The Census Taker
27-11-2006, 06:06
Dawn was beginning to creep slowly over the horizon, bringing welcome light to a world darkening at an ever-increasing rate. On a normal day, the pristine upper-middle class community of Utopia would have been alive with activity as the resident business bigwigs would be rising early for their doctor-recommended morning jogs, Jeffory Hale would be out in his back-yard doing the same USMC-taught physical training he'd been doing for the past fifty years, and everthing would be as it should in a perfect world.
It wasn't a perfect world anymore.
Roughly a week ago some sort of outbreak had occoured in Miami, far south of the newly-built community, but none of the people who lived in Utopia had been worried. Most were of the very Republican, 'The Government Will Handle It' opinion, and were content to enjoy the time off from work as Sarasota was stricken by the mysterious condition. By now, with the freeway clogged with panicing citizens from the southern part of the state, it was clear that the government wasn't going to be able to contain the situation, and they were pretty much screwed. As the condition spread outward from major population centers, the national health service released a bullitin detailing what they'd learned about the condition, which was sparse, but mildly helpful.
It stated simply that one should avoid any contact with the infected, especially those who were bitten, as well as any and all body fluids. Anyone not bitten was invited to report to any nearby military base for protection from the rising number of starving, shambling masses roaming the streets. Utopia, on the other hand, remained stalwart in its belief that help would soon arrive, and that they could hold out until then. This new dawn, however, ended any of those hopes. The front gates to the community were holding back a large number of infected Floridians, blood-spitting braindead creatures that had somehow slipped past the human race on the food chain and taken the number one spot.
Within the gates, however, things had already soured beyond repair. One of the wealthy citizens living in the rear of the living space, where the largest of the houses were located, had somehow become infected with the strange infliction, which would later be linked to tainted cocaine hyped up with an additional and highly toxic stimulant, and had given the ailment to his three children, who had died in the school infirmary while awaiting transport to the local hospital, then awakened again and attacked anything that moved. This incident was the beginning of the end for Utopia, four out of five children returning home that day turned by the time the next sun rose.
What followed was like a scene from a horrible horror film...
Jeffory Hale
Jeffory Hale had just completed his morning PT, a habit beaten into his head from a career in the Marine Corps. Oddly, he didn't feel as invigorated as he had the previous morning, something didn't feel right. The feeling in his gut was exactly like the one he'd gotten back in Vietnam, right before an ambush. Today, however, he dismissed it as a paranoid notion from the strange happenings in the neighborhood lately. Tabitha, his wife, was still asleep, and he stripped out of his worn PT clothing and climbed into the shower. The morning was progressing like usual, about halfway through his shave Tabitha got up and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. It was a second or so after he'd gotten out of the shower and pulled on a pair of boxer shorts that the sounds of a struggle entered his old ears from the kitchen. Moving as fast as he possibly could for a man of his age, he grabbed the 5-inch Springfield XD Tactical from its place on the night-stand. It was the forty-five ACP model he always carried on a daily basis, and came to his hand readily, fitting like a tailored glove.
He barreled through the kitchen door from the bedroom hallway in their one-story town-home to find some lunatic gnawing on his wife's fallen form. Rage welled up in his mind as he raised the black-on-black handgun and squeezed off four Remington Golden Saber hollowpoints into the attacker, the thundering boom making his ears ring, despite his age. The intruder, who looked a lot like the guy next door, was thrown off of his unsavory meal with great force, slamming him into the kitchen cabinets. Another two rounds to the head made sure there wouldn't be any more trouble from the bastard. The five-inch barrel on the XD allowed for enough precision to knock a smiley-face in a standard bulls-eye target, and Jeffory had been shooting for more than half a century. He knew exactly where the rounds would go once they left the barrel. The threat dealt with, he tried to fight back the tears in his eyes as he tried to stop his wife's bleeding from a deep bite in her neck...
Mike Castle
The feeling of a hangover had become an accepted feeling for Mike Castle some time ago, sometime in his late twenties. This morning was no exception. It was two more days until Friday night, which meant Sunday and its football games wheren't that far away. The wife wouldn't get up for another hour, but she didn't have to finish adding a new level on some rich asshole's garage so he could store more of his junk. Mike turned the coffee pot on before reaching for the remote he'd left on the kitchen counter the night before. The morning news was the usual gloom-and-doom it was previous evening, with more reports of the strange epidemic sweeping the nation. The coffee wasn't anywhere near finished, but he dumped the contents into a thermus before sticking the pot back into its place to catch the rest of the brew before heading back to the bedroom to change into his work clothes before climbing into his beaten-down Chevy truck to drive to the job site, when he heard gunshots from next door. Turning to look in the direction of the Hale residence, Mike thought he saw two of his friends from down the block staggering towards him. His mind swam, he really wasn't sure of how to react to this situation, but pulled his hammer out of the toolbelt out of habit. Something wasn't right...
Jason Mortimer
A nice swig of black coffee brought his senses back into alignment. Jason had arrived at the diner that employed him early to prepare for the breakfast rush, but there hadn't been anyone arriving like usual. Out of habit, he'd taken the time to sharpen the two knives he brought along to work. Jason had trained overseas in some of the best culinary schools, but back in the states he worked in a second-class diner. His favorite knife, a Shun model designed by well-respected knife maker Ken Onion, held an excellent edge and made a perfect utility knife. The second was a simple lightly serrated tomato knife from the same manufacturer. Shun had been making blades for centuries, starting with swords for Japanese Samurai, and its more modern works had turned towards kitchen cutlery.
While he wasn't a trained combatant with a knife, Jason knew how to butcher most livestock with ease, but here most everything came pre-packaged. Officer Slone would probably be stopping by soon for his morning coffee, and the usual hash and eggs, so Jason got cooking, at least it would be something to do, the diner was currently as silent as the grave. Then, there was a little twinkle of hope coming down the street. Two customers were stumbling towards the front doors, and Jason set down the can of hash in order to greet them...
Peter Slone
He hated this shit. His dad was sceaming at him again, and it was barely six o'clock in the morning. Peter came out of his room screaming right back, only to find his father wrestling with the guy from across the street, trying to get to his duty sidearm. Now his dad was telling him to run. He didn't run. Peter went back to his room and grabbed his baseball bat, then ran back out to help his dad with the invader. He was greeted by a barrage of gunshots as his father dispatched his attacker with six rounds to the torso...
'We need to get out of here, pack your shit. We're going to your grandparent's...'
His father seemed winded from the struggle, and he was shaking a bit, but years of street patrol began to steady his nerves. Peter went to do as he was told, grabbing his skateboard and a backpack full of clothes. More cursing came from the living room as he returned, finding the guy from across the street had gotten a hold of his dad again, and was biting him. Peter swung the bat with all of his strength, catching the attacker across the skull. Maybe after that'd his dad might consider saving up for a car for him. It wouldn't matter, his dad simply got up and did his best to disinfect the bite wound on his forearm...
PJ York
With most of the combat units out on deployment, PJ didn't have much choice when he was called up to defend his home state. Dressed in his crisp, new ACU's, he now stood in a line formation with the rest of his communications company on the interstate outside of his community, Utopia. He hadn't shot an M16 since Basic Training, and the body armor was still uncomfortable. The helmet was chafing his scalp, and his feet were beginning to hurt. His stomach dropped as the company caught sight of the first of the identified hostiles in the area. The order to fire came through, and they opened up. Most of the incoming individuals dropped from gunshot wounds, and they moved up to secure the bodies.
The only thing they didn't count on was that they weren't alive to begin with. A private to his left was grabbed by the leg, then bitten deeply on the calf through his uniform. PJ fired at the prone body, as did the two others in his squad, one hitting the bitten private in his thigh. The unfortunate communications soldier dropped screaming, which stopped sharply as another of the corpses they'd shot bit into his throat. They were surrounded suddenly, and backup was a distant two-hundred yards away. The other two privates with him were quickly overpowered, their clumsy butt-stroke attacks having little effect on something that didn't feel pain. While they'd been trained for basic infantry tasks, that had been a long time ago. PJ emptied a magazine as he backpedaled as fast as he could, his track skills kicking in a bit as he attempted to get back to the assembly area.
When he arrived, it was in shambles, occupied by shambling corpses feasting on his comrades. PJ decided to keep on running...
Ricardo Sanchez
Like always, Ricardo was up early, stocking the shelves at Washington's with his usual enthusiasm. He had a futbol game this weekend, and he needed to practice as much as possible. He hoped if he got his tasks done for the day early, Lucas might let him off sooner than usual. His team was on their way to the finals, and they might actually win the neighborhood league's trophy this year. Something crashed through the storefront window, and he rushed to investigate. He shouted something, even he didn't know what, at the clumsy bastard, but he simply got up from the floor and advanced towards Ricardo steadily. He managed to stammer 'stop', but that didn't work. There was something wrong with this guy, so Ricardo decided to sling a can of creamed corn at him, smacking him squarely in the forehead...
Jake Butcher
It was another early morning at the gym for Jake Butcher. There would be another season of 'Ultimate Fighter' starting soon, and he had to be ready, he just had to be. The morning had started with his two-mile jog, transitioned to shoulders, and he was currently beginning to work his triceps for some additional punching power. He'd eat later, once his workout was done. That was the best time to eat, anyway, when the muscles needed the extra protein to rebuild after such strain. Sweat was pouring from his bald brow, today was a good day, he felt like a tank. He felt unstoppable, like a juggernaut. He completed his last set of curls, dropping the barbels back into their racks and exclaiming:
'I'm the juggernaut, bitch!'
A growl followed the statement, flexing his pumped arms to view the fruits of his labor. Those little doses of steroids he'd been sneaking in were doing the trick, making him that little bit stronger, giving him that little edge he'd need to train harder, faster, and longer than he could have done without them. Something was odd, though. There was no-one in the gym, not even a receptionist. It wasn't odd for him to be the first one there, but it was getting to be about regular opening time for the fitness facility. He'd struck a deal with the owner, he could train whenever he wanted in return for mentioning the gym on TV when he got the spot. After all the training he was doing, there was no way he wouldn't. Jake remained in his workout trance for some time, well into mid-morning...
It wasn't a perfect world anymore.
Roughly a week ago some sort of outbreak had occoured in Miami, far south of the newly-built community, but none of the people who lived in Utopia had been worried. Most were of the very Republican, 'The Government Will Handle It' opinion, and were content to enjoy the time off from work as Sarasota was stricken by the mysterious condition. By now, with the freeway clogged with panicing citizens from the southern part of the state, it was clear that the government wasn't going to be able to contain the situation, and they were pretty much screwed. As the condition spread outward from major population centers, the national health service released a bullitin detailing what they'd learned about the condition, which was sparse, but mildly helpful.
It stated simply that one should avoid any contact with the infected, especially those who were bitten, as well as any and all body fluids. Anyone not bitten was invited to report to any nearby military base for protection from the rising number of starving, shambling masses roaming the streets. Utopia, on the other hand, remained stalwart in its belief that help would soon arrive, and that they could hold out until then. This new dawn, however, ended any of those hopes. The front gates to the community were holding back a large number of infected Floridians, blood-spitting braindead creatures that had somehow slipped past the human race on the food chain and taken the number one spot.
Within the gates, however, things had already soured beyond repair. One of the wealthy citizens living in the rear of the living space, where the largest of the houses were located, had somehow become infected with the strange infliction, which would later be linked to tainted cocaine hyped up with an additional and highly toxic stimulant, and had given the ailment to his three children, who had died in the school infirmary while awaiting transport to the local hospital, then awakened again and attacked anything that moved. This incident was the beginning of the end for Utopia, four out of five children returning home that day turned by the time the next sun rose.
What followed was like a scene from a horrible horror film...
Jeffory Hale
Jeffory Hale had just completed his morning PT, a habit beaten into his head from a career in the Marine Corps. Oddly, he didn't feel as invigorated as he had the previous morning, something didn't feel right. The feeling in his gut was exactly like the one he'd gotten back in Vietnam, right before an ambush. Today, however, he dismissed it as a paranoid notion from the strange happenings in the neighborhood lately. Tabitha, his wife, was still asleep, and he stripped out of his worn PT clothing and climbed into the shower. The morning was progressing like usual, about halfway through his shave Tabitha got up and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. It was a second or so after he'd gotten out of the shower and pulled on a pair of boxer shorts that the sounds of a struggle entered his old ears from the kitchen. Moving as fast as he possibly could for a man of his age, he grabbed the 5-inch Springfield XD Tactical from its place on the night-stand. It was the forty-five ACP model he always carried on a daily basis, and came to his hand readily, fitting like a tailored glove.
He barreled through the kitchen door from the bedroom hallway in their one-story town-home to find some lunatic gnawing on his wife's fallen form. Rage welled up in his mind as he raised the black-on-black handgun and squeezed off four Remington Golden Saber hollowpoints into the attacker, the thundering boom making his ears ring, despite his age. The intruder, who looked a lot like the guy next door, was thrown off of his unsavory meal with great force, slamming him into the kitchen cabinets. Another two rounds to the head made sure there wouldn't be any more trouble from the bastard. The five-inch barrel on the XD allowed for enough precision to knock a smiley-face in a standard bulls-eye target, and Jeffory had been shooting for more than half a century. He knew exactly where the rounds would go once they left the barrel. The threat dealt with, he tried to fight back the tears in his eyes as he tried to stop his wife's bleeding from a deep bite in her neck...
Mike Castle
The feeling of a hangover had become an accepted feeling for Mike Castle some time ago, sometime in his late twenties. This morning was no exception. It was two more days until Friday night, which meant Sunday and its football games wheren't that far away. The wife wouldn't get up for another hour, but she didn't have to finish adding a new level on some rich asshole's garage so he could store more of his junk. Mike turned the coffee pot on before reaching for the remote he'd left on the kitchen counter the night before. The morning news was the usual gloom-and-doom it was previous evening, with more reports of the strange epidemic sweeping the nation. The coffee wasn't anywhere near finished, but he dumped the contents into a thermus before sticking the pot back into its place to catch the rest of the brew before heading back to the bedroom to change into his work clothes before climbing into his beaten-down Chevy truck to drive to the job site, when he heard gunshots from next door. Turning to look in the direction of the Hale residence, Mike thought he saw two of his friends from down the block staggering towards him. His mind swam, he really wasn't sure of how to react to this situation, but pulled his hammer out of the toolbelt out of habit. Something wasn't right...
Jason Mortimer
A nice swig of black coffee brought his senses back into alignment. Jason had arrived at the diner that employed him early to prepare for the breakfast rush, but there hadn't been anyone arriving like usual. Out of habit, he'd taken the time to sharpen the two knives he brought along to work. Jason had trained overseas in some of the best culinary schools, but back in the states he worked in a second-class diner. His favorite knife, a Shun model designed by well-respected knife maker Ken Onion, held an excellent edge and made a perfect utility knife. The second was a simple lightly serrated tomato knife from the same manufacturer. Shun had been making blades for centuries, starting with swords for Japanese Samurai, and its more modern works had turned towards kitchen cutlery.
While he wasn't a trained combatant with a knife, Jason knew how to butcher most livestock with ease, but here most everything came pre-packaged. Officer Slone would probably be stopping by soon for his morning coffee, and the usual hash and eggs, so Jason got cooking, at least it would be something to do, the diner was currently as silent as the grave. Then, there was a little twinkle of hope coming down the street. Two customers were stumbling towards the front doors, and Jason set down the can of hash in order to greet them...
Peter Slone
He hated this shit. His dad was sceaming at him again, and it was barely six o'clock in the morning. Peter came out of his room screaming right back, only to find his father wrestling with the guy from across the street, trying to get to his duty sidearm. Now his dad was telling him to run. He didn't run. Peter went back to his room and grabbed his baseball bat, then ran back out to help his dad with the invader. He was greeted by a barrage of gunshots as his father dispatched his attacker with six rounds to the torso...
'We need to get out of here, pack your shit. We're going to your grandparent's...'
His father seemed winded from the struggle, and he was shaking a bit, but years of street patrol began to steady his nerves. Peter went to do as he was told, grabbing his skateboard and a backpack full of clothes. More cursing came from the living room as he returned, finding the guy from across the street had gotten a hold of his dad again, and was biting him. Peter swung the bat with all of his strength, catching the attacker across the skull. Maybe after that'd his dad might consider saving up for a car for him. It wouldn't matter, his dad simply got up and did his best to disinfect the bite wound on his forearm...
PJ York
With most of the combat units out on deployment, PJ didn't have much choice when he was called up to defend his home state. Dressed in his crisp, new ACU's, he now stood in a line formation with the rest of his communications company on the interstate outside of his community, Utopia. He hadn't shot an M16 since Basic Training, and the body armor was still uncomfortable. The helmet was chafing his scalp, and his feet were beginning to hurt. His stomach dropped as the company caught sight of the first of the identified hostiles in the area. The order to fire came through, and they opened up. Most of the incoming individuals dropped from gunshot wounds, and they moved up to secure the bodies.
The only thing they didn't count on was that they weren't alive to begin with. A private to his left was grabbed by the leg, then bitten deeply on the calf through his uniform. PJ fired at the prone body, as did the two others in his squad, one hitting the bitten private in his thigh. The unfortunate communications soldier dropped screaming, which stopped sharply as another of the corpses they'd shot bit into his throat. They were surrounded suddenly, and backup was a distant two-hundred yards away. The other two privates with him were quickly overpowered, their clumsy butt-stroke attacks having little effect on something that didn't feel pain. While they'd been trained for basic infantry tasks, that had been a long time ago. PJ emptied a magazine as he backpedaled as fast as he could, his track skills kicking in a bit as he attempted to get back to the assembly area.
When he arrived, it was in shambles, occupied by shambling corpses feasting on his comrades. PJ decided to keep on running...
Ricardo Sanchez
Like always, Ricardo was up early, stocking the shelves at Washington's with his usual enthusiasm. He had a futbol game this weekend, and he needed to practice as much as possible. He hoped if he got his tasks done for the day early, Lucas might let him off sooner than usual. His team was on their way to the finals, and they might actually win the neighborhood league's trophy this year. Something crashed through the storefront window, and he rushed to investigate. He shouted something, even he didn't know what, at the clumsy bastard, but he simply got up from the floor and advanced towards Ricardo steadily. He managed to stammer 'stop', but that didn't work. There was something wrong with this guy, so Ricardo decided to sling a can of creamed corn at him, smacking him squarely in the forehead...
Jake Butcher
It was another early morning at the gym for Jake Butcher. There would be another season of 'Ultimate Fighter' starting soon, and he had to be ready, he just had to be. The morning had started with his two-mile jog, transitioned to shoulders, and he was currently beginning to work his triceps for some additional punching power. He'd eat later, once his workout was done. That was the best time to eat, anyway, when the muscles needed the extra protein to rebuild after such strain. Sweat was pouring from his bald brow, today was a good day, he felt like a tank. He felt unstoppable, like a juggernaut. He completed his last set of curls, dropping the barbels back into their racks and exclaiming:
'I'm the juggernaut, bitch!'
A growl followed the statement, flexing his pumped arms to view the fruits of his labor. Those little doses of steroids he'd been sneaking in were doing the trick, making him that little bit stronger, giving him that little edge he'd need to train harder, faster, and longer than he could have done without them. Something was odd, though. There was no-one in the gym, not even a receptionist. It wasn't odd for him to be the first one there, but it was getting to be about regular opening time for the fitness facility. He'd struck a deal with the owner, he could train whenever he wanted in return for mentioning the gym on TV when he got the spot. After all the training he was doing, there was no way he wouldn't. Jake remained in his workout trance for some time, well into mid-morning...