NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Yet another zombie-shooter for those like myself who are bored & want to write about blowing stuff up. Expeirence is preferred, at least a basic grasp of English grammar and spelling. I don't want to be constantly copying and pasting your posts into Word to spell-check them in order to read them.

Anyway, the RP follows the Dawn of the Dead theme, but only in that the survivors take to the water to survive. All similarities end there. I'd like the actual nation itself to get involved, but only in the case of this RP. A worldwide epidemic is supposed to break loose & cause the global economy to tumble as more and more of the dead roam the streets.

Here we go...

IC:

Static bursts of machinegun fire chattered in the immediate vicinity. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The Red Dawn Private Military Corporation's home office was getting hit hard. The fortified complex was encirlced by a fifty-foot steel-reinforced concrete wall, the gates defended by pillboxes containing fifty-caliber heavy machineguns. Somehow, this wasn't enough. On-site troops had taken up defensive positions within the building itself and along the ramparts. Snipers provided precise point-fire from the office complex windows, trying desperately to keep the hordes an effective distance from the machinegun emplacements.

Peter Zion, a former USMC Force Recon sniper, was astonished by what he was seeing through his 20x scope...

'Those can't be fuckin' zombies... No fuckin' way...'

His .300 WinMag blew another head apart as the fifty-cal position he was covering cut a swath through the approaching ranks. Outside the main complex were the living areas, which had apparently become infected with some nasty little virus the lab monkeys had cooked up. His decided to raise his CO on the horn...

"Sir, Zion here... What the fuck is the situation? Why are these people wearing RDPMC uniforms?"

It was the truth. Every incoming tango wore the urban camoflodge pattern BDU's that were standard-issue. Some still had holstered sidearms, which they wheren't empoying for some reason, preferring to grab & gnaw on any living thing they could reach...

"Bray to Zion... Situation is Bravo-Foxtrot-Uniform... Fuckin' people are eatin' each other down here... Position two has stopped firing, they've hauled the poor bastard out into the street... SHIT! Holy shit they're tearing him apart!"

Gunshots rang though Zion's earpiece...

"Dammit! We're getting swamped down here... Who's with you?"

Zion took his eye away from the scope, looking back over his shoulder at the gathered people in the room. The only people he recognized were Marcus Scotts and Jackson Davis, the usual suspects for the arms deals that supported much of the RDPMC's many divisions...

"Davis, Scotts, get your asses down to the main entrance, Dekker needs a hand!"

Davis, an ex-Army Special Forces operator, nodded in response, snatching his duffel from the meeting room floor & drawing his Beretta. Scotts, a retired Ranger, did the same. The two men preferred the same pistol, not uncommon since they'd come from the same branch of the US Military...

"Bray to Zion... There's too fuckin' many or 'em... Whole god-damned residential sector must have gotten hit... We're running dry down here..."

As Scotts & Davis took off, Zion again peered through his scope, seeing Dekker Bray, his CO, inching his way back towards the main doors, firing his new Barrett M468LE as he moved. He ejected the spent magazine, reaching for a fresh one. Peter could see the look of grim surprise on his face as his hand came back empty. The M468LE fell, catching on the tactical sling as Dekker went for his sidearm, an angry-looking AMT M1911A1 Hardballer.

The dull thump of a forty-five caliber bullet leaving a seven-inch barrel reached Zion's ears through the comm piece on Dekker's left cheek. He watched as all eight rounds were expended, the subsequent magazine swap, and the effects as the walking dead closed in. Dekker caught the first with a close-range shot to the face, dropping the abomination in time to pistol-whip a second with enough force to put it on the ground. A powerful thrust-kick to the chest created enough room for Dekker to finish a third with another facial makeover.

It was at this point that Scotts, Davis, and two others exited the front doors firing their weapons. They reached Dekker in time to beat back the horde. Zion decided now was the time to make an exit. Slapping the bipod back into place on his custom-built WA2000 sniper rifle, he slung the weapon & went for his M96FS Beretta, a nickel-plated forty-caliber semi-automatic he'd relied on for years.

Outside, things were getting worse. One of the men had already gone down...

"Fall back, fall the fuck back, god-dammit!"

Dekker shouted, motioning for the others to make a run for the building. Davis emptied the remainder of his second magazine into a final zombie before turning to go. Scotts followed a second later. The third man waited a bit too long, a zombie catching him by the shoulder, biting deeply. The others were on him in an instant. Panicing, he fired wildly. A round from his 5.7mm caught Scotts in the lower back, sending him face-first onto the concrete. Dekker was there a microsecond later, grabbing him by the pull-strap of his IBA & pulling him through the glass front doors...

"Pete, get Torres on the horn & tell him to get a chopper prepped..."

Torres was a bit busy at the moment, swatting zombies in the armory office with his empty M468LE. Both it and his sidearm were dry, and his switchblade was lodged in one of the other fucker's throats. He went down swinging, his body too badly mangled to rise again...

"Sir... Gotta chopper prepped on pad four... Full dealer load..."

Scotts was referring to the arms dealer chopper he and Davis had loaded the day prior in preperation for a deal in a far-off land. It was a Chinook, stocked with a wide variety of weapons, ammuniton, and equipment...

"Luck finally smiles on us..."

Dekker muttered as he and Davis propped Scotts up in a rolling chair, with a morphine syringe stuck firmly in his left arm. Not surprisingly, he was the only one smiling, despite the fact that he couldn't feel his legs. The trio met Zion at the rear exit, sweeping out into the landing pad area in a loose wedge formation. Few zombies had gotten that far yet, but the sound of rotors reached their ears a little too soon. Dekker yelled for an increased pace, cathing the chopper and its pilot before take-off. The pilot was Tyrone Miller, ex-Delta Force bastard with a perchant for automatic weaponry. They scooted Scotts on board, laying him face-down in the cargo hold. He was passed out, oblivious to the painful process of Zion removing the bullet and hastily stitching the wound shut...

"Miller, where's the general?"

Bray referred to the grizzled old man who called himself Garand, a former USMC General & Dekker's former father-in-law. Dekker's own son was thankfully off visiting his mother & Dekker's ex-wife...

"Dead..."

Was Miller's only stone-cold reply, his eyes invisible behind mirrored aviator sunglasses...

"Head for the coast, maybe we can hijack a freighter before this bucket runs outta fuel..."

The ride to the coast was long, nearly draining the Chinook's tank. Tyrone set her down on the nose of a docked freighter, shooting through the docking ropes with an M249 SAW...

"Davis an' I'll try to get this thing moving... Keep us boarder-free in the meantime..."

There wasn't much a zombie could do to get onboard a ship as tall as a freighter, especially when some angry-ass motherfuckers with automatic weapons are guarding the only entrance & preventing it from vaulting the five-foot gap.

Dekker finally got the freighter going, setting a course for the open ocean. The radio spat a bleak drivel of cities that had been devastated by what they'd called 'The Plague'. It went on for at least five minutes, growing longer as the minutes crawled by...

"I want commo on at all times, there's gotta be other resourceful muthafuckers like us out there somewhere. We owe it to them to lend them a hand, remember that whole oath of enlistment thing? We're still protecting the innocent and that right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness..."

The gathered mercenaries were all former US Military Special Ops, they knew the score. People would need their help if this thing was as wide-spread as the radio said it was, not that four men and a bad-off casualty could do all that much...

Sian had listened for three days to the never ending stream of news reports about The Plague with horror. And she felt so totally helpless. She was a physician, but a physician stranded on a sailboat with a damaged mast and an electric motor that sped her along at the massive speed of two knots. And it wasn't as if she was any where near any place she felt safe putting ashore.

Wearily she picked up the mike, made sure she was on the proper emergency channel, and keyed it

*Mayday, mayday. This is Dr. Sian Rhys aboard the Micky Finn, longitude..." She paused for half a second to read it off the state of the art GPS and then continued her broadcast.

No one had replied before and she wsn't really expecting any one to reply now. But she wasn't the type to give up.

The pit was nearly full. Bodies tightly wrapped in white cloth and bound in rope filled it. Each had one common feature, there was a single hole through the heads of each of the bodies. A figure dumped another body into the pit, then the streacher on which he carried the body. He reached down and picked up a jerry can and empited half the contents onto the pile. He struck a match and dropped it. The pile of corpses instantly caught on fire.

Andrew McPherson sighed as he picked up his L1A1 SLR rifle off the ground and slung it around his shoulder. Andrew was thirty-three, he stood 5'11 with dark brown hair and eyes. He had been a car mechanic before it all started. He moved across the sand towards a group of delapadated wooden buildings. He was the last survior of a group of orginally thirty people. All had succumb to the virus.

The island they had chosen was tiny with only a hundred yards of shallow waist deep water between them and the mainland. Covered by mostly trees and shrubs, it seemed like the perfect place to stay. One of the group kept a tiny house there, which added to the notion of going there.

Sadly, they had not counted on a single bite would turn a person into a walking corpse. After loading food, fuel, and all the weapons and ammuntion they could find into some rafts and a Zodiac, they made thier way to the island. A third of thier group were already infected. That was two days ago.

He was the last one. He had to bury his friends and family. The wind carried the sound of moaning. Andrew cursed and continued to pack food, weapons, and fuel into the Zodiac. A glint caught his eye and he spotted a boat moving slowly across the sea. He quickly pushed his small boat out into the water and climbed in. Gunning the outboard motor, it sputtered for a few seconds before the propeller spun and he moved towards the ship at a steady five knots.

Andrew picked up a megaphone and was glad to see it had some juice left.

"Ahoy! Is anyone there?"

Paragon's (http://www.atdd.com/Paragon.jgp) deep barks woke her from the light doze Sian had fallen into after setting the Mickey Finn (http://www.atddm.com/mf1.jpg) on auto pilot

"Ahoy! Is anyone there?"

The hail brought her to her feet and reaching for the shotgun she'd laid beside the captain's chair. The coast she'd been sailing off of was not one she'd wanted to make landfall on, or see any one coming off of. It wasn't that far up the coast from the people who'd deliberately sold her bad fuel for the deisel, which had reduced her to relying on the small trolling motor for propulsion once the mast had broken.

It wasn't that she didn't have a replacement for the electic mast, or not know how to replace it - she did have one and know how to fix it. However, no matter that the mast was of relatively lightweight carbon fiber, it was simply too much for one person alone, to handle stepping down and rerigging. The bad diesel sh'd replace the first chance she got as well...as long as it didn't mean dealing with docks swarming with cannibalistic zombies.

Sian sprinted up on deck, not bothering to hide that she was armed. Paragon moved to stand next to her, his nearly one hundred and thirty pounds and schutzhund training making him as impressive a threat as the .45 at her waist and the 12 guage in her hands.

"Yes? and what of it?" She used her ER room 'take no prisoners, take no shit' voice.

"And if you want to live I'd suggest NOT trying to come aboard uninvited."

A stray gust of wind blew a lock of her black hair loose but she didn't bother to swipe it away, it wasn't interfering with her aim at the man in the heavily laden Zodiac. She could see smoke rising from some sort of fire on the shore behind him

Somewhere on the freighter, an anonymous radio lept into a cacaphony of panicked words mixed with static.

"Final...orking frequen...anyone th...hear this...small costal village...no...ammu...church near...dock...coord...ates are...ksssssssssssh."

The radio died a fast, painful death, until it lept back to life for one last bloodcurdling cry in perfect clarity.

"For the love of God, someone help me!"

The radio caught about half of the booming register of a shotgun before dying for good.

Andrew promptly slowed the Zodiac to match the boats speed and moved parallel to it, making sure to stay a few meters away. He smiled and waved at the woman pointing the shotgun at him, trying his best not to look threatening.

"Hiya. I have never entered someone's home without invititation ma'am."

Andrew was trying to sound and pleasant as he possibly could. He knew that if she was packing slugs and buck, she could tear him and possibly his Zodiac to bite size morsels. He quietly noted her sails were not in use, which meant that her mast was damaged and with the possiblity of undead at every port, getting fuel would be hazardous.

"I was wondering if we could link up. I have plent of fuel, ammo, food, I also have batteries, a satillete phone. I could help you with whatever mechanical stuff you need. That is...if you are willing to let me come aboard. But, I gotta know if you have been bitten by one of them corpses. If you have...I suggest turn that gun on yourself. Seems like a bit is all it takes for you to become one of them."

"You're the one who just came from shore. Prove to me you've not been bit. I haven't been near shore for two weeks...and for the last three days I've been listening to a nightmare come real"

Sian kept her voice firm but not harsh. The barrel of the shotgun never wavered, nor did her hazel green eyes.

"You want to come aboard the Mickey Finn you strip down and let me see every inch of you...or you can just head on back to shore."

Andrew sighed and removed his shirt, revealing strong muscles underneath the cloth. He watched the waves and when it was calm, locked the outboard position in place and began to strip, trying not to stand. Soon, he was completely naked. He made sure that the woman could see every inch of him before he put back on his clothes.

"Are you happy? I ain't bit...but...will that dog bite me?"

Mike McLeod sprinted through the trees as fast he could manage with his bookbag. After being trapped in his highschool for two days and finally getting a chance to make a run for his home, he burst into the door to find that his parents had fallen to the disease, or at least his mother did; his father lay on the floor in a unidentifiable bloody mess. Still carrying his bookbag, he had leapt over the family room couch and bolted up the stairs to his parent's room where his father stored the gun cabinet. After breaking the glass and grabbing a single AR-15 semi-automatic rifle and two small boxes of ammunition, he was forced to put a round in his mother's head.

From there, he emptied what he could into his bookbag from the pantry, dumping his textbooks on the ground, except for one. He left the house and took off down the street and was then chased into the woods by four zombies, three now pursued after he had 'killed' one.

Mike leapt over a fallen tree but didn't slow down as burst through the trees into a clearing that surrounded the docks. He jumped into the air and caught hold of the ten-foot fence, topped with barbed wire, used to keep intruders out. Mike hastily climbed, ignoring the cuts made in his forearms from the barbed wire, and dropped over the edge. He rolled to his feet and ran away from the fence as he watched the three undead creatures smash into it in their hurry to reach their newfound prey. Mike stopped suddenly as he heard a sudden and loud bang against wood in a nearby building.

He cautiously rose his rifle to his shoulder and stepped as quietly as he could towards the door. God, let it be another human being...

Mike sucked in a breath and stepped around the corner and his eyes widened as he stared into the empty eyes of a zombie. It was missing half of its arm and a chunk of its throat was bitten off. Mike fired off a round, the bullet punching harmlessly into the zombie's chest. He fired another, this time making a successful headshot. He spun on his heel as two more zombies stumbled out of a warehouse, alerted by the sound of gunfire.

"Shit!" Mike took off toward a wall of shipping crates near the water. He jumped onto the nearest ladded and climbed up as quickly as he could. As he neared the top he felt a cold hand grip his shoe and he quickly shook his foot free of the shoe, letting the zombie keep its prize as he crawled ontop of the stack of crates. He stood and leveled the rifle with the zombie closest to him and fired.

"Somebody! Anybody! Help!!"

((OOC: Hopping in, too. Whee!))


Location: EHAV Main Complex, Gnufasur

The sun was barely raising above the horizon, rays of light slicing away at the early morning fog. Here, there, one could see small groups of people, milling about, seemingly having nothing better to do at this time of the day then stand in one spot and moan at random intervals.

The EHAV Mercenary barracks were silent, and pit marked with bullet holes and burns from explosives.

None of the zombies seemed very interested in the barracks, already satisfied that they had picked it clean of all life.

Quickly flitting from one shadow to another, undead Gnufasurian Dogs of War scouted the complex for more Nekos to eat. They were once humans, but at some time they were turned into dog-like war machines, and now, they retained their current shape and movement patterns, although now they were decidedly zombie-like in nature, viciously attacking and eating anyone they found.

Only a handful of the EHAV Mercenaries remained now, holed up in the air control tower overlooking the hangars and runway. One of the open hangers housed a small seaplane, seemingly to mock the survivors with its presence. In between them and it was a massive horde of zombies. The other hangars were currently closed and locked down. The only reason this one wasn't was because Kami, an EHAV Mercenary known for her taste for explosives, had blown the door open with some C4. She was hoping it'd contained one of the long distance troop carriers for her and the survivors to get out with, yet it only contained that single craft. She didn't have enough time to blow one of the other doors, as the noise from the blast attracted every undead thing from miles around, including the Dogs of War.

Kami drew in a deep breath, checking her machine pistols for the thirtith time. The makeshift barricade over the door to the tower had survived the night, and it seemed like it would hold for much longer.

It'll probably last longer then us... The blue haired, blue eyed catgirl thought glumly. She tapped the tip of her tongue against the boom mike, activating it. "This is Kami. Entrance is secure. How's everybody up there?"

There was no reply. Kami narrowed her eyes, bracing her back . She kept making regular check ins, but three hours ago, she stopped recieving replies. Dammit... If something went wrong up there, then it's just me alive... Damn it all... She tapped the mike again, "If anybody is still alive up there... I'm making a break for that seaplane in ten minutes... If you're coming, meet me in the observatory by then. Over and out..."

Mentally, she checked her supplies. She had three spare maginzes for both of her Machine Pistols, six in total, plus four frag grenades and two blocks of C4 with a remote detonator. Not exactly enough to fight off the rest of the undead horde by herself. Sighing, she pushed herself up off the wall and slowly ascended the stairs, taking each step carefully.

Arriving on the third floor observatory, she carefully pushed open the door.

Inside, she spied three of the survivors, all with their back to her. They were on their knees, and appearantly eating something. She had seen that exact scene enough times in the past two days to know exactly what was happening. How'd they get in!? A back entrance not in the plans? No, it couldn't be... Then it hit her. One of the mercenaries had a wounded arm. He had said it was from friendly fire, that he caught a bullet in the arm. He lied! That mutha lied! He was bitten and he lied to us!

The zombies hadn't yet noticed her. Oh so carefully, she slid into the room, and raised both machine pistols. With a determined look on her face, she pulled the triggers...

Like planned, the first two zombies' heads exploded in a mess of brain matter and chucks of flesh. Instantly the second rose and turned to face her. But she already leveled her guns on it, aiming for the head.

It's body hit the ground. Suddenly she heard noises behind her. Dammit!

Next she opened fire on the obsveratory window panes as she ran towards them, shattering them. as she neared the broken windows, she holstered her machine pistols and grabbed one of her grenades. Pulling the pin as she set first footonto the pane, she lobbed the grenade ahead of her to the ground as she dived through.

Expertly timed, the grenade detonated on the ground, killing a small group of zombies on the ground just before she landed. Without wasting a breath, she booked for the hangar, out running the slower zombies.

Almost instantly, two Dogs of War sprang from hiding, giving her chase.

Kami made it to the seaplane just as the nearest Dog of War sprang for her. Spinning, Kami unleashed both machine pistols in full at the beast, the bullets hitting the armor on its head and finally piercing it. Throwing open the door just in time for the second Dog of War to collide with it, Kami scampered inside and slammed it shut. The Dog of War continued to calw at the door as she moved up to the cockpit.

Quickly, she glanced over the controls, then frowned when she saw the gas gauge. It was less then a quarter full. She had enough fuel to get into the air and head for the ocean, then she'd be forced to land in the sea. At least the plane was seaworthy.

Thank the Goddess for that! She thought as she started the plane up and began to taxi it onto the runway.

She didn't bother with any of the normal pre-take-off checklist, instead turning everything that need to be on and gunning the engine. Most of the zombies had been in front of the hangar when the seaplane came out, and almost all of them caught a face full of propeller before they could do anything like grab on.

Taking it onto the runway, she drove it up the paved path and finally into the air, leaving behind her home, Gnufasur...

I'll set down as soon as I'm far enough away from Gnufasur. Goddess Cori, protect me...


((OOC: I'll post more later. Feel free to either notice the seaplane, or see it 'land.' I won't be able to post until tomorrow, most likely. See ya then.))

Mike Crowley picks up his m-80 rifle and blows away another zombie. "Damn Zombie Virus" he shouts. He had told the world government to destroy the las remaining stockpile of the virus but instead had kept a small batch in a vault in switzeland. After a group of eco-terrorists and bombed the place the virus was begining to spread world wide and caused a pandemic. At least 1 million people had contracted the virus and it was spreading quickly. Mike had been hired by the UN millitary to eradicate the zombies before they infected others.

((Allemonde, TG.))

"Shit!" Mike took off toward a wall of shipping crates near the water. He jumped onto the nearest ladded and climbed up as quickly as he could. As he neared the top he felt a cold hand grip his shoe and he quickly shook his foot free of the shoe, letting the zombie keep its prize as he crawled ontop of the stack of crates. He stood and leveled the rifle with the zombie closest to him and fired.

"Somebody! Anybody! Help!!"

"Inhale...exhale...inhale...shoot."

The moaning corpse closest to Mike lurched forward, into the shipping container. As the boy looked down, he could plainly see a shaft protruding from the zombie's back. It was obvious from the zombie's squirming that it had been pinned to the steel container. As it realized its situation and began to push back off the shaft, another bolt pinned the head to the container with a neat "thwip." The abomination slowly stopped moving. The next ex-human did a fantastic cartwheel as another bolt punctured its brain case.

The silhouette of a tall, thin man in robes began to stand from his perch in the bell tower of the church about a hundred meters away. It was obvious he was holding a crossbow, but the make and origin of it was indecipherable from this distance.

"Well don't just stand there, youngling! Shoot back at them! I've only taken two for you – prove yourself to me!" The man called mirthfully with a hint of a Dutch accent.

At his shouting, a veritable orchestra of moaning arose from the first floor of the church. The man looked at his feet and laughed, as if there was some great comedy taking place below him.

"Clear, keep an eye out."

Chaplain-Colonel Judas Parian swept down the corridor, glancing into each damaged room as he passed, night-vision showing glimpses of corpses torn to shreds by starving zombies.

Moonlight gleamed off the sabre carried in his right hand, while his left held a Revelations-mk6 pistol - as with all Isamite-made weapons its name was chosen more for religious links than anything else. Behind the Chaplain moved four of the Nazareth Stormtroopers, with another on point. They had been on-mission at the time of the outbreak, although that had not stopped their "pacification" of a certain heretic leader in the province.

Although the Isam Nation was presently clean of the taint the same could not be said of the outer Protectorates. Lann'dorida had already as good as fallen and Ystaniol was going the same way. Only a full national lockdown had protected the Isam Nation and the Inner Protectorates, with recent arrivals tracked down and quarentined (sp?), some shot on resisting. Everyone they had come into close contact with had been questioned and investigated, close family and friends moved to observation camps. The virus was being treated as an Influence of the Enemy, and thus being given the full works.

The six-person team left the remnants of the government offices, moving quickly down to the waterfront, Sergeant Gabriel Vedissian's voice came over the short-wave radio.

"Chaplain, where do we head?"

"To sea. We have been through a contaminated area, although we have not suffered any abrasions or injuries. When the crisis has been resolved we will turn ourselves into the Chaplaincy of quarantine and investigation."

"Yes, Sir. Sir, there is a noticeable lack of undead in this area. Things seem to be going well."

"The civillians mostly fled toward the Seventh Army's city barracks. Most of the zombies are in that area, as far as the Eye of God redouts can tell me. There. That yacht will do. Now, warehouses. Move!"

The team moved to the large ferry company warehouses - unlike many, Isamite soldiers tended to think things through very carefully rather than aim to get a mission done according to a perfect schedule. So, they were obtaining supplies before heading off.

It did not take long...only a few minutes, a forklift and five rounds. The zombies had been ambling aimlessly inside the building, not intelligent enough to use the doors effectively. The team now possessed plenty of food, other supplies, a trio of water converters (one against breakage, one against wear and tear and one for last resort), and an reasonable amount of fuel.

"Sir, isn't this a big excessive?"

"No. The Lord smiles upon the over-prepared far more than upon the rushed."

The boat that had been selected was 118 feet long, and able to operate under both motor and sail power - it was also the only thing larger than a family boat or gin palace on the docks barring a ferry crawling with terrified evacuees down the marina...not all the zombies were at the barracks. The Chaplain had looked at the scene for a moment, then turned his back on the events - they were too far away for the zombies to spread without him or his team noticing, and they were nothing to him anyway. The infection would already be amongst them, and gathering supplies for so many would be a futile effort.

"Sir, zombies approaching."

"Numbers?"

"Too many to count"

"Loading progress?"

"Complete, sir. We're just waiting for Terinnius to finish 'jacking the systems."

"Good, cast off...we don't need immaculate paintwork, but those things are not getting onto the ship."

With a casualness that would be surprising in most similar situations, three of the Nazareth untied the ropes on the quay while the ripping noise of automatic gunfire sounded from the Chaplain and one of their companions.

"Sir, they aren't stopping."

"Hold your ground, 'till Heaven come."

"Sir."

Not long after, the Nazareth withdrew to the yacht (http://newimages.yachtworld.com/1/0/7/8/2/1078271_1.jpg), still firing at the slowly approaching zombies (a grenade makes an entertaining obstacle of undead), pulled the boarding ramp up, and with a rather pathetic inboard motor headed off.

The Chaplain-Colonel pulled off his helmet and mask, breathing in the sea air as he looked back at the dying city.

"Head out toward sea, remain within a couple of miles of land. If we find uncontaminated survivors we will act in accordance to the wishes of the Lord."

"Yes, Sir."

[[OOC:
A note on Isamite military discipline.

Isamite soldiers will automatically obey any member of the Imperial Faith clergy, having been indoctrinated with the Imperial Christian Faith from birth, redoubled in training, and believing completely and utterly that disobedience to the Church would result in Bad Things. As most Isamite soldiers are also trained to believe that after Death comes Good Things, they don't normally budge unless instructed to do so

The Nazareth: Isam's primary Special Forces military division

The Chaplains: Inquisitor-Clerics, often hold military ranks

The Eye of God System: Observation satellite network]]

"Are you happy? I ain't bit...but...will that dog bite me?"

"We're probably equally unhappy, not that the universe gives a damn. And no Para won't bite save for two times- one you try and hurt me, and two, I signal him too."

Sian lowered the muzzel of the shotgun and indicated a cleat at the rear of the catamaran's fin, on the inside where there was a built in storagehoist (http://www.multihulls.co.uk/supercats/felicia/gal/pages/P1010018.html) for a boat similar in size to the zodiac. It was currently not in use.

"Nose your zodiac around and you can tie up, the water is smoothest there, and we can raise the zodiac once it's unloaded." She added as she stepped over to the secondary stearage zone and turned the trolling motor off.

Once he'd tied up the zodiac and climbed the five steps to the main deck, she turned, the gun muzzle pointing down, and held out her hand.

"Dr. Sian Rhys, and this is Para" She introduced them both as the big Shilo Shepherd sat eyes and ears alert, tail wagging rythmically against the smoothly sanded teak of the deck.

Andrew smiled as he was allowed on the boat. After tying up his Zodiac and climbing aboard, he gladly shook the woman's hand.

"Pleasure to meet you Sian. I'm Andrew McPherson...ex mechanic."

He scratched the dog behind the ears and gave it a quick pat on the head before the two humans off loaded and stored the gear from the Zodiac. Grabbing a leather pistol belt, Andrew placed a Ruger GP-141 .357 in the holster and put the belt on. Coming back on deck, he looked at Sian.

"Have you had any contact with anyone or set down anywhere?"

"Three weeks ago I put in at a little port just long enough to drop off a couple of letters and get a fuel up on the diesels. Never even left the pier area, but a few nights later pirates tried to come over the side. When I tried to turn over the diesels...well the fuel's bad but my aim isn't. I dumped three bodies over the side, all of them people running the refueling station"

Sian explained, hopeing that Andrew took that as suffecient warning. She hooked the now empty zodiac up to the lift and the electric motor winched it from the water.

"This is a friends boat and she put all the latest toys in. I've been listening to the reports coming in from around the world. I'm a trauma doc, I've seen just about everything, but I don't think I want to see this."

Andrew nodded, understanding Sian's perdicament. Most people would go to any extreme to get a boat as nice as this, even if there wasn't a disaster.

"Well, myself and thiry others took refuge on that tiny island I came off of. A third of our group was infected, but we didn't know it. So, you can imagine that there was a battle between the living and dead. I burned the bodies shortly before I saw you. I didn't leave anything of value on the island, maybe a sheet or two..but that is it."

Taking a look up the mast and then down at the stern where he saw a very thing film of foam coming back; he knew that there was something wrong.

"Okay. What is the engine trouble? I can fix it depending on how bad it is."

"The fuel the wanna be pirates sold me was bad - the tanks and engine need to be purged, cleaned and refueled. I haven't wanted to go back into shore to try and get more fuel, so I've been useing a small trolling motor."

She pointed to the mast. "One of them reflexively triggered his uzi as I shot him and the rounds went wild- wildly into my mast. It's not useable. I have a spare, but it's going to take two at least to step it up and down."

"Well don't just stand there, youngling! Shoot back at them! I've only taken two for you – prove yourself to me!"

"I'm sixteen dammit, not a youngling..." Mike muttered as he climbed back down the shipping crates. He jumped the final few feet and nearly fell to the ground from the weight of his bookbag. He quickly raised his rifle to his shoulder and spun around, making sure nothing was sneaking up on him.

He turned his attention back to the man in robes with a studying look. A priest mabye? Mike really didn't care at the moment, more glad to see another living, non-cannibalistic human being.

"Come on man! We gotta get out of here, they're everywhere, the whole town is gone!" said Mike loudly enough for the man to hear as he referred to the empty, seemingly lifeless town he had run through.

((OOC: El bumpo?))

The Chaplain-Colonel checked the storage again - his team could not afford even the smallest errors in storage for fear of a domino effect - one item falls, breaking open another, and so on. Once again, he was satisfied with the work done by the Nazareth under his command.

He mused for a moment on their situation - thoughts that he had already chewed over countless times - when a call for his attention came from the decks.

A moment later sunlight once again cast its light over the Chaplain's pale features, pale blue eyes meeting the grey eyes of Nazareth Madelein Terrinius. The female Nazareth, married to one of the men in his team (the Isamite view on married couples serving together is a positive one - that they know what happens to each other and can gain confidence in one another), saluted.

"Sir! Plane sighted. It's a small craft, seaplane most likely. We estimate that it will land within a couple of miles of our present position."

"Thank you, Nazareth. Inform Jeranias to head in the plane's projected flightpath. What progress is your husband making on scanning devices?"

"Sir, the GPS distortion should be compensated for within the hour, and the Eye of God System's downlink should be fully functional within a quarter-hour. The ship's basic sonar should be altered to radar systems in two hours."

"Thank you, Terrinius. Continue."

"Sir!"

[[And on to you, Gnufasar]]

Andrew nodded to Sian as he observered the damage. He spent another fifteen minutes studying her primary engine before making up his mind.

"Okay, lets fix that mast. Once that is done you can turn off your motor and I can get to work on the engine. There should be a dock about thirty miles down the coast. I've been there...deep enough water so those things can't climb up on the boat. Maybe there is fuel or spare parts there. At the very least, cannibalize another boat."

Rolling up his sleeves, Andrew grabbed his toolkit.

"Okay, your the boss. Lets get to work."

"All but the last sounds reasonable. If we can get the mast fixed I can get us realtively soon to a place thats very safe."

Sian agreed with the first part, but she wasn't about to head for any dock. She had some place much safer in mind, especially since the damned zombies couldn't crew a boat, and she was pretty sure they couldn't swim either. Thou she did have a momentary image of certain sections of Pirates of the Carribean running through her head for a second or two.

Tossing a sea anchor out to hold them rougly inplace Sian headed to the narrow storage area that had been built into the port side deck. The long hollow mast was easy enough for her to lift out. She knew how exhausted she was an made sure as they began working that she did everything slowly and very cautiously.

"First we'll have to undo the bracing collar at the deck." She tutored as she began doing just that. Then with his help the mast was raide out of its well and laid on the deck.

"Now we undo the rigging lines that run up the center of the spar and mast. This is an electric spar, it furls and unfurls the mast with a series of motors."

It took them a couple of hours of careful work before they were rolling the damaged mast into the storage space.

"Andrew, I still don't know if I can trust you yet, but I'm going to hqve to. I haven't had sound sleep, much of any sleep, in nearly a week. I know that my judgement and physical skills are slipping. They were -she'd barked her knuckles half a dozen times and one accident had left a major buirse on her let arm, an injury that could have easily been a broken bone. She needed to sleep, but hadn't been able to trying to sail the catamaran by herself.[/i]

(OOC:Mind if i join?)

IC:Michael emptied another magazine into a zombies skull and chest, they had decided to take advantage of the zombies plague on the western islands.
They used to be what one might call good soldiers but now they where little more than looters.

"James" "Yeah boss?" "Make sure the gas station is empty where heading there next."

James sighed,why did he always get the shitty jobs.He looked over to the other men in his unit "I'm sick of his shit" he told them making sure michael couldn't hear.He loaded another round into his spas 12 his weapon of choice.

Then waited for Michael to enter the gas station, and that's when he struck.
Without warning he fired clearing out a sizeable "hole"(if you could call it that) in to his leaders back...

Andrew wipped his brow with a rag and nodded to Sian. He could understand her not trusting him fully; he was a stranger aboard her boat who had just come off the mainland.

"You can sleep and I'll sail this thing and keep an eye out for any other boats, planes and so on. I'll inform ya if anything pops up. Besides..." Andrew looked down at the dog who was laying out on the deck. "If I try something I'm sure he will be on me in seconds."

"Come on man! We gotta get out of here, they're everywhere, the whole town is gone!" said Mike loudly enough for the man to hear as he referred to the empty, seemingly lifeless town he had run through.

"Well," the robed gentleman hollered, "I was a few steps ahead of you, but now I've fumbled up. I had the rest of these corruptions boarded up in the church, as I'm sure you can hear, and I was preparing to cleanse them all with fire, but your interesting entry caused me to drop my ladder in my haste to help you. I'm sure you can see it from there. If you would be so kind to let me down, I can purge this town and we can forge a path to salvation."

He paused for a moment, before beaming brilliantly. "It truly is good to see someone who is not interested in sampling my flesh, bless the God-Machine. Missionary-Adept Tilus, by the way. I'd offer a hand, but you'll have to let me down first.

Sian chuckled lightly, but yes Para wouldn't tollerate any foolishness from their new passenger.

"Here, keep it on this course, and if we have a fair wind we should be at the Island in a day."

Yawning widely she blushed. "'Scuse me!" And she headed down to her cabin.

Locking the door behind her she headed for the ensuite bathroom. A shower wws another thing she'd foregone and after so many days felt totally grubby.

She fell into bed, barely bothering to dry off after the shower, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow. She slept solidly for over ten hours

"Ah shit..." said Mike to no one in particular as he ran through the rows of stacked shipping crates, gripping his rifle in one hand. He stopped at the chain link fence and quickly climbed up, more careful this time to avoid cutting himself. Some of the cuts on his arms from earlier was still bleeding slightly.

He wasted no time getting to the church, the deathly moans emitting from the building making the hair raise on the back of his neck. In no hurry to stay near the church, he grabbed the ladder and maneuvered it through the air so the top fell on the bell tower.

"Alright, get down-" Mike stopped and stared at the entrance of the church as banging on the shut doors grew louder and more constant. "Get down here quick! How many did you trap in this place?!" He flinched at the sound of glass breaking somewhere on the other side of the church.

The priest smiled and undertook the last ritual he would ever perform in this village. Tilus slung the crossbow over his back and tossed a shotgun to the ground ("Don't bother – it's dry") before producing a vial of cloudy liquid. With extreme deliberation, the man manuvered his way down the ladder, careful to avoid stepping on his robes while splashing the liquid on the wooden side of the church.

Once his feet hit the welcoming dust, the priest made note not to speed up the procedures, despite the awful moaning that was now much more immediate and frightening. With great reverence, Tilus knelt where the oil pooled and dipped his fingers into it. After tracing a circle with the liquid on his chest, he smudged the remainder onto the pewter cog-shaped icon hung about his neck by a fine chain. Carefully as ever, the priest redipped his fingers and traced a similar design on the wall of the church.

The priest's smile widened as he removed his fingers. "I am Missionary-Adept Tilus, and I consign ye to the reckoning ye shall face in His Mechanicum. May the God-Machine guide the souls of the faithful."

Tilus placed his palm against the dot in the center of the design on the church, and the liquid pattern burst into flames. Orange fire lanced up the dribbles of oil to the bell tower. A great roar – mixed with more moans and screams – eminated from within the church as the interior was ignited.

The priest stepped away from the flaming symbol, overtaken by a great peace. He turned to the child who was now at his side. "I trapped my entire congregation, and a few on top of that. And I also trapped...well...I am only a Missionary-Adept, you see. The true Missionary of the church was among the victims. Now the demons burn, as they should. Let us leave."

The priest began to turn, his feet illuminated as if he had received the blessing of a much greater and knowlegable power.

Miller's light doze was broken by the familiar ping of something showing up on the freighter's radar...

"Lookey there... Davis, go get Dekker's big ass up in here so's I can show him this..."

The former Green Beret squinted through brown, sleep-rimmed eyes as he unsafed his Beretta & made his way down to the crew quarters. The cargo bay had been full of random items, from crates of Raimen noodles to inflateable pool rafts and Good Housekeeping magazines. The contents of the RDPMC Chinook had been moved to the mess hall, crates of ammuniton and freshly-manufactured weapons stacked along the walls and on most of the tables. The only chow they currently had were the two boxes of MRE's the chopper had in its emergency locker & seven more Davis had in his duffel. Each man had a six-quart Camel-Back system he'd been sipping on for the past fifteen hours. The de-salinator on the ship worked slowly, probably due to some sort of issue the thing had been docked for, and none of the men on-board knew how to repair it.

Davis stopped at Bray's cabin, formerly that of the captain. Within a laptop had been set up, allowing Dekker to keep some sort of log in the event they all died one night. Davis knocked...

"Colonel? Miller's got something on the radar upstairs. Thought you might wanna take a look..."

Dekker emerged a moment later, rolling his neck to work a few kinks out. He was large by any standards, six-foot-one and two-hundred-thirty-five pounds...

"Alright, Jack... and quit calling me 'Colonel'... If the PMC's gone, my pay-grade no-longer applies..."

He'd hated the title anyway... He'd been a Sergeant Major in the Corps and had never held a comission. The title of 'Sir' had never sounded right to him...

"Get some shut-eye, I'll finish out your watch..."

Bray made his way up to the bridge, finding Tyrone Miller leaning over the radar readout, his right hand on the barrel of his 249...

"We got somethin' out there, Dek... Wanna go take a look?"

Dekker nodded, his eyes fixed firmly on the screen...

"Aight then... We'll run into 'em in about an hour..."

Dekker didn't move. He'd spent enough time around big boats to know something about radar pips...

"Looks like a sailboat, pretty close to land. Send 'em a comm tellin' 'em to come to us. That oughta make runnin' aground a whole helluva lot less likely... Gimme the comm..."

Miller obeyed, handing Dekker the mic with his left hand...

"This is Colonel Dekker Bray of the Red Dawn Private Military Corporation to unidentified craft. Do you read?"

Sian was clasping the mug of coffee in both hands and watching Para wolf down his chow when the commo gear blared to life. The ten hours of down time had done wonders for her physically and mentally.

"Thanks for letting me sleep Andrew, I ..." Then she was looking at the radar and seeing the blip , and hearing the radio call...

"This is Colonel Dekker Bray of the Red Dawn Private Military Corporation to unidentified craft. Do you read?"

"Read you five by...this is the Mickey Finn, American Registered .."

She'd never heard of the Red Dawn Private Military Corporation, sounded like some sort of mercinary outfit, but even they'd pause with giving an American registered vessel any grief...or would have. With the virus sweeping like wildfire across the planet it might now be a matter of if you aren't infected you're my friend. And Sian knew just how wrong that notion could be.

However she'd be willing to give them a chance. Given the return on the radar they were about an hour away, and were in something considerably larger than the catamaran.

OOC: Is it too late to join? or can i still join in? (This is my first real attempt at joining an RP, please understand if i mess up, oh BTW i'm on my puppet, my main is Zarlon)


Characters for if i can join
Name: Sinerian Askari
Age: 23
Job: PD Recruit
Location: Hiding near an infested naval port (near you guys)
Weapons: 9mm Glock, 3 clips, 50 extra rounds
Bio: It was just another day on the job, a report of some rioters got out, 2 hours later everything went straight to hell, undead freaks eating the living, then the victims returning from the dead to do just the same thing, Sinerian managed to find shelter in an abandoned 2 level house near a zombie infested naval port, he is with 1 other survivor, Dejera Hopeshot, his partner and superior officer.


Name: Dejera Hopeshot
Age: 29
Job: PD Officer
Location: Hiding near an infested naval port with Sinerian Askari
Weapons: 1911 Colt .45, 2 extra clips, 75 extra rounds
Bio: It was just another boring day on his god-forsaken job, a report of some rioters got out, 2 hours later everything went straight to hell, undead freaks eating the living, then the victims returning from the dead to do just the same thing only seeming to get stronger, faster, more deadly, Dejera managed to escape to shelter in an abandoned 2 level house near a zombie infested naval port, he is currently hiding with, Sinerian Askari, his partner.


Supplies: 2 weeks of food and water, 1 working radio with a 3 day battery.
Nearby Zombie Threat Level (NZTL): Surprisingly low, 2-5 nearby at the most if they do nothing to attract attention.

Andrew had rested for a while after Sian had woken up. He was currently cleaning the engine. He had already shut off the pumps leading to it and was working to get it some kind of working order. His hands were black with grease and oil, his face was also very dirty. He whistled quietly to himself before the radio came to life. He listened carefully before climbing out of the engine area, dipped his hands into a bucket of ocean water and started to clean himself some.

Grabbing a pair of binoculars he scanned the horizon and spotted what seemed to be a ship slowly drawing closer.

"Found them. At this range I can't see if they are toting anything heavy with them."

Not liking the idea of the men could be pirates, Andrew went below and grabbed his FAL along with several magizines. Putting it under the tarp where he had his tools, he made sure it was in easy reach as he went down to work on the engine; every so often looking up to see if the ship was moving faster to them.

((Sendanirn: Your characters are decent, but you might want to state exactly who you're nearby, and kick off with an In Character post.))

Dekker was surprised when the comm flared to life...

"Mickey Finn, Bray responding. We're on an intercept, ETA one hour..."

There was some hope after all... Everyone on board the freighter was an American citizen, which made the language barrier non-exsistant. He had begun to wonder about Jack, his younger twin, but had settled on the resolution he was fine, probably started his own private yacht club somewhere out in the Pacific with fifty-someodd beautiful women. He was, after all, Jackson Bray, with plates on his '69 silver Impala that read 'P1MP' on the front and 'MOB1L3' on the back.

Dekker shook his head at the thought, cracking a slight smile as a horrbile creaking noise screamed from the bow... The Chinook's front tire had slid off the transport crate it had been sitting on and was currently tumbling end-over-end into the dark waters...

"GODDAMMIT! FUCKINSONUVACOCKSUCKINGOATFUCKINPENCILDICKEDcockbreathgoddammed..."

Dekker's language was as colorful as ever as smacked a tactically-gloved hand against his forehead... He should have known the oversized chopper wouldn't have stayed there for long. Well, no matter. The only thing they really lost was the fuel, which might have been good for illumination or something further up the line...

"Goddammit... T, go wake Zion's ass up and put him on commo duty, then grab some rack time..."

Miller grinned broadly, displaying a row of stark white teeth, which contrasted with his used matchstick complexion...

"I'll get his skinny white ass up..."

The former Delta ambled off chuckling in his deep baritone. Five minutes later there was a muffled whump from the lower decks. Tyrone had kicked in Zion's door. Miller had always been in the habit of playing pranks on his comrades, even when morale was low. Zion, with his cold, calculating ways and stoic demenor was often the target...

"I feel like a fuckin' baby-sitter sometimes..."

Peter Zion entered the bridge a few minutes later, flicking the de-cocking lever on his M96FS as he seated himself next to Dekker. Apparently, he'd nearly shot Miller. Maybe that'd teach him... Zion's neck-length curly jet-black hair was in disarray. RDPMC regulation allowed him to tie it back in a loose ponytail for on-duty times, which suited him perfectly, as that was how he had always worn it. Zion was movie-star handsome, and frequently graced the RDPMC recruitment posters and websites. It had worked, in some cases, and earned him the somewhat annoying nickname of 'Poster-Boy'.

The custom-built WA2000 he was seldom without wasn't present, probably sitting on his bunk. A .300 magnum sniper rifle, while semi-automatic, wasn't the best choice for close-quarters-battle. They had MP5A4's in the mess hall for that sort of thing...

"Any news?"

Zion asked, cracking his knuckles as he pulled his fingerless gloves on...

"Got a boat of some sort an hour out, gonna make contact & see who, or what, is running it. I figure we can fit maybe fifty-someodd people on this tub, make it sort of a floating colony to start fighting back. I personally don't want to spend the rest of my like on this rusty piece of apeshit. That, and the Chinook decided it'd rather swim than ride..."

Zion nodded in response, unphased by the loss of the aircraft. He was either quiet and reserved, or a raging smart-ass. Dekker had suspicions he was bipolar on occasions...

"Anyway, keep an ear open. I'm gonna go look at the area where that fuckin' Chinook went overboard..."

The former SEAL made his way out to the deck, carefully jumping over the gaps between the shipping containers. The railing was gone in the place where the chopper had taken its unannouced dive, but other than that the ship was AOK. There was a light in the distance...

"Pete, Dekker here... Fire a flare over the bow, starboard side..."

A bright red rocket left the bridge decks, soaring over the starboard side...

"AHOY!!"

Dekker bellowed at the tops of his lungs, the word sounding more like some kung-fu yell than a greeting at that volume...

OOC: Is it too late to join? or can i still join in? (This is my first real attempt at joining an RP, please understand if i mess up, oh BTW i'm on my puppet, my main is Zarlon)


Characters for if i can join
Name: Sinerian Askari
Age: 23
Job: PD Recruit
Location: Hiding near an infested naval port (near you guys)
Weapons: 9mm Glock, 3 clips, 50 extra rounds
Bio: It was just another day on the job, a report of some rioters got out, 2 hours later everything went straight to hell, undead freaks eating the living, then the victims returning from the dead to do just the same thing, Sinerian managed to find shelter in an abandoned 2 level house near a zombie infested naval port, he is with 1 other survivor, Dejera Hopeshot, his partner and superior officer.


Name: Dejera Hopeshot
Age: 29
Job: PD Officer
Location: Hiding near an infested naval port with Sinerian Askari
Weapons: 1911 Colt .45, 2 extra clips, 75 extra rounds
Bio: It was just another boring day on his god-forsaken job, a report of some rioters got out, 2 hours later everything went straight to hell, undead freaks eating the living, then the victims returning from the dead to do just the same thing only seeming to get stronger, faster, more deadly, Dejera managed to escape to shelter in an abandoned 2 level house near a zombie infested naval port, he is currently hiding with, Sinerian Askari, his partner.


Supplies: 2 weeks of food and water, 1 working radio with a 3 day battery.
Nearby Zombie Threat Level (NZTL): Surprisingly low, 2-5 nearby at the most if they do nothing to attract attention.

OOC: Bios like this are more suited to a sign-up thread, just an FYI. As long as you can spell, I have no problem with you participating.

Glocks, in the 9x19mm caliber, come in five different models:
17: The full-size version. Popular with PD's around the US.
18: The select-fire full automatic that's the world's smallest SMG.
19: The compact version. Slightly smaller, for easier concealment.
20: The sub-compact variant. The perfect complement to the 17/19.
35: Long-slide version geared toward competitive shooting.

The 1911 also has several variations:
Gold-Cup: Competition-grade accuracy.
Government: Standard full-size.
Combat Commander: The compact.
Defender: The sub-compact.

These little details allow me to do some math involving how much ammuniton you have remaining, each weapon has a different magazine capacity.

Sian nodded approvingly at Andrew's stashing of the rifle. Couldn't be too cautious or prepared.

"Are the engines purged? I've got a pretty good wind but the diesels would be ever faster."

She appreciated all of his hard work. She as an excellent people mechanic but knew only the basics of the engines.

The main sail belled out and the bulk of the freighter grew ever closer. The freighter obviously saw them, for they launched a flare.

Dekker was growing annoyed with this whole ship thing... He was foot soldier, a former Marine, but still a foot soldier...

"Pete, Hail 'em on the commo, see if they want to talk..."

Zion complied, keying the hand mic & stammering a message through...

"RDPMC Zion to Mickey Rourke, your bed or mine?"

From his position as he moved up the stairwell, Bray heard Zion send the comm...

"God-dammned joker..."

If Zion heard him muttering, Dekker didn't care. The sniper seemed to have shifted from cold-blooded killer to sarcastic smart-ass...

'Oh-fuckin'-joy...'

Dekker thought as he seated himself again, awaiting a response. He'd restocked on ammo from the Chinook's nice selection of ammuniton. It had been a sampler load, with a variety of the more popular weapons and ammunition, but with nothing really in abundance other than 9-mils, 6.8 mils, forty-fives, and five-fifty-sixes. They had plenty, just not anything really specfic.

Full combat load was six thirty-round magazines for his M468LE and five seven-round magazines for his M1911A1 Hardballer. The AR would most likely need to be left on-board the freighter, assault rifles had a way of souring negotiations and first impressions. From the look of things, this was going to be something of both...

"RDPMC Zion to Mickey Rourke, your bed or mine?"

"Mickey Finn to High- On- Youself, my bed's more comfortable but you have to make the grade. And let me mention that I am ex military and a ER physician. Want me to make your next physical something to remember?" Sian snorted at the fresh mouth coning over the radio.

"I might ought to warn you that other refugee I took on had to strip completely before I'd allow him aboard."

The van skids through the empty streets of Han Dold City. It has been three long days since the outbreak in New Rynn, the virus spreading out from the crowded shanty towns that surround the industrial cities. Most of the population are dead, many are still walking around. The van ploughs through a makeshift military checkpoint, the soldiers manning it still chewing on the remains of the last group of survivors that had tried to make their way on foot.
"Where the hell are we going to go?" One of the people cries out from the back. Reeves dosen't know. Docter Phelps had suggested heading out to the apartment buildings and skyscrapers in the city centre, but they had been mostly destroyed by the military. Besides, the doctor was dead now and Reeves didn't want to risk losing anyone else to those, those things. He's been moving around the sprawling city for the last sixteen hours straight since the underground station had been abandoned to the creatures emerging from the tunnels. The terrified citizens had swarmed out of the tube network to the streets above, only to be swept up in the middle of a losing battle between the Army and the zombies. Few survived. Reeves was one of the lucky ones. Since then he's been moving around, picking up other survivors, stealing the van from a petrol station forecourt, it's original owners splashed all over the pumps.
A siren blares out from an alleyway. The group had survived this long by not stopping every time they saw signs of life, but Reeves slows the van down as they pass. Two police officers of the HDPD wave and shout frantically from the windows of their battered and bloodstained patrol car.
"Keep fucking going!" a voice calls out from the cramped confines of the van. Reeves ignores it and pulls up by the beleguered officers.
"Where do we go? asks Deacons, sat in the passenger seat. Reeves had found him looting the petrol station. Deacons had shown him how to hotwire the van. And empty the garage's kiosk of cigerettes and alchohol.
The policeman looks down and shakes his head. "We need to leave the city, man" he confides to the occupants of the van. "Most of the city is crawling with those zombies, the entire south district is on fire, and the suburbs has been delcared a no-mans land." The policemans name is Sergeant Barnes. He and his partner had been holed up in the yard behind the apartment building. Bodies and bullet holes decorate the walls of the nearby street. Many of the corpses are in police uniforms.
"What about the other cities?" Deacons looks anxious. He has a sister living in Bridgehampton, in the north.
"We haven't heard anything for a while over the radio, but I think they're doing as badly as us. And we've done pretty shitty. Most our boys are laying in the gutter... as far as me and Hicks here know, we are the last breathing people this side of the river." Sgt Barnes takes off his cap. "We could run, you know. The docks will have loads of boats, we could head out some island... any island. But we need more man power. Are you in?"
Both Reeves and Deacon nod slowly. All four look across the river to the eastside of Han Dold City. Smoke plumes out from a dozen buildings. Helicopters hover over the remains of the airport. The river is full of sinking pleasure boats and floating bodies.
Officer Hicks reaches out through his window to hand Deacon a shotgun before his patrol car drives slowly out into the street. Reeves notices that the back or the squadcar is full of boxed stereos, clothes still with the price tags, cash registers spewing reciept tape. The two vehicles move off the pavement and make their way onto the bridge spanning the River Yetch. They both speed away.

OOC: Bios like this are more suited to a sign-up thread, just an FYI. As long as you can spell, I have no problem with you participating.

Glocks, in the 9x19mm caliber, come in five different models:
17: The full-size version. Popular with PD's around the US.
18: The select-fire full automatic that's the world's smallest SMG.
19: The compact version. Slightly smaller, for easier concealment.
20: The sub-compact variant. The perfect complement to the 17/19.
35: Long-slide version geared toward competitive shooting.

The 1911 also has several variations:
Gold-Cup: Competition-grade accuracy.
Government: Standard full-size.
Combat Commander: The compact.
Defender: The sub-compact.

These little details allow me to do some math involving how much ammuniton you have remaining, each weapon has a different magazine capacity.
OOC: thanks for the info, the glock is a Glock-17, Goverment-type 1911 and the little (near you guys) i accidently put in, ignore it :p
oh and by extra rounds left, i mean loose rounds like in a box, not clips.
IC: "Alright just try the radio again." ordered Dejera from the window.
"Ok ok, but i doubt anyone is listening." called Sinerian from his seat by the radio halfway across the room.
"Just send the message again damnit!" ordered Dejera, a little more annoyed and angrily this time.
"Ok jesus relax, we're fine for another 2 weeks with the supplies we have." Sinerian called as he flicked on the radio.
"This is PD Recruit Sinerian Askari, me and my partner Dejera Hopeshot are stuck in a abandoned house about half a mile from naval port... 6924, we only have supplies for another 2 weeks, we need extraction, we're not far inland so coastal extraction is possible, though aerial extraction would be preferred due to an increasing number of undead in the area, they haven't noticed us yet but its just a matter of time." with that Sinerian flicked the radio back onto standby to preserve power, it would receive incoming messages at a low volume at maximum.

"Think anyone heard it Dejera?" "Maybe, we can only hope right now partner, now you get some sleep, i'll stand guard" "Alright sir" Sinerian walked into the other room that was the bedroom to get some sleep, Dejera continued standing guard, after securing the barricade on the door half way up the flight of stairs, he went back up to the window and peered out, continuing to watch the zombies slowly increase in numbers, sometimes when he listened, he heard gunfire coming from within the naval base, then it halted suddenly with a bloodcurling scream.

Andrew appeared next to Sian and turned the ignition. The engine sputtered and coughed for a few seconds before coming to life. He let it run for a minute before shutting it off. He gave Sian a wink.

"Told ya I would be usful."

With that, he headed back to the stern and began to clean off his arms and face.

((Sorry for the delay Steamhaven))

Mike stared for a moment at the church and shook his head. This heat is getting to me from all the running...

He turned and jogged after the priest, casting a final glance behind him at the burning church.

"Well, come on then, er, Tilus," said Mike as he fell in beside the man. "There's gotta be a boat or something left at the docks, but be careful. There are zombies everywhere, it's as if all the dockhands and sailors got infected or something..."

Mike slowed as he neared the fence and stared through the chainlinks to make sure no zombie was creeping along towards them. The sound of a radio transmission buzzed from an empty building across the fence and Mike quickly climbed up, once more taking care not to cut himself on the barbed wire, and hurried toward the building. He turned and looked back to the Priest.

"There are some people looking for help about a half mile inland," he said. "Should we try and help?"

Zion slipped into his best Tim Meadows impression...

"Oww... It's a lady... The lady's man is here to answer all your romantic queries..."

There was a muffled thump on the other end of the comm...

"...Godammit ya juice-pumped ape..."

Dekker's sharp backhand had ended Peter's impromptu comedy act, a little snippet of Zion's more vocal side slipping though the channel as Bray snatched the mic away...

"Then it'll just have to be me... We're five men strong, with one down with a five-ot-seven lodged in his lower spine. He's been on a morphine buzz ever since, we specialize in putting holes in people, not stitching 'em up..."

The voice on the comm has the twang of a southern Kentucky accent, but with a hint ebonic slang thrown in from somewhere...

"Pull alongside & I'll drop a rope... Bray out..."

Zion's emerald eyes reguarded Dekker with a steely glare...

"Oh I get it... You're pulling rank to go strip for the boat-chick..."

Dekker's cheeks tinged a slightly crimson hue...

"No... The guy in charge usually does the negotiations..."

Dramatic pause...

"And I haven't had any in over eight months, so make like Tyson and bite my white ass motherfucker..."

Dekker was grinning slightly as he pulled a knotted length of rope from the storage locker and proceeded to the area of the railing that had been torn free by the chopper's descent...

The Missionary-Adept turned to look past the raging inferno that used to be the church, into the trees.

"A half mile as the raven flies is dangerous in times like these." Tilus breathed. "But there are certainly more than a few inland, looking for a way out. Back into the hellstorm, my friend."

Tilus kissed a bolt and gingerly loaded the shaft into the crossbow. The sling hung loosly as he pointed it inland, a silent urging onwards. The blessed bolts required more abominations to cleanse.

((OOC: Sorry for taking so long to reply! Anyways, here I go! :D))

Behind her, the dwindling coastline of Gnufasur finally slipped from view. All Kami Lynx could see now was ocean in all direction.

She kept the plane low, not too low that she was in risk of crashing, but if she ran out of fuel sooner then she thought, she could make an emgerancy landing without too big of a risk of damaging her plane.

Leaning back into the pilot's seat, Kami heaved a heavy sigh, her hand loosely gripping the pilot controls. Then, the tears came. She wept, the realization that she may be the sole surviving Gnufasurian dawning on her finally. She did nothing to stop the tears, letting herself cry until she was finished.

Dead, everyone I've ever known is gone. Leo, Laura, Laci. All of them are gone forever.

Time passed, and the low fuel light finally stopped blinking. Kami narrowed her eyes, tightening her grip. "It's now or never." She said, gently easing the seaplane down into ocean, the two patoons holding it afloat quite nicely. Of course, it was no boat, and swayed with the ocean considerably. It wouldn't take that big of a wave to topple it, either.

"Not like I have any choice... Better put out a distress signal..." She thumbed the comm, kicking in the onboard audio recorder as well. "This is Kami Lynx onboard the EHAV Skimmer 'Onyx Pearl' to anyone out there. I am out of fuel and am in need of emegerancy refueling. My corrodinates are..." She read her coords off the dash, then paused, adding in, "I'm not infected. I repeat, I am not infected. This message will repeat..." She kept the comm on, and put the audio recording to infinate loop, repeating her message until she decided to turn it off or record a new message.

Now, all she could do was wait, and hope someone would find her before she starved, or capsized...


The seaplane was narrow and slim, designed to carry only three people comfortably, four or five if all were willing to be uncomfortable for the duration. It did have a small equipment locker in the floor, which Kami raided for surplies as soon as she found it.

It seemed whoever used it last forget to remove their equipment. Inside were, among other things, an GK-48u* assualt rifle with three spare magazines, a number of M.R.E.s, and a single medikit. No grenades or other explosives though. Kami snapped her fingers in frustration. "Figures the last merc to use this wouldn't pack any explosives."

She never saw the freighter, or even suspected it was there, as it neared her tiny plane...

[[Your go, [NS]Islam, :D]]

((OOC: *GK-48u is a Gnufasurian variant of the AK-47. It comes in several versions. The 'u' version features an expanded magazine capacity (It holds about 25% more rounds then your standard AK-47 mag). It fires the standard caliber ammunution that the AK-47 uses, and the magazines are interchangable (You can use AK-47 magazines in a GK-48u and visa versa). I'm not sure the proper name for the round, but I'm almost positive you do, Mercenary Soldiers. :D

Kami's Machine Pistols are basically Gnufasurian made 9mm Uzis. There's nothing really special about them.))

[[The Isamites are in a yacht, not the freighter]]

"Chaplain-Colonel?"

"Yes, Terrinius?"

"Sir, receiving distress signal from the target seaplane."

The communications and detections expert removed his headphones and flicked the speaker switch.

"-infected. I repeat, I am not infected-"

The Chaplain listened patiently to the message.

"Voice pattern indicates that this 'Kami Lynx' is alone. Approach as intended."

"Sir."

Judas Parian left the smallish cabin that was being used as a base of operations - the others forming close sleeping quarters or being used for supply storage.

"Nazareth Sergeant Vendissian!"

"Present, sir."

"Yourself and Terrinius, the female Terrinius, kit up and arm up. Stay out of sight but be ready. In times of anarchy the Faithless thrive upon the unprepared."

"Sir."

With eyes that make ice look warm and inviting the Chaplain looked over the deck, mentally re-organising sleeping arrangements if this woman proved to be a reasonable person. He ran through various reaction possibilities, in addition to the standard greet-and-kill that he would expect of a heretic, and his final conclusion was that the woman would more likely be afraid of the six Isamites than they had cause to be of her. Naturally he could be wrong - six-to-one odds against a trained Inquisitor of the Chaplainly was considered favorable toward the black-clothed churchman. Fear of rape was possible, but unimportant to Parian and not a problem if one knew anything of the Chaplaincy and the Church Select of Isam. The Nazareth would not break discipline to that degree - such a fault would in most cases result in summary Condemnation of Soul and summary execution, and the Chaplain himself had long since had such emotions and feelings erased through long training. Unlike some Chaplains, he had been selected aged six to begin training in the Church Select. The Chaplaincy with its order, discipline and faith had been his life, and the Chaplaincy did not believe in distracting feelings such as lust, empathy (save for those designated by the Church), or love (save for the Imperial Faith Union and the Church).

The seaplane became visible across the water, and Chaplain-Colonel Parian descended once more to the radio sets.

"Transmit on my order, Terrinius."

"Sir, channels?"

"Open. Set to repeat."

"As you will, so it shall be done. When you wish."

"This is Chaplain-Colonel Judas Parian of the Church Select, Envoy and Executor for the Church of Christ Imperator that commands the Imperial Faith Union from the Holy Land of the Isam Nation. We are willing to rendezvous with other survivors in the broad region, provided that they do not compromise the survival of myself or my team. We will make landfall if necessary, but will not travel significant distance in land. We have passed through contaminated areas but have not been infected, nor show any signs of possible contamination. May the Grace of God be with you all."

The Chaplain nodded to Terrinius, who set the message to repeat.

"And this message, after the previous recording. Thrice only. Ready? This message is Kami Lynx aboard the Onyx Pearl. Message received and we are en-route. After we have met, Nazareth Madelein Terrinius will check to ensure that you are not infected, in private if you so wish. While we would prefer to accept your word, discretion is at this time the better part of valour. We shall reach you within an hour if the wind holds, slightly longer if we must resort to motorised power. God be with you."

Another nod to Peter Terrinius.

"Done, sir."

"Thank you, Nazareth."

[[More notes! Joy!

Imperial Faith Union:
The Isam Nation and its protectorates (numerous), including the Outer Protectorates, Inner Protectorates and Linked Nations (those that are effectively part of the Isam Nation).
Within the IFU polytheism, atheism and any form of ancestor or demonic worship is prohibited. Various forms of monotheism (including Judaism and Isam) are legal, but followers of religions other than the Imperial Faith (or Church of Christ Imperator) face higher tax and reduced civil rights. These alterations include other Christian denominations, but to a lesser extent.

Isamites present:

Chaplain-Colonel Judas Parian,
Officer Commanding, Agent of the Chaplaincy, Envoy and Executor, Inquisitor, Clergy, Church Select
Sergeant Gabriel Vendissian,
Nazareth-Sergeant, Sub-Commander, Authorisation of Independent Action, Clergy, Church Select with link to Church Militant (Deacon Malennius)
Peter Terrinius,
Nazareth, Tech-Adept, Specialisation: Communications and Detections, Minor Clergy, Church Select with links to both Church Militant (Arch-Deacon Gratian) and Church Civil (Bishop Diennasi)
Madelein Terrinius
Nazareth, Armoury: innovation and repair, Vehicle Specialisation, Minor Clergy, Church Select
Simon Jeranias
Nazareth, Medic Specialisation, Language Specialisation, Vehicle Specialisation, Minor Clergy, Church Select with strong links to Hierarchy(Select/Civil) (Saint Tyraine, Archbishop Hathannin, Spiritus Sancti Krallian)
John Thadayne
Nazareth, Medic Specialisation, Explosives and Heavy Weaponry, Sniper Specialisation, Stealth Specialisation, Minor Clergy, Church Select, strong links to the Office of the Holy Ghost (Spiritus Sancti Dominus Ystann)

Note that all Nazareth have numerous skills in addition to the Specialisations listed here, these are merely their areas of true expertese.]]

((Gnu: I believe the AK-47 round is a 7.62x57mm, just in case you were still wondering. And since OOC only posts are lame...))

Tilus glanced over his shoulder after he and his companion had progressed about a hundred meters towards the treeline, casting his eyes over the stacks of unattended shipping containers. There were no ships moored that would save them from the horrors inland, but there might be something of great use within one of the containers. Then again, he had once heard a story of these abominations from his mentor – the same mentor who's ashes were now scattered within the flaming church.

The story told of how illegal immigrants were sneaking into a nation through shipping containers. One of the immigrants had been infected, and...the end was predictable. Was that how this area had been infected?

Now the Missionary-Adept had a question to answer. He stopped walking and spun on his heel. His hand held his young follower back by the shoulder.

"Listen youngling, I have an idea."

"Pull alongside & I'll drop a rope... Bray out..."

Sian had listened to the interaction over the radio with the ever nearing freighter, and fought hard not to giggle. She had a mental image of Bray...and the name was ever so appropriate. But she'd give him a chance to prove if he was stallion or a mule...and the sound of some one needing her specialty had her up and turning over the wheel to Andrew,

"You did a great job on those engines, and I owe you big time on that Andrew."

She headed to one of the guest cabins to strip the bed of the current linnens then reset up with extra layers of sheets. Then she hauled her FMK, a full field medical kit out and found some gaffing to jurry rig into an I.V. stand.

By the time she was done they were but a few hundred feet from the freighter, and Sian was out on deck, wondering what had damaged it. Her shotgun was craddled in her arms and Para stood quietly by her side as Andrew maneuvered the big catamaran along side the freighter.

Mike looked at the Priest, growing slightly annoyed.

"My name's Mike, ya know, it ain't 'youngling'," he said. He looked back towards the docks and back at the Priest. "Let's hear this idea, but if we're going to help those people, make it fast. I don't walk half a mile inland and found a house of zombies."

The sixteen year old tapped his fingers on his AR-15 as he cast a nervous glance into the trees, remembering how just less than an hour ago he had come sprinting from the trees with a trio of ghouls after him.

The priest stared at Mike for a moment, registering that his name was in fact Mike, and that the title of youngling was no longer necessary.

"You're right...Mike." Tilus said, mustering a smile. "It's just slang from my homeland, I'm afraid. There is a very well defined pecking order where I hail from."

He turned fully to face the docks now, adjusting the strap of the empty shotgun. "Most of those containers are full of commodities, things made useless in our situation. But it is almost assured that there is something useful in that maze of ridged steel. As it stands now, we are more than capable of destroying the wandering filth, but what will we do when we meet people that need more than fire support?"

Dekker looped the rope around the railing, in the place where he believed it to be the most sturdy, with the typical double-half-hitch configuration of a rappel rig, then threw the excess over the side. He'd done this a million times, just never off the side of a commercial freighter...

'Right-hand-brake-hand etc...'

With a few quick bounds, he was hovering a few inches above the catamaran's deck, then he simply let go. A six-foot-two high-and-tight-haircut-wearing former Navy SEAL, poached from the USMC, and built like a tank. A solid two-hundred-and-thirty-some-odd pounds of muscle hardened by living most of his life out of a rucksack.

The somewhat familiar silouette of the Barrett M468LE hangs from his shoulders in a tactical ring. Clad in digital urban-styled BDU's and a black IBA sporting numerous ammunition pouches. The intimidating outline of a rather nasty-looking Gerber MkII fighting knife hung up-side-down from his left shoulder. The thigh-rig on his right leg contained his longtime companion, an AMT M1911A1 Hardballer finished in stainless steel with a myriad of modifications. A Cold Steel Nightshade tanto was seated in the left boot, made from black injection-molded Kraton plastic. The boots themselves are an older-style, deeply creased and worn from countless polishings and murderous wear. An AMT 'Back-Up' in .45 ACP is also concealed somewhere on his person. Subdued 'Full Eagles' reside on his lapels...

"Colonel Dekker T. Bray, I take it you're the cap'n?"

Dekker extended a large, fingerless-gloved hand to the female on deck, keeping his left hanging loosely on the buttstock of his M468LE, nearly touching the 4x ACOG sight he'd installed there when he'd been issued the weapon...

'Two possibles, one male, one female... And a dog...'

Above, two dark forms took up support positions along the railing, one taking the time to position a bipod on some sort of high-powered rifle before sighting in on the boat below. The other had some sort of assault rifle, most likely an M468LE...

OOC: Warsaw-Pact AK's are chambered for the 7.62x39mm. NATO standard is 7.62x51mmm, done so NATO troops couldn't use Warsaw-Pact ammo and vice versa if the Cold War ever went hot. 25% more magazine capacity roughly translates to a 36-round magazine, since standard Soviet-issue mags hold thirty. NATO rounds pack a little more punch due to the extra cartridge length and additional powder.

My little techno-babble speech is done with.

Para tensed just enough that Sian was aware of it as the Colonel touched down on the Finn's deck.

"Gently Colonel. Para is schutzhund trained and will not allow me to be threatened." She flicked the tiniest hand signal to the big Shilo Shepherd and he relaxed back.

She took Bray's hand and gave it a firm no nonsense shake. Jade green eyes regarded him levelly and her manner was brisk. She stood only few inches shorter than he but he weighted almost a hundred pounds more than she. Given her attitude, the same one as held by all trauma physicians every where, the size difference didn't matter a bit.

"Dr. Sian Rhys and this is Andrew McPherson." She nodded toward Andrew.

"Now you spoke of a casuality? Do you have a stokes litter to get him down here..or are we going to have to improvise?"

Andrew kept an eye upon the men covering the colonel. He had moved his rifle closer to him and it lay in full view near the helm; all he would have to do was bend, grab, and shoot. He gave a slight nod to him before returning to his primary duty of keeping the ship stable next to the frieghter.

((OOC: Cool. I think I'll stick with the NATO sized rounds for the GK-48 then. Thank you mucho for the info, Merc Soldiers! *Huggles!* ^_^

ACK! Sorry 'bout that Islam. Noted. I won't make the mistak again, kay?))


Kami nearly jumped out of her skin once she heard the comm sputter out a message. She frowned as she heard the man on the comm identify his regilion. "Damn. Im willing to bet all the catnip in Gnufasur he and his group are going to turn out to be Spanish Purist Inquistor type people."

She was, like all Gnufasurian, a Demi-human. Although her feline attributes (cat tail, cat ears, and feline pupil slits) were more pleasing to the eyes then other demi-human types, most humans, especially those religious purist types, reacted quite often negatively to her. "Maybe I can hide myself. Just don't let them see my tail or my ears. Or my eyes, for that matter..."

Brushing aside a few strands of her long blue hair, Kami moved back up to the front, clicking off the audio recorder, then thumbing the comm back on. She paused before thinking, gathering her thoughts. One of them wants to search me... If I'm going to try and make them think I'm human, I can't really have one of them seeing me without clothes...

"Chaplain-Colonel Judas Parian, this is Kami Lynx. I confirm recieval of your message. With all due respect, I have personally seen what happens to someone when they even get scratched by someone who's infected. Dispite what the Goddess Cori teaches about suicide, if I even suspected that I was infected, I would have put a bullet through my head a long time ago. I do not disagree with you about discreetion, but trust between comrades is a bigger virtue. I am a..." She WAS about to say Neko, then paused for half an instant, before finding the right word she wanted to use, "Person of my word. At any rate, I will be standing by for your arrival..."

She was about to close the transmission, then she was struck by another thought. "One more thing, remember what I said eariler about trust? Here's a goodwill token... I am an EHAV Covert Ops Mercenary. I am armed and highly trained. That doesn't mean I plan on fighting you or other survivors, but if we do happen to run into any of those undead things or roving sea pirates, you can count on me to hold my own with or without support. Kami Lynx, over and out."

She ended the transmission, and leaned back into the pilot's seat, sighing a she fingered the two Machine Pistols held snug against her ribcage by the harness she was wearing. "I think I'm going to need a hooded cloak, or a hat or something..." Unfortunately, there wasn't any of the things she had listed in the seaplane, or on her for that matter. "So much for hiding. Maybe I can just get fuel from them and be on my way..."


((OOC2: Notes from me too! Whee!

EHAV: Pronounced 'E-have.' EHAV is Gnufasurian's elite Mercenary operation. Due to Gnufasur's policy regarding foreign conflicts, (Namely, if it doesn't affect us, then we don't care) EHAV operates to supply small, covert ops mercenaries to various hotspots around the globe. These mercenaries are most often covert ops, specializing in sabotage, spying, and other covert activities. A few are broad and well rounded standard mercenaries types. Kami is a demolition expert, although some would say she's more of a demolition fanatic who loves nothing more then seeing things explode, often for no reason other then that it can. It's not saying she's insane, she just really, really likes explosions.

The official Gnufasurian religion is worship of the Goddess Cori. I think the info for the Church of Cori is in my nation's factbook... EDIT: Just checked, it's not there. HERE (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=8595830&postcount=14) is the link to the info about the Church of Cori. Laters. :D))

Dekker smiled in the hound's direction...

"My ex took our Germans with her in the divorce. It'll be good to have a dog around, just don't let him bite one of those undead fuckers..."

The mercenary's head swiveled towards Andrew...

"He talk? Guess not..."

That icy blue gaze of his shifted back to Sian...

'Jesus, her eyes are the same color as Chiristi's... This oughta get interesting...'

His eyes drifted back up towards the freighter...

"He's got a five-point-seven mil lodged in his lower spine, so I doubt we're moving him down here. He's sprawled out in a bunk in the sick bay, high off his ass on morphine. We ain't gonna hurt ya, Doc. We just wanna survive, and I figure we can do that a lot better with ya'll helpin' us. We've got plenty of guns and ammo aboard, and we had a chopper until about an hour ago. These ain't your typical gun-store stuff. We're talkin' military-grade no-restrictions top-of-the-line hole-punchers in a wide range of calibers and gages..."

Bray's features had taken on a slight smile as he described their stash of death-dealing devices on-board. Clearly, he was gun-nut. No, fanatic might have been a better description...

"Am I gonna have to do the strip-tease thing to get you to come aboard, or do I just have to say please?"

"I say strip."

Andrew took a few seconds to stare at Dekker. He was slightly edgy about the man; from news reports he had heard over the radio during Sian's sleep that military instillations were the first to go due to hundreds of people flocking there and many were infected.

"Any of you all bitten? One bite from those things is enough to make you one of them after a few hours."

Sian chuffed at Bray's comment about 'strip tease thing', her mind elsewhere, but Andrew had a good point, except that...

"However think about it Andrew, theres no port with dep enought draft to take a freighter that size with in oh I'd say nearly eleven hours sail from here. I think if there wre going to turn it would have happened by now.

"Please" She shook her head "will do..Help me get my equipment and meds up there." She turned and moved brisky toward the main salon of the sixty five foot catamaran. She didn't look to see if he followed.

"You want to survive, then trying to do it on that rust bucket isn't the way. I was heading toward a privately owned island..You're welcome to come along"

She wan't going to stay aboard the freighter. The catamaran was more comfortable. And it shouldn't be left behind, It's draft was less than five foot, and that made it invaluable at getting close to shore.

Dekker made a quick hand-signal, and a small jerry-rigged platform was lowered down...

"This work? We've got a rope-ladder if you can't manage the climb..."

She might have wondered why Dekker hadn't used the ladder, but the fact that he was a SEAL should have already answered that question...

"And to answer your question, I'm not from some national military, just a private military corporation. We don't have flocks of bleeding civvies clammering at the gates, we just had a ton of former employees swarm the main office complex and I happened to be in the lobby. We held the line for a while until the front machinegun positions went down, then Davis and Scotts charged out with a few others to help me. We drove them back enough to get back into the office building, but everyone but Scotts, Davis, and me got back in. The last guy was getting eaten alive & he fired wild-like, catching Scotts in the back. I dragged him in & we threw him in a wheelie chair & scooted him out to a Chinook we had loaded for an arms deal halfway around the world. We flew to the nearest port, jacked this tub, and headed out for the open ocean..."

Dekker's tone became a bit more light...

"And we've been out on the water for over six hours. Scotts is the only casualty, and he was shot. That answer your question?"

Zion's crosshairs followed Andrew closely, the eye behind the scope drifting between the mechanic and the .308 sitting near his hands...

"I'll help the doc get her shit loaded, if you'll excuse me..."

Dekker followed, somewhat at a distance. Hostility was in the air, sort of like Christmas time at the General's house...

'At least that won't be an issue since he's dead... Hope Dek's doing okay, though... Might have to call him once we get to this private island thingie...'

The island... That'd be a good conversation piece...

"What's on this island, exactly? I didn't pack sunblock and greasepaint don't have any UV protection..."

"The Finn isn't mine, she was a 'sail till you get it out of you' loan from a friend. He bought an island from the last of the original settlers descendants, and put in a small genetics lab. He is a agro genecitist specializing in 'heriloom seed stock', but it's got the equipment to handle trying to find a cure or an immunization from this damn virus."

She quickly repacked what she'd laid out in the spare bedroom, and handed the heavy case to Dekker. Then she headed for the fridge in the expansive galley and made some carefull selections

"It's only about ten square miles, and about a hour by ship off the coast of Washington. It's not some lowlieing island, most of the shore is high cliffs and there is a good deep water dock, but it is kinda small. I don't know if the freighter would fit."

((OOC: Hope you don't mind, MS... >_> ))


The world over, the scene was similiar. Beaches and cities lay littered with dead birds. Mostly seagulls, a few ravens/crows, and a smattering of pigeons. Besides the fact they were all dead, each of these birds had something in common...

At one time or another within the past few days, each had eaten a few mouthfuls of rotted flesh from the mindless zombies, either 'living' or 'dead.'

The virus worked fast, and within the day each had died, falling to the ground wherever they were at the time.

Soon, movement could be seen. Here, there, a previously dead bird would tremble, then pull itself to its feet. Fluttering their wings, legions of these zombie birds took to the air, and began their search for food...



Location: Somewhere off the coast of a once densely populated island...

The three survivors shuddered, rubbing themseves with their arms. They were all that remained from the island now, the rest members of the undead now. One of the men looked to the other two sitting across from him in the tiny metal row boat.

"Now what? We stood a better chance with the cannibals! Out at sea, we'll starve to death!" He complained.

"Shaddup! We can't be the only ones left alive! Maybe... Maybe we'll run into other survivors." One of the other men replied.

The cold was setting in. Overhead, a dark cloud began to near. One of the men, a rookie sailor by any definetion of the term, motioned to the approaching cloud. "Look at that thing go..." He said, the others looking, "It's moving so fast... Ever seen a cloud move so fast...?"

The first man's face turned into a look of terror. "That's no cloud!"

Their screams were heard by no one as the gigantic flock of birds descended onto them. Despite vailent efforts to fend off the birds with the oars, it was only a matter of minutes before all three men were pecked to death...


((OOC2: Whee... I've always wanted to do a scene like this in a zombie RP. :D MS, if you don't like it, I can remove it, kay? We can pretend I never posted it...))

[[Gnufasar: forgive the Isamite perspective on your character's religion]]

The Chaplain had frowned at mention of the Goddess Cori, but sighed with resignment.

"A nonhuman then."

"Sir?"

"Nazareth, you have undergone education among the vast majority of religions, yes?"

"Yes, Chaplain-Colonel"

"Within the Chaplaincy we are educated in all known religions and their ramifications. 'Cori' is an aspect of the Christ's Holy Mother who favours nonhumans of beastlike appearance. It is considered a largely insignificant heresy, one that might be dealt with at some point in the future but hardly a priority."

Despite his words, the Chaplain could see that Terrinius was uncomfortable with the idea of having a nonhuman wandering around. Privately, Parian could understand, although he no longer possessed the ability to sympathise - like so many other things his training had purged him of it. Like the vast majority of his kind he felt a faint anger toward any who could not comprehend the true faith, would not submit to the will of God Almighty, were not willing to worship Him in His glory. All the same, now was not a time to be fussy about allies, and this "Kami Lynx" was a member of a "semi-sanctioned" religion. They could tolerate her for the time being.

Parian's gloved hand hit the transmitter.

"Kami Lynx, point understood and I concur about the effects, although Sin such as suicide is not to be undertaken without pre-redemption. We are coming alongside."

As he said, the yacht (which had since lowered sails a short distance away and approached on motor) was indeed pulling up beside the seaplane. Under new orders Madelein had de-kitted, leaving only a single Nazareth in armour - standing on the prow of the yacht as if he was normally on guard. Needless to say other weapons are at hand for the rest of the team.

The Chaplain-Colonel was wearing his uniform, consisting of a black longcoat adorned with silver insignia and embroidery at sleeves, shoulders down to back and lapel over black articulated body armour. Sword and "Purity" sidearm hung from his belt. His cold, almost dead eyes looked down from the deck calmly, while the distinctly friendlier-looking Madelein and Peter Terrinius stood to one side in uniform but not armour - black jacket (high-collarred, tight fitting and designed for functionality over comfort, but good material and reasonably comfortable nonetheless) and trousers. The jacket also bore silver embroidery on sleeves and shoulder, but distinctly less than the Chaplain's.

The Chaplain, a gaunt man who was lithely strong rather than a heavyweight, nodded down at the E-HAV operative and spoke in a calm, relaxed tone.

"Good day, Kami Lynx. I am Chaplain-Colonel Judas Pariah of the Church of Christ Imperator."

"Most of those containers are full of commodities, things made useless in our situation. But it is almost assured that there is something useful in that maze of ridged steel. As it stands now, we are more than capable of destroying the wandering filth, but what will we do when we meet people that need more than fire support?"


Mike shook his head and said sharply, "We aren't more than capable to do jack shit Padre, I got two mags, and the one I've used over half of this one, and you got a shotgun. We can probaly take another two dozen from a pretty good distance, any more than that or closer, we'd be overwhelmed."

He sighed and took a breath. "Sorry, didn't mean to sound rude... Feelin' a little stressed out lately..." He paused and thought of the question Tilus had asked.
"Well, we leave them. I mean, I'm sticking around for anyone that's been bit by one of those things. Haven't you ever watched the movies? Someone gets bit and they turn into a zombie. I mean, I read in this book, "Zombie Survival Guide" or something, if someone's bit, don't keep them around. Let them go out in a blaze of death and glory, or kill them, 'cause there's no hope. Anyone not bit, we gotta do what we can though..."

((By the way Steamhaven, have you read "Zombie Survival Guide" by Max Brooks? That story of the immigrants brining the infection sneaking through shipping crates is a lot like one of the 'covered up instances' mentioned in the book :D ))

((I have, in fact. Fantastic book. I just had to throw in the reference, heh.))

Tilus had to conceed they were in a horrible position. "Yes, and there aren't even any shotgun shells left. I'm not all that familiar with shipping. Would there be any ammunition in those containers? And how would we get them open? Too many questions, not a single answer. What does your zombie guide tell us? God-Machine save us, asking advice from a book..."

"Don't forget..." the Missionary-Adept thought for a second, "not every living being is going to rally behind the idea of coöperation. There are other injuries to consider."

Sian continued giving Dekker a rund down on what had been laughingly called 'the plant retirement island', as she continued to make choices from her selection of medicines.

There are thirty people who live there full time and about eighteen ever changing grad student assisstants. Mac aslo breeds dogs for the Guide Dogs for the Blind organization, and miniature horses for similar groups, so there is a working kennel and stables. Mac believes in being sdlf suffecient, and has both dairy and beef cattles as well."

She looked up at him, as she placed her selections in a hard case style carry all.

"But Dekker I won't lie to you. I may be the best damn trauma doc on the planet, but I'm only a beginner with virology and research. This thing sounds like something even the Viro-gods holed up in level five bunkers aren't going to be able to stop. We may just have to ride it out, and hope."

Sian prefered to cut to the chase rather than dance, at least in matters such as this.

Andrew kept an eye on the soldier with a gun pointed at him. If the man had the experiance he apparently had; Andrew would be dead before the butt of the rifle even got off the ground. So, he went about his business, making sure the small boat hugged the much larger ship and stayed as stable as possible. The island idea sounded nice, should be far enough away from any danger from zombies, unless one of them had been infected then went to the island. Personally, he didn't think there was any riding out. Sooner of later, they would be eaten unless someone organized the armies of the world in an all out purge.

Andrew looked up again at the man pointing the rifle down at him.

"Colonel? Mind telling your mate he can stop pointing the gun at me? He'll blast my head off before I can even reach my gun."

((Yeah, that book was really fun read. Of course, now when I watch something like Dawn of the Dead, I can't help but shout at the tv what those jack asses are doing wrong))

"Not in the mood to search through my bookbag, this isn't really the safest place to do research," replied Mike. "But if I remember correctly, the best weapons usually weren't guns, but stuff that doesn't need reloading, like a bat or machete, anything that can damage the brain easily." Mike glanced into the woods, wondering if he could find a strong stick to use as a club. "Actually, we can probaly find some really good weapons in the Docks, tools and stuff. I'm sure they have axes and picks and that sort of shit."

He turned to head back once more to the Docks to find a good melee weapon and paused.
"Hey, I got an idea. We head back to the Docks, get a couple good weapons, and then head out to find those people holed up in that house. If anyone is hurt from something other than a zombie bite, we can carry them this way. If not....well, we can work on that then. I got enough food to last a few people for mabye a week, and those people probaly have more food and water in the house."

Kami frowned as she spied the yatche. Dammit. And here I was hoping it would be a big ol' freighter with plenty of fuel to spare... Ah well. Kami nods as she swings open the door, placing one foot onto a pontoon.

Kami's uniform wasn't so much a uniform was it was a fanshion statement in and of itself. A black dress with the hem falling to her knees, the sleeves going all the way to her wrists. It bore no insignias nor rank or national indentifiers. Her blue hair trailed down to her mid back, and if she truely wanted to, she could try to arrange her hair in such a mannor that it hid her brown furred ears. Yet, she did no such thing with her hair. Her brown furred tail flicked back and forth slowly as she surveyed the group that came to meet her. Why, oh why Goddess Cori, couldn't they have been tree hugging hippies? Instead I get stuck with the Super Christ Nazi Brigade. What fun to be had...

Strapped to the sides of her chest were her two machine pistols, and the GK-48u was hung over one shoulder, the barrel visible behind her back. An ammo pouch around her waist stored all her spare magazines, as well as her three blocks of C4 and detonator. Her two remaining grenades were suspended from small loops in the holster that held her Machine Pistols in place.

"Good day, Chaplain-Colonel Judas Pariah. Just call me Kami. I'm almost sure there's no airplane fuel on that ship, so I guess that means I'm sticking with you lot until we find somewhere safe. Permission to board, sir?"

She saluted in true military fanshion...


(OOC: No worries. There's bound to be some misunderstandings regarding customs and such between your group and my chara at first, such as the Gnufasurian's views on nudity, among other things. I also hope you know that Italics represent thought, yes :D

Oh, HERE (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=9033471&postcount=18) is a link to all the current info regarding the EHAV Mercenaries. Kami's bio is the first one, and includes her piccy. :D))

The Chaplain-Colonel looked Kami up and down with a distinctly neutral attitude - his expression and body language saying quite plainly that he does not care about the Neko except as an aid toward the survival of his own unit - nonhumans are way down in Isam's Order of Species.

"Granted."

The gaunt man returns her salute by placing a clenched fist over his heart and nodding - a nod that is vaguely reminiscent of a bow. Isamites have peculiar military acknowledgements and salutes.

"Terrinius and Terrinius, see her to quarters, show her around."

The two Nazareth attending the Chaplain make a similar salute, but with a palpable bow of acknowledgement to their commander as he left before turning to Kami. The two look reasonably friendly - certainly when compared to the Chaplain - despite their military uniform and hairstyle. Madelein spoke first.

"Welcome aboard, Kami. We've mostly been sleeping on-deck, although there are beds below most of the space is filled by storage. The Chaplain has a room at our insistence - he has quite enough on his mind and Chaplains need somewhere private for their meditations."

The two Nazareth, both of whom do turn out to be reasonably cheerful and friendly (although Peter Terrinius did seem slightly discomforted in the nonhuman's presence), showing Kami where various things were stored, the washing facilities, and so on. One of the smaller cabins had been converted into an armoury to hold their various bits of equipment, and the small cabin which stored the yacht's computational bits and pieces, GPA and so on had had numerous other technological items grafted onto it, showing a strange mix of images and scans recgonisably from orbit. However, the readouts from the instruments would almost certainly be illegible to the Neko, being written in High Isamite (a Latin-Hebrew language cross).

[[Sorry this has taken so long, been having forum troubles]]

Dekker hefted the case in his arms, trying to keep it from scratching his assault rifle...

"Sure thing..."

He tapped his head against his shoulder to activate the inter-circuit mic...

"Pete, lay off the overwatch, you're gonna set his head on fire starin' at it so god-damned much... I'm startin' to wonder about you..."

Zion lifted his eye from the scope, slapping the bipod back into place before lowering it to the low-ready position...

"This big bitch might not dock, but I doubt we'll get the firepower I'd like to bring along on this critter. Thirty-plus assault rifles plus sidearms and sufficient ammunition for them wouldn't fit in whatever cargo hold you've got..."

Dekker stopped to ponder for a moment...

"How big is this thing again? We've got our entire stash in the galley at the moment..."

Again with the head-to-shoulder tap...

"Hey Jack, what've we got gun-wise?"

There was a static-ridden reply...

"Fifty of these M468's, seventy M4A2's, twenty M16A4's, M24's, two M82A1's, USAS-12's, SPAS-12's, and more semi-auto handguns and revolvers than Davis can count quickly. All sorts of brands, H&K, S&W, Kimber, Colt, Glock, Kahr, Ruger, Beretta, AMT, Para-Ordnance, and Springfield..."

Sian threw back her head and laughed.

"Colonel, this isn't a dinky sixty five foot sail boat - this is a sixty five foot catamaran, more than quadruple the space and outfitted for long solo voyages. There are four double cabins for guests, besides the owners cabin which I'm in, and two double crew cabins. The extra store's hold is nearly empty, but my pantry is still full, as if the fridge and freezer. The H2O plant does three Thousand gallons a day, and the computer and communications suite makes anything that tub has look like tinker toys...and then there's the owners office as well as the main salon, dining area and full galley."

She snorted and looked around the spacious environs of the catamaran

"The Finn can hold seven easily once I get that bullet out of your man's back. But I only make the offer once."

Full specs on the Micky Finn (http://www.multihulls.co.uk/supercats/felicia/felicia-super.html)

Dekker emitted a low whistle of approval...

"Then I guess we're riding with you..."

Dekker simply spoke this time, having left the channel open. No one was monitoring their transmissions, it had simply been an old habit dying hard...

"Davis, get the boys packed and ready to roll, we're riding with the doc. Once they're packed, load the guns and ammo onto the dock's ship, there's enough room in the cargo hold..."

Dekker's gaze met the doc's again...

"We'll bring Scotty down to you, so we can get moving faster. Once we're clear, we'll scuttle the freighter with a C4 charge. Standard procedure, and I like blowing shit up..."

Feuer! Feuer! Feuer! The sounds of the last desperate fall back position of the Riechswehr's last fall back position filtered over the headsets. The group of the 5th division were scattered around the refuges of Cologne.

These men were equipped with the best Moorington, namely BMW and MB in transportation and the new Belgum sub-machine* gun. They were located on the roof of the building in question and were already pre-paring to shoot anything that moved.

The sounds of the dead floated up to them and the civilians had equipped themselves with an assortment of rifles, machine guns, and anything in the middle. Which actually was quite alot with everyone except for Großmutter-Ester having picked up something along the way. From fish and ammo to army surplus stores.

The tell-tell chop of helicopters came into ear-shot and 5 transport helicopters filtered into view. There was a cheer as they were lowered to the ground as the people, being good Moors, lined in neat fashion to be loaded. This was the third load and the people being loaded up had been screened for any kind of sickness or bites.

Some people had learned the hard way of the finer points of this disease. As they loaded up the dead came out from the stairwell. The low velocity ,blunted head, anti-infantry shot ripped through the zombies as they fell back for the moment. Not out of tactical sense but because the stair-well was a cross back and the landing had been plugged with bodies.

As the helicopters twirled away another wave came in with more ammo boxes and a case of grenades. The people in line casually marched in and sat in the chairs. Some of the more muscular bachelors that were sent made way for elderly by making do with supporting themselves from the landing bars of the chopper.

The dead had yet to unplug he wall of bodies and as the men were starting to relax a scream went out from the crowd. This being a large building and roof it was hard to distinguish were the cry came from and it was finally located when the crowd started to fall back from a certain location.

It came from a turned man who was trying to get at an women who as obviously scarred out of all reason. The men went into action in seconds but before anyone had even began to pin the cry a shot rang out and the zombie fell back, minus a forehead.

The solider went back to his business. His name was Maxen Von Bismarck, noticeable only by the fact that he had starting blue eyes and curly dark brown hair. He was a new recruit picked for his smarts, skill, and wits he was silent but not the sort that dumb people are. More like a smart person who doesn't want to wait anytime explaining anything to anyone, for that would be inefficient.

As the day faded out and back into light all of the people had been able to be evacuated. The people were just checking out their new surroundings. They were located on an long but narrow island off of the coat of Demarche (a state of Moorington). A single bridge connected it to the mainland was guarded by two tanks who were mostly to provide a sense of security as anything else. For the bridge was destroyed completely for about 200 yards and the tank crews entertained themselves by seeing how many dead they could shoot with one bullet with the tank’s heavy machine gun with one round.

The island had a airport in which one jumbo airliner was preparing to jump out. Once in the sky, or namely when they had somewhere to go, they would all, or some to make sure that if anyone else came would receive a welcome, go away.

This was all decided by the trice-commanded government lead by a Nobel Prize wining scientist, a 5 star general, and a leading advisor too the Chancellor.

*Forgot its name but it highly resembles the gun from Stargate SG-1.
OOC: The people are equipped with weapons off of the default german models for each one unless specifically told so.

Sian chuckled wryly -she figured that he'd change his mind.

"Let me go up to package him for transport down here, and also I want to take a look through that freighters holds before you make it go boom."

Quickly she reset up the cabin that she'd designated as the medical bay and headed to the hoist that would take her up to the freighter.

"Come on Colonel, introduce me to your men and lets all get to work."

She called over her shoulder to Andrew "Would you get the storage lockers ready. Toss every thing that is redunant- like the inner tubes, and other 'swim toys' over board. I think there's a quite a bit of junk that we don't need that could be off loaded. Also you might see about filling our fuel tanks from the freighter's tanks."

Davis and Miller had pulled the mattress off of the bunk they'd laid Scotts on, and were casually hauling the makeshift stretcher between them. Zion followed behind, dragging a pair of rifle crates behind him, both contained the fifty-caliber anti-material rifles Dekker had spoken of earlier. He was, after all, a sniper, and chose those tools which would benefit him most first.

Scotts, along with the rifles, were strapped to the platform & lowered carefully down to the deck of the catamaran. The rest of the ammunition and armaments were loaded in much the same way, although a crate of Ruger Mini-14's were lost overboard. Dekker didn't much seem to care, they had more effective weapons in large quantities onboard already.

Scotts was still in his drug-enduced euphoria, dead to the world. The bullet lodged in his spine was little more than a cold spot where the nerves had died. Zion set his rifle down near the door, then set about trying to get the IBA off of Scotts' back. The fact that it contained a pair of ballistic shockplates made the task a little more difficult, if the bullet had struck an inch higher, there'd have been no need for surgery. Marcus (Scotts) would have probably been deadening his sore back with a few beers.

With some difficulty, Zion got the thing off...

"He needs to quit wearing child-sized body-armor... Self-concious fuck..."

It was almost true. The vest fit like a second skin, better than it should have...

"Alright, doc... He's ready for you to work whatever voodoo magic you've got on this tub..."

Zion was noticeably better-spoken than Dekker or Miller. Clean-shaven, as opposed to Dekker's nearly constant five o'clock shadow, and smaller in build than the rest of the mercenaries. Miller was short and built like a Mac truck. Davis was about the same size, only taller by a few inches. Colonel Bray was slightly larger than Davis, but not by much. Scotts, despite his odd condition, was a bit thicker than Zion, and about as tall.

The sniper remained in the makeshift medical bay while the other three stayed on deck...

"Colonel, Marcus is prepped for his checkup. Standing by..."

The massive CO looked towards Sian...

"I forgot to ask permission to come aboard, ma'am... Where have my manners gone?"

There was a hint of sarcasum in his voice, friendly in a playful sort of way...

"Cut it out, jackass..."

Davis piped from Dekker's right, a grin across his features...

"You can mac when all is right in the world again..."

OOC: You're thinking of a P90, from FN Herstal. A very fun gun to shoot, the damn thing feels like it belongs in your hands.

While she had turned toward Andrew, the mercinaries had already brought their wounded and lowered him down. Then one of them rpoceeded to wrestle the man about like he wwas a sock puppet before she could say a word.

Have you ever seen a colonel go still and the look on his face rival the frigid depths of space....be afraid be very afraid..

"This is your first and last warning. Any of you ever touch one of my patients again without my permission and I will take a dull, rusty butter knife to your balls and remove them one single cell at a time, and keep you alive for how ever long it takes"

Sian's voice was calm and matter of fact. She meant every word. It was not a threat, but statement of unalterable fact.

Ignoring Zion's presence she started her examination and sighed in relief. She confirmed for herself that the round he'd taken was actually only modestly damaging.

"You are very lucky you know- the way you were handling him could have left him crippled for life, or worse killed him. You do not ever move a spinal cord injury victim without proper 'packaging' inless it is litterally life and death. And while it may have been necessary earlier , it certainly wasn't just now."

Her voice was only minutely less cold, as she started an I.V. drip of lactated ringers and set about preping the site for removal of the bullet. A small amount of IV sedation was administered and Scotts slipped into surgical coma.

"The reason, most likely, that he's paralysed right now is that the spinal cord is contused and swollen. It's less than twenty four hours so some DMSO injected into the site will reduce the chances of secondary damage."

Once the area was sterile, she opened her surgical pack and used a pair of long bladed forcepts to probe cautiously for the round. It was not in deep and when she removed it and examined it she could guess at very little fragination. She flushed the wound thoroughly and seet in a drain, holding it with a pair of stitches. The hole way cleaned of tissue blebs and packed with healing foam and she placed a heavy gauze pad over all of it.

"He's going to have to stay on his stomach or sides for a few day. The sedation will wear off in about five hours. I could give him an antagonist, but I'd rather not"

She made an educated guess at his weight and measured out a dose of the DMSO into a syringe and carefully slid it into the area of the back bone nearest the i'insulted' area. Then she took eatra pillows and used them to prop Scotts head comfortably, and to hold him in place on his stomach.

"The minute he starts showing signs of wakefullness - any sort of movement - yell for me. I'll get you some coffe , or what every you'd like to drink." Siam offered as degloved and peeled of the paper disposible surgical gown.

Andrew looked at Sian and nodded. Going below, he began opening all the lockers and drawers that he could find. His first was a mistake and quickly shut Sian's clothing drawer once he saw a bra. After a few more seconds looking around, he found clearly marked lockers. Andrew began to pile noodles, innertubes, waterguns, small animals and boats.

It took him two trips to dump everything overboard. After doing one last check, making sure that he got everything he went back up on deck. The only thing that he had not touched were the life jackets.

Grabbing his tool belt, rifle, he prepared himself to go upon the large ship. Pausing for a moment, he removed a walkie talkie and headset from his bag and put it on. He left another on the ship.

"I'm on channel 2."

With that, Andrew climbed aboard the freighter to hopefully find a way to gas up thier own ship.

Form Oben! The Captain snapped at the fellow soldiers as he walked in from his supply closet turned office. The men formed up. They were good men and trained to perfection. Amounting to about 20 men another 20 were about in the city looking for survivors while 10 were in other places of the complex.

The wails could be heard coming from the adjacent terminal turned into a information Kiosk, namely finding who was dead and more unlikely, who was alive. There was some hope though because through out the day the men had picked up around 23 people from an gun warehouse who were making a last stand.

"We're going in to secure supplies from a gigantic warehouse formally owned by Albertson." "The food will be able to feed us for about another 2 months. Also a side mission was to get inside the gun store located across the street." Inside this gun store will be a back exit which will be on the same alley as a radio shack which will happily have the right electric equipment for a long distance radio. Does anyone have any questions?"

There was none.

"Okay here is the map of the area and head seats. You can pick any weapon and make sure to "borrow" some ammo and weapons if you see them."
This meeting is now over and by 0900 were leaving."

The men walked out and went about looking for the armory....

Inside the city-

Maxen Von Bismarck walked point for the ten men behind him. The zombies were unusually inactive in this sector and only a handful had been seen. The team was sent out t scout the area and find the source of a radio signal coming from an office building. The quarters of SCEE.

The men were approaching the building when out of no were a zombie fell from one of the top floors to land on one of the men. Another man named Bruaner Ghoner took out his knife and stabbed it in the neck and at the same time kicked it's knees so it fell on the knife more and imbedded itself in the concrete. The man who was attacked was okay but riled.

Out from the alley way on the main street it was crawling with zombies. The men all took a bead on one of he dead. They fired short bursts which ripped through the zombies. As the team advanced the zombies sent up their wails and before the team could say something naughty they were surrounded. Maxen took out his grenade stuffed it inside on of the dead’s shirts and spun him around and pushed. The grenade exploded knocking everyone back. Thankfully the team was knocked back into the glass doors which broke in the explosion.

The zombies picked themselves back up as the team was falling back into the building....

Kami regarded the consoles with an interested eye, yet once she spied the language they were displaying, lost interest just as quick.

She memorized the location of everything she was shown, noting various things such as if anything was in front, on top, or near a structural weakpoint. She also noted the location of things that explode quite nicely when properly 'encouraged.'

I'll need to try and see if I can't get a few minutes alone in that weapons storage room. If bad goes to worse, I can sink the entire ship with one C4 charge in there... I'll worry about that later, though.

Turning her head to one of her escorts, the one to her right calling himself Peter, Kami spoke in a casual tone, "It's hard to believe I'm the last Gnufasurian... Well, at least I can hope the President made it out okay, and last I heard, Leo and Laura were off on assignment... Are you all, if you don't mind me asking, sole survivors from your nation too?" She raised a curious eyebrow. Another trait Nekos shared with their feline cousins, for better or worse, was their immense curiousity...


((OOC: Sorry it took me so long to reply too. Umh, ideally, we're all going to try and get together, right?))

((I'm going to move this along, hope you don't mind Steamhaven))

Mike and the Priest hurried through the woods. Mike had a hatchet hanging at his hip, having picked it up from the Harbor Warehouse when he and the Priest turned back to get some better tools. After getting some better supplies, they had begun making their way to the house that had sent a radio call for help. They had avoided any zombies so far, but they both knew that it was only a matter of time until they reached the house and however many undead waited for them there...

[[The Isam Nation itself is a subcontinent (similar to India, but far larger, and with a smaller connection to the mainland), while most of the Inner Protectorates are island nations. The Outer Protectorates are predominantly land-based, and could not prevent the influx of the virus.
Isam's "Super Christian Nazi" (;) great description) government helped to contain matters - Tol Mark displays uncontrolled contamination: seal the city, neutron bomb it
I assume we are all going to meet up, yes]]

Peter Terrinius nodded in sympathy.

"I understand what you mean - Nazareth Thadayne was from the Gadonaa Protectorate, which has been overrun. The Isam Nation itself, and the Inner Protectorates - barring Gadonaa - are currently free of the contamination, although I understand that the cities of Tol Mark, Dor Medai, Dor Lethain and Shi Madyrin have been wiped off the map to prevent the spread of the virus. All the Isamite borders have been sealed, along with the surviving Inner Protectorates, approaching vehicles by sea or air are escorted to quarantine facilities or shot down if they refuse the redirection orders.
"The Holy Precinct itself is on full lockdown, with the Deadlines outside the wall being in full effect for the first time in a half-century.
"Unfortunately, all the Outer Protectorates save Vandirian have fallen."

His wife gave him an arch look, obviously wondering why he's telling their guest all of this.

"Madelein, the Chaplain-Colonel authorised me to tell her general information about the Isam Nation itself. Would you see her settled in? I have to get back to my instruments."

A nod passed between the two Nazareth, with Peter vanishing back through a door.

Kami nodded farewell to Peter's back as he left, before turning to her now sole escort. "That's a tough break. So... Any idea what the Chapin plans on doing with my Seaplane? If we tow it along behind us, and manage to find some fuel for it, I'm sure it'll come in handy..."

She asked as she steps into the room which she assumes would be hers. After all, why would they stop in this particular room unless it was to be her sleeping quarters. "Hmmm... Nice. Alot spacier then my old pad at the EHAV Barracks."


~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, in Moorington...
~~~~~~~~~~


The ten man Moorington team fell back into the office building, heading towards the set of double wide stairs leading up. As they neared the stairs, a powerful shot rang out from above, a figure on the stair landing just above them holding a revolver provided some covering fire for the team coming up. "Hurry up!" The female voice called.

Behind Laura Sinclair, the female Gnufasurian EHAV Mercenary, stood Leo JanaKin, both sets of wristblades extended and covered in blood and gore, as was his modular body armor. Neither of them were injuried, but they were desperately low on supplies. "Laura, make your shots count. You've only three rounds left."

"I know, I know!" The young-looking catgirl called back to her partner for this mission. While Leo wore body armor, Laura wore a simple demin jacket with matching demin cut-off shorts. She had used up all of her ammunition getting here and securing the office, and though she had requested a resupply drop some time ago, something told her it would never come.

Now that the glass door in the front of the office building was broken, making the building secure again would be hell. She could only hope the military team coming up the stairs brought some .44 cailber ammo with them.

"Good call on the short-wave radio signal, Laura... Looks like someone came after all." Leo complimented her as he readied himself to take out any zombies who would undoubtedly come shambering up the stairs once Laura ran out of ammo...

Maxen was used too everything by now. He though was not pre-pared for the zombie in-front of him too explode. He looked too the steps that went from the lobby to the second floor to have two figures, one spouting a magnum revolver and the other one with a automatic.
Not questioning he took out his sidearm and blew apart 4 other zombies as he got back up. Once he did he took the rear-guard as his other teammates got up. Once they did, they started firing at the now gathering mass of zombies. Once the full rounds of his teammates started too tear through the zombies did Maxen turn around and threw his shotgun (that was on his back) too the lady on top of the stairs looking around for a weapon.
The men fell back into a semi-circle in front of the broken door.
Maxen looked around and found the perfect plug, a wide desk that was obviously used by the secretary that was about a good 5 meters.
He yelled at the other man standing on top of the stairs, “Help me you dammed.”
The man snapped into action and he and Maxen moved the table towards the hole. A Moor threw a grenade through the hole to blow through most of the zombies clogging the door. As the men reloaded their weapons the same man who threw the grenade threw his weight against the table. Crunching through arms, legs, and a head to properly plug. Then the girl standing on the top of the stairs rushed down with a beam, who knows where she got it, and propped against the door.
With a groan the table bent and then finally held as the zombies pressed to close too easily use all of their weight against it.
With the other Moors propping tables and chairs against the windows Maxen looked over is new found allies…..

Zion threw a mock-salute at Sian as she left the infirmary...

"10-4 Doc... Soon as he stirs I'll holler for ya..."

Zion's mouth broadened into a demonic grin, before he lightly tapped on Scotts' head as one would do when knocking on a door...

"Wake up Scotty... Rise and shine motherfucker..."

After a few good knocks he ceased his hijinks and settled back into a chair next to the door. While Zion looked after the wounded merc, the others were busy hauling weaponry down from the freighter. Dekker had gone back on board with an armload of C-4 bricks, a pocketful of electronic detonators, and a happy gleam in his eye. Three hours later everyone was back on board, the cargo area stocked full of shiny toys, from such Santa's workshops as Kimber, Colt, Hekler & Koch, and others; and Dekker stood on the bow with what looked like an RC remote controller in his hands.

When the oversized canoe they now called home had cleared the killzone, Dekker jammed an index finger onto the big red button in the middle of the remote. A deafening boom echoed for miles as the freighter's fuel tanks split open and detonated, the craft sinking slowly into the ocean. Apparently the lessons from BUD/S where still in the forefront of Colonel Bray's mind.

He returned from the bow with a slight smirk on his strong features, like that of a child that knows he has done something wrong but knows he'll get away with it...

"Figured I'd save the whales and whatnot by reducing, reusing, and recycling that tub into a nice coral reef. That and diesel fuel makes for one helluva fireworks show. Kinda like shooting a tango with a Bulldog* at close range..."

The mercenary seated himself with his troops in the lounge area, setting his assault rifle against the recliner and kicking his feet up. It had been a while since he'd experienced such luxury. The only thing that might have made the experiece better would have been the inclusion of a stripper and a bottle of frosty Guiness...

"That's a bit much, Dek. Bulldogs make a big-ass mess. Double-ought has the same effect without the added cleanup... They're cheaper, too..."

Davis had chimed in, ever the argumentative weapons dealer, and as such a certifiable expert on anything the RDPMC had or ever had in its inventory...

OOC:

*Bulldog: Specialized shotgun shell containing double-ought buckshot chased by a rifled slug for maximum stopping power at close ranges. Blows holes in soft tissue like nobody's buisness.

Sian just shook her head, an indulgent smile showing briefly, before she turned to fixing dinner.Eventually she stuck her head out of the galley.

"Foods on the buffet, come serve yourselves. In the future galley duty gets shared."

She looked at the open weapondry as she headed topside to let Andrew know that dinner was ready. "Guys, I know we might be invaded by flying fish at any minute, but is it really necessary to act like we're in a war zone?

The built in buffet was laden with a fresh fish chowder, meatloaf, squash casserole, mashed potatoes and green beans with muchrooms.

Andrew had been able to get some fuel off the larger ship, before the pumps on the frieghter had jammed and had to be abandoned. He was topside, still cleaning the engines and checking the equipment, he paid little attention to the heavily armed mercenaries around him. Whistling softly to himself, he looked up as Sian informed him of dinner. Climbing out of his work area, he went to one of the crew cabin showers and cleaned himself off. Getting on some fresh clothes, he came back out to dinner.

Grabbing some chowder, meatloaf, mash potatoes, and a beer Andrew sat down. Saying a quick prayer he started eating.

"Really good Sian. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"I like to eat, and like good food. It was pure self defense" Sian laughed as she served herself. "and anything worth doing is worth doing excellently"

She set her plate down and went back to the galley, stopping to pour Para a bowl of Eukanuba. She pulled a pitcher of tea out of the fridge, just in case some one other than she didn't want beer. She'd never been much of a drinker.

The gathered troops nodded in agreement with Andrew's comment...

"We really haven't had a chance to gear down yet, mentally or otherwise. Gettin' outta dodge was a hairy little deed. Scotts took a bullet in the back, and I've lost a guy outta our usual team. I think he got swamped in his office in the armory, but I'm not sure. I've also got a brother and son who are AWOL at the moment, but I don't think my PDA gets service far out..."

One of the stranger things on Dekker's belt was a Blackberry, but modified with a hard kevlar case & ballistic plastic window over the screen and keys...

"Anyway, can we swing back by North America on the way to this island? I'd like to check and see if they're there. Dek left to spend the summer with my younger brother, Jack, who has a place in Florida. He handles a handgun like Holiday and my kid's grown up around that sort of shit. There's a pretty good chance they're still alive..."

Dekker paused to let his request sink in. It was pretty demanding, and dangerous as hell. He knew his team would follow him, Jack had been through some shit with the group and he had been more than an asset. The only question now was if their new friends would follow them into whatever awaited them in the Miami suburbs where Jack's townhome was situated...

"Sound good?"

Blood splattered against the crimson wall in the hallway next to the door in the exquisitely decorated townhome of Jackson A. Bray, the local gun-nut and retired high-dollar mercenary. His usual knee-length trench-coat was gone, as was most of his usual attire. Instead of the expensive name-brands he preferred, Jack was clad in an black Underarmor T-shirt, black sweats, and a pair of house shoes. A double underarm holster contained a pair of stainless-steel Para Ordnance forty-fives, a thigh holster on his right leg held a Beretta M9, and the one on his left contained a Glock 17. Another Glock was shoved into his waistband. The belt connected to the thigh holsters held a variety of magazines of different calibers, and a Benelli Super M90 was held loosely against his shoulder.

He'd pretty much thrown on some clothes and whatever tactical gear he had in the closet next to this bed. Dekker Jr. was somewhere down the hallway, watching the back door with a pair of forty-caliber USP's and an MP5. Most of the guns were unregistered and in most cases, illegal, but that didn't matter anymore. The front and back yards where littered with corpses, as was the front hall where Jack was currently standing. His Impala was in the garage, but the door was wedged shut with zombie corpses and he'd need some more cover to clear them. Dek wasn't a bad shot, exactly, but he lacked the expeirence his father and uncle posessed.

The blue chemlights cast an eerie glow throughout the house. The power had flicked and gone out some three hours earlier. Jack keyed in Dekker's number into his cellphone for the upteenth time, and still got the voice mail.
Jack snarled and threw the device against the wall, then loaded another shell into his shotgun...

Can it be hooked into the Cat's comp? We've got a full Satalite uplink, mil grade encryption and hardening, or so I was told. There's a problem with hittting the US East coast- thats the Atlantic and we're in the Pacific. We have to go the Panama canal, but who'd operate the locks?"

[i]Sian didn't mind doing something risky, but operating the massive and complex lock system that made up the start and end of the Panama canal was something she had no idea how to do

"And don't suggest blowing them up- that would render it unusuable - both getting there and coming back." She gave Dekker a gimlet eye. Then something occured to her

"Is there any one among you who is a pilot? I'm not completely certified but there is a plane and a runway at the Island. It's going to take us three days to get there - it'd take longer to get through the canal and across the Gulf of Mexico. We could get to the island and take the plane. We'd have to make several stops for fuel, but the plane is a prop, not a jet and can land at the little out of the way bush airports..." Sian looked around hopefully

OOC: My original intent was to make this little side-trip open for the others, since I believe they're in a better position to perform the rescue. It'd require coordination between the two or three groups we've got running around out there.

If the catamaran has a radio (Or the suggested computer) those devices could be useful in coordinating the seperate teams, since combative and medical resources wound up pretty evenly split (My troops with Tanara's doctor, Isam's well-rounded assault team with Gnufasur's demo specialist), any of the groups could attempt an on-land incursion. It'd also be an opportunity to break up the boring bullshit of normal life on a boat with a bit of zombie blasting and daring rescue sorta stuff.

IC:

Dekker's brows furrowed slightly at the mention of blowing stuff up...

"I'm not that much of a pyro, thank-you..."

Taking the comment as more of a stab at comedy, he continued...

"Depending on how far away this island is, we could attempt an aerial rescue, or we could get on the horn and put a shout out to anybody in the area & ask for their help in return for giving them the location of this island compound you're been talking about. It'd increase our manpower and training base that we can draw from when we begin to clear the planet out..."

Again, there was a bit of a pause to let the gathered parties ponder the suggestion...

"Sound good?"

((OOC: Sounds good. I'll try and see if I can't swing my Moorington Team towards that way too. :D By the way, do you think of these zombies as the new Dawn of the Dead Zombies, or the good old fanshion Resident Evil Zombies? AKA, Zombies run fast and never tire, or shamble slowly, take a 'lil nibble and step back and wait to be shot? (Respectively)))


Laura heaved a sigh as she threw the beam she had found into place, bracing it against the desk so it would, for the moment, halt the tide of angry canibals.

Turning to the military team, Laura nods slowly, propping the double-barrel shotgun againsther shoulder. "Thanks. Thought we'd starve to death in here. Name's Laura Sinclair. That's my partner, Leo JanaKin." She motioned to the otherwise engmatic male Neko.

Leo nodded a greeting to the humans, shaking blood off his wristblades and retracting them into the guantlets on his forearms.

Laura continued speaking. "Anyways, what's the situation? Are you guys all that's left, or are there still more out there?"

OOC: More of a shamble & maul approach. If they latch onto someone, they'll bite & claw until they've killed their prey and are able to begin eating. While not able to move quickly, they are able to attack with surprising speed at melee rangle. The zombies will either try to choke their victim to death or sever some major artery by biting the neck to incapacitate through massive blood loss. They're actually supposed to be halfway decent predators.

IC:

Something's shadow crossed the bluish glow of the chem lights, prompting Jack to swing the barrel of his semi-auto around in that direction...

"Stop and identify yourself before I blow a hole in you the size of a softball..."

That wasn't an idle threat. Jack had loaded 'Terminator X' shells into his twelve gage. They featured a special slug that released a dozen or so smaller pellets on expansion, producing a 95% effectiveness rating, they were exotic and damn fun to use...

"Alright, fuck it. You die now..."

He stepped out of the doorway & fired, blowing a hole cleanly through his target. Luckily it was one he intended to eliminate & the zombie collapsed backwards, blown nearly in two. The thing, once a police officer, contined to crawl forwards before Jack splattered his head across the sidewalk in a smear of bloody gray...

"You okay Uncle J?"

His nephew yelled from the back door...

"I'm aight, Lil' D... Keep your eyes open, we've got a few prowling around out here somewhere..."

There were no more specialty rounds in his bandolier, just standard double-ought shells. Jack slid two into the eight-shot tube & stepped back inside, toppling a book-case over in front of the busted doorway to partially block it. A few chairs and an expensive leather sofa were also added to provide a sturdy barrier. The retired mercenary strode back to his kitchen, Dekker Jr.'s position & locked the back door before shoving the stainless-steel kitchen table in front of the door & augmenting the barricade with the dishwasher he'd pulled out of the wall...

"Now we can chill in the den & watch the news or something. If something tries to move this heavy shit, we blast the fuck outta it. Sound good?"

The younger Dekker nodded...

As Andrew ate, he couldn't help but study the soldiers and wonder if they knew anything more about this pandemic. He thought better than to ask at the moment, it wasn't dinner conversation. Taking a look out to sea, he squinted as he thought a jet of water come out from a blowhole of a dolphin or whale, he couldn't tell which. It was most likely just waves crashing, but keeping a mind busy and with some imagination would keep Andrew from going insane.

He looked at the soldiers.

"So...where y'all from? Got any family?"

Dekker was the first to answer, giving a brief and to-the-point response...

"I've got a kid, a brother, and an ex-wife, but I wouldn't call her family. I'm from Hazard, in Kentucky..."

Davis spoke up next, leaning back in his chair & chuckling at Dekker's ex-wife remark...

"Iowa, outside of Des Moines, and I ain't got any family I know of, except maybe a sister that I haven't heard from in years..."

Miller, having just returned from delivering Zion a plate seated himself next to Davis...

"Illinois, Chicago area... I had a wife & a few kids, but I left her headless in my quarters back on base & I only found my son's body. My wife was a nurse & apparently got bitten just before she clocked out. I found her in the kitchen tearing my son apart. She saw me & grabbed my neck. I put two in her chest and another pair in her head before doing the same to my son's body. I yelled for my two daughters, but I got no response. All I found was a bloody smear leading for the bathroom & figured the worst had happened. The noises from inside led me to think I was right. I emptied the clip in my forty-five through the door & ran for the arms chopper..."

Miller fell silent after his monotone explanation, fingering the safety on his Mk 23 secured on his thigh. Dekker, seeing that the mood was going south, turned the question around...

"How about you two? She your wife?"

Andrew was slightly nervous as Miller began to finger his pistol. He was ready to reach for his revolver but knew a trained military man like Miller would have him zeroed before he could pull his gun halfway out. He looked at Sian and then at Dekker and shook his head.

"Nope, we ain't married...meet only a while before picking you guys up. Course I had to strip to prove I wasn't infected considering I came from the mainland."

He paused and ate some more food before taking a sip of beer to wash it down.

"Me...I'm from a small town called Flint Hill in Virginia. I was a mechanic but when the stuff started I grabbed my parents, cousin, and joining up with friends and thier families we headed out to a small island one of them owned to set up camp. Sadly we didn't know a bite would cause a person to become a zombie until a few died and began to attack the others. I have never thought about getting married...been working my ass off just to get by myself without a wife and kids. What about you Sian? Every been married or had someone speical tucked in the back of your grey matter?"

"My husband was mudrered six years ago. Four months ago his killer got the needle. I've been out on the high seas, ever since...putting paid to the past one might say."

Sian polished off the last bite of her meatloaf and stood.

" There is a 50 inch flat screen in the main lounge, and you can pick up nearly anything with the satalite system. Some one else gets to do the dishes, I need to go chech the auto pilot, it's different than on a pure motor yatch"

She took her plate into the galley then headed up on deck.

OOC: Sorry about taking so long...
IC:
Maxen looked at the Americans as some around the team looked un-certain, from not knowing the language. "We are part of the provisional Moorington Government based off the coast. We have a good amount of people with excellent supplies. More are streaming in and we are looking for weapons and the distress signal. At the moment we have to continue our mission but would enjoy an extra round or two.

The team members quickly recounted the conversation to the other team mates. They immediately pre-pared an plan and went around making it work. The warehouse behind the building was actually a high-military grade munitions storehouse and they had to get some of the more advanced, heavier equipment. An helicopter was called for to be on stand-by and the plan was set in motion. Two shrapnel grenades were sent out of the second floor windows which ripped a part a few zombies. The rest of the team crashed out of the door and into the warehouse, they opened the door relatively easily and went into the warehouse. It looked relatively secure and the men turned on the generator and went about collecting the items. This was off set when a strangled scream was heard from the corner of the warehouse. There all the lights went there and the team advanced cautiously. Out of the corner leapt a tiger, it was though obviously infected with some parts missing and red eyes as it’s claws ripped into the back of one member.

Maxen was really not surprised at the latest twist sent by the un-dead to him. He pulled out his shotgun and kept pumping the rounds into it as the team’s other shots ripped into it. The tiger was done with the one man and leapt for another. The moor ducked and twisted missing the tiger’s claws by a hair-breath. Finally the tiger went down. The men were obviously ready to get out of the area. They went back to the building to the their new found allies as he helicopter touched down.

Laura nodded slowly, glancing to Leo then to Maxen. "Well, let's get out of here then, shall we?" Cradling the shotgun in her hands, she followed behind the team as they headed up to the helicopter and boarded with them. Leo climbed in and sat across from Laura. Sighing, he stared out towards the horizon and spoke to Laura.

"Muugc mega fa'na hud kaddehk byet vun drec uha." He spoke in Gnufasurian.

Laura giggled. "Ha ha ha ha. Oayr, E't tavehydamo cyo fa'na hud kaddehk byet. Yr famm. Yd maycd fa'na cdemm ymeja." She smiled.

Shaking his head slowly, Leo said monotonously, "Yht, buccepmo eh tapd."

Laura snorted and chuckled again. Seeing some looks from the team, she waved one hand dismissively. "Oh, don't worry. He was just telling me a dirty joke to cheer me up." She lied with a straight face. Well, to tell the truth, she lied with a smiling face.

Sie ist intelligentes und totes reizvolles. "wohler Unterhalt Ihre Hosen an, da sie vermutlich an Ihnen lacht. Das ist kalt, sehr kalt. The man quit talking with Maxen after deciding that Maxen was not one of those kind of people. The helocopter continued on and Maxen finally got to see how Moorington faired. It was not to good, not a lot of fire but enough dead bodies and stumbling dead to clog most intersections. Obviously they were congregating were the alive people stayed. They crossed the sae and he could see that the Moors had made a movable bridge and that they had moved down the bridge until it reached the mainland. That was were a gigantic hole lay filled with foming water. The dead were paronoid of water and most did not wade past knee depth.

Jackson Davis moved to the sink to fufil their end of the eating agreement while the others went to the lounge...

"I don't think HBO is still on the air, fellas... Try the news..."

The international news channel was still going strong, showcasing hotspots from around the globe. Miami wasn't on the list. Dekker emitted a sigh of relief. There were still scattered pockets of resistance that the National Guard was trying to reach in the suburbs, an armory in the outskirts of the city had been secured and rescue operations were being launched from it with some success. Armored personnel carriers on their way to Iraq were quite useful for smashing undead beneath their treads & mowing them down with heavy automatic weapons...

"Finally, someone gets a good idea. A Bradley beats a zombie any day..."