Jamie Alycia Reyes
Location: Survivor Processing
Jamie smiled at Kahleen, briefly caught in a passing memory of a better time. Then her smile hardened to a tight line; being cute and cudly, nostalgic and loving, was a good way to get distracted, and being distracted was a good way to get killed or worse. "You wont ever be alone, Kal, now stick to me like toffee... I'll get us out of this, one way or the other," she said, not dwelling too much on what she meant by 'the other'.
Stepping through the door, she immediately came across the body of another soldier; his weapon wasn't on his person, but by his body was a blood stained combat knife. It took her three seconds to piece together what had happened - he'd ambushed his comrade, who had in turn shot him dead, but then who had himself became infected. It was this fallen soldier's victim that had opened fire on the survivors in the room beyond.
Holding the knife up, she felt a little safer, but not by much. She'd gut any son of a bitch that offered a chance, but then she knew aforementioned son of a bitch would be armed with something that could take her out from half a mile away. It'd do, but she'd need something more. A brief thought passed by her; she should take Kahleen's gun. Jamie had what it took to kill people, not that she'd ever done it, but the pure adrenaline rushing through her had convinced her that she was more than capable. Kahleen was a sunflower by comparison, she'd never do it unless pressed, and by then it might be too late - for both of them.
No.Kahleen should be afforded every bit of protection that Jamie could offer, and the pistol was by far the greatest bit of kit she had. It would do for now.
With a deep breath, she started moving down the corridor, whereby she came across a four-way intersection. No signs attempted to avail her, so she went right on a hunch. Blood stains and spent shell casings littered the grated metal flooring, but no bodies presented themselves, and she became eerily suspicious. By now the battle for the Rig had died down, no gun fire echoed through the structure, and so she could only guess that a battle had been won... though there was no guessing the victor.
Passing through what appeared to be a prison block, her foot kicked something; an assault rifle, the same model that all the soldiers had been using. It was coverd in blood, and she did her best to wipe the sickly substance from the rail and handle. She knew some stuff about guns; her father was a keen enthusiast, and was able to eject the magazine. Seven bullets remained; it'd been fired almost to depletion, but where was the body?
"Babe, where are ya?" Jamie said, offering a glimpse behind her. "Stay with me."
The corridor ended with a large hydraulic door, and a sign above it read 'Armory'. Perhaps her luck was about to rapidly change?
Captain Iroquois Pliskin, United States Marine Corps
Located: Above Survivor Processing
"You chose wisely John," Iroquois said, offering his best smile. "Looks like your friends are more inclined towards dying."
He pocketed the two magazines the survivor had passed to him, not bothering to mention anything about it.
"Colonel," he said, speaking into his headset. "How many of these boso's do you need?"
"One will do," came the distorted reply of Dr. Morgan. "But the more, the better our chances."
Iroquois sighed, and looked back down at the survivors. A blonde haired amazon-wannabe had lost the plot, and gone for the belly of the beast. Another had followed her. The rest of the survivors were busy counting their stars and being all compassionate with those who'd been less fortunate. A quick bit of metal arithmetic told him that this John fellow was going to be all that he could salvage.
And right on cue, the Colonel's voice blared through his headset. "Pliskin! You've got inbound; six hostiles. They're closing on Survivor Processing, from the de-contamination area."
"Damn," the grizzled marine Captain managed, flicking his cigar away. His rifle came up. "Alright," he called out over the survivors,
"six crazies heading you way. Climb the rope, or fight them off. Either way, this guy here is the only one bright enough to have seen sense." A strand of guilt hit the Captain's iron-clad mind, and he decided to do what he could.
He flung his M4A1 over the side of the railing, and it clattered noisily on the metal floor below. He chucked his spare magazines too. "God speed."
Turning to John, Iroquois nodded, "time to go, follow me."
The Captain moved through the door, back onto the Rig's exterior walkway, and started making his way back up the structure. He'd drawn his Colt 1911, but wasn't expecting too much trouble. He and John came to another door, and got themselves back inside the Rig.
"Helipad is straight ahead; take a left at the end of the corridor," he said. "It's bes-"
The bright flash of an assault rifle's rage lit up from what looked like a fallen soldier a few yards away; the Crazy was laying on the floor at an odd angle, his one working arm poised towards John and Iroquois. The bullets tore into the marine Captain's chest, throwing him against the wall. John fumbled for a response as time slowed itself down; his life rushing before his eyes. Somewhere in the distance,
the humming sound of a helicopter's rotor blades could be heard. 
I Own Cows
