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



Bad job, Superstar!


The Convoy

Haru stood behind the line of gunmen, waiting impatiently for Cabrera's stupid speech. Sure, The Samaritans were the whole reason he was alive, he didn't exactly have the survival skills one needed to travel solo, and all he had to do in return was a little engineering and coding. He was staring down at a screen, watching the view of an overhead drone giving him a line of sight to the roof. It didn't look like anyone was hiding up there... he began to circle the perimeter, checking for anyone who'd found another way out.

He froze as he heard yelling... a voice he recognised. He lifted his head from his screen, bobbing his head trying to get a good look between the gunman blocking his view. Was that... his name? His eyes met with Miyu.

Before he could react, a gunshot rang out, and Miyu collapsed to the floor in a heap, blood spreading from the wound in her forehead. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, his hands clutching to the screen controlling the drone. His stomach turned. He was too slow. He'd always been too slow. Maybe he could've done something to disarm Jack if he'd just been paying attention... He let the controller clatter to the floor as he shoved his way through the men surrounding her and her group, freezing as he saw the blood.

He flinched as Cabrera shot the air, standing so close to him it felt like his eardrums had burst. His ears rang as he sprinted forward, dropping to the ground and skinning his knees as he grabbed her hand. He'd never been able to hold her hand before. He'd never really tried... He'd seen plenty try, and plenty get smacked across the face for it. Her skin was still warm... He swallowed as he felt tears well up in his eyes. He was meant to be one of Cabrera's top engineers, what would the men think of him if he broke down now? He clasped her hand in both of his, holding it against his forehead. It felt like she was still there.

As Cabrera demanded someone explain, Haru lifted his head, his lip twitching with anger.
"She was my sister. She wasn't running to me, not you. And she didn't have a fucking bomb." He spat at Jack, "She was deaf, she couldn't hear your goddamn speech."
"I'm going with the medic."
He told him, leaving no room for Cabrera's permission as rage clouded his judgement. His sister was slumped on the ground, a hole in her forehead, and Cabrera was ready to shove her aside. He swallowed as he looked down at her once more, removing the hearing aids hanging precariously from her ears. He'd be surprised if the batteries had survived this long.



Mr. Heartbreaker


Scene Three:
The Fight
"We could use a car, I'm by —"

The enforcer’s transmission was cut off in a torrent of garbled static and Wesley frowned, leaning in in a desperate attempt to make out the rest of the words to no avail. After a moment, he tried raising Freddie again. When that failed, he turned his glare on the seated radio operator expectantly. The man gave a shrug and a shake of his head. “The problem’s not on our end, LT.”

Emmett clenched his jaw before letting out a sigh and turning on his heel to march out of the room, reaching for his handheld. “All available security personnel, meet me at the armory. We’re heading out.”


Twenty minutes later, the armed and armored men were piling into the large truck, festooned with rifles, ammunition, and tactical gear as they pulled onto the road outside the prison. The truck’s headlights cut through the inky-black night like a sword, but shadows loomed ominously along the road’s edge just outside the illumination of the beam. Some of those shadows even moved.

Wesley knew that – by rights – he should have checked in with someone before conducting this ill-advised escapade. Under normal circumstances that meant King or his direct subordinate in Weston. But the former wasn’t here and Weston was… indisposed in the wake of what had happened in the Pit. If the Second wanted to punish Wesley after the fact, so be it. The way he saw it, the guy owed him.

Emmett had a rough idea of the patrol route Freddie was supposed to have taken that night – as was his job as Chief of Security – but he began to be worried as they drove on without sign of the man, periodically attempting to raise him on the radio. Then he saw it: something in the distance, amidst the darkness.

“Cut the lights,” he hissed to the truck’s driver. The man looked at him quizzically, earning the ire of Wesley’s glare. “Do it.”

The driver complied, shutting off the headlights just long enough for Emmett to confirm what he saw: lights. Flashlights, if he had to guess by the haphazard way they bobbed and swept around in and out of sight. They looked almost like giant fireflies on the horizon. He nodded to turn the headlights back on. “Straight ahead.”

They crested a ridge, coming down over the road… and Emmett muttered a curse. Dozens of walkers filled the road in front of them, adjacent to the trees.

Near the trees. Moving too fast to be biters.

“Stop, here!” he barked and the driver pumped the brakes before putting the truck in park. Wesley reached past him to press down on the truck’s horn several times, sending several challenging bellows echoing across the field and drawing the attention of numerous shambling figures. He turned in his seat, calling to the enforcers in the back. “Pick your targets, but watch your fire! Stay clear of the treeline. Keep an eye on the flanks.”

The enforcers couldn’t be said to be a well-oiled machine – their levels of training and experience varied at the best of times and was a constant work-in-progress – but they filed out of the vehicle and formed an evenly-spaced line on either side of the truck, laying prone or kneeling down as they readied their weapons. “Drop ‘em!”



Baron of Bad Boys

The Fight

Weston felt a little better after having ditched Val after the fight concluded. He really, honestly, did not have it in him right this moment to continue the parade of having an interest in her or their 'date'. Not that he disliked her or anything, she was just fine as a person, but he just did not have the mental energy to fake being engaged in a conversation.

As he took an admittedly slow stroll towards the bar, his mind drifted back to people he actually could talk to in times of distress, or even just enjoy the silence together without the awkward need to fill it with small-talk. Those people were few and far between. They also had a habit of not sticking around long. Every face and voice that popped into his mind was quickly pushed away and he reminded himself not to dwell. Not in public anyway. Not about Dave, not about...

"Whoa, watch your shit!" Weston blurted out as a clearly-drunk patron stumbled out of the bar, nearly plowing straight into him. The man - Weston couldn't remember his name - mumbled some half-witted apology, gave Weston a look of brief terror, and then did his best to scramble the other direction.

The bar usually filled up decently well after a big event like the fight, and today was no exception. Some people had gone straight from pit to drink, burying one difficult memory with another, and then drowning it all in alcohol, and so on until they inevitably woke up the next morning with a hangover and naught but fuzzy memories. Just as intended. 'Bread and circuses', he was once told. He didn't understand then, but he did now.

Weston slid into his usual seat - a table near the bar where he could put his back to the wall and have a good view of the whole room. Years ago he would have been perfectly content to grab a stool at the bar, but these days? He liked having concrete at his back.

"Anything dark and strong!" He pipped up, motioning to the bartender - knowing full he'd be heard. Was he being a bit of an ass not approaching the bar to grab his own drink like everyone else? Yes. Did he care right now? Absolutely not. Just like how he didn't care what he drank right now, only that he got -something-.

The chatter in the room had quieted down noticeably when he entered, no doubt patrons were watching him, waiting to see how he'd react. Weston flashed a few smiles, winks, and nods to a few people, and the crowds visibly relaxed. All it took some assurance was that no, he was not angry, and he was not going to blow up in here. It wouldn't be right of him if he did.

As he waited there for his drink, quietly and patiently, he didn't really feel like people watching that much, nor did he want to invite anyone over for more of that damn small-talk. Something occurred to him then.

The picture. He never really did look at it before he shoved it in Andrew's face. It was a quick, last minute grab from evidence before he slipped back into his room to get ready for the fight. Not many people still had pictures of people from Before, so he figured it'd be worth something to the guy. Pulling it out of his pocket, flattening it out against the table, and flipping it right side up, Weston finally took a look at what or who it was a picture of.

He immediately wished he hadn't. A picture of Andrew, at some backyard barbeque party. Andrew and another man were in the foreground, smiling for the camera, while other party guests were in the back having a good time - captured mid-laugh or eating better food than they'll ever get nowdays. The man in the picture with Andrew was younger, maybe about Weston's age. The two were locked in a side-hug. A very close side hug. Weston had been in enough of those hugs to know it wasn't the kind you gave to someone who was just a friend - not with the expression on their faces. A lump formed in Weston's throat, which he tried to swallow down quickly.

Don't think about them. Don't think about this too, what you just did.

Trying to take his eyes off the subject of the picture, he focused on the people in the background. Some were turned away from the camera, or only partially in the shot. Only a few women, but mostly men - and there was no hiding it that they were all military in some shape or form. There was one person on the shot, off to Andrew's side, in the background, that caught Weston's eye. The person was goofing off next to a portable radio - probably trying to get people to dance. All smiles, all laughter.

Weston squinted, then held the picture closer to his face as if that would help. Something clicked in his brain, and he held his breath.

What the fuck? That's-

He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone sat down a glass of dark ale in front of him, glass connecting with wooden table with a thunk. The noise brought his brain spiraling back towards the present, and he quickly turned the picture away as he looked up. It was Tig, of all people. He hadn't even noticed the man was still working.

"Drink up, honey. You're going to need this for later." Tig commented teasingly, giving Weston a wink before leaving.

Tig was no idea how correct he was, now.


》 ACT 1, SCENE 3
The Fight

In the corner of a long sought after cell despite its telltale of emprisonment, a damned prisoner hides away from the outside, his incomprenhensible whimpers muffled by sad excuses of blankets, one could never guess that the weeping man had just won a fight for his life. However, 'won' is a pretty strong word for what went down at the pit, more so... 'spared', he may have been completely out of it, but he had enough sense to figure out what the whole dynamic was. He got lucky, that's all there's to it, Kenny got a lunatic to fight against, even when his match got him down, he didn't kill him right then and there, prefering to go for a speech he was too mindless to listen to.

At this point, he honestly isn't sure what he'd prefer, dying right there or surviving to get beat up again somehow, Kenny doesn't get the relief of a close survival because the noose around his neck is still there, he's just gonna die another day now, there is no living. He lost EVERY bit of the small cred he managed to build up, that thing with the chief enforcer is basically burned by this point, his fake bravado is unmasked, and any opportunity for a job he had is now gone. He is live meat rotting, already dying so no one wants it, but he's still breathing, feeling every little bit of it as he withers away.

What now? What is there left to do?
Kenny can't just go back shooting up in the watchtowers, neither go out scavenging out and about, he isn't good for anything or trustworthy enough anymore... What did he even do? Even he doesn't understand it, he did nothing, and yet he was thrown to the wolves still. Everything feels like a haze once Kenneth got accused, he really was terrified, all he remembers is agony and pleading, only now does he actually feel grounded in reality.

Not even his memories can give him peace, not when Kenny believes that his family is still out there, and if this is his last line, then he can't leave them all behind like this, but if he does, then all he can do is to wish that they're dead too so he reunite with them, but what kind of son would he be if he wished that? He wouldn't be able to live with himself, but he also isn't sure he can die hoping they're still alive all because he'd be alone. Selfish enough to think of some respite in death with his family in the afterlife and the furthest thing away from a virtuous person, Kenny can only pray there's a chance for some sort of salvation.

After all, Kenny's going to die here.
That's reality for him, there's no way out of this alive. He just doesn't know the specifics, will he be in pain, will it be quick, will he become one of the undead, will someone take some sort of pity on him even then? It's a strange thing to consider how your death will go. But despite it all... What hurts him most is that exact pity, he doesn't need pity from anyone, at least that's what he tells himself... And yet, it is still granted to him.
All his life, he didn't want to be meek.
All his life, he made choices to show he wasn't just a kid.
All his life, he wanted to be proud of his bravery.
But here he is, the most cowardly fucker in Lincoln, crying alone in the corner because he lived just a little bit more, even after all the odds he was showed mercy, and the only thing he can really be glad for is that his father isn't seeing the embarassment his son really is.

Bullyboy Squad

pure of heart, dumb of ass

The Convoy

Cabrera watched the scene with his mouth open. His chest visibly moved faster as he listened to Haru's accusing tone. But it wasn't clear if the convoy leader felt guilty or angry. Finally he tore his gaze away from the body, speaking in a firm, hoarse voice. "Go with the medic."

His eyes scanned the crowds. "Maybe we have more in common than you think, folks! But don't forget this lesson… We didn't survive this long by being careless!" He growled and glanced at Price. Giving him a firm nod. He made the right call pulling the trigger. Even if the consequences were dire. Even if they all had to live with them now.

"And we didn't survive this long by giving second chances." His voice went darker and he looked at the man that alerted them about the non existent bomb. "Get him off my sight. He's going back home, cleaning the shitters."

Glancing to Arthur he added. "Lock this one up with the prisoner."

Eyeing his cage champion he shook his head. "Go to medic, North. Do something with that ugly mug." But there was a hint of regret in his tone. Dutchess and Anthony spent months preparing for this day and it didn't go as planned. But when did it, huh.

"All of you! Go with my men, show them what you were doing before we arrived. Chances are you'll be allowed to continue just that while I have a little chat with your leader."

After that final announcement Cabrera motioned his head to Font. "Lead the way, Captain."


Bullyboy Squad

pure of heart, dumb of ass

The Fight

The kid. The goddamn kid. Somehow in that moment his question squeezed Freddie's heart.

In the midst of chaos of gunshots and decomposing bodies dropping to the ground, just for a second, he could see his boy. His son. Pale face and pale eyes, gazing up at him from the hospital bed. What will happen now, Daddy?

Freddie grit his teeth and whipped his aim at another monster staggering into the road and in Tanner's direction. "Watch it!" He growled and squeezed the trigger, piercing the head between dead eyes.

He heard Connor's yelling and caught a glimpse of Sam evading the toxic jaws of the undead, but he didn't know what to say. Snapping muzzle at another biter he only hoped the trucks were close. "Just keep fighti-" His words cut when he realized the slide was back and his gun was empty. The biter lunged at him but he managed to sidestep. Squinting through the sweat in his eyes in the vague lighting, he shoved the slow creature to the side and stomped on its head. Busy when repeating the task he only then realized the car was there.

"Ah shit-" Spinning around he threw himself at Tanner. "Get down!!" Dropping the kid to the hard ground just moments before the Samaritans opened fire. Sure they had to be mindful of the enforcers there but Freddie always thought it's better safe than sorry.

He wasn't sure how long it took but finally it was nothing but the ringing in his ears and the man grunted when pulling up, releasing the kid. "About time." He rasped out and began dusting off, narrowing his eyes in the direction of the headlights. He didn't yet notice that his hat was gone, discarded nearby in the dirt.



The Fashionable Crab
Scene 2 The Helicopter

Rocky called up to him in response, voice wavering and lacking any sort of confidence as he said "Alright, just tell me what you need."

Jamie, fumbling slightly with his tools on the servo control, huffed in clear impatience. "I just told you-Keep up, man! I need you to clear the engines of any gunk that's built up and do the pre-flight checks like I taught you!" Call him high-strung, but he'd never had to repair a helicopter under threat of very-fucking-imminent death before. The dead were already pounding on the roof access doors, and it would only get worse as more stumbled up the stairs. The door was made of metal, and the landing at the top of the stairwell would have been too small for enough bodies to press together and burst the door open but the door was hanging on nearly rusted-out hinges and held in place by a half-broken lock. The first time they'd come to the hospital, one of the Samaritans escorting Jamie had to use a crowbar to force the door open because they couldn't find the keys. It was a miracle it could still close after that. With the entire city descending on the group, the door wouldn't hold more than fifteen minutes.

Rocky had climbed up the side of the helicopter to look into the engines by the time Jamie had pulled the servo control free. The servo control, at eye glance, looked to be in relatively decent condition. But the imperfections like how the slide valve tube had small build-ups of rust and rough grooves and how the hydraulic lines had thin coats of gunk inside them quickly became apparent. Those slight imperfections in the part were more than enough to equate to a, startlingly literal, fall from grace.

Shifting his tool bag, he pulled out the necessary tools and agents to clean the tube and hydraulic lines. The roof access door had stopped shaking, but that was only because there wasn't enough room for the dead on the other side to lift their arms and bang against it. The swell of bodies on the other side of the door had filled the stairwell landing, compressed shoulder to shoulder, and was pushing the entire weight of the horde against the door. A few Samaritan goons had tried pressing back against the door to ease the strain on it, but at that point it was like treating gangrene with a bandaid. The door was creaking as the hinges were pushed to their limits, and it wouldn't be long until the rusted screw holding them to the frame shot off.

Jamie tore his gaze away from the door and quickly resumed cleaning with renewed panic. "Rocky, how's the engine? Find anything wrong?" he hadn't even looked up to ask, furiously scrubbing the tube valve clean.

"It's fine, nothing's wrong-" Rocky was interrupted by the sound of the door's top hinge popping off the frame. Jamie quickly finished cleaning, gave the servo control once over, winced at the condition, and began inserting it back into position. As he did, the door's lock finally gave, bursting open and slamming against the wall from the sheer weight of the bodies pushing against it from the other side. The Samaritans had already begun firing, but it was like a tidal wave. Dozens were pushing out onto the roof, with even more stumbling up the stairs from behind. The only consolation was that the ones at the front of the door tripped forward from the sudden release of the door, and the ones behind them had to stumble and crawl over their writhing bodies to stand on the roof, slowing the initial flow significantly.

The repairs would have to do. They'd have to do. It wasn't like Jamie had much of a say in it at the moment. They had to take off, now. Placing the steel cover back on the tail and loading his tools back into his bag, Jamie grabbed the bag and threw himself off the tail. Nearly landing face first, he climbed back to his feet and rushed to the cockpit, a constant mantra of 'Oh shit oh shit oh fuck oh shit oh fuck oh no' running through his head. Jamie open the pilot's door and began starting up the engine via muscle memory, every action performed to the backdrop of gunshots and falling bodies as the dead made further headway onto the roof.

He'd barely had enough time to yell "Rocky, off the engines!" before he'd started warming the engine. Rocky threw himself off, stumbling towards Jamie as the blades above them began to spin, the humming of the engine and the whirling of the blades momentarily catching Jamie. He'd never thought he'd hear the sounds of takeoff again.

"Are we done?" Rocky asked, just as panicked as him.

Jamie turned to answer, words catching in his mouth as he caught sight of the bloody seeping from Rocky's arm for the first time. He'd been-He couldn't think about it. Not now, the dead were already halfway to the helipad. He didn't have time to think of anything other than starting the helicopter.

"Yeah, we're done. Just another minute or two until there's enough RPM to take-"

Rocky would never hear him finish, because with a crack remniscent of a cannon, he slumped lifelessly to the floor as his blood blew onto Jamie.


It was all Lawrence could do to remain calm, but he had to. King had given clear orders. Rocky wasn’t making it out of this. But that was fine. Absolutely no harm and no foul. Lawrence was not cold, but he was calculated. He wasn’t a bitch, but he wasn’t a fool. If King said jump, the question wasn’t how high, but no question. Just jump. The man was brutal and it was always easier to follow along. Besides, he had not led them astray thus far.

Despite the rather gruelling situation, Lawrence did not blame King. He blamed everyone else. It was they who likely aggravated the dead. Why they hadn’t chosen stealth was beyond Lawrence’s cunning. Did they just wake up to the end of the world, or were they just trigger happy? Either way, they miscalculated. The dead were winning. They were always winning.

Lawrence looked on, observed, and carefully watched every fucking move Jamie and Rocky made. Lawrence felt like a parent again carefully watching his girl do her homework getting more and more frustrated with each step of the math problem. Only, in this instance, the consequence for failure wasn’t a red x, but a feeding to the buffet for the dead. Yet Lawrence watched on with resolute calmness waiting for the resident expert Jamie to provide any clear signal that things were good to go.

Lawrence knew fuck all about choppers, other than they went up and down. But Jamie knew and Lawrence was satisfied he had enough to go on. And so, thumbing the very concealed .44 mag inside his pants, Lawrence waited patiently almost looking like someone rubbing his bulge at a very inappropriate moment. A smile crossed his face. He didn’t want to do this. But he would. He was merely following orders. So it goes.

We are done was all Jamie had to say. And he said it. It sounded like music to Lawrence’s ears. A single word protruded from his lips that made him sound like God himself praising the hard work of his creation. “Good!” Lawrence sighed out in almost a whisper. He pulled the mag from his pants and leveled it with Rocky’s temple. And then, he pulled the trigger without hesitation. The hun recoiled but Lawrence held firm. The bullet blasted through Rocky’s skull sending shrapnel of bone, brains, and blood cascading across the air like a piñata showering candy on happy party goer’s heads.

Blood fell all around and Lawrence closed his eyes before any could hit him. His gun was soaked in blood and brains like a cake batter. He cleared his throat and clicked his jaw from the sudden screeching of noise from the gun. It echoed in the smaller space and he sighed. It was done. Rocky was dead and they were ready to go. Lawrence turned to Jamie and stared blankly. “I got five rounds left in here. Get this thing in the air, boy.” And with that, Lawrence pushed his gun back into his pants


Mr. Heartbreaker


Scene One:
The Convoy
"Get your house in order, Captain. Or I will."

The words rang in Xander's ears as he glared back at Cabrera, knowing full well that the man would follow through on that threat. The knowledge kept him silent as the leader turned away to dispense with his men, giving a number of orders before finally returning his attention to Font.

"Lead the way, Captain."

Xander's jaw clenched, but he nodded slowly. He spared one final glance at Nari, Minnie, and Haewon before turning slowly away to stride back toward the school under the watchful eye of the Samaritans. Once inside, he elected to lead Cabrera toward his old classroom, walking inside. He began to make his way toward his desk out of habit, but thought better of it. "No weapons stashed in here, don't worry," he said quietly, though to placate the man he chose to take a seat atop one of the student desks in the center of the room before giving Cabrera an expectant look. "What happens now?" he asked.



Mr. Heartbreaker


Scene Three:
The Fight
"Hold your fire!" Wesley barked, the staccato sound of the rifles dying out obligingly. He stood up slowly, his own weapon clutched in his hands. "Move up and confirm your kills. Maintain perimeter security," he called out, the enforcers doing as they were told: surging forward in a slow, steady line: prodding fallen bodies of the ghouls and putting bullets into the heads of those that still moved or even just twitched. Some -- perhaps in an attempt to conserve ammunition -- resorted to bashing or piercing the skulls of the fallen while their compatriots maintained a watchful eye on the surroundings.

Wes, meanwhile, headed toward the treeline, reaching down to pull a high-powered LED flashlight from his belt... just in time for Freddie's disheveled form to stand up about a dozen yards in front of him. He almost didn't recognize the guy without that damned hat. "You good?" he asked. The query sounded innocent enough, like a supervisor and "work friend" asking his subordinate if they were injured... but implication was left unspoken: Did you get bitten?

Before an answer came, he heard one of his enforcers call out: "Got two more over here, LT. Alive." He turned to see the man escorting two individuals and waved them over to join their informal gathering.

Wesley glanced over Freddie's shoulder to see another unfamiliar form in the darkness behind him. Freddie was clearly aware of the presence of these strangers and didn't seem bothered. All the same, Wes raised the powerful, focused beam of his flashlight -- shining it on each of the people's faces in turn with little regard for their eyes. One of them looked familiar... that weirdo fuck that scavenged for them sometimes. Then there was another young man -- maybe mid-20s -- and a kid of all things. Emmett grunted, clicking the light off before turning back to Freddie. "Who're the strays?" As much as he wanted to leave the area as soon as possible given the amount of noise they had just caused, he wasn't going to invite these strangers into their vehicles -- much less the home he was charged with protecting -- without more information on them and whether any of them had been bitten.



Faux Hero
Roleplay Availability
Roleplay Type(s)

The Fight

Tanner's head swirled from the shouts of men and the swell and pulse caused in his head every time Freddie shot his pistol, but he kept running around and doing his best to avoid getting in the way. A part of the boy was bitter that the men had taken his and Connor's weapons. If they had them, they could be a way bigger help, and maybe they could even escape afterward. However, his thoughts were torn from his mind as a bullet whipped past his head with such a close proximity he felt the wind rustle his hair and the sting of heat from the lead burn at his cheek; one of the dead fell to the ground just behind him.

Startled, Tanner fell in closer to Freddie. The boy could hear Connor and Sam fighting somewhere out there, but the moans of the dead pierced his soul and he knew things were bad. They only went from bad to hopeless when Tanner heard the slide lock back on Freddie's pistol.

The kid's heart dropped and he considered making a mad dash for Connor's grunts in the hope that they should chance it running away rather than stay here and die. Yet, lights flooded the black of the scene as trucks tore into the fight from the night, and bullets began to rip through the battlefield just in time for the mustached man to yank the kid to the ground. Tanner's ears soon rang with the din of gunfire as his eyes managed to make out the silhouettes of bodies hitting the dirt. Waiting for his hearing to return, Tanner looked up to Freddie who was dusting himself off and took notice that he was now hatless. The boy reached over and snatched the hat before standing up and presenting it to his 'savior', "Uh... you dropped this."

Tanner's head dropped sideways and to the ground in semi-reluctance, but he owed the man at least that much. He hoped the cars would take them out of there-- soon.


Connor felt the cold fingers of the dead try and find purchase on his clothes and flesh as they snatched at him from the black that surrounded him. Heat. His body was flushed with the nervous heat and sweat from exercise and being so close to death. The ex-soldier smashed through a shambler ahead of him, and tore his heels into the ground as he ran with all his might to keep up with the rest of the crew to no avail. So many things, shadows of people or something resembling people-- danced in the dark. He heard shouts of orders and screams but was unable to pin a specific location.

Then, the headlights appeared. Gunshots. Connor's heart sank as he was deep in the crowd of the infected as they began to collapse around him. The ex-soldier willingly grabbed at an infected that was approaching him just before a spray from some firearm cut toward him and hit the infected instead. Blood erupted from the torso of the mailman he had grabbed and a few stray pieces of the bullet impacted against his plate carrier with enough force to rip the wind from his lungs. The mailman, feeling none of the pain-- shoved Connor forward onto his back and sank its teeth into the vest as well yanking forward a mouthful of fabric and leaving several of its teeth scattered due to the ceramic plate.

Connor let out a panicked scream as the ex-soldier felt a surge of adrenaline fire through his veins, and in a single swift movement he seized the mailman by its collar and slung him off to the side. Scrambling to his feet, the man stood above the mailman and began to stomp and stomp and stomp until nothing but the sight of ground beef and bone remained. The man was red in the face from lack of air as he doubled over and began to wheeze in an effort to catch his breath.

If he hadn't been wearing his vest... the bullets... the bite.

Connor's stomach turned over as an image of him tearing Tanner apart flashed through his mind. He had been behind the pack a ways judging by how far ahead the car stopped. The ex-soldier just sat there on his knees. At the moment, the rise and fall of his chest and lungs was the most glorious feeling in the world, but he needed to go find Tanner. A grunt of exertion followed the soldier clamoring to his feet before he started along with his hands raised in a sign of surrender so hopefully they wouldn't be stupid enough to shoot him-- again.

Emerging from the far edge of the distance covered by the lights, Connor was a grim sight to behold. Blood covered the man from head to toe after his fights and the spray from the gunfire amidst the crowd, his hands shook from overexertion, and it was clear that he was less than pleased at the outcome of events save the fact he and Tanner were still alive. It would be easy from that distance to mistake him for another walking corpse, but he shouted out toward the car, "I'm alive! I'm fine! Where's Tanner?"


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