[hider=Scenario #3] [b]Scenario:[/b] [url=https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@41.8999876,-88.0217102,128m/data=!3m1!1e3]Sunset Avenue[/url] [b]Scenario Type:[/b] Open [b]Max Players:[/b] 3 [b]Current Players:[/b] SyrianHamster, Dragonbud [b]Loot Level:[/b] Don’t get your hopes up. [b]Walker Density:[/b] Heavy. [b]Bandits:[/b] Unlikely.[/hider] [hider=Hannah’s Group] [b]Members:[/b] Hannah Banks, Camellia Morgan, [s]Woodrow Hepburn[/s], Oskar Rennold. [b]Weapon Pool:[/b] M14 (1 x 11), M4A1 CQR (2 x 30), Winchester Model 70 (x20) [b]Equipment Pool:[/b] Apache helmet, military radio, 2 x can of baked beans, box of stale bran flakes, map of Chicago, protein mix. [b]Location:[/b]Moving down the road.[/hider] The third walker, despite the gaping hole in its chest from Camellia’s rifle, and the flap of skin hanging from the side of its head from the girl’s faltered aim, moved on Woody. He hesitated, knowing that it had come too close for the girl to get an accurate shot without putting him in harm’s way. He could kill it, he was confident of this, but to do so would mean dropping Camellia. Other walkers were getting up, having remembered how to put their withered limbs to good use. Stopping to dispatch the threat would give them time to surge on him, and then they’d both be dead. “Cam? You gonna take that thing out?” he shouted; his heart thudding into his ear drums. Camellia shook her head, “I can’t, this piece of shit’s jammed.” Woody took a second to note the irony; Camellia looked after that weapon well, always cleaning and polishing it with the passion worthy of a creepy red neck. The fact it had jammed was nothing short of the world laughing in both their faces. In the end, he resigned himself to pulling his trapped friend with everything he had. She was coming free from her prison of wood and rotted flesh, but not quickly enough. “Come on, come on, come on,” screeched Camellia, turning her rifle around to use as a club; though in her prone, upright position, it would do little good fulfilling such a purpose. The walker lurched forwards, and fell on Cemllia; she shrieked and smashed it in the face with the butt of her rifle, but then it was on her. Jaws snapping, it reached for her flesh with the terrible strength of someone who felt no pain or exhaustion. Woody reacted. Dropping Camellia, he grabbed the walker by its wiry hair and hauled it from her. A pair of hands grabbed him from behind, but his ancient biceps, swollen with a lifetime of dedication, shrugged them off. His forehead collided with his foe, sending it sprawling to the ground. Then he turned, picking up a part of the ruined fence as he did so, and swung it at the zombie that had grabbed him. Its head made a sickening pop as the wood caved in the side of its skull, spewing black liquid and pink porridge onto the grass. He had only a moment to savour this small victory, as a dozen of the walkers’ comrades pounced on him. Woody was strong for a senior; he’d benched iron since the age of 14. A steel worker for most of his adult life, his lungs were no stranger to exertion, and the muscles that hadn’t been perfected in some immaculate San Francisco gym had been hardened through the nature of his work. A man a third his age would struggle to best him in a feat of raw physical strength, and this was something that often stayed the old man’s pride as he edged ever nearer to his own funeral. Walkers were strong too though. They felt no pain, they never tired, and they were always intent on getting what they wanted. He smashed the skull of another, breaking his impromptu weapon the process, and resolved to shoulder a second head over heels. Then they got him. A searing pain caught his right upper arm, and Woody howled in both terror and rage. He crushed the creature’s face with his two large fists, and went about unleashing a ‘dead man’s’ resolve on several more. Again and again, he launched his God-given weapons into the heads of rotting flesh, pummelling them; cutting his skin and mingling his blood with theirs. There was no turning back now. With eight or nine motionless on the ground, he had created breathing space. His body ached all over, and not just from the exertion of killing so many walkers with nothing but his own muscles; the infection had gotten him. Fire pulsed from his arm, and the split skin on his knuckles stung as if someone had poured vinegar onto them. There was nothing for it now. Turning, he heaved aside a corpse holding down the fencing on top of Camellia. Then he pulled up a fence panel, and another, until the girl’s badly bloodied legs were visible. Another walker grabbed him from his blindside, sinking its teeth into his neck. Without looking at his attacker, he reached back with his hands, grabbed the waxy flesh of its head, and pulled hard; there was a gurgling pop, and the zombie fell minus a brain. Camellia had already scrambled away, picking up the black box she’d risked so much for. Upon seeing it through hazy eyes, Woody understood why: it was a car battery, and in good condition too. With that, the group stood a chance of commandeering one of the many abandoned husks dotting the neighbourhood. “Good girl,” he wheezed. The moans of the dead answered him, not just from behind, but also down the road where the pursuing horde had multiplied into a hundred strong. They saw his weakened form, and they hurried their shambling pace in anticipation. Once more, Woody acted. He moved forwards, [b]seeing the girl from the ambulance wobbling on her feet; not from an injury, but from exhaustion and probably hunger. He had erred in trusting her with his life, but then, he couldn’t have carried on in this nightmare world knowing he’d left Cam to get eaten alive.[/b] That was a fate he reserved for himself. Snatching the gun from the girl’s trembling hands, he looked her hard in the eyes. [b]“Don’t waste what I’m giving you; help my friend, get away from here, and LIVE.” [/b] Turning to face the walkers surging through the ruined fence, and across the road, Woody howled at them. He fired his pistol at any that tried to grab him, and used it as a club when he was able. [b]Camellia limped to the girl’s side, clutching the battery under her arm. Breathing heavily, and with tears flowing from her eyes, she looked at her pleadingly. [/b] [b]“I didn’t mean for any of this,”[/b] she croaked. [b]“Please help me.” [/b] The sickening state of the world, and the things it had done to her, hadn’t made her the iron maiden she thought she was after all.