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Floyd - The Road - Scarlett
There had been no sound of bullets, no sign of struggle or even awareness but they had all gone down. Every single one of the bikers Floyd and Scarlett had been after seemed to be shot down by military grade weapons - each individual shot in the head with precision, ultimately keeping them from reanimating. The human in each biker was initially drowned in bullets though, their bodies sprayed by bullets as they crossed an intersection. Whoever had done this had tactically training and planned this before the event, as though they knew they were coming.
"Ain't none of em' alive. They must've crossed the wrong people or sumthin, this wasn't random," Floyd commented, looting the bodies and bikes for any supplies he might find handy. Whoever had killed them took absolutely nothing, not bothering to clean up the scene - which was strange during these times.
Finding a box of cigarettes and a new lighter Floyd immediately began to smoke. He even stripped one of the biker's leather vest off and put it on around his hoodie - if fit snug, but comfortable. "How'd I look?" he joked, taking some urgency out of their situation. Prior to getting to where they were now, both Floyd and Scarlett had searched the area to make sure the people responsible were not around. There were no tracks though, no footprints or scattered branches that could lead them to the shooters. It wasn't that Floyd wanted to follow, but there was possibility that Jess or Hank could be with them - his intention was not to get Scarlett nor himself killed.
Finding a granola bar in the bag of one of the riders, Floyd tossed it at Scarlett. He didn't say anything, the gesture was enough. He himself hadn't eaten since they left the cabin, there had been no time to settle down anywhere for brunch. He went ahead and picked up one of the bikes and oil started to fluidly gushing out of the carbs. He tried the other eight or nine bikes and all the same outcome - engines all fucked up by bullet wounds. What was mostly odd about all of these discoveries was that there didn't appear to have been many shooters. The bullets and holes were the same, meaning the weapons bared were of the exact same caliber. Floyd was no detective, but the fact that there wasn't many leads - meaning tracks - was odd.
There had been no sound of bullets, no sign of struggle or even awareness but they had all gone down. Every single one of the bikers Floyd and Scarlett had been after seemed to be shot down by military grade weapons - each individual shot in the head with precision, ultimately keeping them from reanimating. The human in each biker was initially drowned in bullets though, their bodies sprayed by bullets as they crossed an intersection. Whoever had done this had tactically training and planned this before the event, as though they knew they were coming.
"Ain't none of em' alive. They must've crossed the wrong people or sumthin, this wasn't random," Floyd commented, looting the bodies and bikes for any supplies he might find handy. Whoever had killed them took absolutely nothing, not bothering to clean up the scene - which was strange during these times.
Finding a box of cigarettes and a new lighter Floyd immediately began to smoke. He even stripped one of the biker's leather vest off and put it on around his hoodie - if fit snug, but comfortable. "How'd I look?" he joked, taking some urgency out of their situation. Prior to getting to where they were now, both Floyd and Scarlett had searched the area to make sure the people responsible were not around. There were no tracks though, no footprints or scattered branches that could lead them to the shooters. It wasn't that Floyd wanted to follow, but there was possibility that Jess or Hank could be with them - his intention was not to get Scarlett nor himself killed.
Finding a granola bar in the bag of one of the riders, Floyd tossed it at Scarlett. He didn't say anything, the gesture was enough. He himself hadn't eaten since they left the cabin, there had been no time to settle down anywhere for brunch. He went ahead and picked up one of the bikes and oil started to fluidly gushing out of the carbs. He tried the other eight or nine bikes and all the same outcome - engines all fucked up by bullet wounds. What was mostly odd about all of these discoveries was that there didn't appear to have been many shooters. The bullets and holes were the same, meaning the weapons bared were of the exact same caliber. Floyd was no detective, but the fact that there wasn't many leads - meaning tracks - was odd.