End of Day ~ A Post-Apocalyptic RP [IC]

[Eisen]

End of Day

OOC

In the year 2039, the world has been ravaged by a nuclear war that happened nearly twelve years ago, a war caused by a massive oil crisis, as well as political tend between various countries. Since then, society has unravelled, with over half of the world's population dead from the war, and anarchy reigns supreme. Murder is not uncommon, cannibalism is popular amongst many, and psychopaths rule the desolate wastelands. There are a decent amount of safe Haven's dedicated to those with intact minds, but these places are few and far between.

Of all commodities, oil has become the most precious. Some people have created vehicles that run on other fuels, but none compare to those that run on oil. It has become the most valuable trade item, and will get you a lot. Well, if you're up for trading instead of raiding. Of course, many of those who run raiding parties are more willing to pillage and plunder their way through survival.

Life is harder for those who do not do whatever it takes to survive. It is harder still for those who do not belong to a group, or what is generally referred to as a tribe. You are given a choice: You decide who you are. You decide where you belong. And most importantly, you decide how you'll survive.

Portland, Oregon. Grey skies stretched out over a grey city, long abandoned due to the terrors of a decayed society. On the Eastern side, there is little but the remains of what was once a heavily populated area, ride with the burnt crisps of what we're once the homes of many families. On the Western side, lawlessness abounds, and the general population has left in order to preserve their lives from the horses of raiders that pillage and plunder as they please. A plethora of various supplies remains ripe for the taking, but only because many have killed each other in attempts to take them. Some areas of downtown Portland have become safehavens, people remaining hidden within monoliths of concrete and glass, or sheltered within the Shanghai tunnels, or bunkered within the hospital on bill that overlooks the city. Even the ariel tram that is capable of quick transport between the downtown area and the hospital has become an important aspect of the city with various tribes fighting over control of it. The Pittock mansion in the West Hills has become an area meant for safehaven, but has, as well, become an object blood has been spilled over. Indeed, there are many significant items and areas of importance, such as the former Rose Garden, or convention center, that has been fought for for control over.

Few have braved the treacherous city after the Mushroom Event, and only the capable are allowed to remain. Destroyed cars litter the streets. Broken down transits lay dead on the TriMet rail network. For the most part, the city remains quiet. But not always. For example, a giant truck plows through the streets. The War Rig makes its way through the city in order to obtain goods for those who occupy it. A pair of glasses fully reflects their surroundings as the odd man drove through the Downtown area, sometimes slowly, sometimes with speed. Doctor Richard Bartholomew stroked his bearded chin as he took a few turns to get to the bridge. He could only hope that Andy & Bax, a store he used to shop at, was still intact with what was once sold within. However, it was located just across the river, and as such, he knew he had to take one of the bridges.

In the back of the War Rig, Kris took a look at a map of Portland. From what Doc told him, the location of their destination was over on 324 south-east Grand Avenue, over on where Southeast Grand and Southeast Pine intersect. What troubled Kris was that they'd have to take Burnside Bridge. To Kris, and plenty of other wary people who braved the city, bridges were often good places to put a trap of some sort. Ambushes. At least the War Rig was basically a tank with eighteen wheels, with some heavy support guns on it they had got when they ambushed and killed some guys from Texas.

And so the city awoke.

[The Cyberiad Council]

Jacob Alston

A brief break in the grey cloud cover shone through the open window of the Embassy Suites hotel, directly onto Jacob's face. Squinting and shielding his face, Jacob woke up and stretched, surveying the room. His rifle was leaning against his shoulder as he sat in the corner of the room. The Hotel had survived relatively well, especially the upper floors. No food or meaningful supplies meant no reason for anyone to loot the place. He had secured the top floor, using it as his own personal sniper nest. He had a good view of the intersection and adjoining streets. It also allowed him to keep an eye on traffic going to and from the bridge, not that it was common.

Jacob had booby-trapped the stairwells; anyone unfortunate enough to try and take shelter in the building would have a very rude and explosive awakening. It helped him sleep at night, but he didn't ever really feel secure enough to sleep on the bed. Standing up, Jacob walked over to his backpack and rummaged around before pulling out a can of baked beans. "Bon appétit," Jacob mutter before pulling out a knife and popping the top. It wasn't as good without a fire, but fire means smoke and smoke means attention. He took a few bites before setting down the can on the nightstand and reaching for his rifle.

Listening a little more, Jacob grinned and braced the gun on the windowsill. The sound of the engine grew as the rolling bastion made its way closer to the bridge. "They're bound to have something nice in that tin can." There was no point in killing them if he didn't have to. His gun probably couldn't pierce the truck's armor, but it didn't have to. Jacob adjusted the scope and took aim. Squeezing the trigger, a shot rang out and the bullet struck a small explosive a few dozen feet in front of the truck.

"Hey, you down there! Surrender any goods and you can be safely on your way."

[Venkara]

Silas Hickory
A cold breeze had woken Silas. As he opened his eyes, he saw the familiar gray sky that seemed to always cover this side of Portland. He made sure his backpack and weapons were still at his side, and rummaged through his backpack to pull out one of his water bottles, in which he would drink a quarter of it's contents. As he stood up, the effects of sleeping on the roof of a building without any kind of padding began to take a toll on Silas, with his back aching from such a crappy sleep. Nonetheless, he gathered his supplies, surveyed his surroundings, and climbed down the ladder on the side of the gas station.

Silas could very much remember what had happened the previous day. He was looting an abandoned house in the suburbs when a dozen bandits drove up into the neighborhood. Silas had to think fast if he was to avoid confrontation. So, he went into the building's bathroom, and hid. He stayed there for about thirty minutes, until he could hear the footsteps of one of the bandits. He panicked, and dove into the bathtub, took his knife out, and waited. He didn't have to wait long, and when the bandit looked into the tub, he had his throat slit. He felt relieved, until he realized that the other bandits are bound to look for him. He couldn't stay in that bathtub for long, so he darted out of the house, and looked for a suitable place to hide, until he set his eyes on a gas station, where he darted to. Luckily for him, there was a ladder at the side of the building, and he hid at the roof for the rest of the night.

He would be shaken by it for the remainder of the day. But now was not the time for dilly dallying. He needed to find more ammunition for his Glock 19, because four magazines will not suffice in this cruel world of bandits and death. He set off for the commercial area of this part of town, hoping he wouldn't come across any bandits along the way.

[Prussiaholm]

Emilia Braun
Emilia tugged her jacket onto her closer. It was cold, but she was used to it. She sighed deeply. How had she ended up in Portland, and specifically, this ruddy old house? Her brain cast her thoughts back to Battle of Kennewick, as she liked to call it. Her and her small band like-minded wanderers, attacked and slaughtered by some people from one of the bands previous, pre-mushroom life. Their band of 12, surrounded and pincered all died except Emilia. Unfit to walk, she hopped in a small, wooden boat and sailed down the river, ending up outside of Portland. This house was Emilia's Miracle. The supplies within allowed her to fix up her leg, and she sat down in an old seat inside the house, AK-12 in hand.

She closed her eyes and relaxed for the first time in days. That was until there was a huge bang on the door. "Open up!"

[Verwood Island Archipelago]

Luke negotiated his V8 Land Rover Defender through the debris littered streets. The vehicle may have been equipped with run flat tyres but that didn’t mean taking unnecessary risks especially with resources being as scarce as they were even for a tribe as well organised as Cartwright’s.

Turning into another street he was pleased to see the heavily fortified warehouse that served as the tribe’s head quarters. The guards on sentry duty flagged him down even though they recognised the vehicle in order that they might conduct a visual inspection. As they were giving his truck the once over an explosion sounded from another part of the city. Ambush he suspected.

The visual complete he was waved through and rolled into the warehouse where he came to a stop. Aloicious would be pleased. The medical supplies, much needed by a tribe that preferred existing outside of the city had been delivered and because of that a few more people might yet live a few more months.

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

Patrick W. O'Reilly
Portland Post Office
101 Madison St., Downtown Portland.

Patrick fiddled with the bolt of his rifle. He had been sitting on the postal service's building ground floor for about 26 hours. Patrick rarely moved from his position, sticking to one place for as long as possible. It felt best that way. He'd sheltered himself away from the street by surrounding himself in grey tables, to make sure that he wouldn't be seen. He slept for about 8 hours, which was very relaxing for him. He woke up naturally, no noises, nothing. Complete silence. He looked down to the floor, where he had dropped his canteen. Patrick drank the water, emptying the canteen. He would have to move away again to get more water. He sighed. Patrick checked packed his stuff together, and left the building with his Ruger M77 in his left hand. Patrick checked the inner city, and didn't really find anything.

After checking through the third tall building, he found some water bottles. Patrick calmly stuffed the water bottles in his rucksack. He decided to move out again, hoping to find more equipment on his way. Patrick left the building, crossing the street, when he heard a bullet impacting the ground. He ducked down, Getting cover behind a concrete roadblock. He heard a few shots impacting the roadblock, and decided to stay behind it until he was sure that the attackers would be gone.

[Molvaniia]

James O. Burns
Blue Bucket Inn
82457 Ahmann Ranch Rd, Drewsey, Oregon

James lay on a bed, exhausted after setting up barricades along the building's doors and windows. He's been working non-stop to put up those barricades for a solid 10 hours. He could see the mountainous terrain behind him through a crack in a Barricade. James would rarely move from position. His location had pre-war food in a Freezer storage, and a storage of weapons in the basement. There was also a bar. After an hour of rest, he got up and decided to find some more food. Since the town was abandoned, the streets, Houses, Everything was completely empty, there weren't even bandits.

He Grabbed his bag, and carried his Saiga shotgun. He went to the downstairs front entrance Barricade, he Unbolted the locks and exited the building. Once he exited, he locked the door behind him. He stepped out into the empty streets and walked towards the town's grocery store.
He walked between cars, and he would arrive in front of the store. He tries to pry open the door, but it's shut. He walked over to a window and broke it to get in. Most of the food on the shelves had already rotted, but the food in the frozen food section should still be good. He walked through the empty ailes, and came across the Frozen food section. He opened one of the freezers and took out some frozen food to cook. He puts it in his bag, and leaves the store to go cook the food.

[Flying Ford Raptors]

Chris woke up with the sniffles. He felt chilled to the bone. His fleece was drenched with his own sweat, and his waterproof tight and uncomfortable across his belly. There was no warmth left in him overnight. Fortunately, the stove was on nearby. Around it, Akash had clambered out of his sleeping bag and was setting to work on feeding the five. He produced what he had always been producing, and emptied it into the boiling water. A simple pleasure, porridge was. A warm reminder of home.

Jane stood guard with the M1911. There were only two bullets in the clip, both saved for the last resort emergency. The other two had already been spent, and the empty cartridges cast out onto the street. That, and the two AK47s, and that was all the five had between them, with no more than a few dozen rounds total. A dire situation for a group of survivors in an anarchy. But, as he gratefully shovelled the breakfast down his throat, he appreciated the warmth of his clothes, sharpened his shovel, and helped pack up the camp kit. Trangia packed up in a waterproof bag, and slung across Chris's bag with tightened straps, courtesy of Akash. He carried the two gas containers, spluttering and coughing every time they were switched on. The Smiths carried the food, the cans and the salvaged packets and occasional meat. A pocket fruit and berry guide made sure that everything they hunted and gathered was edible. A nasty bout of food poisoning taught them the lesson the hard way.

The garage door complained, but slid open anyway. The newly found car once again saw the light of day. Its shattered headlights formed a determined grimace across the grille. They had named it the Navy, a crude pun between the name and the colour. Armada. Navy. See? The number plates now ruined beyond recognition. Somebody had left a familiar butt imprint on the seat. They would have to make do with a million shards of glass and a broken window, and a silent car alarm. Even better, keys found against the sun-visor. Even better, a half-full fuel tank. Stuff like that hadn't happened in years. Everything had changed. Now, the mission was clear. The team emptied their packs to the bare bone. They could only leave once the car was full. Until then, the dangers of the city still lurked at their doorstep.

[Eisen]

The War Rig came to a sudden halt as the good doctor stomped on the breaks at the moment of the small explosion in front of them. The old man took to one of the many radios he had placed inside the cab of the mammoth tank of an 18 wheeler. This specific radio was a two way radio in order to maintain communication between himself and the others he traveled with.

"Erik, someone's saying hello. Wave back, won't ya?"

A massive shape shifted in the back of War Rig, on top of one of the beds. The giant wall of meat that was Erik had been asleep for most part, recently, but now, he had been summoned. A brief, deep yawn rumbled through the armored vehicle's back section as Erik awoke. The huge man slowly but surely made his way towards a latter that led up to a makeshift turret, made from a hollowed out and armored VW beetle. There was a single, narrow visor that allowed the barrel of a M249 machine gun to peek through and aim whichever way, and a window made of reinforced glass with steel blinders over it to make things harder for heavy caliber guns.

Erik eventually found himself inside, and soon enough, a loud barrage of 45. caliber bullets was let loose in the general direction provided by Doctor Bartholomew, who followed the sound of the voice with his ears to figure out the attacker's location. It was unlikely that any of the bullets found a target, but that could easily be remedied by pulling out a more accurate weapon, or, preferably a one of the few rocket launcher and they had, or a grenade launcher. They had a decent amount to choose from, after all. The only thing they really had to worry about was conserving ammunition. Who knew where they could find such heavy calibers in a place like this?

Another radio, this time connected to a sound system on the outside of the truck. The doctor clicked it on to the squeal of feedback, before tapping the radio a few times to ensure that it was working, resulting in several thuds ringing out from the truck. It was working. The doctor spoke in his calm, somewhat deep but rather soothing voice.

"I'd suggest that you'd leave us be lest we level your building," he said smugly.

They didn't have that many explosives, but they could still likely light up a few floors.

"You seem like you're a guy who's good with a rifle. To be honest, we could use a couple more hands on deck, and we could definitely use some sharp eyes."

Kris crossed his arms. He wasn't too fond of new people. But the doctor was the brains of this outfit.

[The Mizarian Empire]

Matthias Albright

It was another gloomy day, as perpetual as the rains of london...a musing that led the aging messiah a fleeting smile as he worked his way through the simple compound of his children. Upon the roof of one of the several buildings that made their home, the children tended to rain-catchers and dew collectors, eagerly gathering that life-preserving harvest of water. The nearby river provided aplenty, of course, but it would be foolish to not reap all the harvests one could muster. Atop another building, Joshua, one of his Chosen* was guiding others through proper maintenance of the solar panels which gave them vital power for their few tools of labor. The distant clamor of gunfire ringing out and wails of sorrow ringing across Portland's landscape only reminded him of his perpetual mission.

After a moment's reflection at the skies once more, it was clear rain may be upon them soon, another boon for his children and their crops. He gazed upon the hard-earned farm they had erected after laborious hours and days of tearing up the streets to reveal the earth beneath. It was meager, but food was food, much of their harvest of potatoes;corn and other hardy vegetables would serve them well in the near constant lean days to come as they had been since the fall. It was a short journey across the dirt where asphalt once lay to his tribe's workshop. Within lay the grindstones upon which the blades of defense and tools of labor were honed, outside a furnace blazed as if a new star born within their home, melting down the remnants of automobiles and other scrap metals to reinforce the walls and fashion other necessities for their day-today life.

A radio was manned near the rear of what had once been a bar, a reloading table sat at the opposite side, hand-loading the ever precious ammunition for his tribe's firearms, both operated by Chosen* as well, each had another of the tribe watching and learning the proper behaviors and gaining a respect for the tools that they may one day be blessed to handle themselves. Matthias approached the radio first, the collection of the daily munitions could come second, no hunting was expected today. The presence of her Father earned a glance from the Chosen manning the radio whom nodded her head in respect before offering the customary May you rise with the gold once more, Father. Matthias often found the phrase curious but it had long since become custom and as such offered it's return And may you rise with it as well, my child, have we heard any word today? the leader of The Fallen Sun inquired. None of yet, good Father, give me but a moment his Chosen daughter lifted the speaking device once more to her lips and calmly spoke the invitation offered countless times before Upon behalf of The Fallen Sun, this is Samantha, Chosen of The Fallen Sun, if any should hear this message, we offer food; shelter; safety and guidance in the hours of the suns falling. If you are hearing this, come in peace and you shall be welcome to join us or trade in our wealth, May you rise with the gold once more

Hand-picked from among Matthias' eldest and/or brightest children. Chosen lead the daily labors or vital tasks of the tribe as well as scavenging parties as needed

[Zjaum]

Abigail Ecksman

A young woman stood beside her bike on the outskirts of Portland. The big gold letters of the "Welcome to Portland" sign gave her a brief sense of comfort, one that was rudely interrupted by several gunshots further into the town. She sighed. Well, this was the adventure she was looking for; no use trying to bemoan her situation now.
She entered the first drug store she found. Out of the corner of her eye she saw another lone survivor, a ruffled old man who eyed her back. Without a moment's notice, she responded. "I know you have a gun. So do I. I'm not interested in shooting you, and I have nothing you want. So what say you that we look through this drugstore together, in peace, like we would fifteen years ago?"
The stranger didn't respond but alleviated his tension, signaling to the female that he was ready for peaceful encounter. They both entered the store quietly and began to go about their business. After a few minutes, the girl spoke up. "Say, what are you fetching?"
"Drugs," grunted the old man. "Food, if there's any left that's edible here. Probably water." He turned around and noticed the woman getting nail polish remover. He promptly laughed. "You aren't thinking about your nails at the end of the world, are you?"
"Me? No," replied the girl. "Nail polish remover practically never expires, and it's incredibly flammable. I'm certain I can make a trap out of this."
The male chuckled. "Ah, good. Did you check the soap? I heard people can use that to make explosives."
"It's all taken. Besides, soap withers... withered away after a few years, tops."
"You're an odd duck, you know that? What's your name?"
"Abigail, sir. Abigail Ecksman. Now if you'd be so kind, could you tell me where those gunshots were?"
He pointed her in the proper direction, and the two parted ways with relative mutual respect. Abigail left the drugstore, with as much of the acetone as she could fit in her backpack, went into a small alleyway, and quickly assembled her Henry AR-7. That was a nice conversation but also too close a call. She would not repeat that mistake, especially when trouncing into town on a bicycle. She remounted and travelled down the road toward the center of the city. Apparently there was good action there, and she wanted in.