CROSSED: Nowhere To Run

[Hecatoncheires]

Gotta hand it to Doc Hoi: she reacts well in a crisis. I can only hope the others are reacting as quickly. Moving over to the edge of the watch post, I snatch the Remington I brought up with me and peer through the scope.

If there's a chance to take out the Plussie at the wheel of that trawler, it'll be found up here.

Staring into one of their faces is an unnerving experience, even through a scope. Something about the way they smile, equal parts pleasure and savagery, mixed together with all the shit they do to themselves combines into a horror show for the ages. Dishevelled, unwashed bodies, coated in muck and grime, heavy furs that have been hacked from unfortunate wildlife and worn to keep the chill at bay.

Or at least, that's what I'm used to.

But as I zero in on the bastards on this boat, I am reminded of the common rule for the Crossed.

Expect anything.

They're decked out in battered, bloody but maintained winter jackets, adorned with trophies from their victims. A necklace of ears and fingers, severed hands hanging from belts. Each is armed, mostly blades and clubs and other objects used for the close kill, but more than a few firearms as well. Handguns and shotguns, the sort of gear used for storming defences quickly. Their mouths are moving in unison. Shouting? Chanting? No, singing. The bastards are fucking singing.

This isn't a random motley of savages. This is a hunting party. Thought has gone into this set-up. A display of predatory cunning, from the equipment chosen to the angle of approach they've taken. And as if to confirm the whole grim business each of them wears a piece of human skin, stitched into the sleeves of their clothing.

Like a sigil. A military patch.

Despite the cold, I feel a trickle of sweat run down my back.

Inhaling and trying to get my focus back, I swing my aim across to the trawler's cabin, where the wheel should be. Immediately I curse under my breath and pull my eye away from the scope. Bastard's have taken some precautions, it seems; the windows are coated in a hellish collage of red and brown substances, with only a few slits amidst it all for the Plussie at the wheel to see through. No way to know where the controls are, where the guy is standing. I may have the vantage, but there's nothing I can do with it.

This is bad.

This is really, really bad.

My furious cursing continues as I sling the Remington over my shoulder and begin to haul myself down off the Crow's Nest as fast as I can, glancing back over my shoulder at Hoi.
"Nothing we can do up here! C'mon, hurry!"

The trawler picks up speed, hearing the alarms just after the Crossed aboard have spotted the people moving about on the Rig. Inside, the survivors move in a whirl of practised chaos. They move for the Armoury in a rush, or else for their living quarters in a panic, snatching up weapons and belongings as they go. The first to make it to the rails of the Quarters Platform begin to unload on the approaching craft, small arms fire crackling across the water. But the once-men on the boat seem prepared for this, as a voice from the cabin bellows out

Ducking down behind the trawler's side or else behind planks of dirty wood that have been set up as cover, the Crossed take shelter from the attempts to repel their advance. And all the while the singing continues.

They are gunning for the lowest walkway, where stands a small teenage girl locked in place by terror.

And they will be here soon.

 

[Mjr.Chaos]

Chris Desny

Chris was just beginning to settle in when the alarm sounded. He clenched his jaw visibly as the jarring sound assaulted his ears, more annoyed than terrified. With a disarming, misleading sense of casualness, Chris calmly stood up from the cafeteria table, gripping his M1911 in his right hand and brushing his jeans off with his left. After he was satisfied with the appearance of his trousers, he moved purposefully after the echoing footsteps of the others, the deck accenting his own with metallic clicks and clangs. A few minutes of half-jogging through the labyrinthine bulkheads found him at the lowest level of the rig, and even inside he could hear the giant ocean sloshing around, along with the faint, dull drone of a poorly maintained boat engine. Well shit, he thought to himself simply, stepping through a final hatch to receive a face-full of salty air and seaspray.

He squinted his eyes and put an arm out in front of his face to shield his vision from the elements. It was a few seconds before he spotted the little fishing trawler, streaked with blood and puffing black-grey smoke. His face contorted into an expression of disgust, and instinctively his other hand grasped for his gun, drawing it and pointing it at the dappled metal deck, safety off and an index finger above the trigger guard. The shot was clear, but he didn't kid himself; he may be good, but at that range scoring a hit depended on a retarded amount of luck and a belief in some obscure god, neither of which he possessed. He glanced to the side, still waiting for the eager little fucks to get close, when he noticed poor little Dominika standing stock still next to the railing.

"Hey!" he growled across the walkway, waving his unarmed hand a little, none too keen on making himself a nice, tidy little target for the Crossed. Annoyed even further by her lack of a response, he quickly, carefully walked over to the diminutive figure and grasped her arm firmly, tugging her insistently towards him.

Still nothing.

He cast a wayward glance to the sea. By now he could start making out details on the Crossed, something that didn't sit well with him at all. His glance returned to the Russian, and with a touch of impatience and, admittedly, nervousness, his hand moved from her arm to her chin, jerking her to face him. He offered nothing but a cold glare and a gesture towards the door with the barrel of his gun. I swear to Christ, if I have to drag this chick by the hair...

 

[Fluffy]

I reach the room and immediately start scanning for my spare weapon. My mind is in such a jumble that I can hardly think. I'm visibly shaking; I'm excited and nervous. Scared. No, terrified. I bite my lower lip as I move towards my bed, suppressing a flashback of that night. 'Concentrate, Chief.' Is it weird that I like calling myself 'Chief'?

As I throw the pillow off my bed, I uncover a ZT, a Zero Tolerance knife, with a titanium back handle. The damn thing is fat, but at least it folds. Lyle gave it to me a long time ago. I haven't used it for a while because I felt it was more appropriate to kill the plusfaces with his blade instead.

Jo followed me in, so I turned her her once I had the knife in hand. A gun would suit her better, but it doesn't hurt to have another option. "It opens and closes like so," I explain quickly, demonstrating how to reveal the blade and then retract it. The girl's a quick learner, so I was confident I only needed to do it a couple times. Besides, she might have already known what I was talking about. There was just no time to ask questions. With a nod, I press it into her palm, my fingers squeezing around her hand affectionately before letting go. I'm smaller, I'm weaker, but I'm older. I feel like a big sister.

I'm as ready as I can be, I figured. "What did you see out there?" I ask suddenly. I turn to Rigor with mild concern in my eyes. He had to have saw something, he told me just this morning what he would be up to. I'm in the doorway now, ready to leave with my kin. I want to get it over with. However this is meant to end, please let it end swiftly...

 

[RiverNotch]

She's not moving. Dominika is not moving. And time, time, we have no time. No time to think, just time to do.

There's Christopher. He'll help.

My child looks shocked.

"She's-she's in a-a- a state of shock, Christ-Christ! Sorry, sorry, but she won't respond. We'll have to move her, move her." (Meredith spoke, but only in a whisper too soft to be heard by Christopher)

Sweat's forming on my brow. A cold-a cold- am I shivering? Oh-o-of course, it's Alaska. N-not very good for careers... Aa-a-a-and the ship is, the trawler is, it's coming. Oh, I have to get myself to-together!

(Then in a more audible voice)"Christopher? Christopher? Did you hear me? We have to pull her out of here! She-oh goddamn it's cold-she's in some sort of stagefright-oh, shock! We'll drag her out."
But she's not that heavy. And my child will need protection, if they get too close. Ah "No, no, I'll drag her out. You just... just stand guard or somethingOh god Oh god! they're getting closer."

I-I-I don't know what I'm doing. I think I'm grabbing her, I think that's what I'm doing. Oh, it's been so long since I've pulled someone of this-this heavy-not since that fling with D-Hahaha ohhh. I'm getting a bit c-colder, but I'm hugging her that should make me feel oh hwarmhehr. Ohhh puuuuull
(She had wrapped her arms around the girl's abdomen, and was then pulling (or trying to pull) her to safety)
Come on child "Come on, child" don't just stand there "don't just stand there" go with me! Help me pull you "Ughh!"

I don't want to lose my daughter again.

 

[Mjr.Chaos]

Chris Desny

Chris gave Meredith a sort of Are you serious right now? kind of look, relinquishing his grip on Dominika reluctantly as she was tugged on by the elderly woman. Her incessant babbling ratcheted his annoyance up yet another notch, and after a few seconds of watching her struggle with essentially "The Human Brick", Chris laid a hand on Meredith's somewhat scrawny shoulder and firmly pushed her back a pace, grabbing Dominika around the midsection with one arm and pointing to the hatch he'd come out from, daring the woman to try and protest. She was a well-meaning woman, and he knew it, presenting the only reason he wasn't leaving her out here to babble on nervously and get shot, raped, tortured, or any combination of the three. Cold, sure, but he has no time for pleasantries and indecision.

With or without Meredith's blessing, he tromped towards the opening, the door to the hatch swinging back and forth slightly with the rhythm of the wind. He pulled the girl over his shoulder, bending her over at the waist and holding her fast by the thighs. For all intents and purposes, she was a sack. As he carried her across the walkway, the sharp clacks of his boots against the rugged metal yielded to the increasingly louder sound of a diesel engine. Chris was moving as quickly as he felt it safe, none too comfortable with the vast ocean just below him. Also remained the possibility of him dropping her into the ocean. He was fairly strong, but frankly her ass was giving his grip plenty of trouble. She worked that muscle group out on purpose and he knew it, and if they got out of this alive he was damned if he wouldn't give her one hell of an embarrassing admonishment.

Twenty feet from the hatchway, the bass tones of the engine was nearly deafening. The sound was amplified by the steel underbelly of the Rig, giving the illusion that the boat was practically on top of them. Still, the little shits were getting clo- *Ping! Pyong ping!*

Chris was now moving markedly faster, prioritizing [OBJECTIVE]: Don't Get Shot By Sadistic Fucks over [OBJECTIVE]: Safety first! For a few intense moments he expected to hear a final gunshot and for it to be all over for him, but luckily, even with their adaptive ways, the Crossed hadn't figured out that if they stopped masturbating for about five full seconds to aim they might actually hit something. In a final sprint he surged through the hatch and nearly collided with the wall, staggering to the floor and trying his best to put Dominika down gently.

Fucking goddamn stupid Russian girly no-brained mincey cunt no balls god-fucking-dammit if the Crossed don't kill you I'll do the job you fucking ungrateful foreign shit you're-

This went on for about another minute.

 

[Cerulean]

Finally, Alfred was recovered after he spotted a little blue sticker on the barrel of the gun. It was so he knew it was his. Gun fire was already falling upon his ears. Those Crossed must be close enough for itchy trigger fingers to waste bullets. "No bueno." He checked to see if the clip was still full and he loaded it. It was fight time. Jameson came running to the platform, weapon ready for action. He stood on the edge of the firing squad and looked down the sights looking for an opening. There wasn't much, but when he thought he seen something pop out he fired a shot or three.

He didn't have any idea of the situation below. All that run through his throughts were making sure these assholes didn't take the rig. It was the closest thing they had to a home, and Jameson wasn't about to give it up for no goofy, red faced, dipshits. "Get back!" He said, firing again.

 

[Peter Feels]

Rigor arrived at his small space on the Rig that he shared with Amelia. She was already there with Jo, armed and ready for a fight. The mixed looks of worry and determination on both the women's faces said everything. He stepped up to the former and nodded to the latter.

"Whole boat.", he said simply to Amelia as he placed a hand on her shoulder. He never needed to say more with her.

A quick reassuring squeeze with his hand told Amelia that everything was going to be okay. He stepped past her toward their bed, a bunk cut in half and welded side by side, where he kept a tiny cache of weapons. A few were even modified by his own hand. He selected a heavy bowie knife to accompany his machete at his side. These and a smaller knife would have to be enough. He also grabbed a pair of light welding masks, modified to prevent fluids or other body leavings in. He turned and handed one to Amelia before donning his.

He looked at Jo and held out another mask, this one cobbling together a surgical mask and safety glasses and lots of duct tape. It wasn't as good as his or Amelia's, but it was also much better than bare skin getting that particular infection.

In the background of it all he could hear the low hum of the boat and the endless chanting and laughing. Like a stabbing wound to his ears. A few seconds later he heard unmistakable pings and clangs he had heard all too often before. Gunfire. His mouth tightened in concern.

 

[LadyHarpy]

I wandered right into Amelia's living space without hesitation, we were comfortable enough with each other that I never needed to ask to come in...also, considering that the alarm had just rung the last thing on the mind of anyone on this whole place was how to be fucking polite. Holding my gun on my shoulder I looked at the knife she offered me and nodded my head at her instructions on how to use it. I personally didn't own knives of any kind that were used as weapons. Close combat with these fuckers was never something I had experimented with. So in the end I never bothered to try and learn how to use a knife to take a life...unless of course I was killing off a chicken, but poultry was a whole other fucking animal compared to people... literally.

I was tucking the knife into my back pocket when Rigor wandered in. We shared a small nod to each other as he approached Amelia. I could tell there was something between them. If not romantically then certainly on a deeper level than most other's were on this oil rig. I felt bad for ruining the moment, not that it was much of one as the threat of death hung over all of our god damned heads. I swear, if this was the last time I was gonna be alive and in control then I was gonna take as many of those sick mother fuckers right down with me! As the mention of a whole boat was brought up and shook my head.

"Fuck me..." I commented as I realized that this wasn't just some thing we could take out with a properly placed bullet. If it was we would have been in the clear by now. There was no way of even knowing how many of them would be trying to get on. The best we all could do was try to keep them from getting into the living area. Keep them outside and keep them near the freezing waters. They'd die faster anyway if left to drown.

I then noticed Rigor offering a make shift mask, for being held together by duct tape it was certainly sturdy. I shook my head though. I had a face cover of my own. It was an old full cover gas mask. It was in perfect condition and worked well. Best part it was one of those water proof one's as well. At least that was what the tag said before I ripped it off. I checked my gun really quickly as I spoke in a firm and even tone. "Give it to someone who needs it, I have one in my room. Anyway, I better hurry and get covered up. I won't be of any use if my fingers freeze to the trigger." I added with a grin, trying to lighten the mood.

"Those fuckers won't know what hit them." With that I wandered out, intending to come back and see if they were there still before heading out on my own.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

The Rig comes alive with the sound of fear and panicked gunshots.

And adding to the chaos is the never-ending singing, the lyrics blood-coated, the intention behind it unmistakable.

The fear it causes unavoidable.

Sustained fire by the survivors aboard the platform brings down a few of the Crossed. One takes a bullet through the throat, his words ended mid-leering threat. Another takes a round through the leg and falls out from behind cover. His companions waste no time in kicking and forcing him over the railing of the boat, still belting out their take on a children's classic.

He's still laughing and singing as he hits the water, as he goes under and the liquid begins to seep into his lungs.

The boat shoots forward in it's intending target relentlessly, bearing straight for the lower railings of the Rig. As Christopher and Merideth pile the unmoving form of Dominika through the hatch and up into the rusted metal staircase of the Rig's main residence platform, several other survivors pile past them brandishing rifles and shotguns. One of them's holding an old whiskey bottle filled with black liquid, a rag stuffed into it's top.

A final struggle to halt the advance of the Crossed. Christopher and Merideth can see the desperation, written cleanly across their faces.

As Hoi and I reach the bottom of the walkway and step onto the Rig proper, I feel as though I'm stepping not into the place that has become my new home but a full-blown warzone. Small arms fire crackles, men shout orders and warnings, a woman rushes past with a small boy in tow. We could be on the set for some war epic set in Eastern Europe right now, and I'd almost believe you.

I'd almost believe you... were it not for the singing.

It rises to a crescendo now, audible even above the gunfire. And above that, the diesel engine of the trawler, a rumbling percussion accompaniment to the disturbing song routine we're being subjected to. Too close now. Way too close. We're not going to be able to hold them off.

Unslinging my rifle, I sprint for the main stairwell. And with every step, I come closer to the realisation that I'm too late to stop this.

The men who have rushed to act as the Rig's first line of defence don't die without a fight.

As the trawler slams into the railing, the half-torso figurehead dashing itself to pieces on the metal and spraying the defenders with chunks of flesh, they've already lit the molotov and are readying to throw it. Utilising fire on an oil platform is a hell of a risky business, but dangerous times call for dangerous measures. The first of the Crossed leaps from cover and throws herself towards the men, giggling and hollering obscenities; the flaming bottle arcs towards her flawlessly, impacting and sending her up in flames.

She doesn't scream. That's the worst part. You might be able to feel a sense of empathy with her if she screamed.

Instead she just screeches with insane pleasure and tackles the first survivor unfortunate enough to be in front of her. They go down in a confused flurry of flames and limbs.

He, at least, has the common courtesy to scream when the flames spread.

His fellow defenders have no time to go to his aid, for now more Crossed have leapt from the boat and onto the walkway. A few are cut down by shotgun blasts or lucky shots from rifles, but the defenders are armed with weapons best suited for picking targets off from a distance. The Crossed have packed for the occasion; meat hooks and butcher's blades, small hatchets and sharpened shovels. Tools suited for these cramped conditions the fighting erupts in. Weapons for the up-close kill, thrilling and personal and savage and gritty, where you can see and feel the man you've murdered as he takes his last breath.

The fighting is relentless. The fighting is brutal.

But it does not last long.

A Crossed wielding a pair of screw-drivers leaps from the helm of the trawler like some medieval assassin to plunge his weapons into one of the survivor's eye sockets. Another drives a knife into the man who threw the molotov's stomach, tittering and sniggering as he drags the weapon across the expanse of flesh to let gore and innards come spilling out.

One survivor attempts to live to fight another day, turning on his heels and sprinting for the hatch as his comrades are butchered. He almost makes it, too. But as he scrambles for the hatch, a vast hand grips the back of his head and smashes it against the steel of the Rig's walls. It's a hand owned by a titan of a once-man, easily well into the six-foot bracket and built like a blacksmith or an old-school butcher. A thick, scraggly beard coats his face, out from which emerges the crucifix-shaped rash that marks him as one of the Crossed.

And as he grinds his victim's face against the wall, sandpaper-like metal scraping away flesh and sinew, he sings,
"All around the mulberry bush!"

His vice-like grip on the man's skull pulls him about, and the once-man mountain hurls him to the floor. The other Crossed are standing back, refusing to intervene. Pack members deferring to their alpha, who rains kicks and blows down on his target.

"The monkey chased the weasel!!"

Reaching down and grabbing the sobbing, battered man's head once again, the Crossed drags him over to one of the bars of the railing. He hauls him up into a kneeling position. "Open your mouth, little weasel," he leers. His victim scrunches his mouth shut and shakes his head furiously, but this only seems to make him grin all the more. Gripping the lobe of the man's ear, he gives a mighty tug; the lump of skin comes away with a fleshy tearing sound, and the mouth of it's former owner wrenches open to let out an agonised scream.

Cackling, the Crossed slams his victim's face down onto the bar of the railing.

"The monkey thought t'was all in good fun!!"

Teeth shatter, the jawbone gives up under the force, but the once stalwart defender of the Rig is left forcibly biting down on the railing of the Rig he is about to die to defend. The other monsters wearing the faces of men have gathered around to watch a master at work, laughing and cheering all the while.

The once-man mountain lifts up a vast, combat-booted foot to whoops of amusement from his underlings.

Then brings it down on the back of the man's head.

"POP!! GOES THE WEASEL!!"

 

[RiverNotch]

I have returned to my days in college. I'm running, to class, I think I'm late. I look at the clock overhead: I know I'm late, too late, maybe I should cut class. But then I'd lose credits (or something). That, and my life.

I slip, almost twisting or felling something important: almost. I make a quick recovery off of a nearby pole. The pole is cold. And so am I.
I can hear the cackle of gunfire. It's like Chinatown in the Chinese New Year, and I can't help feeling a bit... excited by all of this. But there's no time to be excited, just as there's no time for me to panic. An excited woman is more hopeless than a panicking fool. A little lesson I learned from a co-star of mine back in the day.

---

I stopped panicking eons ago: my thoughts ceased focusing on the girl, and instead went to myself, whom I don't care much about. Boy, a smoke would be nice... Damn, I didn't get my prize from Frank. A smoke would be nice.

We're sill running. "A maze of twisty passages, all alike". I never got that quote from Richard, never got why he and the boys always laughed when he said that. Then again, I don't exactly remember what happened that night. I wonder if they'd be thinking that same thing if they were here, running with me, Chris, and the girl.
But we're not lost. I haven't been living here long, but Chris seems familiar with the place. I'm only following his lead, and his face looks resolutely r-r-r-resolute. S-s-someone opened a window. or something. it's cold. Or no it's not. The sudden warmth of the chamber we're in feels more like cold now. I think we're in the quarters.
I'm in the quarters. I don't know where theywait, no, there they are.
I notice that we've only just moved up two rooms. What was I, hallucinating? I guess that's what they call "bullet time". Or something.

RING. Something's hit the steel. Their boat? No. It sounds like something fleshy. Like a footstep. The trawler's already hit the rig, so that's nota boat. Again, it sounds like something fleshy. I can't check it out. We keep running.
I hear the sour sound of screaming. It was screaming like this, I remember, that returned me to my sanity. It's not long drawn, though: it ends quickly, it ends painlessly. Maybe that thing that hit the steel? I can't check it out. We keep running.
We keep running and running, yet we haven't moved an inch. Or we have, but I'm too busy to notice. They say that's what happens when you're in true fear, you don't notice.
I guess that's why I don't remember anything from my first show. Huh.

Up the first level. Up the second level. Up the third level. Or up one level, but all levels are infinite. I don't know: I'm still not noticing.
Men, women, and children are running our way. Men and women are running against our way. The quarters are empty, yet each piece of the commotion we encounter makes it feels like it's full. I'm colder now. Colder in this heat.
I see a familiar face. A tall, blonde haired guy. Dominika's father? I can't check him out. He's running the other way.
I look at Dominika, hoping she'll respond. I don't notice if she does.
We stop. We haven't moved an inch. We've moved six feet. Under, over, or beyond: we've yet to know.
But we've moved higher than that. Second level. The other end. I think we're near the walkway to Production: just a hatch and a mile away. A green mile. But I can't see it.

Or not. I don't even see Christopher, only Dominika. No wait, there he is. I... Hah! Damn, what?
I don't think I've stopped panicking just yet. But yes, we have moved up a level. I think. I can hear the cackle of gunfire, and oddly enough it's louder than before. Than down below. Oh no.
They've moved up. Or not.

 

[Zen]

There was shouting, screaming, bodies being flung against the rig, the boat and the water. The metal clangs, mixed with the sound of gunfire and singing made Hoi waver. She glanced towards the fighting, saw blood pooling into the frigid waters of their encampment. And there was fire, large bursts of it.

How many were they going to lose today? Would it be to Death's cold embrace, or would they be converted into these monsters?

Hoi breathed deeply, trying to compose herself. But the peals of laughter broke through her mental walls.

"Josh! We have to get off the rig!"

Panic, ever so familiar and deadly panic, returned. And it returned with a vengeance.

Another burst of fire and a plume of smoke erupted nearby, rattling Hoi's composure. The rig shook, prompting the doctor to reach out with her right arm to steady herself on the railing, but stumbled when she remembered that she had a stump of an arm. The plastic first aid kit went tumbling in front of Josh and she went sprawling onto the floor.

A sudden realization dawned.

"Josh, we're on an oil rig. And they have fire." She was panting now, wide eyes plastered onto his back. "Do you think they're intelligent enough to make explosives?"

 

[Fluffy]

"Whole boat."

I just know that my stare looks blank right now. While I imagine a load of those plus faces on a boat, I don't even notice my 'sister' ran out of the room. Not until I hear the terrifying stampede of our enemies getting closer and closer... My fingers tighten around the mask I'm holding, and then I secure it on my face. I do feel a million times safer when I wear this. It won't stop them from trying to slowly murder me, but I'll take what I can get.

I feel myself staring at Rigor, who I'm sure can hear my heavy breathing in this mask. "Ready to go?" My eyes smile at Rigor as I rise to my tiptoes, allowing me to knock my armored forehead onto his. My grip tightens around the handle of my blade while bits of memories flash in my brain. It's how I psyche myself; it's how I remember why I'm still here.

Survival. Protect what's mine Get revenge.
Survival. Protect what's mine. Get revenge.

"Jo?" I hear her come back in, ready to run with us. I'm not sure why I said her name just then... Perhaps as a means of comfort for the two of us? This could be the last time I see her again. Rigor, too. Makes me glad that we're all going together.

"I can run ahead if you two want. There's a whole fucking boat load out there, but they're probably scattered, right?" Cautiously, I look to the entrance to the room in case something uninvited comes barging in. Feeling the paranoia settle in my brain, my body switches into a defensive pose, weapon still tightly in hand. We don't have time to just stand and chat, but running out there without some plan of attack sounded foolish too. That aside, I just feel antsy as hell.

 

[Cerulean]

Jameson had not been this close to the Crossed a little while. Too short of a vacation, if he were to answer honestly. The lot of them tried the best they could, but the enemy, it is not quite human anymore. After a second clip clicked empty, they were right on their ass. He nearly fell over the railing, when the shaking from the crash whizzed by. "Fuck!" When the in-fighting started, he knew they weren't equipped and it didn't look good for them. Before anyone turned to run, he decided to book it. He had to play the part of The Survivor now and it compelled him to run. Since he was on the end, an escape was rather easily made. It was the luck of the draw because the next person who tried to run....was crushed under the weight of a sadistic boot.

Alfred in hand, and he ran like a marathon man.

 

[HeadlessKoko]

The alarm sounded and Teddy dropped the potato she was washing for dinner that night. She looked around her like a cornered animal, eyes bouncing to and from everyone in the room. After a breath of silence where the only thing that could be heard was the alarm, everyone rushed to whatever their new task was. The teenager that had been peeling the potatoes as Teddy washed them bounded past her, nearly knocking Teddy over. Several other, larger bodies shoved Teddy around as they quickly made their way to their rooms, the deck, the fighting, wherever.

One man, however, was kind enough to notice the small girl and steadied her against the crowd long enough to help her, "Go to the helicopter. You know, the big flying thing that makes loud noises and can carry people It's in the really, really big room up top? The biggest room on this rig." Teddy nodded, "Is your room on the way or nearby?" Teddy silently shook her head, "No? Then hold still, let me tie this handkerchief around you. Don't want you getting infected. Okay, remember, go to the big flying thing and hide there." With everything said, a handkerchief tied over Teddy's mouth as protection against infection, and most of the kitchen now empty, the man dashed away from Teddy.

Now that she'd been told what to do by one of the big people, Teddy ran out of the kitchen and into the chaos filling the corridors. The kitchen had been bad, but the corridors much, much worse. It hadn't been more than five minutes since the alarm sounded and everyone was going everywhere. Those who had been caught off-guard were trying to go down to their room to grab necessities. Those who had the good luck of being either prepared or in/near their rooms when the alarm sounded were already on their way to defend the rig. Then, there were those who couldn't fight, like Teddy, and they were going every which way to wherever they thought would be the safest place.

Teddy struggled through the crowd, her small body both helping her squeeze through gaps in the mass of flesh and making it hard for her to push past anyone directly. Eventually, though, she found herself on the upper deck of the rig just in time to feel the something crash into the rig and hear the explosion. Teddy's focus naturally directed itself to the source of the commotion even as she staggered and grabbed onto the closest thing she could reach, a rather conveniently placed railing that conveniently (or not) presented to Teddy a good view of the fighting happening on the walkway.

Clinging to the railing just in case the rig shook once more, Teddy looked frantically around to figure out her next path. She was on the way to the big bird thing, the helicopter, but now she wasn't so sure if this was the best way to take with the fighting so close. Heck, she wasn't sure of anything at the moment, but she still needed time to make a lucky guess.

 

[LadyHarpy]

I had left Rigor and Amelia to have a moment alone if there was a need. Though I thought of her as a big sister I wasn't one to prevent people from being able to express any feelings they had, especially at such a time like this. Besides, I knew that I had to be better dressed and armed if I was going to be taking on a whole boat in hopes of keeping our home safe. I never really told anyone, but I kept a private stash of ammo for myself. I would always give most of what I found to the armory to store, but if it was meant for my gun then I always kept it, that way it would be closer and much easier to get in times like these. If I wanted ammo from the armory, I'd be going through those sick fuckers and that was easier said than done, especially when alone.

Entering my small sleeping area, I headed over to my bed and lifted the mattress pad, pulling out some ammo boxes from a cut out section among the springs. There were only two boxes, put together from digging through half opened containers and spare bullets I found on dead bodies. I then headed over to my chest where I felt most of my clothing, pulling out my gas mask and tossing it onto my bed. I took a moment to undo my boots and tuck my pants into them to keep anything funny from being shoved down them. I did the same with my shirt and sweater before I grabbed a heavy jacket and a pair of thick gloves. I tired back my hair into a bun before putting on my mask and everything else. The jacket was supper baggy on me in the waist, but the sleeve size was perfect for holding my weapon.

On top of that the pockets were huge and hidden inside of the coat so that I could dump a full box of ammo into it without noticing anything other than a bit more weight on my front. I dumped both boxes into my hidden pocket, knowing that I was going to need all the ammo I could get. With that, I headed back to Amelia just in time to hear her call my name. "I'm here, don't let your panties get in a bunch, weggies make you run slower." I joke, holding my gun on my shoulder as I stand there before them, I was probably the best armed of them, having a gun, but I was also the slowest so I had no doubt I would be the first one targeted.

When Big Sis offered to run I quickly shook my head. It would be one thing if it was one or two of them, that would be easy pickings. This was a whole boat and from the sounds that echoed all over the place as they continued on their rampage. She needed to save that energy for escaping, or distracting when the numbers were small enough to handle. Even if they were scattered they groups would still be big enough to be too risky. "No way, you stay close to the "swordsman" over there and don't let any of those fuckers near you...I need to find a high enough vantage point somewhere, or at least a place where I can try and pluck them off without getting too much attention. I'm no use if I have to keep moving and running all the time. I'll stick with you guys for now, at least until I can find a place to shoot from."

 

[Hecatoncheires]

Fire.

Not many words capable of making the bottom drop out my stomach so quickly.

Even back when there was a civilisation, this Rig was on the fringe of it; if a blaze broke out, the best response you could hope for was a reasonably timely rescue for whoever was lucky enough to get clear of the platform in time. We'd all seen what sort of shit could happen in situations like that. Hell, footage of North Sea rigs up in flames were part of the mandatory safety briefing during induction.

And now civilisation is no more. If our home goes up, no help is coming.

So when Hoi draws my attention to the fact that the trawler is partially burning, it's all I can do to keep the panic at bay.

"Explosives?! Jesus wept, I dunno. Two hours ago I didn't think they were smart enough to defend against snipers, but that assumption's just been thrown out the window as well." The sound of the Crossed storming the halls of this platform combines with gunfire, screams and the smell of panic. Above it all, the unmistakable, acrid stench of smoke. "We've got to deal with that fire right now, or else there's gonna be no Rig to escape from!"

Right now, the survivors who aren't fighting for their lives will probably be moving for the helipad if they're not already there. We're fortunate that I'm both the only one who can fly it and the only one with keys, or else it's quite possible someone would try to take it. You don't think straight when the fear gets to you: all that matters to you is putting as much distance between you and the source of your terror.

In short? Everything has gone from calm to clusterfuck in the space of about five minutes.

I turn about to look at Doc Hoi, acutely aware that neither of us are the folk cut out for this task. I'm not much use in this sort of fight, and Hoi's disadvantage with this sort of thing is blatantly obvious. If we're to do this, we'll need help.

My rifle sits against my shoulder, ready to snap up and fire. I pull the balaclava I wear around my neck up to cover the bottom half of my face, and with a free hand I pull on the set of pilot's goggles I use to protect my eyes. When you're facing off against the Crossed, you want to be sure to protect yourself as best you can. "No time like the present, I guess. Let's see if we can find some of the others along the way."

It's quieter along the passageway that Amelia, Jo and Rigor move along: seems their fellow residents of the Rig have already fled for the higher ground. They can see the signs of the hurried evacuation. Many of the doors hang open, allowing them to see inside at the aftermath of frantic packing and scrambling for safety.

And up ahead a noise echoes down the metal corridor, audible above the crackle of chaos behind them. It's a strange sound, wet and slurping, rhythmic.

With the sound of their approaching footsteps, however, it stops.

A simpering giggle follows.

Emerging from one of the open rooms, the Crossed advances on the trio. Fur-lines hood is pulled up, casting shadows across his grinning face, and in each hand he clutches a bloody screw-driver. There's no hesitation in his stride, even though he's outnumbered.
"Hey bitch cute mask bet you got real pretty eyes--" The words come pouring from his mouth, barely separated: the Crossed have never been ones for coherent sentence structure. "--C'mon lemme see them baby blues bitch gonna stick 'em good right through the fucking iris make you squeal--"

He continues forwards, threats and insults tumbling from his mouth which quickly gave way to a high, tittering giggle.

Teddy is drawing close to the stairwell leading up to the helipad when a hand claps down on her shoulder and spins her about.

No monster leering at her, fortunately, just a wild-eyed man with closely cropped blonde hair tucked away under a stained, grubby hood. As he kneels down to Teddy's level she can see the shotgun that he clutches in his free hand.
"Little girl," he says in a low, intense voice, his Russian heritage accenting the words, "I am looking for my daughter. Older than you, wears orange jumper and has same colour of hair as I." He speaks softly, but there is a quiet fierceness to his words that Teddy picks up on. "Have you seen her?"

With his face so close to hers, Teddy can see the bloodstains on his clothes and hands. His trembling grip on his weapon.

And a desperate glint to his eyes.

 

[HeadlessKoko]

Before too long, Teddy had made her guess, a correct one at that, and had continued making her way to the helipad. It was chaos all around, and the small girl found herself dragged into the chaos as well when a man clapped his hand onto her shoulder. Frightened by the quiet fierceness in the man's words, Teddy answered truthfully but mutely. Orange jumper, blonde hair, older kid. Teddy had seen a few orange jumpers on her way through the rig, but she had not seen any blonde hair. Granted, she wasn't looking up at all, being too busy trying to shove her way through and not trip, so she hadn't noticed any hair colors. Her wordless answer was a shake of her head and wide, scared eyes that expected and feared punishment of some sort from this Russian man. This man was a normal man, not one of the Crossed, but Teddy was still ready to bolt off at a moment's warning. She was that wary of this trembling, blood-stained father.

 

[Zen]

She was hyperventilating. Hoi tried her damnedest to prevent it from happening, but her lungs weren't cooperating. Quickly, she climbed back to her feet, managing to tuck her plastic first aid kit back under her arm once more. At first glance nothing looked damaged, that was good.

"You aren't seriously thinking about going through --"

He plunged forward, rifle ringing out as a Crossed jumped in their path. The sound nearly gave Hoi a heart attack in the cramped halls, but she bravely followed. At least it was Josh' weapon that went off in front of them, and not their enemy's. In the thick of battle, Hoi found it increasingly difficult to find where the others were, or where they were going. Maybe it was because of the panic.

"Where's the fire?"

Her question was answered immediately. They turned a corner and met a wall of black smoke. Choking and coughing, Hoi struggled to keep her eyes open. Tears streamed down her cheeks, praying that a Crossed didn't hear them coming, that they were too preoccupied with causing the fire to notice anything out of the ordinary.

 

[LadyHarpy]

I stuck with Rigor and Amelia rather closely, holding my gun tight in my grip as I wandered in front. If anyone was gonna be able to make a kill shot it was me, I was the only one with a gun right now. Amelia was more of a runner and Rigor had knifes. However, I didn't like the idea of any of us getting within spitting distance of those mother fuckers. Thankfully my rifle held five bullets at a time, saving me a lot of concern if one hopped up in surprise. I was never a fan of having to constantly reload my gun, it left me wide open to just about everything and anything. It seemed everyone else had run off for higher and safer ground, having grabbed anything they thought was important before trotting off as quickly as they could. It gave the place an eerie feeling. This had been home for so long...and now it was at risk, I hated that.

I wasn't gonna give this place up so easily though, not by a long shot.

It was then I heard the noise and grimaced, coming to a stop the moment the sound did. Something was up. Call it a woman's intuition. It was then the source of the sound appeared, a fucking cross wandered out from a bedroom, talking and holding onto his weapons of choice rather crudely. He sentence structure was fucked up but I merely ignored it in favor of observing him. His advance was slow and his armor limited from the looks of it. His face hidden by a hood. He was close though and that I didn't like...

I pulled my gun up in a flash, taking two shots. First was to his head, and just in case he somehow survived that, I aimed at a knee in hopes of slowly him. At that point, a simple knife to the throat would finish him off then and I'd save a bullet. The sound wasn't too loud, but it was enough to probably gather attention. However, they weren't walking quietly either so there could be other's waiting for this one to fall as bait. I was nervous but I knew it had to be done. Too much chaos was going on for guns not to be fired, I only prayed that my shots blended in with the other's...