Hand in Hand, In Dixieland (Horror RP) IC/OPEN

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Kentucky Fried Land
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Founded: May 11, 2016

Hand in Hand, In Dixieland (Horror RP) IC/OPEN

Postby Kentucky Fried Land » Tue Apr 10, 2018 5:46 pm


“Daddy! Daddy!”

“What is’t, Ames?”

“Can you swing me on the tire, please?”

“Alright, alright, but we gotta go in soon. It’s gettin’ late.”

Outside Lake View, South Carolina
The Hughes Farm

The night sky was brighter than ever. Stars shone like fluorescent lights over the field, the inky canopy brightening the tall grass that choked the roots of broad beech trees. Hanging from the middle tree of the field was a red nylon rope that strangled a rubber tire in its grasp. On said tire sat the young Amelia Hughes of only seven years old, her father approaching behind her. She was a dainty little girl in jeans, a pink t-shirt with The Little Mermaid grinning like a fiend on the front, and tight red boots on her feet. She had created a little bit of force with just her arms and torso, but her legs didn’t reach the ground from her heightened position. To her, it was as if little Amelia was suspended high in the sky, above the wispy clouds and even above the stars, far above the ant-sized town of Lake View.

Her father was a large man. Chuck Hughes sported substantial muscles from years of farm work, a grizzled and full black beard, and a baseball cap atop his greasy black hair. His callused hands spread around the sides of the tire, pulling it back. The spider leg of a branch it hung from groaned in response, angered at the weight of Amy on its weary bones. She grinned, somewhat yellowed teeth hiding behind her lips. The leaves above her blew in a cool wind as she felt herself lifted up farther and farther. She was already giggling at the weightlessness, an unnatural but arresting experience. “Ready?” She heard her father say, and she nodded with fury in her eyes. He didn’t so much push the tire as he did shove it, sending the tire screaming through the air with her on it. The girl was seized by the hilarity and buzz of the ride, her face pointed upright towards the night sky. She fell back again, near slipping and plunging into the damp grass below. Her father grabbed the tire again for only a split-second, pushing her forward again. She let out a squeal of excitement and a “Wheeeeeee!” before finding herself face to face with the stars once more. This continued for what seemed like seconds, but was actually something closer to two minutes or so. At one point, Amy even heard her father guffawing at her own wild excitement.

She came back down, no longer feeling her father’s presence upon the tire. She did notice him - walking around the swing. Her smile faltered and as the swing slowed to a crawl, Chuck Hughes aided it in one final stop. “C’mon sweetheart, your mama’s prob’ly worried somethin’ fierce.” Amelia giggled at this, always having enjoyed that last little saying of her father. He smiled too; he had always said it to make her laugh after hearing his own pa use it so often. “Alright, daddy.” She replied, and he grabbed her by the waist and set her down. “We gotta get you in bed. You know it’s a school night.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You did finish your math work, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I said I did daddy.”

“Alright, alright, calm down there missy. I just wanted to make sure an’ all.”

“I know.”

They walked, before she looked up at her father. Admiration in her gleaming glare, she watched him continue his walk before realizing that she hadn’t kept pursuit. “What’s the matter, hon?” He asked, turning around. “Could you carry me, daddy? My feet hurt.” He looked over her, eyeing her. It almost looked like he was gonna say something snarky, something poking fun at her just to make her laugh. But he didn’t. Instead, he stepped towards her with that look of worry only a daughter could know. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

Outside Lake View, South Carolina
The Hughes Farm

The tree was still there.

The irate branch had good reason to be so mad with them, judging by how it had snapped off three years later from what she could remember. It was gone now, but the tire with its nylon rope still leaned up against the tree. Amy Hughes half-expected it to be smoking a cigarette and watching her with one of its rubbery eyes, an indignant little shit of a tire. The nylon rope was wrapped all around the tire, adorning the wilting thing up like the bow on a present. Amy was twenty-two now, and something around a foot taller than she was the last time she swung on that tire.

Her expression had changed. Solemn, angry. A mosquito floated past her face but she barely paid it any attention. Her eyes were still on the rotting tire and the sunken tree. The woman scoffed, before walking out of the field and into the forest behind it.

Act I: Foot in the Dark

Chapter 1 - The Forest

The woods were quieter than she remembered. Amy had remembered them being alive with crooning blue jays and running squirrels, but now it was only the crunch of her sneakers in the leaves and dirt. She had entered the forest from the trail her father had cut out for them so long ago, now finding out that she didn’t know quite where to go anymore. It was almost like the forest had changed, but she knew it hadn’t. How could it have? It had only been five years since she’d been out here in these woods, and it wasn’t like that was long enough to forget. She wished it was.

Amy had changed her wardrobe only slightly since her last swing on the tire. A purple tank top accentuated by light blue denim jeans and accompanied by a camouflage baseball cap with an orange Under Armour logo on the crown. Her hair was still naturally curly, bouncing with every step she took. Her eyes sagged in dark creases of skin, under each crevice a telling story of agitation in the night. She continued her trek through the trees. They loomed over her, webs of branches casting a cover from the sweltering July sun with cascades of trembling leaves. On the forest floor, tree sprouts springing from the dirt, delightful ferns, and yellow wildflowers decorating the ground. Amy’s stride parted them, shoving and crinkling the plants that tickled her ankles.

In between her pinnae were a pair of earbuds, attached to some Apple iPhone stuffed in her pocket. There was the silky strum of acoustics, tasted by her ears like gourmet dinner. The hike through the forest continued, and memories swelled in her mind. Her mother and father on four-wheelers, Amy riding on the back of the woman’s ride. Rushing gusts through her wavy hair, hopping from the coiled locks in dashes of frenzy. The blazing pipes on the side kissing her legs and searing her skin. Her mother’s worry. The note she left on the table after Suzie told her about all the women daddy had screwed at the bar. Amelia never saw her mama again.

Amy endured on. The woods were packed tightly together, clogging the hard work her father had done on the trail so many years before. She spotted some lichen growing off the bark of the oak trees in the forest. She grimaced, running her hand along a patch and drawing back, startled. She hadn’t expected the change in texture. Rolling her eyes, Amy continued forward, aware of hidden gazes and plodding claws on her back now. The forest always had creeped her out and the unexpected touch of lichen on her fingers only torqued the sensation. The girl shuddered, shaking sighs leaving her mouth in hot breaths in the torrid air. Her chin pivoted up and down, teeth smacking on a glob of spearmint chewing gum she had tossed under her tongue.

The trail grew more winding, fallen trees encountered like dead giants across her path. Her tread was light over the collapsed trunk, bounding off of it with one hobbling leg. Amy landed, her hat floating up and shifting above her head a tad. She adjusted it again, hard to do with the froths of curls pushing it back up like a trampoline. The girl was methodical in her approach, creeping upon a pair of steel lines that cut the forest off from another glowing field. The rusted wire was all that stood in between the wild of the woods and the kicking of the wind through the thickets of the field. The top wire was barbed and rusting with the rest of the fence. The fence itself was connected only by a wooden poles that had already begun wasting away. Upon Amy’s glance into the top of a pole, she noticed that the top had been near hollowed out by a colony of carpenter ants. She bit at her lip, drawing back upon seeing the sneering antennae of the bugs. She walked along the fence, a guiding boundary to her journey. This walk had cleared her head up a little bit; perhaps it was even good for her. The faint sense of nostalgia came back to her, driving a railroad spike through the top of her skull as ruined sheds and a hefty rusted satellite dish materialized behind the barbed fence. The field had disappeared just as quick as it had appeared, now piles of tires and junk littering a man’s yard.

Amy didn’t notice the voice behind her the first time, zoning into her own music. “’Scuse me, ma’am!” It wriggled through her eardrums the second time, and she spun around. Behind the fence, in between a brick shop with a sheet metal door and the satellite dish was an elderly black man, a caterpillar of a mustache on his upper lip and a trucker cap on his head. He glared at her as she fully turned around and got a good view of his denim overalls and red plaid underneath. He wore brown work boots and a wrinkled face, an incredulous glare in his eyes. She turned fully now, raising her eyebrows at the man. His hands rose to his big ears, fingers gripping air and pulling out from them, an obvious sign to pull out her earbuds. She winced, before complying and slinging the wires of her neck.

“Yessir?” She asked, an annoyed tone. The old man wrinkled his nose and Amy saw a glimpse of remembrance in his eyes. Something seemed familiar about him as well, or at least she thought. “You know this is private property, ma’am?” He inquired - she responded by crossing her arms. “Yessir. It’s mine. I’m Chuck’s daughter.”

The man’s eyes lit up and she immediately recognized him. “Wait, Mr. Jones?” The girl asked and the man answered with a nod. “You’re the Hughes girl? Almose didn’t recognize ya.” Mr. Jones spoke, sticking his thumbs into his overalls’ pockets. “Yeah. That’s me.” Mr. Jones squinted at her, nodding with pity in his expression. She could see it in the lines of his face, the bulging wrinkles that circled his eyelids. He pitied her. Amy resented it, sniffling in the humidity. “You’ve gotten about half a foot taller I see.” He smiled and she returned a little smirk. “Try half an inch.” She continued smacking on the gum, the old man and the young woman peering at each other like cowboys at high noon.

He spit through his teeth, a spray of saliva sliding against the dirt. “What’ve you been up to?” Mr. Jones spoke.

“Been up in Colombia. I’m a paralegal.”

“Look at you. City girl, I see.”

“Somethin’ like that. What about you?”

“Been fishin’ at the lake.”

“Yeah? You catch anything?”

“Caught water.”


“Also think some kids cut through the fence. Found a hole just up the ways a bit.”

“Hm. Sorry about that.”


Another silence settled. They looked at each other for another moment, nervous swallows shared between the two. He was the first to break the silence.

“Sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral.”

Her teeth clenched and she sucked in a breath. Her mind lingered, eyes watering. “It’s alright. Was just a few of ‘is friends from church and my Aunt Chelsea and the pastor and all.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. Sorry, Ames.”

Amy shook her head. “Ya didn’t do nothin’. You’re alright.”

There was another pause, something Amy had begun to relish. If she never had to open her mouth again she’d be content. But of course Jones was there to snap the hiatus in Q and A with his knee. “You wanna come over for dinner? Laura’s cookin’ pot roast an’ we got cornbread in the oven.”

“Nah. I gotta get back home. You enjoy that roast, though.”

“Alright then. I'm sure I will. Holler if ya need me or Laura one, we're right here.”

She nodded to him, putting her buds back in and walking away from that fence and away from Mr. Jones.

Chapter 2 - The Town

The next thing she knew she was walking back towards the farmhouse, emerging from the woods and crossing the field in an abrupt gait. She cruised past a shed falling on itself, a barn with a destitute tractor of rust and red, collapsing corn stalks driven to the ground by her father’s negligence, and finally the farmhouse itself. It wasn’t particularly grand, with the wood walls she grew up in between shedding their paint and the brick chimney crushing itself as the mortar eroded. The windows were fading and dusty and the moth-eaten curtains draped behind them were from the 90s. The gravel driveway was around 250 feet long, ensuring at least a little bit of a drive between the road and the farm. It was of course visible from the road but it wasn’t like they got many visitors anyways. Especially after mama and Ames left. She kept on chewing her gum, walking up the path to the front door and stopping up on the porch. The entire farmhouse was painted an eggshell white, a white that had since yellowed and begun flaking due to her father’s indifference.

Amelia opened up the storm door first and then pushed into the den through the actual door behind it. She hadn’t bothered locking the two, because why would anybody bother breaking into some dirty shack of a building. It was two stories yet never seemed to have all that much room and the way the settling boards whined nowadays, kids wouldn’t dare to come near it alone. The living room itself was no better than the rest of the house. The leather couch and the white chunky knit blanket she’d been sleeping with for the last week dozed with each other now, leaving her the anxious third wheel. An old circle rug with a disgusting flower pattern spread itself under a limping nightstand with an officiating lamp in the middle. The murky gray flat screen sat on a shelf on the other corner of the room, blocking the idle hearth in the wall. She reached into the nightstand’s sole drawer, pulling out a keyring with a fob and a few other openers from the clutter inside.

She stepped back out, this time locking the door behind her. The Hughes girl was hungry and the cupboards were bare of anything but ramen and canned food. The only solution was to head into town, grab some grub, then hightail it back and catch some TV to get her mind off things while chewing a burger. The perfect plan. Ames walked around and caught sight of her silver Civic sitting next to her dad’s old broken Nissan pickup. She snuck into the driver’s side, igniting the engine with the key and pulling the visor down in fear of the sizzling rays desiccating her eyes. She tossed her hat onto the passenger seat casually, propping her left arm up on the window trim and placing her right hand on the steering wheel.

She was just about to grab her food when it started.

The Sun-Do Trading Post was a quaint little gas station that sat across the street from a dead car wash and mechanic’s shop. The Trading Post was your typical convenience store, with the added bonus of a freshly cooked and cheap meal behind the counter that didn’t cause you to puke your guts out. Amy had wandered the aisles for a bit, looking over the assorted chips and candies and drinks while her brats cooked in the back. She had decided against a burger, eyeing how good the sausages looked in the tinfoil on the overhead menu. Now, she was gliding her delicate fingers along the gondola displays, grabbing some bagged pork rinds off of the shelf and dragging them to the fridges.

There were two other people in the store that day. A black man with dreads and an apron behind the counter, the only worker for that Monday evening. He was reprehensibly bored, leaning over the counter in a daze as Amy ordered her bratwursts. The other person in the store was a middle-aged woman she somewhat recognized from the local church, but couldn’t quite remember her name. She was a bigger gal though, with flabs of withering skin covered in pores and stretched moles and birthmarks. Her graying hair was unkempt but washed, librarian glasses were perched on her short nose, and her shorts would have been nearly as long as jeans if it hadn’t been for the fat on her legs stretching the things. Amy smiled to her and she smiled back. A nice lady if anything.

Amy scanned over the drinks. Mountain Dews, Energy Drinks, cheap brews, and other fruity sodas. She settled on a Pineapple Fanta, pulling it out as the other woman pulled a quart jug of milk off the shelf. Ames looked over the Fanta, biting her lip. She was gonna have a date with her toothbrush to repair the damages this thing was gonna do to her teeth. But health was not her major concern as she heard the oven behind her ding and the man behind the counter pull her bratwursts out. She turned, reaching into her right front pocket and digging for her wallet. But she was distracted before she could pay, having caught a strange happening in the corner of her eye.

The woman was unscrewing the lid to the quart. Ames’ eyebrows raised, and she turned her head to look at the woman. She didn’t say anything at first, only feeling the situation out before acting on any direct impulse. The cap popped off, and she tossed it to the ground. Amy opened her mouth to speak, but found herself without anything to say. It was strange; watching the woman tip the jug, pouring all of the milk on the floor in a creamy waterfall. “Ma’am?” Amy questioned, finally finding the words. The woman made no indication that she heard her. She just kept staring at the milk, which bubbled and skipped and made the most disgusting of sounds as it fell from the jug. “Ma’am, are you okay?” Amy said, reaching over and grabbing the woman’s shoulder. She shoved her away and tossed the corpse of a jug to the floor, before reaching back in and grabbing another one.

Amy winced twice. She was pouring another jug of milk. Dementia? Alzheimer’s? A fucking brain tumor?! She turned to the man behind the counter, who had laid her bratwursts on the counter. “I’m calling an ambulance, she needs help!” Amy said, pulling her phone out and dialing the three numbers every American knew; 9-1-1. She held up the phone to her ear, tapping nervously. The guy behind the counter was just staring at her. She stared back, but was unsuccessful in their staredown as she glanced at the ceramic floor. What the fuck? She glanced back at him, mouthing the words Go help her but getting no response from the man. On the phone, there was no answer. She knew that the 911 Call Center was privately run just down the block; but they had always answered, as far as she could remember. “No one answered…” She mumbled, hoping the man would hear her. He made no hint of having understood her.

Amy looked between the two. “You’re our millionth customer ma’am. Your food is free today!” The man said, smiling. There was nothing sinister in the smile; nothing evil, nothing fake, nothing in that smile that didn’t indicate that he was purely happy to give her free food. She swallowed, her hands shaking as she stepped away. “Suh, suh sir?” Amelia stammered, backing towards the door with the drink and the bag still in her left hand, phone still in her right. “Your food is free today ma’am!” He spoke, still smiling.

The door chimed as she rushed out, dialing 911 again. What the fuck?! What the fuck?! There was once again no answer. Her heart pumped, thudding with wild pulses and thrashing with every step. She opened her driver’s side door, trying 911 one more time.

No response.

Her engine fired up and she frantically searched through her contacts. Meredith. Sweet, sweet, Meredith. Her good friend Meredith, a fellow young paralegal in Colombia. She called her. She didn’t pick up.

She backed out of the gas station, driving off into the night around 10 over the speed limit. Maybe she was just misinterpreting things; maybe she was just going on a bender herself; or maybe she was just a really, really lucid dreamer. Whatever the case was, she continued to try and rationalize her points as she neared the edge of town, speeding past dark trees and figures and buildings. It all went by in a blur. The encounter at the gas station was still gnawing at her mind, digging into her pretty little head like a spiraling screw. Her hands tightened on the wheel, gripping with such force she thought she’d whip the gyre from its socket. Her car continued to shudder down the path, her senses fluttering and her perception narrowed. Amy Hughes was back at the farmhouse before long, pulling into the driveway in a flash.

It wasn’t long before she was ascending towards her front door on foot, checking behind her back for any monsters of the night periodically. She walked up the steps, near tripping over the first but recovered, albeit sloppily. She pulled the screen door out and propped it open with her back before clumsily inserting her keys into their respective port. It opened and was subsequently shut and locked.

Amy threw her pork rinds onto the couch and slammed the drink to the nightstand, stepping into the kitchen. She couldn’t get her mind off of the Trading Post, those vacant eyes behind tiny glasses and the twinkling grin behind the counter. She shuddered, pacing back and forth threw the kitchen. It was an older room of the house, if a bit big. A counter lined one side of the room in a U-shape, surrounding the stainless steel sink and hoarding fine cuisines in the upper cupboards. The fine cuisines were the aforementioned canned foods and ramen, consisting of slipshod Chef Boyardee, stark Viennas, boorish baked beans, and viscous sardines. Her stomach rumbled, coveting her brats and cursing herself for leaving them behind. It had been strange, of course, but… it was just likely that the cashier was tired. It’d been getting pretty late. He probably just didn’t understand. Guilt hit her now, guilt for the old woman having an attack on her mind at the store, guilt for leaving the teen with her to clean up… guilt for everything. She leaned against the island, sustaining quivered breaths and cussing at her own self-centeredness.

She glanced from object to object in the kitchen. A metal fridge with cartoon magnets and family photos and reminders stuck to the doors. A wooden cabinet that contained fragile china inside, pots and teacups and bowls in a lull on the shelf. The call centers not answering was what made the least sense. As far as she had known, they had never been neglectful of their duties. So why hadn’t they just picked up? The theories and questions could circle her mind for hours; or she could sit down and not think about it.

She did just that.

Plopping down on the couch and leaning back, she watched an idiotic sitcom before nodding off to sleep, her soda still fizzing and her pork rinds only half-eaten.

On the second day, the routine played out as normal. She got up and showered, as normal. After tossing her dirty clothes to the floor, she searched for the apparel of the day, covered by her towel. Amy decided on a pair of coal black track shorts that stretched over her upper thigh and dangled above her knee with modesty and a GameCocks t-shirt with gray sleeves and a white body. A pair of ankle socks slipped onto her feet and she went on her way to the kitchen. Today’s special was a bowl of wheat Cheerios and a clump of sugar for flavor.

After breakfast, Amy took another walk through the woods, missing Mr. Jones this time. He didn’t appear to be around, but she did see another person lumbering under the rattling limbs at one point. The figure made no indication of having seen her; instead, they only descended further into the forest, escaping her view quickly. She headed back and read a book for an hour, then ate a lunch of Shrimp-flavored ramen and the rest of her pork rinds. She finished off the rest of her soda, lobbing the bottle in the trash can and washing her hands in the sink. The soda was flat and only served only to make her thirstier, so she topped it off with a glass of ice water.

She sat on her porch and tried to watch cars go by, but only saw one in the thirty minutes she sat and thought. Bored and considering this fine Tuesday a slow, slow day, she grabbed her book again and flipped through for the next hour, and by then it was already three o’clock. She took another walk, finding much of the same empty woods as she had last time, and then tried calling Meredith again. No answer, of course. It was five before long and her stomach took to growling and the thought of beans for dinner made her sick. In due time Amy had gotten back in the Civic and taken off towards town.

She hummed along to the radio, a tune by Kitty Wells playing. Something about Honky Tonk Angels. She didn’t much pay attention to the lyrics. Amy entered town, tapping the steering wheel with each strum of the guitar. It was awfully quiet today and only a few lost souls wandered the side streets today. She passed by the Trading Post, a jitter shimmying up her spine. It glared at her and cracked a smile with the pumps, lone cars leering at her with bitter chuckles. The wheels kept turning and she spotted a dazed teenager sitting on the curb, cradling their knees. She swallowed hard. The car ride continued through the empty streets. The lack of cars was what really got to her. Everything was so empty without the alloyed horses stomping down the street, wheezing toxic gas and spitting oil onto the streets. It was then she saw the roadblock.

Three trucks set up on the road in typical checkpoint fashion, a couple of men perched up in the beds and a couple more leaning up against the pickups. She halted her ride, looking them over. They didn’t look like sheriff-deputies to her; they didn’t look like any police. In fact, most of them looked like your normal everyday citizen, except for the pistols and shotguns firmly tightened to their stomachs. One of them noticed her; an older fellow with a pump shotgun, watching her car and grinning. He was a big old man, a good six feet tall and probably weighed something over two hundred pounds with dusty jeans and a faded dress shirt buttoned onto his chest. He started saying something to the others, but Amy had already turned tail and run. Her Civic sped away, fear apparent in the palpitations of her heart. Her throat was plugged by dread. Something wasn’t right. She pulled her phone up again, dialing 9-1-1.

As almost expected, no answer.

She screamed and threw her phone into the passenger seat, a blend of exasperation and panic manifesting as a hurricane inside the car. It was a nightmare; it had to be. She was back out of town before long, worrying to remember the sheriff’s number. Her father had it written down somewhere, she just had to get back home. The sky was growing dark now as the girl finally realized she had wasted her afternoon to nothing, Frantic and panicky, she slid into the driveway, kicking up rock and silver dust behind her wheels. She didn’t even bother with properly parking it, a crooked drift that ended up in a slant at the end of the drive. Before Amy ripped the key from the ignition with force, her attention drew to the gas tank.

Judging by it, she only had just enough to get back into town and grab gas there, then take off. Not an option. The only other route to get back to Colombia and out of the strange happenings in this town was to take a side road or go up towards North Carolina. Neither of which were options, since she’d run out of gas before civilization presented itself. Amy declared herself as absolutely fucked. Her breathing was unnatural and heavy, but hyperventilation was the least of her concerns now. She opened the door and took the key, rushing towards the front of the house. She entered in a fray, shutting and locking the thing behind her. The curtains were next, draping the windows in dark rumples rippling across them. It had gotten dark surprisingly quick and the view of a light inside would only be more evident.

She hurried from room to room and before long every curtain, blind, and shutter had a window covered in the building. After sealing up the farmhouse in her paranoia, she warily flipped the kitchen light on. It made her draw back like a vampire exposed to rays of sun, broiling her flesh to ash. But nothing happened; it was as if it were just another day in paradise. She looked down at her phone, which had begun a steady death. She’d need to plug it in after a while, judging by how her father had cut the landline in the house years ago. As the life of the phone drained, Ames ran her hand along the fridge, finding her way to the yellow notepad that her father had pinned to it with a red button magnet. Numbers and to-do lists covered the pages Amy discovered, flipping through each page. Ideas, thoughts, birthdays, phone numbers, grocery lists… she searched and searched, before coming to one of the pages towards the middle of the booklet. In the familiar chicken scratch of her father’s handwriting, the word “SHERIFF” was scrawled adjacent a grouping of ten digits.

She pulled her phone out and greedily punched in the numbers. It went up to her head, the screen against her ear. Come on, pick up… pick up… Her thoughts growled, chewing her bottom lip with anxiety. No response. She called again, panic setting in. No response.

She almost threw the phone across the room. It was useless, then, if nobody else would pick it up. Just what the fuck was happening had been lost on her. Biblical retribution? An elaborate prank? A nightmare? The apocalypse?!

Whatever it was, she tried to wish it away and flipped the light switch back off. She’d just try and go back through town in the morning. Who knew if the old men with shotguns were really all that bad? Maybe something had happened outside and they had just been trying to keep people safe. But wouldn’t the police handle that? The government, or somebody that isn’t a bunch of old hick fucks?! She tread with caution into the dark living room. Nothing there. There was nothing else in the house. Just her. Just her.

She laid down on the couch, pulling her blanket onto her for safety’s sake. She was too scared to turn on the TV, scared there would be horrible, grotesque faces coming out of the screen for her, scared she’d see the rest of the world in eternal blight, scared she’d see the wicked ancients with their shotguns.

Ames drifted off after a while. The darkness and her own lack of a busy day netted her five hours of time away from the horrors of the outside. It was inevitable then that they’d knock and wake her up.

She shook around in the bed, sweat covering her brow and her ears perked. There was something outside. It was easy to tell just what by the sound of treads over gravel and the glowing beams from the edge of the road. There was some sort of vehicle in her driveway, a rambunctious beast that was followed by a vehicular friend behind it. They were probably pickups, she presumed from the way the headlights hung and the way the gravel popped and shook in her ears. Her chest echoed with an intense beating, the valves under her rib cage shutting and closing in rapid fashion. She stood up, hurrying down the hallway and finding the creaking stairs. Amy ascended as fast as she could, plunging into what was once her old bedroom but had since been converted to her father’s storage. Leaning up against the wall in between groupings of cardboard boxes and plastic tubs sat her dad’s old Model 870, the pump-action shotgun pointed with the barrel up. On a box next to it were a trio of still shells and an M200 Revolver already loaded with .38 Special. Her father had never been the safest of individuals; she figured that was why he had two guns instead of three, now. He had never really been into buying a gun safe and figured that if somebody had broke in or if an animal started attacking the cows then his best bet would be to get up and go. No cows now. They had all been sold off long ago.

She grabbed the shotgun from the wall, grabbing two of the shotgun shells and running down the stairs. As she did, she dropped the first in front of the breech bolt and pumped it forward, then shoved the other one into the magazine port and pushed. With that, she hastened into the den. The wooden stock of the gun was firm in her grip, palms already growing sweaty. The den was no longer brightened by any lights. In fact, the four rays had disappeared from view entirely. Perhaps they were just trying to get turned around? Relief washed over her. In her respite, she neared giggling like a schoolgirl at herself. Had she really worked herself up so much? Over nothing? She’d probably just witnessed some weird fucking festival or something. That’s where everybody was. And those guys on the pickups in town were probably just cops in plain clothes. Had paranoia really taken her over that much? Was she just a city girl out of her comfort?

Her paranoia proved grounded. A shattering of a window outside made her scream and draw back, whispering “Oh my God” to nobody in particular. A car alarm started going off, a sinister strobe that flashed across the yard and wailed in the night. She reached for the door handle, furious and terrified. It unlocked just as easily as it had been sealed, pulling open. She pushed on the screen door, flicking the safety of the shotgun off. “Hey! Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out!” She screamed over the blaring siren of the car and she saw that she recognized the criminals.

A man with a shotgun stood breaking the windows of her Civic with the butt of the gun. He towered over it, broad-shouldered and hefty. It was the same old man she had seen back at the checkpoint. The pickup trucks were parked in the driveway, inches from her sedan. Two men sat in the driver’s side of each one; recognizable from their time at the checkpoint. They had followed her. That was the only explanation. The man attacking her car picked his head up, leering at her like a preening vulture. His silhouette flashed in and out of existence, each time in a different location than the last. She lowered her gun and turned around.

A shot fired, slapping against one of the trees in the yard in a flurry of bark and sap. She ran to the front door, running in through the screen and batting the door back into its place. As Amy turned around, her throat was caught by its own spit. Another shot went off. The screen door shattered and chunks of the wooden one blew open. Amy screamed, dropping the shotgun and falling to the floor. The back of her right thigh felt… sticky, now. There was something inside of it. She cried out as the pain registered. She got shot. She got shot a lot. The meat of her thigh writhed in agony, yet she still pulled herself to her hands and knees. The pain didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. She grabbed her shotgun and took off into the hallway, climbing the stairs much to her own discomfort. Blood squeezed from her wounds, but she didn’t look. It felt like a million tiny pellets had embedded themselves into her flesh, shaking and contorting in the crevices of her skin.

She crawled into her father’s storage room, leaning her back onto a pair of weighted cardboard boxes. Her breathing was cumbersome and her leg was on fire. Saliva dripped from her lips, spittle pouring down her cheek. She heard a few more shots crash through the house, but none came after her. A window shattered somewhere, but she heard no footsteps enter the house. She only sat there, lying with her bleeding leg on the floor and her shotgun pointed at the door. After twenty minutes of the wait, she heard them drive off.

It was hard to get up that first time. Using the shotgun and a plastic tub as support, she ached onto her feet with a couple of yelps and cries. Her muscles longed for the excitement that adrenaline had given her. Approaching one of the windows of the upper hallway, she saw that the trucks were indeed gone and her car had given up on its cries for help. Her eyes almost rolled into the back of her head. What a tough fucking break.

She stumbled into the upstairs bathroom, using her shotgun as a third leg. Amy plummeted to the ceramic floor. She leaned against the cabinet, opening it and rummaging through the plastic baskets for any medical supplies. She saw what she was looking for hidden behind sink pipes and cleaning supplies. Her dad’s old first aid kit. She reached her left hand out to it, pressing on her leg and yelping in pain. The girl whimpered again, shock clamping her throat and shifting sweat pour down her forehead. The arm continued, swiping air and pipe and wood and…

The plastic handle. She had it. She nearly squealed like a schoolgirl. The box came open easily, spilling its guts on the floor and sending them sprawling about the room. The first thing that caught her scrutiny was the tweezers. She supposed it might be nice to get the bullets out, but that would require looking at them first. She rolled over, craning her neck around and getting just a glimpse of her bloodied leg. Amy felt bile rise in her throat but she swallowed it back down with a moan and a burning reflux. Birdshot. She couldn’t tell how much, but it looked like most of it had gone through her shorts into the meatier part of the leg. It was hopeful that there wouldn’t be much lasting nerve damage but not getting shot had already proved to be wishful thinking. She counted at least thirteen pellets from what she could, and quickly pulled the ruined track shorts off as carefully as she could.

Parts of the fabric stuck to her wounds, numbness encompassing her with a near euphoric start of pain. Bits of skin tore and stretched as her pants came off, but she did get them to her knees and away from the wounds. She reached for the first object she could see in the cluttered mess of the medkit. Her bleeding had for the most part stabilized as she calmed down and her adrenaline faded, much to her own elation. But there was still blood seeping from the cracks, blood she couldn’t afford to lose. Amy weeped, tears falling from her face and crawling along her chin and neck. “Guh… ugh…” She groaned, her left hand now on the bottle of saline solution. It rolled towards her, but she stopped herself. Hanging from the towel hook was one of her father’s belts. It would be best to get this over with now then, wouldn’t it?

She didn’t want the blood to continue. Amy grabbed the tail of the belt, unhooking it after a few tries and watching the buckle jingle to the ground. She dragged it towards her, wrapping it around the top of her thigh and pulling as tight as she could. It hurt, of course. Pain soared and flew, but the blood loss was more important. She continued to pull, stringing the tail of the belt through the buckle as tight as it would go, then stuck the pin through the lowest punch hole she could get. Her blood was mostly fixed. She supposed infection would be hard to avoid, especially with no 9-1-1 or sheriff to call at the moment. Amy had given up hope on her phone by this point.

She rolled next to the pile of dirty clothes she had left on the floor after her showers. Towels and shirts and jeans and underwear and other assorted bits and bobbles of apparel had been smashed together in a giant ball, a comfy heap that she rested her head on. She rolled back over, stuffing her face into a towel. Turning her neck again, she grabbed the saline solution and finally got ready to use it. She poured it on the back of her leg hastily, ending up emptying half the bottle on all of the blood she could see. She capped it back, tossing it to the floor. Next up, she reached for the gauze in the medkit.

The roll came loose, and she came to find it was sticky. Adhesive. Thank God. There were around three rolls in the medkit itself, so she supposed if she fucked this up she’d at least have two more chances. She grabbed another roll after the other one had gone thoroughly up her leg and used the counter to pull herself up. She turned around, getting a good glance at the wounds sticking from her flesh.

She had been lucky. She could still see a few bits of birdshot and wood stuck in her leg where her gauze had missed, but from what she saw they hadn’t gone too deep. She could survive; she could survive this. Provided those with the shotguns didn’t come back to finish the job.

Amy ended up using a fourth of the second roll on her leg, a mediocre job but one that would get the job done. She loosened the makeshift tourniquet, seething in pain as she dropped it to the floor. No blood came rushing after her; it appeared she had saved herself from the quick death of blood loss. She hoped to God the thing didn’t become infected. The girl brought herself to the floor, propping her feet up in the pile of laundry. It wasn’t long before she had covered herself with her own dirty clothes and fallen asleep.

Chapter 3 - The Sign

Thirst woke her in the night twice. The first time she had gone downstairs with her supporting shotgun and fixed herself a cup of tap water, before falling asleep on the couch with her knit blanket. The second time she didn’t bother with the cane, instead using the furniture to prevent strain on her shot thigh. The third day of the event was mostly uneventful for her, mostly just drinking a lot of water and sleeping. It was past midday when she decided to change her bandages.

It was mostly the same underneath. Sticky and covered in dried blood, the skin was stretched and swollen near the pellets. She almost vomited but the fear of dehydration overcame her nausea. Amy gulped her puke back. She poured the rest of the saline solution on her legs, but something awful was gnawing at her. A new set of gauze went around the now mummified leg, and she headed back down and took a nap.

When she woke up an hour later, her thigh had only grown worse in its feeling. She wiggled her toes, breathing up and down. She had to do something. She’d run out of saline solution, and her last roll of gauze had been expended as well. Infection would set in a little bit if she was lucky, if not it had already set. She couldn’t make it on her own.

After tugging a pair of jeans and boots on (painfully, of course) she set out to one of the sheds outside. The days had only seemed to grow hotter and the Wednesday of the first week was no exception.

The first thing she investigated was the front door. The shot had blown through the door at an angle. The combined forces of the now shattered screen door and the blown apart wood had saved her life. The shooter must have been a good fifty or hundred feet back to not have made the bullets go too much deeper than they had. That was good.

Her car was ruined. The windows had all been shattered and the hood had been peppered with bullets. The tires were slashed as well and just to help matters the gas cap was hanging open. Amy looked back at the house, leaning up against the hot trunk. The house itself was speckled in miniscule holes which chipped wood, the same birdshot having graced the rest of the old house.

She hobbled behind the house with her shotgun, stomping the stock into the soft grass with each step followed by a lunge of discomfort sprung in her leg. Amy made it to the shed she required despite her troubled thigh, discovering the tools she so sought. Wrenches and hammers and two by fours littered the area along with other assorted sundries. She reached down to two sharp poles of wood, scanning over them. They would do.

The first trip back consisted of her hauling the wooden stakes along with a box of nails. She laid them out on the porch, the only place of the house her blood hadn’t stained yet. On the second trip, she returned with a hammer, a bucket of black paint, and a paintbrush sitting atop the bucket. The final return was a little harder. A forty-eight by forty wood panel was gathering dust in the decrepit shop. That fossil of a craft was her chance at survival. It took her something like ten minutes just to get it out of the shop, and even longer to drag it with one hand down to the porch. The sun beat down on her and she was forced back inside to rest for another hour.

After Amy had satisfied herself in the A/C and with the tap water, she moved back to the porch; this time with a sun hat. She dropped to her knees before slipping the cover of the paint bucket off. Swampy black bubbles belched at her and she responded in kind by running them them through with her paintbrush. Her knees scrunched forward to the panel, rubbing her thigh the wrong way. She swore, but she had to keep trekking.

The job was sloppy. In big, bold letters she had coated the panel with the word “HELP” with a giant arrow pointing away from the P. After this was done, she rested inside for the next hour while the paint dried.

Amy was, once again, lucky she had latex paint on hand. It dried in due time and she was able to turn it over on its back. She did much of the same to the opposite side as she had done to the other, but now with the arrow pointing away from the H. It was sunset by the time that had dried and the real work began. Leaving the paint bucket and the brush on the porch to stain the deck, she dragged the panel to the side of the road. All in all, after getting everything out there, she had wasted thirty minutes and put a lot of pressure on her leg. She wasted another thirty inside with her book, but found the unhooked sign gnawing at her. It was a matter of life and death; it was likely that her wound was infected. No, it was certain that it was infected. And she couldn’t stagger back to town.

Whatever it was that pushed Amy Hughes, it did so with great resistance. The aching had only accentuated, faltering her as she walked into the shrouded yard. The stakes were first. She bent over in the night, grasping at the first stake and drawing it up. It sunk into the soft ground without a hitch. The second she took a little farther away from the other stake and a little closer to the road, driving it down as well. It took a little longer, Amy having to dig past rock and clay to reach a point where it would stay. Her diaphragm clawed for air. Mouth wide open and gasping for strength, Ames leaned against the pole she had just stuck and rested. But yet she still continued. The second part was the hardest one. She dropped her shotgun, strain on her leg growing much, much worse now. But this expedition required both arms, not both legs. She near fell but managed to stay up much to the detriment of her nerves.

She lifted the panel up. It was a clumsy effort. The panel wobbled and leaned and she almost dropped it, but her coordination finally took over and she leaned it up against the poles. Her legs began to shake as she held the panel up with one hand, reaching for the nails with the other. One was grabbed, at which point she placed it to the point where it would go straight through the lower left corner of the panel and into the pole. She was able to keep it up by dropping to her left knee and using that to prop the sign up. Her right leg begged for mercy, but it would not receive any. She brought the hammer down three times. The nail had drove in. Keeping the sign up with her knee, her body felt numb. Amy’s head had been marred by the extreme pain from her wound, but she couldn’t let up. Holy fuck, holy fuck oh God. “Fuck!” She screamed, driving the next nail into the lower right corner.

She fell onto her back, chest puffing up and down and up and down. She laid among the ants and ladybugs for another six minutes, staring straight up at the sky as the pain drifted off and her consciousness faded. She started blinking rapidly, hitting at her head with open hands. She kept herself awake. She was as awake as she’d ever been. Amy rolled onto her stomach, pulling herself back up again. After much pain and after much assault on her senses, the final nails had been drove.

She studied her masterwork, leaning on the shotgun.


Amy only hoped they didn’t misinterpret her feelings.

She left the door unlocked that night, but only after putting the porch’s windchime on the inside door knob. No one was going to fucking trick her tonight. She slept on her dirty laundry again, spooning her father’s shotgun.

The fourth day went much the same as the others had. The girl drank water, tried calling Meredith, tried calling 9-1-1, but got no response. Amy dropped her phone in her nightstand in an attempt to not even look at it. That morning, she tried eating cereal at the table, but had to force herself to down the slop. She just had to wait… she just had to wait for someone to see the sign, and then she’d be okay.

Thus began the fourth morning of Lake View’s insanity spell.
I don't know what I'm s'posed to do.

INFP (obligatory? probably)

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The Ik Ka Ek Akai
Posts: 13425
Founded: Mar 08, 2013

Postby The Ik Ka Ek Akai » Tue Apr 10, 2018 9:23 pm

Was quiet yesterday. Has been for a few days really. More than usual, even. The old estate was well-removed from the relative hustle of the middle of the nearby town of Lake View, but even still, the unmistakable flash of headlights driving by, reaching the house no matter how many trees and no matter how much spooky mist lay in the path between, had been well missed as of late. Likewise, the sound of an engine chugging along like a dying beast, sputtering and popping with each pained second of its existence, was also strangely absent. Sophia could swear that it was all intentional, after all, many took a great delight in making their engines as loud and obnoxious as possible at the cost of all rationality- against the betterment of the environment and of the vehicle's own health they would work day and night just to get their cars to scream in agony. For what purpose? Were they that desperate to let everyone know that they had a car, working on the fear that everyone would be suddenly blind? It was one of life's greatest mysteries, right up next to how to make a friend.

Sophia had trouble connecting with others. Always did, always will. They always snickered behind her back, looked at her in funny ways. Who could have friends when life was so? It was, quite frankly, all quite nasty of them. After a few years in the system, and even then she did not quite appreciate the system, she learned to fake her way through it. She pretended to laugh when they laughed. She pretended to cry when they cried. She pretended to care and to empathize, and found that suddenly all those snotty classmates were willing to play nice with her, at least to her face. It was a nice change, actually, and in time she learned how to actually be empathetic and how to actually feel trust. For a while, the people of the town didn't seem too bad- small town, big hearts. Too bad that image was ruined by one hell of a police officer. That's not to say he was good, but rather that he was a hell for Sophia, his inept actions had spoiled her image of an idyllic and honest town run by an idyllic and honest government, and reinforced her worst suspicions about the government.

It was a lesson learned over several generations, from the day the feds ripped away the house, and ripped away two sons from the family. The Devany clan had been here for a long time, longer than anyone can remember, and had been at conflict with the government for as long as anyone could remember. They refused to live in the town, they kept to themselves, they were standoffish with bureaucrats, but they were honest folk, if a bit out there at times. Of course, Sophia was the last of their clan still in Lake View, meant to continue their traditions and estate all on her lonesome, with her brother out in the big world doing big things, and her parents out retired somewhere else. The young woman lived all alone in that old house, nobody bothered her much and she liked it that way. She liked her quiet life

Things had been a little too quiet lately, though. With all outside motion seemed to have stopped entirely, it sure came as a shock when there rustled some sounds in the bushed outside the house, a little bit of light here and there, and a few voices. Of course, it was the dead of night, and Sophia had well sat down and been involved with her own private matters. She was wearing an elegant costume that night, as she does every night- a pink nightgown with a little bit of lace and a little bit of fluff, some translucent bits here and there. Her hair was done up, a good many minutes' work of her own just to see if she could, and wrapped into a rough bun with a few strands hanging down. Of course, the thing that really stood out were her antique ivory-colored kidskin gloves, reaching far up her arm and well-fitted to her form. Well, she called them antiques, but in all likelihood they may well have been modern reproductions made to suit the old style. Her mother had given her such gloves to wear at night as long as she could remember, and she could remember the words so clearly- "Wear these, Sophie. They'll keep your skin soft and ladylike." Of course, after a while it just became a habit, and she'd feel cold at night without them.

Her delicate and ladylike attire, reminiscent of how one might imagine an old belle in times past settling down for the night, was not really meant for fighting. Didn't stop her, though. When the light came into her window, and she heard talking outside, she had no hesitation- she grabbed her machete, in the family reportedly for centuries and still well-kept, and waited in the dark by the door for whoever the hell was outside to approach. Sophia breathed heavily as she lean against the wall, hearing footsteps draw ever closer. Giving a small peek through the peephole, she couldn't see anything. After a while, the light turned off, and whoever was outside decided to leave. Voices faded, steps went away, and Sophia could relax once more. After a few more minutes, she opened the door and peeked outside, only to find a coil of hemp rope on the floor right outside the door. Curious, she took it inside and waited for anything to happen. When nothing did, she sighed, kicked it aside, and got back to what she was doing before.

That was last night. The third day of silence, broken only for a moment by some hooligan rope-bringers. How silly, how strange. Now, this day, the fourth day, she hoped to figure out just what the ever-living hell was going on. She looked outside, felt the outside temperature. It was still somewhat cool, in the 70s at the start of the day. Of course, by all means this was warm, but it was cool relative to what it might be later. She decided to get dressed on this premise, taking into account all due things- including the relative modesty with which she preferred to dress. Sophia was always uncomfortable showing too much skin, and was raised to be a proper lady- one of the things that proper ladies did was cover themselves decently, even if it meant being a little warm. Still, she could afford to change her style just a little so as to not overheat- an equal faux pas.

She took into account all the things she'd come to know about styling herself, and tried to dress bearing in mind that she'd be somewhat warm later. The first step in this was a pair of plain, black leather leggings- a little reflective but not overly so. Just because she need be modest, doesn't mean she need dress in any overly traditional manner while casually in public. Over this was a violet sleeveless top, long and drooping down to her mid-thigh, very lightweight as well. This would do nicely towards preventing overheating, would compliment the leggings, and best of all was her favorite color. As this is insufficient for her levels of comfort and modesty, she threw on a dark blue denim jacket over this, bearing in mind that it would be a much lighter means to cover herself a little more than many alternatives. Lastly, on her feet, some iris purple rubber boots. Sure was muddy out, a cruel feature of leaving so close to water, and she was not sure she hadn't heard some rain last night. Of course, it was hard to remember, but in either case they were good boots, complimented the top, and wouldn't suffer from trekking through dirt and mud all day long.

Drive? Why drive, the town's not far, and she's planning to stick around for a bit. Plus, who knows what those creeps who visited the last night might've done? It'd been a while since she'd had a good walk anyway, what harm could it do?

So it was. She set out, feeling the poorly-maintained road with each step. The small, but still noticeable, rubber heel of her boot, no more than two inches tall but definitely not flat, caught on a crack or two with her shuffling along. Raise your feet, she told herself, needing to consciously give such a reminder after days of sitting at home doing absolutely nothing outside. She kept her machete on her, obscured by her jacket. She usually belted her waist, but in this instance used the belt as a means to have it strapped to her. She had no idea what to expect, and wanted to be prepared for anything that might happen. Maybe some cronies rolled into town, maybe she might find a bear, maybe those creeps from last night were still roaming around- in any situation, better to have a blade.

Step. Step. Step. The monotonous rhythm of walking along the side of the broken road was near maddening, but the town was essentially right there. She finally made her way in, and looked around the dead atmosphere. Nobody seemed to be walking around or doing anything, apart from a couple of freaks paying no mind to anything in particular. They seemed dead-eyed, completely unaffected by anything, doing nothing, until she walked by. She could feel their eyes, their judgement, and she gave a snarl to them in return. No reaction. Very strange indeed.

Walking along, Sophia began to notice signs of violence. There was a busted car here, a few bullet holes there, and she began to feel a distinct unease. Danger was nearby, and she picked up her pace considerably. She was just beginning to wonder if her own car was damaged in such a manner when she saw a wooden sign up ahead. It was plain and simple, in black paint, "Help" with an arrow. Whoever made that sign was not one of those dead-eyed freaks, that had to be such- they weren't doing anything. Approaching the lovely little house where the sign pointed, she looked around. Nobody was near, although the door had some chunks taken out of it. Not a good sign. After giving a brief knock, she tried the door- unlocked!

Now, some folks like to brag they can keep their doors unlocked at night. Few actually do it, so this was a little more than a surprise. Given the sign and the damage to the outside of the house, one could only guess whoever was inside was currently not doing so hot for themself. "Hey! Anun deyr?" Sophia called, in a distinct drawl that was unusual even to the ears of many residents of the town not familiar with the Devany clan. It wasn't always their method of speech- indeed they could sound as the most sophisticated Southrons any might hear, but certainly it was an internal communication among themselves. A very lazy, slouched way of talking, simultaneously drawing out words and compressing them into unrecognizable oblivion.

Taking a few more steps forward, she analyzed the situation around her, taking in everything she could see.

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True Christopia
Posts: 1055
Founded: Apr 08, 2014

Postby True Christopia » Wed Apr 11, 2018 3:35 pm

Paul Wood
Five days earlier.

The car rumbled and jittered uncomfortably along the motorway, despite it being perfectly smooth. Paul leant back in the passenger seat and pulled down the visor, shielding his eyes from the piercing sun "If we'd have gone south of the Savannah River, we'd have gotten there by now." he droned, frowning. In return, he recieved a very sudden and very unwelcome break which nearly slid him off his seat.

"I think you underestimate how far Wilmington is." Simon retorted, speeding up again. Shifting back up and pulling the seat upright again, Paul gave him a glare of hatred although it was, of course, not really hatred. Crossing his arms he let it slide and looked out over the rural countryside, smiling slightly "Almost feels like we're back up in Spokane." Simon laughed "Rolling fields of wheat."

"Except it's hotter." grinned Paul, to which Simon conceded and nodded.

"Yup. A lot hotter."

They drove in silence from then, the hours passing by. Paul pulled a drink or a snack from the back seat every now and then, the silence pierced by the radio playing the local music. Eventually, Simon cursed - leaning forward "Shit, we're almost out of gas." he said, biting his lip "Do you see the nearest town on that map? Preferably with a gas station?"

"They're all gonna have a damn gas station, aren't they?" Paul rolled his eyes, "Er - make the next left. No! The next left after the next left."



The car suddenly swerved - luckily, there were no other cars driving alongside them, so nobody was there to see Paul's throat lurch out onto his tongue, along with the rather feminine scream that leapt out with it. The two turned to each-other, a look of shock and held breathes - before bursting into laughter. Something they might not share again.

Later that evening

"Comfort Motel?" questions Paul, as they pulled into the parking lot. They'd been into the nearby town, Lake View, to get gas - and the tank was full. But the sun was nearly set, and the pair were feeling fairly tired at that point.

Shrugging, Simon simply said "Can't complain." and stepped towards the door before Paul could protest. The inside was rugged, dirty and unkempt - something that Paul couldn't say he didn't expect. The pair approached the counter to which one enthusiastic looking woman in her late thirties smiled at them both.

"How can I do ya' for?" she greeted, leaning forward on the dusty counter. Paul was less than impressed, but made sure not to show it. The prices had better been cheap - they were running out of cash, and needed some for the return trip. Shifting on his feet, Paul pulled out his wallet as his friend replied.

"Yeah - can we get a room? Preferably with two separate beds. Don't want a repeat of the last hotel." he said with a chuckle. The woman smiled, and took their money before showing them their rooms. As far as they could tell, the motel was almost empty. People did not come to Lake View very often. It didn't bother them too much, however - it meant a quieter night for them.

The room itself was a mess of cigarette burns and dirty bedding, but it seemed that would have to do.

Day 1

They'd awoken in the morning, the sun streaming through the windows. The birds weren't calling, but Paul didn't take too much note of that fact. Drearily getting up, Paul took a shower and slipped on his clothes. He wanted to get out of that Motel as soon as possible, although it seemed that Simon had other ideas "Let's explore this little town for a bit." he said, looking around the outside of the motel.


"It's nice, don't you think? We're always going to these big cities, we never go to the little places. C'mon, just one day?"

Paul frowned for a moment - he didn't want to stay another minute there, but it seemed - considering Simon was the driver - he didn't have much choice in the matter.

With that, they walked into town.

Lake View itself was exactly as he had expected. Small, underpopulated and boring. Simon, somehow, seemed to love it. He was a man who would eat up the whole 'Smalltown USA' aesthetic, although Paul couldn't say he would agree. Begrudgingly, however, he went along with it - smiling and talking with him down the streets. There were a small assortment of shops, in which they picked up a few more supplies for the journey.

As they exited the shop, they found an odd scene in-front of them. A man walked, back and forth - round and round - in the same spot. The pair looked at each-other, and stepped forward "Sir?" questioned Paul, but there was no answer.

They decided to get out of there.

Day two.

They stayed in the same motel again, passing the reception desk and heading straight for their room. The occurrence in the town had bugged them a little bit, but luckily enough they both agreed they would go that day. Leaving their hotel room, Paul and Simon approached the counter in the reception, ready to hand in the key - but the kind receptionist was not there. They shrugged and put the key on the counter, before walking outside - only to see the kind receptionist smashing the engine of Simon's car to dust.

"Hey!" he yelled, running forward in dismay - the woman looked up, her attention drawn away. As he approached, she merely swung the bat upwards and slammed it into his jaw. Simon flipped and hit the floor. And then she pulled the pat upwards, and down - up, and down. Paul spared only a moment as blood splattered against the tarmac, a moment of shock and horror, before acting - tackling the woman and not restraining himself as his fist connected with the side of her head. It wasn't long until she was unconscious.

He didn't dare turn his head.

He didn't dare look.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Paul quickly dialled the number he had known since he was a kid; 911. It rung a few times - a few more times than it should have - before cutting out. No answer. He stared at his phone in confusion - no answer?!

He tried again - and again - and again "Come on! Fuck!" Turning his head suddenly in frustration and seeing the blood and gore that had become Simon's head, Paul quickly dropped the phone and vomited anything that was in his stomach onto the floor "My-my God, Simon - " he stumbled backwards onto his car, his legs shaking like noddles. There was nothing he could do.

There was nothing he could do.

Day three.

Paul had stayed at the motel that day.

He'd buried Simon.

The police wouldn't come.

He wanted to go home.


Paul wanted to go home. He wanted to leave that town, he wanted to go back to Spokane and forget it had ever happened. While he could never forget what had happened, two of those options were viable. With the receptionist of the motel tied up and locked in one of the rooms, rambling and raving as she tried to shake off the binds - Paul looked around the motel. The counter held keys galore - one of them must have had been for a car. While Paul couldn't legally drive, he knew how to - and if that meant he could leave the town, he would.

Eventually, he sorted the keys and found one for the receptionists car - one of the only other ones in the lot that she hadn't trashed in the morning of the second day. Taking the bat, suitcase and their money - Paul left. His eyes were red and sore from tears - tears of which hadn't been shed in such a way since he was at least nine. He thought he would head into the local police station - something he hadn't considered in his grief the previous day.

He might have been able to save Simon, had he thought a bit clearer.

Letting out a low whimper at that thought, he drove on. But Lake View was nothing like it was - it was unkempt, trucks blocked the road. Dazed people littered the streets. Trucks blocked the road?

There happened to be a - what? A checkpoint, of some kind? A checkpoint ahead, and there seemed to be people there. He might have thought they were police of some kind, but it seemed that they were destroying cars around them. Wiping away the tears that formed at the base of his eyes, he slowed down slightly - squinting as he observed them suddenly raise their guns.

Paul quickly turned the car, ducking beneath the wheel as a flurry of gunfire peppered the car - one bullet nearly slamming into his thigh "Jesus Christ!" he yelled, flooring it past the Trading Post and once more out of town "What the fuck?"

He didn't face many more gun-toting madmen, and he was on his way out. Had everybody turned mad? Was that why the receptionist had killed Simon? They were questions he didn't know if he could answer just yet. As he drove along - he almost missed it - a sign displaying 'HELP'. And a man making his way slowly down the road.

Slowing the car, he bit his lip slightly - he could just leave. What if the guy was crazy, like the others? What if the HELP sign was, too? But then, he thought against it - he wasn't going to leave another to die. So, he got out of his car.

"Hello? You're not crazy, are you?"
Last edited by True Christopia on Wed Apr 11, 2018 3:39 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Pro: Democracy, The United Kingdom, The Conservative Party (UK), LGBT+ rights, Capitalism, The Grand Tour, Freedom of Speech, Gun control, Cuba, The British Monarchy, Obama, National Healthcare, Trident Nuclear Program, PC Master race, Mental Healthcare, TEA!
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If you want peace, prepare for war.

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Founded: Oct 04, 2016
Father Knows Best State

Postby Venkara » Wed Apr 11, 2018 4:41 pm

Scott could see the moonlight reflecting off the lake, along with birds flying in front of the moon. It was a full moon, and it was of the only things that Scott truly found beautiful in this godforsaken town. He opened a box of cigarettes, pulling one out and putting it in his mouth, and with lighter in hand, he lit it. A puff of smoke came out of his mouth, and he felt at ease, with his shotgun and machete at his side. Ain't any of those kids gonna come and mess with his property. Speaking of those kids, what the hell were they doing at Dale's bar yesterday? They just stood there in front of the entrance, eyeing Scott down. They'd usually run away at the first sight of him. Not even when he walked straight up to them did they run. It was disturbing, weird, and just plain creepy. He thought the kids would attack him when he walked past them, but they didn't. Their eyes followed him as he entered the bar, though. Right before he slammed the door shut, he hurled out an insult,

"Damn you useless, good for nothing little shits!"

He saw Dale at the front stand, and pulled up a stool. He ordered a standard old beer, and began to ask him about the kids outside.

"What the hell are those kids doing out there, and more importantly, why haven't you chased them off?"

"Those kids have been there for hours. I tried to chase them off, hell, I even tried pointing my revolver at them! Yet, they didn't even seemed fazed, and I couldn't just shoot them, or the police will come and take me away."

"Speaking of the police, why didn't you call the sheriff? He should get those brats off your property."

"I did. Nobody answered."

"What, but they always answer people's calls! Call them again."

"I called them dozens of times! Nobody fucking answered! It'd be futile!"

How could that be?! Something isn't right around here. If what Dale says is true, then it would indeed be futile. But, he can't just keep those kids outside the door. They need to be driven off!

"If what you say is true, then why don't you go to the sheriff's office yourself? They'd have to answer you there."

"I think I'll do just that. I'll even bring my revolver with me, in case those kids decide to attack me. Heres your beer."

After Scott grabbed his beer, they said their farewells, left the bar, shouted more insults at the kids, and went their separate ways. That was certainly an interesting day, considering all he ever did for a living was live off the land and sold his produce to keep him afloat. Thinking about that incident, he added another reason to move from this goddamned town. At that moment, a chill ran down his spine, and all of a sudden, a dreadful feeling overcame him. It was as if his body detected a deadly presence, and was trying to warn him. After several minutes of sitting on the dock, Dale came from behind him, blood covering his clothes.

"We need to get to your cabin, now! The townsfolk are coming for us! They've gone bonkers!"

Scott couldn't respond, with Dale pulling him to his cabin. Frantically, they barricaded the door with tables, chairs, and cabinets. Dale pulled out his revolver, went to the window, opened it, and took aim at something, he didn't know what.

"Dale, what the hell is going on, and why the hell are you pointing that thing out the wind-"


Dale had opened fire. Jesus, what was going on? What had gotten into him? Wh-


Another shot came not from Dale, but from outside. The bullet went past Dale's head and went straight through his staircase. Apparently thats why Dale is like this. Well, Dale is going to need help, no doubt, better get my weapons.

Scott ran up the stairs, with Dale still shooting from behind. His double barrel shotgun and machete were in his bedroom, all he had to do was get it from under the bed. He rammed into the door of his room, darting to the bed, and pulling out his gun. He grabbed the machete from his counter, and attempted to go back downstairs. However, Dale was coming up the stairs. As he ran, another gunshot could be heard. In a split second, blood covered Scott's face. Dale had been shot in the back. Scott was horrified, and he froze for a few seconds, only snapping out of it when Dale uttered his final word,


Dale collapsed onto the stairs, revealing at least a dozen madmen storming to his location. Scott, once again, rammed into the door of his bedroom, locking the door and a chair under the doorknob, setting the legs in a stable position. Right after he set the chair into place, he could hear the yelling coming the door, followed by violent bangs. Scott did not have much time, for that door would not keep them out for long. He surveyed the room, looking for anything he'd need to bring along. His eyes set on the deck of cards he had since he was a kid. If this town has gone insane, hes going to need some kind of entertainment. And so, he grabbed the cards, checked the room one last time, and forcefully opened the window above his bed. Oh, this is going to be painful...

Scott jumped out the window, attempting to land on his feet. Although he did successfully land of his feet, his ankle was sprained in the process. He let out a yelp, and quickly closed his mouth. What if there were more of them, just waiting to murder him? He would have to find help somewhere in town, since there was no way he was leaving town with a sprained ankle. He grimaced as he picked himself up onto his feet, and forced himself to walk down the dirt road leading to the town. He had his shotgun in hand, just in case more of them were on their way. As he entered town, he saw that the town had gone to shit. Trashed cars were littered everywhere, townsfolk were either beating up cars or standing in a daze. He just hoped to god that none of them had a gun. Remarkably, he managed to get through all the debris without attracting too much attention to himself. He continued walking, and saw a house somewhere up the way. Then, a light shone up on him, probably a car. This is the end, isn't it? I'm gonna be fucking roadkill!

The car slowed down, however, and eventually came to a complete stop. A man opened the car door and came out, and approached Scott.

"Hello? You're not crazy, are you?"

Scott was so relieved. Finally, another sane person in this town!

"No, I'm not! I swear! Listen, man, my ankle is sprained, and I can't go on much longer like this. Do you know of any place safe we could go?"
Last edited by Venkara on Wed Apr 11, 2018 4:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Founded: Mar 29, 2013
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Futrellia » Wed Apr 11, 2018 6:20 pm

336 Rogers Drive
3 days prior

The sudden burst of loud buzzing shook Brian from his deep, peaceful sleep. Laying on his back, he quickly turned to his right to slam the top of the alarm clock, turning the booming noises off for the next few minutes. His eyes focused in on the blocky red numbers: 4:30 am. He heard waking up earlier helped him be better prepared for his day but it defeated the purpose when he stayed up 'till 1:00am. He laid there for another few minutes, fighting as hard as he could to keep his eyes open, though the fight proved too much for him.

"Brian! You awake? You gotta get up, boy. You're gonna be late." His father yelled from the other side of the closed door. His father's voice forced Brian to nearly jump out of his skin and the bed. He immediately looked over to his clock, which read 7:49 am. Brian was both boggled and pissed. He jumped out of bed, scrambling to his closet to rip off a his Dillon County Glass uniform off it's hangars. He hurriedly slipped the Dickies denim work pants and light blue button up shirt, bearing his name and company name on the chest. Brian scurried out of his room, where he saw his father in the kitchen down the hall, his right arm leaned onto the marble countertop next to the sink, sipping his coffee, wearing his grey Dillon County Sheriff's uniform, staring his son down. Brian approached him from the hallway, attempting to avoid his sight.

"I know, I know." He said, hastily moving to grab an empty cup to pour him coffee.

"You'd get more sleep if you turned off that Xbox after nine." His dad solemnly replied.

"Dad, you know I hadn't done that in a long time." Brian retorted.

"Yeah, well. Have a great day at work, son." His father replied, taking another long sip of his black coffee. Brian rushed out of the side door, revealing his Silverado and his father's Crown Victoria. He drug his smartphone out of his pocket to see the time.

"7:54, hot damn." He quietly spoke. He threw open the door of the truck, sliding in and setting his cup down into the cup holder, and starting the truck.

His day was quite average. A hackout in Dillon, a commercial renovation in Marietta, a shower door in Nichols, pretty standard day working at DCG. Towards the end of the day, though something odd occurred. He had gone into the office to clock out around 6:00, working late on a beveled mirror he wanted to put in the house. His sight turned to his boss's office, whose light was still on. Curious, he walked to his office to see him simply sitting there. He wasn't doing paperwork, wasn't ordering more glass online, wasn't speaking to a customer. Just sitting there, hands in lap, staring at the wall in front of his desk. His look was bewildered, his eyes staring wide.

"Boss? You alright?" Brian asked. His boss acted like he didn't hear him, even acknowledge that he was there.

"Mark? okay?" he said, walking into the office and approaching him. His boss turned his head to face him, though it wasn't a look of friendship. He stared deep into his eyes but it was like they weren't registering that Brian was looking at him. Mark simply smiled, staring him down in a very odd fashion. Brian was exceptionally freaked out this time. His boss had never done something like this. He was usually a quiet man, kind. He was 62 years old, set to retire in another 2 years. If there was a joke, Mark would have already told him, unless his boss was having a mental breakdown.

"Alright, I'm heading home, sir." He simply replied, walking out of the office, clocking out and heading out the front door, where his truck was parked. The drive home was about like his encounter with Mark: Odd. He noticed considerably less traffic than normal, as well as a few people simply standing and walking around aimlessly. Brian didn't think much of it, nor did he care. He was tired, and wanted to get home.

The sun had mostly gone down as he pulled into the driveway, under the awning. His father's cruiser hadn't shown up yet, which was something else strange. Typically his father would already be home around 4:30, though he would work late sometimes in the winter months. He figured once he got inside, he'd give him a call, just to check on him. He unlocked the side door and walked in, revealing the dark house. He flipped on the light to the overhead fan, revealing the small kitchen that he and his dad shared. He immediately walked to the fridge, pulled out some mayo, cheese and ham and slapped it all down onto the counter. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his phone. No missed calls, no voicemails, not one text message. His dad would have left something, let him know that he wouldn't be coming home until later. He looked into his contacts, found "Dad" and tapped the telephone prompt. The phone rang three times before finally picking up.

"Yeah?" His father said.

"Hey, Dad. Everythin' alright?" He replied.

"Yes, I'm fine, Brian. I'm dealing with alot of stuff right now." He simply stated.

"What do you mean? What's going on?" His son responded inquisitively.

"Can't talk now, son. Everyone's actin' nuts here. Everything alright with you?"

"Fine, I guess. What'd you mean nuts?"

"Not actin' right, doing weird shit!" His father replied.

"I mean, my boss wasn't acting his normal self, like he had a mental breakdown." Brian replied calmly.

"Shit, I gotta go, son. I'll call you back as soon as I can." He said, hanging up quickly.

At this point, Brian was getting freaked out at this point. What was going on? Why was his dad flippin' shit? He figured there was nothing he could do right now except eat and wait for his father to call him back.


Brian awoke on the couch, his arms crossed as his right foot hung off of the leather sectional in the living room. He had been watching Spike TV before he dozed off, now DirecTV notified him that there was no signal on the screen. He reached for his phone on the coffee table to his side and turned on the screen, no calls, no messages, nothing. Almost 11? This was getting ridiculous. He called his father once more, this time there was no answer.

"The fuck?" He said quietly.

Day 2
8:09 pm

Brian didn't get much sleep last night. He tried calling his father eight times last night, even calling the desk number for the Sheriff's Office, nothing. He had lost all internet connection, no signal anywhere. He went into town, trying to go on like business as usual, showing up to work. When he arrived, he saw his boss standing outside, staring off. This time, one of his co-workers, Ryan, was standing outside by the racktruck. He pulled up next to him in his personal vehicle.

"Ryan, the hell's going on?" He said out of the window.

"I don't know, man. I tried getting Mark to acknowledge I was there, but it's like I'm not here to him, he won't speak, won't do nothing. My mom's acting the same way." A moment of silence engulfed them as they both were thinking about what was going on.

"So, what are we doing today?" Asked Brian.

"I'm not staying. Nobody else showed up. I'm gonna drive by Tony's, see if he's alright."

"Sounds good, brother. I can't get ahold of my dad, he didn't come home last night."

"Isn't he with the Sheriff's Office?"


"Fuck, man. That ain't good. If it's like this in Dillon, you'd be better off hunkering down."

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud gunshot coming from down the road. Both of them looked towards the direction, where they heard another. Ryan nodded to Brian and entered the company racktruck. Brian simply reversed and left.

Brian went back home, deciding that it was safer to stay at home rather than attempt to find help in the city. He tried calling 911, no answer. Tried calling his friend Benjamin, no answer. His co-worker Kevin, no response. Brian realized that something was wrong here, in the town. With no response from emergency personnel nor his father, he couldn't do anything but wait. He made sure he kept his Glock 43 close, a round in the chamber, a full magazine of six hollow point rounds. His father had a Mossberg 500 pump action shotgun in the closet, though he didn't think he would need to use it. He sat by the window, watching the roads, waiting for police to pass by, or a fire engine, or a state patrol car, or even the fuckin' mailman. Nothing.

Day 3

Another day built nothing but panic for Brian. His father still hadn't returned home and he was dealing with the fact that something might have happened to him. He was contemplating whether or not he should drive to Dillon, Glock in hand, and find out what happened to his father and everyone else. He pulled out his old radio, slid the long antenna out and listened in. Not a single voice. He heard nothing but static, from all channels he turned to. He packed supplies in his military backpack, a little something he got for when something like this happened. A survivalist bag.

He tried calling Ryan once more, nothing. All he could do was wait. One more day. One more day.

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The Knockout Gun Gals
Posts: 4879
Founded: Aug 06, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby The Knockout Gun Gals » Wed Apr 11, 2018 8:31 pm

Paula Harrison
Lake View, South Carolina

She didn't cry. She never cried about it.

It's been several months since the return of her to Lake View, and the return of her to her family. Being exiled by all but her father, and being supported only by her sister. Mixed receptions with the rest of the town occupants. They both respected her career and decorations as a war hero, but also resented how she turned her back from Christianity in general. Local Baptists and Methodists in the town had a mixed reception on her, but that is not quite the problem for her. Her family's cold reception is also not a problem for her.

What is problematic, however, was how bad the situation of her firing range. Her recently-bought firing range. The Lake View Firing Range. It has its own small gun selections, staffs, but a renovation is badly needed, and it has been in an almost-bankrupt situation. Luckily for her, she got enough money to bought the whole firing range and later, put on renovation program. She hired few locals and she put herself into the job. Local architect for a newer design and a cheaper cost of renovation in the additions of few improvements here and there.

It's should have been another normal week.

Day 1

Paula went out to the Trading Post on that evening. A normal day, her father came down to looked at the renovation progress, and she happily welcomed her. Despite her conversion, he never really ranted at why it's happened, as her father did see the similar situations. Crisis of faith while on the field, deaths, it took tolls for some of the soldiers. At least she went to another religion instead of being completely atheist. That night, she planned a dinner with her dad in the firing range, where she now stayed after rented a room at the motel here. The town has motel, but it is closely more to the bed and breakfast place. She arrived at The Sun-Do Trading Post just as another car sped up. Seems rushed.

She went in, of course. Only to saw why it happened. A woman poured milk as if it was a waterfall from its jug. A black man on the cashier, remain motionless but stood still. She grabbed a couple of sausages, milk, french fries, bread. It's a dinner for her dad and herself as well. She went to the cashier. He motionless, again. Nothing...happened. "Hey, are you okay? I want to buy this all?" but no answer. He answered, "Your food is free today!" but nothing on his face. She was creeped out by this one. "Okay..." she slowly muttered. She took the foods and went to her car and went back to the firing range. She did sees the woman, but somehow the woman also...motionless.

Something's not right there. Once she arrived and cooked the food alongside her father, she mentioned it, "Hey, dad, what happened with the trading post?"

"What do you mean?"

"The people inside. They are motionless. I got this food for free, but the cashier just standing there."

"You sure? Strange."

"Yeah. Not going to call 911, though. Probably something on their mind, or they are just plain tired."


The food's ready, the dinner's started and ended well, the father said goodbye to her daughter and the daughter went for a rest.

Day 2

Second day was not normal. First, her workers at the firing range did arrived. But what they did were plain bizarre. Standing there, banged the walls with their hammers, or just sit and not doing anything. Well, this is strange. Much more strange. Even the local architect confused about this. "You know, this is nothing usual," he said to her. The workers still there, outside. Both of them met inside, at the office, on second floor.

"What do you mean?" she inquired, curious about it.

"Well, the trading post is also weird. Like that, too. It's like...I don't know," he muttered. "What?" she asked, again. "Weird, you know. Motionless, standing there, sometimes doing stupid activities."

"Yeah, I saw one yesterday at the trading post."

"You did!?" and then they both went into silence. Eventually however, both of them went outside to the second floor, only to saw the horrors. The workers each, helped each other on their own suicides. Hammer to the head, nails to the head. Every single possible ways. The architect almost puked, while Paula was thoroughly felt...horrified. "What the fuck is happening!?" she asked. She tried to call for 911, no answer. Sheriff? No answer. Her family? Even more no answer. She was about to left the range, but when she saw the roads to her binocular, the street was empty but it was as if there were some people who walked on the streets. Seemed not armed. And to her horror, they went to her direction. In fact, rushed to her. The architect desperately went downstairs in an attempt to escape, "Wait, don't!" she called him out, but he already ran and ran, until a scream was heard. And soon the people rushed to the armory at the first floor. Ransacked the whole armory. She locked herself inside the office, and grabbed her shotgun.

What happened? She never looked down.

Day 3

The firing range was in an awful state. Luckily for her, only the first floor. Her car was safe at the garage, at the side of her firing range. No sign of break-in, too. No landlines. Her office was a makeshift base now. Barricaded with whatever things she could use. No sign of activities downstairs. She'd better make a run to the first floor and to the kitchen. There are stocks of food there, canned foods, easy-to-eat foods.

As she slowly walked downstairs, her limp didn't help matters. It was always a tough job to walk down to the first floor, but she already an expert in this one activity. The kitchen remains relatively safe, should be easy to-

Oh fuck. Someone's there. He just sat at one of the chair, motionless. No expressions. Should she fire her gun, it would cause attentions. And death, too. So she walked, rather normal, while in the process of retrieving foods. But the man suddenly went up and Paula grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed him on the back. Multiple times.

She panted from the entire activity. The killing, the easy killing. She took his hunting rifle, and the food that she got, and went upstairs.

Day 4

She better stay inside for now. She already parked her car outside the garage. Ready for use, inside the car she already stocked some food, water too. She was in no hurry of escaping. She can escape, but first she needs to make sure that her family is safe. That's it. But once she got out from here, the chance of she coming back is significantly smaller.

She cleaned the first floor, though only at the small place where she use as a living place at the first floor. Dining table, kitchen, TV, small but remarkable fit for her. There is also a bed downstairs and a couch. The body of the dead man has been removed and put at the garage, main reason why she put her car outside the garage.

Going outside on a limp is a pain in the ass. Luckily, she sees no such plan for that for now. She painted words on a white flag, with a word of SAFE PLACE on it, but she hadn't planned to hoist it, as it could be saw from this range to a bit of...well, everyone can sees it. Her binocular saw no signs of men or women downstairs, and judging from what happened two days ago, population will be lowered due to the deaths. But the town was full of crazies. That's the problem, the issue, the main issue. She decided that spent more time here would be insane, and thus she went downstairs, and to the car of hers. She rode it down the town and out the town areas.
Last edited by The Knockout Gun Gals on Thu Apr 12, 2018 7:22 pm, edited 3 times in total.
The Knockout Gun Gals wrote:
TriStates wrote:Covenant declare a crusade, and wage jihad against the UNSC and Insurrectionists for 30 years.

So Covenant declare a crusade and then wage jihad? :p

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Posts: 10749
Founded: Dec 29, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Wed Apr 11, 2018 9:38 pm

Kennedy Tindol
Lake View, South Carolina - Day 4

Something strange was going on in Lake View. The townsfolk were acting odd, very odd, as if having gone mental with no apparent cause to explain the bizarre happenings. Illness? Mass hysteria? A chemical leak? Aliens? Kennedy Tindol, 12, had no answer, and only a vague understanding that something was amiss. She'd been alone these past four days, her family missing, disappeared without so much as a trace, their cellphones ringing yet never answered, straight to voicemail, please leave a message after the tone. By evening on the first night she tried calling the police but 9-1-1 was equally unresponsive. The next day was much the same. Every so often a gunshot, distant yet somehow incredibly close. Nothing on the television or radio or internet. No news. No posts on the forums she frequented. Not much of anything. As if everyone outside of town had simply disappeared overnight. Kennedy, being a kid, and knowing that kids were better off staying put, spent the day eating microwave dinners and playing Minecraft. On the third day a Crazy tried breaking into the home. An excuse to risk venturing into town in search of somebody normal.

Day 4, and Kennedy was at the corner of 4th Avenue and Main Street, up a tree, eating a snack in the relative safety of the branches. She could see the Dairy Maid from here, and the checkpoint, and the Crazies who, about an hour ago, had taken a shot at somebody. The girl had been careful to make it this far undetected. Most of the Crazies seemed harmless, too lost in their psychosis to pay Kennedy any mind, but some, like those at the checkpoint, weren't afraid to use those shotguns of theirs.

Kennedy was heading over to the High School. Her history teacher lived nearby, and if anyone was still normal it was probably him. Anyone who willingly enjoyed the monotony of world history was undoubtedly immune to the excitement of these strange goings-on.

The girl finished her snack, tossed the wrapper — no time to worry about littering! — and then took her camcorder from her backpack. She powered on the camera and aimed it at herself, twisting the side-mounted screen to see her face. Her hair was messy and in dire need of a good brushing; she worried at it for a bit, frowning, running her fingers through the tangles like a comb before giving up. Anyone would say she looked fine but it was never good enough. There was always something wrong. Unsatisfied, but needing to document the "event," she hit record and said her introduction:

"This is Kay-Tee, but my real name is Kimberly Tindol, and this is different from what I usually post but something weird is happening, like, really weird. I live in Lake View, South Carolina, not too far from Florence, and I don't know if this is happening anywhere else but there isn't anything on the news. There is no news. Nothing on the TV or radio. Nothing on the internet. No police. No paramedics. No firefighters! They won't answer the phone. No one will. My family—" an involuntary pause, the next statement hurting more now that it was finally being said aloud "—my family is missing, they have been for days now, and they always answer the phone when I'm calling. But it gets stranger." She turned the camera to aim it at the Dairy Maid. Lying in the street was a middle-aged man, spread-eagle, an arm or leg flopping about in random motions as if his brain had forgotten just how to control the limbs. "Mr. Dickerson. He works at the post office," Kennedy said, her voice accented in a cute southern twang. The view panned over to another person, a younger lady sitting on the curb, rocking back and forth and muttering something unheard with arms wrapped tight around the knees. Next to her was the burnt out husk of an old jeep. "Miss Tanner from the elementary school. Everyone in town is either missing or acting as if something's come unplugged inside their head. Some are worse than others. A few are attacking people." The camera shifted its focus to the makeshift barricade before returning to face Kennedy. "I'm heading to find help. I'll document whatever comes up.

She paused as if to say something more but ended the recording instead. Packing up, she climbed down the tree and, making sure the street was clear, more-or-less, she hurried off towards the High School, making sure to give the checkpoint a wide berth. Kennedy was less than a mile from the school building. An easy walk, all the better considering no Crazies tried to bother her. Not that she approached to give them the opportunity.

Mr. Sheridan lived across the street from the High School. His truck was in the driveway, its door torn apart as if something angry had wanted out, or in, and hadn't the faculty to use the handle. Probably not that but the girl's mind couldn't help but to wander as she approached the door.

Hoping that she was indeed right about her teacher being normal she knocked on the door, ready to run should he try to eat her.

Were they zombies? She didn't want to find out.

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Kentucky Fried Land
Posts: 1645
Founded: May 11, 2016

Postby Kentucky Fried Land » Thu Apr 12, 2018 2:23 pm

Amelia Hughes
Outside Lake View
The Hughes Farm
10:03 AM

Amelia had been gobbling her last bowl of Cheerios when the wind chime rang.

She near slapped the bowl off the table she moved so fast. Grabbing her shotgun, the girl shoved the barrel into the ground and slid out of her chair. Amy hobbled to the wall, slamming her left arm up against the China cabinet. The glasses inside shook and startled as she rose both arms up with her Remington, aimed at the living room door. She slid along it, using the cabinet as support to its bitter end, at which point she fell against the green planks of the wall. She spun around as she reached the doorway, leaning herself up against the arch and pointing the shotgun into the room.

The woman had said something just before she entered, a lack of surprise in Amy’s eyes. She stood their, gawking at the woman standing above her dried blood trail in the den’s carpet, barrel aimed at her chest. “Are you- You aren’t…” She sniffled and sputtered in place, stuck in a stare down with this other girl now. Was she insane? Amy weaved the words through her mind. Anyone there… anyone there… It was a strange accent, one that Amy had only heard from the Cajun folks that sometimes drove to Colombia for a getaway from the swamps. Her mouth twisted, yet the shotgun lowered with her heavy breaths. “You aren’t. Oh, oh shit. Sorry. I’m sorry.” She bit down on her lip, glancing at her leg then back at the woman. “My leg. I… I need help.”

It was pretty obvious there was something wrong with her leg, even from the front. She had put on a new pair of black track shorts upon awakening to give her wound room to breathe, but the shot had only got worse. It was a dark red now, scattered white rings surrounding each pellet in patches of peeling skin. Little pus spots had begun to cover the back now, and they slowly crept down her leg. “Please.” She moaned one last time, looking at the woman.
I don't know what I'm s'posed to do.

INFP (obligatory? probably)

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Posts: 1746
Founded: Sep 06, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Segral » Thu Apr 12, 2018 2:39 pm

Charlie Pearce

Four Days Ago...

The day had started as normal.

It was a warm summer day, but the bed felt cold, half of the sheets on the right cool and unruffled. Charlie's hand had extended somewhere in that space, as if reaching for something. But it would turn out that he would never find what he was reaching for, as his eyes snapped open before he could close his fingers around it. It was time to get up, but he didn't want to. In his old age, the bed was quite comfortable, and sleep was always welcome. So he stayed in that particular position for at least half an hour, until the rising light became unbearable and his feet turned sweaty and hot, before finally climbing out from the covers and limping to the washroom on his right leg, as his left knee was now puffed and swollen from arthritis. Soon, after a quick brush of the teeth, bathing himself in the aging bathtub, and dressing in a faded, fraying suit, he headed downstairs for breakfast.

He never liked to spend long in the house, there were too many memories. A photograph on the wall, Isabelle's hand-knitted afghan on the couch, sometimes he would find a childish trinket in the guest rooms, that once belonged to his children. He hated those memories, he wanted to purge them. But he couldn't let them go, no matter how hard he tried.

He quickly fized himself a basic breakfast of eggs and toast, with a cup of hot, strong, black coffee and a Dunhill, due to his breakfast capabilities being limited beyond that, His wife had done most of the cooking. In what seemed like no time at all, he had finished his breakfast, slipped on his work shoes, and headed out to the old Chevvy Impala for the grocery store.

Work had It was hard work managing the grocery store nowadays. Inventory management, upkeeping, keeping track of customers and the two or so hired cashiers, was hard. Especially those no-good workers, two chatty girls with no sense of work ethic! They rubbed his nerves raw and ruined his business, and their days were numbered. Mark his words.

Collapsing down into the sofa in his living room, he simply laid down under the afghan, snuggling it to his face and trying to breath it in almost. He did this every day, as it was one of the few things he had left of her, aside from photos and her grave, choked in flowers that he laid every week. He needed to let go, but his body refused to do it.

Soon enough, he became bored of lying down. He had no energy to hunt, he didn't want to read the few books he could still decipher, there was nothing to do. None at all. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, and nobody to see or talk to. The latter was the worst silence of them all. He wanted his family back, he wanted his friends back. But all of his friends were gone, his wife was dead, and his children probably never wanted to see him again. Not since that night....

"You can't hold me back, like some sort of...prisoner!"


He still had their phone numbers. But he wanted more than just the occasional phone call. He wanted to talk, to catch up. All the hatred and bitterness stewing all those years, he wanted it to go away. Reaching for the phone over his table, along with the small book of numbers, he quickly punched in Carol's number. Carol would be easier to talk to, Jeff would be...problematic.

1 ring...2 rings...3 rings...4 rings...5 rings....


Maybe she was just out, or at work, at her new-fangled science job or some crass like that. Worthless number spewing spinelesses! No problem, he would call Jeff. Flipping to his number, he punched it in as well.

Still no response.

The same dead air came every hour for the next three, as he called both three times that evening, once every hour. No response every time. They didn't want to talk to him. It was too late, he'd lost them. He'd lost everyone. It was over, he was alone. Finally alone. Nobody was here. He was going to die, in his old, frail body, alone.

Yet he didn't shed a single tear.

Three Days Ago...

There was no customers in the store, there hadn't been for the last little while. The two girls were now arguing over something involving a man and his number scale, or some shit like that. Grumbling under his breath about "laziness" and "hard work" as he readjusted a few milk cartons, Charlie was just in his usual foul mood. In fact, everything about the day had been usual.

Until it wasn't.

Suddenly, Charlie heard a high pitched shriek coming from the counters. Letting off an extremely loud swear while simultaneously knocking over a neat pyramid of soup cans, he began to limp as fast as he could to the counters, where more shrieks and what sounded like growls were now coming out.

Turning the corner, he saw a terrible sight. One of the girls, Elise or something like that, was tackling and furiously tearing at and pretty much knocking the living daylights out of the other girl, Stacey or so, who was writhing and punching and kicking back. Both were slamming each other against the counters, biting each other on the wrists, and tearing at the other's collars.

"WHAT IN THE FUCKIN' NAME OF SWEET LORD JESUS!" he half-screamed, limping over as fast as he could, propelled by his short, stubby cane. "ELIZA, WHAT THE HELL YOU BE DOIN' TO STEPHANIE! AND SOPHIE, DO YOU MIND NOT THROWING THE DAMN CASH REGISTER!" Despite his screams, the two continued to grapple, punching and spitting at each other. He had to act fast.

With a swing, he slammed the tip of his cane into Scarlett's head, before swinging back and slamming the cane into Elijah's forehead, knocking her skull straight into the counter. He had to call 911. Quickly picking up the phone, he punched 911 in, and held it up to his ear.

No response.

Just an hour later, a CLOSED sign hung in the window.

Two Days Ago...

The grocery store now only had Charlie checking out the goods. That was it. He barely needed it though, there had been no customers all day. But right now, three had walked in, and were currently checking the aisles. Charlie on the other hand, was content with smoking a Dunhill with a drink of beer at the register, seeing as there wasn't much else to do. Inventory was fine, everything was in place, it seemed like yesterday's mess was now cleared up. Nothing to do.

Suddenly, he heard several loud clanks. The entire pyramid of soup cans he had finished assembling were all knocked over, rolling everywhere. Cursing loudly, Charlie stood up, and began limping over to the stony-faced man who had knocked it over, standing stock-still. "Goddammit, could you please move while I clean up the fuckin' soup cans, thank you, I swear, I pick these up every damn day and nothin' changes, nothin', nothin' at all," and other ramblings of the sort. But the man seemed to have an idea besides moving.

Suddenly, he began to pick up fistfuls of soup cans and start throwing them, tossing them in every which direction with loud clatters, including at Charlie's face. Luckily, Charlie blocked it with his arm, but it stung badly, and it caused him to almost trip over his fallen cane, Then, another customer joined in, by grabbing a juice carton, unscrewing the top, and briefly taking draws out of the carton before dumping it all over the floor. The last customer, an old woman, then shuffled over to the register, and began to pull bills and coins out of it, before scattering it on the counter, shuffling it into neat piles. It was madness, juice sloshing on the ground with a painful sound, cans flying, the rattles of coins.

The store was closed early again.

Present Day...

Was it safe to go out?

The curtains were all drawn after yesterday's incident, dried blood still clinging to one. The lights were all off, no movement could be seen from the shuttered windows and firmly latched doors. If anyone didn't know any better, they would think he was dead. But he was alive and well, eating some sausages he had cooked with a single smoke. He didn't have the appetite for anything else. But what should he do? The phone lines had been dead for the last four days. People were wandering around doing shit and getting up to no good. He wasn't sure if he was the only one or there were others. So now what?

If there were survivors, he could always provide refuge, he had two extra beds and had a decent sized house. Being a grocer, he had food stocked in the cupboards, as well as plenty of clothes and blankets that his wife had knit. That was her favorite pastime when she was bedridden under the blankets, energy escaping her.

But at the same time, if there weren't, and even if there were, if he tried to make a beacon to his house, he could attract more of the insane. And he didn't want that, not after last night. He could kill everyone in the house if people found him, or just himself if no one came. But still, he had to know. He had to try.

Slowly coming out to the back porch, he made his way to the woodpile. The pile was now dwindling, very few planks remained, but there was still enough to build a fire in the fireplace. It was hard work lugging it all, it was hard on his swollen left leg. But somehow, he dragged it all in, the only mementos being the scuffed floorboards and small twigs left behind. After shoving it all in, he piled some paper and tinder over it all, and lit it from the top, fire soon roaring in the place. And not long after, small puffs of smoke came out of the chimney. Hopefully, it was enough.
yea bro idk

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The Ik Ka Ek Akai
Posts: 13425
Founded: Mar 08, 2013

Postby The Ik Ka Ek Akai » Thu Apr 12, 2018 5:01 pm

This was not a particularly welcoming introduction, to be sure. Staring down the barrel of the shotgun might've been more intimidating had the fumbling around in the other room not been so audible, and if this woman before her had not put up a sign asking for help, and for that matter if there wasn't a blood trail on the floor. Now, Sophia wasn't stupid- she was nervous at the sight, her heart was rapid, her eyes carefully looking over the woman to read her body language, but all that was detected seemed to be an acute pain, a fright even. It didn't take long to connect the dots that a gunfight had occurred, with the damage to the exterior combined with the blood trails.

That's when the lady put down her gun and began stuttering, apologizing profusely, and that's approximately when Sophia took notice of the swollen leg and maybe a tiny bit of pus. It was at least a little gross, but this was no time to be grossed out. It was, in fact, time to take action. "Alright, how 'bout you sit down right there, Chèr" she tried to say calmly, though with her natural accent it might sound like 'Alrai, habau you si right der Sha". She made a gesture according to this command and held up a finger, indicating she'd take but one moment to go check on something.

Straight to the kitchen she ran, out of luck more than anything. Houses like these were never too hard to navigate, a lovely feature of the Southern architecture she'd known her whole life. There in the kitchen were a pair of solid rubber kitchen gloves, just what she needed. Grabbing them and slipping them on, tugging them up her arm until they fit as good as they were going to, she rushed back over to her new friend to find her down as instructed. Now properly gloved for the procedure, she knelt down and pulled an unopened and still-sealed bottle of water from her backpack. Moving gently and carefully, she lifted her friend's shorts-leg just enough to get a good view on the wound. It looked, quite frankly, absolutely disgusting, and Sophia forced herself to swallow a small gag that'd come up.

Unscrewing the bottle, she poured the water on the wound. It was cold, clear, crisp, everything one might want from a drink, poured straight onto the wound. Sophia did not do this haphazardly either, but with intent- isolating the white circles, the spots of penetration, and pouring as direct as she could straight into them. Of course, she also got the general area wet as to crudely sanitize the space, but there was only so much she could do at the moment. Taking a peek at the pus, she began to immediately fear the worst, "Ain't no infection yet but it no look so good" she told to the young woman, "You take out the shot yet? Might need to get down at the Pharmacy for some supplies."

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Kentucky Fried Land
Posts: 1645
Founded: May 11, 2016

Postby Kentucky Fried Land » Fri Apr 13, 2018 9:57 am

Amelia Hughes
Outside Lake View
The Hughes Farm
10:06 AM

Amy watched the woman with careful eyes, following her as she nervously brushed past her with a comment. What? The girl winced, an instinctive “Huh?” muttered from her lips. It took her a second, but she caught onto the “Sit right there” part and nodded. Her actions were deliberate, heading into Amy’s kitchen in a fervor. Ames herself had rested herself on the couch, the back of her thigh streaming with pus and gore. She’d messied her favorite sleeping spot, but that was no matter. This woman seemed trained. Trained in something, at least, if her accent was a bit strange and she herself had begun acting erratically. But Amy couldn’t complain about her choice in companions, as she didn’t have much choice to begin with.

While the girl on the couch was wondering what on Earth a Sha was, the new woman came rushing back in with a water bottle and mom’s old pair of rubber dishwashing gloves. “You know what you’re doin’?” Amy asked, her own accent intensifying as stress covered her. She had been trying hard for some time now to disguise that, trying to learn one of those Yankee accents. The cute guys didn’t like it, it wasn’t professional, or whatever else her friends in college had told her. She’d always fallen short of the perfect Pennsylvanian voice, still stuck with that Southern twinge for what was bound to be the rest of her life. Of course, it still reared its head greater in more emotional moments with ferocity.

Amy had tossed her shotgun to the other side of the couch, staring out the window and turning on her side just enough for the wound to become visible. The gauze had begun to fall off, dark folds accentuated by slime and viscera. She felt a touch; this was perhaps too intimate with a person who she’d only met a few minutes ago and they didn’t even know each other’s names. She shuddered as the cold water poured onto the wounds, yelping and gagging as it seeped into the pores of her skin. “Fuck! Fuuuckk!” She lashed out at nothing, clenching her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut. It was abhorrent, pieces of dead skin dripping away and slithering along her leg with the cold water that pushed it out. It wasn’t enough, of course. The disease was still attendant, not up for being defeated by a drink.

"Ain't no infection yet but it no look so good"

Amy winced, looking back at the woman and stumbling away. “It looks fuckin’ infected to me!” She growled, an apologetic look materializing on her face afterwards. “I’m sorry, sorry, I-I’m just...” She swore under her breath, cutting herself off. "You take out the shot yet? Might need to get down at the Pharmacy for some supplies."

“Nah, not yet. I couldn’t get’em out, not with where they are in my leg. Got some tweezers upstairs, but I ran out of gauze and saline.” She mentally cursed herself for even going out there to check on her car. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t be as fucked as she was now. Maybe she would be fine, if nobody had set fire to the goddamn pharmacy before they got there. She soothed her own breathing, looking up at the girl. They were gonna be stuck together for the time being it appeared, so the best bet would most likely be to get to know each other. “I’m Amy, by the way. Everyone ‘round here calls me Ames, though.” She sniffled, before noticing the soft hum of an engine in the distance. “That your car out there? You should probably go turn it off, don’t wanna waste the battery.” She winced, looking down at her leg.
Last edited by Kentucky Fried Land on Fri Apr 13, 2018 10:05 am, edited 1 time in total.
I don't know what I'm s'posed to do.

INFP (obligatory? probably)

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Post Czar
Posts: 45715
Founded: Apr 25, 2015

Postby Charlia » Fri Apr 13, 2018 10:29 am

At this point, she was more than a little bit freaked out.

She'd been hiding in the house for the past few days, waiting for her parents to get home--but they hadn't. Calling them hadn't produced a response, calling the police hadn't, either--and on top of that, she was surrounded by people who had gone completely nuts. Or, at least, they were out there--she'd tried going out to find her parents but had been forced to retreat back inside after running into several people who were clearly not in their right mind... it was like the zombie apocalypse, mindless, shambling shells everywhere. And, quite frankly, normal people were freaky enough for her, thank you very much.

She'd had a bag packed with the things she'd need in case she had to get out quickly--she'd played enough video games to know to be prepared in case of a sudden attack. And they said it wouldn't ever come in handy. It was too bad she couldn't quite figure out how to set proper traps for the not-zombies... and that she wasn't exactly a crack shot in reality.

Yet none of the mindless people had actually attacked her yet, as ironic as it would have been--so she figured it would be best to stay inside where she had easy access to food and water and all of that. She was considering boarding up the windows, just in case, when she noticed someone who didn't seem to be one of them. Kennedy, right? She didn't really know the girl--didn't really know most of the people around her--but still...

Allies. Brilliant! If she wasn't the only person still in her right mind--they could join forces, combine skills in order to keep themselves alive. Now, that was the way to do things. She grabbed her bag and opened the front door, peeking out to get a closer look--"Hey, you!" she hissed. "Over here!"

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The Ik Ka Ek Akai
Posts: 13425
Founded: Mar 08, 2013

Postby The Ik Ka Ek Akai » Fri Apr 13, 2018 12:29 pm

"Ain't mine," Sophia replied rather simply, her accent starting to seemingly fade a little bit as she gets a little calmer, turning to something more recognizably Dixie in its sound. From these past few minutes, it might be clear that it's not necessarily a natural accent, but when she speaks with it one might never be the wiser. "I walked out this way, some freaks out my house last night- didn't trust to check what they might've done to my car. Figured the town might have some answers." With each word, her previous accent seemed to fade more and more. By the last sentence, she sounded indistinguishable from anyone else in the small town that their properties surrounded.

She paused, "Name's Sophia, live in that old estate over yonder," she pointed vaguely in the direction she came from originally, "Reckon if they got this far out, might be same people did this to you. Good I didn't go out I suppose." She turned her head to the entrance of the building, the sound of the car outside ever-increasingly hard to ignore. "Whoever's out there might be able to help, save us a little walk and a lot of time. 'Course, they might also be freaks. No telling 'til we see them." She went to peek out the window, trying to judge the situation, but unable to truly figure it out. "Hope that thing's loaded just in case."

All she could make out were two people seeming to talk to one another. Did the freaks talk? Who knows, only time would tell if they were safe.

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True Christopia
Posts: 1055
Founded: Apr 08, 2014

Postby True Christopia » Fri Apr 13, 2018 4:59 pm

Paul Wood & Scott Mervue

Paul let out a sigh of relief “No - but this place here apparently needs help. Maybe it’s another sane?” he posed the question, poking his thumb toward the sign. “In any case, get in the car - put some rest on that ankle.”

Scott stepped forward, wincing slightly "Thank you, I suggest we get a move on, because I may or may not have a bunch of crazies after me. You hear the gunshots?"

"They shot at me back in the town. What the hell is going on - they - fuck!" Paul slammed his fist against the side of the car door, his hand recoiling backwards before he pulled it open and climbed inside, Scott following after him. Then, driving into the driveway with the 'HELP' sign, Paul spoke up again "This whole situation is fucked, man. This whole thing. I don't understand."

"I don't understand it either. I was just sitting at the dock at the lake, and all of a sudden one of my acquaintances drags me to my house. He wasn't like the others, and he got shot in the back while climbing up my staircase." Scott looked out the window of the car, a grim look on his face. "I don't think we have a big chance of surviving if we don't leave town. We should check the house with the help sign first, then discuss our means of getting the hell out of here."

Paul nodded, looking down for a moment "They - they killed my best friend. The bastards - they killed him in cold blood." he said, pausing for a moment "We'll go check this out and get the hell out of dodge if we can." The drive up the path wasn't long, and Paul pulled slowly next to another car, which seemed to be wrecked "That's not a good sign - and, I suppose, neither is that." he commented, pointing to the bullet holes riddling the building like hundreds of sand-fleas making their home in the bark.

"Holy shit. Looks like the crazies came here. What if they're already inside, with a dead corpse in the middle of the house?" Scott grabbed his shotgun, just in case.

Paul shrugged "We drive off, I guess. Might as well try." Then, stepping out of the car, he yelled at anybody who might be in the house - hoping they weren't insane - "Hello? Is there anybody in there?"
Last edited by True Christopia on Fri Apr 13, 2018 5:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Pro: Democracy, The United Kingdom, The Conservative Party (UK), LGBT+ rights, Capitalism, The Grand Tour, Freedom of Speech, Gun control, Cuba, The British Monarchy, Obama, National Healthcare, Trident Nuclear Program, PC Master race, Mental Healthcare, TEA!
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If you want peace, prepare for war.

I'd rather die on my feet,
than live on my knees.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Fri Apr 13, 2018 5:46 pm

Kennedy Tindol
The Home of Beau Sheridan, Lake View, South Carolina - Day 4

Knock, knock, knock.

The urgent sounding of her fist knocking against the wood of the door was hollow in the odd stillness that had since overtaken the small town. Lake View wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis to begin with, but it was eerily quiet, too quiet, and just a tad bit unnerving. Kennedy looked over her shoulder towards the high school. She couldn't see a soul, which made sense in a way considering it was July and that school was out for summer vacation, but the total lack of people, of cars driving back-and-forth on a normally busy road, it just wasn't right. Kennedy stood there on the porch awaiting an answer. Vulnerable. Alone, but not quite, the feeling of being watched electric on the surface of her skin.

Maybe I should have stayed at home, she thought, turning back to face the as-of-yet unopened door, worrying at her skirt which had gotten wrinkled in the walk over.

What if Mr. Sheridan is crazy?

What if no one's home?

What if a psycho jumps out from those bushes and grabs me?

The girl was doubting herself now. This excursion into town was a big mistake. She should have stayed home, wait for mom or Ryan or — and she couldn't believe she was even thinking this — her step-father to come on back from wherever it was they were at. They'd come home eventually. They had too!

But why hadn't they called?

The phones were working, just no one was answering, and maybe that was worst than them simply being out.

A door opened, not that leading to the home of Mr. Beau Sheridan, but somewhere off to the right of where Kennedy stood, a small creak that was frighteningly loud in the quiet. A teenager was peering out a few houses down, beckoning the younger girl to come closer with a hiss of words.

Red flag: Kennedy didn't know the girl, and although she wasn't all that shy the current state of Lake View made her wary of approaching strangers. She could be a Crazy! Heck, Mr. Sheridan could be a Crazy for all she knew. Kennedy had seen the men with the shotguns, the violent ones, manning the barricade over on Main Street, and she wasn't about to take a chance on somebody she didn't know. Coming to town was dangerous enough. Too close and the stranger would bash her head with a frying pan. Or turned crazy herself. Or eaten!

Were they zombies? If so they weren't anything like the movies, not undead, but Kennedy was happy enough not knowing the extent of their insanity. She'd go home, lock up, and play video games until everything returned to normal


Next Tuesday.

In a month from now. She had enough food at home.

What if nothing goes back to normal?

Kennedy knocked on the door. Tiny fist banging on the wood. Loud and urgent. Incessant, willing someone to be inside, preferably her history teacher, ready to run should things not go right. Please, something had to be right.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock....
Last edited by Beiarusia on Fri Apr 13, 2018 9:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Founded: Jul 01, 2017
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Hastur » Fri Apr 13, 2018 6:18 pm

Suzanne Sutherland
Sutherland Auto; 8:10 AM, South Carolina.


That was the question that lingered, holding an invasive position in her mind. Unable to escape it.


Why the fuck did Randall do that?

Her arm still hurt. An aching pain persisting in her left arm from where deep laceration lay. A hastily secured bandage covered it, stained red with dried blood. The offending weapon, a bloodily butcher knife, lay only a mere foot away from the dead old man. His slowly decaying cadaver covered with an old cotton tarp, where a small, dark crimson blotch had blossomed in the center of it, where his bullet had found its home. She wished she could have said that it was quick. Give herself some selfish solace in the fact that she had caused him no pain. But life was never that simple. For an hour, the old wrinkled man writhed around, clutching at the injury, instinctively trying to stop the seeping blood flowing from the wound. It was hopeless endeavor for him. The damage had already been well and truly done, within an hour he was still, but death had yet to envelop him.

She had to listen to his hopeless croaking and hacking, a short and sporadic inhale being heard occasionally, followed by a splutter of blood from his mouth, giving assurance that the poor old bastard had yet to pass. She had tried to get help. frantically trying everything she could think of. It felt cruel to leave him there like that. But everything she attempted seemed to wielded every few beneficial results. Every god damn phone number she could think of she tried the landline in order to get somebody that could do something.


The Sheriffs personal line.

Her uncles landline and mobile.

Her dads mobile. Probably the first time that she actually found herself praying that he'd pick up.

All of them where the same. No response. No response from anyone. All of them met with silence, not a single person around to answer her, aside from the robotic feminine voice of the answering machine, who picked up every time, but offered little comfort. It was as if every single person had collectively died.

Rational thinking quickly faded away along with the voice mail and dial tone. She was alone. Trapped in the auto shop with a man who she considered a friend, who's life was slowly fading away because of her own actions right front of her.

She wasn't no doctor nor was she even qualified in first aid. She knew the basics. Her work required that she did with after all because of all the accidents that could occur. But the worst thing she'd ever had to treat in her short life was a friends broken arm, one caused from a mixture of alcohol laced stupidity and high jump at the lake. That paled in comparison to the trauma that she had caused. Nothing like the trauma that the bullet had done. She did the best she could. Bandaged the wound and packed it with whatever sterile material she could. Trying her best to stop the bleeding, but she didn't know what else to do. The only plan she had left was to keep trying the phone. praying to god that somebody would answer. For another hour he lay there, suffocating as his lungs struggled to bring in fresh oxygen. Bloody spittle emerging with each struggled gasp as she tried the phone again and again mere feet away, only to be met with the uncaring, monotone voice of the answering machine.

Eventually it stopped, leaving her in silence.

No asphyxiated gasps for life.

No sputters of warm red hemoglobin.

No struggled shuffle.

It didn't take long for her to figure out what had happened.

She knew Randall Warner well. He was a kind hearted man whom she and her family had met from the many times he had brought his farming equipment into the shop. Something that they had grown a fairly fond relationship over the years. She and her family had eaten in their home, along side his wife Trudy and two sons, James and Michael. They where good people, Christian people. He had done so much for the community and had never hurt a soul. He'd even watched Sue a few times when she was younger, and had helped her out in her later years during her rougher moments with her dad. Giving her shelter when she needed it the most, allowing her to crash in his sons Michael's room when he was deployed in Iraq and unfortunately never came back. He had never asked for anything back. And now, completely out of the blue. A sudden and uncharacteristic spate of violence.

Sue had gunned him down without even thinking twice. Pulling the trigger on the revolver in fast blur of violence that occurred. Firing a single round that caused nothing short of two hours of misery. He had attacked her with a knife. it was self defense. Or least she tried to justify it as that at first, but doubt plagued her mind, creeping up from the depth, growing and growing like a cancerous growth until it eventually became the only thing she thought about. She had the gun in her hand, and pointed it in his face when he stumbled in, making all that racket. Her uncle had worked her up into a frenzy of fear and confusion at the tales of violence and insanity in town, something multiplied by the fact that he was covered in somebody elses blood, and that he left her there, telling Sue to stay put and bunker down whilst he went off to get his wife. But he didn't return when he said he would. Leaving her to try and fix the shitty old pickup just so she could try and find him.

It allowed the paranoia and fear to amass up. taking over like a viral infection. She was scared, frightened of what awaited outside the confines of the autos shop. Maybe he was too. Maybe that's why he acted so irrationally. His home was only an hours walk down the long winding road. He could have been in a similar situation that she was. Maybe he was looking for help and was motivated by the same fear that she was when he saw the weapon in her hands. Guilt festered away in her head, eating away at her soul like maggots on a decaying corpse. The Buts, why and how running their course as hindsight continued to do what it did best. Cause misery. Sue thinking of every possibility of what could have occurred if she'd just waited or tried something else.

She sat in the corner of the shop. Her knees tucked into her chest and arms wrapped around them, revolver still clutched tightly in her right hand, hammer down. Her scared eyes fixated on the corpse. She had been in that position all night, waking up only a mere two hours ago. She didn't remember falling asleep, maybe it was the shock from the entire situation. But the pain in her arm being an indication that it was all real. He was still there. Draped in the dirty old tarp. The red blossom of blood in the center now seemingly larger than she remembered.

Blood was on her hands. Both figuratively, and literally. She'd tried to clean the blood off herself some point last night in the blur, but couldn't get it off her clothes. Her tan work shirt tarnished still with blotches of crimson. Her eye darted from the corpse to herself, her vision locking onto the blotches as the sicking coppery metallic smell that lingered in the air suddenly becoming overwhelming, almost toxic.

A upsurge of disgust hit her, a large lump emerge in her throat, Sue being hit violently with a choking feeling, beginning to retch and boke. She throwing herself to her feet as she frantically pulled the shirt off, disregarding the rags onto the concrete as she made a mad dash towards the bathroom. Rushing her way through the hallway before finding it. Dropping down over the porcelain in the nick of time, her arms holding her above the toilet as she practically collapsed onto it, repeatedly regurgitated the contents of her stomach into the bowl. Which wasn't much, most of it bile. She hadn't eaten in since yesterday afternoon. Despite being a room away, the metallic smell still lingered, only exasperating her vomiting. She continued. Seemingly powerless in any attempts to stop herself. Retching again and again, unable to get the image of the blood and the body out of her head, no matter how hard she tried. The tears that rolled down her face slowly turned into a stream as she finally broke down on the dirty bathroom floor. Collapsing in a heap, her face face scrunched up as began violently sobbing. Crawling into the fetal position. Weeping.

She'd murdered him. Trudy was now a widow. James now fatherless. Because her actions.

Suzanne Sutherland
Sutherland Auto; 9:25 AM, South Carolina.

She couldn't stay there any longer. The smell. The blood. The guilt. She couldn't take it anymore.

The truck was fucked. She'd spent all day yesterday trying to the old Ford Bronco working, the beaten and rusted pickup having little life left in it. But It wouldn't be going anywhere without replacement parts. Needing a new battery and a sparkplug. Something that she didn't have available in the shop during, funnily enough, the one time that she actually needed them.

It wasn't like she was going to Dillon anymore anyway.

Lakeview was only a couple miles down the road. Whatever was happening, be it civil unrest or just the plain end of the world, she didn't care. She had already decided that she was going. She had to find somebody to deal with Randall. The sheriff she couldn't just leave him to rot in a auto shop like roadkill. It wasn't right. Wasn't right at all.

It was a half hour walk. Give or take. Depending on what was actually going on. That was the plan. Just waltz right into town, right into the mix with whatever scared her uncle half to death. A stupid plan, but she didn't care. Wasn't like there was a better one.

She headed to her locker and grabbed what was left her things. Just her lock box and spare work shirt, embroidered with Sutherlands Auto and her name tag, putting it on. Leaving it unbuttoned as she always did. Exposing her oiled marked and dirty tank top. She didn't keep any other spares. Nothing she could do about the jeans with the blood on them. She headed towards the door. Giving on last look at the draped body as she opened. The dreadful feeling in her chest reemerging from hiding as she glanced over before turning away, inhaling as she finally stepped outside the confines of the disconnected shop and into the world.

The intense of the mid morning sun hitting her as she locked the door, turning in the direction towards Lakeview. Walking down the middle of the road. Gun still clutched tightly in her right hand.


Suzanne Sutherland
Sutherland Auto; 10:15 AM, South Carolina.

Sue had finally reached Lakeview. The roads had been quiet, eerily so. failing to see a single piece of traffic on the roads going in and out of town. The walk would have been comfortable if it wasn't for the circumstances. With Sue sitting on edge the entire time, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. She eventually spotted the rather creatively named Lake View High School, resting not to far away. It was bizarrely quiet. Unsettling so.

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Kentucky Fried Land
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Founded: May 11, 2016

Postby Kentucky Fried Land » Fri Apr 13, 2018 9:32 pm

Amelia Hughes
Outside Lake View
The Hughes Farm
10:08 AM

”Ain’t mine.”

Amelia swore as a whisper. She grabbed at her shotgun, sliding down on the couch so her head ducked below the back pillows. The Remington was aimed straight at the door, past the girl who revealed herself as Sophia from down the road. Ames had seen that estate before, driven past it a few times. As far as she had heard, they were a bunch of backwater hicks. Well, more backwater than the rest of the hicks in this godforsaken town. Sophia didn’t seem like the worst company though. She was certainly better than the other folks she’d met, who Amy still didn’t quite understand.

The driveway shook. "Whoever's out there might be able to help, save us a little walk and a lot of time. 'Course, they might also be freaks. No telling 'til we see them." Amy sniffled at this, glancing from Sophia to the door. “Yeah, I know. Just watch’em. See what they do.” It was high time that the good ol’ boys from the checkpoint decided to show up, so who knew if these were them headed back to finish what they started. Her teeth were clamped shut, but her lips were spread apart with hot breaths of fear. "Hope that thing's loaded just in case."

“It is.”

They waited there for what seemed like hours. It had only been three minutes when the first voice was heard. Some younger guy standing out there, according to Sophia’s descriptions. The two folks by the running car were perfectly fine, it seemed like. Amy got up, limping towards the door and opening it. She pointed it through the screen door’s shattered frame, eyeing the young guy. He didn’t look crazy. There was an older fellow in the passenger seat of the car too. At first, her mind recoiled at the sight of another of the elderly, having had difficulties with them in this past few days. But her brain settled, suiting itself for a more logical assumption. His grandfather?

“Just me and my friend!” She kept the barrel pointed out, just in case he tried something funny. “My leg’s been shot! I need help!” She yelled out to him, switching the safety of the shotgun back on.
I don't know what I'm s'posed to do.

INFP (obligatory? probably)

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True Christopia
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Postby True Christopia » Sat Apr 14, 2018 7:14 am

Paul Wood
Outside Lake View
The Hughes Farm

Paul let his bat hang from his hand, eyeing up the woman. Noticing the shotgun, he propped the bat against the car and lifted his hands slightly "Er - I'm no doctor, ma'am - you're not crazy, are you?" he asked, as an afterthought, but then quickly brushed it off "No - probably not, actually." Stepping forward, Paul looked around slightly "I'm not a doctor, but I've got a working car - at least, for now. I could probably drive you to a hospital?"

Then, he stopped, looking down slightly "If it's only this town that's crazy, that is - mind if I come in?" he asked his eyes locking on the barrel of the shotgun. He didn't quite want to be shot dead yet. Although, thinking about the hospital - it did raise the question of how far the insanity spread. Was it just this little, backwater town? Was it America? Was it the world?

He hoped his family in Spokane were safe.
Pro: Democracy, The United Kingdom, The Conservative Party (UK), LGBT+ rights, Capitalism, The Grand Tour, Freedom of Speech, Gun control, Cuba, The British Monarchy, Obama, National Healthcare, Trident Nuclear Program, PC Master race, Mental Healthcare, TEA!
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Si vis pacem, para bellum.
If you want peace, prepare for war.

I'd rather die on my feet,
than live on my knees.

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Founded: Aug 26, 2014

Postby Insaeldor » Sat Apr 14, 2018 8:09 pm

Beau Sheridan
Lake View, South Carolina.

That was a bullshit hunt, couldn't even get hog out the thicket for a clear shot. But now I'm back home and I've got a day before I go back to work. Nichols highway turned into Main Street once you hit city limits, they you'd just go up til' you hit the last intersection short the dollar general. Turn right till you hit the school and across the street was the house. Easy enough, then again it's not like you could get lost here. As a kid I'd wander around the from sunup to sundown. I knew the place like back of my hand. I had a stack of papers I was planning on grading, two page paper on your favorite amendment of the constitution. I knew I was going to get a lot of First Amendment and Thirteenth Amendment papers, I knew I could count on Morgan Whitney to make his paper about the Second Amendment.

As I made my way up main street something wasn’t right. I slowed my pickup to a crawl when I saw people in the street. Hard to tell what they were doing, just standing in the road with cars in the middle of it all. I eased on the break and pulled to the side. Maybe it was an accident or something, wouldn’t shock me with how these old fella’s drove. The first one I could make out was Mr. Dickson. Something seemed off, hell, everything in the county had a feeling to it, dark, oppressive, intrusive. ol’ Russ had that same feel to him. It gave me reason to stop in my tracks once I got a good look at em’. His face was oddly contributed, his posture unnatural. His old corroded teeth showing as he attempted to smile, however his smile was more like him pulling his lips back, like a dog showing its teeth. His eyes wide and dilated.

“You alright Russ?” I asked taking a small step forward.

“What's wrong boy? Never seen a man cross the road!?” He said, aggressive but with the pseudo-smile its intent was unclear.

“Where you fixin’ to go?”

“What’s it matter?”

“Well.. I can just give you a ride, maybe get you some gas if your cars out.” I stamped a bit, his glare doused in on me.

“Now I might not have a pot to piss in but that don’t mean I need a donation, now why don’t get back in that car and go get kissy with that jungle bunny of yours.” He stammered closer, I’d never once seen Russ say or do anything like this, He never once said anything like he just stopped making sense. He started to tell, a throaty and raspy tell as he then himself to the ground as if he was having a hissy. He started to throw himself around and falling his arms and legs about.

I couldn’t tell if I was scared, confused, or a bit of both. But I simply backed up to my truck, got in, and left. I pulled out my phone and tried calling the police, but nothing on the other end, same as all the last few days. I kept up main street, the sounds of shotgun fire and the occasional screen leaked into my truck, mixing with or drowning out my music as I drove down the road. I did a California stop up and my turn and and made sure I got home as soon as possible, I parked in front of my house and turned off the truck. I first grabbed my vest and rifle which were right next to me in the passenger seat. Walked up, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Everything turned off and untouched since I was last around. I put my hunting vest on the couch, and leaned the rifle barrel up and the wall in a corner to keep it stable. Checked to see if the old bayonet i had was still around my belt loop, it was and I continued on.

I tried calling Aloyse again, no pick up, then dad, again nothing, the home phone at mom's place wasn’t being answered either. I tossed my phone on the couch and took a deep breath. What the hell was going on? Did something happen to one of the cell towers out here? It seems like something had just snapped in town. Russ seemed like he was going crazy, people shooting off guns. Seems like shit was hitting the fan. Or just a bad day, I couldn't really tell what the hell was going on, and it wasn’t like I could get a hold of anyone.

I just sat there, for a good long moment too. Just thinking bout’ what the hell was going on ‘round here. Not doing much else. I looked around the house, hoping that Aloyse was just around sleeping or something, nothing. Hadn’t seen her since friday. My demeanor started to change, I was visibly worried now, where the hell could she be? What the hell could be going on that she be out this long?

Then I heard the smashing of glass and the sound of people in the from of the house. I rushed myself over to the front door. I peered through the curtains and out the window to see two people breaking their way into my truck. I grabbed my old yugo bayonet out of its sheath and went out their, i didn’t want something fucked to happen so I left the rifle. I opened the door and walked out to try and confront them . They were two older folks, They looked familiar but I couldn’t quite tell who they were.

“Get away from the truck!” I brandishing the old bayonet I had. The two looked over their shoulders and took off. One had my hunting back with my Glock 20 and all my hunting ammo inside. I started to run towards them but thought better of it before I got any real momentum. They now had my fucking pistol now and given what I’ve seen lately I wasn’t going to take any chances. Knowing my luck they were probably just a couple of meth heads looking for shit to sell.

I retreated back inside, i got my phone out once again, hoping i could get a hold of the police. Beforehand i went into my safe in the hall closet and pulled out the paperwork for i had so i could give them the serial number. I got it, 969510. I dialled in 9-1-1 hoping for something to pick up. My breathing frantic, mind racing, what if those guys came on back and tried to rob me, what if they shoot someone and ditch the gun and the cops think I did it, what if it ends up being used on someone I know. All of those worries were mentally solidified when no one answered. I threw my phone onto the soft sofa I had in the living room. I ran my hands through my hair in frustration just before something knocked on my door. I looked over and once again my mind raced, I was sure it was those guys returning with my gun to try and rob me. I slowly walked over to the door, grabbed my old Yugo mauser and looked through the peephole, i held my rifle in my hands hoping to catch them off guard, scar them off and hopefully not have return. I could however only see a small and petite figure through the peephole. Is that… is that Kennedy? I put my rifle down quickly and opened the door for her.

“What the hell are you doing here? I said motioning her in, still worried about if those guys were still out there wondering around. Hard to think she’d remember where i lived since she only came over once to help grade papers. I closed the door behind us and locked it to be safe. Then I turned to her again, changing the demeanor of my voice.

“Kennedy, why are you here?” my voice softer and less rigid the it was initially try to keep my panic from showing.
Time is a prismatic uniform polyhedron

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Kentucky Fried Land
Posts: 1645
Founded: May 11, 2016

Postby Kentucky Fried Land » Sat Apr 14, 2018 9:36 pm

Amelia Hughes
Outside Lake View
The Hughes Farm
10:10 AM

Amy watched the boy approach, breath hitching and hands clamming. She pulled the shotgun out of the screen door’s frame and leaned on the barrel, looking at him. He seemed trustworthy enough, and the grandpa was with him, so she supposed he was safe too. “No, c’mon.” The girl took a few steps back, hobbling to the side. When the boy did finally come in, she sat back down on the couch to rest her feeble thigh. “I don’t think there is a hospital we can go to. I tried calling my friend in Colombia a bunch, she never picked up.” Ames grimaced, swinging her left knee side to side. She stared at her feet, still wet from the healing water.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on. But I don’t wanna hedge our bets on Dillon. If we go up there and it’s like how it was in Lake View, we won’t be able to get out.”

She sniffled, looking up at the boy. “Sorry. For speakin’ bad an’ all. I’d rather go back to Lake View in your car, if you don’t mind. Grab some stuff from the pharmacy, like food and stuff, maybe go somewhere we’ll be safe until the government gets here.”

She sniffled, a weak snort blowing from her mouth. “I don’t even know ya’lls names. Sorry.’
I don't know what I'm s'posed to do.

INFP (obligatory? probably)

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Posts: 3143
Founded: Sep 01, 2014
Father Knows Best State

Postby Sarejo » Sun Apr 15, 2018 8:48 pm

Lee Hanson

Lee pulled his truck to a stop in front of his house, and killed the engine. He sat in the car for a moment and thought over the events of the past few days. In only four days, his entire world had gone to shit. Friends and coworkers acting strange, if not batshit crazy, and the outside world all but disappearing. He was all alone, and hadn't seen a sane mind in nearly 48 hours.

Lee let out a sigh and opened the car door, stepping out onto the gravel, and walked up the stairs onto his porch, and went inside his house. The house seemed eerily empty, even though he'd lived alone for nearly a decade at this point. However, the emptiness of the town only seemed to add to his house's vacant atmosphere. Lee stood in his living room, where a picture of him and Lorraine on a hiking trip sat on top of the mantle.

He walked over to the back of his house, and into his bedroom, his bed immaculately made, as if it had never been slept in. He made his way over to the dresser, and opened the top drawer. Crisply-folded shirts lay neatly within the drawer; Lee raised the pile on the right side, and underneath laid a .38 snubnose revolver, and a small box of rounds. He opened the box, and saw three rounds inside, and dumped them out into his hand. He grabbed the revolver and broke open the action, slotting the three rounds into the cylinder and snapped the action back into place, placing the gun into his jacket pocket. He took one last look around his room, before leaving the house for the last time. He climbed back into his truck, and drove far, far away from his house of over a decade.
Cheers mates.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Sun Apr 15, 2018 9:02 pm

Kennedy Tindol
The Home of Beau Sheridan, Lake View, South Carolina - Day 4

Kennedy was still knocking when the door opened suddenly, her fist striking air, an awkward throw of the arm, and looking up she saw her history teacher, Mr. Sheridan. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked despite motioning for her to come inside. No need to be told twice. She hurried across the threshold, Mr. Sheridan locking the door behind her. "Kennedy, why are you here?" he asked, a small strain of panic in his voice.

"Everybody's gone weird," she answered, peeking out a window to see if the creepy, whispering girl had come out after her. The yard was empty. No person in sight, crazy or otherwise, at least from what she could see from behind the blinds. Kennedy turned to face Mr. Sheridan, her typical poker face masking the worry she felt. "Mom and Ryan aren't home. I haven't seen them in four days, and they're not answering their phones, which is, like, not at all like them. Gordon's not come home either." It wasn't odd for the girl to refer to her step-father by name. She then explained how nobody was answering the phone. No police. No 9-1-1. Nothing. How she'd been at home all this time, waiting, and how her neighbor had tried to break inside the day before with a cleaver, and how nothing on the radio or television or internet had answers or had even acknowledged the strange happenings going on in town. Thinking about it, she hadn't seen any updates or activity or live-people on her TV or computer since before Monday. "I thought that you'd be normal," she finished, leaving out why she figured he was too boring to be crazy. "Do you know anything?"

She looked up to Mr. Sheridan, eyes expectant, awaiting an answer, any answer, but preferably one that made sense if at all possible. Then her stomach growled. A low warble, cheeks turning red in embarrassment. Her granola bar hadn't been all that filling.

Four days of junk food and microwave dinners, too, was less than satisfactory.

Kennedy inhaled sharply through her nose, determined to ignore the stomach's impatient cry of hunger. She'd come to find answers, to find somebody normal in a world gone crazy, not to raid the man's refrigerator, but she was hungry, more than she'd like to admit, and it would be rude to turn down a meal should it be offered. Aloyse was a pretty decent cook as well. Then, as an afterthought, she asked, "Where's Aloyse?" looking past Mr. Sheridan to peer deeper into the quiet house.

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Costa Fierro
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Posts: 19833
Founded: Dec 09, 2013
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Costa Fierro » Thu Apr 19, 2018 7:04 pm

James McKenna
The farm southeast of the McKenna Farm, somewhat under two-and-a-half miles northwest of Lake View:

James McKenna pulled the Ramcharger out the front of the farmhouse and switched off the engine. He opened the driver's door and got out, looking at the front as he did. The house was a traditional Southern-style two story wooden farmhouse with a large shingle roof with the upper floor windows poking through individually. Out the front was a verandah with little baskets of flowers hanging from the roof. From where he had parked, James could see the front door, which was wide open although moving slightly in the afternoon breeze. He was unsure what to make of it, as sometimes the house was left open. However, none of the windows that he could see were open. He reached over the driver's seat and lugged a cooler off the passenger seat and walked up the steps onto the verandah. He placed the cooler down next to the door and knocked on the doorframe.
"Mister Andrews?" he called. "Mister Andrews, it's me, James." No answer. He took a step inside the door and heard the crackle of broken glass under his boots. He looked down and confirmed visually what he had heard. Without saying another word he quickly moved off the verandah and back to his Ramcharger, opening the driver's dore and removing a Marlin Model 1894 lever-action rifle from the gun rack on the back window. He pulled it out of the vehicle before yanking the lever down, opening up the breech on the top of the rifle. He checked to see if it was loaded. It wasn't. He walked around to the passenger door and opened it. He leant in and opened the glovebox and pulled out a box of .357 Magnum cartridges. He grabbed four cartidges from the box and pulled a small lever on the back of the rifle which opened the feeder ramp on the right hand side. He slid the cartridges, one after the other, inside the rifle before yanking the lever again, working the action to chamber the first round. He then went back inside.

He crunched over the broken glass and although not aiming the rifle, had it ready as to be able to aim and fire if needed. He entered the foyer, which had the staircase rising to the second level on the right, set into an alcove in the house. To his left was a wide opening which led into the living room of the house, furnished with modest, inexpensive furniture and modern electronic accourtrements necessary for life. The furniture was arranged so that people could sit and watch television while receiving warmth from the fireplace. Further along was another opening which led to a dining room. James looked down and spotted bootprints on the floor, leaving muddy impressions which soon disappeared after the person making them had wiped their feet on the rug that sat underneath the coffee table. They lead him in the direction of the dining room. James proceeded, unsure what he'd find. He raised his rifle and turned the corner, to find the dining room empty, the table and chairs unmolested. He turned and moved into the alcove where the kitchen was located, set back and using the same heating system as the living room (or would have done). Nothing was disturbed here either, save for an open drawer next to the kitchen sink. James moved forwards and looked inside it. It was filled with cutlery, but one of the sections was empty. He figured that all the sharp knives had been taken by whoever had broken in. He moved forwards into the breakfast area, another, smaller table that was now filled with a pool table and a few cabinets containing family heirlooms. Here was at least proof that the house had been ransacked. Many of the cabinets had been opened and broken bits of china lay all over the place. A couple of small wooden boxes lay opened, devoid of their contents. James picked up one of the more familiar ones. It used to contain a Colt Model 1889 .38 special revolver, an inherited piece passed down from one of his earlier family members who purchased it. The second box, as it turned out, contained cartridges and it too was cleaned out. James was now very much more alert, as whoever had ransacked the place was now not only armed with knives, but had a revolver in their possession. He continued through the mess and walked through the doorway which led back into the hallway that bisected the house. He continued across and opened a door that lead into a bathroom. The medicine cabinet was open, with boxes and bottles strewn over the floor and the sink. He picked up one of the boxes and found that it used to contained prescription painkillers, issued to Mister Andrews' wife, Samantha. He pushed the curtain hanging in front of the bathtub aside with the muzzle of his rifle and saw that it was empty.

James left the bathroom and headed upstairs, slowly making his way up them. It was quiet, save for the slight creaking of the wood as he made his way up. He twisted his body to look behind him as he ascended the stairs to the landing, rifle pointed to ensure that no thief was sitting behind him with a gun ready to put a bullet in his head. He got to the top of the landing and looked to his right. A small corridor led to two kids bedrooms, signified by colourful lettering on the doors: Mikaela and Ellie. James figured they'd be at school. Their father, Kyle, was the man he had sold the mechanic's garage to when he retired in 2007 as a way for Kyle, an ex-Marine who had served two tours in Afghanistan, to get his life back together. His wife worked as a teacher at Lake View Elementary. James looked to the left and saw that the doors to the guest and master bedrooms were wide open. He approached the closest bedroom, the guest bedroom, first. He looked inside and saw that the drawers from the beside table and a chest next to the door opposite the bed had been placed on the bed itself, with various bits and pieces in the draws scattered all over the floor. He turned and left the guest bedroom and entered the master bedroom. The same thing had been done there, with clothes and other things strewn all over the place. James leant his rifle up against the door frame and picked up what appeared to be a jewelry box, it's lid smashed and barely hanging on the hinges. He placed it back up on the table that sat opposite the bed. Looking down he saw a picture frame lying face down on the carpet. He picked it up and looked at the photo. The protective glass was not broken. It was a family portrait. He didn't know where it was taken. It showed Kyle, Samantha, Mikaela and Ellie all standing or sitting together in front of a generic background, smiling. Kyle looked proud, his metallic prosthetic leg visible to the left of his eldest daughter, Ellie. He placed the family portrait on the table next to the ruined jewelry box, picked up his rifle and moved downstairs.

A cord phone hung from the wall next to the entranceway from the dining room. James picked up the receiver and dialled the emergency number, expecting to hear a response. Nothing. It rang and rang and rang. James hung up and tried again, thinking the thieves may have damaged the phone lines. Still nothing. He tried a third time. Nothing again. Now convinced that something had been done to the phone line, but not knowledgable to know where to look to prove this theory, James went outside, shutting the door behind him. He went back to his Ramcharger and put the rifle back onto it's rack. He fired up the engine and drove back to his own property.

James felt his gut drop when the same thing happened on his own phone. He knew that despite being close together, and being linked by tracks and dirt roads, both properties shared different phone lines. But then he realized that he was getting through to the office which took calls emergency calls, only that the person on the other end wasn't answering. He thought about going into town and reporting it himself, but if the emergency call center wasn't asnwering calls, what state would the police be in? There'd have to be a set of extraordinary circumstances for the emergency call center to stop taking calls. James knew something wasn't right, but he wasn't sure what, and he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to find out. He had to think of reasons why they weren't responding. As far as he knew, the town was much the same as he left it a week ago. Whatever had happened to it had happened quickly and had incapacitated he emergency services, and James figured that there'd temporarily be a loss of law and order until either outside forces intervened, or the locals established it themselves. He'd seen similar things in Vietnam. He thought about going down to the school to check to see whether or not Samantha and the kids were there, but then remember it was July; school was out for the summer. That made things worse: they could be anywhere. He was essentially paralysed by indecision. Searching for them could put himself in harm's way and likely put him in a worse position than he was in. Not searching for them and finding out something terrible had happened to them would have resulted in guilt that would have likely resulted in him not being able to continue living without some atonement needed. Going into town, James figured, was an inevitability and something that was better done sooner than later.

James left the house and locked his door. He walked over to his Ramcharger, got in, and fired the engine up. He turned it around and headed off down his driveway towards the gate. Repeating the same ritual as when he got home, he made a right turn and headed off towards town, not knowing what lay ahead.
"Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist." - George Carlin

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True Christopia
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Founded: Apr 08, 2014

Postby True Christopia » Fri Apr 20, 2018 3:12 pm

Paul Wood

Stepping inside the room, Paul rubbed his neck anxiously. He looked over the woman and her leg, biting his lip "That looks bad." he commented, before nodding "If there's no hospital, I suppose finding some medicine and stuff should help. But, man, the town is dangerous - I got shot at for just driving in there. Lucky I didn't get hit." he said. Shuffling on his feet for a moment as he let her speak, Paul furrowed his brow - surely it couldn't be anywhere past Lake View? Surely? He hoped not - he didn't want to be in some new apocalypse.

"I hope the government comes. I - my friend was killed, a couple days back. Are - are you sure it's a good idea to go into town? Oh - " he started, at her last comment "I'm Paul. I don't know the guy-guy's name out there, we've just met."
Pro: Democracy, The United Kingdom, The Conservative Party (UK), LGBT+ rights, Capitalism, The Grand Tour, Freedom of Speech, Gun control, Cuba, The British Monarchy, Obama, National Healthcare, Trident Nuclear Program, PC Master race, Mental Healthcare, TEA!
Anti: Donald Drumpf, Homophobes, the U.S. Electoral system, Paid Healthcare, IRA, ISIS, Jeremy Corbyn, Communism, Fascism/Nazism, Guns, Racism, Top Gear, Coffee, Poverty, KKK, SJW's

Si vis pacem, para bellum.
If you want peace, prepare for war.

I'd rather die on my feet,
than live on my knees.

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Costa Fierro
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Posts: 19833
Founded: Dec 09, 2013
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Costa Fierro » Fri Apr 20, 2018 11:04 pm

James McKenna
On the Dillon Highway, heading southeast:

James didn't know what to expect as he cruised down the highway between the farm and the town of Lake View proper. It would take him very long to get there, and soon enough as he crested the final low rise before the town proper, he could see that something was very, very wrong. A large patch of forest lay either side of the highway surrounding a small creek that emptied into the Bear Swamp, one of the smaller wetlands that essentially ran the length of the Dillon Highway between Dillon and Lake View. The creek marked the boundary between the town itself and the farms to the west and northwest. On the part of the highway over the culvert that carried the creek under the road were two large pickups parked across the road in a manner as to block it, although perhaps there was a way of letting passing vehicles through. James felt a sense of unease as he eased back down through the gears, the only alternate routes one awkward u-turn back up the highway behind him. Vigilantes, or opportunists looking to cement their own version of law and order amidst chaos were usually not the kinds of people one would tend to mess with. James remembered the difficulties of getting proper law and order established in places in Vietnam, and the chaos almost immediately after Hugo. James slowed down further as he approached the roadblock, trying to see whether or not anyone he knew was there. There was.

Glenn Gilmore was as much of an ugly person inside as he was outside. His ignorance and his lack of worldly knowledge belied the fact that he was a very cunning, opportunistic and exploitative man. A devout Christian, he worked at the high school as a physical education teacher and football coach, living through his students both in the classroom and on the football field. He stopped working when it was alleged he had "slept" with one of the female students, although rumours of other abuse and bullying of black students ran rampant. The latter was one of the worst kept secrets in the town, although James didn't engage in the kind of gossipping that plagued small rural towns. In some ways he sympathised with Glenn, having been the subject of rumours himself, unfounded or otherwise. Glenn sympathised with James and the two had bonded over their dislike of African-Americans, although James' distrust wasn't pure hatred because they were different. However Glenn had increasingly become an annoyance to James, not paying bills on time and expecting favours without reciprocating. His increasing religious fanaticism and judgement of others while acting in a hypocritical manner had also rubbed James up the wrong way. Glenn was a tall man, at least six foot, with a large beer belly and a squat, squarish head. He had a slivery grey moustache and a mullet to match. His face was as pig-like as a human could get and he waddled when he walked.

James wound the window down and watched Glenn approached the Ramcharger, his arms cradling a Winchester shotgun like a small child. James didn't recognise a few of the other guys around, especially the young ones whom he figured were highschool students. He could smell the characteristic odour of tobacco, alcohol and sweat as Glenn adjusted his shotgun and leant into the window.
"And where are you headin', James?" Glenn asked with a stereotypical southern drawl.
"What the hell is this?" James asked somewhat incredulously. "Where's the sherriff? What's happening?"
"Whole town's gone crazy," Glenn replied, drawing out the last word. "Ain't no sherriff around no more. Just us fine upstandin' citizens the peace." The way in which this sentence was phrased unsettled James. Glenn repeated his initial question.
"I'm gon' ask you again, where ya headin'?"
"I'm tryin' to find Kyle," James replied. "Someone broke into his house, stole his Colt and stole a whole bunch'a knives and stuff. You seen him?"
"Kyle?" Glenn boomed. "Nah, I ain't seen him around. Last time I did was Friday when he was seein' to my pickup. Damn think snapped a timing belt."
"That's too bad," James replied. "Can I get through?"
"'fraid not," Glenn said. "Not unless I get a bit of...compensation." Glenn emphasised every syllable in the last word.
"Huh?" James grunted.
"Comp-en-sation," Glenn said. "You wanna get in, ya gotta compensate." Once again Glenn emphasised every syllable in the last word.
"I ain't got no money." James said. There was no follow up joke about accepting credit cards.
"Then turn around," Glenn said. "Because you ain't gettin' past me or my boys without no compensation." James didn't mind, there were alternate routes. But what James didn't realise was that while he and Glenn were having their exchange, one of the younger guys had been talking into a hand-held radio. James farewelled Glenn and put the Ramcharger into gear before swinging across the road and using a considerable amount of the opposing shoulder before heading back off up the road. James knew there were at least two roads heading to the west that he could use to circumvent the roadblock. In no time at all, the first one of these appeared.

Rogers Drive appeared like one of the many dirt driveways that lead into farms from the main highway. As James approached he noticed that there was a white Dodge Ram parked in the road's entrance, as the road was visible from the southeast across a field. James kept going. The Ram pulled out behind him. It began following him up the road. James decided against pulling off onto an alternate road, but he also didn't want to show them where he lived. He continued onward, even passing his driveway. The Ram turned down Hayestown Road and continued going. James pulled over and wheeled the Ramcharger around and then stopped, sitting on the side of the road on the opposing shoulder. He was sitting in a layby a few hundred feet up the road from his own driveway. He turned the engine off and sat there, considering his game plan. Whoever this group was, they had the town locked down. However, the Dillon Highway was only one route into town. James figured there could be others. He started the engine up and went home, to prepare and to wait.
"Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist." - George Carlin



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