's curious, but it doesn't acknowledge him or anyone else crammed back there. Full of desperation, he asks, "What is happening." You're safe, somehow, but still surrounded. What do you do now? ~ Juck, you're kind of a crazy person, ain't ya? Karen drops the spent launcher as soon as the rocket's gone. Her face screws up with rage when Mike pulls some no-poo poo driving out of his rear end, turns it so hard that two wheels leave the ground, and angles it so that the rocket literally glances off the side with a gentle *thump.* Mike, your truck now has a scorch mark on the side from the burning propellant. The rocket explodes - like, loving *BLAM* - somewhere unimportant in the green stuff behind you. A nineteen-year-old magnolia in full bloom is ripped to splinters and ash. You can feel a hot wave of compressed air pass over and through you. As established earlier, it's been a really dry season - a small brush fire has just started. Karen throttles up (bike's got some mad torque) and guns it toward the tree-line to avoid the incoming truck. Juck, between the moving target and jumping from a moving truck, you don't quite hit the mark. At too many miles per hour, your head slams into the carbon-fiber siding of Karen's chopper. At a worse angle, you might've broken your neck, but as it is, you just smear a lot of your face on it. Roll for a beating, don't apply armor At least you knock her over. The bike tips, and she calls you a motherfucker while she pulls her leg out from under it and props herself back up. She digs ka-bar combat knife out of her jackboot, a foot of matte and deadly carbon-rich steel. She yells, "loving DIE!" as she lunges for your throat. What do you do? ~ Angel Eyes, Karen definitely isn't out here alone. Easy to miss, but you spot the distinct glint of sunlight off a gun sight - there's a Dog Soldier brave wrapped in a ghille suit, looking at Juck and probably hoping for a clear shot. You spot a slight shuffle from another walking bush, who's got iron sights trained on the truck, just waiting to see if you try anything. And, beyond Karen's tipped-over but still-running chopper, you hear the growl of several more bikes in the distance, getting closer. Juck's gang. There's no guarantee that either side will leave the truck out of this. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 01:30 on May 11, 2014 |
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May 11, 2014 01:18
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 "Yeah, I got a better plan. Tell these chuckleheads," he makes a dismissive gesture at the gang members still in the back, "to get the gently caress out of my truck so we can drive Lace home and get a drink!" Mr. Prokosch fucked around with this message at 02:29 on May 11, 2014 |
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May 11, 2014 02:25
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I let myself out, slinging my blade over my shoulder. Thankfully nobody was opening fire just yet, but that wouldn't last long. I pointed a finger at the ghillie suit aiming at the truck as I walked. I didn't even say anything, just let him know I knew he was there. If he had an ounce of sense, he'd point that rifle somewhere else. Leaning over the bed of the pickup, I banged on the side to get the tangled mess' attention. "Ride's over, ladies. Piss off."
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May 11, 2014 02:54
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The crew in the back of the truck was pretty jumbled up from the slick rocket dodge. The guy in the tree line gives you, Angel Eyes, a nod, and then mutters something into his walkie. Juck - if she's got the presence of mind to listen - hears the mutter from the talky thing clipped to Karen's belt. Click, "Hostages in the cabin, bed's fair game. Open fire." They do. Four gunmen, scattered around the ambush site with arms of various caliber, start unloading at the back of Big Mike's truck. Jeanette, who was just getting out, gets hit in the arm and falls back down. A quick scream, and then she and Dog Head are up against opposite sides, firing blindly almost blindly into the the green. Dog Head makes a strangled grunt as a bullet, slowed but not stopped from passing through a lot of truck, enters his leg and doesn't leave. Ben hits the deck. Lace, up front, shouts, "poo poo!" and tucks his head down.
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May 11, 2014 03:10
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I, also up front, shout "poo poo!" and duck down, "gently caress it Angel! Let's get out of here!"
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May 11, 2014 03:18
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 StringOfLetters posted:Juck, you're kind of a crazy person, ain't ya? As Juck sailed through the air, time seemed to slow down, and she reflected on all the times she'd heard that question (or some variant thereof, often laced with more profanity). Occasionally her gambles paid off -- like, if this had actually worked out, and Juck had managed to decapitate Karen Blackwolf while diving from a moving truck with a machete, maybe she would have had a story to point to, an example of when Juck's so called "crazy person" routine paid off big. But as it became increasingly clear that not only was Juck not going to be decapitating Karen Blackwolf with balletic grace, but instead was going to head-butt the very solid looking fuel tank of her motorcycle, Juck had to somewhat wistfully admit that perhaps there was a kernel of truth to the various statements of her detractors. Taking a beating: 2d6 8 Juck's face collided with Karen's motorcycle, hard, and there was a huge visual flash and her ears were suddenly full of bees. And when her vision came back, fading in from unbearable brightness, the first thing she saw from her position -- face down in the dirt, mouth full of some viscous fluid, maybe saliva, maybe blood, who knows -- was Karen Blackwolf lifting her bike off of herself with hulk-like strength and pulling a huge knife out of her boot. Juck briefly wondered where the cutoff was with bladed things, like, when do you start calling something a sword, but ultimately it probably didn't matter, it was either a really big knife or an adorable miniature sword, either way, Juck had exactly zero doubt that Karen Blackwolf would have any problem field dressing Juck for taxidermy with that thing. Karen was yelling something, it was hard to hear her over all the bees, but there were a number of contextual cues that Juck was able to pick up on and from these infer that Karen seemed to be upset about something. Juck reached for her shotgun, but it wasn't there; she seemed to remember holding a machete some time earlier, was she still holding it? Hard to tell, honestly. OK, pull yourself together, bitch. Let's at least not make this easy. Juck pulled herself up into an all-fours position facing Juck and yep, her face was definitely leaking some kind of thick fluid onto the dirt. The bees had died down, but weren't gone completely, and were starting to sound maybe like motorcycle engines? Where was her gang, anyway? This seemed like it was exactly the kind of scenario in which Juck would like to have about a dozen hard bastards with motorcycles in between herself and this roided out maniac. Maybe they were nearby. Maybe if Juck could just survive long enough for the rescue operation to get here? Looking at the steadily advancing Blackwolf, Juck felt like the probabilities she was dealing with were somewhere in the general area of a coin toss. Juck tried to read the situation, hoping to find something she could use, something to buy a couple seconds of time... Reading a sitch: 2d6 3 or not.
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May 11, 2014 05:03
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Juck, yeah, you've still got your machete. When you look around to see if there's something else you can use, you see Karen's gun lying in a patch of dirt, right next to you! It must have fallen off her person when you rammed her. It's one of those full-auto tec-9 machine pistols, with a magazine that looks way too long for its body. There's no good way to hold one, and they kick back like crazy. It seems like a good idea to reach for it - dump the magazine and fill her full of holes in like a second, right? Then she yells, "NO." and pins your outstretched arm to the ground with her knife, and really leans into it. She clamps her other massive hand on the upper part of your face. She's gripping your hair, pulling then slamming down like a pissed-off ape, trying to crack your head open on the coarse dirt. And, at the same time, she's trying to stick her thumb into your eye socket to make it a better grip. Roll for something that could kill you. Your armor helps, but that might not be saying much. What do you do?
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May 11, 2014 05:29
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=4/5 | Harm=Dazed,Stabbed | Fatigue=0:00 Something that could kill me.: 2d6+1 5 hoo boy. In between visits to the dirt with her face, Juck makes one more attempt to reach for the gun, but Karen's still got her weight on the knife, and the bitch grabs the handle and twists it, hard. There's a wet crunching sound as as at least one of her forearm bones splinters, and the feeling in that arm goes dead. Which is just as well, because it's starting to spurt blood like a burst main. Juck gives up on the gun, but she's still got a sort of grip on the machete in her good hand, and Karen's so into making a dog's dinner out of Juck's left arm that there's an opening. It's an awkward thrust, and Juck figures she's probably only got the one shot at this before she passes out. Seizing by force: 2d6+2 9 Taking definite hold to get Karen off my back, and suffering little harm in the process. The curve of the thrust is wonky, but it could've been worse given the circumstances. The blade gets in somewhere in Karen's abdominal region, and she roars like a speared bear, rolling off of Juck's back and letting go of the knife in Juck's arm. She's breathing heavily, and spies the gun on the ground next to Juck, who is making one last grab for the gun with her good arm, which is made a little difficult by the fact that her left arm is currently impaled. Things were not looking good, but that was when the cavalry finally arrived. In a cacophanous roar, like smoke belching steel valkyries, Partridge comes barrelling through the scene at the head of a group of at least ten or so bikers from Juck's gang; Juck thinks she saw Lala in there, maybe Double Hole and Grillcheese too, hard to say with all the smoke and dust. Karen's up and yelling at them, not that you can hear her or anything, and as Juck's vision starts go all blurry, she hears the comforting sound of a lot of guns, guns that sound like they were getting farther and farther away, going off at the same time. Juck clamps her good hand down on her bleeding arm and rests her forehead in the dust, trying to stay conscious, trying to stay focused on the three or four rocks she can see in front of her nose.
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May 11, 2014 06:10
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=2/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Bullets buried themselves into the truck around me as Karen's troops unloaded on my position. Wrong move, jackasses. We could have settled this like civilized people, but no. You had to let your vendetta get the better of you and now people are going to die. I unholstered my revolver and moved up to the front window. "Get out of here, I'll catch up later. Don't argue." My voice was ice cold, and I was not in the mood to debate the matter. I was still following orders, keeping him safe. More than that, though, the Dog Soldiers had opened fire on me. That made them dead men. A glance in the window showed me Lace hunched down, arms over his head. Next to him, my own Guardian Angel of Death. She had that cheshire cat smile and a cigarette hanging from her lips, one arm draped over Lace's back as she flashed me a thumbs up. A pool of vermin scurried about her feet, a few cockroaches climbing up the door and falling out the window. Mike and Lace payed no mind whatsoever; no surprise there. Just my brain problems cropping up again. Visions of Death. (roll +weird) 2d6+1=7 Lace isn't dying here. My hallucination says so. I turned back to the ghillie suit and prepared to get unpleasant.
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May 11, 2014 07:03
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I shrug, put petal to metal, and shout "fair enough!" If she lives, I'll fix her respirator up nice and give her something pretty... like armor piercing bullets or a spare motorcycle or whatever little thing she wants. A good tip for a true professional. The folks in the back will just have to come along. They can jump out if they want to help their boss. I have a feeling no one is going to put a bullet in my head for cowardice at this juncture. The truck lurches forward and then I whip it around at speed, making sure to stay drat low. A few strays might hit the cab while we move. Lace is lower, but she doesn't have to see the road. Act under fire: 2d6+3 13
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May 11, 2014 07:17
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Deacon Barter=4 EXP=4/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery, -Hunger The sky. The screams. Blood pumping through Deacon's ears like the thrum of a primal tide, the jackhammer of his heart muscle driving it to an all consuming roar, blocking out thought or consequence. He shouldn't be noticing this. Time was moving too slow? Was it? They were moving too slow? He could see the first of the shamblers clearing the top of the fence, undeterred by the barb wire that crowned it, could see them tumble slowly to earth like waterlogged bodies drifting to the bed of an ancient sea. They had lingered too long in bosom of the ocean. Too long, and now they risked drowning. "Cuff, to the center! Protect that meat! Anyone armed to the outside, right! Mind the gap! charge!" We're choosing to fight our way through!Seize By Force: 2d6+1 4 Shockingly, it doesn't go so well.
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May 11, 2014 09:53
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=3/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 As Mike sped away, I let off a shot at the sniper in the tree. I didn't expect to hit anything, but a .50 caliber bullet tends to keep heads down. Pivoting, I let off another couple shots at the ghillie suit I'd pointed out earlier. As the rounds impacted, the combination of him hitting the deck and the clouds of dirt kicked up gave me the opportunity I needed. Sprinting towards the tree line, someone else opened up with an AK and chewed up the blacktop behind me. Crap, make that two someones. I slid into the undergrowth and put my back to a tree just as they got their lead on me. In near unison the firing stopped, and I took the opportunity to snake my way deeper out of sight. I had to give them credit. They were well coordinated. Hadn't seen proper intersecting lines of fire since Juarez. Now that had been a goddamned mess. Three months dodging the cartels and the Federales, you almost look forward to something as simple as the shrooms. Almost. Continuing my belly crawl, I began making my way towards where I thought one of those assault rifles had been firing at me from. The one downside to a weapon like that; hard as hell to bring it to bear effectively when someone is on top of you with a blade. I permitted myself a grim smile. Act Under Fire. (roll +cool) 2d6+3=14 Angel Eyes is preoccupied and her ears are probably ringing a bit, so it's unlikely she's aware that Juck has reinforcements incoming.
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May 11, 2014 18:05
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 Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle Watching the mob of slavering, fungus-crusted ghouls stampede towards me over the lush fields surrounding K-Scratch was like being encapsulated in my own private dreamscape. There I was, facing death all devil-may-care like some forgotten warrior princess in one of those history books I so prized. The enemy horde crashing through our defenses even as my shots steadily culled their numbers; climbing over the piles of fallen vanguard; battle criers bellowing a primal warsong and striking their shields; hearts pounding against their chests with each hateful breath, my name a molten curse on their lips, quenched only by blood. Drink of me demons! Suffer and swallow both sword and hand! In reality, I barely hit poo poo. Shrieking along with the furious freaks, I manage to perforate a few of them; pairs of the bullets passing entirely through splitting, pestilent flesh and punching out the other side, causing small poofs of bursting fungal flakes which caught sunlight like little clouds of golden dust. Then the swarm overcame me, and I was tossed to the dirt once more amidst a fray of flailing limbs and gnashing gums. Spinning, my small frame windmills for a second in midair before the biggest oaf slams into my torso, stomping on my foot and clamping his rotted maw down over my slender shoulder. Our combined momentum makes for a not-so-graceful meeting with the earth, upon which my ever-analytical brain isolates two very distinct flashpoints of trauma before a new torrent of pain temporarily paralyzes rationality altogether: a stiffening flare from my ankle; and a sharper, thudding stab of agony from the bitten shoulder. The force of our impact against the ground jars the creature’s jaws enough to free my arm, but that isn’t the only thing that comes loose. I could feel my humerus rolling forward out of its socket as the post-human fiend bore down on me, now pinning my body under its growth-ridden bulk while the others advance upon our group. A sulfurous funk fills my nostrils, something between a rotting corpse and stale manure. A giddy, pain-sick portion of my thoughts do not miss the irony. When next I rise from this fateful patch of grass I myself shall be little more than walking fertilizer with teeth (if there’s anything left of me at all). I wait for the first set of splintered incisors to break skin, too hurt and helpless to protest. But that fatal moment is delayed as Knowles evaporates the shroomhead’s dried-up dome with a well-placed bit of buckshot. Next thing I know I’m being heaved up and pulled back towards the truck courtesy of the Alpha Phi matriarch. Sam is with her, grabbing me by my good arm (which miraculously still holds the Glock) and trying to simultaneously slam another magazine into my borrowed weapon. Upon seeing she’s opted to remain with our imperiled party, I make a measly “urk” of protest that’s quickly swallowed by a hurricane of hurt. My right ankle is not taking weight very well and is most likely sprained. There’s a desperate moment where all three of us are almost wholly engulfed by this pack of frothing bloomers; kicking, punching and shoving our way around to the front of Betty, doing our best to fend off the deadly bites for what dismal chance we may have. They surge forward against our flurry of blows, and Knowles shrugs one of them off, swinging her shotty into the fleshless chin of another with the frenzied vigor of a pissed off Mama Bear. Unfortunately, her elbow connects with my sternum on the follow-through, sending me flailing backwards through the open side door and into the backseat of the cab. There’s no time to come to terms with just how badly I’m hosed up. Squinting through a haze of disorienting anguish, I notice one of the spore-people (a gangly ex-lady in a faded, ichor-stained One Direction t-shirt) has Sam in a strangle hold and is attempting to fit the entire circumference of the pregnant woman’s throat into her grossly distended mouth. Grimacing, I push myself up using the cup-holder between the seats and slam the butt of Jeff’s .45 against the headrest of the driver’s chair, fully seating the magazine. *Click. BLAM!-BLAM!-BLAM!* The shots tear through hell-groupie’s messed up mug, the last round extirpating it’s forehead in another explosive cough of shroom dust and meat-matter. Sam is freed and falls into the passenger seat, shaking off the blasted abortion of nature. My eardrums take a sound thrashing thanks to the cabin’s cramped acoustics, but over the angry ringing I hear another scream, and turn to see our sorority leader staggering just outside. Knowles is hammering away at the skull of a downed sacface that’s entangled itself between her legs, trying to chomp through her jeans like corn on the cob. She doesn’t see the hulking ex-dude in a tattered sports jersey before it’s too late. I pump as many rounds I can through the big ‘27’ on his chest before he slams her into the side of Betty with a sickening *crunch*. They collapse together in a heap beneath the bed and go still. “…Knowles?!” Sweat is running down my face and causing the much disheveled university dress to stick against my clammy skin underneath. Maybe it’s the pain, or the sheer food-chain fear, or the greenhouse effect inside the cabin, but I can hardly breathe. Knowles doesn’t respond. Then I notice something else: the shroomheads have stopped coming. They’re just hovering a few feet away from the truck, surrounding it on all sides. At first glance it looks like they’re just waiting to tear open the truck and suck us down like canned sardines, then a few seconds pass and it’s more like they’ve suddenly become confused or disoriented; staring at us one moment, then shuffling about the next, bumping into each other mindlessly. I’ve never seen anything like it. Sweet-shiitake-shitlords. They… they stopped? The pause is all my shoulder needs to push through the adrenaline and kick my rear end. “Uhnnn!!” I grasp at it gingerly, gritting my teeth. It needs attention right now, and I can’t wait to find out if the zombies are gonna change their minds about dinner. My duffle bag of medical supplies is lying at my feet on the floorboard, where I left it when we first arrived about three hours ago (though it truly feels like we’ve been here all day). I hastily jerk the zipper aside and grab for what I’ll need: some medical tape, a small foam pillow and a cloth. Anterior dislocation. Need to fashion an external rotation sling. Remember your notes: Secure wrist; flex arm at the shoulder joint with elbow extended, then rotate. I look longingly at the package of chillstabs Quincy helped me work up. No. We can’t afford to pass out right now! This is really going to hurt. Cursing under my breath in hot, panting gasps I manage to get my arm into position, holding my wrist out to Trudy. “Quick… while they’re distracted! Hold my wrist steady!” Now. Rotate. I wait for her to grab hold, then twist my body sharply at the proper angle. A sucky resocketing (Angel Kit): 2d6+2 = 11 Angel Kit: 4/6 *snap* “FUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!!! AHAHAHAshhhhh” Shut up, it’s in. Pillow in place. Sling it. Tape it. Good girl. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold for now. My own emergency sorted, I stared out of the partially fogged-up window from my seat behind Trudy. The shroom-creeps were still there, milling about in an odd stupor. Jeff (who’s in the truck bed with Raj) wants to know what’s going on. Get in line, rear end in a top hat. I knock on the rear window to get his attention, “Don’t shoot just yet. Let’s wait for a clear path to open up, then waste these fuckers and try to sneak out.” But would there be a clearing? A lovely sitch (Readin it!): 2d6+2 = 6 My eyes glaze over and my head rolls forward, smacking against the glass. I can’t focus, too much ouch. “Knowles! Are you okay? Answer me, please!” hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 23:39 on May 11, 2014 |
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May 11, 2014 21:36
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Deacon, to make a short, messy and chaotic story short and simple: there's a skirmish. You and yours run and pedal, but you're trying to stick together, hauling stuff, and you've got your own lungs to be mindful of. The wailers are free. Those blessed couple of sentries on the central manor's roof try to help cover your fall-back. They do pick a couple off, but by far the most helpful thing they're doing is making a lot of gun noise and drawing attention. Once a wailer gets to the walls and starts looking up, thrashing and jumping to no effect, he won't turn his head back down to follow you. But a few eager wailers catch up to you, just before you hop the fence on the far side. Your cult actually outnumbers the small group that's chased you this far, but that doesn't make them less deadly. Lemur starts shouting and waving his arms as he moves to the side, drawing their gaze for Darryl to run in with his new axe and start splitting skulls. Its lever-like action works as advertised. Third wailer in, it gets stuck all the way into a skull, tangled in meat and fungus strands, without actually killing it, and he goes down with the wailer thrashing on top of him. Others dive in to help him, in a brief and dirty melee. Bruce makes a good showing, firing his handgun only when he's sure he's got a good shot, and keeping a cool head. He's clearly done this before. You clear the fence with most of your stuff - you've lost little enough that you keep all of your surplus, your people aren't impoverished, and you've got away with enough meat that you can strike off your -Hunger. There are zombies still in sight, but they're preoccupied with chasing others. You're in no immediate danger, but it'd be wise to clear out soon. Clyde, Dillflower's sweetheart, a guy who's been with you for at least a year despite just getting mentioned, is bit on the arm. He's shaking visibly. Dill is holding his hand (on the un-bitten arm) and looking around frantically, at a loss for words. He stares and gapes for a second, like he's not believing it, then laughs quick and sharp. "Well, you sure called it, Deacon. That dream you shared with me last night - you said my day was today," You have no memory of doing that. "But I thought it was just a dream." His voice cracks. He gulps. "I'm not ready, Deacon. I'm not ready for this!" Meanwhile, Darryl is flipping out, spitting profusely, rubbing his tongue on his sleeve, hacking up phlegm and spitting some more. He's saying "gently caress!" a lot. "Some got in my loving mouth! gently caress!" Splash-back from all the chopping, you guess. What do you do? ~ Big Mike, you clear the scene with only a few more bullet holes in the truck. Feels like they're all cosmetic, though - nothing's broke, nothing's leaking. Might want to double check that all your stuff in the back escaped perforation. Only your driver-side window is un-damaged. Lace peeks his head up, asks, "Is it over?" He takes a look around, and starts breathing again. There's a bullet hole in his chair, directly behind the small of his back. "Good god. Did I say thanks? Because, thanks. Again. More." Sometimes, when you're keeping your cool in a stressful as hell situation, stuff comes into a clearer focus than normal. Like your subconscious dispenses with the bullshit, and things fall into place without you having to put them there. You were totally in control of the situation back there. Juck's gang members, in the back, were not going to jump out. They were just going to keep shooting from the back until you took them away from that little slice of hell on earth. But you were in control of the situation, and you could manage the angle of your truck - and their cover - as you rolled out of there. I didn't ask you a Weird question earlier, so here it is now: Mike, why would you save those assholes? Depending on your answer, Dog Head & Jeanette either did or didn't make it out alive. If they didn't, it was those Dog Soldiers' hands on the triggers, and you're completely blameless - you even tried to help. ~ Juck, your machete has some difficulty cutting through her leather, but not that much. She falls back, panting, and yanks the machete out of her flank like it was a splinter. Then she brings it up overhand, shining bloody-bright in the lunchtime sun, getting ready to end you, when Grillcheese fills her backside full of buckshot. Wouldn't you know it, she's got a loving bulletproof vest on under there - it still slams the hell out of her and gets her to drop your machete. She scrambles to her feet and books it into the woods. Bullets fly, but none too accurately. Your guys are smart enough to either stay moving on their bikes, or else get behind some pretty thick tree-stuff before taking aim. And even though they're really well hidden in the tree line, you've got the Dog Soldiers outnumbered at least two to one. They keep shooting, but it's just to cover their escape. "Is she still alive?" "Course she's still alive. Juck's fuckin' unstoppable. Id'n that right?" You see Partridge kneel down to look you in the eye. Then, seeing your expression, he waves a hand in front of your face. Lala drove through some thorny bushes to physically run down one of the Dogs. She's really sliced up from breaking through low-hanging branches at thirty-plus mph, but she's smiling as she digs her knee into the young guy's back, magnum pressed into his neck. "Got a live one!" You've got a prisoner, it looks like, and the rest of them are on the retreat. What do you do? And if you're not gonna do much, what does your gang do? ~ Angel Eyes, you melt into the underbrush like a deadly cobra, or other snake of your preference. These Dog Soldiers are all spread out, and not long after you've made your run, they start falling back. Again, coordinated - they've clearly discussed ahead of time who's going to shoot where and cover who. You see through it in a second, and crawl your way over to intersect one of them. You can't make out much through the muddy, grassy, netted strips of cloth and living moss that make up her ghillie stuff, but she's plainly nervous as hell. Keeping it together, sure, but she strikes you as a well-trained rookie who'd like to be anywhere else now, please. She's going to run right past you and not notice you. Unless you make her. Oh, and Juck's reinforcements? Really hard to miss. They are not a subtle people. What do you do? ~ Faustina & Trudy, Sam slams the truck door shut, and Knowles makes an action-hero leap into the back of the truck, lands on her back, slides another cherry-red shell into her shotgun, and fires it into another wrecked zombie face. Proper mushrooms blooming from its eye sockets at sharp angles, more having burst holes through its dried-out papery skin. Getting mauled by shotgun pellets makes it look better, in a way - bloody pulp that looks like a grievously wounded person, rather than a monster. Somehow, that doesn't 'kill' it, and only then does Knowles realize she's safe. Somehow. Trudy, when Knowles takes a shot from within your Safe Place, you feel it waver. One more shot, maybe two if you're lucky, and that little slice of home will turn back into another truck carcass. Maybe you're stretching the Momgeist's patience, maybe you're harshing up the mellow, or maybe you're drawing too much attention from the weird-bad - whatever the cause, you know that this truck can be a sanctuary, but not a shield. Knowles breathes a sigh of relief between panting breaths. Raj, sitting next to her, claps her on the shoulder, laughs in disbelieving relief, and gives her a hug. She says, "Yeah, 'Tina, I'm alright. You okay?" pats Raj back on the arm, then winces as she moves something sore, and shoves him away. She murmurs, "Oh, poo poo, oh poo poo," as she leans forward and starts pulling at the leg of her torn-up and blood-stained jeans. Tooth marks. Not quite a bite, but a long and shallow scratch where a zombie jawbone raked down her shin. She shouts, "God drat it!" and punches the side of the truck, eyes stuck on her leg. Trudy, you feel the sanctuary tremble a little. Raj leaps to well-intentioned action, pops open the lid of a fresh water jug, and starts pouring it down to try and clean the wound. Knowles turns and looks at Faustina through the gap where a rear window used to be. She's deep in dark-eyed hard-rear end mode when she asks, "Any options?" but you can hear the tiniest hint of a quiver when she raises her tone to make it a question. Raj unscrews the lid from a metal can of diesel and makes like he's going to pour it, too - Knowles smacks his hand away, and a little of the amber fuel splashes out. "The hell you doing!?" "I-it's a disinfectant?" What do you do?
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May 13, 2014 02:50
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Deacon Barter=4 EXP=5/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=0:00 Followers: +Augery Now that they'd put an appreciable distance between them and the horde, Deacon's racing thoughts began to slow down a bit. Actually, it was more like they sped headlong into a swamp of normalcy and got mired in the cognitive mud. Time caught up and then surpassed him; in its wake he felt sluggish and spent. Yet he felt a certain amount of accomplishment too — they'd made it, and with enough of what they'd traded for to make the trip not a total wash. The Anathemata would eat. Not well, but they would eat. Then he saw Clyde, and Dillflower kneeling next to him with an expression on her face that told him everything he needed to know before Clyde even opened his mouth. Oh gently caress. He knelt beside them, examining the wound but mostly glancing from cultist to cultist, trying to gauge the mood. This was a delicate situation. The bite was high enough on the limb that an amputation could theoretically keep it from spreading, as it had for Cuff that one time, but Clyde's immunity probably wasn't what Cuff's was after just a year with the group. Anyway, field amputation and butchery were a matter of semantics, and it was at least a 50/50 shot whether someone died from a secondary infection even if they managed to isolate the fungus. There was Darryl, too, but the spores generally weren't concentrated in the viscera the way they were in the bite, so he would (probably?) be fine with a round of antifungals and some disinfectant as long as he didn't do a fool thing like swallow. Clyde was the problem. Clyde was probably rightly hosed. Meanwhile, they had new recruits, and seeing a person go down to infection was not the right introduction to the group's doctrine. How did he play this? Did he struggle heroically to save Clyde, even if saving him meant losing an arm in the best case scenario and more likely meant causing him a lot of pain before he died? Did he preach acceptance, try to at least make Clyde comfortable if not save him? There was a way to do it that would put the group at ease with his passing and with Deacon, but it was a delicate thing. So delicate. So, so delicate. Read a person: 2d6+1 10 Do I have to roll for each person individually or can I just do this one roll to get a read on the group? How can I make Dillflower be more at peace with this situation? And if I can use the one roll for multiple people: What does Clyde want me to do? What does Bruce want me to do?
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May 13, 2014 03:49
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Baby Babbeh posted:Deacon Yeah, that sounds right. When you're trying to read or manipulate the Anathemata in general, one roll can sense or sway the collective. In order, You could put Dill at ease by re-assuring everyone about the idea that he's ready to transcend/merge with the fungus. Your doctrine goes something like that, right? If she thought he was ready, she'd be okay with it. Or, if not that, by saving him. As you surmised, amputating is a gamble. Clyde is terrified of dying. He wants you to save him. He's looking at you like he thinks you could just decide that he doesn't die yet, as an act of will. He wants you to do a miracle. Bruce doesn't have a whole lot of stake in this, but he'd take great comfort in any solid display of appearing to know what you're doing. He's got a seen-this-poo poo-before glower on his jawline. If Bruce was calling the shots, he'd give Clyde a minute to say goodbye, then apply The Classic Solution. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 04:42 on May 13, 2014 |
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May 13, 2014 04:36
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=4/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Huh. I didn't expect Juck's posse to be that on the ball. On the one hand the retreat ended my hopes of putting the boot to Karen. On the other hand, it meant Juck wasn't meeting her maker just yet. And we both had a score to settle with the Dog Soldiers now. I might not have been their target, but shooting around me was as good as shooting at me. That sort of thing was not going to go unanswered. From the shadows, I saw a straggler humping her way to the rendezvous and not paying attention to her surroundings. If she was going to make it this easy, it would be a waste to not take advantage. As she hustled by my position, I stepped out and poleaxed in the gut with my sheathed blade. That took the wind out of her sails nicely. As she collapsed to a knee, I put the barrel of my gun to her forehead. "No noise. No sudden moves. Cross your ankles, drop the gun, and hand over your knife. Hilt first, thank you." I kept my voice low but clear, just in case. Go Aggro. (roll +cool) 2d6+3=10 Pretty simple. Do as I say or get shot in the head.
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May 13, 2014 05:02
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 I would save these assholes because there are precious few people left and everyone has a chance for redemption. Sure, they're killers, but these are hard times and no one is completely clean. I'm not the sort to pick and choose who lives and who dies. I'll help anyone who asks, assuming they don't mean to kill me, and sometimes even when they do (like Taco rest his soul) and I hope that sets a better example for everyone. I would save these assholes because I still have a use for them. Lots of wounded is better than lots of dead for my purposes. I angle the bed to give them the cover they need. Once we've driven a little ways to "safety" I pull over and inspect the damage. Lots of cosmetics, my truck is less pretty, but nothing serious. I do the same for the thugs in the back. All the gunfire might bring spores down, but for now it looks good. I take off the mask to have a friendly conversation. "Looks like you have some bullet holes in ya. Ya'll eager to get back in the fight, or do ya want me to drop you off somewhere? I know a medical professional, she might be back at my place, might be on the road, might still be stuck in the hot zone with the mushrooms. I got a feeling she's still alive and kicking though. Or you can handle yourselves." I tilt my head and listen to the choppers and gunfire in the distance. "Sounds like your side is winning, maybe. If she comes back it'll be on this road. I could wait here a few and give you a hand with the basic patching. Even give a ride to the wounded... for a fair price. Folks with bum legs, broken arms, gunshot wounds, can't ride bikes very well. How do ya'll deal with that anyway?"
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May 13, 2014 05:21
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Angel Eyes, you make a very convincing case. She exhales, poo poo, under her breath, then does what you tell her, no sudden movements. Now that you're close, you can see the tip of an eagle feather tucked under her ghillie capnext to greasy black hair tied into a tight bun. She looks lean, bordering on hungry. She holds her hands up, and they are not very steady. What next? Big Mike, you make it out clean, and Jeanette lets out a big whoop as you 'round the bend. Then screams in pain. Neither she nor Dog Head are particularly eager to get back in the fight. A scarce few seconds later, the rest of Juck's gang roars by, on their way to go see what the gently caress just exploded and then probably kill someone. As any self-respecting post-apocalyptic motorcycle gang ought to do when they see a pickup truck loaded with valuable poo poo, three of them stay behind to level their enormous guns at you. Then Jeanette leans out the side, bleeding heavily, and gives them the all clear/gently caress off. She's getting a bit pale, and would likely appreciate getting brought to a medical professional. quote:"Sounds like your side is winning, maybe. If she comes back it'll be on this road. I could wait here a few and give you a hand with the basic patching. Even give a ride to the wounded... for a fair price. Folks with bum legs, broken arms, gunshot wounds, can't ride bikes very well. How do ya'll deal with that anyway?" Solid question. Juck, how would your folks field that? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 06:34 on May 13, 2014 |
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May 13, 2014 06:02
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=5/5 = Moonlighting | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 Leaning my sword against a tree, I took her weapon and slung it over my shoulder. The knife I tossed to the side. The woman looked up at me, not quite panicking but definitely aware of the danger she was in. "Relax. I'm not going to kill you. I'm also not going to hand you over to those nutjobs on the bikes. Given what I imagine Juck's mood is right now, I can't bring myself to be that cruel. Rather, I want you to give Blackwolf a message. Then you are free to go." My prisoner let out an unsteady breath. I could easily imagine the thoughts going through her head. I'd had my own reprieve from death once, and you never quite forget that blind silent joy. "The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction." "What?" Right. Nobody read Shakespeare anymore. "What I mean is, your boss shot a rocket at me and two innocent people. People I happen to like. When I tried to get what I assume were your actual targets out of the truck so we could leave you all to butcher one another in peace, you opened fire on me again. I think you can understand how that would put me in a foul mood. And while I had no issue with Karen prior to this, it is not healthy in my profession to give people second chances to kill you. So. Tell her I will be watching, and waiting, and that she has no one but herself to blame for whatever happens next." "A...alright. I'll tell her." "Good. Wait there until I'm gone." I moved away, keeping my weapon trained on her, and tossed her rifle strap over a low hanging tree branch. She could jump up and retrieve it, but it would give me enough time to disappear. As I returned I picked up my blade again. "You'll want to be quick. All this noise is bound to draw infected. Hopefully we won't meet again." With that, I vanished into the trees and made my way back towards the road. I reloaded and holstered my revolver, quietly hoping that Juck and her crew would be less trigger happy than the Dog Soldiers.
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May 13, 2014 16:46
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Trudy Barter:1 Exp 1/5 Harm 0:00 Fatigue 0:00 Trudy pops open the truck's rear window, the one that faces the truck bed. It doesn't go far, but it means those in the truck bed can hear her talk. "What we need to do right now," Trudy says, smoothing the front of her dress, "is calm down. I can't keep this a safe place if there's a ruckus." She raises a finger at Knowles. "That means no more gunshots from you." Trudy looks out one of Black Betty's windows, past the zombies dazedly bumping into the new invisible wall, and at the barn, where the Nazareenies are taking their heroic last stand. Talk about ruckus. "My thoughts," Trudy says, "are that those holy rollers are going to make enough noise to draw every cordie in the area. And if we keep quiet, and keep calm, maybe they'll pass us up, and we'll get a chance to get out of here." She looks at Knowles, who's bleeding on the truck's upholstery, then at Faustina. "Faustie, sweetie? You too pooped to do another laying-on?" Trudy stands by, ready to help with whatever medical happenings are about to... happen. Help Faustina Do Wound Stuff: 2d6+2 7 Violajoker fucked around with this message at 00:04 on May 14, 2014 |
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May 13, 2014 20:11
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Juck Barter=0 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=Dazed,Stabbed | Fatigue=0:00 Juck tries to push herself up from the dirt with her good arm, but the world starts spinning out from under her and she feels her guts heave. The pain from her arm starts rolling in viscous black waves, like her arm is being slowly run over by a truck. She collapses back down to the cold dirt. "Dez, get over here!" Partridge is pulling back Juck's fingers, trying to get a look at her arm, and a fresh gush of blood spills out over her knuckles. Dez runs over with his med kit, and Partridge chooses to ignore the skeptical look on Dez's face. Dez gets to work, sticking Juck with a hypo needle. Beautiful numbness washes through her body, and the world goes fuzzy and dark. "The arm's cactus, Partridge. Gonna need a tourniquet if she's not going to die of blood loss." Dez was already pulling off his belt. "We're not taking her arm. Get her stabilized, we're going to get back to the K and find someone who can patch her up." "Partridge, man, I'm not sure that's a good idea -- I mean, if we don't put a tourney on there now, she could well die of blood loss before getting to the ranch." "What do you think Juck'd say? And for that matter, what exactly did you have in mind for explaining to Juck why she was short one arm when she woke up? We're taking her to the ranch. She's either waking up with both arms or she's dead, we're not taking any in-between options here." Grillcheese had wandered over, and he had his calculating face on. "Didn't you say K-ranch just got hit by shrooms, Partridge? And you want to go back there?" Partridge said nothing. Double Hole joined in: "What's your angle here, Partridge? This isn't our way. You know what Juck hersself'd say here -- this is a warrior's death, clean. No sense in risking more blood for a lost cause." Partridge stood up, flipping the catch on his gun holster meaningfully. "We're not doing it that way this time." Grillcheese locks eyes with Partridge for a beat, then looks aside and spits. Dez finishes wrapping Juck's arm. "That's the best I can do, here, but if that arm doesn't get looked at soon it's going to be a problem." "Well then let's stop loving around here and get moving. Dez, help me get Juck on the back of my bike." Partridge was trying hard to keep his voice even, but there was a clear note of worry there. A few meters away, Barndoor was standing next to Blackwolf's gleaming chopper where it lay in the dust. "Partridge, what are we doing with this?" "The gently caress you think, Barndoor? It's coming with us. It can be Juck's Congratulations on Not Dying present." "And this piece of poo poo?" Lala shoved the captured Dog Soldier down onto the ground, itching for an excuse to end the fucker. "Keep him alive for now. Call it collateral." Partridge addressed the Dog Soldier directly: "You don't look stupid -- you know what'll happen if you gently caress with us, right?" The man nodded, carefully. "Good. You're going to ride with us, and you are going to stay very, very frosty. Understand?" The man nodded again. Partridge beamed, pleased. "Excellent. Saddle up!" With a huge roar, Juck's gang speeds away towards the K-ranch. Less than a kilometer down the road, they come across a baby blue truck on the road, looking a little perforated but definitely well cared for. Partridge rides up ahead and up to the driver's side window. "Funny running into you again, old timer."
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May 13, 2014 22:19
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 Partridge finds Mike, not in the driver's seat, but in the back wrapping up bullet wounds as best he can. Jeannete was loosing a lot of blood and looking pale. He wasn't an expert, but most folks have figured out by now that if you got shot and want to live an extra hour or so you put stick a cloth on the wound and wrap it up with pressure to control the bleeding. Just finishing up, I have a lot of blood on my overalls but thankfully none of it is mine. "Howdy! I was hoping you'd come this way... Looks like Juck got a nasty wound there. You can put her in here, that way she can lay down and things will be a touch more gentle. I was just thinking, I know a medic and some supplies, got a feeling she's stuck at the ranch, closest place we can get to. Your bikes are there too. But first we'll need to clear the place, no good treating someone with biters running around, and if we try to move the patients too much the shock will get em. I reckon the ranch is as far as they'll make it. Now, you might think that's a bit of a risk, but it ain't if you do it smart. Split into two groups, come at it from either side, using the fence for cover. Team A comes from one side, thins out the numbers. Once they all gather up by Team A, you pull out and Team B shoots em from the other side. Once they make it to the fence by Team B, Team A comes around again. See what I mean? You'll lose some bullets, but won't lose a man... if you refrain from loving up that is" Once they've loaded the rest of their wounded, including Juck, back into the truck I climb back to the front to drive the thing. One of the bikers replaces me as medic with a few bandages and drugs and such to help keep those folks alive long enough for them to Clear the K-Ranch. I spot a distant lone figure on the road. "Hey, is that Angel Eyes? She's with us, you mind giving her a cycle ride back to the truck? Time is of the essence."
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May 13, 2014 23:02
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Barter=1 | Exp=4/5 | Fatigue=9:00 | Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle “Okay… okay! Don’t panic.” Don’t panic. We’re surrounded by a sea of sacheads, trapped in a dead truck with no way out and now Knowles has a goddamn bite. But don’t freakingfucking panic! Any fleeting relief having been usurped once more by the usual dread, I wearily push myself back up to a sitting position, craning my neck to look through the window at her injury. It didn’t look deep, which was hopeful, but even scratches caused by spore hosts could not be reliably contained following standardized procedures. It was a coin toss as to whether treatment with antiseptics would effectively neutralize the spread of infection. “You can put that down, Raj. Here.” I chuck him the Glock; won’t be able to handle it one-handed anyways, and this sling is gonna be on for at least a few days. “Give that to Jeff in case these shroom-fucks come to their senses. Then give me a hand, kay?” With a series of labored grunts, I grab my kit and scoot painfully up the seat until my head and shoulders clear the rear window. Biting my tongue against stabbing, shoulder-based excruciations, I wriggle my hips along the upholstery to assist their efforts as they pull me backwards through the opening and into the bed. A cursory glance at my friend's wound confirms it’s purely superficial. All I can really do is give it a good alcohol scrub, apply a packed dressing and pray for the best. Maybe a poultice of some variety would be nice (if I wanted to go all holistic), but for that we'd have to get back to the college for some goat milk. Time for you to return the favor, Ethel ol' girl. Knowles is doing her best to be brave for us, but I can tell she’s shaken. There’s not much that can phase the woman who single-handedly carved out a place for her sisters during the much embattled history of Appleworth University. After S-Day, the campus had been a hotspot for looters and nasty bangers. Anyone who survived the drones that didn’t barricade themselves inside the crumbling, deathtrap buildings were either brutalized by nefarious human forces, overrun by the hordes or otherwise overcome with Infection. And most of those who did successfully isolate themselves from our rapidly disintegrating society found nothing waiting for them save a life of tortured solitude, wrought with madness and slow starvation. The story I heard (though it does seem to change slightly depending on who’s telling it) was that Knowles was an ROTC cadet who hung out with the Alpha Phi’s because she was dating one of the sisters. During the initial outbreak, it was her training that spared many of the sorority members (though only roughly half ultimately survived). She taught them to shoot, how to hunt and how to fight tactically if they had to defend themselves. Her fling didn’t make it, but she kept on, stubbornly protecting the women until they came to call her their own. These days AP rules what’s left standing of the largely decimated campus. At one time there were some holdouts left over: survivors from the sprawling Arts & Science complex (including the great, late Quincy) that the women took in, which is how the development of our biodiesel recipe came to fruition. Now, thanks to scummy chucklefucks like Juck, even those folks are gone. The group has gotten stronger, but the loss of Knowles would be devastating. Though most people would rather lop off a jeopardized limb than look at it, I had to try and take what preventative measures I could to spare her. Trudy’s revelation interrupts my concentration as my brain tries to parse what she’s saying. “Wait… hold on. You caused this?!” Her solemn, steady expression is all I need to verify the claim. She’s just not the lying sort; compulsive, maybe, but honest. The bottle of high proof whiskey I pulled from my bag makes a pit stop at my lips first – officially writing myself a mental prescription for a few shots. No poo poo. So I’m not the only one equipped with loving strange faculties? Trudy was only odd in an endearing sort of way; I’d never have suspected she was capable of something so freakishly powerful. Was she emitting some new kind of pheromone that repelled spore fuckers? I couldn’t explain my own weird crap, so I had no hope of rationalizing hers. Nope. *slurp* Not a chance. “We'll talk about that later, yeah? Whatever you're doing, keep freaking doing it. Nobody touch a drat thing. Trudy, remember when Quincy gave you that brown bottle to hold onto when you were trying to help me come up with something we could mix into detergent? Didn't you try to use it the other day on the seats in this thing? Please tell me you left it in the glove box or something.”
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May 14, 2014 00:40
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The Folks at the Ranch have stopped shooting by now. There's a huge thrashing mob of zombies filling up the central manor and trade pavilion. They're writhing and jumping all over each other, howling and clawing at the air, with the live meat above them and the scent of recent human all around. Apparently, they're into that. Some fungaloid is rubbing his face and torso all over the concrete of the trade pavilion, gnashing his teeth at the air. Packs descend on the remains of Frog & Taco, chewing through cloth and tearing off bloody chunks with their mangled hands. Taye asks Perry if she can put her fancy-rear end college education to use and count heads. She's like, uhhhh, a hundred? Two? And the truth is somewhere between those figures. Taye checks the ammo boxes and does a little math. The result: they're stranded on that roof for now. But there's a pretty big hole in the roof that leads to an attic full of shade, semi-perishable food, jugs of water... they'll be okay for a while. The Nazarenies inside the barn have shut the door and aren't sticking their heads out. The well's important. If nobody feels like rallying a grand offense to clear the scene out, the holds-outs can trust transient passers-by to draw them out and whittle them a few pot-shots at a time. They discuss with some surprise what might be going on with that black truck stuck in the east gate. Looks like someone figured out a zombie repellent? The hell? Interesting. Knapp checks it with his binoculars, and waves at the survivors. It's like two hundred yards away, and the screaming mosh pit of undead flesh makes it implausible to even try shouting out a conversation. Bill Soaring-Eagle has some shiny glass thing - he tries catching the sunlight and flashing some morse code at them, but who the hell knows how to reply to that stuff? Plus, they've got other troubles for the minute. ~ Faustina & Trudy, sometimes, when you fail a roll to read a messy situation from within a safe Threshold, nothing bad happens. Nothing worse happens, anyways. This is one of those times. There's a poo poo-storm sure enough, but none of it splashes in at you. Getting a bite isn't like just getting something nasty in a wound. The Spore isn't some hungry little bacterium that wandered into the wrong neighborhood. Taxonomically speaking, it's not quite a parasite, or disease, or even a predator - it's an enemy. It hates you and wants you to die. You can see the blood on Knowles's little scratch start to curdle before your eyes. Small streaks and gobs of blood on her shalllow scratch start to darken and thicken, like molasses. Tiny flecks of white stuff bubble up, micro-scale mycophages gorging themselves on human blood and making GBS threads out thousands of offspring faster than should be possible. Soap and water? That kiddy poo poo slides right over the spores. This isn't an infection in any traditional sense, this is war. Splash it with alcohol? You're pretty sure it can feed on that. Peroxide works, albeit in a scorched-earth way, and you've got some of that on hand. You have a nearly scraped-dry tube of some proper fungicidal cream. It's terribly rare and valuable, but you decide that Knowles is worth it, and rub it into the wound. Even that isn't quite fast-acting enough. You can see the blood turning bad, starting from a streak down the middle of the wound where a zombie tooth must've scratched, and spider-webbing outward, threatening to creep under unbroken skin and deeper into her leg. If that gets to a semi-major vein, Knowles dies. You need a knife. Sam has a terrifically sharp, hooked skinning knife, Jeff's got a big multitool blade, you can take your pick. Everyone is crowding around you, watching you work, holding their breath over the dying woman, but caught up in the futile hope that you might stop the impossible, and rushing to pull out or rummage for whatever you ask for. Beside the truck, the sacheads are doing their normal thing, apparently oblivious to you sitting right next to them. Two of them are in a gaping-mouthed inarticulate screaming contest, little drops of toxic spittle flying out. One, wearing only a bathrobe, stops apropos of nothing, and throws her body into a left-right-left-right flurry of punches against the side of the truck. Every finger but her thumbs are at broken angles. The other screamer's head gradually tilts backwards, neck unsupported through just apathy, until it tips over backwards and falls to the ground. There, he keeps screaming, and convulses for ten or twenty seconds, then drunkenly lurches to his feet again and sprints towards the middle of the ranch, to join the bigger swarm. Knowles has tried to get into some of that Zen poo poo, to mild results. When the blade comes out, she gives up on the pain is in your mind routine that carried her through the peroxide slather, and looks for something to bite down on and channel the screams into. Trudy's got her covered. You've got to carve away some skin and meat, just to make sure the infection hasn't chewed deeper into the leg. Because Knowles is a champ, she barely twitches during it, barely lets out more than a "Hnnnngh." And you peel away some of the tainted flesh, the discarded tissue visibly darkening and frothing with the outbreak-writ-small happening in it, until everything left on the leg looks normal. Only then do you have a chance to clean, sterilize, and wrap it up like a normal wound. There's a bunch of blood smeared and splattered over Knowles, your hands, and everyone too close in the truck, but no pools anywhere, and nothing thick. You had to turn the scratch into a big messy gouge, but didn't even have to slice down to the bone. She's going to have a(nother) wicked scar, and her leg's going to feel weak when she flexes it certain ways, but you're confident that Knowles is going to be fine. She empties her lungs in a very relieved sigh, and lies down. Raj says, "So... that did it? She's gonna live? Shee-it, I didn' think she had a chance." Knowles flips him off without looking up. Everyone gets a chance to catch their breath. There's some raw, dry laughter. Not like, ha ha funny, but the primordial stuff that comes out when the tension goes away and the tribe can come down from survival mode. The noises Moon-Watcher made after he realized that the rustling leaves and long shadow were just wind in the tree, and not a leopard. Knowles props herself up ("Ow") on the truck's rear window, and takes stock of the situation. "Trudy? 'Tina? You're goddamn miracle workers. Good, uh, good going. If this, uh," she holds her hands out, pantomiming a wall, "This holds up, then our best bet is to not mess it up, and stay here for a while. No stupid risks. Once the sacheads wander off, we can get out quiet. If we need 'em, we've got provisions for the better part of a week." Sam and Raj hold eachother, she strokes his hair, watching the zombies howl and flail just a few feet away. One at a time, they start to shuffle off, either wandering with thoughts unknown, or when something afar catches their eye. Most of them end up heading back toward the Ranch. Jeff shakes his head and mutters, "This loving day." He waves his hands in front of a sachead's face to no effect, then sits back down, stares bewildered at his feet, and rubs his forehead. "Okay. So, magic is real?" Knowles gives him a whatever shrug, says, "Or something." Raj says, "Ain't gonna look too close at that horse's mouth." Jeff looks startled. "Huh?" "Horse's mouth. It's, uh, an old saying. Guess from before your time. See, way back when, if someone gave you a horse as a g-" "Oh! Yeah. Yeah, I've heard that before. Just, uh, distracted." He looks back to the zombie howling, oblivious, into his face, and then back to Raj. "Because of the magic." He puts up some jazz hands. Sam says, "The dead have been rising for more'n half my life. I am so done questioning all the weird poo poo that happens." She grabs Trudy's hand, and Faustina's too, who cares about the blood. "Whatever you're doing, thank you both so much for doing it." Anyways. Unless you've got another idea, Knowles pegged the situation right a few paragraphs up. They're going to lose interest in the truck over the next few hours, and you're going to have an opening eventually. If you're going to wait, where to afterward? ~ Angel Eyes, your not-killed messenger scene goes just about how you described it, no additional MC hitches on that account. Except she does look surprised at your message. Evidence of some bigger misunderstanding. She's got a look like it's occurred to her to say something, but she's sure as hell not going to push her luck after you told her quiet. Anyways, you're back truck-side whenever you feel like it. Lace smiles when he sees you, and he doesn't even mean to. He's still riding some almost-died-five-times high, still in his light pink summer dress and fresh-shaved dirty-blonde pixie cut. Juck & Co., I hadn't mentioned this yet, but since Dez's detachment had all morning to shake down the gullible, and Juck kept the Dogs off of his rear end, he's got a decent haul. Enough food-stuff to keep everyone going for a few more days, scraps and oddments to fill up the hammerspace of your gang's saddlebags, an unbroken olden-days Can Of Something with its label torn off (with some tacky scraps of glue on one side) plus 1-barter worth of nice stuff. As it is, Juck ain't gonna die. Finding a proper doctor of some description could speed her recovery, sure. Partridge got a good look at the Ranch on his way out, so you can surmise the situation around there; almost everyone scattered, and got out of the zombies' way. That also means a bunch more disoriented people are going to be ripe for the picking around the area. Several more runners, guaranteed, are headed for your ambush site, hoping for armed security. There's a fair chance of finding someone with a better grasp of first aid among them. At the same time, Big Mike laid out a pretty good strategy for dealing with a horde that's already fenced itself in. If Partridge is the kind of guy who's open to his advice, his super advice move applies for it. A bunch of heavy stuff no doubt got left behind on the trade pavilion, extra food and fuel and at least one generator and poo poo - if you're the first ones back, it's all yours. Not everyone needs to go to the same place, of course. But I'll warn you now, if you try to re-take the Ranch right away and things go bad, they're liable to go really bad. What are you gonna do?
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May 15, 2014 03:45
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 I moseyed on up to the crowd, careful not to walk into a bike. None of them had seen a detailing shop in nearly twenty years, but their riders still took scratches as a personal affront. Not that I could give them much crap for it; muss up my clothes or lay hands on my weapons without permission and you get the same. There were a few furtive looks in my direction, but I didn't pay much heed. Catching sight of Mike's truck I made my way over. Partridge was walking away while Mike climbed back into the drivers seat. I gave him a smile, and headed up to the passenger door and peered into the window. "Good to see you two are still in one piece. What's the plan?"
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May 15, 2014 11:50
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Barter=1 | Exp=5/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle Knowles posted:"Trudy? 'Tina? You're goddamn miracle workers.” The smirk on my lips probably comes off more like a pained sneer as I shake my head at her, wiping my hand off on one of the spare rags from my kit. “The real miracle is that you didn't get bitten any worse. Any closer to the bone and I'd have had to do a cauterized amputation, which for all we know might have sent these shamblers into a frenzy; 'barrier' or not. I suppose we had this coming, trying to push Betty for as long as we did without taking her to Mike's. What a freaking mess.” I look at the blood crusting under my fingernails. This time it was good blood, from someone who survived. It wasn't easy doing spot incisions on the fly, not to mention one-handed. Still, the true heroine of the day was Trudy. Without her doing her thing we'd all be dead. I manage to smile nervously at Sam as she takes our hands. The shroom-creeps are slowly backing away, one by one, seemingly losing interest in us. Judging by their steady migration towards the ranch proper, we should soon be able to sneak away while their backs are turned. These trips just keep getting more bizarre. Next time someone else can drat well go. “Let's start hoofing it quickly back to campus as soon as a path opens up. It might be awhile before they get this place cleared out again, so don't forget our supplies. Everyone carries jugs, okay?” I look pointedly at Jeff. “I don't know what your deal is, or what your plans are, but you should come with us so I can watch over you for at least a few days. The worst of your wound is healed, but you're gonna need plenty of rest to recover properly.” Scooting slowly backwards on my butt (afraid to make too much movement with the zoned-out walkers still at large) I make my way towards the tail gate, where there's a long dirt hoe shoved against the side of the bed that I use to tend my tobacco crop. The pole is just slender enough to push through the plastic handles of our well-filled containers, and I fit as many on it as I can. “Jeff and I will get these, so I can help with my good arm. Maybe you can fix everyone up a bit to eat when we get back, Trudy? I think there's still a good bit of rice left. I'd help, but I think I'd better start preping the Atrium for some injured visitors. Something tells me we aren't the only ones walking away today with a few scrapes.” She totes doesn't want my help in the kitchen. With the jugs ready to go, I slide back to the rear window and double check Knowles' dressing. poo poo. Most of us shouldn't even be trying to walk. This should hold up well enough for the hike, though. It would have to. Offering my pack to anyone who's interested, I light up. Blowing smoke rings up over my head absently, I make a half-hearted wave to Perry, who seems to have made it to the roof. She'll be in for a very long night, but that was her decision. Love is a risk afforded by few these days. One second you're having a piece of hot and heavy heaven in a cozy little shed, and the next you're stranded and starving on a rickety roof, trying to decide which part of your lover would be the most filling. Look at Raj and Sam, though. They're doing alright. My thoughts drift back to the pregnant woman in the cab behind me. More than anything I want to help her bring something worthwhile into this world - it's those kind of things that keep me going. The haze of fatigue crawls over my mind and control briefly slips; tendrils of curiosity reaching out through unknown, extra-dimensional space. Psychic Sonogram (Open Brain): 2d6+1 = 7
hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 00:50 on May 16, 2014 |
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May 15, 2014 23:14
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"Big" Mike Barter=3 EXP=0/5 Harm=0:00 Fatigue=3:00 "Right back at ya Angel Eyes! Looks like we made it through without too much trouble, some of Juck's crew wasn't so lucky, so they're thinking of clearing the ranch. Salvaging it for medical supplies, maybe finding someone who still knows how to save a life. I was going to lend a hand hauling the wounded. I figure you earned your wage, but you're still welcome to ride with me."
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May 15, 2014 23:36
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Deacon Deacon looked Clyde dead in his eyes, reading the pain and the fear and the desperation contained there. Big, dark, trusting eyes, like the eyes of a family dog. He remembered the first time he'd seen those eyes, a chance conversation while he was resupplying in a little outpost that didn't exist anymore. Clyde was a water trader back then, him and his family, making jingle schlepping water from places like K Ranch that had a purifier to places out in the sticks that did not. It was a dangerous business -- the gangers generally had bigger fish to gently caress with than a guy hauling water bottles, but the trade routes that were profitable were also really long and generally ran through infested areas, so water traders ended up zombie chow with a distressing regularity. They tended to be a grim lot, then, grim and desperate. But what Deacon remembered most about Clyde back then was how open he had seemed, how willing he was to listen to Deacon's message. That was a long time ago, of course, the message wasn't refined and the messenger not yet fully qualified to deliver it, but Clyde had listened, with good humor, and he'd comped Deacon an extra water bottle for the tale even if he hadn't really believed a word of it. Things were different when they'd met again, a year ago. Clyde had met the fate that water traders often did: he'd lost everything to the plague. His business, his young wife, his unborn child, his sobriety -- Deacon found him at the bottom of a bottle. The message was better now, the message more refined. Clyde listened again. He followed. He may not have believed just yet, but he followed. The romance with Dillflower though, that was new. That surprised everyone, probably most of all Clyde himself. It was funny. He seemed more at ease when she was around, more likely to smile. They weren't a great match, eugenically speaking, but Deacon had blessed the union anyway. It was good to see the old Clyde back. drat it. Clyde didn't deserve this. But what could Deacon do? The doctor in him thought it was hopeless, and he wasn't sure he trusted the priest enough for a miracle. But what else could he do? Deacon smiled, reassuringly he hoped, but who could really say? "I know Clyde," he said. "I'm sorry. Every one of us owes a death, you know that. And we don't get to choose when it comes. We only get to choose how we'll face it. You have within you the power to choose to be ready. I know that it doesn't seem like it, but you do." He looked at Dillflower. "I wish there was a way to make this transition easier. It's never easy. But in the Spore there is life, as well as death." "I know," she said, tears in her eyes. "I know it's just..." "We can't save Clyde. Only he can do that. But we can lend him our strength. We can pray for him. We can give him what comfort and guidance we can as he makes his transition. Dill, give me your hand. You too, Clyde." He took her hand with his left, and Clyde's with his right, the diseased hand, where already the bite was beginning to blacken and foam, the corruption feasting on it like a some manner of starving beast. The others joined hands too, all of them, without Deacon having to say so, Bruce and Nancy a little gingerly, not exactly reluctant but unsure of the social norms governing the ritual. The spore WAS a hungry beast, Deacon realized. It was hunger, bottomless hunger. All it knew was consumption. So stupid. It would eat and eat and eat. At this rate it would eat the world and everything in it. Every thinking being. And then what? Starve? Die? What was the point of that? What was the point of any of this? "Oh father," Deacon said. "Who in his wisdom gave us the Spore, the greatest of his gifts and the greatest of his tests. We your children who labor under your yoke ask your mercy, and your indulgence." gently caress the spore. gently caress it. gently caress it's whole stupid, self defeating hunger. gently caress the world that gave birth to it. gently caress it for letting someone like Clyde exist, someone who could lose everything, every loving thing, and yet somehow come out alright in the end, somehow find the courage to loving smile, to loving trust and love another human being again after that. gently caress the world for taking it away. gently caress any god that would let that happen. "We ask not for ourselves, father, but for our brother Clyde, who is making a hard journey. We have prepared him as best as we can, but he must walk this path alone." No. You know what, no. I'm going to fight you. Spore. World. God. Whatever. I'm going to fight you. I'm going to destroy you. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but from this point on every breath I draw I draw against you. It may take generations. It may take everything I am. But I will fight you. And I will win. I'm going to loving destroy you. "Guide him, oh father. As he walks through the valley of the shadow of death, let his steps lead him into your light." If you could think, if you could understand, if you had any sense at all, then you'd loving run. You'd stay the gently caress away from this one. Not because he's a good man. Not because he doesn't deserve it. Not even, in the end, because there's some greater justice in the universe. There's not. There's only this: Clyde's already been taken. You'd stay away, because this one is mine. "This we ask you, oh father, we who still struggle on the path set before us. We who still labor under your gaes pray for your mercy. May peace be upon you. May understanding be upon you. Shanti, Shanti, Shanti, Amen." gently caress you. Augury: 2d6+3 7 I'm choosing to Protect Clyde from the world's psychic maelstrom. This affect will persist without being maintained. Baby Babbeh fucked around with this message at 08:52 on May 16, 2014 |
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May 16, 2014 08:02
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Angel Eyes Barter=2 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=0:00 | Fatigue=0:00 "I think I'll take you up on that. Want to have a talk with Juck when she wakes up anyway." I glanced at the bed and the extremely messed up people taking a breather in it. "I'll keep things clear in the back. Not much point to saving them if a shroom climbs in and starts chowing down." Hauling myself up I took a seat on the wheel well, taking care not to stick a boot in someone's face. "poo poo. You people look like a wad of chewed gum."
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May 16, 2014 15:35
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"I'm all for heading home," Trudy says, "after this mess clears itself out." She's rooting through her purse, which she made herself out of an old dress she felt had gone out of fashion, whatever that meant these days. Made a cute purse though, and one big enough to hold anything she needed. Which meant when she wanted something, it took a lot of digging through to get it. The good stuff always sank to the bottom. Eventually she pulls out a silver tube of lipstick (Make: Revlon Super Lustrous™ Shade: Fabulous Fig), uncaps it, and starts scrawling a backwards message on the inside of the truck's dirty windshield.  She puts the cap back on the lipstick, and turns to the group assembled. "Just in case he makes it back here," she said. "Didn't want to be rude."
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May 17, 2014 01:39
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Juck Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Harm=Dazed,Stabbed | Fatigue=0:00 'Big' Mike posted:
"That's..." Partridge had a sneer in his voice, but just as he was about to say something mean he actually took the time to think about what Mike had suggested. "That's actually not a terrible idea." Partridge looked over what was left of Juck's gang. They'd been ready for a fight with the Dog Soldiers, and once they got the scent for blood they had a tendency to get wild. Partridge knew in the back of his head that the longer they waited around, the sooner they'd start fighting each other. What would Juck do? Partridge thought about the ranch, and everything that those folks had left behind. The Dog Soldiers were running. The sentries at the Ranch would have their hands full with the shrooms. What would Juck do? Partridge took a flattened beer top out of his pocket and flicked it up into the air. Heads we take the ranch, tails we book it for the college. Flipping a coin: 1d2 1 "We're going with the old man's plan. Who wants to burn some motherfucking zombies?" The gang cheered as one. "Grillcheese, tell me you brought the grenades this time." "When have I ever not, Partridge? Jeez." "Alright, gently caress it. Let's do this. Get Juck loaded in the truck with Jeanette and Dog Head. Dez, is she good and out?" Dez patted his med bag. "I gave her the good poo poo. She'll be out for another twelve hours at least." "... i'm 'wake ..." said Juck, in a dreamy voice. "You suck at this doctor poo poo, Dez." said Partridge. "gently caress me, man, that was literally my best stuff -- hang on, lemme get another one..." Dez was rummaging in his bag. "... stick me with one of those ..." Juck's chest heaved and her cheeks filled, and she paused a bit while she swallowed again, "... and I'll fuckin' eat your arms off..." Juck's head tipped over. Dez and Partridge shared a knowing glance, and Dez put his bag away. "...help me in this <hic> truck." Jeanette reached out and hauled up Juck into the truck bed. "...hey... my gun. ...i was wondering where you'd <hic> got to..." Partridge shook his head and addressed the gang. "Alright, let's go take the loving Ranch back! We're going to play it like Mike said -- two groups, lots of covering fire. If you're not shooting, you're throwing a Molotov. Make sure we've got walls of fire keeping the shroomers divided. Stay on the bikes, run them down if you have to. Anybody got a problem with that?" Back in the truck, Juck druggily checked her shotgun and made sure it was loaded. "... well yeah, 'course you gotta burn the orange one first... <hic> otherwise you <hic> get wolves ..." Jeanette and Dog Head both raised an eyebrow in unison. "Who you talking to Juck?" Juck gets weird on drugs: 2d6-1 7 good question...
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May 17, 2014 05:42
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Deacon, Dillflower is crying. Not sobbing - this isn't the first person she's loved and then watched die - but this is one of those things you can't learn how to be okay with. Cuff and Garrety and the rest of them are joining you in prayer, chiming in with an 'amen' or whatever at the right times, but Dill and Clyde stay doing their own thing with each other. He sees the pain all over her face, and keeps saying that he's sorry. She says, "It's not you - you have nothing to be sorry for, I love you," Clyde starts feeling that sharp, raw, devoured-from-within pain. The convulsions start from his arm, but within a minute his whole body's getting wracked with them. He has to sit down. Dill sits next to him, holding him, his head against her chest. Nancy's got her hands over her mouth, she's getting emotional from watching, despite barely knowing them. Bruce is visibly very uncomfortable, averting his eyes like he's just walked in on them. He's drawn out his pistol but isn't pointing it yet, because he knows someone is going to have to put Clyde's body down. Your established cult - people who've lived with Dill and Cyle for the past who knows how long - know they aren't imposing by being nearby for this. Clyde shudders, his last words turn to a murmur, and he falls to that dark place between unconsciousness and death. It happens quick. He gets pale, his breathing gets so shallow it's hard to notice. Dead any second, now. Dill's eyes have been going for a while now, but she makes her first audible crying sound, a small pained moan. Garrety starts, and almost everyone else follows a second later, tracing a circle in the air but stopping short of completing it. Bruce, seeing that nobody else has armed themselves, glances around like he's surrounded by insane people and steps forward with his gun. He asks Dillflower, "Ma'am? You need to back away from him now." Her hands clench, wringing Clyde's shirt. She doesn't look up at Bruce or at anyone else, but after a second she lets him down, cradling his head and lowering it to the grass. She shuffles away from him, without turning away or standing up. Lemur steps up beside Bruce, and rests a hand on the barrel of his gun. He says, "Wait for it." He's smirking, but nobody's looking at his face. Bruce goes through a complex series of expressions, it's a bad idea to give them a chance, I get you're all grief-hosed but somebody's got to take care of this, seriously it's only more traumatic when you see them get back up, okay fine nutjobs we'll do it your way, and he silently accedes to wait. Clyde dies. There is a moment of silence, which stretches into a whole minute and a half of quiet. The zombies howling in the distance are background noise. Most of your cult is looking around at each other, surprise cracking through the somber and sad, like, did that just work? And then, nothing. No post-mortem twitching. Three minutes. Lemur makes a relieved sigh, and smiles. Nancy looks horrified. Bruce whispers, "Well I'll be goddamned." Clyde stays dead, still and at peace. Dill cracks a deep smile, now sobbing. What next? And, by the way - how do you get new people to become part of the 'antenna?' ~ Juck. What is this 'maelstrom' thing, anyways? You know that Jeanette is going to die. She seems okay, but is currently dying. That bullet she took from the ambush is going to fester and get infected, in the lame and traditional way, and it's going to do her in. And you have a vision, real and vivid like you just smelled something from your childhood. You're naked and smeared all over with hot blood, sitting on the Throne of Flesh and Bone. The chair back is a splayed-open rib cage, the struts and legs are a cloven and re-fused human limbs, your seat cushion is a pulsing pile of wet muscle and tissue. On the ends of each arm rest, there are skulls - not those sterile, bleach-white halloween decorations, but fresh ones, still wrapped in that tight mesh of muscle and sinew, blood and something like life still coursing through them, pulsing with the same heartbeat under your grip. Their teeth chatter, and they speak to you. The only thing in the throne room that hasn't been grown is a plain iron bracelet with a small gap in it, around your wrist. You hear howling all around you, your wolves. You feel them like you'd feel through your own palm. They are a living, breathing storm, thunder and whirlwind. You can flex through them, and you feel the might of a tornado, strong and violent in a way that can't possibly be opposed. No one can fight the wind. The throne sits cold and dead and empty right now. The line of braziers leading to it, un-lit. There is no heir, only hungry contenders, winner take all, and you're eligible to be one of them. So is Angel-Eyes. ~ Faustina, it's going to be a boy! He's going to be kind of short, lean and wiry, but wicked smart. He's Sam's first, and she is going to be so happy to finally meet him. Right now she's terrified, but when he becomes real, his life is going to give her Reason, and she'll have more to give than she used to think possible. Raj is going to feel his heart break a little bit every time he looks the bastard son's shining blonde hair. He doesn't want to hate the kid, and he'll have to try not to. Or they're all going to die and none of that is going to get to happen. It's sort of like a coin, tossed and still spinning in the air, except coins are weighted even and don't land on the terrible side nine times out of ten. The sun is rising from the west, but it's already daytime. What is the maelstrom? ~ Faustina & Trudy, everyone in the truck picks up their fair share of crap, even Knowles. She's not quite limping, but walking kind of lop-sided and favoring the better leg. Raj keeps offering to take more stuff off of Sam's hands, never mind the fact that he's already grunting every few steps. The party gets to a steady pace, and everyone with a gun has it on hand in case of outlying sacheads. No trouble yet, though - looks like the big swarm at the Ranch doesn't notice you from so far away. But you've got a long walk ahead of you. It's not long past noon, and if you don't run across any more poo poo, you'll make it back to Campus around sunset. Jeff's shoulders slump when you address him. He says, "My deal was that I wanted to get help for my injured friend. But we came from, uh, that way." he looks to the horizon, same direction the recent swarm came from, "Is there, um, any chance we can take a detour?" Knowles just says, "No." Then adds, "Sorry. If they're smart, they cleared out, and you wouldn't find 'em by retracing your steps. Or they're already dead, or they're holed up somewhere and we don't have the firepower to mount a rescue. However that shook out, nothin' we could do, even if we wanted to. And I don't." Jeff sighs, all emo, then says, "Yeah... poo poo." He's quiet for a while, walking along. He stretches, pulls something in his mid-section, then winces and doubles over. "Ah. God, I am insanely hungry." but probably nobody cares enough to reply. He's quiet for a little longer, then says to Faustina, "Th...thanks again. I know you didn't have to, uh, heal me, or let me come with you. I just, y'know, appreciate it." And then, what do you know, you hear a roaring pack of motorcyles on the approach. Like anyone with half a working brain, the group makes for the nearest bunch of trees and bushes and hunkers down a little to wait and get a better look. Looks like Juck's gang has come back toward the ranch in full force, along with Big Mike's baby-blue pickup. Jeff's scared shitless, Knowles is wary, and Sam asks, "Do you think any of them could give us a ride?" ~ Angel Eyes, Big Mike, Juck & Co, you can make it back to the Ranch at a time and in a formation of your choosing. Your shadows, invisible at noon, are getting longer by the minute. The outer ring of zombies gathered around the Ranch central turn their heads, milky and moldy eye'd, at the sound of your bikes and truck, but catching their notice like that isn't enough to grab their full attention. They're single-minded when it comes to prey, but it doesn't take much to change their minds. There are like a loving hundred of them. The east gate is stuck open with a chewed-up truck in it. The central area of the Ranch has a loose cluster of buildings, then something like a hundred yards of terrain with nothing but dirt, grass, or a couple trees, then unbroken fence. A hundred voices screaming with no coherence, at this distance, blend into a lynch-mob chord. Their focus is a knife teetering on its edge, and you're a gentle breeze from tipping it and becoming the most interesting meat in the world. That means over ten thousand pounds of meat and fungus and hate, flinging itself teeth-first toward you and battering down anything in the way. Are you doing this? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 16:37 on May 17, 2014 |
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May 17, 2014 10:30
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Barter=1 | Exp=0/5 | Fatigue=9:00 Neck bruise | Arm in a sling | Sprained ankle “… Can it wait one second? We’re in the middle of lunch rush, you idiot. And I need more plasticware up front, thanks.” -click- “*Ahem* Auntie Sam’s Kitchen: ‘We got one in the oven’! How may I help you?” Faustina rolls her eyes at the incomprehensible string of gurgles that comes through her headphones. Outside her drive-thru window a line of shroomheads is growing longer by the minute, wrapping itself around the building. They shuffle their feet slowly, bumping into each other, stomping over the fallen and generally exhibiting poor queuing etiquette. She shakes her head at the chaos displayed on a little monitor over her cash register and growls into her headset at the ‘customer’. “Just give your order to the first window and move along, okay? Thank you. -click- loving zombies. Might as well be illiterate for all the English language is worth around here. Why can’t they get past the ‘grunting’ stage of development?” She makes the fakest smile she possibly can as she pushes a paper bag polka-dotted with slimy grease stains through the window at a waiting sachead. “That’s pretty racist. Over.”, Jeff’s smarmy voice reprimands her the over the kitchen line. Angrily slinging a wad of napkins like confetti at the undead patron outside (it doesn’t pay any attention, being too occupied with shoving its face into the sack that fell on the ground), Faustina snaps back, “I thought I told you to stay off the service channel? Also, being a regurgitated abomination of nature does not count as a ‘race’. And you don’t have to say ‘over’. This is fast-freaking-food not a special forces assault or whatever.” “Roger. Chef Jeff out.” Chef my butt. You’re just nuking pre-cooked… wait. What are we serving again? “It’s a boy!” Manager Trudy’s voice belts out brightly through a loudspeaker overhead, followed by a pre-recorded applause track. Faustina dutifully claps along with other, unseen employees, and soon the concern has left her face again. Eh. Oh well, can’t remember. “-click- Auntie Sam’s…” “Sorry, Miss. Janky Juck’s Garbage Guys here. Did someone order a Queue Clean Up?” Faustie checks the monitor - it’s Partridge, waving stupidly at the camera. “-click- Hi, Partridge. Yeah, we got backed up again. Can you guys clear out the stragglers? Thanks, we’re swamped.” She tosses another sack out of the window; more spore-fuckers dog-pile on top of it. After a moment the beeping sound of a large vehicle backing up is heard, followed by Dog Head shouting: “Just back right over ‘em! We’ll scrape up the rest. No-..NO DIPSHIT TURN THE WHEEL LEFT-“ “Chef to Shorty. Chef to Shorty. Come in Shor-“ Faustina cuts him off, slamming her palm against the counter, “Spit it out, rear end in a top hat! You know you could just walk out here and talk to me. It’s not like you’re in a loving bunker somewhere.” She glances furiously over her shoulder at the door to the kitchen not fifteen yards behind her. ‘Chef’ Jeff sounds oblivious, “Roger. God, I am insanely hungry.” A long silence hangs in the air, and we’re treated to some background noise: the bone-crunching symphony of hundreds of zombies being crammed into a trash compactor outside. Finally, ‘Shorty’ gathers the mental strength to respond, “You’re in a kitchen, you insufferable defect.” “True, but who wants to eat [REDACTED]? Th-thanks again.” …What? ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Jeff posted:I just, y’know, appreciate it. My head clears of a very lucid daydream and I almost trip over my feet again in start, causing my ankle to scream in protest. Ow, poo poo! drat. I gotta get some rest. In the end I wasn’t able to handle the pole, so I’d traded with Raj for a couple loose jugs. Luckily I’d found a collapsible crutch in my kit, so walking wasn’t impossibly excruciating, I just had to be very careful. Jeff was talking at me again. Awkward. Time to spell things out for him. “You really think we’re going back for your friends after that poo poo you tried to pull? Here's how it's going down: I'm gonna watch you, like a hawk, for a few days; just to make sure you're not crapping out bits of your stomach or anything. Don't worry, we'll find plenty of ways for you to sing for your supper. Then you're leaving, period. And if you decide to keep running with that pack of sub-human skidmarks you can forget about coming back. Ever. Not even if you do something stupid like try to get vengeance. Your brother was a stinking piece of poo poo who got scratched by a slightly less odorous piece of poo poo. gently caress him and gently caress you for following along. If I had known...” I swallow hard. “Knowles if this guy so much as makes a crooked hiccup, feel free to put your foot so far up his rear end he'll need a second stomach.” I guess it would technically be his third. “Then kick it to the curb.” Not my most lighthearted speech, but I've had a hell of a day. If Jeff has any measure of intelligence buried deep within his little ape brain, he'll be grateful I'm not dredging up past excursions with Taco's crew. Were they to find out, Alpha Phi would probably try to stage a role-reversed reenactment, then string up his balls for use as a speedbag. I keep hobbling along until a huge, ominous dust cloud appears up ahead, punctuated by the grating drone of many bikes. I'm about to limp into the woods with the others when I see Mike's truck. It looks pretty dinged up with plenty of new ventilation to spare. Fortunately, I can see that frightening mask in the driver's seat, so he's not dead yet. His baby's taken some nasty licks. I'd better check to see if the man inside fared any better. Sam makes a good point as well. Any opportunity to get back in the Infirmary quicker is a chance I'm willing to gamble on. Plus, Mike's their buddy or whatever now. He won't let anything happen. ...right? Despite the howling, bloodthirsty cries from Juck's Fucks, I remain standing where I am. Waving my good arm in the air, I shout over the din, trying to flag down Big Mike. (And also trying very hard not to look scared.) “Hey, Mike! You okay? These boyscouts give you a patch yet? We could use a ride!” * * * StringOfLetters posted:What is the maelstrom? It's them. Some kind of psycho-gently caress hivemind netting that hovers on the edge of our subconscious, ready to suck you in the second your grip slackens. Memories, dreams, even emotions; anything that was and everything that should not be - the 'maelstrom' is a glistening paradise, or (more often in my case) a swirling hellscape that floods the mind. It all comes from the endless sea of sporeheads. Ever since they effortlessly bumped us off of the previously undisputed throne of the animal kingdom, those things have been after our brains as well. I'm convinced if you let yourself get pulled too far in you'll turn just as if you were bitten. It's an indescribable, freakishly powerful, terribly frightening omni-everything. One day it will take me. hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 01:42 on May 18, 2014 |
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May 18, 2014 01:05
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