Downtown Washington D.C, 12:36 PM
An ear-splitting roar filled the air as the corpses came. They leapt from windows and burst out of doors, came spilling out of alleyways in their dozens, all of them sprinting with wild abandon for the ivy-covered office building at the end of the street. They leapt over abandoned cars and rubble, gnashing their broken teeth with slavering hate, pushing each other out of the way to reach the front of the horde.
Down the street, the three tall figures standing guard outside the office building moved into ready stances. They were humanoid, tall and lithe, androgynous and supernaturally beautiful. They were dressed in fine leather and chainmail, with cloaks made from autumn leaves slung over their shoulders, and each one wielded a double-ended glaive made of wood and some strange, shimmering metal. They were the foot soldiers of the Fey, the beings commonly known as elves.
The dead horde made contact a moment later, and combat was joined. The elves moved with inhuman grace and speed, weaving among the zombies with spinning glaives and cleaving them asunder. It was as though they had some supernatural sense for danger – they would dodge bites and scratches without even looking at their attackers, separate a zombie’s head from its shoulders as if they were wiping a bug off their shoulders. Three minutes later, it was over. When the last corpse fell, the elves wiped off their blades and returned to their sentry positions as though nothing had happened.
From his vantage point on a nearby rooftop, Charlie cursed with a mouthful of beef jerky. He’d been rooting for the dead on that one – as unpleasant as they were, it would have been much easier to get into the ivy-covered office building past a horde of zombies than a force of the Fey. Not getting into that building, of course, was largely out of the question; he’d spent most of the morning watching elves, satyrs and werewolves bustling in and out of it, as well as dragging several unconscious humans inside. He’d heard a few rumors about the way the Fey treated their prisoners, and it wasn’t a fate he intended to leave anyone to. Still, mounting that rescue operation was going to be an almighty hassle.
Taking on the elves in three-on-one hand to hand combat was, of course, completely suicide; he wasn’t sure he could handle even one of them in a straight up fight, and the numbers made it completely impossible. Trying to sneak into the building was equally stupid. It was generally accepted by the other club members that he’d spoken to that elves possessed some sort of super senses, and even if he did manage it, he’d be alone in a building full of fey without any plan or exit strategy. That left him with only two options he could think of – find help, or cause a distraction.
Charlie rose into a crouch, making sure to stay out of sight of the street below, and pulled a can of blue spray paint from his pack. Working quickly, he marked the floor with a broad I and an arrow pointing towards the building down the street – the club marker for ‘important’. He stowed the paint, pulled his axe out in its place, and set off towards the stairway that would lead him back down to street level, hoping against hope for a miracle.