Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by chronowolf, Nov 2, 2014.

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  1. It had been months now. Or had it been longer? There had been a small disease outbreak. The government said they had it under control. They didn't. They had been lying to keep everyone calm. The whole world in chaos from a disease outbreak wouldn't be very easy to control.

    Soon, people were dying left and right. They seemed to be catching a mutated version of the flu. Or, at least, that's what everyone thought. Several hours after death, the dead would come back to life and would attack those closest. Those bitten by the dead would be infected. If any bodily fluids from the dead got into a body, that person would become infected. It was a never ending cycle that continued and, as time went on, the process quickened. Several hours turned into minutes.

    Within months, most of Earth's population had been destroyed, either by being turned or by dying. So far, those who died by natural causes would not turn. The virus was not yet airborne. The government had since ceased trying to make a cure. There was no cure.

    A young seventeen year old by the name of Xavier had been one of the few survivors. Currently, he was hiding out in a country side house, having boarded up all the windows and unnecessary doorways, such as the back and basement doors. He had been staying here for some time now and was beginning to run low on provisions.

    "Fuck, this is bad," he grumbled to himself as he checked over what he had left. Only about two days worth of food and a day's worth of water, if that. He hated going out to get supplies. He always risked getting caught and he never found any other survivors. He was beginning to think there were no other survivors now. Could he really be the only one? It was surreal for him to think about.

    Gathering his things, Xavier got ready to head out. He pulled on his thick black hoodie and faded and slightly torn blue jeans, double wrapping his ankles, wrists, the torn parts of his clothing and on his forearm. He always did this. he had learned, from an old zombie movie he used to watch, that this was a technique that could keep the undead from biting into your flesh. Once that was done, he slipped on his shoes and grabbed his brown aviator goggles from atop the coffee table, putting them on the top of his head, pulling back his shaggy brown hair before he pulled them down over his eyes.

    As he walked over to the door, he licked his lips, swallowing thickly. He knew he could end up getting lost and not making it back to the house, but he had to have faith in himself. He grabbed his archery gloves off the mantle before reaching over and grabbing his bow and quiver off the wall where he had left them. He pulled on his gloves and hefted the quiver onto his back, the bow following after. He had no close-range weapons; fighting up close was one of his weaknesses. Once he was sure he was ready, he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and made his way down the dirt trail that lead to the nearby town.
     
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