Of Zombies and Men (IC/Open)

[Kyraina]

Joseph Bridges

Joseph and the group had followed the two soldiers, who dropped them off at a tent, where a young man and lady (Flak and Sherry) where doing their best to out a tent together, Joseph shook his head at first till he saw that it was the all to familiar DRASH Tent.

He placed his gear down, and walked up to Flak and Sherry and helped put the tent together and started to direct the others on how to put it up.

A few minutes later the Tent was up and secured.

Joseph turned to Flak and Sherry and said "little bit easier with some help and someone that has put these damn things up before. I am Joseph by the way."

Joseph stuck his hand out for Flak to shake

[Ularn]

Kneeling on the ground where he had just finished beating in the last tent peg, Flak shrugged. It had taken a minute or two but he and Sherry had pretty much figured out how to get the tent's lattice to unfold just as the group of strangers showed up. The extra hands had still been helpful though; there was a lot of frame and fabric for just two people to stretch out by themselves.
"I kind of had the gist of it," he remarked a little defensively. For the last two years Flak had made a living building houses, offices and finally a skyscraper; the implication that he needed help figuring out how to put up a tent was a little insulting even if the new guy - Joseph - had not meant it that way. "They're fairly idiot-proof," he added.
A quick glance around him as he stood up proved Flak wrong, however. Although several groups had managed to erect their tents, plenty more were still struggling. One nearby example appeared partially crushed as though someone had tripped through it mid-assembly, while it looked like another group had got it into their heads that the frame itself had to be disassembled and had somehow acquired the tools to do it, spreading parts all across both theirs and the neighbouring campsite squares. Those were two of the worst cases, but Flak noticed several other groups had stopped what they were doing and were eying his tent critically, enviously, as though trying to determine what he had figured out that they had not.
Flak tossed the club-hammer he had been using on the tent pegs and it landed with a wet thunk in the grass by his backpack, and accepted Joseph's hand. "Cheers though, Joseph. I'm Flak, and this is Sherry."
Joseph looked a little older than he was, Flak suspected, wearing a load of military surplus gear over civilian clothes and carrying enough guns to make Flak instinctively uncomfortable. Even here up north where gun owners were meant to be fewer, the USA's obsession with firearms was something he had yet to grow used to, having been in the country for just under two months, and yet in the last few hours it had just started making perfect sense. Flak shuddered internally as he realised that the sad, sociopathic fantasies of every survivalist lunatic in the country had just been vindicated and really, really hoped Joseph was not one of those guys.

[Kyraina]

Kneeling on the ground where he had just finished beating in the last tent peg, Flak shrugged. It had taken a minute or two but he and Sherry had pretty much figured out how to get the tent's lattice to unfold just as the group of strangers showed up. The extra hands had still been helpful though; there was a lot of frame and fabric for just two people to stretch out by themselves.
"I kind of had the gist of it," he remarked a little defensively. For the last two years Flak had made a living building houses, offices and finally a skyscraper; the implication that he needed help figuring out how to put up a tent was a little insulting even if the new guy - Joseph - had not meant it that way. "They're fairly idiot-proof," he added.
A quick glance around him as he stood up proved Flak wrong, however. Although several groups had managed to erect their tents, plenty more were still struggling. One nearby example appeared partially crushed as though someone had tripped through it mid-assembly, while it looked like another group had got it into their heads that the frame itself had to be disassembled and had somehow acquired the tools to do it, spreading parts all across both theirs and the neighbouring campsite squares. Those were two of the worst cases, but Flak noticed several other groups had stopped what they were doing and were eying his tent critically, enviously, as though trying to determine what he had figured out that they had not.
Flak tossed the club-hammer he had been using on the tent pegs and it landed with a wet thunk in the grass by his backpack, and accepted Joseph's hand. "Cheers though, Joseph. I'm Flak, and this is Sherry."
Joseph looked a little older than he was, Flak suspected, wearing a load of military surplus gear over civilian clothes and carrying enough guns to make Flak instinctively uncomfortable. Even here up north where gun owners were meant to be fewer, the USA's obsession with firearms was something he had yet to grow used to, having been in the country for just under two months, and yet in the last few hours it had just started making perfect sense. Flak shuddered internally as he realised that the sad, sociopathic fantasies of every survivalist lunatic in the country had just been vindicated and really, really hoped Joseph was not one of those guys.

"Don't worry about the firearms, I was getting ready to go on a hunting trip down in Texas, the Large rifle there was/is for big game like hog, elk, bear, moose. The smaller gun is for smaller game like deer, rabbit, goat, etc. The Shotgun for bird, rabbit, and really small game. The pistol is for self-defense. Don't worry all three have empty chambers. Any way how did y'all make it here and what happened where y'all came from?" Joseph said as he shook Flak's Hand and looked around.

[Martemos]

Harrison Accounting Offices 10:59 a.m.

John squeezed through the glass doors and into the office. The five-story, fading brick structure had been around since the seventies and as far as John could tell, had belonged to Harrison Accounting since then. He knew he was late to work, but even then the lobby seemed less crampt than usual. Some janitorial stuff from the night shift had been left out, and a few boxes that were meant to be in the basement by then were still stacked up next to the elevators. He had brought doughnuts as a lazy excuse for being late, but now, he was figuring out that they may have not missed his absence. Murdoch fast-walked to one of two receptionists, a seemingly ancient Italian woman named Ann who had mercy on those who were late.

"Hi, Ms. Ann" He said, smiling as he opened the Dunkin' Donuts box on the desk. She returned the smile, using her crooked fingers to take one of the chocolate doughnuts. She nodded, accepting the offer and excused him for being several hours late. He quickly closed the box and made his way to the bull-pen upstairs. After depleting his load of pastries slower than he thought, he finally plopped down in the security room, playing Solitaire with one hand and switching between the cameras with the other.

12:11 p.m.
He watched the live news during his lunch break, sat down with a dozen others. Some riots or something had apparently kicked off everywhere, and now a news helicopter had a bird's eye view of it all going down as they hovered over some mall. They couldn't see what was going down inside, but there were crumpled, bloodied bodies in the parking lot and a flaming sedan was crashed halfway through the mall's front doorway. The scary thing was that the mall was only a few blocks away from the office. As he left for the security office when the emergency broadcast kicked on, he wondered if it'd hit the offices, just as the PA system kicked on. "All security staff, please report to the lobby immediately. Code yellow, I repeat, code yellow.". He broke into a jog, dropping the remains of his sub as he pushed into the doorway of the security office and to it's wallsafe. Code Yellow meant some type of emergency that potentially required a firearm, everything from a deranged hobo with a knife to a mass-shooter. Usually he wouldn't be worried, but the riots or whatever they were could've spread quickly. He unlocked the safe, taking one of the pistols and running off to the lobby.

The other security guard, an overweight fellow named Stanley Hurkins, was already there when John Murdoch made it to the lobby. "What's going on?" John said, pulling his .22 pistol out of his waistband. Hurkins struggled to catch his breath, but Murdoch could see he had blood splattered all over his green polo. John would've asked again, but at that second there was a pounding at the front entrance. A frail looking man in a hoody battered a bloody hand across the door, leaving red streaks as he went. The frail man was joined by a battered looking store clerk, who was joined by another, who was then joined by a dozen more.

"Oh my sweet lord." Miss Ann said, unfolding her walker and moving towards the elevators as fast as she could. The other receptionist ran off into one of the adjoining closets and locked the door. John stood there agape at what he say next to a hyperventilating Hurkens who was still trying not to vomit on the linoleum. When Stanley looked up, he vomited as the doors shattered open.

John felt for his pistol, bringing it up and pulling the trigger at the closest attacker, the gun clicking repeatedly before John realized it was empty. A shot rang out as Hurkins fired wildly into the advancing crowd before stumbling through his own vomit and up the steps. John turned and tried to follow Hurkins, only to be grabbed by the nearest zombie. He screamed, shoving the zombie across the vomit splayed floor and knocking over another zombie in the process. Murdoch sprinted into the nearest door, slamming it in the attackers' faces. He then vomited up his lunch. Then pissed himself.

12:46 a.m.
John Murdoch had spent the better part of the half hour trying to jimmy the window open with the pocketknife . When it finally did, he reluctantly pulled himself out. He had barricaded the door with the office supplies that seemed to have been here since the end of the Cold War. Heavy typewriters and yellowing papers and metal shelves apparently made good protection. John noted the humorous thought as his feet touched the alley.

He crept his way, alley to alley, going through cars for anything, knocking on their windows to make sure no-one was in it first. He had found a few bodies, their heads cracked open and their brains missing. On his eighth try, he finally found a car with keys in the ignition, a faded yellow '73 Cadillac De ville, it's cheap interior now a safe bubble. He tore out of the devoid city block and onto the main street, weaving between the occasional zombie and opportunistic looter. The radio babbled on and on about safe-zones and zombies and all this shit. He turned it off, pushing a cassette tape into the player. As the assorted songs of one-hit wonders from the mid-twentieth century blared in the car, he swerved onto the main road, following bodies and discarded bags, leaving a near candy trail. It was pretty easy to find which way the safe zone was.

He lit a cigarette and turned the music up. This shit was gonna be awhile.

[Biscaria]

Jimmy & Bea Carter
Mt. Baker Lodge, Baker Lake
November 17, 2016. 7:02 AM

As Carter awoke from his slumber the next morning, he was greeted by the sweet smell of breakfast. Never one to pass up a good meal, especially a home-cooked one, Carter quickly threw on an outfit consisting of a green sweater over a white shirt and a pair of slacks. He then stumbled into the kitchen, looking up to see Bea tending the stove. She was wearing one her mother's favorite dresses, and busy whipping up one of Carter's favorite foods: fresh buttermilk pancakes with a sprinkling of pepper. Bea barely ever cooked this way in the off-season so, after seeing this display, Carter knew she wanted to win him over about going to a safe zone.

Bea noticed him over by the door and greeted him with a smile, seemingly recovered from the horrible encounter the night before. So was the kitchen; there was barely any trace left of the zombie bear besides scratches on floor and a broken window. Carter himself had made sure that things were tidy before he went to bed and that the window was boarded up, but Bea had taken it upon herself to transform the kitchen into a warm, inviting place that was in stark contrast to the cold world outside.

Carter walked over to the table. "Morning kid, what's for breakfast," he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Your favorite," said Bea, knowing that her father already knew. "Peppered buttermilk pancakes."
"Alright then," he said as she slid a pancake onto his plate. "Lay it on me."
He took his fork and took a big bite out of the pancake. "Well I'll be damned," he said after swallowing. "That there is a fine pancake. Just like Aggie used to make." He then took another bite.
As he does so, she smiled and turned off the stove. "Well if you like those, I've already packed some onto the seaplane for the trip."
This statement almost caused him to choke on his pancake, but he managed to swallow it down before speaking. "Now wait just a second there. Don't you know they'll get cold out there? Now if you could just wait-"
"No Dad," Bea interrupted with a sudden change in tone from accommodating to sharp. "We can't wait. You know what happened last night. You shot that zombie bear. And, in fact, I bet you encountered some other zombie animals on your night hunt last night, didn't you?"
Carter grew uneasy. As he reached for the pepper shaker in the center of the table, he began to reply. "Now listen kid, this isn't as simple as ya make it. I have- WE have a lot memories here. You can't just up and go at the sight of a few rabid critters. What would your Ma-"
"Mom would want us to be safe," retorted Bea. The room went quiet, as the sounds of nature outside permeated throught the walls of the kitchen and made the ambience eerily calm.

After a period of silence, Carter again replied. "Kid, I've lived out here for 50 years. I know you grew up here too, but half the time you were off at boarding school, and then you went off to become a goddamn secretary in the city. But me and your Ma-" He paused at the mention of his late beloved.
"We spent more time here than you could imagine. Every off-season, when the weather went bad and we'd be blocked in here by snow drifts as big as Mount Baker itself. But that mighty old mountain that was so important to me when I first came here, became part of me and it became part of your mother too. Goddammit, she was my better half and against the nature of things was the first to go. But she was part of that mountain as much as she was part of me, and that's why I can't up and leave. I just ca-"

Suddenly, Carter's monologue was disrupted by a thrashing in the woods. Bea turned around and Carter's eyes followed her. The old man wiped his face and stood up to get a better look out the window. In the distance, Carter saw a figure with a beige top, black bottoms, and a distinctive hat. Undoubtedly a park ranger.

"Well now" stated Carter with enthusiasm, happy to break away from discussing leaving and peering far with his strangely strong eyes. "If that isn't old Tom Coulee! Why, I bet that devil has some news from Concrete. Oh I just hope he didn't notice any trace of my hunt last night..." Carter began to trail off as he set off to greet the oncoming Tom Coulee. But before he could open the door, Bea took her father's arm.
"Dad, wait. I don't think you want to do that..." She glanced over at the park ranger in the distance, and shock enters her eyes. "Oh my god..."
Taken back by this statement, Carter looked over at the park ranger as well. "What the--" he stated, as he saw what was happening.

The figure that was once Tom Coulee was now scraping its foot against the ground in the same manner that the zombie bear had. Only this time, one could notice the distinctive shamble done by the figure. Its face was deathly pale and scraped badly, while its hat and clothes were tattered. Though by zombie standards he wasn't particularly torn up, Coulee was definitely now a zombie. Any hope that Carter had about receiving news from his dear old friend in the Forest Service quickly faded as he noticed the zombie shambling closer and closer to the lodge.

"God-effing-dammit," stated Carter. "They got Tom."

Bea saw this as an opportunity to win over her father's mind. "See Dad? What did I tell you? We have to get out of here, and to a safe zone. Maybe you'd be able to deal with-" she pointed hesitantly over at the remains of Coulee, "-him, but undoubtedly there will be others. Why, pretty soon I bet we'll have the entirety of Concrete shuffling up the lakeside! Don't you see Dad, we-"

In solemnity, Carter put up his hand as a motion for her to stop, and she complied. Hesitantly, he reached for his Savage rifle that he had forgotten in the kitchen the night before after cleaning up after the zombie bear. He then opened the door slowly with Bea's disapproval, though at the moment it was masked by horror. Carter slowly but surely made his way around the building, stopping at a point masked by some bushes but in sight of the undead Coulee. Bea followed him close behind for reasons that were a mixture of fear for his safety and curiosity.

Carter cocked his rifle and aimed it at his zombified friend in the wilderness. Carter knew Coulee for years, and the park ranger had been a guest of many a party of theirs when Aggie was alive. They had gone on trips through the wilderness together, shared beers together, and laughed at many a joke in the wee hours of the morning even when Aggie told them to quiet down. But this was it; Coulee was no longer alive. Carter knew what he had to do.

As he was about to pull the trigger, a sharp jerk occurred in the zombie that startled Carter. He misfired the rifle and a bullet ricocheted into a nearby tree. In consequence, the zombie then directed its soulless gaze in their direction. It then faced up toward the heavens, and unexpectedly let out a loud screech. Soon, more sounds of thrashing followed. Bea, guessing what was about to occur tugged her practically paralyzed father up from his shooting place and got him to his feet.

Carter shook himself out of his daze, and promptly ran inside of the lodge. He grabbed some necessary supplies, his winter coat, and iconic hat, though he noticed that much of the supplies had already been removed from the pantry. Bea followed him and got her own coat from the lodge, and the two ran away from the house down to the boathouse as the screeching could still be heard on the other side of the lodge.

While there was a dense fleet of old rowboats grounded in front of the ramshackle wooden boathouse, Carter dodged them and headed for the door at a fast speed for an octogenarian that Bea could barely keep up to. He opened the door, and took his keys out his pocket. With one of his many keys, he opened a wooden chest near the door that was labelled For Emergency Use Only. Bea always figured there was an first aid kit or something in that old chest, but she was surprised when Carter opened it and handed her an old Tommy gun and a belt of ammunition. She hesitated, and Carter noticed.

"Come on kid, there's no time for resting. Now I know you're better shot than you think you're. So go on, take it."

Bea took the old gun. Despite having not fired a firearm for decades, Bea found herself somewhat comfortable with the submachine gun.
The two then turned to the showpiece of the boathouse: Carter's Taylorcraft B seaplane. Fully stocked up with supplies and gas by Bea the day before, after opening the boathouse door all the two would need to do to escape was hop inside and pull out. Carter slammed a button on the wall and the aging door came to life and lifted itself from the ground to reveal pristine Baker Lake.

But before they could hop into the seaplane, the pair heard another great screech and then a great chorus of deranged growls and screams. Bea and Carter looked at each other and, despite never having seen a zombie horde before, knew what was about to come.

A wall of force slammed against the boathouse wall, and there was a pounding against the door. Carter picked himself up to run over to the seaplane with Bea in tow, cursing to himself along the way. Once Carter was in the seaplane and Bea was dangling just outside the door, the rickety door of the boathouse gave way and with a great woosh a horde of zombified animals of all kinds swarmed through the doorway. Bea responded to this by firing hard with the old Tommy gun, which worked surprisingly well in cutting down the zombie critters. But knowing there was more, Bea took advantage of the ensuing lull in zombies to get herself into the seaplane. Once she was in, Carter took command of the controls and started up the engine. In the distance, another screech could be heard.

Pulling the seaplane out of the boathouse onto Baker Lake, Carter noticed a picture of Aggie near the dashboard. He smiled, and turned around to face Bea after he managed to get the seaplane into its take-off position.
"You ready, kid?" he said to her.
"Ready as I'll ever be," she states.

He smiled and turns back to front, "That's my girl," he muttered, and proceeded to start the take-off process.
By the time the zombie animals flooded the boathouse again, with the surface of Baker Lake as its runway the seaplane has taken off into the air. Carter circled the seaplane above the lodge, gazing longingly at his old home and gazing off into the distance towards majestic Mount Baker. With a slight salute, he said goodbye to the mountain and steered the seaplane through the air to the southwest. Though they were forced to leave, everyone who knew Carter knew that you can take the man from the mountain, but never the mountain from the man.