Name: Robert Miller
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.
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..
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.
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.
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.
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.
They're horny, Barbara, They've been dead a long time