Left 4 Evil (Limited Open RP)
Have you ever heard the story that the undead will walk amongst us when Hell freezes over?
It's not correct.
Hell's right here on earth.
Hour One: Eco-terrorists attacked the Umbrella Corporation's headquarters here in our town, Avalance, population 3464. See, most of the town was old-school brick and stone. Their headquarters was a sore thumb. All metal and glass, real cold and sterile looking. The terrorists might as well have been as effective as PETA. That is, if PETA had explosives. They'd heard rumors of chemical agents and medicines being tested on animals; and they chose to blow a hole in the side of the building. Researchers and security personnel were killed in the blast, though not all. The terrorists were apprehended swiftly, and taken to the police station. Others were taken to the hospital. The crowd around the building died off - but some people lingered behind and may have noticed that the remaining staff of the headquarters were vacating with disturbing swiftness.
Hour Two: Unbeknownst to the townspeople, a squad from Umbrella was sent in. They never came out; either they still are surveying the building, or something has happened. Unstable buildings are dangerous, after all.
Hour Three: Dogs escape from the pound near the headquarters. The staff on duty claim that the dogs became violent, and they had no choice but to release them into the woods. Many of the volunteers were bitten.
Hour Four: People are falling ill in the streets. They vomit, faint, develop rashes and their skin appears to be full of necrotizing tissue. The hospital was overflowing with these sick patients; most doctors had no idea what was going on, though several took samples and sent them out to an unknown location in an unmarked van.
Hour Five: More sick people come in, some viciously dog-bitten. The infected patients already in the hospital began to die suddenly; the sound of flatlining machines was near deafening. The dead were put in the morgue. Nobody else appears to be infected, and perhaps the infection is not airborne but perhaps related to bad food supplies. The town begins to mourn the dead; everybody has lost somebody, with the exception of the head researcher of the Umbrella Headquarters, Carmen Wesker.
Hour Six: Hell. Breaks. Loose. The dead rise, rotting and groaning, and attack any non-infected human in their sights. Ten minutes after the person dies, they rise as one of the horde. More people die.
Hour Seven: Avalance has been placed under quarantine by the mayor, Roger Danery. More than half the populous is dead or zombified.
Hour Eight: Three-fourths of the population is dead. The military has been sent in. There is no communication with the outside world.
Hour Nine: Seven-eighths of the population is dead. The city is under martial law. Umbrella has sent in their crew to help assist civillians.
Hour Ten: The civillians have begun to arm themselves; some have attacked the group from Umbrella, the group that really IS meant to save them. They've attacked the military as well. Now, it is practically a free-for-all.
There is one thing none of the civillians know, nor the military. Not even the Umbrella rescue squad. Umbrella discovered a new, more powerful virus. And it's about to hit Avalance like a ton of bricks. Only one woman knows about it - and she's all the way at the top of the Umbrella HQ, observing everything below. She literally holds the key to the survivor's salvation - or their doom.
Welcome to Hell. Population: You. You are going to be running like hell to save your life and the lives of anybody with you. We don't want to hear "I live for myself," because being alone out here? Those are some famous last words, buddy. Either you're a team player - or you're zombie food.
Some basic rules:
1. No psychics or magic. Period. None.
2. Beware of bathrooms. No. Seriously. Look out.
3. You cannot, cannot, cannot have possibly known any of this would happen. No omniscient characters! Everybody has their downsides and flaws when it comes to defending against zombies. Even the scientists and the crew sent in by Umbrella.
4. If you're bitten, Aaron and Silent_Wolf will decide whether or not you've been infected either by coin toss or by the mood of the situation, or if your character is prone to getting their butt kicked. Also depends on their mood.
5. No utterly owning of the zombie nation. Thank you.
6. Rated T for violence and gore. There is not going to be enough down-time to develop relationships beyond flirtation.
7. I had a series of rules about characterization but I'm not going to bother to list them all. We don't want sad-Sally or poor-Pedro playing with us. There are no sad families, bullsh*t to that whole "You Don't Know What Goes On Behind Closed Doors" argument. Don't want it. And no characters like Alice. Aaron and Wolfie may introduce characters similar to her in order to provide humor, amusement, and demoralization.
8. You are not McGyver. You can't take a paperclip and a ball of yarn and turn it into a pipe bomb.
9. This RP is open with limitations. If your character has Sueish qualities or breaks the rules listed, you're out. No exceptions.
For information on the Green Subjects, see: Common Infected - The Left 4 Dead Wiki - Left 4 Dead, Left 4 Dead 2, Survivors, Infected, walkthroughs, news, and more To see the rest of them, scroll down to the bottom of the page and click the pictures of each Special Infected to read up.
Two introductory posts will be made by Aaron and Wolfie. Here's the character sheet.
Age: (Sixteen and up)
Bio: (See Rules about this. Would it kill people to have characters with entirely normal backgrounds just once?)
Appearance: (Not entirely important, but would like to see them.)
Preferred weapons: (Ranging from all sorts of guns sold possibly illegally by the gun shop owner to everyday objects such as frying pans, fire extinguishers, guitars, et cetera.)
Most Hated Monster: (Both regular T-virus monsters [Zombies, Lickers, Hunters, Cerberus, etc.] and Green Subject. Green Subjects do not appear until later, but still post one after reading through the given link above.)
The constant moan and groan of the zombies below had begun to grate on her ears as she thought through everything that had happened. What had happened wasn't atypical; people were always attempting to expose Umbrella's true purposes. She pressed a hand to the glass window, staring down at the walking corpses. No, they weren't her biggest concern. They never would be. One of the vials of the new virus had disappeared. Either it had been smuggled out by a scientist or it had been absolutely shattered in that explosion. The disease was experimental, and an accident. The attempt to find an anti-virus to the T-Virus had been all but failure. These viruses that had come as a result of tinkering with it were usually eliminated through fire, UV light, or pure and simple ethyl alcohols.
But this one. The ones her workers called the Green Flu... They couldn't find a way to kill it, short of nuclear weapons. The sample had been locked up in her laboratory. There were only three people with access to it. Herself, herself, and herself. Somebody had stolen her keys; two were gone. But she comforted herself with knowing that whoever had grabbed it would soon be on the same page as every other critter out there. Stumbling. Mindless.
She turned from the window and walked into the viewing area behind her, looking around. There were numerous, steel-reinforced Plexiglas walls all around. Each segment of the room contained a monster. They ranged from simple zombies to complex, huge monstrosities like the Tyrants. Her particular favorite one was modeled after Sergei - but then again, they were all modeled after him. Lucky b*stard... She shook her head of the thought and turned to the Tyrant in question, smiling at it in its tube in the room. She was taking no chances with it; the cryogenic storage tube it was in would only unlock on her say-so, or in the event that a Code Black was necessary. It never would be. Nobody knew what they had been tinkering with.
She walked down the aisle to a group of cells called the Green Subjects. They were true monstrosities, Carmen knew that: warped and beaten and regenerated into something that was barely human. The zombies created by the Green Flu were faster, more violent, than the T-Virus subjects. The name of the virus, she knew, was spot-on: the symptoms of it were completely different than that of the T-Virus. Coughing that went from mild to resembling the Whooping Cough in a matter of hours. A slightly green tinge to the veins. Projectile vomiting. Foaming at the mouth. Then the hunger began. The Green Flu subjects did not rot. They were not dead. They were, as it were, akin to animals with rabies - with the exception of the Boomer and the Smoker, she noted with some disgust. The Boomer's cell walls were coated in a runny, foul-smelling substance that she could smell through the walls. The mutant lumbered around, waving its stubby arms and its bulges of fat disgustingly bouncing with each step. It took everything she had not to vomit, herself. The beasts would explode if harmed. They would be dead; but anyone within a certain radius would be splattered with the foul vomit, and it would alert every Green Subject in the area. For some reason, regular zombies didn't care for the smell.
Across the aisle from the Boomer was the Smoker. It, like the Boomer, would explode, but would leave only a nasty smelling gas in its wake. The cell was full of green smoke, and every now and then she could hear a deep, rasping cough; the thing was alive, but the smoke had accumulated as there was no ventilation system in place. Once or twice as she observed the cell, a long thin tongue plastered itself to the Plexiglas, but it didn't scare her. Nothing did.
Carmen steeled herself as she stood in front of the cell holding the Witch. Witches were, by far, the strangest of the mutations they'd discovered in the Green Subjects. She looked near-human, with the exception of her grotesquely-long nails. No... not nails. Claws. She would sit and sob, and sob, and cry for hours. It had grated so much on one researcher's nerves that he had gone in foolishly to kill her to make the sound stop.
The bloodstains were still all over the walls and floor.
As Carmen approached, the sobs stopped and a low warning growl came from the Witch's throat, and a pair of glowing red eyes was visible through the claws as the beast lifted her head. When Carmen didn't react, the growls became more like screeches and grunts - and without warning, the sounds grew into full-on screams as the Witch launched herself at the wall, scratching at it and trying to tear it down so she could kill Carmen. It was the single most disturbing thing Carmen had ever seen. She had watched her workers be eaten alive, seen autopsies of the test subjects, had killed a few of them herself - but the sheer violence and insanity behind the Witch was what terrified her the most. She took some steps back, and it seemed to placate the monster; it slid down the wall, curling up and returning to its soft sobbing.
Carmen swiftly left the room, unable to deal with the unnerving sounds. She leaned against the window again, staring down. At least the T-virus zombies were emotionless, that all they had was a permanent hunger. She had concerns about other creatures that may crop up - the Hunters, Lickers, Cerberus, even Tyrants were known to appear at random if a human had the right DNA patterns. She lifted her head and stared at her reflection in the window next; blue eyes, blond hair. Some of the workers had gone so far as to compare her to Albert. Her teeth began to grind together at the thought. Albert. It was always Albert Wesker did this or Albert Wesker was such and such. She'd done so much to place herself on her own da.mn pedestal, but the comparisons continued.
She was not Wesker.
Carmen Wesker would not make the same mistakes.
Tina Shapo was not in the best of moods. Let's face it, if you were being chased down by zombified freaks, you wouldn't be, either. But so far, they'd avoided the room she was in. She couldn't really fathom why, but she wasn't enjoying the locker she was hiding in. The scientist peeked out of the slits in the metal, holding her breath out of fear.
There was nothing in the room.
She cautiously opened the locker door, trying to be careful. This was the last time she was hiding in a sch-
The hell was that?! She threw herself back in, slamming it shut as she listened to the noises. There was a low hissing noise coming from the ceiling. Oh, god, oh god. Oh-
She stared down at the puncture in the metal that went straight through to her stomach. A sharp, almost paper-thin fleshy appendage was connected to a hell of a face in front of the locker, but she didn't look up at it as she felt blood come up into her mouth.
Oh, what a hell of a way to die.
The locker fell open as she collapsed against the door, and the vial in her pocket slid out and cracked open on the hard tiles.
Thirty minutes later, the squad from Umbrella kicked open the door. However, by then, Assistant Researcher Shapo was dead. They saw the vial, but didn't think anything of it. They did what they were ordered to do. Pour gasoline on the body. Set it on fire. When it was thoroughly charred, douse the flames.
No need for Crimson Heads.
Arik Roarke hated zombies. It wasn't personal. They scared the living hell out of him. The stories in the movies and books - let's face it, those don't do sh*t in comparison.
But holy mother of god was he glad for his frying pan. It seemed to damage the zombies enough to keep them away. It even seemed to have killed a few of them.
He shook the frying pan a bit, spraying some of the coagulated blood against the floor, and looked around the kitchen of his restaurant in dismay.
"I am never serving burger again if it does this to my customers."
A camera in the corner of the room focused on Arik, enabling Carmen to read his information.
Name: Arik Roarke.
Personality: Affectionate moron. Has the best of intentions. Does not have any prior connections to Umbrella. Lost wife, Elizabeth, in inital infection and uses humor as a coping mechanism for most situations. Seen as a stupid optimist, but claims he prefers to look on the sunny side of pessimism.
Bio: Moved to Avalance with his wife and daughter twenty six years ago. Loves to cook. One charge of battery on a customer who was assaulting a waitress. Counter lawsuit pending against customer.
Appearance: He has claimed he holds a resemblance to soap drama actor Jensen Ackles. Currently wearing a blue bandana, chef apron, and jeans and t-shirt. His hair is short, brown, and his eyes are brown. Tanned.
Preferred weapons: Has gone to the town shooting range on occasion to practice with handguns. Also shows proficiency using cooking implements.
(Not shown: Disliked monsters: Zombies and Green Subject Common Infected/Jockeys)
Carmen glanced over this information, but didn't really read it. At the moment she could care less about the lives of the survivors. If they could get out, more power to them.
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
Ooc: Before any conclusions are drawn, I came up with Shadow long before Shadow the Hedgehog was even thought of by Sega. I've adapted her somewhat for this RP; the name really is just a coincidence. XD
Name: Jem Ward
Personality: Chilled, laid back as a general rule, lazy, somewhat selfish, fairly clever, but doesn't like being told what to do. Can be extremely irritating on occasion and loves to wind people up.
Bio: Lives in the town with his mother, Carly and has lived there all his life. Jem's mother doesn't work, but claims welfare. His father left before he was born, but Jem doesn't miss him; his mother was a good enough parent and from what she's told him, his father wouldn't have been a good one if he'd stayed. Jem led a fairly ordinary life up til the current crisis.
Appearance: Long hair, straightened and dyed dark red, brown eyes, average height and build. Jem's mother is white, but his father was black, meaning that his skin is light brown. He has a scar on the inside of his left forearm, from climbing a barbed wire fence as a kid for a dare.
Preferred weapons: Knives, plus any gun that's easy to fire and not too heavy to lift.
Most Hated Monster: Lickers and Hunters, and any Green Subject.
Name: Shadow (real name: Sanura Gray)
Personality: Extremely stubborn, cold and distant. She can also be catty and very spiteful at times, and is out for number one as a general rule. Shadow is very observant, and will always heed a warning.
Bio: Shadow moved to the city when she was eighteen, to attend college. Her studies were interrupted by the zombie outbreak, and now she would like nothing better than to leave the town. Shadow will cheerfully use survivors if they can help her in any way possible to leave this infested town.
Appearance: Black hair cut in a jawlength bob, pale skin that doesn't tan no matter how hard she tries, grey eyes, tall and average build.
Preferred weapons: Guns or crossbows.
Most Hated Monster: Zombies, Spitters and Witches.
Jem deliberately tried not to think as he ran thru the streets. Thinking was the worst thing a person could do, cuz it held back their minds if they thought about what could happen to the people they were close to. Jem couldn't help tho but think about his mother; however, he knew for sure she was safe; the apartment building they lived in was high up and for once the nut who lived beneath them, with his survivalist skills and dreams of apocalypse, had come in handy and had made the place air tight.
Jem's only weapons were a knife he'd found in the street, and an automatic gun he'd taken off someone's body. He'd been disgusted when he'd done it, but after all, the dead guy could well rise again as one of the undead. Just to make sure that he wouldn't, Jem had fired a couple of rounds into the dead guy's skull. Now tho, he was looking for someplace to hole up in for a couple of hours, to take stock of the situation and rest up. He spied a red door, and quickly went thru it. He couldn't barricade it, more's the pity, but maybe deeper within the building there'd be something he could use as a barricade. The air conditioned chill struck him as he went inside.
Further into the chilled building was a room. There was a fridge, plus a cupboard full of tins. The building obviously had at one point been inhabited but was now empty. Where these people were now, Jem didn't know, but at least it was empty of the undead. He sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette; he was too wired up to be hungry at this time. Several minutes passed, then Jem heard footsteps approaching. He clenched his free hand on his gun, ready for whoever, or whatever, it was that had gotten in.
Shadow could not believe it. This kind of thing happened only in movies; low budget, cheap horror flicks that a person watched when they'd arrived back from a night spent on the town and couldn't get to sleep. But it had happened, and it was real. It had been another ordinary day for Shadow; sitting in class, trying not to yawn as she listened to the tutor and took notes. Shadow had spent the previous night in a bar in town with the rest of her class, doing what college students did best; in other words, trying to drink the bar dry. She forced herself to stay awake, and wrote down in shorthand the notes she was being given. This was bound to come up later in the exam.
But then, the peace was shattered. It had happened exactly like in the horror movies; the windows at first had shattered just like the peace, and before anyone could fully grasp what was happening, the room was invaded by the walking dead. Some students were not quick enough; Shadow did not want to think about what had happened to them, and what had nearly happened to her. She'd snatched up books, poor weapons it was true, and had flung them at the invading zombies, hitting them in the head. It had slowed them down long enough for her to be able to pull the door open and escape from the room.
The whole of the teaching block was alive, if that was the right word, with the undead. Shadow cursed as she ran thru the building; she needed a weapon, something she could hold in her hand and use against these monsters. It came to her; the hardware room, where people who were studying hardware learned the physical side of the subject. Shadow peeled off down another corridor til she arrived at the room. She hadn't been the only person with the idea, either; the room was already full of students grabbing at the various saws, knives and tools. Shadow pushed a boy aside to get a serrated saw, and even better, in the tutor's abandoned desk was a confiscated handgun.
Shadow knew that the teaching block was unsafe; there were far too many blind alleys, places where a person could be trapped, so she had to leave it. Maybe a residental area would do; those always had better security than the main part of the building. She smashed a window, cutting her hand slightly as she did so, and crawled out, the weapons at her belt. Shadow gasped as she landed on the ground; she'd almost walked straight into a zombie. She snatched up her saw and slashed at what passed for the creature's face; having repelled it, she ran like the wind towards the residental buildings.
Name: Lizzie Thompson
Age: (Sixteen and up) 18
Personality: (Important) Lizzie is usually happy and bubbly to people, so they like her. She's average-smart, but prefers to act a little dumb in front of others. So she's happy, bubbly, and dumb in front of others, but her real self is calm, collected, and smart. The problem is that she never really really trusts anyone, and it's hard to gain her friendship, although people like her. It'd be hard for her to work in a team, but she will set that aside if she must.
Bio: Lizzie has a normal family. The father of this family is a doctor and the mother is a stay-at-home mom. The father is usually out, which Lizzie's okay with, because when he comes home he usually brings treats for her. Lizzie's mom is also nice but she looks at the world pessimistically, and it has rubbed off on Lizzie a little. They've lived here all their lives, would never move.
Appearance: Dirty blonde curly hair down to her shoulders, her eyes are light brown, she plays sports at school so she's a little athletic, but it's not enough against a fight, just enough to run away from some things
Preferred weapons: Lizzie doesn't know how to use many weapons...But she is pretty good at using spear-like objects. Since she was a kid she's loved to throw the javelin.
Most Hated Monster: She hates zombies, because no matter how much you hit them, they come back. She also hates the Common infected because she hates it when things attack in hordes; it's like ganging.
Ooc: Is this okay? Probably not. >_<
Ooc: Chessie, I can't approve of Layla. Nobody is on the police force at the age of 19 except for Rebecca Chambers, in RE and REmake. She is not approved and I ask that you keep it to your first one.
Ooc: I have to agree with Wolfie; Layla's role is a bit copy-catted. Her personality is fairly original, I think, but you'll have to rethink her background details or just bin her and stick with the Aussie.
Ooc: Interesting how my character got approved. She's probably going to die first. e.o
"Omgsh, Darren's so cuuuute!" The three girls, clad in pink and abercrombie, stood by their teal coloured lockers.
"I know, right, like, he's so HOT! What do you think, Lizzie?"
Lizzie widened her eyes, nodding her head fervently and agreeing with her friends. "Ohemgee, YES! I tooootally dig him."
They seemed satisfied with this, and continued to chat about the new boy who was from Europe. Lizzie found it nice to be around these two; she only had to participate in the conversations with 'oh em gee' and 'totally', and could think privately the rest of the time. The bell to dismiss was about to ring, and then she could go home, practice throwing her javelin around. The sound of their noisy chattering only barely scratched the surface of her mind. And suddenly, she was certain that she heard it, a scream from far away throughout all of the people talking, talking, talking. It alarmed her, but she wasn't one to confide in anyone else that she'd heard it. No one else seemed to notice, though, so she relaxed. Maybe she was just hearing things---
Lizzie guessed not. Everyone turned around to the source of the sound. There was a disgusting, foul-smelling zombie standing above a corpse, the corpse of the person who had just screamed. The other girls backed away, some of them screamed, but Lizzie's atheletic training kicked in. Her legs automatically helped her out of the hallway, out of the building, out of the vicinity.
That was three hours ago. Now Lizzie still doesn't know what's going on, but she understands that there are zombies. The zombies like to attack people. The people who are attacked get infected. The infected become more zombies.
Alright, so this was like a game. And the object of the game was to not be killed. She only had one life, unlike Mario. What joy.
She decided that hiding in a permanent place would be difficult, so she had to find hiding spots that had easy exits, leading her to a high rise building that had a fire escape. So now she was in a room on the second floor, which was nearby the stairs, trying to find a way to create weapons.
Ooc: Is okay? >__<
Ooc: Chessie, Wolfie said that you can NOT have an Australian character. It wouldn't make sense in this RP; all characters HAVE to be American. Please fix it.
Ooc: Sorry I thought I'd edited it but I guess it didn't save, hence I have posted it again i nthe hope it saves this time ^.^
Name: Ryan Braithewait
Personality: Impatient, Abrupt, Intelligent, Determined and by no means about to let himself get killed off
Bio: Nothing special, his mum and dad are both archaeologists, hence he took the same course of career. He skipped several grades, this choice was naturally fully supported by his parents who unfortunately didn’t give him the same encouragement in the social area, so while he did make several friends who were taking the same courses as him he was never popular.
Appearance: Tall, Gangly, Somewhat arkward, black hair, brown eyes and of course he has glasses.
Preferred weapons: Pistol, it’s about all he has and about all he can use at the moment.
Most Hated Monster: Zombies by far, and Chargers
“Bloody hell,” Ryan gritted his teeth, as he realized that none of the things he carried in his backpack besides his pistol would be of any use. But then again, it was hell wasn’t it, there weren’t really any other names for it.
For 16 he was a surprisingly tall and gangly kid with a ruffled mess of jet black hair and had in no way fitted in to anyone’s view of what he should have been, ever really. It didn’t help being an archaeology student. It didn’t help now either because naturally it lead the collection of useless items that he had on him.
He hadn’t really had a choice though, his father had been an archaeologist, as had his mother, he shared the same passion and his parents had fully encouraged him furthering his studies.
Ryan opened his mouth to swear again but shut it as he realized he’d only attract zombies if he made any noise. Instead he leant his head back on the brick wall that lined the alleyway. He was lucky he wasn’t dead already, dead or one of them. Ryan had never had time for horror movies, he didn’t fully understand how the whole zombie thing worked. He’d always been much to interested in books, of course that had merely had him labelled as antisocial. Did he care? Not really although he did love his few friends extremely intensely, not that anything could have gotten him to admit it. Except this, he shoved his glasses fiercley up on his nose and bit back tears. He couldn’t believe he’d seen his fellow students die, what kind of person urged the others to run away instead of stand and fight. Why had Ryan listened to that blonde guy anyway he’d just gone and died like the others.
There was nothing to do now but stay where he was, stay where he was and wait. Who was he kidding though, what was he waiting for…death? Ryan shook his head. No. He wasn’t going to die, not if he could help it, not yet.
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