OOC
August 29th, 2018
9:30 AM
What Lurks There
The dead roamed Wilmington.
Rotting slow, mindless hordes bumping into each other as they paraded streets with their missing limbs, their broken bodies, their guts trailing behind their feet like long coats in winter. Flies stuck to them, swimming over their sunken eyes and bloodied teeth. The ones who still had hair left were given grease-packed strands that matted and coiled up against their fleshy scalps. Most looked normal from a distance; upon closer inspection one would see pale skin and gray pupils, some naked, some in linen bathrobes. Most were fresh and yet to rot, but their time would come soon. Some wore nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, others were dressed in dark red business attire, soaked with the blood of themselves. All shambled with collective intent, simple as it was violent.
Consume.
The campus was different. Husks limped the perimeter, of course, and some had even managed to get behind the chain-link fence (topped with barbed wire.) The high school was large, especially since it was accentuated by the middle and elementary next to it. This was the place the military had called so many survivors. There were remnants of them scattered about, two or three humvees parked in front. But it was different. Despite that gnawing sense of emptiness, it was safe. A few dozen undead were scattered in the yard, but they weren’t congested like the ones in the streets of Wilmington.
Parts of the fence had fallen over, just enough for a person to crawl over. This would sow dissent in any of the survivors who approached, for sure, but there had to be military left in there. It wasn’t an option to not find the military; after all, they had come all the way here, hadn’t they? Five survivors approached one of the breaches from the southwest, the high school itself sitting before them. Another six had approached from the northeast, finding themselves nearing the fence around Charles P. Murray Middle. Both groups stood outside the fallen links, mulling over what was to come next exactly.
Both groups seemed feeble. A young teen named Jiro Mayazaki was in the first pack, quiet yet with a sense of determination emanating from his aura. There was an elderly man named Theo Gustaffson with him as well, a weak man wielding a cane to prop him up. Then there was Benjamin Church; he was not well-liked amongst the rest, causation of his stubborn yet distant attitude clashing against the others. Nelson Andrews also stood among them, the former “mourning boy” now fiddling with his fingers as the quintet came to a standstill. Finally, a young woman stood in the front, one with a leaderly disposition but a sheepishness upon staring at the dead. Her name was Caitlin Hart. Their breach appeared to have been run over by something at a good speed, flattened and crooked in the wispy grass. The culprit sat ahead, a military humvee trapped halfway through a wall. Jumping atop of said humvee would lead them towards an open window on the second and last story.
Deputy Edward Miller was the one leading the pack into the evacuation zone from the north. He didn’t look sure of himself on the state of de facto leadership; but he was a cop, so that’s where it got him. The frail figure with the prosthetic leg limped towards the school, following in as quick of a pursuit as Ronald Perry could. Then there was Madeline Hess, the tiny girl with the oversized rifle and the frigid expression hiking after them, eyes glued to every part of the surroundings. A man with a fine-tuned posture and a particularly distinguished and polite gait pursued, Mordimer Krankheit. Finally came in the teacher and her pupil; Katherine Truelove and Morgan Kaur, respectively. The two seemed stuck together, yet closed the gap between themselves and the others for safety’s sake. This group’s breach had been pushed over by the infected, it seemed, as a few of the dead walked close by. Before them sat the side doors of the middle school, mostly free from the undead but under dying eye by so many of them. They could make a run for it, if need be, and enter into what was the much safer lobby.
Doubts were sure to arise. The sorry state of the zone was causation enough for suspicions and the lack of activity in the building would only settle that. But what other hope did they have to get out of Wilmington?
These thoughts were vanquished within seconds with the sudden eruption of gunfire from inside of the school. Anyone approaching the school would hear it and anyone from miles around would hear it. Loud, piercing, shrieking. This was to be followed by the raspy groans of undead from behind the survivors, insistent on investigating the noises that disturbed. Insistent on heading right for each of the survivors.
The evacuation zone was no longer an option; it was a necessity.
