06-22-2010, 07:59 PM
Name: Cyril Emmerson
Age: 14 and a half. Because I always have to be different. Nya.
Personality: Good teamworker, relatively intelligent and generally bad at giving up, but has all the tact of a flying brick, and has no initiative or leadership of his own. Also has a tendency to miss the obvious.
Bio: Cyril is the son of the local mortician and embalmer, resulting in an oddly indifferent outlook on death and decay. He went to the local high school and was in general completely ordinary (apart from some minor offenses to the effect of complete disregard for any and all peace and tranquility) until the dead decided to stand up and have the living for lunch.
Appearance: Average height, slight build, curly mouse-brown hair, dark blue eyes. Because glowing red eyes are cool, but unfortunately make no bloody sense. Bleh. XD
Preferred weapons: Anything he can actually lift. That rules out weapons like rocket launchers and combat shotguns, and rules in crossbows and lightweight pistols.
Most Hated Monster: Crimson heads, Witches, Hunters and anything else that moves faster than him.
None of the things had noticed him yet. Good. Cyril was concealed on top of a two-story building that had once been a butcher's shop. The roof was a square of hot tarmac, heated up by the sun. He was peering out over the small stone wall at the top. The zombies were stumbling around, trying to get into the shop and at the meat. The stench would have made him gag, but the smell of rotting got there first. He spat over the wall, then threw himself back.
Quickly, he took off his backpack and went through the contents. His inventory wasn't much good. He had a gun, a pair of combat knives he'd looted from an army surplus store, a handful of grenades. That was as far as weapons went. Not much good. He needed to get more. He'd already been tangling with the zombies; the knives had been dangerous, the gun had been unwieldy and he hadn't dared use the grenades for fear of attracting more corpses. In terms of supplies, he had some medical bits and bobs, a bottle of water and some sandwiches. He also had a few pieces of crap; a survival manual he'd never read, a map of the town he'd thought would be useful, but was in fact dated many years behind the present, and some binoculars. He also had a mobile phone, with no charge. Fat lot of good that would do him, seeing as everyone in the phone book on it was now walking around dead.
Sandwiches. He was nuts, he told himself. He'd left his house rather than simply barricading up there, and he'd only brought some bloody sandwiches. He groaned out loud. He didn't care, because the zombies were moaning too, and wouldn't notice. Once again, he needed to find something else that would last, or he'd starve.
Cyril repacked his bag, and put it back on, except he kept the knives at his belt, along with the gun. He glanced across the street and saw another trio of zombies come out of an alleyway and stumble towards the butcher's. Another mistake. Of all the buildings he could possibly have climbed onto, it just had to be the one that attracted the zombies like flies, didn't it? He started to get annoyed with himself, but quelled the urges to shout with frustration.
Calm down, Cyril. Calm down. It's calmness that's kept you alive up until now. Don't do anything stupid. You don't want to end up like the rest.
For a moment, he thought back to park. Him and a few friends had been there, causing general havoc, as per usual. Then it had happened. The dead had come stumbling through the trees. Everyone else had frozen on the spot in horror. Cyril hadn't; he'd been unfrightened, if surprised and caught off guard, by the walking corpses. Death never affected him. It didn't shock him. He'd never known why; but somehow he'd always known that the worst things were in life, not death. He'd roared at his friends to move it. They hadn't. He had.
His father was the local mortician. He'd been one of the first to die, because of the zombies rising in the building. He'd been surrounded. With no escape. .
He bit back a sob. Now they were as dead as the rest of the town. He could mourn for them later. He wondered was he the only survivor. No, he told himself. Don't give up hope. There MUST be someone left who you can find. He walked over to the edge of the roof, where a board was balanced across to the next building. He spread his arms wide for balance, and taking a deep breath, started walking across. Then it snapped!
Cyril plummeted. He also screamed on the top of his lungs. Then he hit something soft. The wind was knocked out of him, but at least he wasn't dead. He lay panting for a minute. Then turned his head to the side. Once again, he screamed.
A zombie was right there. RIGHT beside him. If he hadn't turned, it'd have fallen on him and bit him before he could do anything. As it was, he sprang out of the way, as it toppled onto the bags of refuse. Without another though, he pulled out one of the knives at his belt and plunged it down into the monster's skull. It went in easily. The zombie moaned, and crumpled. Cyril pulled the knife back out again, and cleaned it on a nearby rag. He felt a slight pang, but repressed it. It didn't matter. The person who it had once been was now dead. And staying that way. He looked around. More zombies were now detaching themselves from the bunch near the butcher's and staggering down the laneway towards him. Not really knowing what he was doing, he turned and ran down the other way. He wrenched open a red door, and slid inside. Then he slammed it shut and barred it with some thick planks nearby.
He'd walked two steps towards the inside of the building when something started ramming at the door. He frowned. The zombies couldn't have moved down the lane that quickly...
Uneasily, he proceeded towards the inside of the building. It was dark and gloomy, with an air conditioned chill, the polar opposite of the sunny outdoors. He resisted the urge to turn back and take his chances with the zombies in the laneway.
Ooc: If anyone wishes to be hiding inside the chilly dark place please. xD
I mean a weapon you hold. You have a gun, Tanith has a sword... I want a stick. ~ Valkyrie Cain
Ill buy you a stick for Christmas. - Skulduggery Pleasant