Viewing Single Post From: Zombie RP

Viewing Single Post From: Zombie RP
NeedyNeedles	Nov 3 2008, 10:50 PM
Posts: 28 Group: Members Member #110 Joined: September 28, 2008	11/3/08 I've decided to start dating these things. The last one was two days ago, I think. Look, this isn't a biography. I'll just say what I want to say. Last night I get back to the beach condo Laurel and I had been staying in. Laurel's a chick I met wandering around downtown Huntington Beach a week ago. I think she's in her early twenties. If she told me or if she didn't I don't know. Too much shit going on to care, anyway. I was poking around this shitty little coffee place when I see this short, pale woman wandering around barefoot. My first instinct is to pull out the revolver I'm packing and shoot it's face off, but she yelled for me to not do so before I could, thankfully. Those things can gurgle and spit, but they can't speak. Between then and two days ago nothing happened. I'm not going to fill this with useless shit. Then, two days ago she looks weird. Looks sick, sort of. Too pale. At first she doesn't say anything about it, but she keeps grabbing her right arm as though it hurt. When I come back from getting supplies she's in her bed with a fever, groaning with pain. "I have it, Dimitry," she says. I say she doesn't, it's just the goddamn flu or something, but I know she does. I know for sure when her nose starts gushing all over the place and she can't remember my name. Before everything went dark, the government submitted a list of symptoms that correspond with the virus. Laurel was matching them perfectly. I did what I had to do. Putting a bullet in her head was taking her out of her misery and eventual reanimation. After the fact I gathered the sheets around her and made it so it looked like she was a mummy or something and carried her out to the beach. God, she was heavy. Rigor mortis, fuck you. I put her down, not far from the dead guy and the umbrella, and poured kerosene over the body. The sheets lit up like wildfire when I flicked the match onto the inert frame, and for a while I just watched. I watched as the flames engulfed the woman I had come to think of as a companion, even a friend. In the end, survival comes before anything else. I will be the first to admit that. Selfishness and apathy are the keys to life in this new world of ours. I left yesterday, riding a dirt bike I picked up raiding a guy's garage. I felt that I was done with this place, my last connection severed. I decided to head to Northern California, where there're less people to become crazy and more mild heat. This place stinks to high heaven. Dead bodies rotting in the desert sun? Ugh. I left with a duffel bag and a revolver. The duffel bag has some food, none of it worth describing, clothes, a razor, an atlas, a couple bottles of water and a box of bullets. In my pocket is my all-mighty and useful Swiss Army Knife. I brought a jacket too, for the hell of it. I'm wearing jeans, a shirt and sneakers, so I think I'm pretty much set for most terrain. Of course, my luck with the crazies didn't last long. Twenty minutes out of Huntington, dodging abandoned cars on Pacific Coast Highway on my bike, I find myself facing a fucking roadblock of them. PCH is a four-lane highway running along the SoCal coastline, with beach on one side and preserved wetlands on the other for a certain distance. At first I think these specks are cars or something, but when they become people-shaped I start to get tense. Soon I can make out basic features. There was about twenty of them at least, thirty at most, standing around on the pavement in the middle of PCH in the noon sun, shuffling about aimlessly. The sound of the dirt bike alerts them of my presence. They pause for a second, before a gut-wrenching howl erupts from the mass and they start sprinting towards me. From the beach more join the mass, spanning distances by foot that normal people could only achieve through extensive training or adrenaline. I had enough time to weave my way through the cars and turn, though I knew that if I went back it would be wasted time. It was a decision made by a mind on the verge of panic: Go around them. Again I went through the empty vehicles, this time heading towards the beach. The mass swerved in their path and steadily began to gain on me. The cars seemed not to be much of an obstacle for them: most just jumped over the cars or went between them. Waddling through the parking lot that PCH had become I was greatly hindered, and before I knew it the crazies were mere feet away from me. A man with a torn face howled and jumped at me. I pulled out the revolver from the back of my jeans and had enough time to blow his face off before he got me. Blood sprayed my clothes. The revolver was an old Russian Nagant revolver with seven cylinders and a manual reload. That meant I had six more shots before I had to seriously haul ass, since reloading would be take too much time. I squeezed between a Prius and a SUV. What once was an elderly woman jumped on the hood of the SUV, and I blasted her through the back window. There was only a few parked cars along the raised sidewalk. A smooth handicapped ramp led up to the raised part. I hit the throttle and drove up the ramp. Once up on the sidewalk I made the bike go as fast as it could. By pure luck I managed to evade the swarm. I spotted a couple here and there as I drove down PCH, but they either didn't see me or I was going too fast. I rode until sunset. A little inland I found this decrepit Mobil station. The place had a snack shack, as well as a cramped, windowless storage room with only one door leading in or out. I filled the tank of the dirt bike, hid it inside the shack, and spent the night in the storage room with the door barricaded with crates of Dorido's and Red Bull. In the shack I found this cordless radio. For shits and giggles I fiddled around with the dial, looking to see if anyone had anything up. I discovered three stations. 93.1 Jack had been taken over by a pious black man who would play weird, old music, read from the Bible, cry, play more music, randomly leave for periods of time, and then cry again. 106.7 KROQ has been comandeered by a group of young teenagers. I think two guys and a girl. They renamed it KOCQ, as in Cock. Ha-ha. Sometimes they'll just bicker, or banter randomly. For a couple of minutes the girl sobbed and begged for her parents. I found this oddball station, WCRM 103.6. For a couple of minutes it was a couple of guys talking, and then they were screaming and yelling. I heard snarling in the background, gunshots, and one of the guys said, "Emma, I love you." There was a last gunshot, and then there was silence. After that, I turned off the radio. This is a different world, now. A very different world. Edited by NeedyNeedles, Nov 3 2008, 10:58 PM.


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