Left 4 Dead - The Last Escape

[OrlandoBloomers]

BRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMM

Oh, yeah.

The roar of her baby's engine right then was just about the sweetest sound her ears ever heard.

What infected were still on her tail at that point were promptly left in the dust kicked up by 700-horsepower wheels spinning to life, the young woman abandoning her helmet in the sand to save on time in favor of revving up the engine and hightailing it out of there. She watched the Ford carrying-- as far as she knew-- Ruby and the Swede pull out of the station with an involuntary grin on her face, honestly just a little flabbergasted at just how smoothly this was all going aaaaaaand Ruby wasn't in that truck.

Why. The. Hell. Was. Ruby. Not. In. The. Truck.

"... RUBY?!"

Oh god. Please don't let it be true. Please please please let her be wrong.

She checked again. Nope. One Scandinavian driver who was gonna be feeling lousy in the morning, and that was it. No Ruby. In an instant, Yang's entire demeanor changed, confident composure going straight out the window as she swallowed hard and frantically threw her gaze around in search of a baby sister now dealing with the terror of unplanned pedestrianism. When her lilac eyes found her, weaponless, car-less, and (to Yang at least) looking like a lost lamb being circled by wolves, she simultaneously breathed a small sigh of relief and grew even more urgent, wasting absolutely no time in turning the bike around and speeding towards the tiny dork with the furious pace of desperation backing her up, screeching to a rough halt but sticking it well and coming to a stop just short of running Ruby over. She was completely oblivious to the weird helmet guy from before having the same idea, keeping her engine running and waiting for Ruby to climb on back as she flapped her hands in a mild worry-induced panic.

"What's the deal, sis?! You were driving the truck! And now, you, you're not even IN the truck! What happened to the plan?"

Granted, their plan was at least 80% non-verbal and relied mostly on sisterly intuition and following each others' lead, but still. The plan Yang ended up having in her head had looked pretty darn good to her, and this was not part of it. If there was one thing the older sister was grateful for, however, it was that she noticed Ruby's absence before she took off down the highway and left this place behind; She couldn't even fathom how she ever could've coped with that kind of failure. At least with how things worked out now, she could keep close to Ruby and know where she was at all times.

Unless that other guy snatched her up first and rode off. Yeah, she saw him over there now that she wasn't so flustered, all roughed up and looking creepy as ever. She was sure (or at least she hoped) he meant well, but if he thought for a second she was just gonna let her sis climb aboard and drive off with some guy who'd been about as communicative as one of those hokey movie slashers from the 80s... He was even more whacked out than whatever those things on his wrist were.

@Schnee Corp Lawyer @Krieg @Saint Guillotine​

 

[Ringmaster]

The sister took up Ruby, his duty was done.

He waited on the others and as soon as everyone was driving off, he'd drive off in the rear.

Heading away last as soon as everyone was safe.

@Krieg @Schnee Corp Lawyer @OrlandoBloomers
​

 

[Schnee Corp Lawyer]

For the Shredder, his valor and courageous nature would not go ignored. The Infected hurled themselves wildly forward, their arms and legs thrashing forward, pushing their limp yet courageously feral bodies ahead. Crimson and viscera dancing like rose petals around the Yakuza crimelord, almost akin a ballad of the wretched and damned. It was elegant, deadly, and above all else, precise and accurate to each slash, each thrust, each movement compared to the barbaric nature of the Infected.

However, martial prowess alone was not a feat against the Infected. Despite the Shredder's notable efforts and clever distraction, it was but blind valor in the end. Against more mortal and sane foes, the attacks would be decisively deadly, causing severe trauma, the severing of skin from flesh and bone. Yet in this dance, the shorten blades would prove to be both an ally and foe to the Shredder. An occasional punch would hit the man, the swarms upon swarms of the afflicted humans throwing themselves towards to criminal. This occasional punch evolve into a kick, the sheer numbers of the Infected able to swarm even the most trained of fighters. If the military had difficulty fending off the Infected with firearms, then melee was surely the most riskier dance with death against large numbers of the Infected.

In the end, the Shredder, given his name, burrowed himself deep into the mindless hordes of the Infected. But alas, as a brief respite came from the hordes, the Yakuza crimelord would find himself utterly battered. From sheer blunt force and overwhelming numbers, the Shredder would find his attire in tatters, his body bruised and tired, and the taste of blood in his mouth. On the horizon, he could hear the unison cry of the Infected once more, the shifting sands blinding him from peering afar, yet the cries and screams indicating that this was no longer a fight that could be one.

Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer

@Saint Guillotine

---

As the Eastern beserker lead his savage yet arguably tactically void advancement, the whirling tires of an old rustic Ford pickup spurned against the sand and concrete. Shockingly, this moment of sheer unorthodox brilliance was dangerously efficient, crashing into some of the Infected swarming around the Shredder before whirling in to drive off near the beaten, battered, and bloodied Swede. For those that had advanced to help the foreign doctor, they would be greeted to the screeching of tires, the humming of a steaming engine being driven by....teenagers.

Teenagers.

How Ruby Rose and Yang Xiao Long managed such a feat, well, is another story entirely on it's own. But yet, with frankly dangerously cooperation, the two siblings arguably saved the Swede. Unfortunately, however, their plan came with a slight drawback. Fueled by the vrooming and crackling of an dying engine, this fueled the Infected further and further, their distance footsteps growing and growing. With so much commotion, so much panic, there was but one course of action now.

Flee.

With a desperate cry, his face bloodied and flesh freely hanging, the Swede arose in the passenger seat of the truck. Having lost his revolver, the man hid his face, the doctor looking like a mangled mess. For Ruby, the sight would be absolutely horrific, unlike anything she had witnessed behind her computer monitors. Before the teenager, real blood, real flesh, and the real mangled nature of the impatient middle-aged Norwegian would peer underneath feeble and shuddering hands. With a raspy voice, the croaked man cried out, lurching over to snatch at the driver's wheel.

"Go...go to your s-sister...I c-can drive...go...go child...go!"

Trying to push Ruby off, the Swede, still concealing his face, purred up the engine of the truck. Drowsily and perhaps foolishly, by virtually pushing aside Ruby, the doctor in a delirious state began to spin off in the old junker. Pushing through the sands, spinning all over the road, the Swede began to speed down Highway 80 heading west, setting an example for the others to follow. Or, more accurately, to hastily follow, the conflicted doctor practically kicking Ruby out and spinning off with the pickup.

Around the survivors, the Infected would finally ease, giving them but a brief moment to gather themselves and move. Yet, as evidence by what the Shredder heard, there was no time to scavenge or even introduce to one another.

-Escape west on Highway 80 whilst you have a chance! Man your bikes, Impala, and for those that have no ride, flee into Frank's Oldsmobile or whatever is available. This is your only chance!-


@C.T. @OrlandoBloomers @Jeremi @Josh M @Verite @Kaykay @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Kakarot! @Indolent @EVERYONE​

Needless to say Ruby was very glad she didn't have to manually heave the swede into the car and that he was still conscious as she pushed him in with a triumphant grin-

that died on her face when she saw what the infected had down to the poor man, the girl freezing on the spot as a look of shocked horror crossed her face. "I... You.."

They hadn't been fast enough

She hadn't been fast enough.

She put a hand to her mouth and started to shake her head. "I, no, you don't look good enough to drive at all y-you might bleed out or- EEP"

Boot

To say Ruby was surprised when she found herself stumbling out of the car after the rough shove from the swede was an understatement. It was some small miracle that only one infected even took notice of her as she stood there (Seriously being small was starting to seem like a huge advantage), but it didn't take more than one to knock her off her feet as it charged at her with a tackle. And what did our intrepid little mechanic do, she who in another life hunted criminals and slew monsters in swathes of blood and violence?

She screamed like a little girl : |

THIS Ruby hadn't even ever PUNCHED someone, let alone gotten in a serious fight that wasn't virtual. Thankfully the first thing the infected clawed at was her gut and caught shirt instead of skin, gouging a few holes in the fabric as Ruby shifted and squirmed as she tried to get free, but while she was a feisty 113 pounds it just wasn't enough weight to move the full grown man on top of her, until she managed to get a foot squeezed between it and her and shoved, sending it tumbling back as Ruby herself shoved herself away from it on the ground, hyper ventilating as she didn't even think of standing, just getting farther away from the creature as it raised its head from where it had ended up belly first on the ground and-​

Winning had never been in the cards.

The smart thing would have been to run away long ago. The right thing, would have been to do what he did. It was an honorable action, the likes of which he hadn't thought himself capable of, not since....Not since....

Not since Hamato Yoshi.

Tired, bruised and looking utterly savage despite it, the Shredder would feel lighter in spirit then he had ever thought possible in the cathartic battle of blood and bone. His purpose had been accomplished- Those who might have otherwise never had time to do their actions, had done so. More had a chance to live from his actions- Now was the time to focus on himself.

He half-staggered, half-power walked over to his bike, kicking it into gear and just in time to see Ruby kicked out of the car. He drove off, approaching close and helmet battered, he looked at Ruby impassively...And waited, inclining his head once. If she chose to rode with him, unlikely as it was he'd speed off to safety with the child, among those he found himself with. If not? He'd wait regardless, until she was moved to safety.

@Krieg @C.T. @OrlandoBloomers @Jeremi @Josh M @Verite @Kaykay @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Kakarot! @Indolent @EVERYONE
​

*CRUNCH*

It was a sickening, squelching noise as brain, blood and bone got caught under the shredder's front tire when the Yakuza leader skidded to halt in front of them. Ruby stared wide eyed and slack jawed at the gunk on the bottom of her pajama pants that had flown from the kill before her eyes slowly tilted up towards the shredder, staring almost incomprehensibly at her ostensible savior and unmoving with shock​

BRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMM

Oh, yeah.

The roar of her baby's engine right then was just about the sweetest sound her ears ever heard.

What infected were still on her tail at that point were promptly left in the dust kicked up by 700-horsepower wheels spinning to life, the young woman abandoning her helmet in the sand to save on time in favor of revving up the engine and hightailing it out of there. She watched the Ford carrying-- as far as she knew-- Ruby and the Swede pull out of the station with an involuntary grin on her face, honestly just a little flabbergasted at just how smoothly this was all going aaaaaaand Ruby wasn't in that truck.

Why. The. Hell. Was. Ruby. Not. In. The. Truck.

"... RUBY?!"

Oh god. Please don't let it be true. Please please please let her be wrong.

She checked again. Nope. One Scandinavian driver who was gonna be feeling lousy in the morning, and that was it. No Ruby. In an instant, Yang's entire demeanor changed, confident composure going straight out the window as she swallowed hard and frantically threw her gaze around in search of a baby sister now dealing with the terror of unplanned pedestrianism. When her lilac eyes found her, weaponless, car-less, and (to Yang at least) looking like a lost lamb being circled by wolves, she simultaneously breathed a small sigh of relief and grew even more urgent, wasting absolutely no time in turning the bike around and speeding towards the tiny dork with the furious pace of desperation backing her up, screeching to a rough halt but sticking it well and coming to a stop just short of running Ruby over. She was completely oblivious to the weird helmet guy from before having the same idea, keeping her engine running and waiting for Ruby to climb on back as she flapped her hands in a mild worry-induced panic.

"What's the deal, sis?! You were driving the truck! And now, you, you're not even IN the truck! What happened to the plan?"

Granted, their plan was at least 80% non-verbal and relied mostly on sisterly intuition and following each others' lead, but still. The plan Yang ended up having in her head had looked pretty darn good to her, and this was not part of it. If there was one thing the older sister was grateful for, however, it was that she noticed Ruby's absence before she took off down the highway and left this place behind; She couldn't even fathom how she ever could've coped with that kind of failure. At least with how things worked out now, she could keep close to Ruby and know where she was at all times.

Unless that other guy snatched her up first and rode off. Yeah, she saw him over there now that she wasn't so flustered, all roughed up and looking creepy as ever. She was sure (or at least she hoped) he meant well, but if he thought for a second she was just gonna let her sis climb aboard and drive off with some guy who'd been about as communicative as one of those hokey movie slashers from the 80s... He was even more whacked out than whatever those things on his wrist were.

@Schnee Corp Lawyer @Krieg @Saint Guillotine​

When Yang pulled up too, that was enough to snap her out of it at least enough for her to stumble to her feet and shakily hop onto the back of her sister's bike, arms latched around Yang like a vice-grip as she buried the back of her face into Yang's jacket as she answered, unfortunately breathless with shock despite the roaring engines and zombie screeches around them

"He... h-he just kicked me out a-and I... I-I don't..."

@Schnee Corp Lawyer @Krieg @Saint Guillotine​

 

[OrlandoBloomers]

Oh no.

Yang had been too preoccupied with getting over to her sister for the state Ruby was in to even register until she was up close. Fear, nerves and adrenaline were all still running sky-high after their successful rescue mission, and some intoxicating juxtaposition of those things and sheer impulsive urgency had made her all but blind to what was right in front of her. Ruby wasn't just by herself; she was in trouble. If she had been just a second too late...

"Your... your shirt... w-what happened to..."

Yang couldn't even muster up words as Ruby scrambled aboard the bike and clung to her like she was a liferaft, voice little more than a whimper and expression frozen with shock, hands clapped over her mouth, eyes still blankly transfixed on nothing in the spot she'd first seen the lengthy gouges in the fabric around Ruby's midriff. Oh god this was her fault. She messed up. She messed up so freaking bad. She didn't lead enough zombies away. She shouldn't have split from Ruby in the first place. She thought that old norwhateverian thing in human skin would have a little decency, or that he'd be too weak to try anything anyway, but she'd had bad vibes about him from the start. And even then, even knowing what kind of guy he was, she left her sister with him. Her baby sister.

"...R-Ruby, I... I'm so..."

She couldn't even look her in the eye.

Arching her back and twisting around in her seat to face the younger sibling so quickly she almost pulled something, Yang kept her gaze averted and didn't bother brushing the bangs from her eyes. She shakily tugged Ruby's shirt up and felt around her abdomen with her fingers for a moment, only dropping the fabric and turning back around with a deep breath when she was sure not one drop of the blood on Ruby's pajamas actually belonged to her. It looked like only her shirt got clawed. That was good.

But it still didn't excuse Yang's screw-up.

"..."

It still didn't excuse him.

Her grip tightened around the bike's handlebars, fingerless gloves creaking slightly in protest.

Then she stomped on the gas pedal so hard it dented. Wrenching up to the highest gear she could pull off without ending up in a ditch, the blonde and her sports bike tore out of the gas station and after the tire tracks down the highway, gaining rapidly on the rusty old pickup Gundersen was driving as her helmetless long hair streamed out behind her and hit Ruby in the face.

@Schnee Corp Lawyer @Krieg​

 

[Atomyk]

There was a ringing in his ears, loud enough to almost drown out the raucous noises just beyond the surrounding walls. A harsh banging was occurring just behind him, a body slamming itself constantly into the side of the trailer. Accompanying this was a rough growling from the window in front of Dave, the sound of a diseased hand cutting itself up trying to push through the plastic surface. Dave stared at this hand-- his knife gripped harshly in his own-- even as sweat dripped and stung at his eyes. A soft hum could be heard despite all this-- a light whistling that reminded Dave of his mother. It took Dave a few moments to realize that it was he who was humming.

"I'll drag them away," his father had said about thirty minutes ago, later rushing out of the trailer to potentially pull the incoming horde away to a different location. They had argued briefly if that was even a good idea, but Paul Karofsky was willing to put his life in any amount of danger if it meant keeping his son safe. It had worked, somewhat, leaving only a small group behind. Their trailer having been broken into recently, the pair of them only had one gun between them, and not nearly enough ammunition to clear out a significant group of the infected. So, Dave had waited for his father to return with that beauty of a rifle so that they could be free of these threats, but Dave was getting tired of waiting. His entire body felt hot, and a stabbing pain had nestled deep in the back of his head. The lack of hydration was no doubt going to be the death of him if the infected didn't get to him first.

Then-- a sudden crash from the front of the trailer could be heard. Perhaps they'd finally broke the barricade on the door (and it was only a barricade, with the lock having been previously broken by the looters). Dave wasn't immediately concerned, his focus still on this hand reaching through the window. Oh, how he'd come to loathe this hand within the last thirty minutes. He hadn't tried to stab at it for fear of it accidentally pulling his knife away, but Dave was rapidly losing his senses. The heat felt like it was enveloping him, wrapping around his spine and tugging incessantly at every one of his nerves. His arms felt numb and in pain, yet his legs felt jittery like lightning. With the sounds from the front getting louder, Dave decided he was done with waiting. Swearing, he jumped forward, planting his knife into the sickly hand. The infected wasn't in its right mind, so it didn't care much about this sudden development beyond becoming more erratic in its movements. Like Dave's sensible side had feared, the monster pulled backward, slamming the knife's hilt into the window.

It was the window that gave way.

With a sizable hole now available to it, the infected reached inside with both arms, pulling itself up enough to get its head through the broken window. Dave could only swear once again as he slammed the heel of his sneaker into the monster's face and smashed its head upon the wall. With it dead, Dave made a grab for whatever weapon was still available to him in the room. His eyes fell upon a hockey stick from his days before the sickness and made a grab for it on his way to meet the problem at the front-- "Jesus christ!" he exclaimed at the sight; A fat one had gotten through, his sizable gut (naked and sporting a number of open wounds) stuck in the doorway. It would have been funny, if not for the group behind him, ready to burst inside once the infected dam was broken. Dave reasoned that he could take them one-on-one once they got inside - there really wasn't much room in there - but he knew they'd be crawling all over each other and swarming him given enough time.

Instead, Dave rushed to the back and pushed the dead one through the window. As he grabbed his backpack of meager supplies off the bed, he became distantly aware that the banging from behind him was gone now. A little too late, he thought, tossing his stick outside the window before pushing his own head through. The light of the sun blinded him at first, causing him to slip slightly as he leaned his body forward. He held on tight, cutting his hands in the process, so that he could make sure he was ready for the head-first fall. The hole in the window was barely enough to fit him and there was just not enough time to maneuver himself so that his legs were falling first. It was normally not much of a height from the window to the ground, but the trailer sat on pairs of cinder blocks and Dave was a particularly top-heavy guy, making this fall out to be a potentially damaging one. He looked down toward the dead infected on the ground and let go, banging his leg against the top of the window in the process. He managed to twist himself mid-air to land on his shoulder as opposed to his head.

It was a rough landing in the dirt, his lower body landing on the dead body and emitting a gross squishing sound. With no time to worry about the stink, Dave stumbled to his feet, his head whipping back and forth in search for either the knife or the dropped hockey stick. The knife had dislodged from the infected's hand and bounced out of sight, leaving Dave with only the hockey stick he eventually found sitting underneath the trailer, but by this time, some of the crowd at the door had took notice of him, changing their plan of action. Taking them on was out of the question, so Dave had only one option-- run. He'd have to find a safe place to stay and possibly return to find his father later. Hell, he'd tell Dad to leave the piece of junk trailer behind. It had been a shitty place to stay anyway.

As he ran, his legs pumping with adrenaline, Dave began to hum.​

***

Fuck Nevada and fuck the Nevada climate.

Dave's shoes scuffed against the pavement of Route 93, the former footballer unable to bring himself to lift his feet any higher. He'd tied his Letterman jacket around his waist, the grey undershirt he'd been wearing underneath exposed to the sun that just happened to peak out from behind the clouds for his trek. Hell, it had been downright freezing this morning. That the temperature had risen now was certainly a slap in Dave's face by God. Seriously, fuck that guy.

Dave was not the kind of guy built to be out here, dragging his damn self around in hopes that he'd find his father waiting for him at the next town over. The pair of them had chosen the trailer park North of Wells (if he was recalling the town's name correctly) hoping they were both close enough to escape there if things went badly whilst also being far enough away from the town that no one infected would come across them. This turned out to be very very wrong. Hell, even regular people had come by to steal their shit. It totally sucked.

A second smattering of trailer homes had sat not far down from where they'd set up, and that was where Dave had first gone in search of his father. It really didn't make sense for Dad to go anywhere else, not unless something went wrong. Not that Dave was entertaining that idea-- fuck that. After losing Mom, Dave knew Dad wasn't about to leave him alone with this shit. At the very worst, Dad was probably forced to head all the way South toward the town, leaving Dave with little choice but to follow after.

Fuck.

Mom.

Dave still had that damn song stuck in his head. He didn't know if it was from anything, just that his mom used to sing it, so of course a tune he hadn't thought about in ages would be stuck in his head now. It's not like they had even seen Mom die. She just disappeared, and after five months, chances were slim she was still out there. Thing was, Mom had always been there for them. Even if she was super Christian, way more strict than she had to be at times, and way too stubborn for Dave's teenage mind to comprehend, Dave still loved her. You know, obviously. So did Dad. Now, all they had was each other.

At least up until recently, where it was a very real possibility that Dave had no one at all.

But it didn't matter yet, as Dad could just be down the road, at the small town within Dave's view. He didn't know the state of this place; Whether it was overrun with infected or just plain deserted were both likely possibilities. Of course, perhaps he'd find a few people down there, though Dave wasn't sure he liked that idea much. If there was anyone living in Wells, it was probably those bastards who took Dave and his father's shit.

"Come on, fuck..." Dave groaned, his gaze lifting up toward the sky. Clouds were sitting overhead, practically mocking him. You'd think they could drop just a little bit of rain. It was winter, so the temperature had been pretty mild, but damn had it ever been dry. Dave used to think it never rained in Clearfield, but clearly he never knew how good he had it. He supposed it really wasn't that bad-- He was just tired and hungry and thirsty and he really wished he at least had Dad here to complain to.

"I'm so not shutting up once I find you."

Dave continued his lonely trek.

***

He stumbled into the house, face smeared with dirt and blood covering his shoes. He hobbled into the next room over - a living room - and threw down his backpack and hockey stick in a rush. Nervous hands rummaged around the backpack, throwing out dirtied clothes and reaching for one of the few bottles of water stashed underneath. He twisted off the cap and almost spilled most of the drink on himself as he chugged the down half the bottle. His body was twitching erratically, desperately trying to shake off the memory of that last encounter.

They had been close. Too close to forget.

Dave coughed violently, forgetting to drink like a normal and sane individual. He placed his water to the side and felt at the rip in his shirt. It was above his right shoulder, where one of the infected had got a scratch on him. He still could not stop shivering.

Shrugging on his jacket, Dave stammered out a swear as he began stuffing his tossed belongings back into the backpack. In his shocked state of mind, he grabbed the open water and almost threw it in with the rest. He shook his head at his stupidity and decided to just down the rest of it, using some to clean off his face. The water soothed his throat and managed to calm his nerves a little. God knew his nerves had been shot all day. Dad was nowhere to be found in this hick town, though, Dave knew he had more searching ahead of him if he really wanted to be sure. For now, he would just have to rest up and recollect his thoughts. This house seemed a pretty safe spot to--

"Fuck!"

Dave yelled and jumped to his feet, his backpack flying out of his hands in fear. An infected was barreling down the home's central hallway, teeth gnashing and spit flying. Dave made a grab for the stick off the ground, but the infected was on him faster than Dave could move. He only managed to get the blade of the stick between him and his attacker, Dave grunting with considerable effort as he held the enemy at bay.

The infected was just a man who probably was pretty plain looking when he was healthy. Now, his skin was a deathly grey and his black hair was matted with what Dave could only hope was grease. Honestly, Dave was way bigger than this guy, but the infected never seemed to get tired, while Dave had been running on empty for the past few hours now. The pair of them wrestled for a moment, the infected's arms flailing to to scratch at Dave's sides.

"Fuck off, freak!"

They twirled and spun like dancers, Dave finding himself pushed back into the hall that the infected had appeared from. An unmistakable feeling of bile rising in his stomach made Dave realize he was close to hurling. This thought didn't help his resolve much, and Dave found himself shoved against a wall of the hallway. He heard himself groan as he continued to push against the infected, his body sliding across the wall until he fell into what appeared to be a child's bedroom, blue pastels covering every inch of it. I'm so goddamn done, he yelled angrily inside his head, knowing he needed to get this fucker off him now. The pair of them stumbled backward once again, Dave saving his energy for one big push. It wasn't until he was backed into the confines of the bedroom closet that Dave finally found some inner strength.

With one grand yell, Dave shoved hard against the infected man, causing him to fall backward and out of the closet. Dave let out a deep shuddering breath and moved to run past the guy, but the infected was up quicker than should have been humanly possible. Or maybe Dave was just really slow... it was hard to tell in this state. No one could say he was a quick guy.

With no other option really available and feeling an unrelenting need to put something solid between this guy and himself, Dave reached for the closet door and slammed it shut. He angled his hockey stick under the doorknob just as the infected slammed against the door. Dave couldn't help but let out a cheerful holler. "You're just lucky I didn't bring the Fury!" Sure, this wasn't really a victory, but damn did it feel good to not be goddamn dead.

Sighing deeply, Dave felt his legs turn to noodles, and he slowly fell down to the floor of the closet. He grunted and shoved his back against the wall so that he was staring at the shuddering door. No doubt that the infected would bang at it for hours if Dave let him.

Christ, what was he going to do now?​

 

[Indolent]

"Less talking, more action--"​

...Heh.

Is he joking? He has to be. Not only riding alongside her father but on the same motorcycle? No problems at all with that idea. In fact, quite the opposite. "Together then? That sounds just fine with me." Laura fell silent with a nod, raising her pistol to give him cover from any of the Infected that got too close and get her bike back up to it's usual position.​

"Aight, sensible girl. I appreciate it; tis a shame too, gotta leave mine behind. A fortune in parts in case yers needed, y'know. Anyway, I'll hustle and bustle for my belongings now, won't be long."

Right, now time to actually retrieve his belongings, and what better than to mark this arduous adventure with the classical bad-ass pose:

Save for the cigar, of course.

Howlett rushed into the fray with reckless abandon, a whooping cry erupting from his lungs as the steel extension of himself paved the way before him in viscera and blood. Without fail, the grizzle veteran surely made it to his bounty, and in a deft maneuver, Logan hefted the saddle over a shoulder. Hilarious as he looked, given his size, the man moved with surprising alacrity, making for Laura now. An incredible sense of urgency was emblazoned across his features, gruff huffing follow now as he overlaid Kinney's bike with the prize now.

"Alright, we gotta get going, shit's already hit the fan; don't wanna get splattered with it. Paints a vivid image there, huh? Yer prolly gonna hafta get used ta my mannerism. That oughta be fun. I drive, you ride and shoot--"​

For the Shredder, his valor and courageous nature would not go ignored. The Infected hurled themselves wildly forward, their arms and legs thrashing forward, pushing their limp yet courageously feral bodies ahead. Crimson and viscera dancing like rose petals around the Yakuza crimelord, almost akin a ballad of the wretched and damned. It was elegant, deadly, and above all else, precise and accurate to each slash, each thrust, each movement compared to the barbaric nature of the Infected.

However, martial prowess alone was not a feat against the Infected. Despite the Shredder's notable efforts and clever distraction, it was but blind valor in the end. Against more mortal and sane foes, the attacks would be decisively deadly, causing severe trauma, the severing of skin from flesh and bone. Yet in this dance, the shorten blades would prove to be both an ally and foe to the Shredder. An occasional punch would hit the man, the swarms upon swarms of the afflicted humans throwing themselves towards to criminal. This occasional punch evolve into a kick, the sheer numbers of the Infected able to swarm even the most trained of fighters. If the military had difficulty fending off the Infected with firearms, then melee was surely the most riskier dance with death against large numbers of the Infected.

In the end, the Shredder, given his name, burrowed himself deep into the mindless hordes of the Infected. But alas, as a brief respite came from the hordes, the Yakuza crimelord would find himself utterly battered. From sheer blunt force and overwhelming numbers, the Shredder would find his attire in tatters, his body bruised and tired, and the taste of blood in his mouth. On the horizon, he could hear the unison cry of the Infected once more, the shifting sands blinding him from peering afar, yet the cries and screams indicating that this was no longer a fight that could be one.

Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer

@Saint Guillotine

---

As the Eastern beserker lead his savage yet arguably tactically void advancement, the whirling tires of an old rustic Ford pickup spurned against the sand and concrete. Shockingly, this moment of sheer unorthodox brilliance was dangerously efficient, crashing into some of the Infected swarming around the Shredder before whirling in to drive off near the beaten, battered, and bloodied Swede. For those that had advanced to help the foreign doctor, they would be greeted to the screeching of tires, the humming of a steaming engine being driven by....teenagers.

Teenagers.

How Ruby Rose and Yang Xiao Long managed such a feat, well, is another story entirely on it's own. But yet, with frankly dangerously cooperation, the two siblings arguably saved the Swede. Unfortunately, however, their plan came with a slight drawback. Fueled by the vrooming and crackling of an dying engine, this fueled the Infected further and further, their distance footsteps growing and growing. With so much commotion, so much panic, there was but one course of action now.

Flee.

With a desperate cry, his face bloodied and flesh freely hanging, the Swede arose in the passenger seat of the truck. Having lost his revolver, the man hid his face, the doctor looking like a mangled mess. For Ruby, the sight would be absolutely horrific, unlike anything she had witnessed behind her computer monitors. Before the teenager, real blood, real flesh, and the real mangled nature of the impatient middle-aged Norwegian would peer underneath feeble and shuddering hands. With a raspy voice, the croaked man cried out, lurching over to snatch at the driver's wheel.

"Go...go to your s-sister...I c-can drive...go...go child...go!"

Trying to push Ruby off, the Swede, still concealing his face, purred up the engine of the truck. Drowsily and perhaps foolishly, by virtually pushing aside Ruby, the doctor in a delirious state began to spin off in the old junker. Pushing through the sands, spinning all over the road, the Swede began to speed down Highway 80 heading west, setting an example for the others to follow. Or, more accurately, to hastily follow, the conflicted doctor practically kicking Ruby out and spinning off with the pickup.

Around the survivors, the Infected would finally ease, giving them but a brief moment to gather themselves and move. Yet, as evidence by what the Shredder heard, there was no time to scavenge or even introduce to one another.

-Escape west on Highway 80 whilst you have a chance! Man your bikes, Impala, and for those that have no ride, flee into Frank's Oldsmobile or whatever is available. This is your only chance!-​

Well, that just happened.

"Fuck that." A sharp glance to Laura--

"We're driving after that asshole. First though, we'll check on Fireball and her sister." Though of course, it seemed the siblings had similar ideas, prominently Yang anyway.

"Let's go."

@C.T. @Krieg @TooLazyToTagTheRest​

 

[Krieg]

Mid-Chapter Update
"Solace Unwell"

The Survivors have Escaped!

Through whatever means necessary, whether it be by the frantic diving into Frank's Oldsmobile or the calculated revving of a motorcycle, the exiles of Salt Lake City forcefully begun their voyage westward upon Highway 80. With the sands and howling of winds filling the air, the blob of the Infected swarms began to look like mere ants upon the horizon, cast away by the blinding nature of the rapidly forming sands. Still, albeit wisely, everyone in this caravan of vehicles kept a firm speed on these barren roads, as the Infected had clearly exhibited a sense of undying determination. With an unsteady caravan being lead forward by the Swede, whom swerved about the road violently in that rustic, Ford pickup truck that Ruby so gloriously hotwired,

Growing further and further away from the gracious riverr valley of Salt Lake City, a sign reading "Welcome to Arizona!" would greet the survivors, having been at least an hour on this seemingly dull yet oddly exciting highway. For once, there was almost a sense of tranquility, just the sands of Mother Nature and not a sign of the Infected or the military or anything wrong for miles. It was, for a brief time, assuring to the survivors, especially those that were not focused on driving. Why, if wasn't for the fact that this caravan was being lead by a man who looked to be able to run off the road in the matter of mere seconds, physically and mentally delirious, the entire scene itself would be heartwarming. It was moments like these, humble, subtle beginnings, lucky survivors banding together as one entity...the desire to not only live, but to have hope for the future.

The will to survive.

Of course, as with the unfortunate accord of this world, all good things must come to a brutal and swift end. Upon the horizon, smoke rose into the skies, akin to the helicopter crash at the gas station. Instead, however, instead of twisted metal, small structures appeared, fashioned out of wood, clustered heavily together almost like...neighborhoods. Among the burning rubber and gasoline, a faint, worn out wooden sign hung limply on seemingly the only tree in existence given the area, the lumber itself frail and bearing no leaves. Yet still, the sign somewhat manage to hold, it's message inscribed on makeshift red ink of sorts....

Wells, Nevada

Passing over a small hill, before the exiles, the humble establishment of Wells would sit nearing the border of both Arizona and Utah. Truth be told, the city looked generations old, as if was the ideal image of a small, Western Americano town in the 1950s. Even from this distance, the architecture and design of the city looked ancient compared to the 21st century. Fittingly, with such a primitive appeal, little life, feral or not, roamed the streets. Whilst the town was far devoid of Infected, those that wandered but with a shamble, their bodies dehydrated and loss of nutrients, exhibiting an extremely rare case of the Infected literally unable to break out in a frenzied, maddening sprint of blood lust- a reminder that even the Infected are still bounded by some human principles.

Traveling down the curvacous road into Wells Main Street, the exiles would be greeted with an unsettling eerie nature of nothingness. What Infected roamed was not normal Infected as mentioned before, looking more like the traditional zombies of yore, walking with little energy left in their depraved bodies. Vehicles shocking crowded the streets, primarily military-designed Hummers, with heavy-caliber machineguns fashioned at the top, where a gunner would stand through the sunroof. However, no military personal was present, as if the inhabitants of Wells simply vanished, leaving only these tattered and dying bodies of the Infected.

The Swede, whom still kept his reckless nature of driving, would undoubtedly and inevitably crash. Slamming the pickup truck into the soldering remains of burnt sandbags, the bleeding and mutilated doctor's junker of a trucker hissed to an unfortunate demise. Croaking and sputtering on oil, a door was yanked open, the black-clad foreigner stumbling out onto the streets, covering his horrendous face. With shocking haste, the Swede unintentionally led the other exiles into what appeared to be a garage constructed out of nothing of sand. In reality, of course, it was but dense and firm brick, the foreigner entering the den through the front door.

Much to the surprise and glee for the survivors following the wounded and delirious Swede, an iconic image stood before them.

Leading into the workshop itself, a saferoom eagerly awaited, these military-designed rooms to be beacons of safety and hope. The Swede, having already made his residency, bolted towards the bathroom, a small trail of crimson oozing behind him. Not only that, but small fabrics of bloodied bandages, as if the physician desperately tired to tend to his wounds whilst driving. With an occasional scream escaping his lips, the Swede done unspeakably horrors in the bathroom, saving himself by destroying his physical humanity.

However, despite the woes, these rooms brought a sense of joy. With supplies freely laid about the once prominent workstations and writing etched into the walls, the workshop, despite void of cars and barely anything mechanically, felt like an absolute home. Take a breather, interact, go over the leftover supplies present, or perhaps just read the writings of those that came before. Whatever the case may be, this was a moment of unwell solace.

@C.T. @Kaykay @OrlandoBloomers @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot!

---

Meanwhile, for a certain closet-dwelling hockey star, the cries and banging of the Infected would eventually ease away. In fact, for Dave, the subtle sound of crashing steel would not go unnoticed. If familiar with the area, David would surely know the exact location, an old gas station with plentiful supplies, but rumored to be infested with Infected. Yet, given the eerily barren state of Wells, something else more dangerous was afoot outside of the Infected.

Still, with the absence of banging, humans had visited. Humans that, could either be cooperative, or in this game of kill or be killed, serve as sociopathic underminer.

@Atomyk​

 

[Ringmaster]

In a prime moment of safety, rare as it was the Shredder would do the following. First, getting rid of the gore and filthy, once-fine clothing that adorned him, politely finding cover to do so. These he flung outside.

In its place, he wore a comfortable if eclectic mechanic jumpsuit scrounged, which he tested its range of motion to ensure it would not hamper him. The claws would be meticulously cleaned, the poncho-cape still settled over his shoulders as the helmet was put to the side.

Those of a law enforcement background on a Japanese or International scale might recognize his features. If the weapons didn't give him away first. Nevertheless, he remained as quiet as before when he kept the helmet on. Suffering his bruises in silence, working only to to remain effective as he was before, now and then peering down the edge of his violent weapons before continuing his personal maintenance.


@C.T. @Kaykay @OrlandoBloomers @Krieg @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot!

 

[C.T.]

Much to the surprise and glee for the survivors following the wounded and delirious Swede, an iconic image stood before them.

Leading into the workshop itself, a saferoom eagerly awaited, these military-designed rooms to be beacons of safety and hope. The Swede, having already made his residency, bolted towards the bathroom, a small trail of crimson oozing behind him. Not only that, but small fabrics of bloodied bandages, as if the physician desperately tired to tend to his wounds whilst driving. With an occasional scream escaping his lips, the Swede done unspeakably horrors in the bathroom, saving himself by destroying his physical humanity.

However, despite the woes, these rooms brought a sense of joy. With supplies freely laid about the once prominent workstations and writing etched into the walls, the workshop, despite void of cars and barely anything mechanically, felt like an absolute home. Take a breather, interact, go over the leftover supplies present, or perhaps just read the writings of those that came before. Whatever the case may be, this was a moment of unwell solace.

@C.T. @Kaykay @OrlandoBloomers @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot! ​

The saferoom served well as a sight for sore eyes in comparison to the town around it. Dull, dreary, deserted...and the heat. "Sheesh." She commented with plain disdain. A childhood spent in frigid Alaska left her remarkably unprepared for the dry heat. "Never thought I'd miss the cold and frostbite this much." Laura shook her head, eyeing the leftover supplies briefly before shrugging. One of the others could go through that for now. If not, I'll scarf through later. She shot a brief glance Logan's way with a light smirk. Despite the chaos that had spun far out of control back there, she had to admit that ride had almost made up for it. Having to hold onto him just to stay on her ride...maybe a little too tight of a hold, held the entire time until they got here. Yeah, that ride almost made up for the craziness. Almost felt like all the hugs she imagined she missed out on as a kid.

Almost.

Still, she didn't feel it was right just yet, to say to him. Nor was the location right, she would prefer it if they were alone if at all possible. So not now. Instead, she stepped over to the wall, covered in written words. Laura ran three fingers over some of them, etched right into the wall. A record of all that had passed this way before. Names and dates were scattered amidst the messy scrawls but she lacked the context needed to put faces to these names. Imagination would have to do. "...Hmm." She glanced left and right swiftly, on the lookout for a pen before she sat down and began to read.

@Krieg @Kaykay @OrlandoBloomers @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot!
​

 

[Chewy Rabbits]

Leading into the workshop itself, a saferoom eagerly awaited, these military-designed rooms to be beacons of safety and hope. The Swede, having already made his residency, bolted towards the bathroom, a small trail of crimson oozing behind him. Not only that, but small fabrics of bloodied bandages, as if the physician desperately tired to tend to his wounds whilst driving. With an occasional scream escaping his lips, the Swede done unspeakably horrors in the bathroom, saving himself by destroying his physical humanity.

However, despite the woes, these rooms brought a sense of joy. With supplies freely laid about the once prominent workstations and writing etched into the walls, the workshop, despite void of cars and barely anything mechanically, felt like an absolute home. Take a breather, interact, go over the leftover supplies present, or perhaps just read the writings of those that came before. Whatever the case may be, this was a moment of unwell solace.

I'd seen a lot of things in my time as a freelance photojournalist. I'd seen bad guys put in their places, I've seen soldiers return home from war. But everything that had happened back there? I don't think any amount of coverin wars would have prepared me for that. As I kept one hand on the steering wheel, and the other on my camera, I didn't dare look down at some of the pictures I'd gotten.

So many people's bodies twisted and turned by this infection. People who might have made something with their lives only to end up cutting someone else's to shreds-in some cases literally. Then the very same people who would try to keep order in this crazy shitshow were turning as well. If that guy in the SWAT armor who's face I managed to take a quick shot of was any indication. The dial of terrible things to come just got turned up to eleven and I shuddered to think of else our motley crew might find out there in our travels.

But I know one thing's for sure.

I'm sticking through to the end. Whether that's with me getting set upon by a horde of these bastards. Or seeing through to whatever end fate has set for us. I'm finding the truth and that's all their is to it as far as Frank West as concerned.

Once we arrived at some kinda safe-house, I'd park the car and waited for everybody else who hitched a ride with me to get the hell out. Was in a bit of an antsy mood since the last time someone rode with me, I ended up having to shoot them in the head. Didn't want that to be the case with these guys. Though one guy stood out in particular. I didn't get much time to talk to him before things went from bad to worse in a nanosecond but...He didn't seem like everything was all there. Flipping through the pictures on my camera, I approached the guy.

"Hey buddy! You alright? That was some rough stuff back there.."

@Kaykay @Krieg​

 

[Jeremi]

Mid-Chapter Update
"Solace Unwell"

The Survivors have Escaped!

Through whatever means necessary, whether it be by the frantic diving into Frank's Oldsmobile or the calculated revving of a motorcycle, the exiles of Salt Lake City forcefully begun their voyage westward upon Highway 80. With the sands and howling of winds filling the air, the blob of the Infected swarms began to look like mere ants upon the horizon, cast away by the blinding nature of the rapidly forming sands. Still, albeit wisely, everyone in this caravan of vehicles kept a firm speed on these barren roads, as the Infected had clearly exhibited a sense of undying determination. With an unsteady caravan being lead forward by the Swede, whom swerved about the road violently in that rustic, Ford pickup truck that Ruby so gloriously hotwired,

Growing further and further away from the gracious riverr valley of Salt Lake City, a sign reading "Welcome to Arizona!" would greet the survivors, having been at least an hour on this seemingly dull yet oddly exciting highway. For once, there was almost a sense of tranquility, just the sands of Mother Nature and not a sign of the Infected or the military or anything wrong for miles. It was, for a brief time, assuring to the survivors, especially those that were not focused on driving. Why, if wasn't for the fact that this caravan was being lead by a man who looked to be able to run off the road in the matter of mere seconds, physically and mentally delirious, the entire scene itself would be heartwarming. It was moments like these, humble, subtle beginnings, lucky survivors banding together as one entity...the desire to not only live, but to have hope for the future.

The will to survive.

Of course, as with the unfortunate accord of this world, all good things must come to a brutal and swift end. Upon the horizon, smoke rose into the skies, akin to the helicopter crash at the gas station. Instead, however, instead of twisted metal, small structures appeared, fashioned out of wood, clustered heavily together almost like...neighborhoods. Among the burning rubber and gasoline, a faint, worn out wooden sign hung limply on seemingly the only tree in existence given the area, the lumber itself frail and bearing no leaves. Yet still, the sign somewhat manage to hold, it's message inscribed on makeshift red ink of sorts....

Wells, Nevada

Passing over a small hill, before the exiles, the humble establishment of Wells would sit nearing the border of both Arizona and Utah. Truth be told, the city looked generations old, as if was the ideal image of a small, Western Americano town in the 1950s. Even from this distance, the architecture and design of the city looked ancient compared to the 21st century. Fittingly, with such a primitive appeal, little life, feral or not, roamed the streets. Whilst the town was far devoid of Infected, those that wandered but with a shamble, their bodies dehydrated and loss of nutrients, exhibiting an extremely rare case of the Infected literally unable to break out in a frenzied, maddening sprint of blood lust- a reminder that even the Infected are still bounded by some human principles.

Traveling down the curvacous road into Wells Main Street, the exiles would be greeted with an unsettling eerie nature of nothingness. What Infected roamed was not normal Infected as mentioned before, looking more like the traditional zombies of yore, walking with little energy left in their depraved bodies. Vehicles shocking crowded the streets, primarily military-designed Hummers, with heavy-caliber machineguns fashioned at the top, where a gunner would stand through the sunroof. However, no military personal was present, as if the inhabitants of Wells simply vanished, leaving only these tattered and dying bodies of the Infected.

The Swede, whom still kept his reckless nature of driving, would undoubtedly and inevitably crash. Slamming the pickup truck into the soldering remains of burnt sandbags, the bleeding and mutilated doctor's junker of a trucker hissed to an unfortunate demise. Croaking and sputtering on oil, a door was yanked open, the black-clad foreigner stumbling out onto the streets, covering his horrendous face. With shocking haste, the Swede unintentionally led the other exiles into what appeared to be a garage constructed out of nothing of sand. In reality, of course, it was but dense and firm brick, the foreigner entering the den through the front door.

Much to the surprise and glee for the survivors following the wounded and delirious Swede, an iconic image stood before them.

Leading into the workshop itself, a saferoom eagerly awaited, these military-designed rooms to be beacons of safety and hope. The Swede, having already made his residency, bolted towards the bathroom, a small trail of crimson oozing behind him. Not only that, but small fabrics of bloodied bandages, as if the physician desperately tired to tend to his wounds whilst driving. With an occasional scream escaping his lips, the Swede done unspeakably horrors in the bathroom, saving himself by destroying his physical humanity.

However, despite the woes, these rooms brought a sense of joy. With supplies freely laid about the once prominent workstations and writing etched into the walls, the workshop, despite void of cars and barely anything mechanically, felt like an absolute home. Take a breather, interact, go over the leftover supplies present, or perhaps just read the writings of those that came before. Whatever the case may be, this was a moment of unwell solace.

@C.T. @Kaykay @OrlandoBloomers @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot!

---

Meanwhile, for a certain closet-dwelling hockey star, the cries and banging of the Infected would eventually ease away. In fact, for Dave, the subtle sound of crashing steel would not go unnoticed. If familiar with the area, David would surely know the exact location, an old gas station with plentiful supplies, but rumored to be infested with Infected. Yet, given the eerily barren state of Wells, something else more dangerous was afoot outside of the Infected.

Still, with the absence of banging, humans had visited. Humans that, could either be cooperative, or in this game of kill or be killed, serve as sociopathic underminer.

@Atromyk​

Despite the gore filled afternoon Armor King seemed somewhat presentable in his current state. He had ridden shotgun with Frank, and due to the fact that he wasn't much of a talker the journey had been a quiet one.

What was there to be said at a time like this though. Armor King pulled down the sun visor to check on himself. Some scars and gashes here and there, but the mask seemed to be intact. Good...it was the only thing that mattered in this world right now.

Once they arrived at their location he'd get out of the car and enter the safe house. The first thing on his mind was to load up on any shotgun bullets if possible, that last skirmish had diminished his load quite a bit.

@C.T. @Kaykay @OrlandoBloomers @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Krieg @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot! ​

 

[OrlandoBloomers]

A few hours on the open road would've been enough to calm even the most incited of tempers at least a little, and Yang was no exception. The wind in her hair and the tiny pair of arms steadily wrapped around her waist served as constant reminder that whatever could have gone wrong hadn't; for better or worse, the fact that they were scared, and in her case, angry... in a weird, totally messed up way, that was just another way of saying they were alive.

They were alive.

It... wasn't the most complicated thought in the world, maybe even an obvious one, but it sure was reassuring. Reassuring enough for her to ease her foot off the gas pedal and settle into a less breakneck speed alongside their little convoy, posture relaxing to some extent as she kept an eye out on the horizon, kept her bike far away from Gundersen's Ford, mentally banished the dark-if-gratifying thoughts that crossed her mind every time she saw him swerve dangerously and tried to calm herself down. They were okay. She was fine, so was Ruby. That was all that really mattered.

It was a really, really long time since she'd been to Wells, and the years hadn't been kind. Then again, it wasn't like the rest of the country was doing so hot either. The place was nice and all, but it always had a little too much of a small-town vibe to it for Yang's tastes; Now, however, it just looked plain miserable, and she couldn't help but think to herself that she liked it better minus all the burning piles of rubber and abandoned military checkpoints. They hadn't heard much out of Wells during the panic in the months following the outbreak, and she guessed now she knew why. The place was a ghost town. And from the few infected wandering around here and there, too emaciated and weak from long periods of exposure to the merciless Nevada sun to even raise their heads in their direction (let alone give chase), it looked like it'd been that way for a long time. It was... sad. Over a thousand people lived here once.

No use dwelling on that, though. When it became clear the Swede's truck was about to stop-- or, more appropriately, crash into some sandbags-- Yang veered her bike off to the right and brought it to an easy halt, throwing a hand up to mime out some kind of hand gesture that was supposed to signal the rest of the convoy to stop but probably would've ended up accidentally offending some cultures if they saw it. She disembarked, watched with slightly narrowed eyes as the tall European staggered off down an alley, shook her head after a moment and followed suit with Ruby presumably in tow, breathing an audible sigh of relief when what looked like a panic room of some kind came into view. Now that was a sight for sore eyes.

Once inside, she proceeded to do something that may or may not have been unexpected for her little sis who she hadn't said a word to in over an hour. The blonde screeched to an abrupt stop just inside the door, whirled around to scoop her up bodily like a cell adding a lesser cell to its mass and just plain twirled her halfway across the room in a hug for the ages, whooping with unmitigated glee.

"I'm so glad you're okay! Thankyouthankyouthankyou THANK YOU!"

It wasn't clear whether she was thanking Ruby for living or suddenly discovering religion after eighteen years, but either way she was feeling relieved above all else and sported an ebullient grin to show for it. Shock, anger and urgency had kept her from expressing that before. She figured she might as well do it now.

Make no mistake, the asshole in bandages was still gonna get what was coming to him. She just thought a little celebration for something much more important was in order first.

@Krieg @Kaykay @C.T. @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot! @atahmic​

 

[OrlandoBloomers]

She herself would've admitted it was kinda weird, but what started as one of the usual happy hugs turned into something way more sentimental and teary about halfway through, almost as if she was afraid this was the last time she'd ever be able to wrap Ruby up in both arms and squeeze like this or something. What with the apocalypse, and all.

It was probably just the stress getting to her. She just hoped Ruby didn't think it was too embarrassing having a mildly blubbering big sister grappling her around the place instead of a giggling one :|

@no one </3​

 

[Kaykay]

It seemed that the group had stumbled across...a secret base! Not only that, they had their own parts of their mecha, also known as random Hummers, here! Sure, the corpses of the infected and the blood trails were a little disconcerting, but the power of his delusions was greater than the power of real life stimuli!

Well, sort of. It didn't matter how deluded he was, the man needed to eat and drink something eventually. So he was about to go look through the leftover supplies when he heard someone call out to him. Turning around, it was...uh...someone.

...

Really, who was this guy again? He saw him earlier, but no matter how hard Akagi wracked his brain he couldn't recall a name or anything. Oh well, he'd figure it out eventually.

"No need to worry, fellow citizen. The Red Ranger always survives."

Looking over the man in front of him, Akagi concluded...he was just a background actor. He'd probably be random citizen 1 in the credits. He looked kind of like a paparazzi or something, and looked a bit old. Certainly no Sentai Ranger, and certainly no villain. The old man teacher slot was already filled as well. So all he had to do was assure the chap that everything was fine and dandy and then go fight evil!

And thus he continued going through the leftover supplies.

@Krieg @Kakarot!
​

 

[Indolent]

Leading into the workshop itself, a saferoom eagerly awaited, these military-designed rooms to be beacons of safety and hope. The Swede, having already made his residency, bolted towards the bathroom, a small trail of crimson oozing behind him. Not only that, but small fabrics of bloodied bandages, as if the physician desperately tired to tend to his wounds whilst driving. With an occasional scream escaping his lips, the Swede done unspeakably horrors in the bathroom, saving himself by destroying his physical humanity.

However, despite the woes, these rooms brought a sense of joy. With supplies freely laid about the once prominent workstations and writing etched into the walls, the workshop, despite void of cars and barely anything mechanically, felt like an absolute home. Take a breather, interact, go over the leftover supplies present, or perhaps just read the writings of those that came before. Whatever the case may be, this was a moment of unwell solace.​

James 'Logan' Howlett had no love for Wells, Nevada, but perhaps there was a begrudging appreciation fer the tiny city. After all, he'd made it here with his life, with others in tow and better yet: the military hadn't been altogether useless it seemed, having left behind fortified compounds in way of the safe-rooms, complete with supplies. Just one thing though-- why the hell were they relatively abandoned with an abundance of supplies in em? That was certainly questionable, the thought definitely lingering in the back of the Canadian's mind, as he forwent any and all hesitation and helped himself to the supplies. What? If he didn't, others would, and that just meant he was a shite survivor. Can't have that, especially if he was to help Yang and her little sister, Laura, and potentially the others.

There were a few non-potentials, don't worry.
​

The saferoom served well as a sight for sore eyes in comparison to the town around it. Dull, dreary, deserted...and the heat. "Sheesh." She commented with plain disdain. A childhood spent in frigid Alaska left her remarkably unprepared for the dry heat. "Never thought I'd miss the cold and frostbite this much." Laura shook her head, eyeing the leftover supplies briefly before shrugging. One of the others could go through that for now. If not, I'll scarf through later. She shot a brief glance Logan's way with a light smirk. Despite the chaos that had spun far out of control back there, she had to admit that ride had almost made up for it. Having to hold onto him just to stay on her ride...maybe a little too tight of a hold, held the entire time until they got here. Yeah, that ride almost made up for the craziness. Almost felt like all the hugs she imagined she missed out on as a kid.

Almost.

Still, she didn't feel it was right just yet, to say to him. Nor was the location right, she would prefer it if they were alone if at all possible. So not now. Instead, she stepped over to the wall, covered in written words. Laura ran three fingers over some of them, etched right into the wall. A record of all that had passed this way before. Names and dates were scattered amidst the messy scrawls but she lacked the context needed to put faces to these names. Imagination would have to do. "...Hmm." She glanced left and right swiftly, on the lookout for a pen before she sat down and began to read.​

"Huh, I hadn't taken ya fer a winter gal. Though, course, it'd explain a few things." He glanced her way, noticing her demeanor now as she attended to the scribblings on the wall. He'd have to pay her his thanks later, turning away now, though not without commenting additionally-- "If ya need anything, lemme know. I'll horde the good stuff." The final added in joking fashion.​

She herself would've admitted it was kinda weird, but what started as one of the usual happy hugs turned into something way more sentimental and teary about halfway through, almost as if she was afraid this was the last time she'd ever be able to wrap Ruby up in both arms and squeeze like this or something. What with the apocalypse, and all.

It was probably just the stress getting to her. She just hoped Ruby didn't think it was too embarrassing having a mildly blubbering big sister grappling her around the place instead of a giggling one :|

@no one </3​

Well, he still needed to talk to her, even if it could be brief. After all, he saw what happened and naturally, he was concerned. Even if it weren't his place since she was not a student of his anymore. "'Ey Fireball girl, you alright? The both of ya?" He craned his head, eyes glancing in between the siblings, concern indubitably expressed in his features. "I saw what happened-- probably best not to linger on it. I just wanted ta say ya can get me if ya need me fer anythin', alright?" He stated aloud.

Still though, the Swede looked to be in a pretty gnarly condition; even as much as an asshole he was, nobody should get mangled like that. If anything, that was what assuaged Logan's primal urge to manhandle the bastard for what he'd done.

And speaking softly now: "Stay away from the guy with the claws-- he's Yakuza. Somebody ya don't wanna tangle with. I know yer smart girls, yer already aware the fella's dangerous but still. Push comes to shove, come find me. I've got history with em."

...

Maybe, in hindsight, he should have told Laura the same.

@C.T. @OrlandoBloomers @Schnee Corp Douche @Saint Guillotine​

 

[Chewy Rabbits]

Their was a first time for everything, I supposed. Their was a first time for society as we know getting it's butt kicked by some kind of infection that turns people into monsters. So what hurt the possibility that I'd run into some guy calling himself the Red Ranger?

Okay, let's give the guy the benefit of the doubt, Frank. Maybe Red Ranger is some kind of military designation or code name or whatever. Maybe this guy's on the up in up on what's happening that's tearing the world we know and love to pieces.

Well, I knew straight off the bat that was nonsense. I've seen wars, conversed with generals, gone to places a photojournalist like me shouldn't have gone. I'd covered wars just to reaffirm to myself. So either Red Ranger was the name of some interestingly named courier service or this guy had taken one too many blows to the head. Not to mention what was up with addressing me as ''fellow citizen?' Sounds like something a superhero would say.

Maybe he thinks he's one. Isn't any of my business either way. So long as it doesn't put my ass in the firing line that is. If the Red Ranger gets too a bit too heroic for my tastes, I guess it'll be up to me to bring him back into reality. But then again, reality wasn't all that great.

"Uh...Name's Frank West, photojournalist. Not fellow civilian. Red Ranger huh? Mind if I catch a quick snapshot?"

Without waiting for a response, I held my camera up and took a snapshot of the guy. Glancing down to see how it ended up turning out, I nearly broke out into a fit of laughter. For as much could be said about whatever the hell this guy thought he was, he could make a business out of facial expressions.

"Nice.."

@Kaykay​

 

[C.T.]

"Huh, I hadn't taken ya fer a winter gal. Though, course, it'd explain a few things." He glanced her way, noticing her demeanor now as she attended to the scribblings on the wall. He'd have to pay her his thanks later, turning away now, though not without commenting additionally-- "If ya need anything, lemme know. I'll horde the good stuff." The final added in joking fashion.​

"Born and raised." Laura admitted with a slight smile, not even bothering to look over her shoulder as she continued reading the messages written who knows when. "But I'll deal just fine. Get used to it. And I'll keep that offer in mind. Thanks." She answered simply and briefly before he turned away.​

 

[Atomyk]

Strangely, it was the lack of noise that startled Dave awake.

His eyes opened to total darkness, eliciting a panicked snort from the teen as he practically flailed his arms around him to get a sense of where he was. He ended up banging his arm against the wall behind him and swore in turn, retracting it back as if he'd been scalded. Feeling bruised in both arm and ego, Dave took a deep breath and tried to collect himself, his gaze eventually picking up the sliver of light below the closet door. Yeah, that was right-- Dave was trapped in a closet. He felt like throwing up at the thought alone. He reached forward and took hold of his hockey stick, pulling on it a little to make sure it was still set firmly in place. It wouldn't stop shit if an infected was really trying to bust down the door, but Dave just felt better with it there.

Thing was, there didn't seem to be an infected outside the door now, but Dave didn't dare think he was in the clear. The bastard had probably just got bored and was sitting in the bedroom beyond, waiting to pounce once Dave opened the door. Taking the guy out would probably be a lot easier now that Dave had some sleep under his belt, but it was always easier just not having to deal with the fuckers at all.They didn't seem to care how much they were hurt, still choosing to rip and tear at you even with a stump for an arm and dying rapidly of blood loss. What kind of sickness did that? Whatever it was, no one had ever figured it out or had just kept it a secret before things went to hell. It was like... rabies... on crack. The guy who was probably still out there would stand on guard for as long as it takes, his mind only focused on the singular desire to fuck David Karofsky up.

... He was going to have to leave soon, especially if he wanted to find Dad.

With a groan, Dave started to get to his feet, his limbs feeling a bit stiff from sitting in an enclosed space for so long. He reached out toward the wall to brace himself, his eyes glaring holes into the closet door. If that guy was still out there, Dave was so going to fuck him up.

Determined hands reached for the hockey stick once again, this time pulling it free. Dave held it close to his body, his body tensing with anticipation for what laid before him. To most, this would probably be a monumentally easy task of opening a door and just dealing with whatever lie beyond, but for Dave it felt like so much more. He was on his own without Dad, taking his stumbling first steps into a world where he was truly alone. Dave knew himself well enough to know that first steps were always the hardest for him; It was always easier just to leave things the way they were.

But Dave had to move. He couldn't let the freak outside win.

Licking his lips, Dave jumped forward and threw open the closet door. It slammed against the wall and echoed throughout the house, though Dave was too busy wildly swinging his stick through the air to care. He took a few jumping steps out of the closet and brandished his weapon like a spear, his eyes searching frantically for any signs of the infected. He moved to the bed -- small enough that Dave would have a shit time sleeping on it -- and flipped over the covers with the stick to get a look at whatever lie underneath. He dropped down and spotted a toy train, sitting by its lonesome in the cavernous darkness of the bed underworld. Dave resisted the urge to take it with him and save it from its lonely existence. Best leave it for the kid when he returned. If he returned.

With the bedroom clear, Dave felt a calm wash over him, though he knew anything could still be lurking deeper within the house. He took a few deep breaths and cautiously stepped up to the hallway door so that he could poke his head out. He took two long looks at each end of the hall and decided to book it to the living room, hoping he had the energy to outrun whatever was lurking. In his haste, Dave accidentally grazed his stick across the wall as he ran past, knocking off what appeared to be a family photo and shattering it upon the ground. Fucking hell, he really was the big lumbering gorilla people accused him of being. He tried not to dwell on it, instead leaping into the living room and making a grab for his fallen backpack.

"Yeah, you better buzz off," Dave muttered, a small smirk crossing his face. The infected must have figured out just who he was messing with.

Content that the coast was clear, Dave made a break for the front door.

***

He had ample water, but he had shit for food.

Dave had been wandering Wells for the past fifteen minutes, unsure what to do with himself. He didn't know where to start looking, but his lack of ideas was making him feel discouraged. He was feeling a bit better after his brief rest, but he knew he was going to have to eat at some point or risk collapsing. Dave may have had pounds to spare, but he wasn't going to be able to get far without a scrap of energy. If he wanted this search to get anywhere, he was going to need to supply up.

But where was he going to find a reliable source of food?

Well, the answer came upon Dave pretty quickly.

The El Rancho Hotel seemed to be a whole bunch of shit rolled into one. A diner, bar, and casino-- No doubt this place was popular back in the day. It meant that there was a better chance then that this place would be cleaned out, but Dave really hadn't seen any other restaurants around here, and he was getting tired of wandering around without purpose. Pussy-footing around didn't get shit done. It was time to get his feet wet, suck it the fuck up, and see what this place held.

With his hockey stick at the ready, Dave was prepared to make heads roll.

​

 

[Schnee Corp Lawyer]

Mid-Chapter Update
"Solace Unwell"

The Survivors have Escaped!

Through whatever means necessary, whether it be by the frantic diving into Frank's Oldsmobile or the calculated revving of a motorcycle, the exiles of Salt Lake City forcefully begun their voyage westward upon Highway 80. With the sands and howling of winds filling the air, the blob of the Infected swarms began to look like mere ants upon the horizon, cast away by the blinding nature of the rapidly forming sands. Still, albeit wisely, everyone in this caravan of vehicles kept a firm speed on these barren roads, as the Infected had clearly exhibited a sense of undying determination. With an unsteady caravan being lead forward by the Swede, whom swerved about the road violently in that rustic, Ford pickup truck that Ruby so gloriously hotwired,

Growing further and further away from the gracious riverr valley of Salt Lake City, a sign reading "Welcome to Arizona!" would greet the survivors, having been at least an hour on this seemingly dull yet oddly exciting highway. For once, there was almost a sense of tranquility, just the sands of Mother Nature and not a sign of the Infected or the military or anything wrong for miles. It was, for a brief time, assuring to the survivors, especially those that were not focused on driving. Why, if wasn't for the fact that this caravan was being lead by a man who looked to be able to run off the road in the matter of mere seconds, physically and mentally delirious, the entire scene itself would be heartwarming. It was moments like these, humble, subtle beginnings, lucky survivors banding together as one entity...the desire to not only live, but to have hope for the future.

The will to survive.

Of course, as with the unfortunate accord of this world, all good things must come to a brutal and swift end. Upon the horizon, smoke rose into the skies, akin to the helicopter crash at the gas station. Instead, however, instead of twisted metal, small structures appeared, fashioned out of wood, clustered heavily together almost like...neighborhoods. Among the burning rubber and gasoline, a faint, worn out wooden sign hung limply on seemingly the only tree in existence given the area, the lumber itself frail and bearing no leaves. Yet still, the sign somewhat manage to hold, it's message inscribed on makeshift red ink of sorts....

Wells, Nevada

Passing over a small hill, before the exiles, the humble establishment of Wells would sit nearing the border of both Arizona and Utah. Truth be told, the city looked generations old, as if was the ideal image of a small, Western Americano town in the 1950s. Even from this distance, the architecture and design of the city looked ancient compared to the 21st century. Fittingly, with such a primitive appeal, little life, feral or not, roamed the streets. Whilst the town was far devoid of Infected, those that wandered but with a shamble, their bodies dehydrated and loss of nutrients, exhibiting an extremely rare case of the Infected literally unable to break out in a frenzied, maddening sprint of blood lust- a reminder that even the Infected are still bounded by some human principles.

Traveling down the curvacous road into Wells Main Street, the exiles would be greeted with an unsettling eerie nature of nothingness. What Infected roamed was not normal Infected as mentioned before, looking more like the traditional zombies of yore, walking with little energy left in their depraved bodies. Vehicles shocking crowded the streets, primarily military-designed Hummers, with heavy-caliber machineguns fashioned at the top, where a gunner would stand through the sunroof. However, no military personal was present, as if the inhabitants of Wells simply vanished, leaving only these tattered and dying bodies of the Infected.

The Swede, whom still kept his reckless nature of driving, would undoubtedly and inevitably crash. Slamming the pickup truck into the soldering remains of burnt sandbags, the bleeding and mutilated doctor's junker of a trucker hissed to an unfortunate demise. Croaking and sputtering on oil, a door was yanked open, the black-clad foreigner stumbling out onto the streets, covering his horrendous face. With shocking haste, the Swede unintentionally led the other exiles into what appeared to be a garage constructed out of nothing of sand. In reality, of course, it was but dense and firm brick, the foreigner entering the den through the front door.

Much to the surprise and glee for the survivors following the wounded and delirious Swede, an iconic image stood before them.

Leading into the workshop itself, a saferoom eagerly awaited, these military-designed rooms to be beacons of safety and hope. The Swede, having already made his residency, bolted towards the bathroom, a small trail of crimson oozing behind him. Not only that, but small fabrics of bloodied bandages, as if the physician desperately tired to tend to his wounds whilst driving. With an occasional scream escaping his lips, the Swede done unspeakably horrors in the bathroom, saving himself by destroying his physical humanity.

However, despite the woes, these rooms brought a sense of joy. With supplies freely laid about the once prominent workstations and writing etched into the walls, the workshop, despite void of cars and barely anything mechanically, felt like an absolute home. Take a breather, interact, go over the leftover supplies present, or perhaps just read the writings of those that came before. Whatever the case may be, this was a moment of unwell solace.

@C.T. @Kaykay @OrlandoBloomers @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot!

---

Meanwhile, for a certain closet-dwelling hockey star, the cries and banging of the Infected would eventually ease away. In fact, for Dave, the subtle sound of crashing steel would not go unnoticed. If familiar with the area, David would surely know the exact location, an old gas station with plentiful supplies, but rumored to be infested with Infected. Yet, given the eerily barren state of Wells, something else more dangerous was afoot outside of the Infected.

Still, with the absence of banging, humans had visited. Humans that, could either be cooperative, or in this game of kill or be killed, serve as sociopathic underminer.

@Atomyk​

A few hours on the open road would've been enough to calm even the most incited of tempers at least a little, and Yang was no exception. The wind in her hair and the tiny pair of arms steadily wrapped around her waist served as constant reminder that whatever could have gone wrong hadn't; for better or worse, the fact that they were scared, and in her case, angry... in a weird, totally messed up way, that was just another way of saying they were alive.

They were alive.

It... wasn't the most complicated thought in the world, maybe even an obvious one, but it sure was reassuring. Reassuring enough for her to ease her foot off the gas pedal and settle into a less breakneck speed alongside their little convoy, posture relaxing to some extent as she kept an eye out on the horizon, kept her bike far away from Gundersen's Ford, mentally banished the dark-if-gratifying thoughts that crossed her mind every time she saw him swerve dangerously and tried to calm herself down. They were okay. She was fine, so was Ruby. That was all that really mattered.

It was a really, really long time since she'd been to Wells, and the years hadn't been kind. Then again, it wasn't like the rest of the country was doing so hot either. The place was nice and all, but it always had a little too much of a small-town vibe to it for Yang's tastes; Now, however, it just looked plain miserable, and she couldn't help but think to herself that she liked it better minus all the burning piles of rubber and abandoned military checkpoints. They hadn't heard much out of Wells during the panic in the months following the outbreak, and she guessed now she knew why. The place was a ghost town. And from the few infected wandering around here and there, too emaciated and weak from long periods of exposure to the merciless Nevada sun to even raise their heads in their direction (let alone give chase), it looked like it'd been that way for a long time. It was... sad. Over a thousand people lived here once.

No use dwelling on that, though. When it became clear the Swede's truck was about to stop-- or, more appropriately, crash into some sandbags-- Yang veered her bike off to the right and brought it to an easy halt, throwing a hand up to mime out some kind of hand gesture that was supposed to signal the rest of the convoy to stop but probably would've ended up accidentally offending some cultures if they saw it. She disembarked, watched with slightly narrowed eyes as the tall European staggered off down an alley, shook her head after a moment and followed suit with Ruby presumably in tow, breathing an audible sigh of relief when what looked like a panic room of some kind came into view. Now that was a sight for sore eyes.

Once inside, she proceeded to do something that may or may not have been unexpected for her little sis who she hadn't said a word to in over an hour. The blonde screeched to an abrupt stop just inside the door, whirled around to scoop her up bodily like a cell adding a lesser cell to its mass and just plain twirled her halfway across the room in a hug for the ages, whooping with unmitigated glee.

"I'm so glad you're okay! Thankyouthankyouthankyou THANK YOU!"

It wasn't clear whether she was thanking Ruby for living or suddenly discovering religion after eighteen years, but either way she was feeling relieved above all else and sported an ebullient grin to show for it. Shock, anger and urgency had kept her from expressing that before. She figured she might as well do it now.

Make no mistake, the asshole in bandages was still gonna get what was coming to him. She just thought a little celebration for something much more important was in order first.

@Krieg @Kaykay @C.T. @Saint Guillotine @Indolent @Jeremi @Verite @Ivazel @Schnee Corp Lawyer @Josh M @Kakarot! @atahmic​

She herself would've admitted it was kinda weird, but what started as one of the usual happy hugs turned into something way more sentimental and teary about halfway through, almost as if she was afraid this was the last time she'd ever be able to wrap Ruby up in both arms and squeeze like this or something. What with the apocalypse, and all.

It was probably just the stress getting to her. She just hoped Ruby didn't think it was too embarrassing having a mildly blubbering big sister grappling her around the place instead of a giggling one :|

@no one </3​

To say Ruby had been a bit of a mess after that ordeal was a understatement. Both literally, covered in dirt and grime with a gaping tear over her stomach after her brief and poorly executed MMA match with that zombie, and mentally, having clung to Yang like she was the only thing keeping Ruby attached to the earth, like Ruby was afraid she'd fly away if she let go. But a few hours on the back of a motorcycle unable to see any scenery except her sister's hair she was desperately trying not to drool or cry on in her exhausted mess of a state really was enough time for anyone to at least start to calm down.

That had been awful. She'd almost died, the guy they'd saved had kicked her out of a moving car, but only after their rescue had been slow enough that parts of his face were just awful gouges and bite marks, which was an image that was at least helpful at this very moment to keep Ruby from falling asleep on the back of a motorcycle but was definitely gonna be revisited by her brain whenever she finally did pass out. But... while it was awesome, she'd be lying if she said if it also hadn't been a teensy itty bit... exciting. Ruby had had her fun with games like Resident Evil or Dead island over the years, but to actually be in this sort of mess, drive a car into a bunch of monsters that used to be people, save two men from being eaten, and do her best falcon kick impression on some half dead guy just in time for a motorcycle wheel to decapitate him had been... ok well that last part had been pretty disgusting and disturbing and it was darkly fascinating to know that a human head popped like a dropped watermelon, but it she had to admit, it had also been kinda... awesome. She'd been a bonafide, actual, real life hero for a moment. Not a virtual hero rescuing fake people fighting fake villains. She'd actually rescued someone. Which was awesome. Even if she'd almost died.

What none of that changed though was how freaking exhausted she was when they finally pulled up to the safe house. She'd never been to Wells, never one who had been a fan of travelling like her sister or dad had been, so she didn't quite have the same reaction as her sister other than to wonder mildly how bad things had really gotten outside the city despite assurances that the military was holding a line out east if a place like this was already abandoned, but that line of thought disappeared in an instant when she learned they were stopping to be replaced with an internal, half dead and eternally grateful 'yaaay'.

Right up until she got hit with huggagedon

She mewled in mild rebellion as her arms twitched and legs flopped a bit in a really sad effort to get free as she fulfilled her sacred duty as the younger sibling on any roadtrip and said

"Yaaaang let go! I gotta pee ;~;"
​

Well, he still needed to talk to her, even if it could be brief. After all, he saw what happened and naturally, he was concerned. Even if it weren't his place since she was not a student of his anymore. "'Ey Fireball girl, you alright? The both of ya?" He craned his head, eyes glancing in between the siblings, concern indubitably expressed in his features. "I saw what happened-- probably best not to linger on it. I just wanted ta say ya can get me if ya need me fer anythin', alright?" He stated aloud.

Still though, the Swede looked to be in a pretty gnarly condition; even as much as an asshole he was, nobody should get mangled like that. If anything, that was what assuaged Logan's primal urge to manhandle the bastard for what he'd done.

And speaking softly now: "Stay away from the guy with the claws-- he's Yakuza. Somebody ya don't wanna tangle with. I know yer smart girls, yer already aware the fella's dangerous but still. Push comes to shove, come find me. I've got history with em."​

"I'm... ok... just... can't... breathe... and bladder..." She wheezed

Yakuza?

"Is that... a kinda... japanese... wizard?"

@Indolent @OrlandoBloomers @Krieg @C.T.​

 

[Krieg]

Safety

Albeit cramped and small, the aura of safety was a breath of fresh air for the misfit exiles of Salt Lake City. Despite some of them only meeting in the desolate wasteland of what was once the prodigious deserts of Southwest America mere hours ago, a feeling of mutual companionship was easy to foster. After all, dark times often called for unlikely companionships, for what lies in the grand unknown that the military fended off for months was now unleashed in full force. What semblance of a vain attempt to restore a sense of normality in life was all but crushed when the military fled, and now, this band of children, criminals, and all those in between are but united as one.

They were the ones left for dead, and yet so ironically, they left the dead and dying for another chance of life.

For Armor King and Akagi, the supplies within the garage looked to be trampled with and scavenged, the saferoom's bundle of valuables stored on the surface of what was once a craftsmen table. However, there were a few valuables to the rest of the group awaiting to be scavenged from. First of which, was the remnants of several different ammunition types, particularly 12 Gauge, .308s, 9mm, .45 AP, and even a few revolver types such as .357 and .44. In terms of actual weapons, there was a military "Nova" shotgun, a shoddy hunting rifle, and a classic Uzi submachine gun. Finally, above all else, there was the standard four medkits, a common trait throughout most saferooms, although some exceeded that standard.

For Laura and those near her, more interestingly the walls of the garage, despite the rust and dim lighting, held secrets and histories of those that came before. It was clear that something was afoot a long time ago, and that simply being exiled from Salt Lake City was but the climax of the impending storm. Others seemed to have acted much earlier, and in their haste, left messages for Laura, simple tales and stories of people, just like them, trying to survive in a hostile, dying country cut away from the rest of the world. Most it, sadly, was but gibberish, the mere scribbling of mad men and women driven to insanity due to grief and a lack of hope.

Yet still, for Laura, and any others willing to gaze upon the walls, a few messages stood out above the others....

---
​

What is dead may eternal lie,
And in strange aeons, even Death may die.
From shadows, I refuse to cry,
For her, this is not my last goodbye.

-Blake

Keep skirting along the edges of the town, I will meet with you later. Please, don't cross down main street. I see them.

-Rey

Wowie, this place sure is....haha...WELL?

-Anonymous

beware the thin red line
beware the thin red line
beware the thin red line
beware the thin red line
​

---

An eventful read to say the least, but as they say, knowledge is power. Before Laura was a small marker, red in color, presumably from the "beware" individual. If she so choose, she could inscribe herself a marking upon these rustic walls. In a way, there was something eerie about it, yet alluring. Grimly, if she were to fade from this world, this would be a reminder of her existence- a mark that she was the one that survived for so long.

As the survivors contemplated their findings, whether it be knowledge or earthly possessions, a loud thumping could be heard emitting from confines of the closed bathroom. From within, the Swede, who had barricaded himself in such a room, had perform ungodly surgery to his mutilated face. Even in the relative solace of the saferoom, the occasional yelp, cry, and scream of the aging man echoed sonorously and frighteningly, invoking a sense of dread and pity. Slowly, but surely however, the door to the bathroom, steel in nature, creaked slowly to be opened.

A heavy breath escaped from within, and with one sudden joust of bravery, a new man walked out of the bathroom, forged underneath the sheer cruelty of this apocalypse.

Revolver in hand, having smuggled the firearm desperately in the confines of his medical bag, the middle-aged man looked entirely different mere hours ago. His entire form, from face to hands, were covered in a thin, sickly layer of bandages. He walked slowly yet surely, a limp in his legs, looking not only battered but physically demolished. What would normally take months of recovery would have to be reduced to mere hours, the Swede saying nothing underneath his veil of bandages, his duster jacket ripped, tattered, and covered in mud.

With small slits for the eyes, the Swede blankly looked ahead at those within, particularly Yang. He said nothing, or perhaps more accurately, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Whether it was out of shame for his actions or that he was physically in too much pain to move his muscles was a question that, given Gundersen's state, was one left better unanswered.

@Schnee Corp Lawyer @OrlandoBloomers @Kaykay @Jeremi @Kakarot! @Ivazel @Verite @Josh M @C.T. @Saint Guillotine @Indolent

---
​