Dead Capital (RPG THREAD)

[Conor]

Go for it.

[Damxge]

I strode along the street like a king, my head held high, my feet padding heavily on the rough cobble, the dying sunlight casting long shadows along the wide lane, shining just at the right angle to peek from behind the buildings, like a child playing hide-and-seek with his friends. I breathed in deeply, the scent of fresh blood sending a twinge up my spine as I laughed aloud at the pleasure. The dead were a street over, all moaning and shuffling about as they do, horrid conversationalists they were, but they didn't object to my views and opinions. In fact, they supported my artistic endeavors rather enthusiastically.

"Evening Johnathan!" I piped as I passed a fellow stuck on a fallen lamp post, the jagged edge that remained protruding from the ground acting as this particular gentleman's personal skewer. He acknowledged me with a grunt, reaching in a waving fashion toward me, but I was past, I hadn't the time to talk with Johnathan today, I had to find the focal of my next piece! I continued up the lane, skipping every other step, glancing about, looking for any inspiration I could find. And, as it were, inspiration found me.

"Hands up!" Came a shout from above and to my left. Without hesitation I threw my hands to the sky, my smile widening as I faced the fellow speaking. It was a young lady, beautiful long locks dangling from a rather small, pale head complete with petite nose, ghostly thin lips, bulbous eyes, and sullen cheeks.

"Evening my dear!" I said happily, curtsying formally, yet she did not return my gracious gallant greeting, in fact, she fired a round at me from the rifle sloppily held in her thin hands, "Watch now, you almost hit me!" I played, dancing to the left as the round ricocheted off of the cobbles where I had been.

"That's the point ya fool!" She responded, firing again, and I continued to dance to the left, dodging her slow shots with playful agility. She squinted quite dramatically before she shot, giving me time to dodge before she actually pulled the trigger. Poor dame, no one had taught her to shoot properly.

"Ya' gonna attract the horde, stop that there nonsense!" Came a new voice, a gentleman of age similar to my own poking his head out of the window next to the girl.

"Ah, evening sir! Maybe you'll be more inviting," I said, bowing deeply, but keeping my eyes fixed on them.

"Get out of here scum," He shot at me, and I grabbed my heart, as if struck by a bullet, such hatred from these people. And with that, he slammed the window shut. Just as he'd predicted, the horde of shuffling lobotomites wandering their way toward this street.

"Did you hear that, Johnathan?" I asked, appalled, turning to the fellow and gesturing at the window, "Such anger, such hatred, such-" I paused.

"Gruh?" Johnathan asked, waving his arms at me in support of my artistic vision.

"Exactly Johnathan!" I laughed, "I've found inspiration! The hate, the anger, the regret they will surely feel!" I spun on my heel, letting out a long laugh. And with that, I skipped my way back home, dodging about the fellows who had wandered their way into the street. I had to prepare! A project of this magnitude was not undertaken lightly, after all!

[Conor]

I treaded lightly, analysing each step as I took it. I was becoming adapt at noticing the slates that were loose, but there were always the sneaky ones, and although an error of judgement on my part hasn't landed me - quite literally - in a bloody pile on the streets, it only took the once.
From the construction site I had managed to crawl, clamber and scratch my way down to Blackfriars, next to the river, all without touching a foot on the ground. The streets didn't belong to us normal folk anymore.
There I stood, on the roof of Stevens and Sons tailor shop, watching the flow of the Thames as the final ounce of sunlight vanished over the London horizon. Like a candle blown out, the city drenched in darkness. The remains of London's bridges disappeared in black "Everything stopped but the river." That's what George used to say all the time, usually when he was moaning about something or other, which was almost always and deathly frustrating. For a while we had held up in that abandoned factory, a good couple of months in fact. But we knew it wouldn't be permanent, as most things weren't nowadays. Though perhaps that's the most familiar concept of the old life, too.
I looked up to the sky to gaze upon a thankfully clear forecast, meaning I could hold up on the roof for a night or too and use the time to gather supplies. The warm breeze hit me, but it always smelled so awful and tainted, so it was hard to enjoy.
I heard a moan, and turned swiftly. It wasn't until i had drawn my weapon that i realised it was just my stomach. i sighed, but not in relief - in the current times, a hungry stomach meant risking your life if you didn't have anything to feed it with - and I didn't. With regretful eyes I pulled off my cap and gave my mop a good scratch, gathering my thoughts. Most placed had been stripped completely, meaning I would likely have to steal, and in that case, kill. I didn't have a problem with this, I never had. In fact, it makes it a lot easier when it's for food, not money.

I heard a shot in the distance, then another shortly after. Usually, i would avoid signs of such nature, but somebody had to be shooting it, and that somebody could be too busy shooting to be guarding their supplies.

"f*** it." I spat, my eyes marking the route ahead.

[Damxge]

The night crept onward like a panther prowling the streets, darkness enveloping the city as the warmth faded from the day and gave way to the cold. At long last, I returned to my abode, my gallery, built inside a mid-sized church of stone and metal. It was well fortified, and that's the way I liked it, easier to keep the fans at bay and give me some space to pursue my visions! After all, an essence of mystery was necessary for any artist to keep up with the ever changing social eye. I hadn't fortified it, heavens no, I may have been a carpenter in my past life but wood gave way to the clawing of the damned who wandered the streets, looking to steal my art for their own. What I needed was metal and stone, and that is what I found. Unfortunately, those who came before me here were less than eager to share their space with me and it took some rather harsh negotiations to convince them that I had greater use for the building than they. After several evenings of debate, they finally opted to move into the basement and allow me free use of the upper floors.

"Good evening!" I chirped as I passed the gaping hole in the middle of the floor, a soft set of moans rising to greet me. One that was not from the hole either. I spun about, shooting a curious look in the direction of the sound, "Oh Matilda, no dear, no no no, that will not do!" I scolded as my eyes alighted on a woman standing in the shadows, her jaws opening and closing slowly as her face pressed into my most recent painting. With my words, she turned to look at me, her left eye completely missing, her right seemingly missing the eyelid. She was thin, in fact, little more than a skeleton with a pot belly, garbed in an old gray dress. I hurried over to her and gave her a nudge away from the painting. With an aggravated "guh!" she stumbled toward me. I danced backwards, scooping a broom handle from the floor as I went, skipping away from her as she followed at a slow, stumbling gait. Her left leg was broken, poor dear, when she fell down the basement steps, and now she suffered from a horrid limp, but the break didn't seem to bother her. Maybe I would patch her up some time, as I'd done for her husband Christopher.

As I reached the hole, I skirted around the edge, allowing her to do the same before reaching out and giving her left food just enough of a nudge to throw her off-balance and she tumbled sideways into the basement, a surprised "ugh?!" coming from her falling body.

"There you are dearie, don't be wandering about anymore, it's not safe up here, all kinds of broken glass and things," I flicked my fingers in the general direction of the shattered panes of glass that littered the floor tiles. With Matilda now comfortably back with her friends, I wandered my way up to the second story, taking a ladder that led to a trapdoor in the ceiling to reach the attic. Once there, I slammed the door closed and barred it with a thick piece of metal I'd found on my wanderings. I turned from the door, taking a deep breath of the musty air, the scent of dried rice, wheat, and books filling my nostrils. Over time, the subjects of my works had given me food and weapons, weapons I really had no use for, but I wasn't ungracious, so I took them anyway.

I dug about in the expansive collection of boxes and sacks until I found what I was looking for, an old leather backpack branded with a symbol I didn't recognize anymore. I proceeded to fill it with some old crackers, a canteen of fresh water, I couldn't be getting parched while I worked, a few bullets in case any of my fans became too obsessive, a spool of wire, and a sheet of parchment. As I dug about, it seemed I was missing my favorite paintbrush.

"This will not do!" I huffed, placing my hands on my hips, glancing around, I would have to make a new one, blast it. After a moment's contemplation I shrugged and swung my pack onto my back and wandered my way back to the trapdoor, scooping up my belt where it lay, a six shot revolver holstered on it. My ole' six iron from my days in the US, running the west like the cowboy I was. I sighed as I looked at it, memories of the wide open flooding back, horses, the towns, the face of a young woman. With a grunt I snapped myself out of it, it wasn't good to linger on the past. That life was behind me, I was an artist now with a sizeable following. What would my fans say should they discover I was from the West of America? A classless imbecile who drinks his grog from a boot is what they would say. I shook my head, it would not do.

And with that, I was out the door and strolling up the street, a cane clutched in my right hand, my left on the strap of my pack, my pistol humming a merry tune as metal caressed the leather of the holster. I was about halfway back to my new friends' residence when a figure caught my eye and I turned to see someone atop a roof a good distance away. Had he not been moving a moment prior I would have mistaken him for a chimney. He stood there, but I wasn't sure if he saw me or not.

"Gruhhh?" Came a voice to my left and I turned to see a fellow wandering toward me, arms outstretched.

"I'm really quite busy, I can't be signing autographs at the current," I sighed, "I'll be around the market tomorrow afternoon, I'd be happy to then," I gave him a smile and a poke in the forehead with my cane, stumbling him back as I continued on.

"Guh,"

"Evening Johnathan!"

And just like that, I was there, standing outside of the wide complex of buildings. It was easy to tell which door they used as it was the only closed door on the street, it was also made of metal. It seemed there was no getting in that way. I glanced up and measured the height of the window from which they were shouting earlier, it looked to be the third story or so...

With this new information, I wandered into the neighboring complex, what looked to have been a florist at one point. As I entered the open doorway a hand reached out and grabbed my wrist, a cold, wet grip. Revolted, I spun, wrenching my arm out of the man's grasp, stumbling him into the doorframe, face first. Spinning my cane, I jammed the tip through the back of his head, the sharp metal piercing his brain, killing him instantly and silently. I sighed and yanked it free, the body falling to the floor. Poor chap, I shook my head, probably just got a little too enthusiastic. Shrugging it off, I continued on, wandering up several flights of stairs until I was at the third story and paused, looking at the peeling plaster walls.

"Ah, here we are," I said, finding a hole in the plaster where I could see the interior of the wall, thin wooden planks the only barrier between myself and the other wall's layer of plaster. With care, didn't want to wake them now, that would be abhorrently rude, I began to chip at the wooden planks with the sharp tip on my cane. I continued for some hours, my arms growing weary as I progressed, but art was worth the labor, so I persevered. After a time I'd finally chipped away all of the old wood, leaving only a layer of plaster, plaster that was brittle and rotten. I stepped into the hole in my side of the wall and gave the plaster a good shove, breaking it free and falling into the room opposite, rolling to my feet as I landed on the hard wooden floor with minimal noise. The most sound came from the chunks of plaster that fell to the floor with soft thumps. I reached back through the hole and grabbed my pack on the other side, pulling it through and swinging it into place on my back. It was now that I took stock of my surroundings.

The room was small, a storeroom most likely, judging by the boxes and bags laying haphazardly across the floor. These folks had surely never heard of organization. It was dark, as it had been on the other side of the wall, but a soft candle glow came from under the door, which I identified by the multitude of cracks and gaps in the construction, it seemed they'd fashioned it themselves. Without hesitation, I walked to the door and gave it a good push open, swinging it out on it's hinges. I stepped through softly, glancing about to find a man asleep on a barrel next to the door, a .45 repeater rifle crossing his lap.

In one swift potion, I unsheathed the saber from my cane and whipped it into the man's unguarded throat, slicing all the way through until I hit bone. With a yank, I withdrew the blade and wandered up the hallway. It seemed it was a single hall with three doorways, not including the one I just came through, and the staircase leading down at the end. I went through each door, only finding more disorganized storerooms. I would have to pay them a visit again later to see if anything in them was worth keeping.

And like that, I was onto the next floor, this one considerably darker than the last, the soft squish of carpet greeting my feet as I stepped into the hall. From the low light it looked to be identical to the floor above, a long hall with four doors. I explored with a spring in my step, easing the first door open only to find a stock of what appeared to be weapons. One in particular caught my eye. I stepped into the room and picked up a saber, about three feet long with a hilt of silver that accented the black sheath. With my new item buckled firmly to my belt, I proceeded to the next room to find several sleeping people. One of whom I recognized. Ever so gingerly, I eased the door closed and continued to the next room, finding several more sleeping on the floor. This time I closed the door, I was on the inside.

As I finished exploring the compound, I made my way back to the second floor, blood seeping under most every door, a guard or two laying against the walls, their skin pale and lifeless. The front door now stood ajar, the first of the damned filtering their way in, drawn by the smell of blood. This time as I entered the sleeping individuals' room, I drew a small pen knife from my pocket. I crept my way to the woman, reaching out and taking a small tuft of hair in my fingertips, severing it from the rest with my knife. Ever so gingerly, I added it to my pack and removed the wire. Standing back up, I drew my cane into my hand and dropped the ball end heavily on the woman's head, a startled "mph!" escaping her before she fell unconscious. I moved and did the same to the man sleeping beside her. I then positioned them facing one another, their hands and feet tied, the wires looped around candle holders on each wall, which I promptly lit, filling the room with a soft glow. It was dirty, the red carpet and the gray blankets they slept upon were filthy, the walls stained by god know what. Despite my revulsion, I drew the parchment from my pack and pinned it to the wall.

At last, I removed the hair from my pack and wrapped it tightly with wire to a shard of wood.

"Now for some paint," I mumbled to myself, taking out my pen knife and drawing it across the exposed skin on the man's arm, a line of red springing up after the razor sharp blade. And with that, I dipped the "brush" into the blood and set to work. This piece took me a good two hours, my subjects awakening about halfway through. They began to shout for a moment, but they quieted when they realized they were severely outnumbered by the damned who now wandered the halls freely.

At long last it was complete, and I was running out of time. My fans were on their way and I couldn't be caught in such squalor. So, I packed up my brush and made my way out the door, leaving it wide open so to permit access by the damned who had just now made it to this floor. Much to the dismay of the pair still inside the room, my art upon the wall, and a curse upon their souls. I exited swiftly, hopping up the stairs and through the hole in their food supply room and then out onto the street where I half sprinted, half jogged my way back home, avoiding the hordes that were headed the opposite direction, drawn by the smell of death.

[Holy sh*t, was running out of steam there at the end.]

[Conor]

It took a while to reach something of interest, not because London was quiet at this time of night - you could always hear some form of chaos echoing around the bricks and mortar - but because it was pitch black. As I had previously described, the city was unlit come nightfall, because doing so was to draw attention to oneself. And nobody liked doing that these days.
And so I tread, carefully, with my wits about me. The rooftops were a challenging and tiring route, but they were also safe and the traversal kept me spry. I didn't have to a lot, but there were times when the only choice was to jump and hope I had judged my choice appropriately. I would also occasionally require the use of my grapple rope, mainly for abseiling down a buildings roof to get inside through an open window. Everything was an opportunity, every nook and cranny a possible route to sanctum, and only one rule stuck - don't touch the streets.
Occasionally I would run into undead on the rooftops, unclear of how they got there in the first place. But they usually stood out, their slumped stature and occasional wandering making them easy to tell apart from the silhouettes of chimneys peaking the London skyline. I would either avoid them entirely, or dispatch them with a kick to send them tumbling over a ledge. Even if they survived the fall (which they did a lot of the time; if one ever saw a motionless, paralysed ghoul laid crippled on the road, they had usually met this very fate, or indeed, wandered off too far in their own cluelessness), they lacked the basic brain capacity to climb, meaning I was very much safe. Until the day there were undead apes, the higher one was, the better.
Many who found themselves discovered by the undead ran away with the exact same idea in mind - even if they had been infected. They would likely retreat to the nearest roof access, supplies on hand and all, then hopelessly tend to their wound before they died, then eventually turned, their corpse guarding the very provisions that kept them alive previously. And having to kill one zombie for a few cans of meat and a potential weapon rather than a thousand was a bargain in my book.
This was the exact situation I had found myself in. A single corpse looked over the East end horizon, unable to take in the natural beauty of it all. At its feet, a moderately sized sack of whatever they owned before. The thing itself wore nothing of use to me, but a large chunk of flesh hung from its right hand, showing the fatal blow.
In these instances, hesitation had now become a feeling I wish I still suffered from. Unseen from my perch above it, I drew my machete from the sheath on my thigh and jumped down from behind, slashing twice - once on the leg, severing the ligaments behind the knee and causing the creature to drop, and once more directly into the crown of the head. As I did so, I covered my mouth with the rag around my neck to prevent any surprise splash back- I'd seen a man go down that way.
It's outstretched arms flopped down to its sides, and I pushed it off of my blade with a swift kick, then proceeded to scoop up the sack and rustle through its contents. A flask of water quickly pressed my lips as I chugged half of its content, and I felt revitalised instantly. I also found two cans of beans and a few sentimental items - jewellery, clothing accessories, etc. I snagged any of the authentication for trading, but the real fruits of my labour took the form of a firearm.
In the bottom of the bag laid a dismantled rifle. From experience, I put it together swiftly, each component locking into place as it should. It was bolt action, and the previous owner had made sure it was well-maintained. But only three rounds, though the jewellery could rectify that. Regardless, it was a hell of a find, and I instantly ran to the building ledge to test the aim.
A ghoul strolled down the streets lonesomely, shambling with open arms in search of food. I lined up the barrel, the sites lining up nicely. I playfully cocked the mechanism and allowed my finger to float over the trigger. But I couldn't resist pulling it, expecting nothing more than a click.
A thunderous boom emitted from the barrel, and I was sent back in surprise. A shell popped from the chamber, rattling like a small Christmas bell on the floor. I looked at the weapon in shock, then back down to the street, whereby the creature had fallen, it's head now an incomprehensible wound.
In reply to the sound, the hum of a dozen undead moaning echoed down the road.
That's the last time I test a gun without checking the chamber.

[Damxge]

I bolted upright, my eyes stretching wide, gazing into the shadowy attic before me. The soft moonlight filtering in through the round window at the head of the room casting a gentle silhouette on the stacks of boxes and sacks stacked about. Without hesitating, I grabbed my belt and made for the window, giving the edge a sharp kick, sending it swinging wide. Without so much as a look sideways, I stepped out into space, my right arm reaching out and clutching onto a rope hanging down from the gutter. As I caught myself, I swung my belt up and clenched it in my teeth, using my now free hand to pull myself up onto the roof of the church, which towered above most buildings in the area. It was dark, and my eyes weren't yet adjusted fully as I stood atop the peak, holding my belt in my left hand, my right hand clutching a simple silver ring.

"I heard it too, my dear," I said softly, placing the ring in my pocket, my eyes scanning the city below, the only motion coming from the damned who sidled along randomly. But they weren't random tonight, no, they were all headed in one direction. My eyes narrowed, someone had drawn them in. Suddenly, bright sunlight flashed in my eyes, causing me to stumble back, sliding a considerably way down the roof, toward the edge. Blinking hard, I ran my hand across my face, trying to get rid of it as a face appeared before me, a beautiful woman. And just like that, it was gone, leaving me standing there, panting.

"It's too much," I said, my French accent slipping for a moment, reverting to something I dared not think about. Gagging, I fell to my knees, clutching at my stomach, my belt and revolver clenched in a white knuckle grip. The world around me spun and I could hear a voice.

"Calm down David," She said, and my heart dropped.

"Anna?" I asked softly, my eyes screwed shut, my whole body shaking violently.

"It's okay my love, I'm here," She said, her lips right next to my ear, and I felt her wrap her arms around me, the smell of wildflowers and honey flooding my nose.

"It's not okay, I-I've done things," I whispered, my voice cracking as tears began to roll down my face.

"Darling, they were thieves, old Judge Willard even said they had bounties," She whispered, holding me tighter.

"But I killed them, I shot them, I-I watched as they bled out in the dust," I stammered, snot mixing with the tears on my face as I reenacted a scene from my past, the full force of it hitting me again as it had the first time.

And then she was gone.

With a sniff, I fell to the side, the world going silent and soft as I slid to the edge of the roof.

[Conor]

"You're a damn fool, Duncan!"

Those were the words that echoed in my brain, some of the last words George said to me. And it proved true as the hordes came.
Like always, there were a few at first. No more than a dozen, all black and rotten, their rags falling from their limbs as they all spied me from the street. But as they moaned and groaned, shambling to the side of the building and banging on the brickwork, demanding an entrance, a few dozen more emerged from the alleys and side streets. Some were faster than the others, shambling at a slow jogging pace with unbroken limbs and shoving the laggers aside. I watched the whole spectacle, knowing I was safe a top my high sanctum.
But the dead were persistent. With flesh-stripped knuckles they banged and clawed at the building, the first wave being crushed against reinforced rot wood and crumbled brick by the second, and so on. I knew that, given enough time, they would force their way in.

It wasn't worth waiting any longer, not even to reflect upon my error. I swiftly repacked the supplies I'd found into the sack, including the rifle, and swung it over my shoulder. There was no clear path out - deathly gaps littered the London rooftops, and a miscalculated step could result in a quick drop and a painful end. And at night, this was only worsened.
I made myself disappear behind the lip of the roof and out of the undead's sight, causing them to groan in protest as a unit. I headed North, but slowly. Though the screams of the damned slowly drifted away behind me as I left the scene.

Once I was sure I had escaped, I entered a pub a recognised. The Greyhound, one of our favourite locals when we were stuck in the capital for the night, had survived the apocalypse well. Like most pubs around here, it sat on the end of a row of terraces, on the corner of Blake Street and Hangley Walk. I could only hope the clientele were a bit more reasonable than before during tonight's visit.
As most placed, I entered from the roof via a tiny attic hatch that was tough to see in the gloom that was the night. I crawled down the steps slowly, which creaked with each step. Once i was in, I observed the surroundings as best I could in the low light. Before me was a thin corridor, decorated with jade flowery wallpaper, smoke-stained and torn. A single door sat on each side, though the closest was already ajar. The wood was splintered by the handle - a forced entry.
I breathed nervously, edging towards it slowly whilst unholstering my machete. I dropped my sack with little noise, and with my free hand slowly opened the door to reveal the landlord's bedroom. Everything seemed untouched by the undead, but the room had quite obviously been ransacked and looted of most things that one could find use for nowadays; clothes, jewellery, bed sheets. But that didn't stop me looking for myself.
Mr. Wing had owned the pub, and his missus, Barbara. Me and my boys knew them to some extent, but not on a friend-to-friend basis. Mr. Wing liked his gambling though, so a game of cards was always the go-to entertainment at the Greyhound. And I hadn't lost a game since 1875, so the drinks always kept coming.
With that thought, I looked in the bedside compartment. It was bare, but I knew a secret hatch when I saw one, and upon cusping my fingers around the bottom of the draw and pulling up I found my assumption to be correct.
A few bullets for my pistol, but even better, a deck of cards. But I knew what Mr. Wing kept in his card packets. I snatched the ammo and loaded it instantly, then opened the packet - cigarettes, nine to be exact.

"Thank God." I grumbled, sticking one in my mouth and pulling out my matches. Now all I need is whiskey.

upon exiting the room and proceeding down the corridor and approached the other door. It was open, but no matter how hard I pushed a weighted, fleshy mass prevented me from getting in. I wasn't about to kick it down on account of the noise, so I let it be happily and made my way down a flight of stairs at the bottom of the corridor, and into the pub. Again, with my machete unsheathed.
I instantly grabbed the nearest bottle of scotch and a glass, sat myself down at the only table in the gaff that wasn't upturned, and lit my cig. I inhaled hard, then took a sip of the whiskey and slumped in my chair, a sense of relief becoming me. My grubby fingers pinched the bridge of my nose then rubbed my face as i took a deep sigh and looked at the ceiling.
But suddenly, there was shuffling from the back of the room. I spun my head to the source, whereby a figure emerged from the dark with a clumsy limp. Half the face had been chewed off, and a lack of clothes revealed a painfully slumped figure. What remained of its breasts swung with each step, half-eaten and exposing a ribcage beneath.

"Can't 'av a moments peace." I grunted, hoisting myself from my seat and approaching the creature. Before it could go for me I swung my machete into the top of its head, causing it to drop lifelessly onto the floor with a loud thud. Through lack of interest I left the corpse on the floor with the machete still protruding from it, and returned to my drink. I was half squatted when a similar bang emanated from above. It sounded like a door swinging open, and I gulped.
I didn't sit down in the end. Instead I stood once more, standing my ground and assessing the situation. A moment of quiet filled the air before it was ruined by footsteps - but these were fast and haphazard in nature. The heels didn't drag on the floor. These sounded like proper steps, lifting fully off the ground with every intent on coming back down and knowing exactly where they were going.
Another figure appeared, and I could smell it from where I stood. It looked more upright than usual, and I assumed it was about to lift a pistol and shoot a bullet into my head right then and there. But it's breathing - that empty passing of air through rotting lungs and a grimaced throat - haunted my ears. I couldn't see its eyes, but i knew they were looking at me.
I bolted, running for my machete. But somehow, i wasn't fast enough. The creature jumped, vaulting over the bannister of the stairs and landing fully on its feet. I could see it now, the moonlight glazing its body in a pale blue glow. It's skin was grey, almost black in places, and a messy wound on its neck revealed its demise. But what shocked me most was its lack of eyeballs. Only black, empty holes stared down on me.
I jumped back, hoping to gain some distance, but it chased me just as quick, letting out a hellish scream in pursuit. I let out a desperate whimper as it lurched towards me with yellowish teeth, snapping relentlessly like a starving hound. I gripped my hands around its throat, holding it back, but it was strong. Unusually strong. Stronger than the others.
So what did I do? I punched it. Hard, in the jaw, and though this didn't effect it like a normal person, it still sent it staggering. And in that short window of opportunity I pulled out my pistol and shot.
It dropped, twitching on the floor slightly before falling still. I gasped for breath, my heart racing, but the silence of death didn't last long.

The hordes had already homed in on me, skeletal arms reaching through the broken windows and obliviously slicing themselves on the throne of remaining glass. I scooped up my provisions and was only halfway up the stairs before the first one managed to get in somehow, and by the time i was at the top the front door had collapsed under the weight of more than fifty infected. I ran as fast as I could, but i outran them quick. The apocalypse gave you runner's legs.
Onto the roof I scampered, lobbing my grapple over the side and jumping to the next building. I slammed against its side, losing a can of beans and a bracelet from my satchel upon impact, then proceeded to heave and scramble up. For a moment i paused to look behind me - a mistake. Over the edge of the pub's roof they fell, mindlessly following me. i turned back, pulling on the rope to continue climbing, but all of a sudden I felt weightless.
The grapple had unhooked, and I was falling, I landed on my back, immediately testing my legs - nothing broken, just bruises. Something grabbed my arms, and I yanked away. The sound of heavy flesh hitting cobbled stone emitted from behind me, and as I turned I saw the pile of infected that had grown as they continued to fall, lessening the impact as they landed on bodies rather than stone.
I screamed, yelling for help, before scrambling to my feet and running swiftly down the opposite way.

(Jesus, now I'm spent.)

[Damxge]

I awoke to the sound of a shout, bolting upright where I lay. I glanced around, my vision hazy, my eyes crusted over, and an invisible weight on my shoulders. I couldn't really make out any details in the dark from where I was, just a lot of black, but I definitely wasn't home. I put my hand down to try to stand but found only air, causing me to fall backwards, my heel catching on something metal as the rest of my body fell out into- what? Open space? In a panic, I jerked myself inward with my leg, back onto whatever it was I was laying on. My eyes had just begun to adjust when I heard another shout, and footsteps. Just at that moment, the moon came out from behind a heavy sheet of clouds, illuminating everything with it's pale white glow. I was on a roof, a large roof, with a steeple and- it was a church? But it wasn't like the churches from back home, it was way bigger, and made of stone and metal. I had to be dreaming.

Without hesitation, I got to my feet, surveying my surroundings. It was then that a flood of memories hit me. Killing the bandits back home, fleeing the country, the days spent on the boats, the- I stopped, looking down to find my belt clutched in my hand, my pistol still holstered on it.

"The plague," I said softly, my voice sounding rough and harsh in my own ears. I couldn't remember anything after the plague started, where was Anna? What had happened? How did I end up on this rooftop? Another shout and some gunfire awoke me from my reverie, snapping me back to this strange, dark, twisted reality. With a deep breath, I strapped my belt on and made my way to the peak of the roof, looking around for the source of the commotion. And boy did I find it. There, in the alley right next to the church, ran a man in a tattered old suit, a massive horde of the plagued chasing after him. And when I say massive, I mean there were more of them in that group than everyone in my hometown. I looked about, trying to think of some way to help the man, and my eyes alighted on a rope tied firmly around the steeple.

I rushed over and untied the sloppy knot before sprinting to the opposite end of the church where the victim of the horde had accidentally cornered himself in a dead end alley. I ran to the edge and hurriedly tied the end of the rope to the gutter, which seemed firm enough, and let the other end drop. It was just long enough to tap him on his head, causing him to look up. I didn't say a word, too worried that the horde would look to me as their next snack. He leaped upward, grabbing handfuls of rope as he went, pulling himself upward in a rappelling fashion, with his feet on the side of the building. When he made it close enough, I reached down and grabbed the back of his jacket, half pulling, half lifting him over the edge and onto the roof next to me. Without a sideways glance at me, he began pulling the rope up, as if well practiced at escaping from the plagued.

[Sorry for the short post. Having trouble with inspiration.]

[Conor]

With desperation I scampered my way up the building side, away from the clutching, grabbing claws of death and to safety. I hadn't even begun to wonder about my unseen saviour, who peered over the ledge of the roof down at me expectantly. He didn't speak, he just gazed intensely my way, but I don't know if it was at me or my sack... of provisions, I mean.

But alas, the fellow grabbed me by the arm once I was in arm's reach, and helped me find my footing. I was exhausted, and spent the next five minutes doubled over and choking on my own lungs. The other man was hard to see in the limited light, but as I focused my vision I could make it his figure - he looked strong, and wore rags. That's about all I could work out.
But distrust fuelled me, fear guiding my movements. I reached for my belt and unsheathed my machete, swiftly raising the blade and coming to a straight stance. The man recoiled suddenly, surprised, his arms raised in peace.

"Do you want to kill me?" I asked between breaths, heart racing. The man's face contorted, animating the shadows on his face.

"No!" he gasped, trying to avoid stirring the horde below, which clawed at the building as one giant hive-minded creature "I'm another survivor, I cant take you somewhere safe, with food and water." That ticked all the boxes for a suicidal journey. i quickly drew my pistol with my other hand, cocking the hammer and pointing it at the man's head.

"I've heard that many a time, stranger, and I'm not about to believe it now." I growled, watching as the rope the man had thrown to me slid from the roof, into the sea of outstretched arms below.

"If it hadn't been for me, that rope would be a representation of you." the man said "But, if that's how you want to repay possibly the only humane man left, then go ahead and shoot me, and let's both contribute to this madness."
He had me there. After weighing it up in my head, I lowered the pistol back into its holster, before lowering the machete to my side, but still firmly in my grip.

"Where is your safehouse?" I asked plainly. The man pointed West, and I looked out towards the direction, in the blackest covering of the sky. I looked at the sack around my shoulder, observing the loss of canned food in my efforts to escape.
With a heavy head, and even heavier eyelids, I nodded slowly. "I'm very tired. I'll stay till the night's end. We can trade."

[Damxge]

We made our way back toward my hideout in the church. I only hoped it was still there, I had no idea how long I'd been passed out and it seemed as if a lot had changed. The city looks darker, despite it being nighttime, and more dilapidated, as if I'd been asleep for months and then suddenly woken up in the future. The same went for the man I'd rescued, he was far more hostile than those I was used to. It had always been us against them, the living against the dead, I mean. But he acted as if I were the enemy here. As we ran, I wondered his name, where he'd come from, his past, how he got to be where he was, and why in the hell he was wearing that ugly suit. I kept these thoughts to myself, I could ask him later when we weren't in direct danger. I wasn't sure how the dead behaved yet, but it seemed they were drawn to anything loud or out of the ordinary.

It was as the church steeple was growing larger, possibly four or five blocks away, a high cackle split the silence. Almost immediately, a rope found its way around my ankle. Panicked, I glanced over to see another lasso lace itself around my companion's neck, yanking him back off the edge of the roof we were about to leap from. In desperation, I lunged forward, praying that whoever held the other end of the line didn't have the tightest grip. Unfortunately, it seemed they had the end tied around something, because halfway through my leap the rope snagged, halting my quite abruptly in midair. I felt the dread well in my stomach as I swung down, slamming face first into the wall of the building, stars flashing in my vision, a high pitched screech filling my ears. And through it all, I could hear a woman screaming.

"Anna!" I bellowed, flailing wildly, trying to find something to grab. I couldn't be sure I was upside down or right-side-up as I flailed, kicking and swinging my arms, calling her name over and over until a soft darkness enveloped me and I fell still. I could make out some shuffling, a few bumps, through my unconsciousness, before I succumbed to the black quiet.

"C'mon now, wake up," Came a soft, female voice, distinctly lower class English, "Theeeere ye'are," She said with glee as I moved my head, looking up. I blinked a few times, wondering how in the world I ended up in this filthy room with this, this miscreant staring over me.

"Where am I?" I said, my head swimming as I tried to sit up, my French accent gliding over my lips, filling the room with a civility I'm sure it had never witnessed.

"You're in my house, love," The woman said with a high laugh.

"Yes, I see that, but why am I in your squalor of an abode?" I sighed, she wasn't the smartest woman, neigh was she the prettiest. Her brown hair fell in tangled strands around a rather horse-ish face. She had a long jaw and nose, and her teeth were far too small for her mouth, her malevolent, but empty smile consisting mostly of her blackened gums.

"Ey Niel, this'un knows some fancy words," She called over her shoulder into the darkness behind her. The floor was filthy, littered with straw and rat droppings, a few bones here and there. From what I could see, the walls were plaster, so we were likely in a townhouse, the roof, though, was made of wood rather than tiling, suggesting we were on the highest story. A small candle burned next to me, simply sat on the floor as if they hadn't a saucer for it to occupy. On the other side of the candle sat a man in a suit, tied with a chain to the wall, a groggy expression on his thuggish face. My best guess was that he was some sort of gangster or other meaningless organized crime name. After all, who would wear something as that in this day and age unless they were up to something?

"Say sommat else?" The woman cawed, snapping me out of my thoughtful reverie. Without waiting for a response, she reached out and stabbed me, my eye bolting wide in shock as I looked down to find the blade from my cane protruding from my stomach. It wasn't a deep wound, little more than a scratch, but that she dared defile my own blade and use it as her's turned my stomach. There was no honor with these heathens.

"I must ask, do you accommodate your hostages with refreshments? I am ever so parched and can feel a knot in my abdomen as if I haven't eaten in weeks," I said, licking my dried lips, watching as she mimicked my action.

"Ey Niel! He wan some water," She said, following it with a loud cackle that made my ears ring. She was quite the charmer. From the darkness behind her a large man then lumbered, dressed in what I could only describe as a butcher's smock, donned with blood and gore as if he were just finishing with a fresh side of pork. He wore a thick beard on his face and his long brown hair hid the rest, leaving only his eyes to peer out of the tangled mess.

"C'mon Mary, help me with the table, we'll get these up there in a minute," She said gruffly, giving the woman a swift slap to the side of the head, drawing an annoyed "Oi" from her lips. With a sideways sneer back at me, she wandered after him into the dark, the sound of a door closing followed quickly thereafter, and then silence.

"The f*** happened to your voice?" The man in the suit questioned, the first words I'd yet heard him speak. I glanced over to find his gazing at me through a black eye.

"What ever do you mean?" I asked, cocking my head slightly.

"I mean, you didn't sound like that earlier," He narrowed his eyes at me.

"I don't believe we've ever met, sir, how did you end up with me in this," I glanced around, searching for a word, "Prison?"

"We were running back to your base and they snatched us, the f*** you mean how'd I end up here, same as you," He shot back, rather rudely if I may say.

"I don't seem to recall, last I remember I was asleep at home, dreaming of what I may paint next," I said, glancing up to the ceiling with a puzzled expression, how odd that I would fall asleep at home and awake in this cesspit. Was it possible I'd been a victim of sleepwalking? I had heard those with artistic vision oft suffered such fates. Falling from a bridge, out a window, onto a blade. Poor fellows.

Once again our captor broke my line of thought as she reappeared, a pistol, my pistol, in her dirty clutches, a wide smile on her long face.

"Aight kittens, Niel's gonna cook you up reeeeal nice now," She hissed as she wandered closer, shakily aiming the gun with both hands toward me. I couldn't be sure if she was aiming at my head or chest or the wall behind me, she moved so much. Obviously inexperienced with a gun, "Any last words, posh boy?" She spat, venom creeping into her tone.

"If your plan is to consume us, would shooting us not be a foul course of action?" I asked, cocking my head, watching the gun as she moved closer.

"Whatchu mean?" She asked, slightly confused.

"When butchering any animal for consumption it's far better to bleed them rather than to simply shoot them, it keeps the meat tender and the act of draining the blood becomes far less arduous," I stated.

"He's right, Mary," Came Niel's voice as he lumbered into the room, a large knife in his hand. I looked down at my tied wrist, my left arm, where the shackle connected me to the wall. It hadn't occurred to me yet that I too was held by restraints, "I'll cut em, then we can butcher em in an hour or two," He grumbled, marching toward me, shoving Mary out of the way. She stumbled a bit but came right back, following Niel as if she were glued to his arm.

"But Niel, I wanna shoot em, I never got tah shoot em before, it looks like so much fun, and we finally have some guns," She whimpered, standing on my right side and Niel knelt by my left, the old blade in his grip flashing in the candlelight.

"No means no, Mary," He said angrily, glaring across me at her.

"Should have let her shoot me, Niel," I chipped in, shaking my head.

"f*** off, meansack, dun you tell me-" And that's when I moved, me right hand darted out and snatched my pistol from Mary's loose grip, spun it around my hand and fired a shot straight up into Niel's thick, furry jaw, blood raining down on us from above as the round exited the top of his head.

"HOLY f***!" Came the yell from the man tied beside me, the shrill screech of Mary's scream filling our ears before another bullet found it's way into her open mouth. Cutting off, she fell over backwards, Niel crumpling to the side, against the wall, his eyes staring forlornly at me through strands of bloodied hair. Without hesitating, I reached around and shot the chain off the wall so I could stand up and stretch.

"Now that that's over with," I sighed, turning to go.

"No! Take us with you!" Came a new voice, this one from the dark side of the room. Curious, I grabbed the candle and waved it over to find a young man chained in similar fashion to the opposite wall, near the door. He looked as if he too had just been captured.

"Why would I do that?" I asked, sidling over toward him.

"We're in this together, you saw them, they're fuckin loonies," He said, shaking harder the closer I came to him.

"Fair enough," I shrugged, turning my back on him and walking to the man in the suit. Casually, I fired another round, this one breaking the chain that connected him to the wall.

"Thanks mate," He said, dragging himself to his feet.

"It's my pleasure," I said with a bow, turning to the other man, cocking the lever on the revolver to do the same.

"Name's Duncan," The freed suit man said as he grabbed what I assumed was his backpack from a nearby stack of boxes.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duncan," I said, "My name is Milo," At the name I saw the color face from the still chained man's already pale face.

"W-Wait," He said, scooting further toward the wall, "N-not Mad Milo?" He stuttered, his fear turning to horror.

"You know what happened to the last person to call me that?" I asked softly, stopping in my tracks.

"Shoot him! He's f***ing cra-" The man started to scream to Duncan, but a gunshot put an end that that nonsense.

"That's what happened," I said with a chuckle, holstering my gun. Almost immediately, three people burst through the door, guns drawn, aiming at Duncan and I.

"Oh dear..."



[It's strange switching writing styles in the middle of writing.]

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