Urban Blade: Lethal River

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Asmodeus, Oct 13, 2012.

  1. [​IMG]

    The Boeing 727 was one of ten aircraft operated by the Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System, otherwise known as Con Air. Capable of transporting 200 prisoners under a crew of just 12 US Marshalls, it was the cheapest and most efficient means of federal prison transfer. This particular flight was bound from Alexandria to Connecticut, a coastal route that would take it directly over Rapture City.

    That was their first mistake.

    The second was serving lunch.

    The passengers were restrained with handcuffs as well as ankle and waist chains, triple locked. Some even wore reinforced mittens and face masks to isolate hands and teeth. FAA regulations ensured the inmates were not physically restrained to their actual seats by anything but a standard seatbelt. But the crew of Marshalls patrolling the aisles ensured that no one took advantage of this luxury.

    Most passengers today were low riskers. Members of rival prison gangs would be transported on later flights, or individually if they posed a threat. It was safe to say there was a relaxed air. No one had caused any problems, the food had been good, the in-flight movie acceptable, and the weather outside was a soothing kind of rain.

    Most of the inmates had drifted to sleep when the tannoy came on.

    "Welcome to Rapture City, brothers and sisters."

    "The fuck is that?" asked one of the Marshalls, looking up at the speaker. He turned to his colleague, who frowned likewise. "Gerry, who's on the tannoy?"

    "You are now halfway through your transfer, from one penal facility to another. For such is life. We are shifted between our prison cells, in body and spirit."

    The voice had the strain of old age in it, wavering and slow. One of the Marshalls keyed an intercom. "Cockpit, this is Siler. What the fuck are you guys playing at?"

    "It ain't us, Sir," came the co-pilot's reply.

    "Most of you won't recognise my voice. An old man's hard to notice, even in jail. You mighta seen me at times, pushing library books or serving in the kitchens. Some of you might even have called me Merl... Old Merl, that coot who spent two-thirds of his life behind bars." There was a soft chuckle. "Well, that's me alright. But lemme tell you, brothers and sisters - I never forgot what life was like on the outside. In fact, I've made it my personal hobby to keep myself informed on events in the real world. See, before they put me away, all those years back, I had a lot of friends. And those friends have kept me in the loop on all kinds of things."

    "Shut it off. Get that shit shut off!" The Marshalls were rushing up and down the aisles now, trying to work out how the tannoy had been hacked. Others had drawn weapons and were watching the prisoners. Tension was mounting, despite the gentleness in Merl's voice.

    "And what I've heard, well... hell, it just ain't good enough. The world's going to shit, and it's time we made some changes. I need your help, brothers and sisters. I need you to find something for me. Something that'll change... all this."

    "Everyone be calm!" one of the Marshalls motioned with his shotgun, his gaze sweeping the unsettled inmates. Behind him, two Marshalls were opening a wall panel and looking at circuit boards.

    "Now listen up, cos this is the important part. It's a cure I'm looking for. Lab Cure IX. And it's down there somewhere in Rapture City. You get hold of it and you dial 555-692-1423. That's 555-692-1423. My friends will take care of the rest."

    "How the fuck did he do this?" shouted a Marshall, who began reaching up and trying to rip out the cabin speaker.

    "Oh, and one last thing. I may be old, but I ain't stupid. I know most o' you boys would rather run for cover than help make a real change in the world. So here's a little incentive for ya. Remember that tasty lunch you had a few hours back? Well, the secret ingredient was something I've been working on for some thirty years... something I traded in a lot of favours for to get on this plane... I won't bore you with the deatils. It's a slow acting nerve poison."

    Some of the Marshalls froze. Some of the inmates began to mutter. Some even turned and reached for their seatbelts before the guards pushed them back. Panic was starting.

    "Takes 48 hours to work, if the rats I tested it on are anything to go by. I watered it down some, of course, to give you boys a fighting chance. The concentrated version... well... we all know how those Marshalls like to take separate meals, don't we?"

    Almost on cue, one of the Marshalls stumbled in the aisle. He doubled over, clutching his head, and from a gasp lifted into a full, deafening scream. His eyes were wide, his mouth stretched in pain. All the tiny blood vessels on his face had opened up, flushing his skin red. Then there was blood, from his eyes, from his ears, from his nostrils. Some of the other Marshalls rushed to him, but not before there was a wet sound of haemorrhaging in his throat. And only seconds passed before the other guards doubled over in the same manner.

    "This is DOJ2491," the pilot's voice cut in over the intercom, interferring with Merl's transmission. "Co-pilot is down, I repeat... AAAGH!" The man screamed and retched as he tried to speak. "I'm initiating emergency, AAAAGH... God... uuuugh.... going down!"

    The plane dropped abruptly, lurching stomachs and making oxygen masks deploy overhead. As the Marshalls curled over in pain some of the inmates got out of their chairs, stumbling with wrists and ankles bound. The lights flickered. Shout and screams filled the cabin. There was a gunshot as someone disarmed a Marshall.

    Merl's voice cut back in. "Get Lab Cure IX to my friends, and they'll administer the anti-toxin. This is your run for freedom, brothers and sisters. And who knows? We may just change the world tonight."

    And with that the plane tipped, plumetting towards the city below. Any not in their seats were slammed against the cabin walls, and blood of the Marshalls ran in the aisles, their heads torn open from inside. Another shot blew out a window and the wind and rain came howling in. Lights of high-rises flashed by. There was a third gunshot. Then a shudder as something large and metal snapped. The cabin rolled. A freeway, far below, showed cars piled up in a traffic jam. The plane was falling parallel to the stretch. An overhead bin burst open and Marshall kit went crashing through the cabin, smashing into inmates and causing further damage. Sirens could be heard in the distance, between the pops of breaking equipment.

    The plane struck the freeway with a bone shattering quake, and sparks flew as hull and concrete met. The wings snapped and the fusilage skidded, spinning around and colliding with cars and trucks. There was a military convoy amongst the traffic jam. The soldiers were fleeing their humvees with the other drivers. Screams and metal squeals drowned the world and for a few minutes it was like the roar of Hell incarnate.

    Then the plane shuddered to a halt, and smoke and sobs filled the cabin.

    The prisoners had arrived in Rapture City.

  2. And then the tail-section snapped.

    The air was knocked from Tanya's lungs as the rear half of the plane toppled over the edge of the freeway. It was only twenty feet or so to the river below, but after the initial crash this was yet another descent, another nightmare. More chaos. The tail section splashed down into the water and windows all around them imploded. Tanya saw a half-dozen inmates swept away, felt the freezing water swallow her.

    Her instincts kicked in. Releasing her belt she kicked and thrashed, swimming seal-like with her wrists bound. The emergency exit had been popped, other inmates swimming and scrambling to get out. She followed them, overtaking with powerful kicks of her legs. Then it was upwards, through the dark abyss, sound and air rushing towards her. She broke the surface and took a great gulp of air.

    Other cars had fallen off the bridge, including a military humvee, several pickups, even a squad car. Tanya scrambled to the river shore amid this strange, twisted landscape, then collapsed in the mud, panting for breath.

    Gunshots shook her back to consciousness. Someone was firing. She rolled onto her belly and crawled further up the bank. There was an overturned pickup, gear spilling from its trailer. Her hands collided with tools and debris. Her grip closed on the bolt cutters. Brilliant! Flattening herself to the truck, she wedged the tool between her muscular thighs, dangled the chain of the cuffs in place, then squeezed her knees together. The chain snapped and the pain in her wrists receded.

    She slumped there a few more minutes. Then more gunshots roused her. Turning, she sorted through the kit from the pickup. It looked like the owner had been a climber or rescue-worker of some sort. She took a rescue pack and slung it over her shoulder, then wrenched open the door. No sign of the driver - maybe he had got clear before the truck was tipped. She thrust her hand under the feet and with a smile found what she was hoping for. A colt pistol, polished and ready.

    Just like Dad... always had a gun under the seat...

    Through the windshield she could see where the gunshots were coming from. A quartet of inmates, maybe one of the prison gangs, had found a motorboat. One of the men was trying to get it started, and the other three... she couldn't quite believe it... the other three were shooting at their fellow inmates with Mossberg shotguns stolen from the Marshals. Bodies lay dead in the water, riddled with bullets. It seems these four were not in the mood for sharing.

    But Tanya knew one thing, as she looked along the open, marshy banks around her. That boat was the only way any of them was going to elude capture and get into the city.

    She checked the gun was loaded, then saw more inmates swimming or climbing out of the half-submerged tail section. She would need their help to take that boat. Lifting the bolt cutters high, Tanya started yelling at the other survivors.


  3. [size=+1]Victor Rush comes to his senses just as the tail section decides it’s had enough of this shit and snaps off.

    Suddenly he’s in freefall, plummeting as the screams and yells from his fellow prisoners reach his ears just before they all hit the water. Then he’s sucked down, dark liquid surging through the broken plane; he’s reminded of an operation in Nigeria, what seems like decades ago now.

    Even in chains, he’s easily able to manoeuvre his way towards the exit of the tail section, barging through corpses and struggling inmates to reach his escape. He’d always wondered if one day he’d have an opportunity to make an escape, but he never suspected it would go down like this. He’d have preferred a dead guard’s uniform and a decent vehicle, not the tail section of a plane and deadly poison coursing through him.

    Not much he can do about it now, though; Old Merl holds all the cards in this hand.

    Dragging himself through the exit, Victor finally finds the air his lungs are screaming for. He drops to one knee, panting heavily, before starting to take in his surroundings. Chaos; overturned vehicles and debris dot the riverbank. Nearby, floating belly-down on the edge of the riverbank, is one of the Marshals from the plane. Victor hauls the corpse out of the water and pats it down, searching for something to aid in his escape.

    He strikes gold; first are the keys, the second is the handgun slung on the man’s hip. Snatching both up quickly, Victor removes his bindings and checks the magazine of the pistol. Colt M1911, seven magazine clip with one in the breach. A good weapon, well suited to taking lives.

    And it seems he’s found it just in time too; gunshots begin to reverberate around the area.

    Snarling, Victor drops to one knee and scans for cover; he finds some in the form of an overturned police vehicle nearby. Diving forwards towards and keeping as low as he can, he finds himself lying amongst the contents of the vehicle that have spilled out during the fall.

    The officers driving this car had clearly just returned from some sort of arrest; a number of confiscated items lie scattered about the area. Victor’s eyes fall upon a messenger bag, which he snatches up and begins loading up with what he can carry. Then his eyes spot the wooden stock of something sticking out from the backseat.

    He smiles.

    And his smile only grows wider as he draws out a Kalashnikov. AK-47, well-maintained and ready to fire. If whoever’s shooting fancies taking a shot at him, they’re in for a surprise.

    That’s when he hears a female voice yelling above the din of gunfire.
    “HEY! OVER HERE! KEEP AWAY FROM THE BOAT!” Someone else who’s made it out the plane and isn’t out to gun everyone else down, then; that makes her an ally, given the circumstances. Victor dives out of cover briefly to slide into the truck she’s crouched behind. Nodding to her in a gesture of ‘look, I’m not gonna try to kill you’, he peaks around the side of the truck to take in the scene.

    Four targets, roughly forty feet away. One trying to start a boat, the other three unloading onto anything that moves with shotguns taken from dead Marshals. They have the only means of escape, of making it into the city, and they’re not letting anyone at it.

    Only solution? Take it.

    “We need that fucking boat,” he growls, a deep, rumbling voice that sounds like two rocks battling it out. Without warning Victor swings out of cover, levelling the Kalashnikov at the convict furthest to the right. The shot rings out across the riverbanks and the inmate crumples to the ground, a gaping hole through his chest. [7 Damage to Strong Mook, Death]

    Victor moves back into cover with a grin on his face.

    He’s missed being in a combat situation a little too much.[/size]
  4. [​IMG]

    He was finally getting out this week. Granted, we was only suppose to in for a year. That is still approximately 365 days that he lost for being ignorant. Checking the car more thoroughly would have been smart. Someone played on his sometimes naive nature. When the cop finally him over just a block away from his loft, it became apparent that he was there for a reason. Of course, Marcus gladly allowed the officer to search his innocent. When the back opened and after he was handcuffed, he just barely seen the assault rifle sitting there.

    Now he had a bomb in his head and the plane was making a break for the ground. He just wanted to be a good person and NOT get sent on a errand that may or may not kill him anyway. If Marcus wasn't scared of setting of the bomb off, there would be more head desks than ever before. Fortunately, the impact did that for him. He was nearly knocked out in the water and glass. It was slow, but the unlucky convict got out of his chair. There had to be something on this plane that he could save. There was a aluminum box or two that was floating. Marcus grabbed one and pushed it out of the water. Using a pair of found keys, he opened the box and unbound himself. Score one for him. There was a little tool belt, a cellphone, handcuffs, pepper spray, and a crossbow of all things. Even a full quiver was stashed in there.

    Hearing the crack and bang of gun fire, Marcus knew he had to get moving. Getting the belt on, he slipped the small items into the pockets and armed the crossbow. Making a break for it, he hoped those nearest were friendly. Sliding behind the white truck, he nods to them.

    "First round is on me if we get to the city." he declared to his hopefully receptive allies.

    Poping up, he took aim at the strong mook.

    [Attack Roll: 7 total of 9. Miss]


    He took cover again.
  5. The landing was rougher than he liked but at least they were down. And hey, he hadn't gone for a swim since he was a kid! Nothing like a refreshing dip after being confined in a stuffy cabin breathing in other peoples breath and farts. Ricky could have possibly enjoyed himself if THIS FUCKING SEAT BELT WOULD RELEASE.

    The seat belt had jammed and Ricky was mashing at the thing, it was hard to see in the murky water and the plane was sinking at inexorably deeper making it harder to see. Finally, the seat belt came undone and Ricky wasted no time kicking his way out of the sinking cabin. Once he found the gap where the light was coming from he swam up and while his lungs were screaming for air and his mind was reeling he had a little idea and swam as best as he could and put his feet on the top part of the plane as it was sinking and kicked off.

    Ricky didn't know how deep he had sunk but after he kicked off the plane he tapped into the instinctive knowledge of the amphibious ancestors who had crawled out of the waters and eventually evolved into humans and swam as much like a fish as he could. His head hit something, some one. He flailed at them with his bound hands and managed to push them aside and his head broke the surface, he coughed and gasped repeatedly until he shook the feeling of drowning and tried to get his bearings.

    Shore, inmates everywhere, plane down, freeway, assholes shooting, dead bodies floating around. Ricky was grossed out at first when he found out the body he had bumped into was that of a Marshal. Grabbing the dead body he used it to help keep him afloat and then, thinking of the assholes shooting the other assholes (the more helpless ones) he searched the body for a gun. Unfortunately he didn't find one, but he did find some keys and a stun gun. It took him a second but he managed to get his shackles off, which would now make swimming much more pleasant. The sounds of the guns going off reminded him of the ever present risk of being shot which helped inspire the idea of using the dead guy as cover, now that he could swim properly.

    Ricky swam under the corpse as fast and long as he could until his feet brushed against seaweed, which creeped him out, then he started hitting shallow waters. Shoving the body aside he crawled up onto the shore and found yet another dead body, an inmate who had been shot. Unnerved by the implication of danger Ricky almost sped off right away but then first he noticed the gun in the hand of the corpse and pried it away. He felt a little bit more secure now that he had a weapon in his hand while being amongst all these dangerous types, the feeling of security dissipated at the sound of gunshots again. Ricky started and then ran for the nearest cover he could find, just as he heard some chick yelling nearby. Well she wasn't shooting at anyone and she seemed to have more of a plan than he did, so he decided he'd make his way over.

    He came closer as some guy was offering to buy a round if they made it to the city, approaching his his hands up in a gesture of no harmful intent and then crouched down behind the truck. "
    Shit lets get some strippers and make it a party." Ricky saw the guy take a shot at one of the other inmates that had been shooting at the inmates swimming for shore. He hefted the pistol in his hand and decided he would make an effort too. Making sure the safety was off he hopped out of cover, leveled the gun at the nearest hostile jumpsuit and pulled the trigger several times, only to have it click just as many times. No bullets. Ricky threw his hands up in irritation and took cover again.

    the number endlessly in his mind since he had first heard it. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423 The harsh clash of metal grinding against metal and the thunder of the screaming turbines filled his ears and a nightmare unfolded in front of him. Miles could envision the plane rushing towards the ground in his mind's eye; already other inmates were fighting their way to the fastest escape route. With the slow realization of the severely shocked, Miles realized he should be doing the same. His hands were gripped by an uncontrollable tremor and he was having difficulty unbuckling his seatbelt, a process that was further impeded by his handcuffs. When it finally came open the screams had faded and he was surrounded by slowly bleeding corpses. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423The paramedic in him was urging him to kneel beside the bodies searching for survivors, but his last scrap of reason knew better, and as an impact sent him sprawling, nearly concussed, across the cabin floor, adrenaline rushed through him all at once. He jumped to his feet and rushed through corpse-clogged passages, desperately searching for an exit somewhere.

    At first it was just a distant gurgle; then a giant wall of broiling water rushed through the passages of the plane. Just then Miles saw the emergency exit, opened by previous escapees; he lunged towards it and the water swallowed him. Desperately, he clung to the edge of the open exit, and his body slammed against the side of the cabin wall. Pain coursed through his elbow and in the background of his turbulent wits, he thought: Left elbow sprained, feels like a Grade 2 with minor swelling and partial tearing of the ligament tissueHe gritted his teeth and held on. Then the initial wave of rushing water settled, and with a mighty push he was out in the turbid river water. His lungs screamed for air and he fought the impulse to thrash wildly. His handcuffs kept him from using his arms and instead he kicked off his heavy shoes and kicked powerfully with his legs, closer and closer to the light at the surface of the rushing water…

    And then he was gasping air, then his head went under and he choked and inhaled water, then he fought his head above water again and coughed and sputtered. It wasn't a long way to shore. He heard gunshots all around him and a bullet whizzed past one ear. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423He dunked back into the water and noticed a bulky, bloodstained vest slowly sinking beneath his knees not far away, and, grabbing it, fumbled for a pistol, some kind of defense….

    He couldn't find one. There was no time to do this here. He kicked his way towards shore, pulling himself up into the mud with his good right arm, and quickly assessed his surroundings. Enemies were shooting throughout the area from all sides, but he was luckily sheltered by a large, overturned red van with a large ladder attached to the top. Taking a closer look, he was thrilled to see that it was a firetruck, and the rear doors had been broken open. Shivering and dripping wet, he wriggled into the car, the phone number chanting through his mind and the mesh vest pressed against his chest. There was a first aid kit, a road atlas, a flashlight and even some duct tape inside. The best thing was a large hatchet that had fallen from an attachment in the wall. Obviously it was the sort of thing firefighters used to break through locked doors, but it would serve his purpose well enough. He pinned it down between his legs and brought the handcuffs down hard on the blade. The second time, the chain between them broke apart with a satisfying crack. He could find some way to get them off his wrists later.

    He slipped on the mesh vest, selected a small backpack close to him, and loaded it with the supplies he'd found. Then he made a more thorough search of the vest and was pleased to find a pistol and a compass inside. He checked the cartridge. Empty. He cursed under his breath and thought fiercely: 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423There were a handful of days left before Old Merl's poison would take effect, and he didn't even have a loaded gun. How would he ever survive this?

  7. As one of their own was taken down by Victor's crack shot, the other two gangers unloaded at the wreckage where the survivors sheltered. The first shotgun blast blew out the tire near Victor, shredding rubber and hub metal, and the second flew wide over Marcus's head. The inmate closest the bank had tried to shoot him but had slipped on the muddy incline.

    Behind them, the third man continued trying to start the boat motor, but seemed to be having problems. His curses sounded between each failed rev of the propeller.

    "Get me some weed, I'll pay for the strippers myself!" Tanya yelled as she readied her colt. Swinging out, she fired over Victor's head and sent a bullet richocheting between the barrels where the lead ganger hid. The shot was barely inches from its mark - enough to scare the man into further cover. The girl ducked down again, then saw Miles stumbling around near a firetruck.

    "Hey you! Get over here!"

    turned in surprise, the pistol pointing ahead of him even as he knew he had no ammo, and lowered it when he saw the redhaired woman gesturing at him. "Get over here!" Miles didn't have to be told twice. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423 With his heart in his mouth, Miles ducked and rushed out of the safety of the firetruck towards her with the backpack hiked up behind his head as a meager attempt at protecting it. Panting more from stress than exertion, he pressed himself against the side of the car the redhead was hiding behind. "Hi," he said hoarsely. "My, um, my gun isn't loaded." He winced as a shot fired over their heads. At least one of them wasn't defenseless.
  9. [size=+1]Rubber and metal shards blast past Victor as one of the inmates blows out the tyre near to where he hunkers down. Snarling, he swings out of cover just as Tanya takes her shot, bringing up the AK47 at the man firing at him.

    The shot catches him just as he’s ducking back down into cover, blowing a chunk out of his throat and sending him tumbling to the ground. [7 Damage to Charismatic Mook, Death] Victor drops behind cover again before more shotguns are levelled his way, turning to the small group of inmates now clustered around the cars.
    “Aim for the man at the boat!” he yells, “We need to bring him down now!”[/size]
  10. One of the bullets nearly tagged him. Or at least it was close enough for him to skittishly get behind cover. Marcus reloaded as he was being shot at. The hollywood sound and special effects were very different compared to a real live shotgun to the tire. This whole thing just seemed like some baddie shooting action. At least that is wait Marcus thought to keep himself calm. With two of them shot down, ironically, by the guy who would look to have the easiest time beating the shit out of them, he decided to follow his orders and fire on the boat man.

    [Attack Roll: 3, total 5 Missed]

    It appears the plane crash effected him more than he realized. Not only that, but his "accuracy" was really ticking him off. Normally, he wasn't too bad but now he just didn't seem to have it. A year in the joint might do that to a person. Rust only take a while to form, but once it does...

    "Stay fucking still you piece of bubbling horseshit!" Marcus raged as he attempted to reload.
  11. Their leader had been shot, as well as their best muscle. The remaining two gangers lost all stomach for the fight. The man on the riverbank retreated towards the boat, panic-firing to no avail and screaming at his friend, who continued struggling with the boat motor. He couldn't get the machine to start. [Gangers panicked: -2 to Defence]

    "YOU SHOOT THE FUCKER ON THE FUCKING BOAT, YOU FUCK!" Tanya yelled at Victor, before popping up again over the hood of the car. She saw the man on the riverbank, painted in the fire-light from the burning freeway. Her pistol braced in both hands. She exhaled as she pulled the trigger, then gasped as she saw the man drop. Her bullet had caught him clean between the shoulderblades. The ganger fell face-first in the mud and Tanya laughed, adrenaline flooding her. [9 damage to Strong Mook - DEATH]

    "Fuck me... I got him... I got him!"
  12. [size=+1]“What d’you want, a fucking candy cane?!” Victor roars as the woman celebrates her kill, “Keep fucking shooting!” It was a good shot, he has to admit, but now is not the time for celebrating.

    Not when there was still one inmate who could possibly make it off with the boat.

    Rising from cover and using the edge of the truck to steady his aim, Victor brings the rifle to bear on the final target, sucking in a breath and squeezing the trigger. But instead of the satisfying sensation of recoil followed by the man crumpling, all he hears is a frustrating ‘snap’ as the AK47 refuses to fire. [Natural 1 – Weapon Jam]

    Roaring in frustration, Victor ducks back behind cover and attempts to clear the jam. “Will someone please kill that asshole before he gets away with the boat!”[/size]
  13. This was great, in a gun fight with no bullet just this stun gun, which isn't even a gun in the first fucking place. At least these guys had ammo and stuff. [SIZE=+1]“Aim for the man at the boat!”[/SIZE][SIZE=+1][/SIZE] Ricky lifted his eyebrows then peeked around the edge of the truck and there indeed was a man on a boat trying to get it to start. It made sense to attack this guy because they wouldn't make it far enough fast enough on foot. Especially before the poison took effect.

    Aw shit that's right there was poison inside him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Ricky tapped the gun against his head with each cursed thought. Now he was going to have to get involved with this already dangerous plot. And he wouldn't get very far if that dude took off with the boat. Ricky let out a breath at this thought, he was going to need some bullets, and there were bullets everywhere. Looking around Ricky saw a couple places that might have ammo in them, unfortunately though there was a high risk of getting shot if he tried for them. Except for this truck here. Eh what the hell. Opening the door of the truck he peered inside, what he saw was some ammo scattered around, which was a good start. He looked under the seat and saw more loose ammo and three boxes. He pulled them out and read the caliber, 9mm, awesome. Ricky ejected the clip into his hand and picked up the loose ammo first and thumbed them into the clip, when it was half full he put in some more ammo from one of the boxes. Ricky shoved the boxes of ammo in his pockets, feeling a bit better about the situation.

    With the full clip of ammo in the gun Ricky was ready to start shooting back. Once again he peered out of cover, leveling the gun and pulled the trigger.

    [Attack Roll: 10 to DC 12, Miss]

    Well damn, he didn't make it this time but there was more of them than there was of...them. The dude was going to get hit sooner than later. Ricky took his place safely back behind cover. After a moment he realized there was no other gunfire than what was coming from their little group here. So there was only one guy left?
  14. The marksman had a jam in his rifle. The woman had taken someone out and of course any others were fiddling their diddle. Shit. Even a cooped up convict could probably get the boat working. The kill had fallen into his hands and he refused to fail again. He wanted to help. Someone had to do something. Double-checking his crossbow, Marcus arose and took aim.


    [Attack Roll: total of 18, Damage of 5 to final mook. Death.]

    The bolt pierced his lung and blood squirted into the water. Gurgling, he fell and floated downstream. Marcus's anger had instantly turned to a vigorous victory mood. He pumped his arm similar to a child would bait a truck driver into honking the horn.

    "Way to go, Jeter." he whispered to himself.

    Beckoning the others, Marcus tactfully advanced forward.
  15. [size=+1]The jam has almost been cleared from the rifle when a crossbow bolt is sent flying into the final inmate’s chest; Victor snaps out of cover once more just in time to see the target go down.
    “Good kill,” he observes with an approving grunt, continuing to scan the area for any remaining targets. Unlikely, but old habits die hard; it’s always worth making sure you’re not going to get chopped to pieces by gunfire the second you step out of cover.

    But the area seems clear; the inmates attempting to make off with the boat are all down, either dead or dying, and none of the survivors who assisted him in bringing them down are injured. A good fight, all in all.

    Now comes the hard part.

    Figuring out whether these guys are trustworthy, or whether he has to kill them all as well.

    The crossbow-wielding man is already moving up towards the boat; Victor keeps a wary eye on him as he moves to the woman who was fighting with him, just in case the guy tries to make a run for the boat. Years of incarceration means that Victor is not quick to trust.

    “Victor Rush,” he says by way of introduction, offering an arm to Tanya to help her up, “you’re not a half-bad shot.”[/size]
  16. "Yeah, I know you." Tanya gripped Victor's callused hand and hauled herself up, dragging her backpack with her and putting it on as she eyed him. "You're that ex-corporal. The guy who chopped off Mancini's fingers with a lunch tray. We heard about it when we were boarding."

    She checked her pistol, dwarfed in the corporal's shadow. "I hope you're one of those chivalrous psychopaths who doesn't hurt women." She clipped the buckle of her pack. "Call me Crowe."

    And with that she was away, vaulting the barricade between Miles and Ricky and heading after Marcus. Emergency lights were illuminating the freeway above them. Police and ambulance crews were arriving, cops swapping orders with National Guardsmen. Sirens flavoured the air, and helicopters were drawing close. They didn't have long.

    Splashing through the mud, Tanya scrambled into the boat with Marcus. "Hey," she grunted, then they both looked at the boat motor. It was old, rusted, the propeller probably clogged with god knows what from this drainage river. It wasn't a question of repairing the thing, but of using the right technique to please it.

    Tanya took first try, grabbing the stater cord and yanking on it. Her well-scultped muscles flexed as she pulled, but she only got the same as the last guy - a low, throaty stall.

    "Shit! Any o' you boys boatmen?"

    [Drive Check (Dex) to start boat. DC15. -4 to the check if you don't have the Drive Skill.]
  17. [size=+1]Victor chuckles at the mention of the word ‘chivalry’ and moves around the truck after Crowe and the crossbow-wielding man, looking over his shoulder at the two inmates still crouched behind cover.
    “Either you get your asses moving, or you can stay behind and play target practice for the police. Your call, boys.”

    He could hear the sirens from up ahead, voices yelling in the distance; the authorities were clearly already here when the plane came down, and soon they’ll be all over this riverbank.

    Best that he and the inmates not be there by the time they arrive.

    Crowe and the crossbow man are already in the boat as Victor approaches, the woman asking if any present are ‘boatmen’.
    “Used a rig like this during a couple tours,” he grunts, stepping into the boat and shouldering past both to get a look at the motor, “think I can get it working.”

    Yet a quick inspection of the thing leaves Victor cursing furiously. “Fuckin’ amateurs!” he snarls, “that dumb bastard flooded the engine. Gonna take a minute before it’s good to go again, and we ain’t got a fuckin’ minute.”
    “Let me,” says a voice beside him; Victor turns to see the young, pale-haired inmate reaching for the engine.

    Moving to one side, Victor watches as the man fiddles with the ancient device for a moment before turning and nodding to him. “Try it now.” Gripping the starter cord, Victor heaves and the engine slowly splutters into life at last.
    “Nice going,” he says with a grin to Miles, revealing several missing teeth, “We in business. Now let’s get the fuck outta here, ‘fore the lawmen decide they tired of sitting around. I ain’t eager to go back inside, if what Ol’ Merl said on the plane is true.”

    Glancing up from the engine, Victor glances around the riverbank for the final inmate. “Hey, you! Hurry the fuck up!”[/size]

  18. M
    that he had been able to keep a cool head and not made a mess of things as he was sometimes prone to do. It's what had gotten him in this whole prison mess in the first place. And now there was poison in his body… 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423. 555-692-1423 At least even the scariest-looking among his fellow inmates seemed pretty decent. If he kept his nerve and proved his worth as a paramedic they wouldn't shoot him. Hopefully. He clambered onto the boat and tried to ignore what the muscular bald man had said about the police tailing them. A nerve agent … if only he could figure out some sort of cure… 555-692-1423, he reminded himself, and wondered why in heaven and hell Old Merl was doing this. Didn't he have connections to people who could make a better change? Miles guessed he was just counting on surprise and speed for this crazy plan to work. And what a man needed for this kind of work was desperation and irrationality. Perhaps the inmates' involvement in the plan wasn't as far out as it had seemed to him at first. He hoped that an antitoxin even existed, and that if it did, Old Merl's friends truly would have it.
  19. Well alrighty then, all the dudes were dead and shortly the cops would be here too. Everyone took off before him to the boat and as he got up from his crouched position and vaulted over a barricade the loud voice of the burly inmate was yelling at him to hurry up. "Keep your jumpsuit on I'm coming." Through the noise of the gurggling motor Ricky heard some squawking. Not the bird kind, but the kind from a radio, coming from one of the guards. Sparing a couple of beats he turned the guard over and pulled the radio from his belt, turning it off then running for the boat and hopping in.

    "Alrighty then lets get the road on the show. I'm Ricky by the way, Ricky Lome." Ricky plopped himself onto an empty seat, although he was sitting and seemed relaxed he was on edge. These people might try to kill him despite him trying to help. He stared down at the little radio and turned it over in his hand. The thing was an expensive brand, that much he knew, and judging by the display the device could also pick up police radio. Which seemed like a good thing right now. He turned on the radio and carefully switched channels until he heard something relating to their little scene here.

    [Computer Use: Scored total 18 of 12 needed to find real juicy info]

    The radio squawked in Ricky's hand as he flipped through the different channels. He stops when he hears official voice to listen in then slowly flip through a couple more stations. Bingo. He found a signal that was being used to communicate the orders people were being given related to their situation as well as status updates from police cars, helicopters, and boats. "Hey check this out. Couldn't we use this to zig and zag around the fuzz?"
  20. Awesome. The engine was started and that kindled hope. Thinking quickly, he reclaims the two bolts that didn't land and hops in the boat. It was time to go. Looking over his new companions, they seemed like a good enough bunch. Considering the circumstances, they were good enough anyway. Perhaps they were only in an truce as opposed to being an ally. For all he knew, once the city was reached, the group would split Though, Marcus didn't think that was a good idea.

    The radio trick was genius. If the group knew of the po-po's movements, they could avoid the formations...maybe even misdirect them. No. Not yet, it is too early to make a drastic move like this. Getting into the boat was enough, and that is what he did.

    "Sorry, for the wait. Let's get the hell out of here!"