[IC] Toxic - (post-apocalyptic\zombie\survival)

[jimi87smith]

Today

Everything is quiet. Motionless. No slight breeze of wind. No chirping of crickets. Not even a single drop of water. Nothing. Only a hazy white cloud silently rolling through the air as the hot sun beats down on the weathered, jungle-like expanse of ruins that is Lower Manhattan. The streets below are littered with abandoned cars, chunks of concrete, and the retched corpses of those who weren't destined to survive. Everything is coated in a fine layer of dust.

The sound of heavy footsteps abruptly breaks the silence as a lone figure scampers through the shelled-out remains of a high rise office building. A trail of white dust kicks up behind him as he swiftly maneuvers through an obstacle course of overturned desks and chairs. The wheezing of his lungs, in a feeble attempt to rake in fresh oxygen, is barely audible through his gas mask. Dressed in a thick polar jacket and military-style cargo pants, his attire is merely unsuitable for the damnably hot temperatures of a mid-summer day such as this. A large wooden baseball bat hangs from his back via a make-shift strap. As he reaches the end of the building, the man slows his pace and frantically searches for his next destination. Across the way, he spots another shelled-out building. The faint sound of muffled voices approach from behind him as his focus shifts to the alleyway below. He estimates the drop to be roughly 70 feet in height. "I can do this," he says to himself. He makes one last calculation of distance before taking a few steps back, whirling around and racing back the way he had come.

Multiple heavy footsteps now approach from somewhere else in the building as the voices grow louder. The man stops near an open doorway, about 50 feet back, and takes a moment to catch his breath. "I can do this," he repeats himself. After a few deep breaths, he begins to jog towards the gap with a hint of uncertainty. Clearing his mind, he appoints his focus to maintaining an effective running technique. But the swiftly approaching footsteps provokes him into a full-on charge. He maneuvers through the obstacle course once again as he quickly closes the gap between himself and a likely plunge to his death.

With only a few feet to spare, he adjusts his speed appropriately to acquire proper footing. Taking his last step, he pushes off the edge of the building with his right foot and launches himself into the air. "Oh shit!" Time and space seem to distort. To him, it feels like an eternity passes as he descends into the adjacent building, landing on his feet with a loud thud before collapsing into a shoulder-roll and ending up on his back. He takes another moment to catch his breath and make sure that he's still alive. Then, he clumsily rolls over and rises to his knees.

Four men peer down from the edge of the building he had just leaped from. Each of them are dressed in gas masks and various black clothing smudged with dust. They are visibly exhausted from the chase. One of them, a particularly tall fellow with a blonde mohawk, silently points his machete down at the lone man before pretending to cut his own throat with it; a gesture that he has obvious intentions to kill. Then, the four pursuers disappear from view as they retreat back into the office building, footsteps fading into the distance.

The lone man rises to his feet. He dusts himself off and re-adjusts his gas mask. Finally, he turns around and continues on his way.

[The Dawn Sage]

"Carter." The voice was distinctly feminine, gentle. That was his name, right? Who was this woman. Where was he....

"Carter..." Called the voice again, drawing out his name a little longer this time. He reached through the foggy room, pushing his way through the haze, moving blindly towards the sound.

"CARTER!" His mind slipped, the dream shattered into sudden wakefulness as the man huddled in the broom closet raised his shield over his head instinctively, flinching beneath the protective barrier. Daylight streamed in through the small crack at the top of the door. He must've fallen asleep.... fallen asleep... ASLEEP!

His thoughts screamed at him, suddenly panicking as he realized he had fallen asleep in the gas cloud. He fumbled around in a frenzy and quickly checked the seal on his mask. Okay, it was still secure. It was still daylight so he couldn't have been asleep for long. Not to mention the fact that he was still alive. For the fifth time this week he wished that his watch had not been broken on that bent street sign... though the metal band had probably saved him from acquiring a slit wrist in that frantic escape. His eyes moved upward, hand wiping away the fog on the exterior of his mask. The door was still held shut, sealed by a toppled over bucket of brooms and mops. He lay curled into the corner, as he had been for what was now hours. The infected that were chasing him must have been drawn away by something more interesting or easy to catch. He didn't hear their mindless clawing anymore.

He raised himself up, carefully planting the transparent shield between himself and the doorway as he pushed the cleaning tools out of the way as quietly as he could. The last broom-handle fell away with a soft tap as it came to rest back in the corner. Carter lifted the make-shift club from the floor, braced his shoulder against the shield and slowly opened the door, peering through his mask and the shield as the door swung open on quiet hinges. It was silent, eerily so, and the big man crept out of the closet with the lightest steps he could manage in his heavy gear.

It was then that he heard a loud thud above him ,and the sound of something rolling across the floor. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the loud noise in such a silent atmosphere, but he managed not to make much noise himself beyond a slight hiss of breath and a shuffling step. He lanced up at the ceiling briefly, then checked up and down the hallway. It seemed clear, for now. He kept his club at the ready and moved towards the stairs. If nothing else he needed to get to the higher floors to check the filter on his mask... but he was not terribly excited about the idea of visiting whatever made that noise. Noise was a sign of something living, and living things had made a habit of trying to kill him the last several weeks.

[Rockette]

She didn’t know how long she’d been standing there. With her palms cupped to her kneecaps and her ligaments locked, scuffed combat boots perched precariously on cracked sediment; herself positioned curiously over the ominous, pallid haze below.

But, it was her only focal point available, given height enough so that she could avoid the smog that continued to fester in the pale death that it was. Though Baby Jinx wasn’t entirely sure what it was, or even did, only that she’d lost an impromptu companion or two foolish enough to venture within the ivory horseman’s domain. She supposed she should’ve been a little sad at their bereavements, but, she withdrew her weaponry scissors from their security within her bag, there was no more room for foolish individuals that didn’t listen.

And then she began to twirl the snipping blades around her finger. Contemplating.

The ropes were slack, without tension from their ascenders as she tested them with a little prodding from her booted feet. It had been, what, ten hours now? Since last night when the trio had stopped, dumping miscellaneous possessions, stretching arms high and hearing spines crack. Baby Jinx had been fortuitous to come across their former duo, the partnership easy between the two in the way they bantered, quipped, and even found a jovial pleasure in slaughtering their once upon a time neighbors and friends. At least she never had to kill anyone, not yet.

They had secured the ropes to a car left abandoned and already ransacked for what little supplies had been available, looping knots to the maze of piping and construction underneath their bulks. They went together, to their deaths, and told Baby Jinx to stay behind, guard the ropes and maintain observation of the supplies whilst they went exploring into the snowy hue of Hell. They didn’t figure her no older than they, despite her actual seniority over the two, but she was tiny, fragile, bony-esque and didn’t have to use her bat to bludgeon anyone.

Clean was the word that came to mind when she began roping the lines around her arm and hand, dropping them to the asphalt and denying them their life lines. Not that they would come back, after all, it was agreed upon: any longer than eight hours, just leave. She supposed she had been trying to hope against hope in that they would come back, shimmying up the lines with something valuable; information, uncontaminated food, other survivors.

But no.

Maybe she was a little lonely, after all, ten hours was a long time without another voice other than your own and she had wasted enough time lying back on her thefted jacket with the faux fur and gazing up at a glaring, overbearing sky. It wasn’t a comfortable warmth, no, but a heat so intense that Baby Jinx was sure her skin was burning away layer by layer the more she left herself vulnerable to the harsh light. Shade, shelter, that was what she needed when she began pilfering through their left behind belongings, frowning when she didn’t find a lighter.

“Well, hell.”

Her admission was a light, almost candied sort that gave impression to saccharine intentions and an innocence that was only verbalized rather than portrayed accordingly. But the slur of her cursed tongue contradicted that and smeared her even more just as the scarlet lipstick that burned across her cheek in a blemished ode. Baby Jinx sighed and reached back to wind the pale threads of her hair into a lopsided knot, trying to ignore the burning on the one side of her scalp where she had shaved the portion away - for shits and giggles.

Which had seemed a good idea at the time.

Her sigh was one of hopeless, and dreary emotion when she had come up empty handed from scouring their packs, the only thing note worthy was the almost empty canteen the fellow girl had possessed and Baby Jinx didn’t waste anytime in consuming what precious hydration was left. She swiped her hands against her lips and tossed it aside where her jacket was spread aloft. Loneliness never had plagued the carefree inclination of Baby Jinx, and her moniker spoke of a bequeathed nature; proffered by teasing voices, striking her alias from birth and the reincarnation meant to be endearing. But that almost seemed empty now, her fingers scratching against the ropes as she stuffed them into her bag, and she couldn’t remember her actual name anymore. As perplexing as it was, Baby Jinx had never really considered herself anyone but the Gothic-laced doll of the underground.

Funny how when the world went to shit, that she ended moving up in the world. Literally.

But there wasn’t anything up here, and it wasn’t as glamorous as she formerly assumed, no. It was just dead like everyone around her and perhaps that in its self warranted enough sadness despite her decision to leave her companions behind. She wasn’t a survivor, not really, just a scrapper sorts that scurried on down the bridge way in a slight jog, combat boots loud and a sun beaming harshly down on her back. Her bag banged against her hip with the weight of chains and rope and other objects she deemed worthy, and she didn’t know where she was going exactly - Baby Jinx didn’t plan anything, even in this world.

And it was changed, wasn’t it? Bearing true colours now that once painted its underbelly where she used to live.

She stops for a moment and looks out at the fog, she swears she can hear something. Footsteps, maybe. But she doesn’t stop long enough to see the man jump to an adjacent building.

Baby Jinx is taking off down the bridge, distancing herself from her former friends [if you could call them that] because she has to find something, somewhere, a place that she can call a home once more. A place, somewhat, safe.

[jimi87smith]

Beads of sweat roll down his face as Miguel Collins attempts to steady his breathing. Running is an option he rarely resorts to. The daytime temperatures are far too high for one to be exerting that much physical energy when fresh water is dangerously scarce. Exhaustion and dehydration are both harsh realities that he constantly fights to avoid. Either of them could mean certain death in this apocalyptic wasteland.

Approaching an overturned ambulance, Miguel slows his pace. He crouches down on one knee and takes a moment to check the surrounding area for footprints. Finding none, he rises to his feet and circles around to the rear of the vehicle. Both back doors have been crudely torn away from their hinges. Miguel peaks inside. The interior looks as though it has already been scavenged to all hell. Only a single medical kit remains - its contents strewn about. He reaches in with his right foot and kicks a couple of pill bottles, confirming that they're empty. Suddenly, a series of faint gun shots ring out in the distance. Miguel shifts his focus toward the direction of the noise as his eyes strain to infiltrate the murky haze surrounding him. "Fuckers," he mumbles to himself.

Moving quietly into the dark shade of an overhang, Miguel makes his way west, away from where he'd heard the gunshots. With his right hand, he reaches over his shoulder to retrieve the Louisville Slugger strapped to his back. He knows its dangerous to travel around on street level for extended periods of time. Plenty of raiders still roam the city, searching for weak souls to prey upon.

Slowing his pace, Miguel drops to one knee at the edge of the overhang's shade. Ahead of him, an intersection extends out into the murky haze. Steel beams - on all corners of the intersection - reach skyward to support an elevated railway running north and south. A service ladder runs up one of the beams to a catwalk underneath the railway. Miguel remains in the shade for a moment as he listens to the silence. Then, he returns the wooden baseball bat to the makeshift strap on his back and mounts the ladder.

The climb upward feels slow and debilitating. As he reaches the catwalk, the haze begins to thin out to a more tolerable level. Wiping a fine layer of dust from the lenses of his gas mask, he follows the catwalk underneath the railway to the other side of the street, where a short stairway is suppose to lead up to a service platform on the railway.

However, Miguel finds that the majority of the steps have broken away and fallen to the street, 40 feet below. He mutters in frustration, "Fuck." Leaning over the edge and peering down into the toxic cloud, he analyzes the situation, making calculations in his head. His focus shifts to the service platform above as he makes a calculation of distance. The gap is about 8 feet across, not really too far but one minor slip could prove fatal.

Miguel backs up, getting as much runway as he can, and takes a deep breath. In one swift motion, he launches forward, terminating the distance between himself and the gap almost immediately. He pushes off the edge with his right foot and propels through the air. Once again, time and space seem to distort. Suddenly, his fingertips hook the edge of the service platform above as momentum causes his legs to swing wildly out in front of him. Miguel scrambles to pull his torso up and over the platform before sliding himself the rest of the way to safety. Then, he takes a few moments to rest his arms and catch his breath.

[MST3K 4ever]

In any other or any other place a holding cell was less than ideal accommodations, but this wasn't just any other time or any other place. This was a way of life that not even Stephen King could've dreamed up in his wildest nightmares. New York City was once known as the city that never slept now it might as well be called the city of the damned. Kyle Walker was one of the lucky ones, if you wanted to call them lucky, who was still alive. The holding cell at the local Police Department had four walls, a roof, and only one way in or out. Kyle not had the keys to the holding cell but he also made sure that the door was locked.

The heat told Kyle that he had survived another night and that it was time to try and figure out yet another way to survive the day. Kyle felt the beads of sweat building up in his gas mask, and as uncomfortable as that was the thought of the alternative was more than enough motivation for him to keep his mask on. Kyle sat up and gathered up his gear as he did he saw a mouse on the floor scurrying around. Kyle pulled out a half eaten granola bar from his back pack and laid it on the ground close enough for the mouse to get to it.

Kyle looked at the mouse and said, "Bon Apatite." Not that the mouse could tell but Kyle was smiling under his mask. This mouse was the first contact he had with another living being in almost 3 weeks. The last group he was with tried to convince Kyle that parting with his belongings was in his best interest. The three people in that group seemed trustworthy enough, but after 20 minutes Kyle knew what the score was. He tried to leave in peace these three though had no intention of letting that happen, but Kyle knew how to survive and after about 2 minutes the three would be bandits were all three laying on the ground in the fetal position begging for their lives. Kyle saw no point in killing them so he marched them into a subway station left them to ponder their actions as he locked them in an office.

Kyle unlocked the cell door and left the key on the floor. He opened the door and turned to the mouse, who was devouring the scrap Kyle left him, and said "It's all yours." Kyle then did the Vulcan salute and said, "Live long and prosper." With that Kyle made his way out of the holding area to what once was the lobby. He took a look around to see if there was anything worth salvaging. He saw some scraps of food and some beverages, but not knowing how long they had been out or who had them last made Kyle think twice about even touching any of it. He looked around the squad room with his baseball bat at the ready and came across the remains of a dead body. It looked as they the body had a bite in the right arm, but more interesting was the sizable bullet hole in the head with a pistol in the left hand. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened here.

Someone got bit and had no intention of going out as a zombie. I can't exactly say they were wrong.

Kyle patted the pocket of his black leather jacket which contained a grenade. If Kyle ever got over run by a group of zombies he would merely pull the pin and see what was next.

Walker figured he had stayed long enough in the safe surroundings of the police station and it was time to move on. He opened the door slowly and peered out carefully. Seeing nothing to get in distress over he made his way out and saw a bridge in the distance.

Yeah I think it's time to get moving on. It's so unsafe in this neighborhood with all the destruction and death I don't see the property values improving much anytime soon, so let's see what's on the other side. Off to the bridge

With that Walker began to head towards the bridge while whistling "Bridge Over Troubled Waters".

[jimi87smith]

The air is much clearer up near the elevated railway, allowing for safe breathing without the need for proper ventilation. Miguel removes his gas mask and wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Too damn hot," he grumbles. Then, he drops to one knee and slides his backpack off to retrieve a half-empty bottle of water. The warm liquid hardly brings any relief as it burns the back of his dry throat. Miguel winces at the feeling, shoves the bottle back into his bag, and squints his eyes against the sunshine as he scans the surrounding rooftops. Finally, he rises to his feet and carefully begins to stroll along the tracks, heading north.

The sun has slowly started to sink behind the horizon, leaving a gloomy city behind. He knows its a bad idea to be wandering around after dark. His most likely destination is the city hall. With lots of rooms - and places to hide from view of any potential snipers outside - it should be a safe place to rest for the night.

During his journey along the railway, Miguel comes to an abandoned passenger train of 5 carriages. Two of them have run off the track and now hang over the side, suspended by the other three. Their windows are dark and uninviting. Most of the doors, which are electronically controlled, look as though they are sealed shut and would probably take a good hour to pry open. A single door near the back of the train seems to be the only plausible way inside.

Miguel approaches and cautiously steps into the carriage. Immediately, he finds a service panel adjacent to the door. Popping a small latch, he opens the panel to reveal a switchboard consisting of several large, color-coded switches. Below is a listing of each of their functions. Miguel's attention is drawn to another panel above the switchboard, however. He pops the latch and opens it to reveal an emergency LED flashlight. Retrieving it, he checks to see if the thing still works. With the press of a button, it flicks to life in a sudden burst of bright light. Miguel lets out a sigh of relief as he shines it throughout the extent of the carriage. The floor is littered with glass from the shattered windows. There isn't much of anything useful, just a few random items strewn about. Miguel dismisses them and steps back out onto the tracks. He gives a quick glance back the way he'd come - to make sure nobody has followed him - before proceeding north, en route to the city hall.

[MST3K 4ever]

There were certain things that Kyle enjoyed doing before all hell broke loose. One of them was just sitting on the couch flipping around the dial on the TV until he saw something he liked. The movie "The Shawshank Redemption" was one of his all time favorites and no matter what point it was during the movie Kyle would stop and watch it. One of the lines that always stuck with Kyle was "In prison a man will do almost anything to keep his mind occupied." Although he wasn't locked in prison, however he did spend the last night in jail so there was that touch of irony, Kyle might as well be in prison. Forced to wear a gas mask that made him feel like he was in lock-up, not sure who he could trust, little or no contact with other people and there was that one group everyone wanted to avoid, everyone doing everything they can just to make it though another day, and the feeling of everything that you loved in life had been taken from you. It was so ironic that Kyle could go anywhere and do anything, and yet he felt like he was in prison.

Kyle continued his trek towards the bridge as he came across a shop with a busted window and several DVDs just strewn about. The titles that Kyle saw laying there were some of his all time favorite movies "Casablanca," "Animal House," "Airplane," "Jaws," and of course "The Shawshank Redemption." Kyle almost gave serious consideration to picking them up or even going into the store to look around. However several things stopped him. Who knew what was in there possibly? Where would he keep the movies? His backpack only had so much. Not to mention how would he play them? The reality of life sucked, but for a brief moment Kyle liked being able to look at those movies and feel like he had some choices in his life again. Much like Andy and the crew working on the roof when they had their beers Kyle felt free for just a moment.

Kyle turned and walked away heading towards the bridge. He began to do one of his past times to keep his mind busy. Kyle was a huge Bruce Springsteen fan and to keep his mind occupied he would create what he would call the ultimate concert. Kyle would pick a tour that Bruce was on, compose the set list from start to finish, imagine what he would be wearing that night, who he would be with would depend upon where he was living during that tour, and of course he would always be in the front row.

This time it would be "The Rising" 2002, in DC at the Verizon Center, open with Badlands followed by...

Kyle's train of thought was broken by the shape of something or someone moving away from him on the bridge. At first he was hesitant to go on, but at this point curiosity got the better of him.

Kyle began to move towards the shape he saw on the bridge.

[Lone Wanderer]

The Silence of the great ruin that was the Manhattan Island, was broken by the muffled sound of heavy boots, followed by the soft pad of hardened paws against the sun baked concrete which crunched underfoot. A thick, rust coloured haze hung in the air a few centimetres above the ground, the stench of rot and decay carried with it. This was the ToGo Virus, the virus responsible for single handedly ending the world in less than a week. Who ever breathed that crap in, would turn into some form of raving cannibal within a day, those infected could spread the infection in the form of bites and scratches. Some seriously messed up shit.

A lone wanderer made their way through the haze, the lenses of a gas mask glinted from within the depths of the hood the figure had over their face. This was Alex Monroe.
Looking through the dusty lenses of a gas mask, Alex made his way through the toxic mist, ever alert and ever cautious as he scanned the street for any signs of life, or in this case, the undead. Taking a few steps forwards, past the burnt out husk of a car and one of many that rusted in the streets, bones and decaying bodies littered the street, it was hard to believe that only a few weeks before, this had once been a center of life and humanity, since then, it was as if the world had come to a sudden halt, frozen in place, ended. Probably never to return to those times of life and normality again.
One hand clutching the hilt of a Cavalry Sword that sat in a cloth, makeshift sheath, the other at his side. Alex carried on wandering along the side walk, for some reason, he still felt compelled to walk along the side walk, there was no laws, not anymore and only a small amount of cars still worked, yet he still did so, it felt unnatural and wrong to walk in the road. He looked up at the sky; the sun was still up, beating down upon the concrete expanse of the city with no apparent respite. It was always like this during the day.
Pulling his hood down, Alex ran a hand through his mattered hair as he surveyed the scene before him. A low growl rumbled from behind him. This was Grimm, a 250-pound brute of an American mastiff, a suit of chainmail protected the dogs torso, over that were metal plates covered in sharp metal spikes and a reshaped American football helmet covered the dog’s head.
“There, there Grimm. We’ll find some shelter soon” Alex spoke as he turned to face the dog trailing him. Both of them were suffering due to the sweltering heat but they had both grown somewhat used to the deadly temperature. They’d have to find shelter soon though.
Turning back to look over the street, he noticed a building across the road, it’s door stood slightly crooked open, the windows of the building were boarded up with wooden planks. Darkness beckoned from the open door.
“There.” He spoke a single word as he pointed over at the building. Grimm, seeing this sign that this would become there camp, raced across the road and sat by the door, awaiting his master.
Crossing the street with a light jog towards the door. Alex made his way up the small flight of stairs that led up to the double doors of the building. He looked up at the building he was about to enter, it looked like an apartment block, around 4 or 5 floors to it.
Pushing the door aside further but not without a large creak of protest from the oak door as it slid to the side.
The light from outside bathed the room in a dim light. Alex entered, swiftly followed by Grimm…

[jimi87smith]

About 45 minutes of walking north leads Miguel to a spot where the railway has collapsed to the street below. Daylight is beginning to fade as the sun has started to sink behind the horizon. The temperature has dropped noticeably. Aside from a few distant gunshots, all is quiet.

Miguel leans over the edge and peers down into the darkened haze of toxic dust. Knowing that night-time is a free-for-all of snipers, he refrains from using the flashlight he'd acquired earlier, as it would make him a plausible target. Instead, he relies on pure instinct. Hanging the Louisville Slugger from his back, he sits down on the edge and lets his legs dangle 50 feet above the street below as he analyzes the situation. There is a length of steel track that extends out over the edge for about 15 feet before curving downward into the murky darkness. Miguel could shimmy along this and see if it's possible to reach street level, but he would run the risk of either falling or coming to a dead end - still too high up to drop from. Then there's the catwalk up underneath the railway, but the only safe way to reach it would be to backtrack almost two miles to an access point. He carefully works out his options as he looks around, searching for an alternative route. Then, his eyes fall upon the apartment buildings to his right. Miguel gets up from the edge and quietly walks over to the side of the railway.