|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 2:16 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 2:27 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 3:47 pm
|
|
|
|
As Maryse wandered through the suburbs of Toronto, she often found herself thinking back on the day that her life changed, the day that everyone's lives changed, and discovering that she could no longer remember it as clearly as she thought she could, as she thought she would. Having to focus so intensely on the present meant that her memory of the past atrophied like long-unused muscles, becoming threadbare and frayed around the edges.
Suddenly, something startled her out of her recollection. Something low, something distorted. A sound. A groan.
Slowly, Maryse raised the Mossberg 590 pump-action riot shotgun she'd found in a nearby police cruiser and undid the safety. Her uncle had tried to teach her how to use a gun so that he might take her hunting with him, so that he might take her out of the city and into the wilderness of Canada's national parks, so that he might keep her from hanging around with the wrong people. She concentrated, remembering what he'd taught her, reciting it softly to herself as she did it, step by step. She planted her feet wide, assuming the stance, the shotgun held low in both hands, right hand on the grip in front of the forecomb, left hand cupping the slide, weapon held slightly to her right side, both elbows bent, the better to absorb recoil, which would be brutal if she locked her joints. A tendon-tearing, shoulder-dislocating kind of brutal. She preferred the shotgun to the Beretta that hung loosely at her side. She knew she was trading power for accuracy, but she didn't care. She wanted something heavy, something real. Something with stopping power.
"Steady, Maryse," she cooed. "Steady." Her words, fringed with a slight French accent, cut through the silence like a knife. Like teeth.
She'd been wandering for a long time. She was tired, dirty, and hungry. She needed a place to stay, a place to sleep. She needed supplies. Food, water, and ammunition. Most of all, she needed someone to watch her back, especially when she was busy watching her front, or vice-versa.
She needed someone to help her survive.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 5:29 pm
|
|
|
|
Dahlia checked her watch, they had completed three out of the four houses on their list today and it was only just past 5pm, only running into five undead total which she though was pretty good. As per the Government orders, they were allowed to take anything useful to themselves out of the houses for the squad's use. So far they had collected a few spare inflatable matresses, some edible goods, and even a couple working electronics (not to mention a few new games for the squads entertainment.).
Kevin looked at her as the squad brought stuff onto the bus to transport, "I think you should skip the last house Dahlia, you're looking haggard. Leon and the others can handle it. Might as well wait and see if that guy's coming over here too."
Jacob lugged the box of games on and put them in his seat, "I wanna go in the next one with Leon, can I?" He looked pleadingly at her.
Dahlia sighed and scrubbed his head, "All right, but you stay with him and do exactly what he tells you to. Got it?" Jacob nodded with a big smile before running back off of the bus to tug on Leon's shirt and tell him.
Leon walked up to the bus and deposited a sack of dried goods, "I'll take good care of him, wouldn't want our mascot to become our next target after all." Jacob glowered up at Leon, always hating to be referred to as the 'Mascot'.
As the rest of the crew prepped up to go in the house, Luke and Kevin checked the bus over to make sure it was ready to go after this house, and Dahlia jotted down some quick notes about the houses in her book so she could put it in the reports for tomorrow.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 5:41 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 5:57 pm
|
|
|
|
Noel walked around the kitchen in the squad's new base, he grabbed a box of peas from the freezer and dumped it into a pot of boiling water. They had hit gold with this place, there was a old school "Green" water purification system on the roof along with barely, but still working solar panels and a small wind turbine that kept the freezer running almost indefinitely. He reached for a old bowl of soup stock...
Owen crossed his arms as the PM began to speak to the assembly. "Ladies and Gentlemen." he began, looking at each person sitting in front of him. "For the past few months, you have been working admirably on project reclamation." He crossed his arms, "And you have done a wonderful job, we now have several working production lines to produce new ammo, safe efficient farms to grow fresh produce for the survivors, Safe Zones within our major cities..." He paused and took a deep breath. "But we need a bit more." "We need a battle that will show Canadians in hiding that we can beat this, that Canada is still a world power." He looked at the Generals. "I'm open to any ideas that you all have on where this battle should be, but My primary choice right now...Is the Parliament Building..."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 6:05 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 6:15 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 7:00 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 8:20 pm
|
|
|
|
Maryse moved forward as cautiously as she could, careful where she placed her feet, lest she lose her footing and fall or step on something that might snap and alert any nearby zombies to her presence. She'd learned the hard way that the undead will notice sounds that living humans will often ignore. She tried to remain calm, but she was trembling in her boots. She was loathe to admit that she hadn't seen anything, but she'd heard something, she told herself, and that was enough for her. She didn't take any chances, anymore. Just then, Maryse thought she saw something move. A moment later, she was certain.
She was certain that a silhouette had just walked by the window of a nearby house.
Approaching the house, Maryse felt like a character in a horror movie, investigating the source of a strange sound when she should just leave well enough alone. She shrugged the feeling off. She needed supplies, after all, and this house was as good as any. She pressed her ear up against the door and listened. She heard a rustling inside, but nothing else. No voices. She tried the doorknob and found it locked. Sighing deeply, Maryse threw herself against the door as hard as she thought she could without making too much noise. She threw herself against the door again and again, but it wouldn't give, wouldn't even budge. She threw herself against the door one last time, forgoing all subtlety. The door gave with a loud crash, banging into the wall behind it.
Maryse found herself inside a seemingly abandoned house lit only dimly by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Most of the drapes were drawn. Most of them. She looked to and fro, searching for the figure she'd seen from the outside, but to no avail. She proceeded through the living room and into the kitchen. Upon spotting the pantry, she fell on her knees in front of it and quickly rifled through it, stuffing boxes of cereal and canned goods into the messenger bag at her side. Some of the boxes of cereal had already been torn open, but she didn't care. She was so hungry she was willing to eat anything that wasn't spoiled.
Suddenly, she heard a sound. She didn't think she heard it. She knew she did. It was the same sound she'd heard outside, only louder and clearer. It was coming from down the hall. It was a groan. A familiar groan. A zombie's groan.
Maryse stood up slowly and, holding up her shotgun, proceeded down the hall. The doors to the rooms were all closed, save one. A bright, harsh light spilled out from that room, almost as if it were showing her the way. She listened intently, but she couldn't hear anything. She was afraid, but she forced herself to round the corner, to enter that room, to face what was inside. She gasped. It was a washroom, and the floor and the walls were covered in blood. A first aid kit lay open on the countertop, next to the sink, also covered in blood. Clearly, someone had been injured badly and had tried, probably unsuccessfully, to patch themself up.
Again, Maryse heard a groan. This time, it came from behind her. Directly behind her. Quickly, almost instinctively, Maryse turned to face her adversary.
It was a man. He looked almost normal, almost alive, but Maryse knew that he wasn't. Even from a distance, she knew that he wasn't. He had an angry bite wound in his shoulder where it met his neck. Blood covered him, dyeing his white clothes, sticking to his skin. It had poured down from a punctured vein in his shoulder, poured down in great gouts, and he had rushed into his washroom to try to treat it. He had failed. He was very pale and a trifle cyanotic. There was a blueness in his jaw and at his temples. A vein under his left cheek lay dead and swollen, so blue it was almost black. She could see other clots and occlusions, web-like traceries of dead veins. Like the veins in a piece of marble, she thought, or a piece of Stilton. Without the veins, a piece of marble is just granite. Without the veins, a piece of Stilton is just plain cheese. The dead veins gave his face a certain character, a certain gravitas. Of course, that gravitas didn't make him any less dead.
He came closer, and Maryse could see that his eyes were shot with red where his capillaries had burst open.
His legs twisted beneath him, threatening to topple him at any second, his arms stretched out, his muscles straining, stretching taut as steel cables beneath his cold, clammy skin. He stumbled forward until his legs gave way, until he smashed down onto the blood-stained floor tiles. His body heaved and shuddered trying to catch a breath, any breath of air at all. It was just a reflex, she told herself, just a reflex. He was a dead man, and dead men don't need to breathe.
Maryse was transfixed. She couldn't move. She couldn't even breathe. Not for what seemed like the longest time. Then she remembered herself, remembered where she was, remembered what she had to do. She leveled the shotgun at his head and pulled the trigger. His head exploded in a sickening splatter of blood and bone and brain matter. Quickly, Maryse ran from the washroom, ran down the hall, ran through the living room, ran out the door. She wanted away from this place.
She screamed. There were zombies gathering around the house.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 16, 2009 9:05 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Dec 17, 2009 7:49 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Dec 17, 2009 8:35 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Dec 17, 2009 11:37 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|