Realistic or Modern 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 — at the end of the world

[Namazu]

On The Road​

Weston breathed a short sigh of relief when Casey accepted the peace offering and took the radio. Now they could finally get a move on and get out of this deathtrap - just in time too, it was closing in too tightly around them all. That approaching third bike brought some relief too when he realized it was a medic, and not yet another angry gun. How many people did these guys have, anyway? It was worrisome… and they all had bikes… even more worrisome. Weston swallowed down a growing fear that was crawling around in his stomach. Now was not the time or place to be letting his imagination run away with the worst thoughts. Weston briefly put a hand over Dave’s dog tags that dangled around his neck, under his shirt.

“Alright, everyone out of the truck, squeeze into the others. Sit on someone’s goddamn lap if you need to, we’re getting out of here.” Weston called out as he grabbed his gear and hopped out, leaving the truck’s door open behind him. It didn’t matter anymore if the cab filled with smoke - he was abandoning it here, with its shredded tires and likely major damage from the crash that Connor was certainly seeing as he assessed the damage up front. Walking behind the truck, he banged on the side of the truck bed with his fist. “Come on Gunderson, you too, get moving.”

Weston raised an eyebrow at their stray, Elizabeth, who had now flinched herself a gun off one of his dead men. Any other day he might have backed her into a corner, grabbed it from her, and struck her with it on the assumption she had something to do with the deaths. Obviously though, she did not. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to protect herself in the middle of all this. Not that he trusted her, but this wasn’t the time to argue.

“You get in too. More than you bargained for, I know, but you’ll at least get out.” He pointed to the line of vehicles. She could take her pick. Holstering his weapon, Weston moved between the vehicles and gave a sharp whistle to get the newly-arrived medic’s attention.

“This one’s unlocked.” Weston motioned to the second vehicle. Luckily this older Ram pickup truck had a topper on the back, anyone who climbed inside wouldn’t be stuck out in the smoke. Also lucky was the fact they weren’t hauling anything. It’d still be a cramped ride, but better than going it on foot.

Weston jogged over to the third truck. This vehicle was down two people already - not that anyone would have complained about having the Second in Command tell them to move over. The man in the driver’s seat, mask up over his mouth and nose, wordlessly moved out of the seat so Weston could climb in.

The sudden flash of fire and light in the rearview mirror, and the telltale whoosh of something catching on fire, made Weston flinch. Glancing up into his mirrors, he saw the final truck in their line up go up in flames. A truck that had been full of men when they’d left the prison. He hadn’t heard any shouting before it went up in flames. There was a good chance the guys inside hadn’t seen that coming. Judging by how completely engulfed the vehicle was, they were either already dead, or wishing they were dead.

“Fuck.” Weston muttered under his breath. Just as he reached for the keys in his vehicle, ready to start it up again, he heard Casey shout. No keys meant either someone had knocked them out, or someone had pocketed them. Whoever that someone was might be one of the dead now.

Hand on the ignition, Weston paused a moment. They could easily just leave the strangers here and let them figure it out on their own, start up the truck, make sure his own people were inside, and get the hell out. Or - particularly because their people were already at the school - they could do something to help.

“Fuck!” He grumbled again, smacking his fist against the steering wheel as he hopped out of the vehicle and scrambled for the nearest recently-dead body. Hadn’t this guy been in the second vehicle? Maybe he had the keys.

“We’re not staying to fight! That is the most fuckin’ dumb-as-shit plan I have ever heard!” Weston shouted at Casey. “Look a little goddamn harder for those keys! You two, help out!” Weston shouted to the other two Samaritans that were in the truck he just claimed, and they obediently joined in on the search - one of them searching the ground near the second pickup truck. He pawed through the corpse’s pockets, turning them inside-out, dumping out lint, gum, chapstick, and other random useless shit. No keys yet. What fucking clown managed to lose keys?

Weston wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or scared shitless when suddenly a pair of headlights emerged out of the smoke, and a large van roared through - making paste out of several biters. He watched as the van plowed over the mass, bounced a bit over the new speed-bumps, and roll to a stop. There was one very pissed-off and determined woman behind the wheel, and a much younger man hopping out with a shotgun. He didn’t know either of them, so he assumed they were with the other strangers.

More importantly, they had another vehicle. One that worked. And had keys. It was also a very interesting, important, and useful tidbit of information to know one among the strangers was their boss. Hopefully it wasn’t the meat popsicle. That wouldn’t be a good look for the Samaritans, running over another group’s leader.

Weston could have hugged them both.

“One of your guy’s is injured, you need to get them out, and we’ll be right behind you.” Weston lowered his rifle, making sure it was not at all aimed at the younger man with the shotgun as he called out, standing up and giving up the search for keys.

Weston was just about to try and flag the kid down in the smoke, to point towards where he last saw meat popsicle and the medic, when a crack of a gunshot echoed out from behind him. Weston slammed into the side of his truck, sliding to his knees as he dropped his rifle and clutched the left side of his torso. Red slowly bloomed over his fingers as he held his side, cussing a colorful string of nonsense as he reached up, grabbed onto the truck door handle, and pulled it open.

“What the fuck did you do that for?!” One of the Samaritan men yelled at his compatriot, the two men Weston ordered out of the truck to search for keys. The second man had his handgun still pointed and ready, though his arms shook.

“We’re not going to keep losing time and to help these fuckers! He’s crazy if he thinks these assholes are worth it!” The second man shouted before panicking, taking several steps backwards before blindly stumbling into the arms of a hungry wandering biter. The screaming and thrashing of the man as the undead bit into his neck went ignored by Weston.

Weston gave it a moment as he started the truck up to see if anyone else in his group was hopping into the truck to come with him. He was very much done with this. He was going. He was getting out of this burning hellhole, getting the fuck outta’ Dodge, and heading to where he needed to be. The pain in his side burned and screamed, but he pushed through it - because fuck this place.

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia Miaow SlaughterMelon Crono Aegis Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool ​

 

[Namazu]

NORTHVIEW
Outside - Team Hilltop​

Fish glanced over his shoulder briefly to make sure Auguste was still behind him, giving the older man a quick motion to indicate which direction he was going to ride - along with anyone else that chose to follow him. The plan he came up with - by the seat of his pants, right in the moment - was to do a half-arc around the school, and scope out the place. He’d certainly pick up some dead ones that way. There looked to be too many for it to be a good idea to try and scoop them all away at once himself. He did intend on living through this, after all.

Conserving his ammo until he really needed it, Fish kept a tight grip on his gun as he approached the school. It was a depressing sight: the undead were crowding around the school, sometimes a half-dozen deep or more, clamoring for a place to squeeze through and get inside. Windows, doors, everything - all were weak spots. There was even a pair pawing at an eave spout until it fell off the side of the building. He couldn’t tell if any of these entrances were boarded up from this distance or speed. There were certainly a few spots that weren’t barricaded, judging by the way undead were staggering inside. They were damn lucky the dead were stupid, otherwise the entire horde would have noticed the first opening and poured through at once.

Fish kept an eye on where Connor had gone for as long as he could, catching out of the corner of his eye as she skidded into the crowd somewhere. He hoped that was on purpose. Watching her disappear and losing track of her worried him, but he couldn’t stop and try and help - he had to keep moving. Distracting some of the dead wouldn’t work if he stopped now.

The sound of rapid, high-powered gunfire had him ducking closer to his handlebars, grimacing as he hoped the guy manning that weapon knew what he was doing, and could aim it. The last thing he needed was to get shredded while trying to help. How the hell did people at a school of all things wind up with one of those? Were there military people holed up in there?

Admittedly, he was doing this on the worry there were kids and families inside, not a bunch of military jarheads that could fend for themselves. He’d be salty if he was wrong - but that was a worry for later.

Fish scooted past the school, music blaring, and thankfully the music was doing a good job of catching the biters’ attention. He was going just slow enough that he wouldn’t be a passing blip on the radar of the dead, and it was working. Groups of biters at a time were shuffling away from the school, following Fish’s team.

Fish made a half-arc around the school until he had a solid number of undead trailing behind him, successfully pulled away from the school. Fish let out a laugh and a whoop as he curved away from the school, picking a direction to lead the dead.

Time to ride off and find a place to dump these bastards.

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia @Miao SlaughterMelon Crono Aegis Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool ​

 

[Good_Morels]

NORTHVIEW - outskirts​

On The Road


"Fuck, you've got to be joking" Kit asked, his voice filled with exasperation. There wasn't time to debate it, or even time to think really as his training kicked in. He shoved Wes into the passenger seat as gently as possible before ripping open his med kit and quickly bandaging the shrapnel in the biker's leg tight and still. "I'll get to the rest of you as soon as I can." He promised before shutting the door and drawing his pistol simultaneously. He felt a sheen of sweat cover his skin, a flash of panic and then- Nothing. There wasn't time to be afraid, he needed to be numb.

It was as if he never came home, the road fading to a flaming desert as he put a bullet through the skull of the nearest enemy, and then one through the chest of the next. The sudden spattering of the unit closest to them was unexpected, but a welcome blessing considering they were surrounded. The moment the van stopped, Kit swung the truck door open and pulled Wes from the cover, shouldering his body weight with one arm while providing cover fire with the other. Ducking around the side where Cris was actively firing, he forced his patient in the back of the van. "I've got more wounded, Guidry's thata way, we're takin 'em to Northview, they're gonna need us." he gestured vaguely for the key-less truck before shouting at Casey. "Meat wagon's here! Get your asses moving!" He punctuated his statement by filling another hostile's mouth with lead and reloading. He didn't register whatever the other soldier said, it was probably the same shit, but he did absolutely notice when he fell over. "God damn it, we've got more hostiles" He growled. He watched the enemy soldier's companion come up behind him. Without a second thought, he put a flurry of bullets through each one of them.

With the most recently wounded soldier climbing into a technical, Stryker just had to hope he would be alright. He couldn't remember how many other medics were in this unit, but if he was the only one left alive he'd see him sooner or later. He couldn't find it in him to care. He climbed into the van and turned his attention on Weston. "Stay with me soldier, we're gonna get you out of here. Odds are you're going home with that leg." He grinned, digging through his med kit. Still no fucking morphine, he could've sworn this whole damn war was funded on donations. "Think about that, you got a family to go home to?" He asked as he scanned the soldier for any more major bleeding. He was thankful the rest of the red looked superficial. "Lucky boy, you even kept your legs." Very lucky for what was probably an explosive- 'No, car accident, it was a car accident...' He furrowed his brow, confused for a moment. 'there's no fucking time for this shit. Who gives a damn what happened?'

He turned his attention back to gently tracing the soldier's chest with his hand. "Ribs are broken, I'm just going to assume you have a concussion, they're more likely to send you home if you do." He explained. Whoever was working the hospital would treat the man now that he was stable, it was just a matter of getting there.

[/B]

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia Miaow SlaughterMelon Crono Aegis Namazu Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool ​

 

[Safton]

​

On the Road to Northview...
The Convoy​

Wesley didn't need to be told twice as their Second-in-Command gave the order to "un-ass" the -- frankly now-useless -- truck and find space in one of the others. The pragmatist in Emmett's brain found pleasure in the fact that, luckily, they had already lost an Enforcer or two in the rigs behind them during this clusterfuck, meaning there might actually be room for the rest of them. He pushed the thoughts away, knowing that he should feel guilty for thinking that way... but he couldn't bring himself to.

Instead he simply forced the driver's side door open and lumbered out on heavy feet, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs before reaching back into the cab to grab his rifle and sling it securely against his chest. "Move your asses," he hissed to the other former occupants. His eyes settled briefly (and imploringly) on Dutchess and he allowed himself the indulgence of a small gesture with his head toward the idling trucks behind them, signaling for her to follow his lead. He took only a few steps before he paused, the corner of his lip curling at the sight of a small group of approaching biters ambling through the trees, too close for comfort. Wes brought his rifle to bear, flicking the safety off in the same practiced motion as he sighted down the tube mounted atop his weapon. He brought the hazy red dot -- like an angry pimple -- over the nose of the nearest ghoul, centering it and holding. He attempted to account for its lumbering gait as he slowly took the slack out of the trigger with a steady, soft squeeze until finally the rifle bucked ever so lightly against his shoulder.

The crack was muffled by the muffs he wore over his ears, but the result was anything but muffled as the corpse tumbled gracelessly to the ground, forming an obstacle that those behind it ultimately tripped over to form a writing undead heap of tangled limbs. Under any other circumstance with anyone other than Wes, it might have been vaguely humorous. But Emmett simply grunted in satisfaction, safing his weapon and letting it hang before walking on toward the trucks with another backwards glance to see if he was being followed by the others. He arrived at the truck he thought Weston might have chosen -- it was, after all, at least ostensibly his job to help keep him safe. None of the Enforcers offered so much as a peep of protest as he clambered into the bed, his skin crawling with anxiety and a desire to get off this godforsaken stretch of road.

NanLia Namazu Aegis Togy joshiebee Bullyboy Squad Fluffy-Kat BeyondDandy Good_Morels​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

OUTSIDE
collab with Miaow and Tool
​

Cabrera's world reduced to feral violence. There was nothing but the wet squelch of his knife. The crunch of shattering bone. The guttural moans of the biters. Until he noticed that one of the figures in the thinning crowd moved with passion. He sharply exhaled as a heatwave of realization went through him. That was the same biker he thought was dead. Did that mean that Heawon was-

Ignacio caught movement from the corner of his eye and took a step back to get out of the creature's way. But a stray arm snagged his boot, and he tumbled backwards, landing his ass in the filth. The monster was about to lunge at him but its rotten skull got punctured.

Cabrera's gaze shot upward towards the shooter. There she was. Heawon. Saving him like he saved her earlier. He couldn't help a little curl of his lips. But the man didn't have time to relish in relief, he had to get the fuck up.

Haewon pulled away from the scope to reload, fumbling with the magazine. She had to be a little impressed with herself that she'd gotten a hit on a target so far away, and without hitting Cabrera in the process.

Madison had very mixed feelings upon seeing the gunner alive. On the one hand, hooray! An Alive Guy. On the other, if he was HERE that meant something was probably wrong with the gun. Pity. She'd been looking forward to seeing more zed-heads get shredded into wet confetti, whether by her own hand or his. If this had been a movie, she might have reached out a hand to help him up and said something like 'Come with me if you want to live' or an equally dramatic catchphrase to let the peanut gallery know that things were going to be okay, now.

This wasn't a movie.

He was a grown-ass man and (presumably) perfectly capable of getting to his feet on his own. Instead, Connor gave the guy on the ground some breathing room from the clutch of dead that were stumbling hungrily forwards by drawing the sawed-off from her back. It was clearly a custom job, with a pistol grip that would have been more at home on a flintlock and a bayonet that came off the bottom, firmly bolted into place. Madison took two swift, half-jogged steps forwards and jammed the blade into the closest zombie's throat, then manhandled him left like a pig on a poke, forcing it to walk just a few steps before letting loose with a blast that severed head from neck and took out the NEXT zombie on Madison's shit list. A twofer.

When the third dead stumbled over the bodies of his brethren to get to the food, delicious food, the woman was quick to move forwards and shift her grip on the gun ever so slightly to ram the bayonet up and through the soft palate, hard palate, and into the brain above. The strange-looking grip made the motion an easy one.

Having a moment at last, she turned to the gunner and asked the most salient question on her mind: "No big gun?"

Heawon watched Cabrera and the biker, laid on her stomach to get a more stable shot. Something white was slowly descending upon them, hovering over the horde. She leaned into her scope, squinting.

"What the hell..." She murmured. Something hung from the bottom of it, tied to the main body with a strong. Her eyes widened.

"CABRERA!" She yelled, leaning up to fill her lungs with as much air as she could, "DRONE!"

She dropped back down, taking a shot at it. The bullet wizzed past the propellers, missing the plastic body of it entirely.

Ignacio reached the stranger's position, about to respond to her question when they heard the girl holler from behind the biker. Heat surged through his body as he saw black letters sprayed across the bottom of Haru's drone. CABRERA.

His brows furrowed in confusion before with a gut-wrenching jolt he spotted what it was carrying. Without missing a heartbeat, Ignacio hurled himself at the woman. Pinning her back down in between two parked vehicles. His hard frame thrust into the front of her body right when an earsplitting blast of fire and shrapnel burst in the air.

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia Miaow SlaughterMelon Crono Aegis Namazu Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool ​

 

[Tool]

Northview
Outside​

Madison kept a wary eye out as the man got to his feet, but then a voice called out, muffled on account of her helmet but still audible, even if the word in particular was a mushy blur. Still, there was no mistaking the look of raw terror in the man's eyes as he looked behind and above Madison's head. Her first thought, her very first wild, bizzare thought, was that zombies had learned how to fly and they could all give their asses a nice fat kiss goodbye. When she began to turn, however, the sight of a plastic toy-death-thing made her frown. What in the nine circles of Hell was that?

With an expression not unlike a bulldog being made to watch a professional production of The Nutcracker, Madison had just enough time to cock her head to one side and then get knocked right the fuck off her feet. She landed on her back, the breath forced out of her lungs with a grunt thanks to the gunner's not inconsiderable weight on her chest, and then the world exploded.

The ringing in her ears would have been a lot worse if it wasn't for her helmet, but the body atop her had become quite limp, having shielded her pretty much entirely from the blast. Brown eyes blinked a few times, ready to call the gunner a corpse and put a safety bullet into his temple, but his breath fogged her faceplate where he'd mashed his face into it.

Alive, then. Awesome.

Fucking robots?! Really?!

Was she having a stroke?

Was this what having a stroke felt like?

No, wait, there was a thing, she'd heard of these things: drones. Like the ones in the military that dropped bombs, except smaller and pre-teen sized and, apparently, also very capable of making with the kaboom.

Okay. Great. Drones. One more thing got added to Connor's ever growing list of potential threats, even as she got a better look at the still-breathing. He had a few bits of shrapnel sticking out of his back, though the largest by far was planted in his left butt cheek like a flag. With a certain no-nonsense efficiency, Connor slid him off of her so the shards wouldn't get pushed further in and got to her feet. There were still wandering dead, still dangers, but Saints of Rust and Dust the roar of bikes was gradually drawing the zombies away.

Okay. Also great. Madison didn't really hesitate before reloading her shotgun and hoisting o'll shrapnel butt into a fireman's carry. Time to go. Fury that she'd almost gotten offed by a kid's fucking toy propelled her forward, one hand holding the man's right wrist next to his knee while his other thwapped against her thigh with her every step.

Stupid fucking world didn't have enough evil in it, now assholes were adding to the experience with fucking kid's toys?! What was next? Cannibalistic teddy bears? Razorblade yo-yos? Blam, went Connor's shotgun, wielded one handed but shotguns didn't need pinpoint accuracy. Holding the self-sacrificing man aloft and the shotgun made things awkward enough, so she gave the nearest door some nice, swift kicks.

"Special delivery! Got gun-guy! Open the fuck up!" Poisoned Nerf guns? Pool noodles that were really venomous snakes in fucking disguise? Water balloons, but with spiders?

Madison made a mental note to thank the man later as the Very Special Package was dropped from one set of arms to a far stronger pair. Assuming thanker and thanked both lived. Then, she went right back to finding and killing dead people that needed to be reminded of the proper way of things.

Bullyboy Squad Miaow ​

 

[Aegis]

On the road...
TW: gore, PTSD​

Recoil bounced back through Connor's arms as he levelled his pistol down the road and ripped back the trigger at a group of infected wandering in from in front of them. The first round impacted against a former police officer's jawbone and left it hinging from the opposite side before The Soldier fired again and hit center of the forehead in a rain of skull and gray matter, yet one dead infected in a sea of many was no progress whatsoever. It was becoming clearer by the second via the screams and gunshots that were overtaking even the pop and roar of a dying forest that the situation was becoming untenable-- that much they all knew. However, as Weston frantically searched for their ride even among the fallen Samaritan guards it seemed that he was having trouble.

It didn't matter. Weston knew the trucks and the overall situation much better than he did, so he just needed to do what he always did and hold the line. Rounds dug through the dried-up corpses of the dead as they shambled forward toward the stuck convoy with the same fearless, careless advance that had haunted everyone who was unfortunate enough to still be alive since the first moment they saw it. Connor slung his handgun to the side and shot at a trio of them with an ever-increasing pace as adrenaline flooded his veins, his breathing ragged and heavy, his body twitching in a hyper-aggressive response to stimuli-- his brain preparing him for the fight to come. In a matter of seconds, The Man emptied eight rounds into the burning infected as they parted the curtain of flames and staggered into the road; each round eliciting a puff of smoke and embers from the corpses. Two were stopped with stray rounds hitting their torsos, but the third continued forward until Connor felt the slide lock back with an audible clink; the infected kept coming despite his newfound helplessness. Their dark, swaying forms in the light, the screams-- if there was a hell this was surely what it looked like.

"Fuck--"

The Soldier was out of ammo. It's not like Weston had given him much more than the sidearm he was currently clutching in his hands and he had been fearful to take more in front of a bunch of people who were his prison guards-- his captors, but survival undeniably came first in this circumstance. Connor spun around and reached into the still-open door of the ruined truck searching for any other weapons; guns and ammo scattered the floor and seats from the previous crash, so The Soldier was spoiled for choice could he just find what ammo went with what weapon. Time burning down as flaming attackers collapsed in on their position from all sides, he went for what was familiar, a .223 rifle somewhat similar to his M4 from way back when. Fortunately, it already had what was likely a full mag inside and a few extras on the floor pre-loaded in all their ass-kicking glory.

Connor wrenched it free from the pile of equipment and turned back to face the infected which was now just a few meters away as he jammed it out of the door and fired three rounds wildly into it from his hip. The first impacted his lower throat, the second just under the chin, and the third whiffed to the right of its head into the distance. However, the damage was already done and the creature's head rolled free from its shoulders-- skin stretching like over-dried beef jerky before snapping in two. Connor leapt up from his slumped position in the seat of the car and set up on the side of the door in order to engage the group coming in from the front, but headlights gleamed in through the distance. A van crashed through a line of the dead before people dismounted and began shooting.

Taking the moment of respite, Connor sunk back into the truck and snatched what looked like a belt for construction tools. The Soldier hastily collected the spare .223 mags from the floor and stuck them into pouches and slots that definitely weren't intended for them alongside his empty pistol. Screams erupted from the back side of the convoy prompting Connor to turn on heel to survey what was happening, a vehicle suddenly swallowed by the flames. He froze.

The screams weren't from inside the vehicle-- they were outside. Screams of terror, horror, surprise. Nobody could hear the occupants, and perhaps they were already dead. Nobody could hear them-- except Connor. Their screams were in his mind a loud as they could possibly be. They were in his veins as a chill overtook him even when surrounded by the roaring inferno. They were in his hands as they shook with the building flood of anxiety pooling in his heart. They were coming from his lungs as his breathing sped from heavy to frantic hyperventilation. The Soldier's eyes fell to his bandaged hands that clutched the unsteady rifle and somehow saw through them to the ugly, ruined form underneath-- they had never healed the same. Connor couldn't remember what the cold strength of a firearm felt like in his grip, what the sensation of cloth was between his fingers, and he feared what would happen if he held Chloe's hand. It was almost as if his own arms had been taken by the flames-- he remembered the tingle, the searing itch. His arms buzzed randomly at times with such a ferocity that he just wanted to double over on himself and curl up until they stopped their silent wailing, but he never had the time afforded to him to do that; more than a few of the glasses at Chloe's bar had been dropped on his behalf when suddenly his nerves started acting up again, that aching pulse like he was burning all over again.

Suddenly, a bubble of flames burst from around where the vehicle had disappeared and rounds cooked off sending bullets flying wildly through the middle of the convoy-- one of them skidding off the top of truck just behind Connor with a sharp crack and the squeal of metal. It was just like that time. The world around him seemed to grown dark except the dull orange impression of flames as The Soldier slumped back against the door of the truck. Everything seemed to big, too wild to control. What was he supposed to do? What--

He let out a whimper as another stray bullet from the wreck impacted off the concrete in close enough proximity to make The Soldier jump. Connor was transported back to that day.

​

Knock. Knock. Connor felt the stock of his M4 rock back into his shoulder.

Knock. Knock. The sound a body made as it hit and bounced from the ground.

Knock. Knock. Trying again and again to kick open a door.

Knock. Knock.

Knock. Knock.

Knock. Knock.

The dark of Connor's vision parted ways across the center of his eyes as they opened to see the hand-mic dangling from the radio mount and knocking in a pendulum swing against the console. He was laying with his back against the TC side door; somehow, the Humvee had flipped onto its side in a stroke of wild luck. It wasn't good luck, but it was some kind of luck nevertheless. The Sergeant was unstrapped with his legs kicked up backward through the snapped back of his seat and into the back. Fortunately, it seemed none of his limbs were pointing in particularly the wrong way despite the terrible throbbing across his entire body.

Connor's eyes focused in on the man above him, Torres-- the driver. Flames licked through the broken windshield where glass had once been bathing the man its flickering embrace. Most the man's uniform had burnt away along with his skin, but a flesh ridden being dangled lifelessly from the seat held in only by the seatbelt. Actually, lifeless wasn't it. There was a deliberate push in the body's outstretched arms as fingers hungrily reached out toward him trapped just inches from his face by the belt-- Torres was alive; well, at least, there was something driving his meatsuit, a terrible hunger. The thing swayed in the embrace of the seatbelt as it let out a croak of excitement at Connor's sudden consciousness. It redoubled its efforts to reach its dazed meal to no avail.

A realization crept upon The Sergeant's face as burnt skin peeled from Torres's body and dripped down onto his clothes. The man's eyes followed the burning viscera through the air and to his body only to realize where his arms were: propped above him near the window and dipped in flames. Pain shot through his arms-- where it hadn't already burnt away his nerves, as he ripped them back in as he shrieked in horror and agony. From his bicep downward, his arms were alight like torches as his uniform flew away in ashy flecks.

"AGHHHH-- FUCKKKKK! RAAAAGGHH-----AHHHH! FUCKFUCKFUCK! RAGGGH--"

Connor frantically slapped at his arms in a successful effort to put himself out, but as his arm hovered black and smoking over his form it was clear that damage was done that could never be reversed-- what remained was charred flesh, bone, and pieces of his uniform. Tears attacked his eyes as much from the smoke as from pain and terror. Burnt flesh polluted the air with a putrid smell, and all Connor wanted to do was get out. The Soldier wrenched himself around crawled along the doors of the Humvee-- dragging his M4 by the sling along the ground next to him, until he reached the inner door that led through to the trunk which had been blown open in the explosion. The Sergeant yanked himself through the hole and flopped into the trunk before giving himself another push of willpower to climbed over the gap between the trunk and the ground outside before he slumped down onto the relative cold of the asphalt.

There, he saw it. A trail of blood leading from around the side of the Humvee, across the sidewalk, and ending at Morales collapsed on the ground, "Morales..."

Connor croaked as he drug himself along the ground and to his friend. It was a gruesome sight: Morales's left leg was severed at the knee and his right was twisted around backwards at the knee with compound fractures poking through his pants in bloody specks of bone. The Sergeant thought for sure his friend was dead until he stirred, "H...heh.... help...."

Ice filled The Soldier's veins as his buddy spoke and he quickly looked around for the lower half of Morales's leg, the one that held the tourniquet, "Hey man, k-keep calm. I'm gonna get a tourniquet on you, okay?"

The leg was nowhere in plain sight, and judging by the crimson spilling over the sidewalk and onto the street-- he didn't have long. Connor reached down onto the other man's battle belt and snagged the spare tourniquet from its pouch. He unwrapped it before lowering it down to Morales's stump-- slick with arterial blood and loose strings of flesh, and placed it high and tight along his thigh before wrenching it closed in a series of twisted that left the wounded man howling, "It hurts--! IT HURTS!! LOOOSEN IT!"

The Sergeant was somewhat relieved at the man's sudden energy and newfound clarity, but he knew it wouldn't be for long. Connor reached down to his own battle belt and took off his spare before doing the same on the shattered leg beside the stump. He rolled his buddy over onto his back; Morales was covered in road rash that had peeled the skin from his face and chest. The Hispanic man whimpered as he saw the damage for the first time-- his eyes wide with horror, "L-look what they d-d-did to me. Look-- look, l-look what the...y di...d to me..."

Morales vaguely gestured at his legs with a hand wave before his head rolled in fit of light-headed wooziness. Connor nodded, "I know, man. I'm gonna get you up, and we're gonna go."

It suddenly struck Connor that they had been under attack just prior to this, and he whipped his head around to face the hospital. However, as he had suspected, the firefight had attracted a small horde that was now laying siege to the hospital; the one time he was happy to see the infected. The screams and fighting of the looters was justice enough for The Soldier. The Sergeant turned back to his friend, grabbed hold of his arms, and pulled him up onto his back-- across his shoulders. As he did, however, he felt his loose skin beneath the charred, Kevlar gloves he wore schlock free from his palms and fingers like tender barbeque from the bone. This elicited a scream that Connor choked back down despite the tears in his eyes, and he started on his way back to camp. Step after step. Block after block.

"We're gonna get you back, buddy. You're gonna be fine."

"..."

"Morales?"

"..."

"Morales."

"..."

H-he... was just taking a nap-- conserving his strength! Well, at least that's what made the grim reality easier to accept for Connor. For now, he was just sleeping; he would wake up again, but by that time it would be someone else's problem.

***​

Connor's vision cleared somewhat, but the darkness was replaced by an almost fog that set upon his thoughts and actions. One of his squad mates was just ahead. A Samaritan Enforcer was laid out across the ground-- several other now-reanimated Samaritans were sinking their teeth into his arms, legs, and stomach; the man's entrails and veins dug out from inside like cords from a broken electronic. The man was still, unfortunately, conscious-- his eyes dissociative from the agonizing experience as his body rocked from the enthralled feast of the three dead upon him. Yet, all Connor saw was the enemy baring down on a wounded ally. The Sergeant steadied himself and ran over to the man before shooting the infected from behind at point-blank range, "Don't worry, man. I'm gonna get you up, and we're gonna go."

The Soldier slung the weapon around his shoulder and reached down before yanking the Samaritan from the ground and onto his shoulders. Entrails slinked down across his back as blood spilled from the man's various wounds seeped into the man's clothes, but Connor pressed on as if he didn't notice. He ran over to the van-- it seemed the easiest to fit a casualty in, and slung the man from his shoulder into the empty back of the van. He crawled inside the vehicle and sat next to the body, "Someone send up for MEDEVAC! We need a fucking bird in here-- he won't make it to the CCP! Doc, DOC?"

Connor's eyes searched the vehicle frantically for anyone who matched the description, "MEDIC! MEDIC!"

The Soldier was borderline hysterical as anxiety seemed to spread across his face, but the man kept his rifle level outside the back of the van-- a sign of the unconscious professionalism ingrained in his soul. However, despite how Connor was perceiving the situation, it was clear that the man was not-- in fact, dissociating. He was dead. He was dead, and his eyes were locked open in a snapshot of the last terrifying moments he had ever experienced. The body was primed to reanimate at any time.

"Nah, fuck that! Someone get ahold of the 1-truck-- tell him to get ahold of Crossroads-5! Tell the Commander we've got a MASSCAS!"

In a way, he wasn't lying. A large portion of the Samaritan attack force had been annihilated in just a brief few moments. Without help, it was hard to imagine any type of victory.

smookie NanLia Namazu Togy joshiebee Safton Bullyboy Squad Fluffy-Kat BeyondDandy Good_Morels Tool ​

 

[BeyondDandy]

On The Road

Bullets popped all around as Casey continued to defend his post. Kit managed to get Wess to momentary safety by putting him in the stalled truck. Without a key, the club members had nowhere to go. To his surprise, the strangers decided to help. They searched for the key as Casey kept their cover by firing off shots at the wandering undead. Though the situation spun out of control when the strangers started firing at each other.

The bullet was close which made Casey jump. His shoulders jolted upward to protect his neck like it would stop a bullet. He watched from a safe distance as the Samaritan Weston crashed against the side of the vehicle and slid to the floor in agony - he’d been shot and Casey had the perfect angle to tip off the shooter. The biker took a step forward with every intention to help, but two beams of light drew his attention back. A large van bulldozed itself through the smoke and the dead, entering the scene like a superhero.

Casey immediately recognized his wife in the driver’s seat and Chris’ voice amongst the fray. Before he could give instruction to his medic, Kit was one step ahead. He took Wess by the shoulders and sprinted towards the van. Casey followed suit, eyes darting over his shoulders as the Samaritan leader climbed into the working truck with his people and prepared to leave the scene. Casey fired off a few more shots as he jumped into the back of the van. Squinting, he caught a glimpse of one of the strangers running towards them with a wounded man on his back. He stretched out his hand to help and shut the van doors when everyone was inside. “Get us out of here!” He instructed Ally behind the wheel.

Taking a breath of fresh air, Casey closed his eyes and wiped off the sweat lingering over his brow with the neck of his shirt. He listened to the manic expressions of the Samaritan with them, worried about the rifle he held in his hands. Casey glanced over at Kit who appeared almost indistinguishable as well. The two men seemed to sync their ptsd like women do periods. With a grunt the VP hobbled towards the front, massaging his painful knee with a grimace as he fought the turbulence. “Thank you,” he told Ally and Chris. The duo had saved their ass and that’s the only way Casey could express his gratitude at the moment. He was truly grateful.

He looked over his shoulder momentarily as he stood there leaning against the back of the front seats. He noticed the injuries of the fellow who laid still next to Connor. He hadn’t paid enough attention before but now could see the extent of the man’s injuries clear as day. The bastard had been torn completely apart, body almost inside out. He didn’t blink, just stared with expressionless eyes. Kit seemed to have been too busy with Wess to notice or simply in another world. The Samaritan was the same, he was the one to bring a dead man into the van in the first place. Casey turned back towards the front and leaned towards Chris. “Follow me,” he whispered.

Turning back towards the rest of his convoy, Casey approached Connor slowly so as to not raise attention to the situation. “I need you to put that down,” he asked the Samaritan kindly, gesturing with his left hand to the rifle as his right hand snuck onto the grip of his pistol by his side. “You need to give me that now,” he stated assertively, gesturing to Chris with his free hand to take care of the dead man next to Connor. “Your friend is gone, we need to take care of him before he comes back. Just hand over your gun first. We’ll take care of it,” Casey implored, his weapon slowly drawn from his waistband.
​

Namazu
Tool
NanLia
Aegis
Safton
joshiebee
Fluffy-Kat
Good_Morels

 

[Safton]

​

Northview High School​

Xander lumbered down the hall, his boots pounding against the tile in an erratic series of thuds. His gait was uneven now: a result of his old injuries flaring up in the wake of the skirmish with the corpses at the rear of the school... and the weight of the holster now strapped to his right leg. He had happened upon the Samaritan armory and availed himself quickly to what little was left inside... which, truth be told, was not much. Lockers, ammunition cans, hard-shelled weapon cases had been thrown open and looted haphazardly. Loose cartridges and magazines were strewn across the floor of what was once a room for storing educational electronics like projectors.

It was clear that this situation was "all hands on deck" and that the guards had hastily cleared the place out of as much munitions as they could before moving off to confront the horde. Judging by the distant sounds of gunfire that refused to fade, Xander wasn't certain it was enough. Not to mention that unexpected, muffled explosion that had rattled and reverberated in his chest -- almost reminiscent of a grenade detonation or mortar strike. It reminded him of another place. Another time. It was enough to make him redouble his pace.

That's not important. Only one thing matters. Gotta get to Minnie.

Not that he had made any progress on that front, of course. Xander had banked everything on slipping out the school's back door to search the perimeter for any sign of Minnie, but that option was closed off to him now. He had taken a brief detour to the cafeteria, hoping that maybe he could use the loading bay door to make his exit. No dice. Now he found himself in the position of having to go find Cabrera and do whatever he needed to beg, borrow, or steal the help getting outside and finding Minnie. It was the only option. As he rounded the final corner, Xander's eyes scanned the corridor... but saw neither Haewon or Cabrera.

Xander's lips pursed, his anxiety spiking. He staggered forward, grasping a harried Samaritan and spinning the wild-eyed man around. "Where is she? Where's Haewon?" Realizing he probably sounded like a crazy person, he swallowed before continuing. "Teenager. I sent her to talk to Cabrera--"

The man jerked out of Xander's grip, seeming ready to spit a toxic retort before biting it back down. "The girl? Crazy bitch ran outside, I don't know what happened to her after that. Boss said to keep the doors shut, so that's what I'm doing." Xander's heart sank, his gut wrenching as his knees nearly buckled beneath him. But the man spoke still. "They were both out there when that fuckin' bomb went off."

Xander couldn't get his breath under control. He was shaking, his vision black around the edges as his chest pounded and his throat tightened. He forced himself to make words through gritted teeth. "Open the doors. I'm going out."

"The hell you are," the Samaritan balked. Xander's hands tightened into fists at his side, knuckles brushing the grip of the pistol in its holster. For months on end, even before the Samaritans first arrived, Xander had been the "voice of reason" for the school. The guide. The "wise leader" as Harry had often sarcastically whispered behind closed doors. Always rational. Always thinking everything through logically, coolly. Without emotion.

That Xander was gone, now -- and more still. He could feel parts of him not just cracking like spiderwebs in glass, but slipping away. Is this what it felt like to lose your mind? Would this guard in front of him be his first victim?

The man seemed wholly ignorant of the danger he was in with Font in front of him. Instead, he was staring over the former teacher's shoulder, squinting. "What the hell..." Then, with a howl of joy, the Samaritan laughed: not with humor, but delirious relief. "The cavalry's here!" he called out to no one in particular. Xander followed his gaze, looking through the dirty window at the distant road... light reflected off glass and metal. Trucks, lots of them. But were these saviors -- the same ones who had taken Nari away from them in the first place -- too late for Minnie and Haewon?

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Crono Tool Namazu Miaow BeyondDandy Aegis Good_Morels smookie Fluffy-Kat Togy MokaChan
​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

NORTHVIEW
Main entrance
​

Toni was inside. Clearing the halls from undead fuckers along with some locals who got out of the gym to help. When a fucking bomb went off. Toni's heart thudded like a jackhammer as he moved his ass and looked through the window. His jaw dropped. The horde was just a shadow of bodies in the far distance. Leaving the lands surrounding the school. Where the fuck were they going? Why? Fuck it, he didn't care. This was their chance to book it, in case the biters returned later.

Despite his busted-up ribs, scorching white pain with every too sharp movement, he rushed towards the exit. He got to the final hallway, heading for the main doors when he heard other enforces. Words all messed up, like. "Boss is down, man"....."They're takin' him to the infirmary." … "No shit, I heard Cabrera's dead already."

Toni's heart sank like an anchor and a string of Spanish curses burst from his mouth. Was it the damn bullet he sent flying at the man that did it? Now when the end wasn't so near he was becoming starkly aware of the potential consequences of his actions. He would have to make sure the fucking medic kept his mouth shut. Or he'd shut it for him.

The corridor, once dim, lit up as he neared the door. He squinted at the few enforcers and locals outside. Helping some leather-clad figure finish off the stragglers. And Font was there. The old leader. So he didn't die, eh?

"Where you stash your puppies, prieto?" He asked as he stepped out behind Font. But as soon as he did, he spotted a Samaritan convoy rolling up to the main gate. "Fuck me, mano…" He chuckled bitterly. "Look at those putas." His voice shooting louder. "LATE TO THE DAMN PARTY!"

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia Miaow SlaughterMelon Crono Aegis Namazu Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool ​

 

[Namazu]

THE CONVOY
Pulling Up To Northview High School​

The pain in Weston’s side stabbed at him even more every time he breathed. Coughing was entirely out of the question - he did it once on the way out of the smoke-filled stretch of road, and swore for a moment he was going to piss himself from the pain. He’d been injured in all kinds of ways before, but this was his first time being shot. It was not something he’d recommend - and he didn’t dare stop to look to see how bad it was under his shirt, either. He was still awake and moving. Good enough.

Waiting only long enough for whatever crew was coming with to climb in, Weston yanked on the shift lever with his right hand, put the truck in reverse, and backed up just enough that he’d have more room to maneuver around the disabled first vehicle they’d abandoned. His left hand stayed pressed against his side, eyes intently focused on the road in front of him - glaring out the windshield in determined, quiet anger.

Shot by one of his own men. The very idea made him seethe. He never expected the Samaritans to be the most friendly group. They were not a family. Hell, most weren’t even friends. But if there was one thing that kept them together it was the mutual understanding that in order to survive, they had to work together. A silent, unspoken social contract. The dumbass who broke that contract, regardless of his reasons, set Weston’s blood boiling even as it leaked out of him slowly. He’d never seen himself as the kind of person who deserved to get shot by his own men. That honor was reserved for people like King.

Grinding his teeth together, Weston slowed as he turned a corner, pressing his knee against the steering wheel so he could yank the cloth around his neck off, ball it up, and shove it under his unzipped leather jacket. Fucker put a hole in a good jacket too - adding further insult to injury.

The radio in the truck went untouched, and he didn’t say a damn word the whole way there beyond a simple “I’m fine” in case anyone in the vehicle asked if he was okay or was going to make it there. If he passed out, he’d stop, but no sooner.

~~~~​

When Northview finally came into sight before them, it was both a relief and a dreadful sight. Approaching the school from this angle, all they could see was ruined fence segments, biter-bodies strewn across the lawn like a cursed blanket, blood and gore from the recently-deceased, destroyed vehicles that were shattered and pockmarked by bullet-holes, and an extremely suspicious small crater in the grass.

A fucking crater?

There was some movement still in the lawn, but as the remainder of the convoy got closer, Weston could see most of it was composed of biters. But there was one figure, alive, among them - chopping away like a well-oiled machine with a hatchet. Weston couldn’t tell who that was, what with the helmet and all, and the figure didn’t look familiar from here. One of his, or one of the school’s? Hard to tell underneath all that gore.

Didn’t matter though - living was living.

“Get ready to start shooting as soon as you get out - but don’t hit the living. Especially whoever the hell that is.” Weston pointed over his steering wheel with one finger towards the helmeted killing machine that was Connor as he instructed those in the vehicle with him.

Truthfully, they had not really arrived in time. Not nearly as many biters were left, and it looked like those who were here did a pretty decent job of defending themselves, all things considered. It could have gone better, it could have gone worse. A clusterfuck for sure - but not a tragedy. Not yet anyway. Not until the survivors, and dead, were counted.

Weston steered the convoy up close to the edge of the school’s fence line, careful not to run into or over any corpses - they needed these trucks in working condition still, though he was pretty sure his left front tire wound up parked on a body by the time he stopped.

“Out.” Weston’s single-word order was as sharp as the pain in his side as he quickly reloaded his pistol, then hopped out. He reached in to grab his rifle and sling it over his back - the pistol was his first choice, since he could at least keep his hand pressed to his side, but if he got real desperate he’d switch off.

“Take down what you can, but make a path for the front doors.” No cautionary tales to be careful or safe - his people didn’t need heartfelt mush. Just ammo and steel.

Left hand on his side, blood trickling between his fingers, Weston raised his pistol and started picking his way towards the school’s front door, popping off headshots as he moved. He had to be a bit of an alarming sight - soot-smudged, ash stuck to his hair and clothes, bleeding, and an expression on his face that made it clear he was eminently pissed off. He spat in the grass, mouth tasting like ash still.

Focused on aiming and counting his shots, Weston took down several biters before holstering his pistol again and switching to his machete. He kept scanning the lawn - not just for moving biters, but glancing down at bodies that were not clearly biters. He periodically stopped to roll one over with his foot to check the face of whatever unfortunate victim he found, searching - likely for someone specifically. He offered no look of remorse or regret seeing the dead, just cold calculation, brow furrowed in pain and thought.

He had been giving the person with the hatchet a wide berth as they went to town, hacking and slashing their way through numbers, but eventually their paths crossed. Weston gave only the briefest looks toward the scratched plexiglass helmet before bringing his machete down on a biter that had stumbled too close to the pair of them. He took a few steps away quickly, not wanting to get axed next accidentally.

“What’s our status?” Weston asked, under the presumption this was one of his Samaritans, judging solely based on the way they were fighting.

Tool Bullyboy Squad NanLia Safton Miaow Aegis BeyondDandy Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Togy Crono MokaChan SlaughterMelon ​

 

[Tool]

Northview
Outside​

Madison had gotten into a real rhythm. The opportunity to vent some of her rage was incredibly valuable to the woman, and as the fight wore on and her adrenaline spiked and hovered at an eleven, it felt good to rip and tear, to feel bones crunch beneath her blows and the nick of her blade against vertebrae at the base of skull after skull. Along the edge of her vision, Connor registered a series of vehicles pulling up. Cavalry or adversary? A question for later.

At one point, Madison even grabbed a flare she spotted on a zombie's belt, cracked it to life, and sank it deep into its owner's ear, burning a merry red on the inside and nicely boiling the creature's brain. The dead were nothing if not predictable, and now that the crowd had thinned out enough that she probably wasn't going to be pulled to the ground........ well, killing them wasn't easy, but it sure as shit wasn't hard. Her arms were slippery with gore and offal up to the elbow, and the all-consuming contempt she felt for her prey was nothing but fuel for her fire. Thank the universe for non-slip rubber bits on her gloves. A practiced eye picked out the living from the dead as a good double handful of living spilled out and started heading for the school. If people in there started screaming, she was going to be pissed.

Someone behind her made a zombie fall, and the woman whirled around to fight against or fight beside whoever the hell these new players turned out to be.

What's our status?

That was a voice and a face she knew, and despite the rage, Madison let out a singular bark of surprised laughter. "Welcome to the party, pal!"

The woman shoved her hatchet deep into a yawning mouth as though the zed-head were a horse and her weapon an especially cruel bit, one hand grasping the hatchet close to the blade and the other getting the leverage to push all the way in the back. A hard twist made something crack in the creature's body, though it was its stumble to the ground that earned it a hard stomp from her boot, making eyeball pop and cheekbone shatter.

"Motorcycle club," Shove and twist. "Led the swarm away." Down went the corpse. "Teen on the roof has overwatch." Stomp. Stomp again for good measure. "Don't know about inside."

Walking dead were an ever-present threat, but they were a known threat. Connor's precious sawed-off-bayonet-combo was loosened from its holster along her back, and the thunder of the last of her shotgun-ammo took out the nearest zombie above its tongue. It lolled briefly as though licking at an imaginary penny ice cream, before dropping to the ground.

The shotgun still proved useful, however; it was shoved between putrid lips lengthwise and the barrel used as something to brace the creature against while Madison's hatchet came in from above. As the body fell, the cop stepped to one side and kept a good grip on her shit. A bit of drool and blackish blood stayed behind on the gunmetal.

Filth.

Absolute filth.

Some days, Madison felt like a fighter. Other days, she felt like a garbage-man. This...... this was one of those days.

Sanitation.

Fucking pest control.

Namazu Miaow ​

 

[Aegis]

Indianapolis, Indiana
One Month into Operation: Archangel​

Did his boots always feel this heavy? The trucks were almost all down, so Connor marched down a cluttered street somewhere on their side of the city fighting back the urge to buckle at the knees and hit the ground never to get up. The thought of finally letting his weary body and soul rest was so appealing he could barely keep his eye upward anymore-- a dangerous thing to do when your eyes should always be up and looking for the threat. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to do it for long. It took drive just to lift his neck with the weight of his ACH, something normally trivial, on his head. When he did, all he saw was a scattered group of soldiers walking along with him in a formation that only vaguely resembled something tactical and purposeful. They had all split off into groups of a sort. Sure, they were together, but not in any way that mattered anymore; those people that formed the bridges of their bonds had disappeared in such a great number that the comradery just wasn't the same. There were those that still had friends that walked beside each other and talked-- desperately keeping conversation to distract themselves, those that were still clinging to the discipline and regulation of the Army so they marched along with the unit, and then those, like himself, that were just alone. Everybody he knew and cared for here was dead, and he knew-- of course, that there other people he knew but not like them; it was a void not ever to be filled. So, The Sergeant walked with just a few meters of extra space because he didn't belong here. As a Sergeant, there was a dull pick at the back of his mind to police this all up, but he didn't have it in him anymore.

A few of the dead came out into the road. He didn't know when they had gotten there, but there they were. The Men all stopped and let some rounds rip off toward them leaving a half-dozen bleeding corpses into the road. One of the strangers looked to Connor-- who had the radio pulling down on his shoulders, and nodded. The Sergeant picked up the hand-mic,

"Sector-17, 3rd Platoon-- Clear, over."

"Roger, 3rd. Continue sweep, out."

Connor's head fell once more toward the ground as he stabbed the mic back into his shoulder straps. It was all he could do to brace himself mentally and watch his blistered feet take step after step forward. That was just it. Foot after foot. Forward. That's all he had left. His kit was heavy-- too heavy. What good were front and back plates against teeth? Connor didn't know, but in the same way he wanted to take it off-- it was too much work to actually do it. Connor thought to take out his side plates, but then he remembered the sniper back at the hospital. Damn. His eyes locked onto his bandaged arms-- blood and puss still shining through the gauze. Doc kept shooting him up with something to help with the pain, but the brass kept saying they 'needed every able bodied man out there' so the medic only gave him enough to take the edge off but keep him there mentally. A tingle continuously ate through his arms from the tips of his fingers up to his shoulders, and no amount of medicine dulled that. Connor knew it was something wrong-- deep inside, that not even modern medicine in all its glory could hope to fix, and that was back when modern medicine was something realistically attainable. Now? He wondered if they'd ever know what it felt like to have a hot shower again.

This time the dudes as the front shot a duo of Infected that were standing just inside some store before he even noticed, "Sector-18, 3rd Platoon-- Clear, over."

"Roger, 3rd. Continue sweep, out."

Potable water was scare, and he had made half a canteen last three days; dehydration pounded at his skull and the meds didn't help with that. Every soldier here had only been portioned a single MRE a day. Command had no idea if they were getting a resupply when they were finally able to get ahold of them. Fuck, rumor from some of the COMMO guys was that there wasn't ever going to be one because 'BIG' Army had pulled out; all the Active Duty cats supposedly got ordered to pull back to designated locations that they weren't privy to and never would be. Of course, this was denied heavily by their officers, but the funny thing is that not a SINGLE ONE of those FUCKERS had died since they set up that 'COP' so what good was their word? They aren't out here losing their friends. The Officers were probably thinking they had to keep it together, keep everyone calm, and--

Connor gnashed his teeth at the thought, but something cut him off as a dumpster rattled in an alley off to the right of the group and the whole platoon froze. The Sergeant swung his rifle up in an unsteady grasp followed by several other guys, guys he barely knew; these were guys from other platoons. The whole of Crossroads had gotten pulled back to one location instead of staying spread out at their former battle positions, and now he was surrounded by guys he didn't know if he could trust to have his back. Yet, as they trained their weapons, a stray mutt came kicking out of a mound of trash and bodies with a pizza box clutched in its mouth. The dog stopped and watched the weary men-- it was clear it was semi-comfortable with people.

'I wonder how dog meat tastes...'

The thought intruded upon Connor's mind and his finger itched for trigger as he pulled it back halfway. Though, the dog turned and trotted off before he could follow through with his grim intentions. Footsteps sounded through the street as the dozen men carried on just parallel to the dog before it split off down another road just beside a shop with these big bay windows. The Sergeant caught a glimpse of himself in the glass: thin, dirty, defeated. His uniform hung from his body in places it never had before, and he bet that if he lifted his blouse it would show some ribs and bone. Back to looking at his feet-- boots.

The 'Stiffies'-- something the guys had started calling The Infected around camp with ample amounts of rage, always had the same sloppy, wet chewing noises when they fed. It was raw meat, bleeding meat, living meat. It was always that same squishy gnashing and guttural swallows like they were whoofing down Kobi beef, but it was really just someone you cared about. Connor heard it just inside the building to their right again-- always his side. The Soldier pushed out his muzzle and followed it toward the door in careful steps. There they were: two DAMN 'Stiffies' munching on some poor fuck on the ground.

Connor let the muzzle rest on one of their heads before he swayed off to one side-- his thoughts suddenly faint. His eyes rolled around from the buzz of dehydration and his brain was numb from the morphine, yet he didn't collapse. No, he held to his feet and took his hand off of the rail of his carbine to give himself three solid smacks to the side of his helmet that only served to make his headache worse, but he needed the feeling to get himself hyped up. The knocking drew the heads back of the two Infected. The Sergeant jerked back on the trigger with one 'Stiffie' being dispatched with a clean headshot while the other was four or five rounds that punched golf balls holes through its torso up to the kill-shot through the nose. Silence was quickly followed by the beating of feet against ground. The Man waited to see if any others were going to come out, and when they did the whole platoon sawed through them and the front of the building in a few seconds of unrestrained gunfire; looked like about a dozen extra bodies. Boots creaked against hardwood as he advanced forward toward the bodies flanked by two men.

The meal they had been partaking in was one of the metro cops that had been working with them, and a cursory glance spotted a few of the civilian volunteers nearby in similar condition: mangled up, guts out, nigh unrecognizable. This had been a cookie-cutter residential home and now it was a slaughterhouse-- a graveyard. However, none of the soldiers said a world or blinked. None of them got mad. None of them cried out or cursed the world. No, this was just another cut on their already bleeding hearts, so what was one more? The Sergeant levelled his weapon at the cop's head and blew his gray matter across the floor without a moment's hesitation. A few other guys dispersed through the rooms and repeated the process on the volunteers.

The monotonous message, "Sector-19, 3rd Platoon-- Clear, over."

"Roger, 3rd. Continue sweep, out."

Connor jerked his head back out toward the road and was met by a couple nods. So, they cleared out, and went onto the next sector.

​

 

[Miaow]

NORTHVIEW HIGH
By the rabbit pens​

An explosion rang out, causing the bottom of the vent to vibrate as the shockwave died off just past the storage building. Minnie flinched, her arm slipping from beneath her as she fell forward. The infected sank its rotting teeth into the leather of Xander's leather jacket. She felt its grip latch around her arm, squeezing down as it tried to tear at the material. Minnie winced, crying out in pain. She tried to pull her arm from its jaw but the pain only worsened. She clenched her jaw, shoving the blade of her scissors into their eye socket. She used it as leverage, like a mountaineer with their ice pick, pushing herself away from the infected before yanking it free. She slammed it in again, and again, and again, until there was a gaping hole where their eye used to be.

She tried to catch her breath, finally ripping her arm from the maw of the infected. She shoved herself further back into the vent, burying her face into her arms as her stomach turned. God, she felt sick. The stench of old blood and brain matter burned her nose, she felt bile rising in her throat. She swallowed it down, her chest heaving with each breath.

As the adrenaline began to drain from her muscles, her arm began to throb. She frantically rolled onto her back, clattering against the sides of the vent as she clumsily shoved her sleeve up her arm. Left in her skin was the imprint of a jawline, wrapped around her wrist. She had to get out of this vent...

She rolled her sleeve back down, scrambling against the bottom of the vent and shoving the limp corpse of the infected away from the entrance. She was surprised to see the room... empty. It was just her and a crumpled corpse... though the surprise was short-lived. She rushed to the corner, her knees buckling as she vomited pure stomach acid.

She took a shaky step back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She had to find Xander, or Haewon, or anyone she recognized.
"Momo--" She whispered, her voice trembling as she crouched down in front of the vent. She scooped him up, holding him tightly to her chest as she ran from the building, scissors gripped tightly in her fist.

Safton
​

 

[Aegis]

On the road...
(With Expert assistance from Fluffy-Kat and Good_Morels )

Kit didn't notice the shape of the other wounded until Guidry pointed it out. He reminded him of a can of sardines; an empty can of sardines. Funny how it all comes out at once if you lift somebody the wrong way.
Funny wasn't the right word.
He frowned and swallowed hard. "He's right, soldier, there's no saving him now. Grab his dog tags and get him out of here, we need this space for wounded." He demanded sternly. People tended to listen better when he used his "doctor voice". Guidry's command to hand over the weapon didn't make sense to him, but only for a moment.
"Listen to the lieutenant soldier. Unless you wanna accidentally shoot your dick off. If you do, you're last on my priority list." He kept his gaze focused on the soldier, scanning him for wounds. He didn't quite seem right in the head; probably shock. Maybe that was his friend. Sucks.

Wess, still struggling to remain conscious among the living, watched in tense silence between interactions, gritting his teeth from the pains that surged through his body like lightning with every little movement. He eyed both Casey and Kit, then back to the delirious soldier who didn't seem to be coming to terms with everything going on. Who could blame him? It was a lot to take in in such a short amount of time. Regardless, as battered as he was, blood running from his lip, down through the stubble on his chin, and beginning to thin out and dry at his neck, he'd be ready to give all he has left to help his club mates in a dangerous situation. And a rattled soldier with his finger on the trigger is certainly one of those situations. He spoke with a breathy, strained voice, "He needs to go before he starts turnin'," Wess pointed to the severed body with a thrust of his chin. His tone was urgent but hushed so as to not stir panic or trigger aggression from the unstable guy, but time was short as it is and they couldn't just sit trapped with a potential biter because one person was having a mental episode. Get the gun. Dump the body. Take care of the soldier last.

Connor gulped– hard. The men before him seemed insistent on two things: his ‘friend’ was dead and he needed to hand over his weapon. Stress nipped at his eyelids as they twitched in microexpressions only fit for the agonized, and his breathing began to hitch a bit more severely. The Sergeant ripped back the rifle as one of the men reached out for it and he gave him a stare that said he was willing to fight for the weapon; why would they want to take it? After all, they were surrounded by the infected. Finally, what Doc told him seemed to sink in fully, and when Connor looked down at the other soldier he realized the eyes weren’t filled with a solemn acceptance– they were a snapshot of unfiltered terror before death.

“Oh… roger that, Doc.”

It was almost robotic and devoid of all non-necessary emotions; one could detect a lick of anger, hatred, yet nothing negative– nothing that could impact his ability to fight. Connor leaned over the fallen corpse and noticed the holster he had situated around his waist before unbuckling his belt and yanking the whole thing free. Satisfied, The Sergeant searched the man’s neck for tags– as suggested by Doc, but couldn’t find them; they must’ve been ripped off when the infected got to him. Not another moment passed as Connor opened the door, planted his foot in the man’s side, and threw him from the back of the vehicle like so much meat. Slamming the door, Doc finally insisted that he listen to the ‘Lieutenant’ and hand over his weapon. Reluctance weighed down his limbs as he gave the ‘Lieutenant’ a wide-eyed stare before finally relenting. Connor flipped the safety on and extended the carbine by the mag-well, “I want that back before we get out again, sir.”

As he handed it over, however, he began picking through the belt and holster he took from the man. The weapon was gone, but there were a couple single stack mags in the exterior mag-pouch. Connor snagged them out before fishing the empty pistol from his construction belt and dropping the mag from within it. So he began the slow process of removing rounds from the single-stack mags and loading them into the double-stack for his M17 with dull presses of his thumb followed by the snap of metal into place, “We need to regroup at the school. Fuckin’ stiffies everywhere out there.”

The relieved cowboy sighed and sat back against the metal hull of the van, tilting his head back to rest on it, eyes closed. Thank god another situation didn't arise, and they could get back to the objective at hand: getting the fuck out of there. One hand gripped and applied pressure to the wound on his leg, occasionally slipping from the lack of grip with a bloodied hand. As he rested with his eyes closed his mind tried to rationalize and recall what just happened. He remembered being yelled at and kicked but luckily got his walkie back. Then the dead showed up, as well as Kit. Things started to get fuzzy right about then. He remembered Kit taking a look at him and asking questions but couldn't remember the words specifically, or if he even responded. Consciousness began to fade in and out then, and then Kit dragged him all around to avoid the dead starting to swarm them. Gunshots, he remembered those. Then suddenly they were in the van. Everything in between was just lost to oblivion. Perhaps seeing a gun aimed at his brothers and a potential biter contained with them resparked what little adrenaline was left. But this…finally sitting down, briefly free of danger…was nice. Needed, maybe.

Wess' breaths started to slow, and the temptress that was unconsciousness was seducing him relentlessly. Persistent bitch. The lulling cowboy turned his head to Kit with half-lidded eyes, "I'm tired," he blurted out, not really meaning to. It was more of a thought, or a feeling, but with little to no energy due to a substantial amount of blood loss, he has no filter. His face seemed paler than before, and the grip on his leg was getting harder to maintain. Wess picked up his head from slumping over, and went back to resting it on the van's walls behind him, determined to keep himself alert and aware, this is not where his story ends, not yet. As his body grew more relaxed it was lowering its defenses and mechanisms to keep itself going. That was the curse of finally feeling safe, a lowered guard.

Satisfied with the absence of the sardine can, Kit turned back to Wess, his heart dropping at the sight of him. "Buddy you're gonna die if you fall asleep. Stay awake." He explained as he lifted the soldier's leg and rested it on his own to keep the blood towards his head. He took the place of Wes's hand and squeezed the bandaged wound, thankful he didn't pull out the shrapnel. "Do we have a blanket on hand? He's going into shock." He called out a little louder, turning to face the driver's end of the van.

There wasn't time to think about how fucked up it was that they'd taken over some Afghan school. "Let's get moving, he needs real medical care. Another soldier's heading that way with a gunshot wound too." He continued to yell.

"And how about you two? Anything broken or missing you wanna share?" His hazel eyes flicked between the two of them, a hollow emptiness behind them. This man was probably going to die in his lap. It wouldn't be the first, wouldn't be the last. He couldn't muster up the feelings yet.


​

BeyondDandy Namazu Good_Morels NanLia Tool Safton ​

 

[Safton]

​

Northview High School

Collab w/ Bullyboy Squad ​

Xander's command of Spanish could generously be described as "mediocre", but he knew enough to subconsciously translate the gist of Toni's impromptu nickname for him... such as it was. He didn't even bat an eye at it, nor the man's enthusiastic reaction to the arrival of the convoy. He had other concerns.

"I need some of your guys to help me find Haewon and Minnie. I think they're both outside. We can't wait," Xander said, his voice cracking as he held Toni's gaze. He knew he sounded like a madman, on the verge of begging, of babbling. He didn't care. This wasn't a High School Council meeting. This wasn't a negotiation with Cabrera. The time for pretenses and projections of strength had come and gone. This was his family... and deep down he knew he might already be too late.

Toni saw the convoy stop and some people exit. They joined the few enforcers and the dude in a goddamn helmet, slaying the remaining zeds. But Xander's words stole his attention. Wait what? Did he hear right? That the kids were outside??His face twisted in a grimace and he eyed the desperate man's expression. "Hate to break it to you, papi. But there no way they made it." He gestured at the corpses strewn on the ground. "Might be here but ain't breathing no more."

Xander's heart twisted, rage building in his gut. Not just rage at Toni, no... rage at himself. Because some part of him knew that what Toni was saying was likely true. He had failed them both. But his brain couldn't let him settle on that knowledge, couldn't let him accept it -- even if it meant clinging to an illusion for a few moments longer."Fuck that. Just get out there and help me look," Xander hissed, his tone desperate. He shifted tacks. "You assholes took Nari away from them, from all of us. This is the least you can do."

Toni wasn't the most empathetic creature so the moment Xander's tone and wording changed, Toni's mood shifted. Baring his teeth with a sneer he said. "Or what, puto." Few more enforcers sided with the tatooed male, one saying. "What are you gonna do to make us. You ain't no boss here anymore." Toni smirked. "Your chica ain't bored. Got a bump with some cholo back at the base." Some of the men laughed as Hispanic continued. "Don' worry, no. Dutchess took care of that shit." He said, motioning at the woman who stood a few yards away, talking to one of the locals.

Xander recoiled like he'd been slapped in the face... in truth Toni's words were far more harmful than any strike every could have been. He knew the man was probably full of shit. Knew he was probably trying to rile him up. Knew he shouldn't let him succeed. Knew he shouldn't let the anger boil up inside him.

Did.

Xander's hand curled into a fist, but he didn't throw it. Instead, curiosity forced him to follow Toni's gaze to the side... toward a nearby figure out in the courtyard. Dutchess, standing over Jose in tense conversation. His eyes narrowed, locked on. In an instant, Toni was forgotten.

NanLia Miaow Namazu Tool BeyondDandy Togy
​

 

[NanLia]

On the Road...
​

This clusterfuck was getting worse by the second and she regretted having not holed up in the prison and pretended not to know she’d been summoned. She could have been drunk and content, back in her cell. Instead, she was in her version of hell, surrounded by the dead and men, all willing and able to kill her at a moment's notice.

Somehow, in all of this hell, Wes found her. He’d been pointed, she was sure, in his gestures, in his eye contact. Somehow, in all this hell, she trusted him. The door on her side of the vehicle was fucked, now jammed closed, so she crawled over the dashboard to exit behind where he stood, pausing as he opened fire on the dead, keeping her own pistol at her side, eyes roaming as she kept watch behind them.

Dutchess clambered into the bed of the truck behind Wes, wedging herself between him and another enforcer and doing her damnedest not to cling to him as Weston took off, sending jolts of pain through her bones each and every time the truck hit a bump.

At Northview
Collab w/ Bullyboy Squad
​

Their arrival at the school proved to be nearly too late, the residents and current enforcers having dwindled the horde down significantly. She was surprised at the mounds of dead heaped over one another and, for a second, wondered how they had managed to pile the bodies before she realized the dead had been climbing over themselves.

She shuddered at the thought of having been here to witness it.


Jose didn't recognize himself. He was no hero. How he left the safety of the gym to help clear the school and then finish off the corpses outside was beyond him. The hormones coursed through his body, a rush of blood in his ears making him feel high. He couldn't even feel how hard he gripped the metal pipe, spiked on one end.

Together with the enforcers he fought fiercely, swinging his makeshift weapon with determination he never knew he could possess. Once the screams and sounds of firing weapons outside died down, he approached one body after another. Making sure the head was damaged in some way. If it wasn't he thrust the spike into the eye socket with a nauseating squelch to finish the dead human off.

He was relatively clean, except for some blood splattered on his front. And a red stain on the back of his shirt. The crescent-like imprint of human teeth peeking from behind the fabric.


Out of the truck bed, Dutchess kept in close formation with Wes and his enforcers as they set to work clearing the remaining dead. She'd never worked alongside them before and was mildly impressed at their coordination and communication with one another, and didn't doubt that was due to their leader.

She lingered behind as they moved onward, pausing to take a knife to the skull of any dead that had previously been immobilized until she spotted Jose, and more importantly, the wound on his back just as he stood and the fabric of his shirt covering it out of sight again.

"Hey, Jose." She said, almost pleasantly. "How about we take a walk." It wasn't a question, or even a suggestion, as she slipped the pistol from her belt.


The man straightened up. His gaze glazed over by the body chemicals still circling in his system. He didn't even realize his arms lightly shook and his knees were weaker. His posture stiff like he was an old man stretching after a long night of slumber. But the redrimmed irises told another story.

"W-what?" He asked with brows furrowed in confusion. Until his eyes went big with shock and fear at the sight of her pulling a gun out. "Wait- What?!" His panicked gaze skipped to his leader but Xander seemed busy talking with a tattooed Samaritan. "What do you want- I didn't do anything!"


Dutchess wrinkled her nose at the sudden pleading from the man. “Fucking suck it up, Jesus.” She hissed. “You’re bit, there’s no coming back, let’s just get this done.” She glanced around briefly for some backup, but the enforcers and Wesley were already busy finishing up the last of the horde. “Fuck, we need to do this before you turn and take out more people… I’m not asking.”


It was like a shockwave ravaging any coherent thought. Like the remaining energy left him. Jose couldn't wrap his head around it. "What? What are you saying?!" He put his arms up with the pipe but not like a threat. Just to shield himself like a child. "Please-"

But this wasn't a friend. This was a heartless killer that he was facing, or so it felt. One of the Samaritans. She was just looking for a reason to hurt him. And Jose survived through his own share of bullies. He wasn't going to let this one win.

The man used the depleting reserves of physical fuel and turned away from Dutchess, breaking into a mad run for his life.


Dutchess sneered at the grown-ass man as he snivelled like a child, cowering in the bloody dirt. Does he not know the danger he’s putting everyone else in? Or he doesn’t fucking care. She was going to have to kill him here, out front of the school when she would have preferred to have done it out of sight - mostly because she didn’t want to kill a school community member in front of other kids

Evidently, Jose had other plans and as he took off running, toward the school no less, she raised her pistol and fired. The first bullet hit him, making the man grunt and topple forward into the debris and gore, within a few steps she was standing over him and shot him a second time, in the back of his head.

A few enforcers had turned at the noise and she nodded toward the corpse. “Get him out of here, out back, there’s a cemetery.” The community here would want to bury him, as they had the others they’d lost.

Dutchess lingered a moment, watching the enforcers do as she’d said, partly to ensure they wouldn’t do anything unseemly. The people at the school were bonded, and today would be hard enough to keep control over them, let alone if they thought their dead were being desecrated.

Satisfied she turned, to follow Weston and Wesley into the school; they didn’t know who people were and they’d need her knowledge. As she turned she came face to face with Font, rage etched into the features of his face. “The fuck do - “

Pain bloomed in her core faster than she’d heard the gunshot ring out. Surprise was quickly usurped by irony as she coughed out a laugh. " 'Course I'm going out with my guts spilling, makes sense." Shaky hands clutched at her belly, pressing the wound but hot blood, and fuck knew what else, oozed between her fingers. She staggered, stepping away from Font before he could get her again and tripped, falling back into the gorey dirt Jose had been snivelling in just moments before.

Dutchess glared at the night sky as dawn slowly broke, a mirthless smirk on her lips as she took her final breath.

Safton Namazu Aegis Togy Fluffy-Kat BeyondDandy Good_Morels ​

 

[Safton]

​

Northview High School
​

Wesley chuckled at the remark from Connor, giving him a thumbs-up before stowing the weapon he'd been given. The young man had, against all odds, grown on him. Upon arrival the school, however, Wesley wasted no time going to work. He spared a quick glance toward his Second-in-Command, lips pursed as he eyed the man's wound where he clutched at it. "You should get that looked at, Boss," he murmured before letting his gaze fall on Dutchess. He wanted to whisper some words of encouragement or perhaps an entreatment to be careful. Instead he simply slid out of the truck without another word, unslinging his rifle and directing his fellow Enforcers (those that had survived the trek, at any rate) toward the School in order to reinforce the defenders.

His eyes scanned the perimeters for the largest encroaching pockets of the ghouls, coordinating with his crew on where to direct their focus as the infected surged forward and fell in droves -- riddled with bullets. Many of those bullets were his own: the rifle bucking lightly against his shoulder as he added to the body count in between swiveling his head around to ensure they weren't in danger of being overwhelmed on any given flank.

During a brief lull, he lowered his rifle and glanced over toward the center of the School's courtyard closer to the front entrance. Something had caught his ear: the pop of a handgun, followed soon after by another. Just two shots. Deliberate, not the panicky firing of a School defender at an approaching ghoul. He spotted Dutchess lowering a pistol, standing over a body he didn't recognize. Probably a local. No way she'd let a biter get that close to her. So either he was bitten or had done something else to piss her off. Dutchess was directing two Enforcers to carry the corpse away now and Wes was content to leave it at that, but he paused -- movement in the corner of his eye now stealing his attention. A man, all resolute determination, marching toward Dutchess.

Wes felt his blood run cold. He had seen this before, more than once, back before the outbreak. Before the world went to shit. Back when he was just a CO working the cell blocks or the rec yard... sometimes you saw one inmate stalking another like a predator stalks its prey and you know in your gut that a shank is about to appear. That violence is imminent. He tried to move, to open his mouth to yell some kind of warning -- he wasn't sure what. But it was too late. The man was there, behind Dutchess, as she turned. That's when Wes saw the gun in his hand.

Another pop.

Red blossomed across the woman's abdomen. Wesley reacted on instinct, adrenaline and pain surging through him as he raised his rifle, centering the figure underneath the hazy red dot and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Under any other circumstance, it would have been comical. He had forgotten to reload the fucking thing. Of course he did. But now Wes didn't hesitate, dropping the useless weapon to the ground with a noisy clatter before sprinting forward: closing the distance between himself and the stranger, the would-be assassin. The man turned at the last second, locking eyes with Wes and for a moment the Enforcer feared he might shoot him, too. But he didn't. Instead Wes saw a intermingling of expressions cross the local's face: regret, grief. Acceptance.

Then Wesley bowled him over, slamming him to the ground like a linebacker. The pistol skittered across the ground somewhere out of reach. He straddled the smaller man, raining down punches with bestial grunts of exertion and rage. All the while his victim simply shelled up with his hands, trying to block the worst of the punishment and prevent his head from bouncing against the hard asphalt. This only made Wes angrier as he spotted a patch of the shooter's temple exposed for the taking. He sent his elbow smashing into it and the effect was immediate: the man's arms went nearly limp as his eyes rolled back in his head. "You fucker," Emmett growled, reaching in with both meaty paws to wrap his fingers around the stranger's throat... and squeeze.

NanLia Miaow Namazu Tool BeyondDandy Togy Aegis​

 

[Namazu]

NORTHVIEW
The Courtyard Outside​

Xander’s ears had rang, white flashing before his eyes as concussive blow after concussive blow rocked against his hands. Then another came. Xander never saw it even as it thundered down onto his temple and forced him to black out. By the time he regained some semblance of consciousness, it took him a moment to realize what was wrong – his brain attempting to jump-start itself. Then he realized what the problem was.

He couldn’t breathe.

Strong, gloved fingers were wrapped around his throat – squeezing the life from him. Already his lungs were burning as he attempted to buck and bridge, but the figure atop him was massive and clearly determined. Xander scrabbled at the hands and the forearms they were attached to with his nails, trying to gain purchase. The darkness was returning around the edges of his vision and he realized – without a moment to ponder or regret – that this was how he was going to die.

The dead had thinned out enough at last that Madison bore witness to a murder. Or, at the very least, it looked like a murder. The hunter had missed the shots, because frankly, shots fired were not the attention-grabbing sounds they used to be, but brown eyes did catch a platinum blond woman stumbling, holding her guts in to very little avail, while a black guy held the proverbial smoking gun and looked somewhat anguished.

Ironic, considering the lady'd been the one shot.

In.....the gut. From behind.

Admittedly, a murder in the middle of a zombie swarm wasn't the dumbest idea ever, but not when the herd was thin enough for the living to, y'know..... see all that.

And...... why oh why did that guy just pop the blonde in the back? And look sad about it? They were all on the same fuckin' side: Team Breathing! Connor began a light jog in his direction, because when had she ever refrained from getting involved? She didn't get far before a scruffy looking man tackled the first one and began pummeling the latter into wet stew.

Interesting. Perp hadn't shot Scruffy, despite having had ample time and ability to do so.

That was the only thought she'd had time to form before she was closing in. Gun? Needed reloading. Hatchet? Too deadly. There was no way to know why the woman was dead or whether or not it had been earned...... soooooo break it up. With gloved fingers, Madison unbuckled her helmet from her chin and used the strap to bring it across in a wide, backhanded arc to land against Scruffy's temple.

"HEY!"

The woman's hair, wet with sweat but free to curl at last hung around the nape of her neck, and her boot kicked the gun away from the perp's limp hands before resting her boot on the elbow of his dominant arm, making sure he wasn't going anywhere. God but the breeze felt good on her face and scalp. Was the blonde dead? Oh yeah, super dead. But....... why?

"What the ever loving fuck is going on?"

Odd - so the hatchet-wielding figure was probably not a Samaritan. None of his guys would greet Weston like that. Not without a head injury, anyway. He merely nodded and muttered a thanks for the update, turning to jog towards the school. Well, at this rate, fast-walk, like some old lady, because his side was burning. Jogging might be out of the question unless he absolutely needed to.

Weston’s mind turned over and over. A motorcycle club? What were the chances? And who were they? Nobody they’ve encountered yet. Saving move aside, that opened up a whole new can of worms for all of them, and -

Weston blinked and staggered backwards in complete surprise at the sight of Dutchess dropping to the ground, hand over her increasingly-red stomach. He had mostly tuned out the sound of gunshots, there had been so many of them, but clearly there was at least one that wasn’t meant for the dead. She was unmoving. No surprise, a gut shot from behind like that. His eyes went wide at the man holding the proverbial smoking gun - someone he didn’t recognize. One of the Northview people, presumably.

Shock smacked him across the face, and Weston didn’t even have time to react before Wesley went barreling past him like a linebacker on PCP. He swore he even felt a rush of air as Wesley sprinted past him, he moved that fast.

“Fuck - Wesley!” Weston uselessly called after him, hobbling his way towards the very one-sided-scuffle, but thankfully Mister Hatchet ran faster, armed with a thankfully non-lethal helmet for a good smack upside the head to break it up. Smart move, by Mister Hatchet…

Who turned out to be not a mister at all… and someone he even knew.

“Connor?” Weston asked, distinctly surprised at how she, of all people, has popped up out of nowhere. Had she been at Northview this whole time and he’d never heard this?

Nevermind that, it didn’t matter right this second - first order of business was to prevent there from being yet one more death, committed in what might possibly be full view of everyone at the school who was still alive. In the event there was a lineup of kids and their caretakers at the windows, the last thing he needed any of them to see was a convoy of Samaritans pulling up, after the horde, to beat down their leader. That would be a very, very poor look.

With his free hand, Weston grabbed at the collar of Wesley’s jacket and tried to drag the man off after Connor hit him, hoping that was enough of a strike to dislodge him from the guy on the ground. He didn’t exactly have the strength in him to join in on the fray. Nor did he want to - he didn’t know what was going on, but Wesley was still one of his own. And if it turned out the guy on the ground was guilty?

Well, then he’d let Wesley have at him.

Wesley fell onto his side in a heap, a thunderbolt of pain and confusion coursing through his skull at the sudden impact from behind which had robbed him of his equilibrium. He felt himself being dragged, his equipment catching roughly on the asphalt and he flailed impotently against the pull, eyelids fluttering as he tried to regain his composure. “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!” Wes hissed as he finally managed to catch a glimpse of the one who was dragging him: Weston. He didn’t know what to make of that at the moment, so instead he let his eyes drag him back instinctively to where they felt they belonged.

Dutchess. Unmoving. And next to her, the man he’d been so close to killing… not that he’d given up on that particular aim. Not yet. He felt a lance of pain through his chest that had nothing to do with the blow he had received as he tried to right himself into a sitting position, jerking out of his superior’s grip – all thought of decorum and hierarchy lost. It was only then that he spotted the woman standing a few feet away, surveying the scene… a helmet in-hand. Had she been the one to strike him? His teeth ground together as his glower moved over her briefly, but the indignance didn’t last.

“We gotta get a doctor for her,” he announced, to no one in particular.

Madison blinked down at the dead woman, whose body was being moved away, even now. A heavily tattooed man was taking care of business with the corpse, and as he did so, those limp, pale hands slid from Blondie's wound.

Yeah. The bullet had gone in like a peanut, out like a pizza.

Under different circumstances, Madison would have attempted CPR, would have tried to help, but this wasn't just someone who wasn't breathing, this was..... someone who had a hole in her gut Madison might be able to see lawn though. Even back in the days of perfect hospitals and sterile surgical centers...... there wasn't enough left of Blondie to save.

The woman turned towards Scruff McGuff. Then, she got a look at his eyes and her normally implacable face softened a very little bit around the edges. Scruff McGrieving.

"I'm..... I'm real sorry. She's gone. For sure, gone."

There wasn't any point in taking off her gloves and checking for a pulse. As she stood, she looked towards Weston, then at Scruff, then at Chunky Sauce (the one still breathing).

"What's going on? Why did one of your crew shoot one of his own in the back?" She gestured around.

“I don’t get it - nobody to fight, any more. Well….. Except that guy.” A nod of her head gestured towards a solitary zombie, Doing Its Best, until a shot from……somebody…. took it out.

Weston wasn’t insulted or phased in the least bit by the way Wesley hissed at him, at his effort to drag him off. Decorum be damned and screw hierarchy, none of that really mattered at the end of the day, not when it was a small group of them out here, out fending for themselves.

Out here, alone, away from the demanding and never-pleased eyes of King, they weren’t Samaritans, North-folk, some unnamed bikers that were God-knows-where right now, and a random cop. They were just people.

People who were still bleeding and injured, too.

“Wes,” Weston started, letting go of the man’s collar slowly, testing to see if he’d take off running again like a rabid animal the second his leash was removed. “She’s…, fuck, man, I’m sorry. She’s gone...” He pressed his left hand to his side again, feeling woozy from the effort he’d just expended. As much as he didn’t want to look, his eyes kept drifting back to Dutchess., watching as she was hauled off.

He was never terribly close to her; he’d always sensed she was angry at him for one reason or another - usually just a quiet, unspoken anger. He never figured out why. Sure, she had some dirt on him; she was the one that fielded his special scavenging requests that had nothing to do with physical survival, but mental survival. The rock band t-shirts, especially if they were Metallica. The porn magazines of a particular, specific sort. DVDs of various action movies. Picture frames. But was any of that really enough to make her hate him? Hopefully not.

He sure didn’t hate her. Even if she was the one that one day told him to go fuck himself and get his own shit for once, when he gave her a list of books he wanted. The library was too far out of the way. Not important. She hadn’t even looked at the list. So, he made that trip to the library himself. He came back a few days later with broken ribs, covered in bruises, and less light in his eyes than when he’d left… but also a duffle bag full of books, including a bunch of kid’s books, for the assortment of children that had wound up at the prison over those long months. Plus a few things for himself that he wanted. No, needed.

Weston stepped away from Wesley, motioning in the direction that Dutchess was being carried, at the woman that he could have absolutely hated for reasons he never would talk about, but had chosen not to hate - because misdirected anger served nobody.

“Come on. Let’s follow her inside, okay? This is no place to leave her. I’ll deal with this guy.” Weston commented quietly to Wesley as he motioned to Xander. There was something in the expression in Wesley’s face he recognized. Maybe he was wrong, but… he wasn’t going to call any attention to it. That was a discussion for later.

Turning his attention to Connor, he shook his head and slowly started to bend down and grab Xander by one arm. “He’s….” There was hesitation in his voice as he tried to figure out how to say it. He’s not one of our’s was the sad truth of it. He could have been, but wasn’t.

“He’s not one of ours. He’s with the school.” He took the blunt, truthful approach. He hadn’t directly lied to Connor before, and he wasn’t about to start now, here.

Weston wrapped his hand around Xander’s wrist and started to stand, but a sharp jolt of pain in his side made him yelp and fall to one knee. Wrong muscle to move, apparently.

“Fuck, okay, you drag him then.” Weston grumbled to Connor, taking a breath and a moment to stand back up. “Bring him inside. We need help, and L.T. needs a moment alone. Give him space.” He’d let the remaining enforcers from the truck deal with anything else out here that still moved. Trudging towards the doors of the school, Weston stepped over Jose’s body without giving the man a second glance.

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[BeyondDandy]

On The Road
​

The van reestablished safety after unarming the lost soldier and removing his dead friend from the vehicle. Wess’ condition worsened so they rushed to the school in hopes of finding the medical supplies Kit needed to help him. If the school was this important to the Samaritans, there must be something there worth saving - Casey prayed to God it was everything they needed and that they would find the rest of their club there in one piece.

Peeking through the front of the van, a well known smell weft through the air ducts as they approached the school. The smell painted a picture, but when Casey saw the carnage with his own eyes he couldn’t believe it. Dead rested everywhere, hundreds of them torn to pieces and shot still. He couldn’t help but feel guilty for creating the mess, but would push that shit down and keep it to himself. As the van approached, Casey spotted Madison amongst the group of survivors and was relieved to see a known face. The convoy of men that ran over Wess were with her. He couldn’t find the rest of his crew however which made him worry.

Casey prepped his pistol and hid it in the back of his belt as Ally came to a halt. “Chris, stay with the van. Don’t let anyone you don’t know in here.” Casey commanded, looking at the fight that took place a few yards away from them. He looked over to his wife and nodded. He wanted her with him for what came next. It was unknown what they would encounter within the school walls and Ally was one hell of a soldier despite her disability. She was the smartest and toughest person he knew. Casey pet Bullet’s cruff as he told Ally to come with him.

“You, get the doors,” he motioned Connor. The man still seemed lost, but he followed orders - and that worked for Casey right now. “C’mon, let’s get him up.” Helping Wess up and out of the vehicle with Kit’s assistance, Casey bee-lined for the school entrance. He called out to Connor and Weston who were entering the building as he spoke as surrounding Samaritan Enforcers looked at them with caution and gun-filled hands. “Our man needs help! Please…”

​

Namazu
Tool
NanLia
Aegis
Safton
joshiebee
Fluffy-Kat
Good_Morels

 

[Aegis]

Northview
Courtyard

TW: gore
​

"Nah, I'm good," The Sergeant shot a nervous glance outside before looking to the ground by his feet, "seems like he needs more help than us."

Connor shot back at Doc as reached up and rubbed at his busted nose-- a sharp throb biting back into his head, but he knew it was nothing serious beyond a little spilt blood on his part. In that sense, he had been lucky to make it out of the car crash with such insignificant injuries. The man who had climbed into the car just after him seemed to be slowly slipping away, yet there was nothing he could do that would make the situation better-- he simply watched on. For The Soldier, the remainder of the van ride was a quiet, exclusionary affair now that the immediate danger had subsided; he didn't know these people-- they had to be from a different unit or something. Wait...

As they drew further from the flames, Connor's mind seemed a bit less cluttered; the buzzing in his arms ceased, he began to notice the lack of uniforms, and something nipped at the back of his head to warn these people before it was too late for them. The Man pinched at his temples as his mind began to rush and spin in a battle between what WAS and what IS before he steadied his eyes on the people next to him, "Listen, you guys need to get out of here as soon as possible."

The school drew closer as Connor turned to look out the front windshield. However, he was also meaning to address the driver, "You did a good thing by saving the school-- there are kids in there, but The Samaritans, this group, they're evil. Warlords. Took this place over from another community-- all violent like, and keep people like slaves at a prison not far from here. They plucked me up off of the road with my... son-- and immediately separated us after making me fight for their entertainment in this pit."

It was a panicked tone that beset the other passengers of the van as Connor spoke-- his words waxing and waning in both speed and intensity as he tried to convince them of the urgency of his warning. The Soldier's throat dried and his hands were unsteady with the pump of adrenaline into his ever-fatiguing veins, "Run while you still can. Interact as little as possible, and then go. There's already been blood spilt between you guys, but you also did them a favor so I don't know what will happen. They're not all bad, but there's a hierarchy and King enforces his tyrannical vision wherever he sees fit."

Wrapping things up, Connor nodded at the group before him in self-affirmation while the van began to bump and rock from the corpses blocking the roadway just outside the school. It was to convince himself of the righteousness of going against what The Samaritans would likely want, him to keep quiet, and to convey the sincerity with which he heralded this news.

The van pulled up to the school shortly after, and The Soldier made good on his promise to take back his rifle from... whoever that was. Connor popped open the back doors as people flooded out and onto the scene before them. Connor hopped out-- his boots sinking into a carpet of flesh, and made sure to keep his rifle levelled at the bodies on the ground in case any of them were going to try to reach out all of a sudden. Approaching the gate, the sight of the school courtyard was enough to to make his stomach drop; it was a sight he had seen many times before back in Indianapolis: bodies... bodies stacked haphazardly atop each other in dunes of meat and bone and blood. The screaming had long since stopped and what was left was the silent acceptance of the remaining fighters punctuated by the low groans of wounded men waiting to die. Scattered across the courtyard, Samaritan and Northview defenders who had been unlucky enough to survive their wounds bled a sense of doom into the already low-spirited atmosphere. A Samaritan laid buried by two corpses crisscrossed atop his body and clutched at his own innards torn free like crazy string from the gaping hole of his stomach-- ribs torn aside and arching over the colossal wound, as though keeping them perfectly still and supported would stop of the infection within his veins. Another Defender, a Northview woman from the looks of them, squeezed at hanging chunks of muscle and skin dangling from a bite on their bicep-- crimson spilling from their fingertips as they sat atop an overturned compost bin and stared at the ground in defeat.

Cabrera-- even as he pinned Connor in place, had promised a place of safety for Tanner, a chance to be around kids his age, and a better life away from the prison; even as they had been torn away from each other The Soldier had held onto the hope he was doing better than him. Yet, looking at the battlefield, it was a surprise that the building was even still there. Hordes were as near to a force of nature as it could get, but he couldn't help but blame the Samaritans anyway. Tanner would have never been in this mess if not for CABRERA.

A series of shots drew him from his assessment of the scene: the first being that angry woman shoot someone down in what looked like a brutal 'mercy' killing judging by the wound on his back and the follow-up being what looked like a Northview native blowing a hole in her for it. Connor made no attempt to run to the aide of the Samaritans and seeing Wes's face twist in agony as he tackled down the shooter was an unexpected treat; the despair on his features tickling at his brain in just the right way that he felt a sense of retribution for his initial treatment at the hands of the Samaritan.

Connor ignored the fighting and made a slow approach to the door where another biker had just arrived and knocked. Truthfully, The Soldier had been putting off this moment for longer than he cared to admit. He didn't want to know if Tanner was okay because once he knew the answer then there was no longer any room for doubt, and while everything may work out just fine-- there was a chance it wouldn't as well. The Man walked up beside the biker at the door before taking the exact opposite approach and shouting, "Friendlies! WE'RE COMING IN!"

The Soldier slung the rifle across his chest and pulled his pistol before hauling back on one leg and booting in the door to reveal a mostly abandoned hallway, "Say again, FRIENDLIES! WE'RE COMING IN!"

Connor made his way into the corridors of Northview.

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​

 

[Miaow]

Northview
The Front of the School


A collab with Bullyboy Squad ​

As Minnie took her first step out of the building, she was greeted by a sea of corpses. Some looked like Samaritans, armed to the teeth with various weaponry strapped to their belts. Some looked like civilians that had wandered in with the hoard, their skin grey and sloughing off in places. Some looked like... Northview citizens. They were freshly dead, not yet decaying, but they weren't as prepared as the Samaritans were. She forced herself not to look, afraid she would recognise someone she knew. There were also... rabbits, a few who had gotten caught in the fight. She swallowed, clutching Momo a little tighter.

She carefully stepped over corpses, approaching a fallen enforcer. A knife would be way more effective than a pair of craft scissors if she did get caught out by an infected. She dropped her scissors, pulling the knife from the holster on their thigh and quickly examining the blade... not that she knew much about what she was looking at. It was sharp and pointy, that was all she needed.

She adjusted her grip on Momo, making sure she had a firm grasp on him, before stumbling her way through the layer of corpses littering the school grounds. Some were almost knee-height on her, forcing her to step on and over them. She tripped over stray limbs, focusing on the route ahead rather than where her feet were going.

As she rounded the corner, she saw Xander. Her eyes lit up. He was okay, he was alive, and she'd found him. She picked up the pace, becoming less and less careful as she broke into a run. He was with Dutchess, but that was okay, Dutchess didn't matter.
Bang.

Dutchess hit the floor. Minnie slowed down, the joy from her face fading. Had Xander just...?

Then, someone was on him, pinning him to the ground, pounding his face over and over and over. Minnie's stomach flipped.

"XANDER!" She screamed. She quickly put Momo down, beginning a desperate sprint across the front of the school. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her knife. She couldn't let Xander die, she couldn't let that man kill Xander. She'd kill him first before he had the chance.

Cabrera looked terrible. Dirty from grime, blood and black dust. The back of his hair singed just like his clothes. The side of his head and cheek burnt. He moved with a crutch. One of those that Buster was using for months, but he didn't know that. Half coherent after the explosion, he woke up minutes after losing consciousness. Just when they were removing a larger shard of shrapnel from his ass.

Ignacio didn't listen to the medics that basically commanded him to stay on the bed. He had to go out there and see what happened. Did the horde follow the bikers? Were the survivors saved? Was Haewon okay? There was that man in a helmet…

He stepped into the early light and his eyes hooded against the brightness. One was completely bloodshed. Appearing black along with his dark iris. His gaze mindlessly roved the terrible scenery of a battle against creatures from his nightmares. But warmth flooded his chest at the familiar sight of the Samaritans. Weston… They were going to be okay.

His calming down breaths shattered when a gunshot reverberated around the field and echoed from the hill. Everything was happening too fast for his brain that did half the leg work at the time. He couldn't comprehend. Dutchess… But they were saved! Why would Font do that?! Ignacio was trying… He was trying so fucking hard to create something good in there. Ready to leave Xander in charge one day once he'd be prepared to do things the Samaritan way. Why the fuck did he throw all that away?!

His thoughts just a flash of lightning through the front of his brain as he heard a young girl's cry. He swung his fuzzy vision back. Minnie was rushing towards the commotion. Glint of a knife raised the heat in Cabrera's gut and he dropped the crutches, snatching the girl before she would pass him. Her momentum stumbled both of them.
"Don't! Don't do it-" His words didn't sound like an order, more like a plea. His arm embracing the girl. Other hand almost painfully holding her forearm to immobilize the knife-wielding hand. "Let go of it."

Minnie shrieked as he grabbed her, almost shoving him over. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Xander, wide and full of fear.
"LET GO!" She begged, wrestling against his grip. As he clung to her forearm, her fingers began to slip from the hilt of her weapon. It clattered to the floor by their feet.

She grabbed onto Cabrera's arms, wriggling to try and free herself.
"Let me get him!" She pleaded, "That's my dad, please--"
As she lunged forward, she lost her footing, falling forward onto the concrete. She scrambled desperately for the knife.

Cabrera clattered down with her. He hit his ass and back to the hard ground with a pained whimper, almost losing grip on her thin body. But he didn't. He didn't let her go. "Stop-" He gasped out, breath knocked out of him as he turned to her and she writhed in his arm.

The man shifted to get a better grip, his fist curled into the back of her jacket. The large thing slipped off her shoulders so she easily ejected from it, landing forth with her hand beside the knife. But the man regained hold, grasping her by the hip and leg, growling. "Stop fighting me!"

Minnie kicked back at him as he grabbed hold of her hip, slamming her hand down on the hilt of the knife and gripping hard. She swung the blade back at him with as much force as she could manage, but he turned his head. The tip of the blade caught his temple, slicing down the side of his face, reaching the jaw.

She felt fingers wrap around her wrist, stopping her from going for another swing. Haewon grabbed her under the arm, pulling her to her feet, before snatching the knife from her hands. She threw it to the concrete, tossing it a good 10 metres away.

The blade flashed in the morning sunlight. Ignacio recoiled when it cut the side of his face and his free hand sprung up to catch himself there as he fell on his side. His grip on the girl gone. Everything spun. He craned his neck to peer up. Blood leaked through his fingers and dripped to his eyes. But he saw her. Haewon. Saving him once again.

"Fucking quit it!" She told the both of them, giving Cabrera a harsh look as he laid on the floor.
"You don't go touching my sister like that!" She warned him, her nose wrinkling in a snarl.
"And you don't go swinging a knife around! You've had your ass kicked by a Samaritan once, they won't hesitate to do it again!" She scolded her sister, though her tone had softened, "Don't get yourself killed for a grown ass man."
Minnie was breathing heavily, tearing her wrist from Haewon's grip.
"Xander--" She began, but her older sister interrupted.
"I know, I saw."
"He was gonna kill him!"
"Have you killed someone before, Minnie?!" She yelled, to which Minnie hesitantly shook her head, "Then don't fucking start now!"
Minnie's adrenaline was still pumping, glancing anxiously over her shoulder to check on Xander. They didn't have time to be arguing, Xander could be dead-- and Haewon was yelling at her. She anxiously fidgeted with her hands, bouncing on her feet.
Her eyes widened as she saw Xander up, slung over the shoulders of a woman she didn't recognise. The man had left him alone.
"We have to make sure he's okay!" She told her sister before springing off across the front of the school, stepping over corpses as she did.
"Fucking hell-- MINNIE!" Haewon yelled, sprinting after her as she quickly approached the front door.

Safton Tool ​

 

[Tool]

NORTHVIEW
Outside, heading in​

Sharp brown eyes glanced down when Weston fell to one knee and noted the hole that made his jacket dark in a sloppy, dribbly circle towards his waist. Madison gave Weston a nod and grumbled as she peeled the man-shaped smear up and off the ground and into a fireman's carry.

Wouldn't be the first moron she'd humped around today, though at least the first one had been trying to save her keister from a goddamn murder toy. Shrapnel Butt had pulled a noble move, even if it was stupid; she'd been the one in layers of leather and makeshift armor, he with nothing but the power of his pecs.

The Murder Moron on her shoulder now had been an idiot in the other direction. A kill in plain view of any asshole with working peepers. Assholes like her, among others.

Here was hoping this would be the last body she'd have to haul around, today.

Scruff's name was Lt. - the information was filed away, along with the news that there was a presumed 'us' and a different 'them' to be had in the first place. Weston had said: He's not one of ours. He's with the School.

Ergo, the group at the prison and the group at the school were not the same.

Okay, great.

Madison's hand gripped at the unconscious guy's hand down by his knee, even as his nose flowed blood freely down her side. Her free hand gripped at her helmet rather than her shotgun, so....... progress?

The stomp-stomp-stomp to the door and wherever the infirmary might currently reside gave Connor time to think. Three players on the board: Prison. School. Club.

A few things kept scratching at the back of her mind.

Why oh why had Fleet Foot on the roof never shot a gun? The teen was young, but not that young, pushing adulthood pretty hard, and every person with a pulse who wasn't apt to shoot themselves by accident should have known how to fire a gun, should have known how to reload one. Madison might have assumed 'too scared' or 'noncombatant'.... except that the kid running full-tilt into a throng of zombies indicated otherwise. Plus, Madison had seen Fleet Foot poke a zombie in the eye so.... not scared, and definitely a fighter, or at least the potential to become one.

Shrapnel Butt, the first moron to grace her shoulder that day had been clothed for a fight and had fired the weapons of war with experience and skill. More than one of the men who'd fought and fallen around her had worn knives, guns, even fucking kevlar. Who the hell wore kevlar these days?

People trying to go for 'soldier', that's who. People more accustomed to fighting against the living than the dead. A kevlar vest was tits against small arms fire, but against zombies it provided little more than the illusion of protection and a convenient handhold for the dead to latch onto and drag down.

But.... Some of the people fighting and dying had worn fuckin polo shirts. Those dudes were not instruments of war.

The second moron to grace her shoulder, this moron, the Murder Moron, had been more in the polo-shirt camp then the tactical-outfit camp. This guy had thought it a bang up idea to shoot a lady in the back in full view of living people, didn't shoot the guy who barreled towards him full tilt, and..... well, he didn't bristle with the armaments of war, did he.

He's not one of ours. He's with the School.

Alright then, the Prison Folk were soldiers, or fancied themselves as such, the School folk were not.

Prison. School. Club.

Prison. School. Club.

Weston had come in with the trucks and there was no reason to believe he'd changed alliances. That meant the trucks came from the Prison. Had they intended to come and help the School?

When the lamb screamed, the jackal came running...... but not to help.

Alright, genius........ think.

How had the rest of the Prison Party known to come? A component of Prison People had already been here, judging from what she'd seen, Shrapnel Butt not the least among them. So...... probably a call for help. Prison People calling other Prison People for aid.

Help help, we're being surrounded.

Cue Weston and the trucks.

That meant Prison People had walkies talkies or cell phones. Cell service was spotty these days as power plants shut down, the routine maintenance on towers went undone, and bills went forever unpaid, so...... probably walkie talkies. That meant a limit on probable distance from School to Prison. Unless they used ham radio..... but if School and Prison were too far, then sending reinforcements would have been pointless.

He's not one of ours. He's with the School.

An armed, fighting force that viewed the School as a 'them' rather than an 'us'..... well, that wasn't a great look. Maybe the School had traded with the Prison for protection? Could just as easily have been a hostile takeover. It wasn't a merger, not a joining of forces, that would make one us, not an 'us' and a 'them'.

Whether by choice or conquest, the stark difference between Prison and School would explain why Fleet Foot on the roof had zero experience with guns and why there was such disparity between combatants on the field.

Now what about the Grand Plan to attack this school with a sea of the dead, thanks to the president of the Fallen Angels?

Prison. School. Club.

Madison would have reacted rather more violently to the Motorcycle Club's president's Big Plan, except that the other plan, the secret one had been nearly immediately revealed to her by other members of the Club. Take the zombie horde, walk them past the clubhouse (for some reason), triple-split them up (ditto), but not let them attack the school. That last had been Vice President Casey's last minute tweak. It kept the Grand Plan merely suicidally stupid and pointlessly ineffective, but at least it wasn't a crime against humanity.

What in the devil did the president of the Fallen Angels have against the School? Though...... now that she was almost certain a component of Prison People had already been here when more Prison People had arrived in those trucks, maybe the zombie attack was supposed to be against Prison People and whatever School People died merely...... collateral damage?

Was it possible the Fallen Angels Lord Psycho Presidente was trying to make friends with an unknown fourth piece on the board? Maybe. Madison didn't know how large the Prison group had gotten, but if the Prison had sent a bunch of people here to die against the dead, that would leave the Prison's compound far less guarded. Madison didn't know what a hypothetical fourth piece would have against the School People, but that remained a possibility.

As she walked, Madison heard loud voices off to one side, but remained focused on the door ahead of her. A kid, a real kid, an actual, literal child, followed her, looking worried. Yeah. Madison was worried too. Worried...... Worried and pissed off royal.

Madison's suspicions of the Fallen Angels' president using a mob of the dead as a weapon were all but confirmed, now. The Motorcycle Club's Glorious Leader had put his own people at risk, his own clubhouse at risk, for a hit.

A goddamn hit.

The drone-bomb had clinched it.

It had been piloted towards living people rather than towards throngs of the dead.

That drone had been piloted by somebody, and had successfully targeted herself and Shrapnel Butt. Madison herself was too new to the board to matter, which meant a grudge against Shrapnel Butt, specifically. Plenty of better ways to kill lots of living with flying fucking ordinance than to hover near a grand total of two whole people and go kaboom. Shrapnel Butt was Prison People (probably). Whoever went in for the hit with a drone didn't have a sniper rifle or didn't know how to use one.

Was the Drone Pilot one of the School People, maybe? Someone from the Prison with a grudge against Shrapnel Butt in specific? A fourth piece on the board? One of the Fallen Angels, waiting in the wings?

No way to know..... But the chances the Fallen Angel's extremely fallen president had 'just happened' to use a fuckin horde as a weapon at the same time some tech-nerd piloted a kid's toy for an assassination at the same time the Prison People had been called for aid by their own? Nil. Fuuu-cking-nil. The certainty thrummed in the woman's veins, even as she stepped inside and followed the throngs of other wounded.

This had been planned or a coincidence big enough to be a miracle...... And Madison didn't believe in miracles any more.

Namazu Aegis Good_Morels Miaow ​

 

[NanLia]

On the Road...



Alejandra wasn’t sure what she had expected when she arrived at the crash scene, but this certainly wasn’t it. It was very nearly a well-operated military excursion! Nearly because it was clear they had far too loose ranks and the chaos was breaking their chain but they weren’t far from working order. A convoy of police and prison vehicles had been a surprise alone but that several of the individuals carried themselves as trained officers blew her mind. She momentarily thought that perhaps there was some part of the government and by conduit, military operating in the shit.

Ally didn’t have time to process any of it, in truth, as Casey clambered into the van with Kit and Wes in tow, swiftly followed by another wounded. She didn’t need to be told to haul ass and soon had their poor van tearing back out the way they had come.

She kept a close eye in the rearview as Kit worked on Wess and Casey kept an eye on their passenger. He hadn’t given her cause for concern yet, but she certainly wasn’t going to give an opportunity to get the jump on her or her family. It appeared Bullet felt much the same way as she’d turned on the bench seat to face the back of the van, watching the men they’d picked up.

Ally frowned to herself as their guest passenger started to praise them for their actions; it was disappointing that in this new world, it wasn’t expected to try and help others. They hadn’t been doing so thus far, focused solely on their own survival. He went on to warn them about the convoy he’d just departed from, though she made no comments. While the Club hadn’t been altruistic in its practices, they also hadn’t gone out of their way to harm others … so far as she was aware.

Following the remains of the convoy wasn’t difficult to achieve, and soon they were pulled up as close to the school as they could get. At least, what was left of the school. It had survived, much to her surprise. She was gladdened to know that the clubs' efforts to divert the horde had helped, that it hadn’t been a waste of time. They needed a win.

Alejandra popped the door open and stepped out, head on a swivel as the front courtyard of the school was a hive of activity. People shouted, and many lay dead - many that had not turned lay dead too, and it looked more and more like a brawl had broken out after or during the horde. She stood at the side door, waiting for Casey and Kit to get Wess out of the van.



​

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[Miaow]

NORTHVIEW HIGH
School Corridor​

It wasn't long before Minnie caught up with Xander and the stranger, grabbing her arm to get her attention.
"Is he okay?!" She asked, trying to get a look at Xander. She reached up to touch his shoulder, scared to shake him, "Xander?"

He looked bad. She could see the blood dripping from his nose, splatting onto the leather of the stranger's jacket. She couldn't get a proper look at him, but... he didn't really look like dad anymore. She couldn't recognise his face. If she hadn't seen it happen, she would've assumed he was someone else.
"Is my dad gonna be okay..?" She asked, her vision a little blurry as tears clouded in front of her pupils.

Haewon caught up to her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
"Minnie... Stay out of their way, yeah?" She told her, but Minnie wasn't listening.

She sniffed, grabbing his hand as it hung limply from the stranger's shoulder. She could feel the old scars on the back of his knuckles. Maybe this was a taste of his own medicine. Diego's skull had bounced against her bedroom floor. She remembered the cuts on his hands. If Diego had died, then surely Xander...

"Stay awake..." She pleaded, squeezing his hand, "Please... Mac will fix it, but you have to stay awake, okay?"

Safton Tool
​