[retro zombie killer]

Howdy ghoulbusters,

scenario and rules

Setting: Okay its zombies and an Island. The Isle has 8 streets, really a lot of them are back roads and they all crisscross because the island isn't that big. Think Nantucket only a bit bigger and maybe a tiny bit less developed. Although it has a pretty good sized down town. Beau Vista is on the East coast and not to far south and not to far north. Watch out for Zombies coming out of the surf. hehehe

You all are part of a gang of looters/Zombie Hunters who have come to the Island and are setting up a base so you can loot the mainland and store your loot there. You all have the ferry boat and the a floating three deck casino boat plus the floating steak house restaurant barge which has 2 decks, the first deck being taken up with the dining room and the kitchen. The second deck has offices which were used for accounting and to manage the paper work for operations of the barge and casino boat. Enjoy. Now the island has a lot of lurker Zombies on it and a few roamers too so watch out.

Okay the only rule is we are starting out with 5 team members but anybody who wants to join can but they have to be a prospect and perform a feat of killing ghouls to get on the team. Now you can be a survivior too but if you are not part of the team you will get evacuated to the main land because the team can not have you underfoot. You all can decided where the mainland base will be. If you have your character resist then that Character gets a bullet in the back of the head. this is the world we are living or should I say our characters are living in. Now your Survivor character can join the team if they want as long as they have good survival skills.

All writers must state their

characters name

Age

Weapns

Backstory of their history and how they came to join the team (One Paragraph, be vague)

(here is a map for an easier flow to the story)

Attached File(s)

•  chambermap.jpg (51.57K)
  Number of downloads: 24

[Zombreach]

Name: Micca

Location: Mainland

Age:25

Height/weight: 5’6”/128 lbs.

Personality: Survival is the key and Micca can be cold and callus if her life depends on it. She rarely takes the time to develop strong bonds with others, knowing each day could be the last. Her gaze on others is calculating, as she is always measuring up her fellow man--friend or foe. She works well within a group, but prefers to be alone, trusting her life mostly in her own hands.

History: Before the outbreak Micca was considered a gothic girl, drawn to the color black and things of a macabre or mystic nature. She was a loner, her true passion found in the pages of a book or on the screen of a computer. Intelligent, but anti-social, she had few friends and even fewer relationships with men.

Man’s true nature was revealed to her when life became perilous and uncertain--relationships and family ceased to matter, it was a dog eat dog world, and she has adapted to fit in. Joining a group that was holed up in a well-stocked abandoned warehouse for survival’s sake, Micca became their scout and spent most of her days watching the shoreline for boats. The time alone allowed her to reflect on her past, her mistakes, and her uncertain future. It also gave her time to read, a past time not affected by the lack of modern conveniences.

Clothing: Black stretch cropped tank with an open black leather vest over the top, low riding black cargo jeans, and black calf-high boots--2 inch heel.

Appearance: Cat-like, Micca’s body is slender and lithe with gentle curves. Medium-length black hair falls straight to her shoulders with white highlighted tips. Her face is pale, accented with wide set greenish-blue eyes Her ears are pierced to the top--an assortment of skulls, crosses and dragons dangling from them. Adding to her adornment, is a pierced eyebrow, nose, lower lip and belly button--a hoop in each. The tattoo of a tree silhouette with outstretched branches covers the entirety of her back.

Weapons: Handgun: Glock 27. Rifle: AK-47 with enhanced scope. Melee Weapon: Bowie knife.

[Heson]

Name: Roland
Location: Mainland
Age: 35
Height/weight: 6’2”, 184

Personality: Roland seems to be a quiet person when not fighting, keeping to himself in his spare time and usually conveying his thoughts somewhat silently and speaking only when he has to. When a fight breaks out though, he seems to become a whole different person, his eyes showing a wild look in them and his usually blank face showing an explosion of emotion. He seems to enjoy writing in a tiny pocket book and occasionally pressing flowers or various plant life between the pages.

History: Roland’s history towards the group is a mystery in itself with very few details of it passing his lips.
Roland used to be a gardener, enjoying sprouting life from the earth since he was a little boy spending time at his grandparent’s farm. He kept his green thumb into his adult years. However, he was never alone in his own mind and so he kept to himself, finding peace in his gardening business that kept himself in check.

When SHTF, Roland was saved by his other self which took charge and grabbed a nearby axe that he used to kill the undead that broke into his shop. Roland and his other side have uneasily worked together since to survive the dying world with Roland doing everything he can to save people if he can.

Clothing: Overalls and a tanned leather jacket over a simple red shirt. He wears hiking boots and a blue bandanna over his head.

Appearance: Roland has a muscle bound body, built over the years as he did work planting and growing things and doing the occasional job at his grandparent’s farm. His body has the almost leathery tan that comes to those who work fields and while he used to keep his head shaved, he has let his brown hair grow out. His hazel brown eyes seem to have that deep thoughtful look about him and when he does speak up, it’s with a deep voice. Depending on who’s using it though can make it sound gentle or something to be feared.

Weapons: A pump action 12 gauge shotgun with a strap and a fire axe that he has made a holder for on his overalls.

[Cornflakes]

Name: Dean
Location: Mainland
Age: 23
Height/weight: 5’9”, 145lb

Personality: Immature, cocky, quite sexist and chatty. Dean rarely acts before he thinks and will do or say the first thing that come to his mind, but he follows orders and instuctions well as he'd rather being told what to do instead of think for himself.

History: To Dean his life began with the outbreak, gone was the dead end job and the life going nowhere. He spent his whole life in many different froster homes and struggled in school, only thing he was talented in was running which was the only thing he recevied praise for when growing up.

Killing the undead was an excellent way for Dean to unleash his anger on the old world that he hated, and a hobby he quickly enjoyed. He spent time helping small groups loot stores normally playing the role of distracton to the undead, that he could easily outrun. He has spent time trying to find a group where he can fit in and belong, but he always seems to rub people up the wrong way.

Clothing: A faded grey benie hat that the logo has long worn off, pale blue long sleeved t-shirt and tan cargo pants. Hewears beat up trainers that were white but are now caked in dirt.

Appearance: Black inky hair that hangs messily past his ears. His eyes are a dull blue colour and he has a small gathering of pale freckles arond his nose. His body is like a runners very lean and he always stands slounching. Has stubble around his chin to hide a small scar that is below his mouth.

Weapons: A wooden baseball bat and a handgun, Smith & Wesson 9mm semi-automatic

[Frallon]

PC
Name: Robert Miller
Sex: Male
Age: 28
H&W: 162, 6ft
Hair n eye color: Dirty Blond, hangs down over his eyes, Green eyes
Profession(s): News and Free Writer, Horror, takes jobs for first hand experience in what he writes.
Clothing: Carpenter Jeans, Black Button up Short Sleeve Shirt.
Brief History: Robert comes from up state California. Was engaged, straight out of high school, but things fell through when he didn't manage to keep a steady income. He's done many asserted odd jobs, loosing money, gaining money, living life. He did a seven month over seas shadow of the 1/7th Marines; made him very self aware of the danger around him. Written twelve free lance articles on the war, four on politics, six on current disasters which he also transferred to, and five short stories; started a novel but never managed to complete it before things really took a turn for the worse.
Primary: S&W 5906, 9mm, 15 shot Mag, 10 round Backup.




(GM)
Act I: Prologue
Dark was never as black as it’d been that night. Hail struck down in small bounds, if there had been a weather Doppler still in use, then the island would probably have been a hundred miles from the biggest storm on the LA coast in probably a decade. Waves smashed against the side of the ferry as it coasted towards shore, but even in combination the waves, hail, and rain appeared to make no noise or influence other than the trail of goose bumps that were shared between every soaked individual hidden under deck; or perhaps it was their situation still and not the weather at all. Only three individuals were above deck, Roy whom they’d discovered was a sailor in his past life before the islands, and Sergent ‘dick-head’ Miller whom was being escorted by one Robert Miller; no relation. Things, needless to say, had finally gotten out of everyone’s hands.. They drifted closer in the blackness, the outer marker of the main-island docks coming into view, Island A, and with a report given to those below a feeling of unknowing for the future crept along the inhabitants; no one knew exactly what the plan was once they docked, no one cared or questioned if they would survive, anything was better than living the way they had been for nearly the past two months and everyone had already lost so much..

MICCA:
Shivering just below the main passage up onto deck, Micca felt numb from her waist down, the only feeling left that of coldness responding back from her piercings in the ghost winds and her hands that gripped tightly onto an all black AK-47 with a 6x scope; least she believed it was a 6x scope. One of the new guys, Bob or Rob she couldn’t remember what his name was exactly, had given it to her after a mob of several guys bombarded the hand-full of guards that over looked Island B; the civilians had never given fret before, never told a guard no, so why would they waste their men on something with unnecessary force when a few could keep the tyranny; that’d been their idea she figured as the waves slowly bounced her up and down in the hull of the ferry.. He’d known what he was doing giving her the weapon, perhaps he knew what they’d been doing to her and the others, perhaps everyone knew. The past week had been hell for everyone but no one more than the ladies whom knew someday in this new world someone would do to them what those ****ers had. It was sick, degrading, but no one could resist or they’d be taken out to Island C.. That’d been the breaking point for everyone; not just the women.

Someone from above, the ships new-captain after they’d dispatched its old one, yelled down that docking was come up on them. Murmurs erupted from behind Micca, directly followed by a loud shushing sound and pleads for everyone to shut the **** up and stay calm, she didn’t feel the urge to join in with the crowds speculations; they all knew what was going to happen and there was no need to act shocked. Those with the real weapons, the Shotguns, Rifles, and Pistols that had been pried from the dead and taken from their back-up inventory in the guard-towers on B knew the best; things were expected from them. Someone had told her something when they’d been docking at the end of the group, a man who looked like he was from the bread-basket instead of the beach, holding a shotgun, Poland although that didn’t sound right for his name; she’d never seen the man before tonight. He’d tapped her shoulder when they’d boarded, causing her to turn in disgust until she saw his intentions, and that’d been when he’d pointed high at the captain’s deck.

“I’ve only been to Island A once,” he’d told her staring forward at the strong crowd of easily 70 men and woman who were attempting to hunker down below deck, “they’ve got some high towers, higher than the guard-towers on B, probably 50 yards up 40 odd yards out, and I’d bet none of us are going to be able to hit those shooters from the ground.” That was all he needed to say and suddenly she understood her role in their invasion. She’d be a prime target, probably three of the compounds four towers would have a shot at her, and she didn’t have the experience they did; things would either work out or not she figured as the boats engine shut off and a second murmur from the passengers was silenced; either way people were going to die.

ROLAND:
Something was happening beneath his skin, that thing again, pressing for dominance, as it had back on Island B. In his hands, being pressed against the ships hull, he felt a disconnection brewing as he looking dully up and down the black barrel of his shotgun. Concentrating hard, trying to keep in thought and think back, he can't even fully comprehend what order things had gone down as; everything had happened so fast. The guards assaulted someone, he was nearby with some of the others lost on the ship, trying to mind his own business but suddenly breaking the back-soldier to the ground and stuffing the butt of his 12 in the guys jaw. Rob, he thought his name was unsure really as he'd only seen the man twice since his arrival two weeks ago, had snapped first he was sure, but then again things were blurry.

Beginning to loose his train of thought with the drifting of the waves, he snapped up victorious, and knew he was certain about one thing in the attack. It'd been his idea to raid the 'community' recreation shed. That would help some, if they survived long enough on the banks to get in close quarters with these people, the glimmering of a dozen bats, golf clubs, and mallets reassured his drifting conscious. People armed with the blunt instruments looked over at him for someone to grab onto, he'd be the one they looked to in the invasion, although none of them, not even Roland, could understand exactly what had happened where he'd come into this ounce of leadership.. When the ferry would stop, they'd group off behind him, and follow them to the stronghold or to their deaths.

DEAN:
People were so close together in the hull Dean could barely breath, it was suffocating, and damp; he wondered if waterbording would feel as horrid as the conditions he stood in. He pondered over which side he was standing on, for the raid or against it, but like clockwork he'd come back to looking down in the dark quarters where the Smith and Wesson was clenched in his hand up to his chest. He didn't know who thrust the weapon in his hands, but when the guards had went down, somehow he'd gotten ahold of the pistol, and now on the boat there wasn't really a choice; he was part of this crusade.

For a moment, over the storm that puddled on the deck overhead, he thought he heard someone say they were close, but near the back of the hull everything echoed. When the moment came to move, he'd be too far off to get amped up or ready, things would just go into one gear; move, at least when things shifted over, that was something he was quite good at.. No one had told him what to expect, what they were up against, but maybe if they had he would have thought more into what the odds were; or maybe not he reconsidered as the engines become more hushed.

ROBERT MILLER:
It was too surreal to believe, how things came together, yet how things seemed to go polar opposite. Thinking back to Iraq, years ago before the outbreak, his first real wake-up call, when Pvt Crane of the 1/7th had tossed him his sidearm and told him to watch his back while shots fell down; now hail and rain fell like the bullets of then, and a pistol was again in his hands, but this time he'd taken it from the Soldier and protecting the owner was the furthest thing on his mind.

Sergent Miller's face was clean, something that Rob had made sure to leave in tact unlike the others he'd personally jumped on Island B, and while he seemed okay a steady stream of blood leaked in between the mans hairline down the back of his head as something moved unsteadily behind his eyes to the same hidden nature as the wound. The Soldier appeared calm, maybe at one with the situation, but Rob knew better; this was just another act he put on trying to be a man; everyone on B knew by now Miller needed certain reassurments to believe this to be the case. He was a pig, one of the worst of them, only outdone by Lt. Johnson inside the approaching compound who'd soon meet the same fate as his grunt; they'd meet the same fate.

Outlines took more distant features as the compound came into full view and the loading dock, harboring the soldiers other two floating barrages on the free side less frequently used than the ferry, became clear and crisp in the stormy night. Everything was as Sgt. Miller had told him during their interrogation ride over, one guard on the dock in a poorly constructed harbor shed, the only thing between them and the idle defenses of the compound. "Up," Rob told the Sergent as the ferry's drift slowed, "just like I told you, and nothing out of the ordinary."

"**** you," Sgt. Miller retorted, "we're going to rip you up, you piece of ****, and the rest of you peasant-****s; you should have just stayed where you guys were, like cattle, and let us have our way with your cun-" Rob caught the ****er with a smooth pistol stroke to the upper side of his face, above his right ear, and shoved the Soldier from the Decks quarters just below the captains helm. Sergent Miller slipped in his boots, tumbling to his belly, and over turned as Rob came out at a kneel over him with the S&W leveled with his eyes. "You get us in, maybe you'll survive this, you dont even try and I'll shoot you here and find my own ****ing way in," a click came from the decocking release, "you got me dick head? No one likes you here and they sure as hell wont miss you as things are." Sgt. Miller stood up, quiet, and walked in the storm over to the railing overlooking the dock as the ferry finally went idle..

PFC Harris stumbled out of the make-shift harbor shed and drifted up the dock with a hand shielding his eyes. The ferry was back, he could see that, but with the tense night he couldnt tell if they were just late to boarding of if something had happened. Johnson would have his ass if he didnt ask and let the ferry board; even if there was no chance of things going wrong with how they had their set up. He come up to the side of the boat, looking up at Miller, and catching the ships dock-tie as it was thrown down.

Harris made sure the slack was null, never being a shipping man and not knowing if the ferry would just float away in a storm or bust off, and as he came up from the rope and glanced up at Miller in the dark still contemplating asking. He shut his brain off and just followed protocol. "Hey, you guys got here kind of late, what kept you?"

"We," something more cold than the rain pressed against Sgt. Millers back and he chose his words carefully, "ran into a problem figuring out with bitch to select, then this ****ing storm blind-sited us; got some prime A stuff, Lt will love it, tell him we're heading up and get the gates open will you; I'm freezing my balls off."

"Yes Sergent," Harris replied in the affirmative, streaking back towards the shed to contact the compound night-watch. A tired Pvt. Clark answered, having drawn the short straw at dinner for gate duty opposed to Rifle duty up in the well-roofed towers or even flare duty if one was ever really needed, and pushing the damp mop of hair out of his eyes while struggling with the controls of the compounds heavy front dock doors. Mechanisms cranked from inside the hinges, letting loose the entry way, and slowly opening in until Rob could see from his position on the ferry the soldiers six buildings inside he'd never seen before.

Miller, even the thick headed dick that he was, had at least cooperated and told him the truth. Four towers, four housing structures no more than two story houses, one pop-shed in the center of the island for emergency flares, food, and ammunition and a three story plantation looking structure, reinforced from the inside out, where they'd find the Lt and the Soldiers source of firepower locked away in its basement panic room. "Deploy the side-plank," Rob yelled up to Roy still keeping the S&W against Sgt. Millers back, "and tell them to get ready, I'll give them the signal to Blitz."

"You're not going to win this," the Sergent said gritting his teeth as Roy came down from the Captains peek and pushed over the ferrys plank onto the dock, "it'll be a cold day in hell when you out-push anyone inside that fortress, you wont even make it inside before you're fileted and being washed away into the ocean."

"Anythings better," Rob began leaning forward and peering down the dock at Pvt Harris who'd started his way back down the dock, "than dealing with you rapist, murdering, ****s." He squeezed the trigger once, knowing well where it was pointed, and watched Sgt. Miller slide down spinning on his heels against the ships guard rail, and brought the weapon up in a clean motion so close to the bastards chin that there was no chance he could miss.

Harris looked up at shock as the rebels in the hull of the ferry flooded the dock, he reached for his side arm having left his rifle back in the harbor shed, but knew there was nothing he could really do.

[Zombreach]

Micca worked her way up from the lower section calmly, her body pushed and pressed against by the flood of passengers struggling to reach the main deck. She clutched the cold metal of the rifle against her chest, her knuckles white against the barrel. She recognized many of the haggard faces, a renewed energy taking over their normally somber expressions. Shoved hard against a rail, she took the punishment to her back with no complaint. What little feeling that remained in her frigid limbs was returning slowly and she welcomed any sensation--the pain a confirmation of life. Her booted foot finally struck the metal deck, the surface swarming with men and women as they shoved their way to the dock.

Micca moved against the stream of bodies, the path clearing as she came to an open stairway. She took the steps one at a time in a steady progress upwards. Half-starved and beaten, she resisted the urge to rest, knowing the success of the rebel group relied on her drawing the attention of the snipers. It was most likely a suicide mission, but one she gladly accepted. Anything was better than having to endure the vile touch of those bas**rds again. Unlike so many of the other women, she had returned from the experience stronger, a vow of vengeance unspoken on her lips. With renewed effort, she climbed the remaining stairs, pushing open the door leading onto the captains deck.

Equipment, the lights darkened, lined the forward end of the room. Glass, streaked with the pelting rain, looked out over the compound. Micca, her sodden hair hanging in matted strands across her face, stared deep into the gloom, locating her targets. Positioning the rifle against her shoulder, she took a few steps back and squeezed the trigger. A hole erupted in the glass, shards striking the deck’s equipment as bloated beads of rain pushed through the opening. Micca placed the barrel of the AK 47 into the hole, widening it with a series of sideways sweeps. She pressed her eye against the scope, adjusting her aim to accommodate for the distance, the wind whipping against the hull of the ship, and the waves forcing the boat to rock. She fired into the night, the bullet going wide and striking into the far wall of the tower. She couldn’t be sure if she had attracted the attention of the man inside, and without hesitation she fired again, silently thanking her deceased father for the lessons they shared together at the shooting range when she was just a girl.

[Heson]

Roland shut his eyes, listening to the whispers as he stepped towards the door leading into the rain, his skin crawling with 'him' trying to break free. His fingers tightened upon the 12 gauge in his hand, his other dropping the the axe hanging upon his waist. He whispered under his breath, talking to his 'other half' as he had started to call it. "We need to keep our people safe as best we can in this attack..." He stepped into the rain and opened his eyes, a smile coming across his features as the rain hit his skin. "It's showtime!" Roland charged out into the weather and onto the docks, raising the butt of his shotgun and slamming it into the dock worker guard that was there. The splash from the body hitting the water was music to this Roland as his boots hit the wood of the dock hard in his run. He heard the rifle fire, vague bits of the plan coming to him in his haze.

He pointed towards the closest tower and ran in that direction with rebels behind him. While the girl kept the attention of the snipers in the tower, he was supposed to get into one of them and secure it for the rebels. Securing probably meaning kill anything with a gun as his other side thought. Roland continued his run, hearing the returning shots from the towers. So far he hadn't heard any dying screams from behind him, so it could mean any of three things; they were horrible shots, the plan was working an their fire wasn't at them, or they are so good of a shot their targets go down without a sound. It didn't matter to this Roland, his vision centered upon the tower ahead and the task that awaited him inside.

[Frallon]

Zombreach, on 21 May 2011 - 12:44 AM, said:

Positioning the rifle against her shoulder, she took a few steps back and squeezed the trigger. A hole erupted in the glass, shards striking the deck’s equipment as bloated beads of rain pushed through the opening. Micca placed the barrel of the AK 47 into the hole, widening it with a series of sideways sweeps. She pressed her eye against the scope, adjusting her aim to accommodate for the distance, the wind whipping against the hull of the ship, and the waves forcing the boat to rock. She fired into the night, the bullet going wide and striking into the far wall of the tower. She couldn’t be sure if she had attracted the attention of the man inside, and without hesitation she fired again, silently thanking her deceased father for the lessons they shared together at the shooting range when she was just a girl.

Heson, on 21 May 2011 - 12:38 PM, said:

Roland charged out into the weather and onto the docks, raising the butt of his shotgun and slamming it into the dock worker guard that was there. The splash from the body hitting the water was music to this Roland as his boots hit the wood of the dock hard in his run. He heard the rifle fire, vague bits of the plan coming to him in his haze.

He pointed towards the closest tower and ran in that direction with rebels behind him. While the girl kept the attention of the snipers in the tower, he was supposed to get into one of them and secure it for the rebels... Roland continued his run, hearing the returning shots from the towers.

GM:

Pvt. Clark sat on the flattened cushion of a folding chair the men had thrown out for gate duty. His fingers played with an all-American zippo as he darted out a cigarette from his pocket, sitting back in the gate-way-station, trying to shake the cold and return to a place in his mind where things were dry; except the women. A smirk came and passed on his face as a loud bang came from out in the distance. Clark sat forward in his chair, his conscious trying to dismiss the noise with reason over the pounding of silent hail and rain, however when a second round chambers off he stands at the ready and ditches into the weather to look out their front gate. In the darkness, coming for the only entrance into the soldiers little compound, was something way different than their boys on a snatch run. A rifle was firing from the top of the ferry... and not at the passengers.

"Send up a sun," Clark shouted into his personal hand-held feeling bits of fright creek up, "full scale, repeat full scale, eyes on the dock; this is not a drill!"

Sgt. Thompson fell forward in his chair, positioned ocean side, as bullets screamed low on the fore-build just below his crows nest. Clark sent up his eye report from down by the gates, just as Thompson crouched up to the side of his nest, and looked down towards the dock. He watched the vague outline of someone with a rifle as they pounded out shells his direction, too low, he wasn't even sure if they could see him or not. Cold rain sleeted into the side of his damp face as he shouldered his M14 and waited as a bright flare burst behind him in the sky above with a crack more intense than lightning. He looked down at the sixty odd faces far below him, momentarily stopping in awe of the flare, and before he figured the woman would get another crack at him he shouldered his weapon on the largest grouping.

Bullets tore down range from both Ocean Side towers as Sgt. Thompson and Corporal. Marks unloaded in fast, nearly synced, semi-automatic fashion towards the crowd heading their way. Every other round seemed to prop a casualty, from their height, even rounds skimming high were tagging those behind. Feet became dangles of flesh, arms tore open wide with screams of pain that were more apparent than the storm, and bodies fell left in right in random orders. Near the dock, PFC Harris struggled in the chest height waves that momentarily would drown him, but in between the ocean tides a crack would snuff out from his side-arm held one handed over the tide. Pvt. Clark rushed back to his booth, pulling his AR up to his hip, and pressed the closing mech on the Gate doors. He waited, blood returning to his face, and making the rain seem like a warm shower. But as the Gate came closed to shut the rebels bore into it and another flare bust off into the sky.

[ZombifiedBrendan]

Name: Jack
Location: Mainland
Age: 37
Height/weight: 6’ 0”/163 lbs.

Personality: Very much serious, especially in high priority situations, he refuses to make jokes or see the fun side in life. Outside, he is only slightly more different, he accepts others for who they are and their choices, he will always allow forgiveness. He is sociable, friendly to everyone and talks, but he never comes across the same way he wants to.

History: Jacks life before the outbreak was going nowhere. His desk job in LA was boring him, his bills were racking up and his wife was growing distant. A break up seemed inevitable. He worried for his 12 year old son, he worried so dearly about young Mitch and that his life wouldn’t be fair on him. When the outbreak began, it just messed his life up even more. His wife and son left quickly after first word, not even a goodbye was said. All that was there was a note that said they were leaving. Jack wasn’t quite the same after that, but still he searches in the plague stricken world, looking for his son.

Clothing: Gray woolen shirt, black zip-up hoodie and a faded brown leather jacket. Wears light blue jeans and black boots.

Appearance: Very much average, not in many ways fit but can take and deal a few blows. His face is worn from years of pain and prescribed drugs. His short black hair refuses to look good and the hints at a beard growing is clearly visible. His brown eyes look tired and appear bloodshot constantly, either from not enough sleep or because of pain. On his left upper arm is a tattoo of a robot face.

Weapons: Remington Model 30 rifle

[Cornflakes]

Dean found himself moving with the rebel crowd towards the deck, his mind was blank and he still held onto the smith and Wesson tightly as if to remind himself that it was real. Even feeling the cold air in the long passage towards the deck hit his skin Dean still walked like many of the rebels around him grim faced and in a daze, like many he knew chances of living were slim. Fighting against the undead was a walk in the park, but when faced with trained men who could fight as a team and were trained to kill now was the time to pray for a quick death. Grinding his teeth, Dean cursed himself mentally, he need to get himself pumped up but his mind and body where numb.

Feeling the hail hit his face harshly he closed his eyes out of habit and fell to the ground when a weight dropped on his side, he opened his eyes and saw people scrambl over hm and the bodies that lay around him. Seeing what fell on him was another rebel who had been shot in the head, pushing the dead body of him Dean quicky pulled himself up and began follwing the crowd quickly. He knew he'd be a rubbish shot compared to most, but give him something heavy and blunt and Dean would be in his element. Grabbing a baseball bat in his other hand, off one of the dead rebels in front of him he ran fast trying to avoid the dead bodies and shots.

The light from the flare didn't even distract him as he ran towards the tower most rebels had picked, a smirk had appeared on his face and he made his way closer, now it was easy he didn't need to be told what to do, anyone trying to kill him was his target.

[Zombreach]

A burst of light in the sky illuminated the rebels running for the gate. Micca could clearly see she had attracted the guard in the tower, but his rifle was aimed at the helpless people below instead of her. Shots rang out and people fell like dominos, their lives snuffed out so quickly like candle flames. The storm raged on, sleet and rain striking the ground alongside the bullets. Using the flare's light to her advantage, Micca aimed at the man in the tower again. Head down, the soldier was absorbed in the killing, his gun rocking in his grip as he passed judgment on his enemy. Micca heard the screams of agony and gritted her teeth against it. There was nothing she could do the save the dead and dying, but she could attempt to kill their executioner. Tightly gripping her AK-47, she moved the selector lever to the middle position--full-auto--and squeezed the trigger. Bullets flew from the chamber, stitching a path along the tower wall towards the shooter. She could not be sure if she had hit him, but his body disappeared back inside the structure, his gun quieted--it was enough for her...for now.

A second flare was sent out, bringing the scene below into bright relief again… and although it was from the periphery of her vision, Micca saw “them” coming, most likely drawn by the lights and sounds of the fight. The rebels continued to rush the gate unaware of the new danger shambling towards them. Micca trained her bead on the undead, the distance and movement of the boat making her accuracy almost null. She fired until her magazine ran empty, only a matter of seconds, but long enough for any sniper to get her into their sights.

The glass windshield exploded inward, sending sharp projectiles flying through the small space. Micca felt their passage, her skin splitting easily against their assault. She dropped down, shocked at her foolishness. She had the attention now that she had been shooting for--literally. Warm blood trickled down her cheek and arm, several superficial cuts oozing from the cuts made by the passing glass. The sensation from them was familiar, the old habit of cutting etched upon her thighs in a series of horizontal scars. The stinging pain was calming, and she used it to reassert her priorities. Inserting a fresh magazine, the only extra one she had, Micca rose and fired at the look-out towers again, this time choosing a new target. In short bursts she fired, ducking between sets to make herself less visible. She barely aimed, hoping mostly to distract, and give the group enough time to get inside and make their own kills.

[Frallon]

Cornflakes, on 22 May 2011 - 06:03 AM, said:

Dean found himself moving with the rebel crowd towards the deck...Feeling the hail hit his face harshly he closed his eyes out of habit and fell to the ground when a weight dropped on his side, he opened his eyes and saw people scrambl over hm and the bodies that lay around him. Seeing what fell on him was another rebel who had been shot in the head, pushing the dead body of him Dean quicky pulled himself up and began follwing the crowd quickly...The light from the flare didn't even distract him as he ran towards the tower most rebels had picked, a smirk had appeared on his face and he made his way closer, now it was easy he didn't need to be told what to do, anyone trying to kill him was his target.

Zombreach, on 22 May 2011 - 10:13 AM, said:

Using the flare's light to her advantage, Micca aimed at the man in the tower again. Head down, the soldier was absorbed in the killing, his gun rocking in his grip as he passed judgment on his enemy. Micca heard the screams of agony and gritted her teeth against it. There was nothing she could do the save the dead and dying, but she could attempt to kill their executioner. Tightly gripping her AK-47, she moved the selector lever to the middle position--full-auto--and squeezed the trigger..She could not be sure if she had hit him, but his body disappeared back inside the structure, his gun quieted--it was enough for her...for now.

A second flare was sent out, bringing the scene below into bright relief again… and although it was from the periphery of her vision, Micca saw “them” coming, most likely drawn by the lights and sounds of the fight. The rebels continued to rush the gate unaware of the new danger shambling towards them. Micca trained her bead on the undead, the distance and movement of the boat making her accuracy almost null. She fired until her magazine ran empty, only a matter of seconds, but long enough for any sniper to get her into their sights.

The glass windshield exploded inward, sending sharp projectiles flying through the small space. Micca felt their passage, her skin splitting easily against their assault. She dropped down, shocked at her foolishness. She had the attention now that she had been shooting for--literally. Warm blood trickled down her cheek and arm, several superficial cuts oozing from the cuts made by the passing glass. The sensation from them was familiar, the old habit of cutting etched upon her thighs in a series of horizontal scars. The stinging pain was calming, and she used it to reassert her priorities. Inserting a fresh magazine, the only extra one she had, Micca rose and fired at the look-out towers again, this time choosing a new target. In short bursts she fired, ducking between sets to make herself less visible. She barely aimed, hoping mostly to distract, and give the group enough time to get inside and make their own kills.

GM:
Sgt. Thompson held his shoulder, a rifle round lodged in the bulk of meat that'd been his collar, and desperately he howled out in pain knowing full no one could really help him. He'd caught the first round, knocking him flat on his back, pushing him out of the way of the rest of the boat-shooters automatic spray that lit up the roof of his tower. Blood pulsed in between his fingers as he tried to push himself back over towards the side of his post, but with every inch he managed, a thousand pain signals rushed to his spine and up to his brain limiting his efforts. Cpl. Marks, catching only faintly that his partner Tower 1 had fallen, tried quickly to suppress their opposition with the rest of his magazine and pulled back from a few pot-shots from the ground forces to quickly reload his M16. He pushed back, glancing out over the crowd, bullets passed blindly over his head and make him slightly pull back to check his targets.

Something else was moving down amongst the rebels, slowly coming up behind them, peering out of the water. Through the hail, Marks could barely make out the forum of PFC. Harris as another wave came up over him while the man tried to reload, having tagged half a dozen rebels with his inaccurate shots, and with the wave pairs of arms grabbed him. Cpl. Marks tried to see more, but Harris never resurfaced, and the dead were already present as they attacked the far back of his targets in small numbers. People screamed over the storm, dozens wounded, probably a solid number of kills along their ranks, but dead or alive the walkers would devour them and turn them into something new. He gagged at the thought, but with their current situation, least the bastards would get a death more than he could deal out.


JACK:
2nd Lt. Johnson parted a loosely dropped shade from the second story of his main-stronghold in their compound. He wore no uniform, just his formality beret, and his M9 that'd been given to him when he was promoted into the commissioned officer ranks. Nothing was visible from his window, just the courtyard, and the muzzle flashes from the snipers nests. SFC Daniel Smith came up behind him, dressed only with his rifle and combat gear, and passed a 12 gauge Cruiser to his Lt while laying down on his personal handheld; "What the hell's going on out there, I've got shots popping like the fourth of July, someone give me a boneified Sit-Rep God Dammit!" Over the tip rooftop of the compounds flare house, Johnson could faintly make out the gate as it slowly shut, a sense of security was slowly coming over him with every inch it came closer to locked. But the feeling never lasted and his eyes went cold with the bloodshed of their battle as things greatly escalated in full view.

Jack could feel the depression of his life suddenly take physical weight with their change of survival direction. He ran with his hoodie zipped up tight to his skin, his boots soaked from the inside out making a sucking sound with every hasty step he took, and nothing compared to the blindness he felt with his hood drawn up being pulled down with the rain nearly over his eyes; gripping the Winchester hard, and breathing frantically in a desperate sprint, he tried to let these indecencies pass before their mission was lost by his hands. Jack knew. He was the only one who could make it inside the doors before they shut. PVT. Clark was just bringing his AR up to his hip, within the confines of the Gate booth, as a single-man leapt through sliding in the mud with a rifle outstretched in his arms trying not to get the weapon wet.

Clark let off the door controls, hearing them bang shut behind the intruder, and ran to the booths entrance just letting the AR stick around outside. Fully-Automatic fire danced out the assault rifle, spraying the front foreground, and bouncing bullets violently into the ground that was quickly becoming pig-slop with the storm. Jack panicked, glancing up at the bright flashes that tore from the killing machine, and stayed flat thinking nothing but the image of Mitch until there was nothing more but a well-trained silence before him. Clark discarded his magazine, looking down at his firearm, and felt that burning sensation go to boil under his skin as he fumbled for a fresh one. Jack saw his opportunity... And took it. Coming up a knee, the last time he'd weilded a riffle still fresh in his mind, the single shot let out a loud roar and parted the Privates stomach just below the soldiers vest lining. He fumbled with the Remington, sliding its bolt open, and jerked it shut briefly mesmerized by the mud as it slid off his frozen hands in the hail and replaced by invisible blood that couldn't do so. He glanced back up at Clark who arched on the ground and saw the controls to the Front Gates inside the Guard Booth over the Privates body.

GM:
PFC. Garcia and PVT. Martinez, positioned in the compounds back towers, reasoned equally down their barrels as soon as Pvt. Clark started to spam. Martinez took matters first, siting down his FN and taking a few kill-bursts, while Garcia lead on their Personal Handhelds. Down below them, SFC Smith relayed the chatter on their handhelds back to 2nd LT. Johnson, who nodded playing things out in his head. They were in a situation unlike any they'd ever been forced to recon with before, scavenging missions sometimes got harry with a few pot-shots towards his men or a few walkers refused to die, but those instances were null compared to what these traitors, whom they'd saved, presented; every great ruler was only as great as the hold he held over his lesser-beings. "Garcia ways they've got someone on the inside," Smith continued with his ear up to the microphone, "Pvt. Clark is down at his station, they're trying to pin the man down."

"Right," the Lieutenant said striding over his a window, on the second story of the compounds largest building, and taking a glance out ignoring the pounding of gunfire and hail, "keep our back power focused on them but dont loose sight trying to get him, it maybe a distraction; tell those holed up in their bunk houses to try to jump him from where they're at; who we got still in their sleep-quarters still?"

"Sgt. Brown, Cpl. Wilson," SFC Smith relayed over the air, "Cpl. Moore, Spc. Anderson; you still got a few with you out there; over?" Four separate messages relayed quickly in the affirmative. "Johnson wants you center-bound, take out the intruder, stop him before he reopens the gate."

"That's two handfulls, at best, everyone else is here except our four eyes in the sky?"

"And Pvt. Scott on flare duty," Smith remarked, "but other than that, we've got about fourteen men downstairs full up."

"Good," Johnson contemplated, "send out four of your fastest, stock them with ammo, someones got to watch our sharpshooters. Divide the rest, I want these four windows stacked, best we've got left, two a glass. Staff Sergent Williams," he boldy pronounced turning towards a body opposite side the room, "you're on ground floor, set up your men, we are NOT loosing this location to a bunch of peasants."

[ZombifiedBrendan]

The beating against his chest didn’t slow down as the boom from the rifle subsided, instead it grew faster. Hurried breaths escaped Jacks mouth as he stayed in his kneeled stance and watched the body wither on the floor near the controls. He didn’t regret the action he had just performed. Rebellious roars came from nearby, men and women of all ages rising against their leaders that dared to push them under their control. Jack began moving, he knew what his goal was now, open the gates and unleash the horde. He moved quickly, hoping that unseen eyes hadn’t managed to notice his entrance. Gunshots rained, unsure whether they were aimed at him or at the fighters outside the compound. He knew for once and for all someone was shooting at him when a section of the red bricked wall next to him exploded into dust. He stopped breathing at that instant and instead sprinted for the control booth.

In a quick bound Jack was over the dying figure of PFC Clark and into the booth. He crashed into a wall shoulder first, using it as a force to stop his sprint. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, knowing that he was invisible from nearly all angles inside here. His heart beat slowed, his eyes pried open and his breath returned. In front of him was an assortment of buttons, levers, switches and lights. He let his Remington hang in his left hand as he looked down at the switches, trying to decode their meanings. A window was spread out before him, showing the battlefield before him, the fighters had reached the gate and were bashing down on it to no success. The roars defend the sound of the rain. Jack looked back down to the control panel, seeing a large lever pulled down fully. He took his chances and pulled it up, not sure whether this would open the gates or not.

Chokes cut through the noise, and the whimpers of a man could be heard by Jacks ears. He turned around, and raised his rifle. Nothing was there. He moved his feet towards the door slowly, taking no chances. He rounded the corner and saw the private on the ground. Blood pooled out his mouth as he held his stomach tightly with his left arm. With his right he was fumbling with a holster by his thigh. His hand shook as he tried to grab his sidearm, a last act of control. With the butt of the rifle hugging his shoulder Cliff looked down on the man who had enforced so much pain on others. Their eyes met and it was the last sight the soldier ever saw.

[Heson]

Roland slammed his axe against the closed gate in a futile effort. One of them had gotten through before it shut on them. Anger speared across his face as he put his trust in the rebel that made it through, not even knowing his name, and he turned to his mob. Some of them had been killed for sure and now screams could be heard upon his ears, bringing a short smile to his face. The carnage of death was always a pleasure to Roland's other side. The smile was short lived when he realized that the screams were from his mob whom were now starting to face some walkers coming from the water. It was a bad situation they were in. Stuck behind the closed gate, they could be easy targets for the people in the towers if it wasn't for that girl covering them and now the dead were starting to come at their rear and chewing them up.

Roland wanted to go to the back and help the rebels fighting off the undead, but he was stuck up at the gate by his mob. Every second that the gate stayed closed was another possible death for his rebels. He finally started to push his way to the fight at the back when he heard the groan of the gate. He turned back with a grin, his shotgun slung on his shoulder and his axe at the ready. The gate started to crack open and his body trembled with energy as he waited with the anticipation. "Get ready for a fast charge! Quicker we get there, quicker we get safe!"

[Zombreach]

Her back against the wall of instruments, Micca sat on the floor, her legs out in front of her. The onslaught of bullets had slowed, the wet floor in front of her thick with broken glass. She was almost out of ammo and deciding to play opossum, had hunkered down, hoping the snipers in the towers would eventually cease their fire in her direction. Idly playing with the ring in her lip, she spun the gold hoop with her tongue, the sweat on her lip tasting of salt. She shivered, the cold from the storm seeping in through the broken windows and causing goose bumps to rise on all her exposed flesh. She hoped the next phase of the rebel’s attack was under way. She had seen the gate rising, the force pushing their way inside the compound. Now all she had to do was join them….

Glass crunched under her hands and knees as she crawled around the circumference of the captain‘s deck, keeping tight to the edge. At the door, she stood quickly, slipping out into the night. Strong winds whipped against her face and Micca squinted in the nearly complete darkness. The main deck seemed deserted. Gripping the hand rail tightly, she climbed down, the sounds of her steps drowned out by the rain. She could only see a few yards in front of her, the slow moving bodies of the dead almost invisible on the dock. Clad all in black, she was also little more than a shadow, the white tips of her hair the only visible part of her person.

Gun held in front, Micca made her way around the bloated bodies of the undead that littered the dock. The smell of sea water hung on their wrinkled and rotting skin. Most were eyeless, the creatures below the churning surface having feasted on their soft tissue months ago. Pushing those that ventured too close out of her way, she easily evaded their grasping hands. All that lay between her and the others was the open field…the undead…the dead…the dying… Taking a deep breath, she ran for the gates in a zigzag pattern, trying to avoid the bodies on the ground and those that were feeding on them. If any of the wounded still lived, their fates were already sealed, and Micca ignored the sounds she heard, telling herself it was the dead.

Breath coming in sharp gasps, Micca flattened herself against the wall just outside of the gate. She had not seen any other survivors, all of them presumably inside. Chest heaving, she waited, listening to the continued sound of gunshots as the soldiers fought to protect their well-stocked haven. She had seen inside these walls, the sadistic bas**rds hording all the food and comforts while those on Island B starved and served their needs. They deserved to die…and she had wished them dead for over a month now…night after night of listening to the cries of the men and women suffering. As one of the few who was armed, she was expected to carry out such a sentence of death. She only hoped she could.

Swinging around the corner of the wall, she entered through the gate to the inside. A tall man stood near the controls, the gate’s lever near his hand. Her rifle went up halfway before she recognized the brown leather jacket. She couldn’t think of his name, had never even bothered to try, but he was a friendly…one of her group.

“I’m the last,” she panted, “…close the gate…their coming out from the sea….” She blinked rapidly, the rain running into her eyes. “Which way?” She asked, hoping he could direct her to the other rebels.

[Frallon]

OOC: I apologize for this delay, I'm currently undergoing a life transition, Graduation, Summer Employment, New Girlfriend, sorry; hope we can pick this up again.


GM:
Remaining members of the Resistance stood in anticipation, drenched with the wind beginning to chill the air further down, as the doors cranked open and the dead began to close in slowly behind them; stopping to feast on those whom were tagged on the way.. Sgt. Brown and Cpl. Wilson huddled uneasily across the top second-story floors of their bunk houses, each with the members whom were on sleep-rotation, until all eleven peered down upon Jack and their fallen brother. All light from the flare in the sky faded, slowly, until black touched down and rippled with a shot just outside the gate operation station.

"****ers," Brown gritted to those behind him, "fan out, cover the windows; Green take up the stairs and cover our asses!"

Garcia and Martinez glanced at one another from their back towers as both synonymously fell empty and reloaded their rifles. As they bring their scopes back up, far below them, both rest-stations suddenly light up on the compounds center and bodies rush vividly from the gates. Scott launched up another flare, bright and vibrant, and the individuals became full down their sights. The flow of targets ceases with one last entry comes through. "Martinez," Garcia radioed over quickly pulling out his last four magazines and setting them on the ridge of his nest, "focus on the ones who actually fire, watch their back draft; Johnson we're stripping thin here if you're throwing us some rounds I'd do it before this storm comes down on us; over." Pvt Garcia pops off rounds down range, focusing on the gate control center where the resistance begins to crowd for cover on their efforts towards the Main Building, and tries to tag the ones who return fire on their side-men.

"This is Thompson, I'm hit," his voice came in ragged, "can't retaliate, repeat, I cannot resume my post- someone get me out of here; I think I'm dieing; out.."

"Hang in there buddy," Cpl Marks signaled in transitioning over the side of his tower to cover the bottom entrance to his brothern's staircase up, "I'll keep them off you, best I can, just sit tight and let us sort this; over out."

[ZombifiedBrendan]

Jack looked at the warrior woman, her weapon beating his far in efficiency, reliability and use. Everybody on the boat knew about her, they had to. Everyone was a pawn, she was a queen. The most powerful person around. She demanded some respect, respect that Jack gave her. As she spoke, he listened, over the sound of rebel yells and dead moans. He heard her clearly and followed what she said. If she was the last, closing the gate would protect them from the walkers outside and offer no escape for their cruel leaders. He nodded to her and followed her orders quickly. He gathered himself, he had just killed a man, it took a toll on him, but it was one he had lived through before, something that he knew he had to do again. Sooner than later by the looks of it.

At the control panel, he looked to the many buttons, switches and levers. He found the lever he had moved before and counted on it doing the opposite action if it was in the other direction. Jacks hand gripped the cold dark metal and moved it downwards, waiting and hoping for salvation to be found. AS the lever clicked over, sounds began over his head. Metal gears moving and the screeches of metal rubbing against metal. He hoped that what he had done the right thing yet again, he couldn’t physically see the gate from his position in the control booth.

He moved to the control booth and looked out to the woman, the woman everyone was relying on. Everybody had whispered about her, how she was to be one of the most armed people here, and everybody called her Micca. Jack mustered up his voice and spoke loudly over the background noises, “That should be it! Tell me if that ga-”

His shout was cut off dramatically by repetitive fire pounding down on the wall of the booth next to him. Instincts took over as he fell to the floor face down. Tracer rounds flew over his head as he scurried back into the booth, trying to hide from the quick death. He yelled out more rounds came down into the doorway he once stood in. He felt safe but bullets continued to fly into the booth, crashing down on the controls and poking holes through the weak walls.

[Cornflakes]

Dean's mind was blank, he slowed down compared to the other rebels that were charging through the gate. Breathing heavily he looked around him, he noticed that the sound of fire from the rebel sniper was gone, he was mildly surprised how the nosie from the sniper had comforted him, He began to feel nervous now noone was watching his back. Dean swallowed hard, he finally heard the moans of the dead over the nosie of enemey gun fire and he smirked, the situtation they were in was laughable. He looked back at the rebel crowd who hadn't seemed to move far. Hearing low noise of talking behind him he glanced over at the gate were he saw Jack and Micca talking to each other, both were people he rarely spoke to, but from what he heard they were both dangerous people. Dean leaned against the wall spat on the ground he noticed most of the rebels were looking to Jack for instructions, he stained his ears to listen to Jack shout as he went into the control booth “That should be it! Tell me if that ga-”

Bullets fired around them, one hit Dean on the shin grazing his skin, but he fell to the ground grabbing his shin and cursing loudly at the stinging pain. Dean got up on his knees keeping his back against the wall, holding his gun close to him he clenched his teeth together he only had a spare clip in his pocket and one in the gun. He knew if he tried to look out he'd get his head blown off, keeping close to the wall he saw some soldiers and he aimed the gun in their direction he began firing wildly at the attackers, noticing he wasn't the only rebel, who had the same method of fire and hope to hell it hit something. He stopped after he fired about 5 bullets, the tactic if you could call it that wasn't working. He looked around at the rebels with him, most were hiding from the bullets and Dean knew if they stayed it would be long till they were killed. He found his body jumping slightly from the bullets he breathed in and aimed the gun at one soldier he guessed he could get a shot at, aiming at the soldier he fired, the bullet missed the soldiers chest were dead was aiming instead it hit higher and Dean shot the soldier in the neck.

Watching the soldier fall down Dean blinked dumbly at the fallen body, he felt someone hit him on the shoulder and shout at him. Looking at a man in his 40's who was clearly a rebel, motion at Dean telling him to move out of the way. Dean tried to scramble out of the way of the bullets with the other rebels.

[Markee White]

Name: Brandon
Sex: Male
Age: 22
H&W: 165-170lbs, 6ft
Hair n eye color: Dark brown short hair, brown eyes with green rings around the outside.
Weapons: Mossberg 500A Persuader, Smith and Wesson 422
Clothing: Black Fox tee, black jeans, black and orange DC shoes, white aviator-style sunglasses, blue DC backpack.
Brief History: Brandon was attending college before the infection hit. Since then, he's been wandering and scavenging for his needs.

Brandon sat behind the dumpster, he closed his eyes, "Calm down, miles away... Miles away... No. Fuck not now. Not right now. GOD DAMMIT!!"
He sat down the shotgun and began pulling off his backpack, "Just take your pills."
Brandon pulled out a pill bottle about 4/5 of the way full. He opened the bottle and tapped out two of the white and green capsules. He closed the pill bottle and put it back in his bag and took the water from the side of his bag. He dumped the pills into his mouth and then washed them down, then replaced the water, then slipped his backpack on, placing his hand on his shotgun, "Costco pharmacy. Risperdol, Celexa, Vistaril."

[Zombreach]

Micca heard the sound of the gate’s gears kick in as the man in the control area pulled down on the lever. He yelled out to her just as a volley of bullets rang out, slamming into the small operating structure and causing him to drop from sight. With limited visibility, she raised her rifle, aiming in the general direction of the fired shots, but holding steady, waiting for a clear target.

Another flare went up, bringing the whole area into bright relief once again. Micca used the opportunity to locate the enemy, surprised to note that most of the remaining rebel group she belonged to was still huddled in the vicinity of the gate, barely noticeable in the darkness and heavy downpour. She had expected the advance to already be under way and with the rain continuing to beat against their skin and the wind adding further discomfort, she began to wonder if they were up against almost insurmountable odds.

Rifle fire continued to throw down a barrage on the sodden group as the soldiers attempted to discriminately pick off the armed members of the rebel group. As one of the targeted few, Micca searched for cover, finally ducking behind a group of barrels near the wall. She saw several people she recognized from the camp, a few trying to advance towards the enemy, many holding nothing more than clubs. She sighted her AK-47 on the second story level where she had seen discharge bursts, blinking her eyes to keep out the ran. She was on her last magazine, which was more that half empty, so she had to make her shots count. Drawing a bead on a taller man's silhouette in the window, she released a short burst, adjusting for the pull of the weather on her aim.

Return fire forced Micca to fall back, striking the wall with a expelled burst of air. A numbness spread along her left arm with contact and she tried to lift the limb, grimacing as a flare of hot pain raced along her bicep. Her searching fingers fell into a depression of flesh, a neat hole with puckered edges. Her blood mixed with the falling rain and even with the coldness in the air, the wound was oozing steadily. It was now or never, she decided, the bullets would only continue to come for her despite her injury. With a scream of defiance, she leapt from her hiding spot and ran into the thick of the night, keeping low and using whatever she could for temporary cover as she advanced on the main building.