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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 20th, 5:42 P.M. Mercifully, the horrendous odor within the store lessens after allowing it to 'air out' for a while. Closing up the back office and returning it to being the man's 'tomb' is liable to also assist this charge. Evan finds the rotary phone to, itself, still be in good condition albeit a touch old. The inner workings are found to be very salvageable for the electronics enthusiast. Mike squares off against the garage door inside the store, digging the crowbar tightly into the door jam. A hearty, solid heave strains the door with an audible creak of wood under duress, crackling a small divot where the bar pries directly. A second shove of the crowbar resounds a loud crack-pop, causing the door to lurch open with a start and slap noisily into the wall at the end of its hinges. It's very dark inside of the garage, with no windows and the electricity in a non-functional state. The space is sufficiently large to work on two vehicles at a given time, with two mechanic's pits beneath pneumatic lifts--one of which is empty, and the other, currently raised, is hoisting a black Ford Taurus sedan. There is slight rusting along some of the trim on the vehicle, but it appears to be from typical wear and tear. Thick layers of dust cover the entire car in a blanket of borderline soot. There are a few grease and oil stains dabbled on the floor here and there, and the entire back wall is one long work bench, an array of mechanic's tools and utensils readily available--a surprising degree for such an out of the way repair shop. For the most part, everything seems to lie as if it had been left casually ages ago, simply covered over with dust. Allergies run wild in the vicinity. On the wall by the door through which you've entered, there is a small cork board with various sheets of paper posted, and next to it is a small rack upon which a set of car keys has been hung. The keys appear to match the Taurus, and several unidentified keys also occupy the chain. A small refrigerator is found in the corner of the garage; inside is a thoroughly molded-over lump wrapped in plastic which you presume was a sandwich at some point, and two Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beers. In the distance, there is a rumble of what sounds like thunder. June 20th, 6:54 P.M. It is now dark outside, with dusk having come to pass. The rumbles of thunder have grown more frequent, harbinger of an inevitable storm system moving through the area. Just shy of seven o'clock, a patter of rain begins to pepper the gravel lot and rooftops in fat dollops--accompanied by a quiet hiss, and small trails of smoky vapor wisping away from the growing wetness outside. As the rain shifts to a downpour, the hissing in turn becomes a cacophony, the grounds outside growing outright vicious in the torrent. What was scattered vapors becomes a roiling mist, tendrils of the sticky fog caressing against the structures of the rest stop, and threatening to penetrate through open doors and other crevices. Sir Reginald whines, and finds sanctuary in a corner of the garage beneath the work bench. Thunder rumbles a near deafening loudness, but there is no sign of lightning in the storm outside--which seems quite ready to continue on for a long while. John locates a folding table and four folding chairs behind a stack of tires in the garage, re-igniting the promise of preoccupation while enduring the passing of elements outside. Evan rolled 13 on his electronics check to condense the Geiger counter 'portable', and though it takes him a good while to complete the compacting of the device, he will shave two pounds off of the weight and make it considerably easier to handle and store. Rest itself will restore 2 points of fatigue, and having a full meal with water will restore the rest. Sir Reginald needs to be fed at least half a ration to be sated. The pneumatic lift, you find, will require some mechanical know-how to repair, or alternatively sufficient damaging of the base of the mechanism to bring the car down. The former method will, obviously, provide a far less damaged vehicle. The latter will present a degree of danger for whomever stands in the mechanic pit beneath the vehicle when it comes down. The rain, as you can certainly gather, is not particularly inviting, and is visibly corrosive. It is highly inadvisable to venture out into it. Exposure to the mist produced by the rain to exposed skin will produce burns and inflammation, should any have the misfortune of discovering this first-hand. The rain continues unabated for nearly three hours.
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Jul 7, 2007 15:14
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Brandon Amid chuckling and electronics repair, Brandon re-enters the building, gas mask on his face. He enters the office and gingerly removes the .22 revolver from the hand of the man who killed himself with it, nearly choking on the sickeningly sweet, almost cinnamon-like smell of his nearly mummified flesh. He looks at the small revolver and the flecks of blood and bone on the end of the muzzle and thinks, well, at least we know it works, and immediately feels like a gigantic rear end in a top hat. Wiping the organic matter from the gun with the cleanest surface he can find in the office (but not his fatigues,) he loads the revolver with its four remaining bullets after ejecting the spent shell, crams it into one pocket, shoves the painkillers into the other, and heads back to the main shop area to help the others open the garage however he can. Going to take the gun and bullets and the painkillers, then help with the door opening as best I can, which is probably not all that much. code:
prussian advisor fucked around with this message at 17:45 on Jul 7, 2007 |
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Jul 7, 2007 17:39
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Markson "Well, that sure would have put a damper on any traveling we would have wanted to do. At least we got in here quickly and avoided the rain." Not to mention not having to sleep in TombyMcSmellalot. Markson thinks to himself. "Think we could fix the lift? Having a car would be pretty cool, even if it does turn out to be unusable. At the very least we could probably get 3 of us inside it for a better bed for the night."
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Jul 7, 2007 19:09
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Jacob Jacob pulls a pan out of his backpack and pours some water in it for Reggie. He also splits his food with him like normal so the others don't have to worry about sharing extra for Reggie's sake. "We should wait until the morning and get the doors open so we have some extra light in here to work on getting the car down." Jacob walks over to the lift. "Well we used these things in the military a lot. Shouldn't be too hard. Looks like hydraulics, should be able to just disengage the safties and then loosen up the fluid lines a little and just let it drain letting the car come down fairly slowly." Jacob looks around, "Couple of you guys are more mechanically inclined, I just fixed humvees and trucks but doesn't that sound right?" Jacob walks back to the clearing where they have setup in the garage. He pulls a few light sticks out of his pack, activates them and tosses them around the garage, "Best not to use up the batteries right away. These will provide enough light to move around for a while." Jacob lays back on his sleeping bag with his back propped up by his backpack. "Well we know what is causing so much of the rust and plant death. That is some nasty acid rain. We will want to keep an eye out for storms and find shelter right away. The plastic rain ponchos might only protect us in an emergency and I don't think for that long of a time. Best not to risk it." Depending on how much more talk goes on eventually Jacob will fall asleep hoping to get a decent night's sleep.
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Jul 7, 2007 19:56
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Raymond While the others give the car and lift a cursory glance, Raymond looks over the notes on the corkboard with one of the scattered light sticks, looking for the most recent dates on invoices as well as any clues as to what happened. "Y-y-yes, but isn't acid rain supposed to take decades to erode things to such an extent? I w-wonder if we'll hit we'll find a p-pool supply or hardware store in the next town, then we can g-g-get ourselves a pH kit, and find out j-just how bad this stuff is. Ww-we'll need fresh water before t-too long, anyway." He glances over to the edge of the edge of the garage door periodically, looking for any sign of seepage into the garage. Clearing some space on the mechanics bench in the back of the shop, he sets up his sleeping bag, using the rest of his gear as a makeshift pillow. "H-here's to our first day's travel," he toasts, raising a bottle of water to the group, "And m-many more before us." After drinking enough to quench his first, and an unsatisfying meal, he settles in for the night. The bench isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but it'll keep him off the ground. Best to leave the comfortable places to those who will benefit from a good nights sleep. Those who might actually get a good night's sleep.
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Jul 7, 2007 20:22
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Markson "Considering how bad that rain appears to be, I'd say that any water on the surface would be no touch. We might have to look for underground rivers or something to even have a shot." Markson then sits up against the wall, hoping that his insomnia won't kick in tonight. As fun as talking with Ray in the wee hours of the night is, John's pretty tired from all that traveling. He wouldn't even be able to call it keeping watch. Nothing is going to come in with the rain going like it is, and nothing is going out in the immediate aftermath. Markson sighs, and attempts to find a place comfortable enough to be worthwhile, but leaves whatever he'd consider to be the most comfortable areas to be used by those who typically get alot of sleep, leaving his stuff somewhere reasonably close to his person, but is going to attempt starting the habit of sleeping with his rifle in his sleeping bag with him. He dosn't want to be defenseless on the off chance a wolf wanders in or something. (no round in the chamber, he's not brave enough nor in any situation desperate enough to make that worthwhile. Wutasumi fucked around with this message at 21:48 on Jul 7, 2007 |
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Jul 7, 2007 21:46
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Mike O'Neill Mike looks at the car on the lift with something resembling longing. "Man, it would be loving sweet if that thing works. Jacob, I'm pretty sure you're right about the hydraulics. We should try that out tomorrow." He wanders over to the refrigerator and picks up one of the beers. He holds it in his hand as he walks over to the cork board, taking the pieces of paper off and bringing them closer to the light sticks to read. He opens the bottle and sniffs the contents as he begins to read.
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Jul 7, 2007 23:41
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Blackbird Dreams - Sordid Soliloquy(Chapter 1) June 20th, 11:46 P.M. The mist lingers for a full hour after the rain finally ceases, billowing and shifting around outside and leaving moist streaks against what little glass you can see through. From time to time, faint bits snake in through the hole in the store's door--and whilst on watch, you could swear you hear faint scrabbling, scuttling sounds. But then, your mind could simply be playing tricks on you. Scarce as the duo is, the beers are surprisingly palatable, if lukewarm. Most of the postings on the cork board are of little significance; a few coupons here, a missing cat poster, a sheet of local phone numbers, and an invoice from over a year ago for a transmission order for a minivan. The pneumatic lift does check out to be oil-based, and the appropriate measures to the lines ought to let the Taurus down 'gently'. Hazardous as it may be, the rain nonetheless seems to bring down the ambient temperature a lot, at the cost of making things a touch too humid for comfort. Shedding fatigues will go a long way towards relieving grungy discomfort--but the likely-hood of maintaining fresh attire in the coming days is quite questionable. For most of you, the night passes by excruciatingly slow--anxiety and tension from having finally returned to the world at large far outweighs the fatigue and exhaustion from the day's heated expedition--and one can't deny, as well, the faint nagging uncertainty of the many wrongs which must yet pervade the country beyond this meager place. Sleep does not come easy, and even when it finally does, nightmares plague what dreams materialize in slumber's murky embrace. It's a long night, made longer by a seemingly endless parade of questions and doubts. Tomorrow would bring with it a further expedition still--and with it, discovery of the state of affairs for an actual population center. June 21st, 7:46 A.M. A wristwatch alarm goes off at some point, but what rouses consciousness to the lot of you is the feverishly insistent barking of Sir Reginald. He stands at the store's entrance, fur on end and hackles raised, snarling and rattling off throaty warnings--with his tail tucked between his legs all the while. Out across the gravel lot, near the roadside, stands a figure out in the sun. Perhaps six feet tall, a man remains motionless, garbed in a torn and dirty pair of coveralls, littered with dark moist stains. His skin is covered in a dried black substance, and it is only after getting a more careful look of him that you notice two particularly unsettling things--the tips of his fingers are torn down to the bone and pointed, and his eyes are a pair of dark, empty sockets. Though he seems to have ignored Sir Reginald's barking, he seems to rouse with a sharp jolt when observed, hunching forward and 'staring' at the building. Cracked lips draw back to reveal a mouth full of broken and jagged teeth, and the main wails across the lot. "I SEEEEEEEE YOOOOU!" The man begins to advance towards the door with jerky, rigid steps, wheezing and cackling.
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Jul 8, 2007 00:42
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Mike O'Neill Mike wakes up to Reggy's barking, and cursing lifts himself to his feet to see what the problem is. He momentarily assumes that the man outside is one of his companions also woken by the dog, but a quick look around dispels that thought. When he notices the man's appearance, recollections of every horror movie he'd seen as a child begin to race through his mind. "Oh holy loving poo poo", Mike whispers, fascinated and horrified as the man wails and begins his stuttering walk towards the group. He scrabbles for the crowbar and, carrying it tightly in his hand, advances to within a safe distance of the man, ready to swing. He might be sick, he might be crazy... "Are you okay, man? What the gently caress happened to you?" Mike's going to advance to a safe distance outside of the man's reach, ready to swing the crowbar at his head if he makes a move to attack him HP 11 Will 10 Per 10 FP 11 Basic Lift 24 lbs Damage Thrust 1d-1 Swing 1d+1 Basic Speed 5.5 Basic Move 5 Dodge 8
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Jul 8, 2007 02:18
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[b]Marksonp[/b[ I take it I slept normally? Markson takes a few seconds to wake up, at first putting his hands over his ears, not quite used to the idea of rousing instantly in danger. He began to ask the dog to please quiet down, still blissfully unaware of how dogs usually do not go crazy for no reason. Never much of a dog man. Then he heard the man wail. That really got his attention. [/i]What in the...[/i] Markson began, rousing much quicker now, looking up to see the man coming towards the building with Mike going out to talk to him. He had read books where this sort of thing happened, and he'd seen his fair share of horror movies... but he didn't want to just attack, he could just be a sick survivor or something. Still, he couldn't just sit there waiting for him to become violent. I'm going to take my rifle, keep it uncocked, but keep one hand on the bolt and use the scope to aim at the man. Just in case. ST 9 DX 11 IQ 14 HT 9 HP 8 Will 11 Per 14 FP 8 R. Skills: 13 - Guns - Rifles - TL8 Combat Paralysis Wutasumi fucked around with this message at 06:20 on Jul 8, 2007 |
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Jul 8, 2007 03:01
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Jacob "Reggie quiet down boy!" Jacob rolls back over trying to find that blissful state of nothingness again. When he hears Mike go to the door and open it up Jacob realizes something is wrong, Reggie doesn't need to go to the bathroom, he was trained to let Jacob know that over the last year. This is something Jacob hasn't heard from Reggie since before their time in the Bunker, something is wrong. Jacob quickly gets up and throws on a shirt and grabs the .357 revolver slipping it in his belt and picks up the staff. "Mike what's going on?" Jacob rushes outside to hear Mike ask if some guy was okay. His eyes adjust quickly to the brighter light and sees the hideous form moving towards the building. "What in the hell? BRANDON! Some guy out here is seriously hosed up." Jacob starts to lower his staff when he gets a better look at his eyes and fingers. "Mike uhh don't get near him, something is wrong, very very wrong." code:
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Jul 8, 2007 03:20
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Brandon Brandon, ordinarily slow to rise, rises out of consciousness in a haze of humidity and sweat-slick fatigues on the heels of a particularly disturbing nightmare, but he quickly gets his bearings when he hears the urgency in Jacob's voice. Instinctively clutching at the small revolver in his pocket, he rushes to the front of the store at the summons of the others. Once there, his blood runs cold. Not merely because the sight of a man with mutilated fingers and empty eye sockets is chilling on its own, but because he's encountered it before. In countless dreams, ranks of the afflicted staring at him, And in the clinic , before he fled to the relative safety of the bunker with the others. "Stand back," Brandon hisses to the others, "he's a cerebrosus victim. Extremely late stage 2, I have no idea how he's still alive. We have to be very careful, he's likely to become violent suddenly. Just...just don't attack him until we're sure he means us harm. He's probably delirious from the pain." "Sir!" Brandon calls out to the man as he approaches, already certain that it'll do no good, but determined to try anyway, "we know you're in a lot of pain. We have drugs and we can treat you, but you need to sit down, right there and right now. Now, what's your name? Have to try to resolve this peacefully if possible  code:
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Jul 8, 2007 03:52
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Jacob Jacob listens to Brandon, "Wait WHAT? That poo poo you told us in the hospital was real? I thought it was more of your stories. Gezus gently caress man was that poo poo contagious?" Jacob takes a step back putting the staff in a defensive position incase this thing comes at him.
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Jul 8, 2007 04:02
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Brandon "Extremely, but we could never figure out the vector of infection," Brandon whispers to Jacob, if only to try to quiet him down before he gets the cerebrosus victim more agitated. "Some people seemed to develop it spontaneously, with no exposure. I was breathed on, spat on, even bitten, and I never developed it." "I know I'm immune, or close enough. You guys, I'm not so sure, especially if you've never encountered it before. All the more reason to stay back."
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Jul 8, 2007 04:08
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 7:53 A.M. Sir Reginald continues barking wildly from inside of the store, growling to a frothy fervor when the man advances before the canine retreats with a yelp and a whine on Jacob's arrival, relinquishing 'guard' of the situation to his human master. With a closer look of the man, Mike finds the dried black substance to look like a at which psheen of congealed and hardened blood, as if the man had sweat out his own and then baked in the sun afterwards. His coveralls sport a name tag with "Jack" written in a half-cursive sewn scrawl; from amidst the tears in his uniform, Mike sees that the man is extremely gaunt beneath the baggy garments, and looks as though he may have had conditions of starving for quite some time. Several yell back and forth, and the man continues his approach, stalled only momentarily by Mike's advance with crowbar in hand. Eerily, 'Jack' seems to register the wielding of the impromptu weapon, and is given brief pause--long enough for Mike to note that not only are the man's eyes empty sockets, but appear to have been bored out even broader than the original openings--largely, it seems, as if the flesh had been eaten away surrounding the ocular cavities after whatever hollowed them in the first place. As much as he aims to keep a bead on the man, Mike can't help but be distracted, ever so briefly as it is, by the talk between Brandon and Jacob--and in that window, 'Jack' lunges with a shriek, clawing at him. Mike is able to react in time to lean away from the blow, receiving a trio of gashes against his shoulder where three clawed fingertips find purchase. It is clear to Mike that the man was trying to reach for his eyes, instead. Further invitation certainly not necessary, a swing of the crowbar responds to 'Jack', which he ducks from, surprisingly spry on his feet! Shouting and chaos ensues in the next several seconds, each seeming to stretch on for minutes apiece. John nearly fumbles in his haste to cock and aim his rifle on the man, who tries once more to slash at Mike's face, who steps back fully from this blow--retorting with a frantic heavy swing of the crowbar. The blow lands with a loud crunch, right to the side of 'Jack's head, splintering a piece of skull off as casually as chipping a tooth and causing the man to reel. Dirt and gravel is kicked up, Sir Reginald barking furiously from within the store while the others are still rousing within. 'Jack' shrieks bloody murder, lunging for Mike in spite of his head wound, missing again as Mike backpedals away from him. Brandon scrambles to pull the .22 he picked up the day prior--and a shot rings out from John, but whizzes past the man without striking him. 'Jack' swings successfully against Mike, but misses his targeted slash--Mike's dodge of the blow isn't enough to avoid the swipe altogether, and he takes 2 hit points of damage. Mike swings wide, in response, but 'Jack' dodges by a fairly large margin, by which point John has cocked, and begun to aim his rifle for a clear shot. 'Jack' swings again at Mike, but misses this time as Mike is ready for the swing. John almost critically failed his shot, Brandon's slow reaction time has only gotten his revolver out at this point.
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Jul 8, 2007 04:37
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Raymond Oh God it's coming this is real I'm not having a nightmare I'm awake and this is real and it's horrible oh God... When he sees the figure through the opened door, Raymond pinches himself on his left forearm, a technique he's found is occasionally able to snap him out of his less horribe dreams, at least those in which he seems to even have a corporeal body. He feels an intense burst of pain as his fingernails meet, breaking the skin, and causing a small trickle of blood to appear at the sight. That hurt. This is real. "Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-poo poo!" he stammers, backing up into the garage. "Does anyb-body have a s-s-spare gun?" When he hears the words 'contagious' and 'extremely' used in such close proximity, he rushes back to his gear and jams his gasmask back onto his face, the straps tearing at his hair as he yanks it position without taking the time to adjust the fit. He turns around to see the man make a lunge at Mike, an act of obvious intent and aim. The world is broken. There's nothing left for us out there. We're doomed. It's like he's dead and walking, he's a living nightmare. "W-w-where the gently caress are his eyes?! How the gently caress is he still going after Mike?! Sh-sh-shoot him!" code:Mr. Horyd fucked around with this message at 05:33 on Jul 8, 2007 |
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Jul 8, 2007 05:02
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Jacob Jacob screams when "Jake" attacks. It is a moment until he can think again. When he does the hours of training and requalifying in the Marines kicks in. "Mike back up!" Dropping the staff he pulls the .357 and forms a Weaver stance he takes aim at the center of mass of "Jake" and as soon as he has a clear shot he will take it. code:
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Jul 8, 2007 05:20
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Mike O'Neill Mike grimaces in pain as the man's claws scrape his shoulder, only to have his mouth drop open as his second swing of the crowbar takes part of the guy's skull, but doesn't seem to slow him down. He hears the shouts of his companions and as he tries to duck away from the man, taking care not get between him and his friends, shouts frantically: "Ray, get my loving shotgun! Somebody loving shoot him!" Mike's getting the hell away from "Jack" and making sure the guys get a clear shot at him. He's either going to get the shotgun from the garage or Ray will get it for him. ST 11 DX 10 IQ 10 HT 12 HP 9/11 Will 10 Per 10 FP 11 Damage Thrust 1d-1 Swing 1d+1 Basic Speed 5.5 Basic Move 5 Dodge 8
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Jul 8, 2007 05:22
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Evan Douglas As oblivious in sleep as he is awake, if not moreso, Evan barely registers the dog's frantic barking before rolling over and falling asleep again. The shot and subsequent shouting manage to worm their way into his consciousness though, and his eyes snap open. Rising slowly he peeks outside, the .38 revolver in his hand. It takes him more than a few moments to take in the horrifying scene, and he doesn't react immediately. Evan sizes up the situation, but doesn't attempt to shoot unless the thing comes straight at him. code:
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Jul 8, 2007 09:22
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) Jacob's staff clatters to the gravel below, Mike stepping away from the man as quickly as he can. More shouting, with Sir Reginald wildly barking--adrenaline pours into your systems so thickly that things seem downright surreal. John fumbles desperately to ready another shot with the rifle, and another shot rings out when Brandon squeezes off a quick round with his .22 pistol--the shot goes wide, zipping where 'Jack' was a second ago--but the man is fast on his feet, too fast. The man wheels on Jacob and laughs a high-pitched squeal that makes your ears hurt, before lunging out--he manages to step back in time, but just barely, those clawed fingertips actually nicking the end of his revolver with a metallic tink. John tries to follow the man with his rifle, firing off another round--this zips past him and shatters one of the store's windows, cutting the air a hairsbreadth from Raymond's head inside. As 'Jack' lunges again at Jacob, his clawed fingertips find purchase, and he grabs at his elbows, squeezing, those claw tips sinking readily through fabric and flesh alike. Jacob feels his forearms tremble, and an awful turn of his stomach at the realization that this man might very well be about to pull his arms off. Sir Reginald slams into the man, jaws clamping down around his throat with a vicious snarl--and he lets go of Jacob's arms to claw wildly at the canine. This gives Jacob an opening, and with his arms feeling somewhat numb with what is doubtlessly shock, he still gets a shot off with his magnum nearly at point blank range. With a loud boom and the crack of shattering bones, a fount of blood and bone shards spatters out from 'Jack's back and onto the ground in a loose stream, several severed and destroyed veins twisting about pumping spurts of blood into the open air. He staggers, punctured heart spasming visibly to Jacob, whom for a fleeting moment could swear he saw something move by it before disappearing. 'Jack' gets hold of Sir Reginald, and hurls him off, the canine's body tumbling through the air before bouncing off of one of the gas pumps with a wet smack and spinning off into the gravel. He's still going! "Your eyes, your eyes, YOUR EEEEEEEEEEEEEYES!" he howls. Mike has an opening, and the shotgun at hand by now--and takes his shot. It clips the man in the shoulder, spinning him to face the store. He shrieks, charging the building, which prompts Evan to fire; the shot also hits him, but barely slows him down. Jacob, body gorged on adrenaline and all the more heightened by emotion for his dog, squares off his firing stance uninterrupted, and manages a nigh perfect shot into the man's back--a massive blow, again, this time shattering shoulder blades, severing his spine, and sending pieces of lung and his sternum spraying--a few scattered bits hitting Evan and Mike in the store. Still mid-stride, the man's knees wobble underneath him then go out, and he collapses to slide for a foot and a half before becoming still at the store's doorstep. His body spasms once, and his lips curl into a broad smile, before he ceases moving altogether. Dark blood begins to pool and run among the gravel now. Mike moves away from 'Jack' a fair distance; John begins to cock and aim his rifle again, and Brandon fires off a round but misses 'Jack' as well. He's fast! poo poo is he fast! 'Jack' takes a swing at Jacob, who just -barely- manages to avoid being hit. Mike/Raymond attempt to retrieve the shotgun, now that 'Jack' has abandoned pursuing Mike. John fires another round and misses again. Jacob steadies his stance, receives a grievous set of puncture wounds that threaten to sever his arms at the elbows, takes 4 points of damage, then fires squarely at 'Jack's chest in the opening Sir Reginald provides, dealing nearly max damage. 'Jack' shows Sir Reginald the exit. Mike/Raymond will have gotten Mike's shotgun in his hands and him into a firing position during the gap afterwards, while John struggles to prep another round. Mike hits a glancing shot, which somehow draws 'Jack's attention back to him. He charges the building, which gets Evan to fire and hit with a solid, but not particularly damaging shot. Jacob rolls a critical success to hit, and this time -does- roll max damage. That's all she wrote for 'Jack', who finally drops dead.
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Jul 8, 2007 14:56
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Brandon Brandon is still backpedaling awkwardly and pointing the puny revolver in the general direction of the assailant when he goes down. In his state of shock, it takes him a few seconds to realize that "Jack" has finally died for good, and that the danger is over. Once he does, though, old instincts and his training take over quite quickly. He thrusts his revolver, three rounds still remaining, into his pocket, and turns to face the others. "Jake, Mike. Sit down, backs against the wall. Keep your arms below your shoulders. Ray, go get my kit!" With kit in hand, Brandon goes to work, disinfecting the wounds with generous amounts of antiseptic solution before carefully checking for and removing any foreign debris from them and then dressing them with bandages. "Jesus Christ, guys, I'm sorry. I had no idea he'd attack us like that. I've...I've treated cerebrosus victims in the past but I've never seen them get that aggressive that quickly." He rubs his hand across his forehead, mopping up a few beads of sweat. "This is my fault. God, I'm so loving sorry. I never realized I would be a liability to the group like this." He continues rambling as he treats both Mike and Jacob. code:
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Jul 8, 2007 16:24
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Markson As the man falls, the shot to his back certanly finishing him, Markson begins to shake visibly and starts muttering uncontrollably. "Oh... oh lord... he's dead isn't he? Why'd he do it... why'd he try to kill us... I can't... I can't..." After finishing this monosyllabic phrase, Markson can't help but run to the corner of the store, puking, images of how the fight could have gone badly flashing through his head, the blood from the shots visualized in his head, how he fired off two shots and didn't hit anything, and in fact almost hit Ray on his second shot... After retching, he falls to the ground (not on the puke hopefully) twitching and shaking uncontrollably, muttering about the blood and fighting. ST 9 DX 11 IQ 14 HT 9 HP 8 Will 11 Per 14 FP 8 R. Skills: 13 - Guns - Rifles - TL8 Combat Paralysis, Post Combat Shakes
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Jul 8, 2007 19:52
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Brandon succeeds his preliminary bandaging, staunching the bleeding that Mike and Jacob are suffering and restoring 1 hit point of damage. Even with this, Mike will find the three gashes stinging quite badly. Brandon will also recognize that the wounds threaten to fester in very short order after the gashes. His application of copious antiseptic seems to drive this off, however. Brandon will want to apply antiseptic to such injuries as quickly as possible, in the future. Jacob's arms are throbbing with sharp pain, and his forearms feel partially numb and weak. By sheer luck no tendons seem to have been severed, but the ligaments and cartilage of his elbow joints have been damaged, and it is Brandon's assessment from his Physician experience that Jacob should avoid any heavy lifting or excessive strain on his arms until they have had time to fully heal--lest he potentially suffer permanent damage to his arm strength. John avoids landing on the puke, but he certainly smells it.
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Jul 8, 2007 22:05
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Mike O'Neill Mike sits back against the garage wall, breathing heavily with his hand on the bandages that Brandon has wrapped around his shoulder, and staring at the corpse outside. "Jesus loving Christ, Jesus loving Christ...", he mutters as his hand strays towards his face. He looks up at the others, who can see the horror and revulsion in his eyes. "He was going for my eyes! My loving eyes!" code:Captain Rehab fucked around with this message at 23:56 on Jul 8, 2007 |
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Jul 8, 2007 23:33
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Jacob Jacob in a daze lets Brandon work on him but then Sir Reginald's body comes into sight, "NOOOOO! Reggie!" Pushing anyone away he runs over to Reggie and hopes that his friend of so long now is still okay. Tears are already running freely down his face. "Reggie please be okay, come on boy. Reggie you gotta be okay boy." Jacob holds onto Reggie trying to check for a pulse. "Brandon please check on Reggie, please..."
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Jul 9, 2007 00:01
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Evan Douglas Once the corpse stops moving, curiosity overwhelms Evan and he stoops to examine it. "Hey Brandon, is this black stuff on him normal? It looks like dried blood. I wonder if he got caught out in the rain." Hearing Mike's agitated cries, Evan asks, "Yeah, what was he saying about his eyes? He said he could see you, Mike, but with what?" Evan rolls the corpse over with the toe of his boot and peers into the empty sockets. A chill runs up and down his spine. "It took quite a bit to bring this guy down. Do you think we're likely to encounter more cerebrosus victims Brandon? Maybe we should try to rig up some Molotov cocktails for defense. I think I saw some gas cans in the garage, did anyone check to see if they're still full?" After everyone calms down, Evan helps Mike bring the Taurus down. code:
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Jul 9, 2007 00:02
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 9:33 A.M. With 'Jack' well and truly dead, things become calm once more--but the lingering sense of dread is hard to shake in the aftermath of the attack. Sir Reginald is found with shallow breathing, a broken leg, and nearly a dozen deep scrapes and gashes from grinding along the gravel surface of the lot in his impact. Using a lot of gauze and several splints, he can be stabilized--but the canine won't be in fit condition for some time, and without proper veterinarian expertise treatment will be touch and go at best. Once he is no longer trying to maul you, 'Jack' still remains a grisly sight. Caked from head to toe with copious dried, blackened blood, the flesh beneath has been severely burned and warped in acid rains. His coveralls have a nearly 'bleached' appearance to them, though it has been covered over many times by dirt, grime, and filth in general. Not only are his fingertips exposed bony claws, but several other patches of his flesh have been eaten away to reveal the musculature and sinew beneath the epidermal layers--and by the visible tissue damage and tearing, he was likely operating without a sense of pain. There is a wallet in 'Jack's back pocket, revealing via a Michigan driver's license to be one Jack Simpson, 6ft 1in, with blue eyes and black hair. His date of birth is 7-14-1971, and his address places him in the small township east down the road. There is also $24 in cash, a credit card, and a series of family photos and portraits depicting his wife and two daughters. In his front pocket, keys are found, which you discover to match the locks of the gas station and the make and model of one of the rusted out vehicles in the lot. He is also wearing a Casio digital wristwatch. 'Jack's eyes are gone entirely, with no discernible inner workings left in the sockets. His figure is emaciated, what patches of skin remain have become tough and leathery, and the vast bulk of his internal fluids seem to have sweat through his pores with regularity. His teeth are broken and jagged, as if he had attempted to chew on a number of disagreeable materials which won out in tensile strength. With further examination, several open sores are found at various places on his body about the size of a quarter each. Three healed-over previous gunshot wounds are also found. With the hydraulics worked with directly, the Taurus is brought down successfully without damage to the vehicle. Since the keys are on hand, you unlock the car and pop the trunk in short order. Inside the vehicle there is some clutter on the floorboards--empty 20oz bottles, some papers, a Meijers plastic grocery bag. The glove-box contains a box of tissues and a container of moist sanitary wipes. In the trunk is a half-full jug of windshield washer fluid, a set of jumper cables, a portable jack and a spare tire. The Taurus could 'comfortably' seat five. Six and a dog would be rather cramped. It is 96 degrees Fahrenheit outside, with a predominantly clear sky.
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Jul 9, 2007 01:36
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Jacob Jacob can't think after he is told Reggie's injuries and how much care he will need. He sits there petting Reggie for a few minutes before slowly getting to his feet and picking Sir Reginald up as carefully as possible. Jacob stumbles around tot he back of the gas station and into the field behind it. Tears streaming down his face the entire time Jacob lays Reggie down on the ground and continues to pet him for a couple more minutes. He talks of the things they saw while traveling, the sporadic fun even while in the bunker. Eventually he is reduced to simply cycling, "Reggie I am so sorry. The world is so hosed up right now and there is no way we can take proper care of you boy. I'm sorry, may god have mercy on me." Jacob removes his shirt and after a particular good ear scratching he folds it and lays it over Sir Reginald's head, taking the .357 he puts it close and fires a round through the poor dog's brain. "AAAAAAAAAAAAA drat IT! WHY?! Damnit such a good dog." Jacob walks in a daze back to the garage to find a shovel or even the crow bar. He will dig a grave for Sir Reginald a few feet deep so the acid rain won't immediatley get to him. The rest of the day Jacob is pretty worthless. If asked to do something specific he will go about it without complaint or comment and once completed he will sit back down on his sleeping bag rolling one of Reggie's tennis balls back and forth infront of him. His wounds don't matter to him, it takes Brandon's insistance that they be cared for before anything is done with them. Tindjin fucked around with this message at 05:02 on Jul 9, 2007 |
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Jul 9, 2007 04:59
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Mike O'Neill After pulling himself together, Mike walks quickly over to the body and kicks it, more in anger than to check if its dead. He stands motionless as Jacob comes back from doing what needed to be done, wanting to go over and say some sympathetic words, but not knowing exactly what. Hell of a thing to have to kill your own dog, and the little fella probably saved our asses by barking like that. Regardless, he has the overpowering urge to leave. "Guys, I think we should hit the road pretty drat soon. It'll be a drat tight squeeze in that car, but I'll be hosed if I'm staying around to see if there's anymore of these assholes creeping about." He turns to Brandon and says, "Reckon you could fill us in a little more on what the hell was wrong with that bastard while we're travelling? Cerebrosus, or whatever? The more we know the better, if there's going to be more of them."
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Jul 9, 2007 06:11
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Markson Markson continued lying on the floor uncomfortably twitching until he heard the gunshot go off, at which he looks up, thinking that maybe another came, hoping that maybe a car just backfired or something. When he sees Sir Reginald and figures out what happened, John is thrown into shock. "Oh... oh God..." What... what's happening to us? Markson thinks to himself. This isn't how I imagined it turning out at all... I thought that we'd just go gallivanting around the world, find a few survivors, set up a camp, and generally not have it go so badly once we got out, with the exception of occasional groups of raiders to pass the time. We... we're really boned arn't we? This isn't going to turn out like the stories at all is it? We're going to wander around this wilderness until we die at the hands of more people like Jack here... Markson then attempts to shake these thoughts out of his head. I can't think like that, I just can't. Stay positive. Stay positive. "Be... before we leave, we should bury him shouldn't we? He lived with us for a year and was just a part of this group like everyone else wasn't he? He saved our lives, we should do something for that!" ST 9 DX 11 IQ 14 HT 9 HP 8 Will 11 Per 14 FP 8
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Jul 9, 2007 06:18
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Mike O'Neill Mike nods at Markson and picks up the spade trench shovel he took from the bunker. He walks over with Jacob, arm around his shoulder, to where Reggie lays and they dig a grave for him. He'd been going to Church for the first sixteen years of his life, but has no memory of anything to say over the dead, so he says the words that made no sense to him when his mother said them over his father's grave. Something Irish, his mother had said, that meant she would miss him, and he'd memorized them even though he didn't understand them. "Tá daoine a shiúlann inár saolta agus shiúlann amach astu go luath, Tá daoine a fhanann ar feadh tamaill, Agus fágann siad rianta a gcos ar ár gcroíthe, Agus casann ár n-anamacha port nua go deo deo." Mike looks at Jacob when he's done and shrugs apologetically. He hopes Jacob begins to feel better soon as he walks back towards the garage, because he has the feeling things will get much worse. He can only think of another Irish thing his mother had said to him as a child. Part of a poem, in English, and one that had scared him. And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? "I say we get the gently caress out of here." Captain Rehab fucked around with this message at 07:01 on Jul 9, 2007 |
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Jul 9, 2007 06:56
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Markson "Mike, I don't know what that was, but it was beautiful. Perfect words to memoralize Reggie." Markson wipes a tear from his eye watching it, turning away, while in a monotone voice, states that "we really should be going now. The gunfire alone will probably attract more of them, or maybe looters looking for a quick item or two." Then, in a slightly more enthusiastic tone, realizes something hasn't been done yet. A sacred rite of men that has existed since the stagecoach, and one that Markson never won before. Turning around quickly, he calls out one simple word. "Shotgun!" ST 9 DX 11 IQ 14 HT 9 HP 8 Will 11 Per 14 FP 8
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Jul 9, 2007 07:06
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Blackbird Dreams - (Chapter 1) June 21st, 12:26 P.M. Sir Reginald nuzzles Jacob's hand weakly, and after a wrenching silence, is mercy killed. There is no question that the canine had saved him from a horrific maiming--nor the group a rude awakening amidst dead companions. However, putting him down serves only to further punctuate the overarching message of the morning, that the world has grown to be a very cruel, very dangerous place. Inside the garage, the Taurus requires a bit of mechanical know-how to get the engine to turn over, but after cleaning up the spark plugs and re-securing the battery, the sedan's ignition pulls through. It has 64,278 miles on it, and a little over half a tank of gas at present. The radio works, in a manner of speaking--receiving a lot of test signals and dead wave static. Opening the garage door proves to be a tricky undertaking, as the mechanism has jammed and corroded extensively. Ultimately, it is easier to demolish the rusted shutter door's rails with the aid of blunt instruments and muscle, allowing you to peel the sheeted gate away sufficiently to pass the car out. In an afterthought, you also notice the Taurus has a sun roof. Everyone receives 2 character points. Tindjin receives an additional character point. The Taurus 'should' be good for roughly 112 miles before it requires more gasoline. GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at 07:11 on Jul 9, 2007 |
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Jul 9, 2007 07:08
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Evan Douglas Wiping his hands on his fatigue pants, Evan closes the hood of the Taurus. "Try 'er now Mike!" he calls to Mike, sitting in the drivers seat. The engine sputters to life. Looking at the gas gauge, Evan strokes his beard. "The Taurus was never too good on gas mileage. We'd need a Festiva or better yet, a bike to really cover some ground. We should pack all the juice we can get out of this place before we leave." Evan starts looking around for jerrycans and the like, completely forgetting about the pumps outside.
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Jul 9, 2007 08:13
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Markson Markson helps to look for cans, and also a nice length of rubber tubing in case they find a better mileage car and need to siphon the tank.
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Jul 9, 2007 08:18
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Raymond After Jack attacked the gas station, and then finally fell dead in front of him to more accuratly match his appearance, Raymond had simply walked back into the garage, sat back down on the tool bench, pulled out a notebook, and started to write. He flinched when the gunshot escorted Sir Reginald out of this world, but otherwise was obvlivious to everything but paper and pen. He puts his fresh writing down on the bench when the Taurus rumbles into activity, and walks over to Evan. Driving down the open highway, the passengers laughed nervously as they raced toward the city, the clouds chasing them as though they were guided by malicious intent. When the rain began to hit the car, they grew deathly silent, and only the sound of the rubber seals around the sunroof accompanied the raindrops spattering against the windshield. "W-we should try to seal the sunroof with something; I h-h-had a friend with one of these, and the th-thing leaked like nothing else."
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Jul 9, 2007 11:38
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Mike O'Neill Mike adjusts the driver's seat in the car as the others go about their business. "Guess I'm driving", he says to nobody, allowing himself a a small smile - the first one, he thinks, he's had in what seems like days. "We can probably just duct tape one of the ponchos over it for the time being", he says to Raymond, "See how that holds up." He thinks for a second or two and then says in a louder voice, to the group at large, "Say, guys, where are we headed, anyhow? Can't say we'd make it all the way to Detroit or Grand Rapids in this piece of poo poo, not with what's in the tank. But Battle Creek isn't too far from here." He pauses again before saying, "I'm not too sure it's a good idea to go roaring into town, six of us packed in a car like this. Best bet would be to stop a couple of miles outside and walk ourselves in, try not to attract the attention of anymore of those loving things."
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Jul 9, 2007 11:51
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Outside, the pumps are long inoperable; if they weren't already ancient -and- rusted completely through, the fuel reservoir has been tapped dry by opportunist motorists long ago. You'll be able to find several lengths of rubber tubing which actually was intended for precisely the design you have for such, in the garage. Four more empty gas cans are found inside the garage. If nothing else, the Taurus has decently large trunk space. Should you favor the idea of returning to the shelter, your trip downhill had encountered quite a few points where the vehicle just plain would not be able to traverse, between downed pines and the enormous sinkhole you had encountered previously.
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Jul 9, 2007 13:38
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Brandon Gray "That sounds like a good idea, I guess." Brandon says, somewhat flatly, as he helps the others load the car and use one of the ponchos as an impromptu reinforcement for the sunroof. "I used to live in Battle Creek." He is still shocked from the results of the attack by "Jack," and nearly jumped out of his skin when Jacob's gunshot rang out. Despite feeling personally responsible for Sir Reginald's death and the injuries of the others, he is determined to shake off his moping impulses as best he can. "If, uh, if we do go into town, though," he continues, to no one in particular, "I can't say for sure how many other "active victims" we might run into. I've seen thousands of people die from cerebrosus, and all but a few of them were less advanced cases than he had. If it's somehow turning people into," Brandon hesitates, not really wanting to embrace the absurd reality of it despite the earlier antlion incident, "zombies, or something like that, there's no telling how many of them might be in even a small town like Battle Creek. But we should be able to tell if there's a lot of them well before we're in real danger, and the car should be good enough to escape in at least once."
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Jul 9, 2007 13:49
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Markson "The small township is only about 7 miles away from here right? We could drive 5 miles or so towards it, and I have these wonderful rangefinders, we could do a binoc scan of the area before walking completely into it. I doubt the wisdom of driving into an inhabited area as well, but we should shave off whatever we can get. A small town might give us a good idea to the extent of the problem while being fairly controllable in the event of a fuckup as well." This is all said as Markson throws his siphon tubes into the trunk of the car, while sliding into the shotgun seat, and attempting to find a way to sit down which is somewhat comfortable and allows quick rifle access. You never know when you'll need the drat thing, especially with all these proto-zombies running amok. ST 9 DX 11 IQ 14 HT 9 HP 8 Will 11 Per 14 FP 8 R. Skills: 13 - Guns - Rifles - TL8 Combat Paralysis Wutasumi fucked around with this message at 14:43 on Jul 9, 2007 |
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Jul 9, 2007 14:13
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