[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=steelblue]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1] [img]http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a203/D__S/michael%20biehn/american%20dragons/tonyluca3.png[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Gilbert Street & LaGrange, in front of Building [b]1[/b] -> Lot in front of Building [b]4[/b], across from the Courthouse (The Hordebuster) [/center][hr][hr] Froggy's words came through loud and clear, announcing that the centrally involved people of Newnan, in fact, "Got this" Noting the various announcements and orders coming through the radio, the townspeople were rallying around the people with knowledge necessary to handle their situation. He had a good group of people. Sadly, each and every one of them were in danger at that point. Moreso than usual, anyway. [color=steelblue]"Heard. I'm counting on you guys."[/color] he responded, turning his back to the scene unfolding and jogging to his home away from home, the Hordebuster. Noting that Meg had already picked out a vehicle from the motor pool and was waiting for them down at the gate, he prepped himself to leave as soon as possible. Every second that passed was an opportunity for disaster. Ash was sick and tired of people that he cared about dying. And they all seemed to in new and interesting ways, seemingly every other day. Ash opened the driver's side door to his big, modified dump truck, and climbed inside. He parted the curtain in front of the sleeper cab portion, and grabbed two things of some importance that he had left there earlier: A flak jacket, which he quickly donned, and an M4 Carbine, which he inspected quickly leaned on the dash next to him, safety activated. He settled into the driver's seat and exhaled a long sigh. It was quiet inside that truck. Almost peaceful. Ash knew better, though. Peace cannot be had from sitting someplace familiar, not when the rest of the world crashes down outside. He took a few seconds to scan the interior of the 'Buster. Everything seemed to check out. While he was not a man in the habit of wasting fuel, he did take an element of pleasure turning over the powerful diesel engine, and listening to the initial mechanical hum of the roadbeast as it woke from the slumber of disuse and the first bits of alcohol vaporized into flammable mist, ignited into tiny, controlled explosions, giving the creation life and mobility. It was truly centering. [color=steelblue]"Alright. Security is on standby. Domestic has repairs underway. Rescue team: You have one good minute before I leave. People need you. Run."[/color] [hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=c0c0c0]The Great Bazhooli[/color][/b][/i][/h1] [img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/f619b8f0-bb27-4eb3-8056-c98ba46ea9fa.png[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Armory -> Headed South on LaGrange Street [/center][hr][hr] Burning building, yes. Funny, it didn't [i]seem[/i] burning from his particular angle when he was running up to it. But silly him, it's obviously aflame. Must be what they were talking about on the radio. And the mysterious explosions. But there was no time for suppositions ad the like, he and Jack had just unwittingly run into a building that was licking fire, containing the bulk of Newnan's firearms and ammunition. And some explosives, from the look of things. Yes, this was a less-than-intelligent idea. But so long as they were in undue peril, he might as well make the best of it. The Great Bazhooli gave a very cursory look-around, trying to locate any ammunition suitable for his hunting rifle. He saw other weapons in there, possibly better suited to the task of dispatching enemies, live or dead. But he knew that his weapon was reliable. Bazhooli was no great marksman, anyway. Reliable, decent, but not an amazing rifleman. That's why he had knives. Besides that, he really didn't want to waste the time looking for ammo in an unfamiliar place. You know, that was on fire. Now the knives, and a [i]lot[/i] of them, were present. Some matched, many irregular, but most of a shape and size useful in his endeavors. Then he saw them: two sets of tactical throwing knives. Oh yes, he was home. Now, before "home" blew up on him, ending his concept of corporeal existence, he snatched up one of the sets, wrapped the belt around his waist, and headed back toward the door. [color=c0c0c0]"Good to meet, Mr. Jam-es."[/color] He had heard his name and voice over the radio, deftly matching both to the man in the Armory. [color=c0c0c0]"Jack! Please, ve must go. Grabbing of shit, da?"[/color] The Great Bazhooli leaned out of the door before committing himself fully, in time to see a fuzzy orange blur up the road a piece. He exited the building fully, putting a little distance between himself and the structure. [color=c0c0c0]"Hey! Is Schrodinger! Here, kitty kitty kitty..."[/color] He saw the little animal raise into a defensive posture, tail straight and back arched, fur all puffed up in a manner consistent with an upcoming feline beatdown. The cat hissed and yowled at a lump in the road, now with continued observation identifiable as a body. A body that lurched and sat up, clawing at his cat even as it decided to take the intelligent approach and get the hell away from the crispy, moving corpse. He had been with that cat long enough to know that it could easily tell the difference between an injured/incapacitated person and one of the Returned. He was especially useful at night - he would provide warmth and food, the cat gave an early warning system, of sorts. Feline senses, much sharper than our blunt human ones. Bottom line, if the Schrodinger was making that kind of fuss, then whoever that person was was a Dead Guy Walking. [color=c0c0c0]"Um, Jack? We have problem."[/color] The Great Bazhooli drew two of his professional knives, twirled them around twice, and began walking back up the road. [hr][hr][center][h1][color=firebrick]Black James(!)[/color][/h1] [img]https://v.cdn.vine.co/r/avatars/6AE78329E91063505631975227392_pic-r-1396533712688c4afde8ecf.jpg.jpg?versionId=ZnGOSit0zozlhxpJk0w6QVx4cSozVRdq[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Building [b]6[/b], Armory [/center][hr][hr] James was ordered into a sniping position with Guy, and told to take over responsibility of the safety of Newnan for a little while. Ok, he could do that. Step one was getting out of this building with his internals still internal. He had gotten what he needed from the Armory, and now sought to exit as quickly as he came. [color=firebrick]"Good to meet y'all, but if you smart, y'all better run."[/color] The overall-wearing blackneck presented Jack with his box of goodies, gave them both a pert nod, and walked toward the door, stopping only to grab a pile comprised of three canvas bags. The last thing one might hear from him, as he removed himself from the premesis, was James mumbling, [color=firebrick]"Good thing this ain't Distillery storage..."[/color] James had a sniping post to get to.