NationStates Jolt Archive

{{OOC: No OOC here. That's my word on it and I would very much approve if its was adhered to. No tags or OOC comments at all. If you feel you must tag the thread, do it with the button at the top of the page. AGAIN please! No OOC chatter here. If anyone feels the need to praise the size of my manhood or my rock-hard abs, debate something about the story, tell me I suck, tell me they hate me, or propose marriage, please do so in a telegram and not here. I don't know if I can make it any clearer than that. Thanks. Invite by application only. If you would like in, please telegram me first. If I've never Roleplayed with you before, all the better. I'm looking to do something new here, so please, feel free to apply. I plan to keep it small, though, as to preserve the story. Hope you like.}}


The heat of the sun was beating down on the congregation, causing already tense conditions to be strained by the grumpiness of long hours in the sun. Still, a few were in high spirits. And why not? This meant many jobs for the local economy, and a great deal of money for alot of people. The site had been roped off and unmolested for some six months, and despite the efforts of a few very loud local protestors, the construction of the new Bass Ackwards Film Studio was finally at hand. The religious factions of the city of Shine were out in force today, protesting the 'smut factory' as they had dubbed it. No matter, the team of notables was almost ready to break ground, and then they would commence with the festivities.

The call went up, and the local press gathered, snapping pictures as the small group of 'actors and actresses' each took up a shovel. These were in truth no more than the few truly famous porno-stars who had felt the small city worth their time. Well, what mattered is that they were there, and they were about to turn the first spadefulls of dirt for the new site.

The clapping and laughter of the crowd dwindled, and the apparent leader of the pornographers stepped forward, shovel in hand. Blonde and stunningly built, this man's most distinguishing feature were his icy blue eyes. They were so important to his persona, in fact, that he had taken them for his moniker, dubbing himself 'Dicky Ice-Eyes Sexton'.

Raising his voice, the blue eyed porn-star said,"It is a great day for our fine industry. I am sure that in time, thousands of wonderful films will be made here, in this gorgeous new studio, courtesy of those well-endowed men over at Bass Ackwards. We love you, guys." A few seconds of applause, and Ice-Eyes plunged the steel of his spade into the soft earth.

That was the end of the ceremony as the organizers had planned it. The shovel thrust into a pocket of some sort, and the ground began to fall away at the point of contact. There was only time for a few shocked gasps, and then the entire lot caved into itself, swallowing the group of scantily clad women and their male cohorts and leaving only a gaping black wound in the earth.

As screams of shock and horror sounded, the police officers on duty at the gathering broke into a run, some shouting into their radios for ambulances and backup. They slowed as they approached the sink-hole, craning their necks to peer down into the blackness. Nothing.... Still, the hole itself could only ten or so feet deep, and for a moment the officers thought retrieving the injured actors would be an easy task...

And then they heard the first of the screams. Soon a dozen voices were raised in horror, their anguished cries silencing even the shocked chatter of the onlookers. In the distance, the wail of sirens could be heard, but everyone present knew that there was no hope for those in the hole. Still they screamed, terrible, pleading sobs for mercy and rescue.

Some were wordless, and were all the more shocking for it. Long, screeching shrieks of agony. These were the worst, especially when they ceased, all at once. Their lives obviously snuffed out by whatever horror lived in the soft earth.

Soon the screams had all silenced, and for a long moment, there was no sound whatsoever except the wind, and the growing wail of sirens. When the first of the Fire and Rescue teams arrived, sliding onto the scene with sirens blazing, the shocked stupor was broken, and the scene turned to one of madness. The onlookers surged forward, as if eager for the protection of the armed police, few as they were. Now, religious protestors and pornographer merrymakers huddled together, some praying, some sobbing.

The firemen themselves rushed, headlong toward the hole. One unslung a rope from his shoulder and tied it around his waist, as if to leap into the blackness. His fellows grabbed him and wrestled him back. Each of them babbling suggestions of how to retrieve those in the hole.

Their chatter must have drown the initial cries, but as the head of Dicky 'Ice-Eyes' Sexton appeared above the lip of the cave, they must have, if only for a moment, been relieved. Then, the raging thing leapt out, among them.

The first firefighter he bore down only had time for a yelp, before the grasping, frantic fingers of the madman were thrust into his mouth and eyes. The sharp pain of the his teeth came soon after, the bites seeming to land on the firefighter faster than was humanly possible, here and there, everywhere. His suprised struggles never more than feeble, they finally stopped altogether, and the crazed man who was once known as 'Ice-Eyes' rose from his corpse...

The other's drew back, terrified as the blood-soaked spectre stood, his breath ragged and wet. The icy-blue irises which had once sparkled so charmingly were changed. Blood ran from their sockets, even the parts that should have been white a crimson ruin. But, the irises were different. Not the blood-red of his gory mask, but the reddish-orange or a blazing fire. They glowed, his eyes, with a light that was truly unhuman.

His first steps were slow, but as the panicking firefighters turned to flee, he lunged. Tackling another to the ground his ripping fingers quickly detatched the poor man's jaw, his screams drowning in a gurgling froth of blood, and then the madman was up, and running again, and he was not alone.

Rising like Hell's own champion's from a mass-grave, his fellow actors poured from the hole, their own anguished, hate-filled screams joining his to mingle into a macabre symphony as they boiled out of the hole. One of them tumbled over the corpse of the first fallen firefighter, but as he, too, twitched and rose shakily from the earth, they seemed to dismiss one another. Their eyes, glowing like the furnaces of some terrible hell, sought only those foolish enough to have remained where their smarter, more frightened kin had chosen to flee. Once they were among the panicked, fleeing crowd, their evil spread like wildfire. As more and more of them rose from the earth to run again, it spread faster and faster, the infection rate rising exponentially, until the world went mad, and the evil that had once remained in the hole was reaching out in all directions....

And then it was done. The terror had been roused and unleashed from the earth. And now, the dead had finally chosen to ignore their call to the serenity of the Long Night, eternity. They rose again, to take that rich, warm life from those who still possessed it.

"...Someday, I will walk away and say:
You fuckin' disappoint me.
Maybe you're better off this way..."

The cry of his stereo system coming to life was startling, jerking the man rudely from a solid, whiskey-soaked sleep. Eight O'clock Was his first thought, quickly followed by What a way to start the fucking day... Blinking his eyes at the glare shining through the window, he cursed himself for getting so out of hand the night before, especially with work so early Monday morning. Still, nothing for it but to rise and drink a gallon of coffee.

Rolling from his bed he rose and pressed 'eject' on the CD player, ending the loud chaos of his alarm clock's song. Probably never be able to listen to that album again, damnit. Shame too. It had been one of his favorites... Dismissing the music and the rude awakening from his mind, he wandered into the bathroom and enjoyed one of those long, relaxing, utterly satisfying pisses that only come after a night of hard drinking.

After his piss, the man turned to leave but caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Naked, he was well built, though not remarkably muscular and tall but not looming. A face tht was not unhandsome, though not extremely attractive. Shoulder length blonde hair and blue-green eyes topped off a fairly average appearance. Inanely, he thought Hello there, handsome.

His thoughts touching on aspirin for the slight throbbing behind his eyes, he whistled for his dog and went to let him out for his morning romp in the yard and dump under his favorite tree. No answering grumble from his little friend made him grunt, but he was not overly concerned. He often esaped onto the screened-porch and whiled the night away barking at the neighborhood cats. As drunk as the man was, he would never have heard him.

Stepping out onto the porch, he whistled again, his eyes searching the furniture and tables for the pup. So occupied, he was only warned of the rushing steps by the pat-pat-pat of bare feet on the dewy wet grass of his yard. His glance up allowed him a glimpse of the old woman from down the street, barreling toward him in a long, bloodsoaked nightgown. Her arm was flopping grotequely from a few thin sinews, and her face was a crazed mask of blood and hatred.

Squeaking an oath, he stepped backwards involuntarily as the old woman's frail body slammed into the wire-screen of his porch, bulging it inward. Her snarling shreiks were wet and hoarse as she bounced back. He flung herself at the screen once more, and again it sagged under her weight, her frail, elderly body given an unholy strength. Another lunge, and the flimsy screen parted from the beams above, and she was coming over the wooden rail, hissing and clawing at him with her one good hand, the other arm having finally torn away at the shoulder.

Breaking from his terrified reverie, he stumbled backwards, through his doorway. Desperately he flung the door shut and clawed his way to his feet, frantically scrabbling at the deadbolt. When it slid into place, he heaved a sigh of relief, but choked on it as the wooden door shook on its hinges. The crazed woman was slamming into it as well.

"What the fuck is going on, what the fuck is going on? What in the name of the gods is going on here?!" He said, out loud, his voice a hoarse croak. Backing away from the door, he tried to control the violent spasms that his hands were suffering from. "What the fuck are you doing out there!?!" He screamed at the door, though the only answer was another thud.

As his fear-shocked mind came to life, he thought, Demon. Just like the song said. The Gods are furious with me and they have sent this fiery demon to scourge and punish him for his transgressions.

The incessant pounding of the old woman against the door was beginning to wear at his nerves. Frantically he rushed around the house, gathering his gear and throwing it into the back of his car, a roomy old heap of iron. A leather coat, a baseball bat, a bag of canned food, and the rusty old axe from the garage. That was all he had time to grab before panic set in and he ran to the garage, firing up his car and preparing to open the door.

He hoped that whatever these unholy fiends were, that they would not be lurking outside his house, that the old crone had gone away, and that he could make it from the city. The emergency broadcast system was raging on the television, calling the creatures 'undead' and 'wights'. Every channel was the same, visions of horror as the city was overrun by more and more of these raging deadmen. Stop fucking around and dive, man!

His finger almost touched the button for the garage door before he thought water. Cursing himself, he threw open the cardoor and ran back into the house. There was a gallon jug of water in the fridge, and another below the counter. Grabbing them, he took a step toward the garage and stopped. The pounding had stopped.

Slowly, he crept toward the front door, his bottles in hand. The peephole showed no sign of the crazed old woman. He set the jug down on the floor and his hand crept to the door handle and gave it a small twist. It gave way, and he let it swing open.

And there, a man, no, a boy... A schoolkid was running, a lurching, screaming mass of these wights streaking toward him. The kid stumbled, but regained his balance quickly, keeping a good distance ahead of the wights, but they ran on the poewr of hate, and he could not outrun them forever.

He's dead. The man thought, but incredibly, he heard his own voice call,"Run boy! Get your ass over here! Run boy! RUN!!!"

Cursing hmself for a god-damned fool, he waited, praying that the boy found some strength inside him and hurried just a little more... The screams of the undead were awful, wordless wails of tormented hatred. And their eyes... They were the worst of all. Even from the distance, they glowed with a fire....

The boy was almost to the door, his face painted with fear as his feet pounded the earth, but they were right behind him, reaching and snarling, their mindless hatred terrible to behold. They are almost upon us!

And then the boy was inside, the door slamming shut and his hand, steadier this time, sliding the deadbolt quickly. "Holy shit, boy..." He cut off as the door shuddered violently, the wood splintering audibly above the howling of the undead.

o.o.c. aS mentioned above, I did not see the above post.


i.c.

"Jesus! Thanks mister. What the hell are those things?" Jake exclaimed, with a faint accent, words pouring out his mouth like water, sometimes not even making sense. He collasped on the ground and looked at the door shaking, and tried to gather his thoughts.


Earlier he and his friends had left the hotel for some burgers. Now he was certain one was dead and the rest were scattered. He had been running for hours. The penknife he clutched fell to the floor as his muscles gave way to exhaustion. He had taken the life from the body of a biker. He continued to stare at the door in fear.

Thump! The door shook again, the splintering of wood even louder this time.

"Get up!" Grabbing the kid by the collar the man drug him to his feet, allowing him to snatch up his penknife before dragging him backward toward the garage. Another curse and he scooped up the gallons of water and hurried onward. His car was still running as he slung the boy into the car and rushed around to his side. He had his own door open when he heard the crash and the wild scream echo inside his house. They're in.

Snarling a prayer, he slammed his finger down on the garage-door opener and prayed for it to rise quickly. Slinging his door shut, he watched the tiny slit of light grow inch by inexorable inch, so slowly. And then, the first of them were under the door and leaping onto the car, slamming their fists into the windshield and leaving crimson smears of gore.

"Fuck it, boy. Hold on tight!" The door had only risen some two feet when he threw it into reverse, thumping over one of the undead who made to slide under the door. The impact of the car's bumper with the thin metal of the garagedoor was jarring, but as the panels of the door flew free, they came out of the garage and slid into the street.

The screech of tires must have drawn the attention of the wights, for as the shifter slid into drive, they began to come. Hundreds of them. They were folks from down the street, children he had seen walking to school in the mornings, the woman with all of the cats, the fat, trashy fellow across the alley, and more... They were there, and they were howling for the hot, fresh blood that ran through the veins of the two men in the car.

The squeal of the man's tires was loud as the grey hunk of metal leapt forward, quickly followed by the outraged cry of the first wight to be thundered over, its body bursting like an overripe melon as it tumbled over the hood of his car, splattering his windshield with a layer of viscera.

And then they were free, his car careening around a corner, and the great mass of undead screaming their frustration as he object of their hatred sped away.

Glancing down at the boy, his heart thumping erraticly, the man finally spoke,"Holy fucking shit..."

Flipping on his wipers, the man watched as the washer-fluid mingled with the blood smeared across the windshield. Soon the wipers had done their word, and they stared out of two spotted arches amid a field of gore-splashed glass.

His eyes scanning the surrounding neighborhoods, the man spoke again,"What the fuck are you doin' outside, boy?! Dontcha know the cities in ruin?" He snapped, angrily. Giving a shake of his head, he continued,"John's my name... John Connington." Reaching into the backseat, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from one of the bags. His hands shaking slightly, and with one eye on the road, he pulled one from the pack and stuck it in his lips. Patting himself slightly, he muttered softly and pulled a lighter from his pocket.

Touching the flame to the smoke, he pulled deeply and said,"So, boy? You got a name? Why you in Shine, eh? You're not Panteran, are ya?

"I've been running for my Fucking life out here. Your right i'm not from here. I;m Jake Panderhall from celack. I came here on a school trip. My friends and I left the hotel last night for some burgers and we got attacked.I saw my best friend die then try to take a bite out of me and I ran. Iv'e been running all fucking night.," Jake reached into his bag and pulled out his water bottle. He took a swig and then put it back in the bag.

"what the fuck are those things?

A screaming wight slamming into the door of the moving car delayed John's response, but as the thing tumbled to the ground, he grunted,"Watch your mouth, boy."

Pulling deeply from his cigarette, he exhales slowly and said,"Well. Lucky I found ya, then, Jake.... Well, I got a bit o' bad news, there Jake. The city is overrun with these things. The news said that it'd been going on all night. Said it started as rioting, or they thought so. After that..."

His voice trailed off into nothingness as they past a gruesome scene. A throng of the undead were ripping and tearing at the prone body of a very fat woman. Still struggling, her terrible wailing could be heard even inside the car. Her body had been stripped naked by the wildy frenzy of the wights as they ripped at the bulging, pasty-white flesh beneath the clothing. Now, she was bleeding from a hundred bites, and there was nothing for John and his young companion to do but flee.

"May the Gods help us, Jake... I donna know where in the Seven Hells to go. The Lord Reaver has closed the city, last I heard on the news..." He sighed, his voice cracking. What the fuck are we going to do?

Tossing the spent butt of his smoke into the ashtray, John reached down to turn on the radio. Static. Switching stations showed him the same across the board. No warnings, no news, no music... Nothing. Only the crackling silence of the radio's static.

Jake just stared out the window at the scene taking place next to them. He saw one of them zombies and a tear leaked out of one eye. He forced himself to turn away and muttered one word


"Joanne"



He sat catatonically only listening to the static comming out of the radio.

The boy seemed to lapse into sullen silence, and John was willing to let it stay that way. Afterall, he couldn't blame the poor kid. His own thoughts were bouncing between an thousand different scenarios. Where can we go? He thought.

The answer, was nowhere. The city was sealed, the Lord Reaver's soldiers encircling it to ensure that none of these wights escaped into the rest of the nation. With the Evenstar in control, John was worried. There would be no negotiation with Pantera's military. The Evenstar ruled with an iron fist, and would order his men to shoot on sight, so as to contain the evil unconditionally.

No. There was no way out of the city. Their best bet was to find somewhere to hold out and pray that the Lord Reaver figured out a way to rescue those still alive in the city...

What in the name of the Gods is that? He thought as he pulled his car out of the residential streets and out onto a larger street. There, in the distance, was a building in flames A church. John knew. He passed it on his way to work everyday.

The roof of the building was aflame, and around it swarmed a mob of the undead. They jostled and trampled one another as they fought for position closer to the building, mindless and oblivious of the flames.

For the love of all that is True... There are people inside! He could see movement in the windows, and there, a white flag being waved. The windows were too high for the wights to reach, but they hammered at the wooden double-doors that topped the stairs, their fists leaving bloody smears across the gilded wood.

Unthinking, John turned the wheel and faced his car toward the church. "Hold on! He barked at the boy, Jake. He had the beginnings of an idea, but as a portion of the church's roof collapsed, he knew there was no more time for thinking. Slamming his foot down on the gas, he careened across the street and over the curb, up onto the soft, wel-tended grass of the churchyard.

The first crunching thump of his tires annihilating the body of an undead made John grit his teeth, but it was only one of many. Up close, there were so many of them, all turning to watch his car as it plunged into their midst, scattering bodies.

A chair crashing through the window made his decision for him, and he slammed on the breaks, sliding his car sideways across the blood-soaked grass. As the passenger door slammed into the wall, John was violently jarred, but managed to scream,"Get out here! Now! They're coming...!"

"I hereby banish you to the depths of hell.......The Power of Christ compels you.....Go Back to Hell! I command it!"

The undead corpse of the Priest's former friend and fellow Enforcer of God stopped for a moment, confused, then continued to rush on, his mouth gaping wide and blood rushing down in eyes.

"Fuck it, then."

The priest reached into his long black overcoat and withdrew a huge gun-a 454. Casull Revolver. He put it into his longtime friend's undead mouth and, without resolve or remorse, pulled the trigger. The undead's head was gone in a shower of blood.

"Amen."

Father Alexander Anderson frowned as he reloaded his revolver. The Vatican Enforcer was tall and cloaked in a black coat. He wore large, round glasses and had bright green eyes; his hair was a light brown. A light beard went rounded his face. The Paladin, for that was what he was, was currently in only one of two Christian churches in all of Shine. How disappointing. He had come here on a routine Exorcism, and this mess breaks out. All of the other priests, three in all, were dead already.

The biggest problem of all was that standard Paladin techniques of holy water and crosses were not working very well, if at all. As far as he knew, this whole mess started when a bunch of those undead bastards bashed their way into the church. His friends, who were only armed with crosses and faith, were massacred within minutes, and Anderson was just barely able kill the lot of them. But he had bigger problems at hand. A mob of undead was just outside the locked doors and barred windows, waiting to get in. The front half of the church was already on fire and would soon spread inwards.

Suddenly, a huge portion of the roof gave out under dozens, maybe even scores of undead fiends. How the hell did they get up there? There were far too many to defeat; Anderson concluded that he was a goner. Might as well go out with a fight. He fired his revolver into the face of one of the Ghouls, and then impaled another on a bayonet. Both writhed and howled with undead screams. Anderson picked up a chair and flung it at another stumbling undead. It clipped his arm, knocking him down and slowing him only slightly. The chair smashed into a stain glass window, giving Anderson a view to the graveyard outside. He saw a car pull up. That was odd. Undead couldn’t drive, as far as Anderson knew. He kicked another zombie and flew out the window, coat flapping in the wind. He cut open a few more fiends to get to the car, and finished off another with an incendiary round from his Casull. The round went through three undeads before exploding a fourth.

“Drive!” He screamed hoarsely at the man at the wheel. The man gladly Complied and sped out of the graveyard at top speed, barreling over more fiends as they got into the street and flew down the road.

“Thanks for the lift,” Said the exhausted priest as he reloaded his pistol. “The name’s Father Alexander Anderson. Who are you and Where are we going?”

"I'm Jake, and I think we're getting the hell out of here Father." Jake said, snapped out of his stupor by the sudden action.

It seemed like hours since he had been out, but the small fires around him still burned into the night. With a large cut across his forehead and a wicked case of roadrash, the battered fireman climbed out of the wreckage of his fire engine and looked in awe at the sight before him. It seemed like the Apocalypse had befallen the once bustling and bright town, for now only a burned out shell remained. The streets were littered with trashed cars, piles of garbage being blown about by the wind, and pools of blood from the dead. One thing caught the fireman's fancy.....the lack of bodies.

He reached back in the cab of his engine and pulled out a now tattered coat with the name 'John' across the left pocket and put it on. He looked about for anything of use, but the crushed and broken bodies of his comrades was all he saw, anything and everything he could have used was totally fucked. He walked to the rear of the engine which lay several yards away, completely torn off from the cab. He opened the back storage hatch and to his surprise he found an axe that was still in good condition. He took up the axe and glanced to his left, then slowly to his right, a stern and weathered look on his face.

Hmmm.....shit to the left of me, shit to the right. He shrugged his shoulders slighty and started off in the direction away from the fires that burned in the distance. On this day he would not be the one fighting them, but fleeing from them. Something big had gone down, and he tried to recall the events just before the crash.

+++++++++++++++++++

The call came in over the radio, and John was the first to roll out of Ladder 46's new facility in his sparkling new engine. Flying down the street at nearly 53 miles an hour, the engine's lights flashed brightly and it's sirens wailed into the air. Over the radio he heard chatter about a massive collapse at the latest smut bucket and that Ladder 25 was already at the scene but needed assistance. The tires squealed loudly and the rear of his engine shifted to and fro as he rounded one of the final corners, but as the engine began to stabilize nearly a half dozen people ran into the street.....straight at him.

He reacted the only way he knew how: turn the wheel and hope for the best. He was just going too fast and the people were too close, and suddenly.....darkness. And now here he was, cursed to survive the wreck while his brothers whom he lived with for nearly 7 years were fortunate enough to die. Something major had gone down, and surely it had something to do with the massive spiritual turbulence that he had heard about in the news.

He trudged down the street with his aze over his left shoulder and began a search for survivors, or a way out. Whichever and whoever came first.

Cassie Goedly, a scientist from the acclaimed institution of better health, glanced an e-mail she had just recieved. Her thin black beady eyes read over the lines.

Quite interesting. An outbreak of the undead.

She adjusted her thin spectacles and reread the message. Well, this would be a fun way to investigate the thought of a human evolving to a zombie and the who adaptation model we are looking for.

Her thin pale pink lips spread out into a small smile. I could get that raise I have been working so hard on. She stood up and her gray skirt fell perfectly into place at her mid-thigh location or the around about. Her matching suit jacket fit to her slim body type and accenting the grace of a woman. Her black hair fell to her shoulders and she slicked it to know it wasn't out of place. Being beautiful could get you things you wanted.

She entered her boss's office and sat down. Her skirt went up a few inches and she didn't bother to pull it down. Nor did she bother to notice the stare of her superior on her legs.

She set down a copy of her plan and her skimmed over it. She explained what a great opportunity it would be for her to be acknowledged by her fellow workers. He allowed her to go, but needed strong evidence of her proposal as soon as possible. She left the room with a smile on her face, while he watched her sway back and forth.

She gathered the necessary supplies and was off to her destination. I wonder if there will be others who are interested in working with me?

Her car cruised along the road and she wasn't entirely prepared to see these walking horrors, but what scientist was every really prepared for an experiment. They just happen.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH! Her car skidded to a stop, thank the lord she had good brakes. Oh my god....her eyes wide with shock.

A priest. Thought John. He hated priests. They were so... Holy. He had never believed, himself. Especially in the Christian God. In Pantera there were many, all ruled by the Three. The Gods of Wind, Water and War. That was the natural way of things and the thought of only one was foreign and unnatural.... Well, not matter. However many their were, they had forsaken the city of Shine, and all of Pantera, for all he knew.

It was a chilling thought.

Pulling another smoke from his shirt pocket, John left it hanging in his mouth as he looked the priest over, his eyes flicking from him back to the road as he flew away from the smoking ruin of the church,"Balls o' brass there, Father. You hurt?"

Not waiting for an answer, he continued,"Well, we're gonna have to find a place to hole up. At least until we got a choice on gettin' out... There's the All-Nite mall, but that place is probably swarmed by now. Blood bath city..."

Then he had it. Near the house where a childhood girlfriend of his had once lived was a field full of thin, scraggly trees. In the middle of the field was a small concrete building. Though it looked tiny, it was deceptive. It was only an entrance to a spacious cellar of sorts. It had once been a part of some large grocery store, but that had been closed for eighty years, the building long demolished.

Opening his mouth, John began to suggest it to his companions, but he never finished. Looking back up from the ashtray he only had time for a gasped curse before he slammed into the passenger door of the car that sat at a skewed angle in the middle of the road. The concussion was severe, the seatbelt cutting cruelly into the flesh of his chest, his head slung down and snapped back up, and then there was only darkness.

Father Anderson stumbled out of the car in a daze. Blood was trickling down the side of his face as he tried to get his bearings. He shook his head as he looked around at the mess before his feet. John was unconcious, the boy...He could not see where the boy was. There was also another person in the other car. A women? He could not tell. He was too dazed to see anything clearly.....

He suddenly snapped out of his trance as he remembered the zombies. Sure enough, a group of five of them were already stumbling down the road towards them; Anderson could spot more farther down the road. He withdrew his pistol. Bang! One down. Bang! Bang! The next one took two shots, one in the stomach and one in the head. Bang! A third taken down in a bloody shower. The zombies were getting closer now. He aimed and pulled the trigger again.

Click. Click. He was out. No time to reload now! He swept his hand into his jacket and withdrew a smaller pistol-A Sig-Sauer P-230. He emptied its clip on one of the undead now less than a dozen feet away from him. The bullets bloodied the monster, Taking off one of it's arms at the elbow and blasting off a chunk of face, but did not kill it. It would seem Small Calibur weapons would just not do.

Anderson swept forward, bayonet in hand. He struck the wounded undead throuhg the ribs, impaling it. The monster tried to reach out his mouth to devoure the priest, but Anderson already had another Bayonet through his neck. He swung his arm to the left, severing it's head in a bloody shower. The other zombie....Where was it? There! It was trying to force its way into the car , grasping for John. He flung one of his weapons through the hand of the zombie; the bayonet went through both the hand and the hood of the car, effectively pinning one of its hands. Not exactly as I had planned, thought the Father, but I'm not complaining. He threw his other bayonet with the same result. The zombie was now pinned down on the car, struggling to force it's way to him.

Anderson took his time reloading both his pistols. He glared at the undead before him as he snapped the last bulllet into his revolver and cocked the gun. The priest bashed the zombie in the face with the butt of the Casull and put it into the zombie's mouth, pointing it upwards into his brain. He pulled the trigger; The resulting splatter of blood was remarkable for something already dead.

The Father opened the car door and shook John with no effect. He reached into his coat and took out a vial of holy water, splashing it on the man's face. He regained consciousness, but was very dazed.

"C'mon, wake up! Let's go. More zombies are coming; We need to find a place to hole up. It looks like we hit some women; she's alive, so we're gonna have to take 'er with us." He looked worriedly down the road, where he could just barely see more undead stumbling towards them. "Where's That damn boy? We have to get out of here...."

o.o.c. Wow, me thought this was dead. It has risen.

I.C. When the car hit the other car, Jake was flung through the windshield.
"Should have worn the seatbelt" was his last though and he hit the car hood. He was knocked unconcious and rolled onto the ground.


o.o.c. Sorry bout short post. Let me first point some thing out that I have been thinking about. I tend to overanalysize..

We have
Male lead(Either Pants orAMf's character) and female lead(ATG character)= Couple
Priest (ravea) and Kid (My own)= You get the point


Also why would the dead priests become zombies? Hell is full, but wouldn't they go to heaven and therefore they wouldn't come back.


We seem to have imitated several things
Pantera =Day of the dead
Ravea = Exorcist
Celack = My own life (kinda)
ATG = Any horror movie's female scientist
AMf = ????

o.o.c. Sorry bout short post. Let me first point some thing out that I have been thinking about. I tend to overanalysize..

We have
Male lead(Either Pants orAMf's character) and female lead(ATG character)= Couple
Priest (ravea) and Kid (My own)= You get the point


Also why would the dead priests become zombies? Hell is full, but wouldn't they go to heaven and therefore they wouldn't come back.


We seem to have imitated several things
Pantera =Day of the dead
Ravea = Exorcist
Celack = My own life (kinda)
ATG = Any horror movie's female scientist
AMf = ????

OCC:Yes, a Priest's soul would go to heaven heaven, I suppose. But his body would still be "Zombified," Would it not? After all, Zombies are only empty shell of a human.

And yes, we are stereotypical characters. But what the hell, lets have some fun! At least we didn't go to the mall, like in every other zombie movie. Woo!

On another note, crap. I though we were not supposed to make OCC posts here.