Forum adverts like this one are shown to any user who is not logged in. Join us by filling out a tiny 3 field form and you will get your own, free, dakka user account which gives a good range of benefits to you: No adverts like this in the forums anymore. Times and dates in your local timezone. Full tracking of what you have read so you can skip to your first unread post, easily see what has changed since you last logged in, and easily see what is new at a glance. Email notifications for threads you want to watch closely. Being a part of the oldest wargaming community on the net. If you are already a member then feel free to login now.

Once again my fellow dakkites, it is time for another apoc roleplay thread. Following the same template as before where you post what happnes to your characters
(and anybody who is travelling with them) as they attempt to surive and unravel the mystery of the Unknown Apocalypse.
This chapter will be taking place exclusively in New Jersey. Here's a link for those unfamiliar with this state. My group will be located in Newton. Link provided.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_jersey

Character Template
Name:
Age:
Height:
Weight:
Skills:
Equipment:
Distinguising Marks:
Last Seen:

Name: Dave Mondello
Age: 15
Height: 5' 6"
Weight: 130 pounds.
Skills: Skilled climber, decent marksmen, had two years of scholastic wrestling, and four of freestyle and Greco-Roman wrestling, competant in
hand to hand self defense, well versed in several submission holds, pain compliance techniques, compression holds, and joint locks, and Wing Chun techniques.
Equipment: H&K P2000, H&K USP, KA-BAR, Bayonet, two small knives, Lighter, ten pipe bombs, Lupara sawn off, Remington 870, Sledge Hammer
Distinguishing Marks: Three bullet scars in left pectoral, two larger bullet wound in lower right side. Burns on left bicep.
Last Seen: travelling alongside Tom and Larry, two other, much taller, survivors.

I'll start.

Dave couldn't believe it. He was back in Jersey. Back in Newton. He turned and faced Tom and Larry.

"One of the nice places that you'll find in Jersey, believe it or not." He spoke. He turned back, and walked down the hill leading into Newton.

As they followed after him, Dave remembered some of the places his aunt had taken him when he'd visited. He turned off the highway and walked into a strip mall.
He saw the hobby store, and took up his hammer. He spun, gathering speed, and slammed the sledge as hard as he could into the big plate windows in front.
It shattered on impact, littering the sidewalk and store entrance. He vaulted inside, and opened the doors for the other to come in.

He set his bag with his ammo and other equipment down on a table that had game cards spread out over it.

He saw the corpse of the people who had been in here before th others. He quickly grabbed one and hauled it behind a counter.
They saw the other three before he could get to them.

"I didn't want ya to see that." He whispered.

They turned, dry heaving. He dragged them behind the counter with the other.

"Make yourseves at home. We move out tommorow morning." They set their bags down, and looked at the things in the store.

Books, comics, cards, rc's, models, action figures, paintings, trains, everything you expected to find in a hobby shop.

Dave found long, strong wooden dowels in the back. They would make a better cane then the one he had now.

Dave took one, and began carving it.

Larry and Tom were discussing things while absent mindedly playing a card game neither understood.

Dave heard the gun shots first. He rolled as bullets tore where his stomach had been scant seconds later.

Larry and Tom acted a split second later. They flipped the table they were using, and made a decent barricade. But neither of them was near their guns.

Dave pulled his USP and fired five times. He could see their more powerful weapons lying by the counter where he hid the bodies.

But he was trapped in an aisle full of strange plastic figures that bore the titles "Warhammer" and "Warhammer 40,000", fifteen yards away.
And to get to them, he would be fully exposed by the big windows. He looked over at Tom and Larry.

"LAR! CATCH!" Dave yelled. He tossed the USP, and Larry caught it. He popped up, and fired three more shots. Dave moved as fast as he could.

It wasn't fast enough. A round tore into his stomach, right in his old wound. He dropped, momentum still carrying him towards the packs. another round clipped the back of his
thigh, and he crumpled. But he was hidden now by the walls, and began crawling, weakly, to the bags. It took him one minute to reach them.

Larry was changing mags when he saw them. People looking haggard and scared, screaming and singing. Dave reached the guns. He pulled his shotgun and a pipe bomb out.

The lighter flicked open. The fuse lit. Dave pulled himself over the lip of the window, and tossed it. It sailed 25 yards, landing on a decrepit car.
He fell back. The explosion touched off the small cars gas tank, and a medium sized fire ball erupted in the air.

Dave pulled the .22 that Tom used alongside his shotgun. He crawled back to the overturned table, and handed the weapons to his companions.
The old wound had built up scar tissue and wasn't bleeding as much as it did the first time.
He tied his belt around his stomach, took back his USp, and fired at the assilants. They turned tail and ran, shouting out a familiar word.

Sunoco.

Dave passed out shortly thereafter. Whatever happened to Larry and Tom, he couldn't help them.

Tom was shaking heavily, holding the cold gun made him feel sick. He sighed, and looked back over the table. Larry was applying pressure to Dave’s wounds and simultaneously sticking his fingers into Larry’s stomach, searching for the bullet.

"Hey Larry, Dave keeps muttering about a bloke called Steve in his sleep, whose he talking about, his bum buddy or summit?" Tom mumbled, before he peered back over the table, checking that their assailants were still gone. Larry looked up, looked down at Dave, then back up to Tom. He sighed heavily and put down his makeshift surgical tools, wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled out from Dave’s backpack a dusty, and, tom noted, blood caked gasmask.

"Steve was a bloke we travelled with for a bit. He was pretty nice, but Dave shivved him in the stomach in our first encounter. We tried to get him back on his feet, took him to a hospital, you know, we saw he would be a good asset to our group, plus I think Dave felt guilty. Either way, he fought like a bear, and, and I was a good friend to him, for my part. However, it turned out before...this" he motioned to the apocalypse wasteland outside “he had been on meds, for scitz, and I think he had some mental issues. Either way, he went mad, and tried to kill us. Dunno why. We drugged him up, tried to keep him doped so he wouldn’t cause us harm, but he just....he just ran out in front a snipers bullet. It didn’t kill him, and he bled to death just feet away from Dave. He aint never forgiven himself for that." Larry looked back down at the prone form of his friend, and set about redressing the wounds.

"Oh" Tom was shocked.

"Yeah. He talked about someone as well. A girl called Keira. She was his nurse, or psychiatrist, or something. Anyway, Dave might not admit it, but I think he's still looking for her, as if finding her will make things better. I dunno, it’s all fethed up."

Tom stared at his feet. He felt foolish, slightly embarrassed and stupid. "Sorry for asking."

"Don’t mention it to Dave and you'll be fine"

OOC: Post something tommorow morning, busy with Reach atm.

Dave was drifting in a dream state. He was playing the encounter over and over.

The Cult of Sunoco. was what they had roared as they retreated. The Great God of the Cult of Sunoco will punish you all!

Dave's body twitched and juddered, and he moaned a few times, but he didn't come to. They pulled his body into a back room, the employees lounge.

Larry found a thin hobby knife in a plastic case. He tore it open, and began his gruesome work. He cut back the skin to reveal the wound underneath. He used a pair of needle nose pliers to grasp the
round that had taken Dave. He settled the skin back, and repeated the trick Dave had taught him. He took one of Tom's .22 shells, sliced the cap off, and sprinkled the gunpowder over the skin.

He held Dave's lighter gingerly. He touched it off next to the gunpowder.

In that instant, Dave woke. In his minds eye, he was covered in fire.
Tom slammed the butt of his rifle down on Dave's forehead. He fell back, and lay still, breathing shallowly.

Larry grabbed the C8. He checked the mag, and took two more from his pack.

'There's a sewng store just up the plaza. I'm gonna try and find some clothe to bind his stomach. Stay here, keep watch, and if he wakes up.... hit im again."

Dave saw things while passed out. He saw the same people who had attacked them, saw them worshipping, as a cult does.

He saw their preacher, dressed in a parody of a a holy Catholic Father, sing, dance, and shake a hose from a gas pump around. Towards the end of his sermon, he revealed two
sacrifaces. Dave jolted forward in his sleep, recognition flashing through his brain.

His aunt, his uncle.

The preacher doused them in oil, and lit them.

The vision did not end there. The preacher took a knife, and cut bits from the charred corpses, The flesh was passed out. The congregation devoured it.
They did not stop still. The preacher filled small shot glasses with the oil form the pump. The congregation drink it like it was the Blood of Christ.

They continued their rites, like so many primitive religons, ending the service by furiously making love.

Dave jolted awake. He could see smoke through the back window. It wasn't a nightmare.

He curled into a ball on his side, away from Tom, and let his tears roll from his eyes. He had seen three people he cared about die now.

The pain from the makeshift operation took it's toll, and he passed blissfully into uncouncisness.

Tom saw thick acrid smoke pouring into the building, and paused from his work. He had found a couple of batman action figures and had been amusing himself by dripping plastic glue on their faces and watching their features fuse together.

“Haha! I have you now batman! You cannot escape my Fuserlazer! There is nothing you can do! Yes, try and turn away I-”

Tom noticed the smoke coming in from the back window, and froze. He could make out voices in the distance. Picking himself up from the floor, he quickly glanced at the prone form of Dave, and picked up the shotgun. Tom crept slowly into the back room, and towards the window, carefully stepping over the strewn hobby merchandise to prevent noise that could alert anyone to his presence. He got to the window, and risked a glance round. What he saw made him stagger back in shock and revulsion. There was, lying in the middle of the street, a pair of charred, mutilated corpses, impaled on stakes, smoking away. He looked back through the window, but he couldn’t see anyone. The longer he stared at the bodies, the more a uncontrollable desire overtook his body. He glanced back into the shop, before vaulting out of the window, and sprinting over to the deceased pair. When he got to them, he pulled them off the spikes and, with some difficulty, managed to haul them over to the roadside, where he placed them down as respectably as possible, even taking the time to lay a couple of wild flowers on their chests.

“Im not a religious person, but I hope to god you were dead before they did…this to you”

A twig snapped.

Tom had let his guard down, and now he was feeling he was going to regret it. Turning slowly, his eyes met a large congregation of people. About twenty or so men and women, all splattered with blood, their clothes tattered and torn. Their hair matted. Their eyes staring at him hungrily. They were holding a collection of sharp instruments, heavy looking bludgeons, and a couple of barbed nets.

“Sunoco has given us another.”

Tom gritted his teeth, and felt anger rise up inside him. Raw, unforgiving rage. He had never felt anger like this before. These were murderers, and cannibals, and they had killed these two people, just for their religion.

The group started to surround him, and soon Tom was cornered. But he had the shotty. He looked down at it, then back to the mob. A tall, lean man pushed his way to the front. He was dressed in the guise of a priest, and he stank of blood and fuel. The man smiled at him, a horrible, savage smile.

“You wish to put those two to peace? You will join them soon enough, Sunoco wills it.”

Tom then grinned like a sociopath, and pumped the shotgun.
“Yeah? You wanna try it Priesty boy? I’ve had it with religion. Always bangin’ on about the end of the world, and when it finally comes, you all go native. Now, if you like Sunoco so much, ill send you to greet him shall I?”

Tom pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He had forgot to bring shells with him, he thought with a groan. The priest, who had looked for a second at the gun with terror, smiled savagely, and cried “Take him!”

The cultists swarmed. Tom roared like man with nothing left to lose, and threw himself at them with a crazed abandon, using the shotty as a club. He caught a man with a rusted nail punched through his nose on the chin, and the man staggered back, screaming in pain. He got another on the nose, and felt it crack underneath the guns butt. But their was way too many of them. He felt a pair of scissors enter his arm, but he fought on. He felt his ribs crack under savage beatings from metal bars. He cried with pain, but he fought on. A sharpened metal spike stabbed into his stomach, and he realised he was impaled, just like the victims. This sent him into even more of a rage. He beat his assailant in the face repeatedly, until the mans face resembled batman’s melted features. Tom staggered, a bullet hitting him in the shoulder blade, and fell. The crowd consumed him, in a flurry of beating iron, and lumps of concrete.

Larry had been walking back from the shops, when he saw the attack. He had managed to reload his C8 and managed to fire a couple of shots off into the crazed combat, and the crowd scattered. As they ran, they screamed “Sunoco!”, and they laughed and cackled. Four bodies were left on the road. Larry sprinted up, and found three were Cultists. One had a bullet wound through its eye socket, and an exit hole in the back of his skull. Another had a knife wound in its chest, probably an accidental victim of the frenzy. The third cultist had a shotgun embedded in its head. Tom was still alive, his body covered in dozens of cuts, and multitudes of bruises. A few deep wounds bled profusely, and on his shoulder blade a bullet wound smoked.

“Oops.”

Tom twitched, and opened his one good eye; his other was half closed behind a puffy cheek. Clambering to his feet slowly, with Larry’s help, he spat a tooth out onto the floor.
He grinned shakily, blood dribbling out pf his mouth, and they staggered back to the shop. Dave came round as Tom collapsed into a chair.

“Wh-what the f*ck happened out there??” He growled when he noticed the seriousness of the injuries.

“The locals seem to have it in for us, Dave, why did we come here again?”

Got me GCSEs coming up I will post when possible but I'm pretty busy currently. :(

Dave took the shotgun back from Tom. It was battered, and the stock had chipped, but it would keep working if he cleaned it out properly.

They looked at Dave as he wrapped the cloth around his injured stomach.

"Mad Max." Dave said.

"What?" Tom and Larry questioned.

"In Mad Max, oil and gas was more valuable then any amount of human life, even a few droplets of it. By their view, human life must be what gets them their oil."

Larry and Tom nodded, seeming to think the train of thought was logical.

"I saw them in a vision last night. I saw all of their beliefs, all their brutal rites and passages, all of what they are and what they believe."

"Are you insane!" Larry yelled out.

"No more so then them out their." Dave replied, deadpan.

"Those people Tom put to rest, where my aunt and uncle."

Dave shook with barely controlled fury. Yet more people he had cared about, slaughtered while he lay helpless.

Dave heard movement from outside in the front of the store. The faintest tinkling of glass. The Cult had returned.

"I need you to trust me with your lives. I need you to follow every word I say, as I say it. "

Tom and Larry slowly looked at each other. They nodded.

"We trust you. You saved my life, and I know from what you've done in the past twenty four hours, you have us at heart." Tom answered.

"Then just do as they say. Don't try anything stupid, it'll just f**k the plan I have up."

Tom and Larry looked at each otehr quizically. They heard the sound of crackling glass a few seconds later.

"CRAP CRAP CRAP!!!" Larry yelled, reaching for the C8. Dave drew his USP in one fluid motion. He flicked the safety off.

"Trust me. When have I been wrong before?" Dave asked.

Larry and Tom stood dumbfounded. Had Dave betrayed them?

"Ever get f**ked by life guys? Happens to me all the time." Dave replied. The cultists ran in.

They saw Dave holding the others at gun point.

They rounded them all up, stripping them off weapons.

They tied their hands behind their backs, and tied black cloth over their eyes.

Dave was glad his were covered. It would've given his plan away.

They marched for twenty minutes, before they were shoved into a shed of some sort, their bonds cut.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!!" Larry yelled, charging at him in the small room.

Dave dropped to his knees, pleading for Larry to be reasonable.

His hand thundered right into Larry's balls.

He dropped without a noise, tears streaming from his face.

Tom watched without interest.

What did he mean, "Get f**ked by life?"

Dave kicked Larry in the stomach to make him stay down.

"I have a plan numbnuts. You have to trust me. I can get rid of these pyscho feths, and we won't be pursued either. Just trust me."

They sat in different corners, not looking at each other.

Dave spoke first. He told what he ahd seen in his vision, and part of his plan.

Larry cursed him out for being a fool.
Tom said nothing.

Indeed he did, as he has had the crap beaten out of him, and is right now questioning the point of it all.

Look out for him, he might become reluctant to help >.>

Hey GES, sorry 'bout lack of posting. I got exams coming up this week, next week, and so on and so forth. Its pretty painful ><

It's kay, I've been having a bit of ahectic time tooo, not enough time to work on the rp. Gonna try an dget more players as well, so it doesn't get stale.

Name: Kurt Arlen

Age: 71 (born 13th April 1939).

Height: 5'11''.

Weight: 11 stone.

Skills: Vietnam vet, having elected to return to the conflict throughout the conflict (serving actively there from the age of 21 (1960) to close of the conflict) therefore highly skilled in jungle warfare. Also slightly crazy and a loner.

Has been living as a drifter, doing odd manual jobs for most of his life after returning from Vietnam, so is good with his hands and remains very fit, even at his advanced age.

Equipment: Army surplus clothes, old but quite neat. Many army patches and badges. Battered but well maintained old pick up truck. Old colt .45 pistol, old M16 and hunting knife.

Distinguishing Marks: Heavily scared across the left shoulder (result of napalm splatter), along with several bullet, knife and other scars all over his body.

Last Seen: New Jersey Pinelands National Reserve, Medford Lakes.



Kurt straightened from where he had been tying the trip wire between the trees, carefully listening to what the wind told him. It was nothing. Damn, Charlie could mess with your head. No way those pajama wearing lil' feths were going to get to him! Wait... not Charlie... that was a different war and many decades ago. Was it really that long? Kurt shook his head as he tried to straighten up where he was. Damn, it was getting harder to focus on what was real again. After coming back from over there Kurt had been really messed up for a long time - unable to control the flashbacks, unable to shake the craving for life and death struggle, unable to cope with the tedium of civilian life. He had drifted from town to town, county to county, state to state until he had managed to regain at least some of his sanity. Even then he had continued to drift, to live from day to day, avoided friendships and everything else temporary in this world.

And here he was again, in the jungle, hunting and in turn being hunted by Charlie... no, forest; it was a forest, not the jungle; and these freaks were not the Vietcong, but some psychos, left overs of whatever the hell had happened to the world. Damn it! Must be age catching up... though the end of the world hadn't come as a total shock, it had taken Kurt some time to convince himself it was not some fethed up flash back to 'Nam.

He carefully covered the tie point and then retraced his steps through the forest to the hidden entrance of his hive near the shore of the lake - covering his tracks as only someone who had spent years living in the jungle could; carefully pulling the cover back into place, before moving along the shallow covered trench which wound across the forest floor to his actual hive a couple of hundred meters away and settled in to wait. A little trick he had picked up from Charlie - never be where your enemies expect you to be.

These cult fethers were going to regret messing with one Kurt Arlen...

Is this a new character Silver? Because you're character from last round is still alive.

Yeah, I've not really been following anything, plus I had no idea what the hell was going on, so best to start afresh

^ Also, added a bit of story to my post ^

Might pick up that character later on, may not.

Well, you can pick up your old character if you want, and if you feel like it, coulp rp the both of them.

Dave took his belt off, feeling the cloth material. He wrapped two loops around each hand.
It had taken a few days to work out the scheduales of when they brought in food and water. They did it while they slept. The first few times they ahd a guard to amke sure they weren't playing possum.
But as time wore on, they had grown over confident.

He heard the door of the shed open. The cultist walked in, carrying a tray with both hands. he waited for him to set it down before he sprang. He got up, quickly but quietly, and slipped the belt
under the young man's chin, and pulled tight, pressing down with all of his force. He pulled it tight, and twisted his hands in circles ot tighten the belt.

The young man struggled for two minutes. Dave slowly set his body on the ground. He looted the body for weaponry. He found a revolver and a four inch blade. He slit the young mans throat when he saw
the chest slowly rise and fall.

Dave pulled him into a corner.

He mussed his hair up, and got out of the shed.

As he let the door slowly swing closed, Dave slowly took stock of his surrondings. It was a high school his aunt had lived behind before the SHTF. He knew the basic layout, and knew how to get back to the hobby shop, where he had stashed his C8. He slinked as stealthily as possible past Cultists who talked idly of how they knew what Sunoco, or Shell, or whatever Gas Company they were praying to, was all seeing
and all powerful. Dave knew that to defeat them he wouldn't need to kill them, as he had the Nazis. He would need to strike at the core of their faith.

He could see lights and hear chanting and moaning from a little bit off. He looked through the trees that lined the road, and saw the Preacher.

He was on a flat bed truck that had been converted into a stage for him to spout his bull.

Dave rushed by as quickly as possible, not wanting to be seen. But he did glean useful information from the preacher.

"And on the High Holy Day, the Day when Sunoco is msot wrathful, we shall sacriface these intorlopers in his most beloved fashion. In two weeks time, we shall summon the lord Abrams from his
resting place of Piccatiny, and use his most blessed voice that brings death to those from afar, and Sunoco will be pleased!"

DAve cursed under his breath. With his luck, Abrams probaly stood for M1 Abrams Main Battle Tank. Added to the fact that Piccatiny, the Army arsenal his dad worked at had been mentioned,
it did not look good. He didn't have any weapon to take a tank down with.

He hoped that his companion were faring better.

A horn sounded in the darkness, waking Kurt from his light doze. He heard the sound of dogs barking in the distance and the calls of their handlers.

The first cultist died instantly - his chest caved in and punctured as the whip trap, triggered by his passage through the trip wire, snaked round from where it had been concealed - the sharpened spikes at its tip driven deep into his heart and lungs.

Two cultists and their dogs were caught when the ground they were walking over gave way beneath them and they fell screaming into a spike lined pit.

All through the forest the screams of dying and injured cultists rang out as they stumbled into cunningly laid traps - their feet getting trapped in panji pits, their bodies being crushed and skewered by spike boards, mace traps and whip traps. Gunshots rang out as cultists either fired wildly into the trees, or when they triggered cartridge traps.

Of the 50 or so cultists who had been sent in, only a handful made it to the lakeside. They were easy prey as they stumbled into Kurt's carefully prepared fire lines.

Kurt smiled in the darkness, his face smudged with soot and mud, his woodland overalls blending in perfectly with his surroundings. He had followed a group of survivors as they crawled back to their staging area and watched as their furious leader had raved at their failure before dispatching more men into the woods to capture the troublemaker.

By now Kurt had made a slow circuit of the cultists camp, placing a small number of his "special" treats ready for the next stage of his plan. Slinking into the dark root system of an upturned tree, he took careful aim down the sights of his rifle and waited.

He was not waiting long before the first of his packages detonated - a simple leaf wrapped gunpowder charge with a cigarette timer - "the simple ways were always the best" Kurt thought to himself as he fired his first shot, blasting a not so neat hole through the head of what he had termed "the self important feth hole who wants to mess with me". The second charge detonated on the far side of the clearing and Kurt brought down his second target - a big brute of a man carrying some kind of squad support weapon. The fether.

The remaining cultists opened fire randomly into the woods, thinking that they were being attacked from all sides.

Kurt killed another 3 cultists before moving positions - leaning up against a tree some way round the clearing and brought down a couple more cultists. He didn't have many charges left to go off and there were still about 10 cultists left in their camp, and more surely on their way back from the attack after all the noise that had been going on. "Time to stop fannying around" though Kurt, moving in to finish off the job...

The returning cultists were greeted by a scene of carnage, their leader lay dead, his head a gore filled mess spead over the ground, their comrads simmilarly blood drenched and lifeless, laying in a thick carpet of spent bullet cases. The campsite was lit by several small fires out in the forest where wild gunfire and the small explosive pouches had set off the dry undergrowth.

They warily filed into the clearing, sweeping their guns into the flickering darkness around them. One of the party slung his rifle and bent down to pick up the machine gun dropped by one of the leaders inner circle guards. There was a click as the primed grenade hidden underneath it was released. "FFFFFUUUUUUU...." the cultist screamed, wide eyed, before he was blown across the clearing, bits of him spraying the men around him, several of them also catching red hot shards of grenade as well as steaming chunks of cultist.

Several of the cultists decided it was time to get the hell out of there and raced to a number of the pick up trucks parked around the clearing, wrenching open the doors and fumbling for the keys. Several of them disappeared - transformed into a red mist as the grenades triggered inside the cabs. One of them exploded and burst into flames as the rewired spark plugs ignited the fuel in the tank.

By now the clearing was in chaos, some of the cultists ran into the forest, while others lay huddled on the floor. Others opened fire on the forest in panic, shredding trees and plants but little else.

The fire was spreading quickly now, the fuel from the slashed fuel tanks of the trucks Kurt had not been able to booby-trap was catching fire, engulfing the whole clearing in flames. The screams of the cultists caught in the blaze could be heard even from several miles away. Kurt smiled in satisfaction as he heard them, pulling off the last of the camouflage from his truck, parked off a small disused service track.

He climbed in the cab and patted the pocket containing the map he had found on the leaders body which showed where the rest of these cultists had holed up, smiling a wicked smile. "Gonna need some more hardware for this job" Kurt thought to himself as he slowly drove along the rutted track, making his way out of the forest.

Dave limped as fats as possible. He had gotten in a short firefight with some cultists earlier. A round had grazed the side of his knee, and it threw his balance to hell.

He was moving far and fast, better then with the others. He didn't know the exact directions to Picatinny Arsenal, but he had a general idea. He limped in that way.

He could hear whopping from behind him, heard the sound of the truck accelerating as it drew near. The shots from their weapons hit the ground five feet behind him. He threw as much
speed on as he could, but his left leg dragged uselessly behind him.
He knew the town though. The old folks home his Grandmother had stayed at when she was sick was just around the corner.
If he could just round it, he was safe. He could take cover in the hospital, make them chase after him in it.
He could pick them off one by one. He threw his arm back behind him and fired recklessly with the C8. He hoped he managed to even wing one of the pursuers. he was jsut scant feet from the corner now.

A round passed through the back of his thigh, and Dave saw himself crumple to the ground. He rolled over the C8 in both hands now.
He fired without aiming, spraying bullets in all directions. The rounds hit the trucks wind shield.

He heard the glass shattered, and fought his urge to smile. He kept on firing, hoping that he would get another lucky one in.
He saw the truck veer to the side, and the shots that surely would have killed him missed by mere inches.

Dave rolled back over, and pushed himself up. He used the C8 as a crutch, hobbling to the corner. He could hear the cultists scream and shout as they ran to catch up. He turned the corner.
He saw the upper parking deck, and the hill that lead to a bigger, lower level. He leaned against the railing of the edge of the top deck.

The first shot sent flecks of concrete flying into his amr, peppering it with small cuts. He knew he wouldn't have enough time to make it into the front entrance or go down the ramp. He leaned back farther, trying to guess the height of the drop, see if there was another way. There wasn't.
Dave tossed the gun. He layed his arms flat against the concrete retainng wall. His shoulders were flat with the wall now.

He leaned back.
He pushed off with his legs. gripping the edge of the wall, and pushing off.

His upped body cleared first. The rest followed in a lazy flip. Some fifteen feet, he fell down.
Dave came down on his left ankle, heard a snap crack and a wet popping sound, like a shoe pulled from mud, in his knee.
Dave fell to the side, over come with pain.

A cultist looked over the side of the wall. A few trotted down the ramp. They kicked Dave in the stomach.
He body didn't move of it's own will. It barely moved at all when they kicked it.

A cultist brought his rifle down on his knee joint, and the leg spasmed out at an even more awkward angle then it already was at.
They spat on his broken, unbreathing body, and left.

"Waste of fething time. Not even a sacriface for Sunoco." One murmered. The sentiment was greed.

Dave woke some hours later, and cried out. He rolled to releive the pressure on his leg, where it had been trapped underneath his other leg.
Dave crawled, inch by inch, to get to the ramp. It took him nearly an hour.

It was distance of fifteen feet. He was crying and breathing hard. He lay still for three hours, waiting for the throbbing in his leg to pass.
He crawled up the ramp next.

It was two hours when he reached the top.
It was twenty feet.

Rain began to fall, thick, heavy sheets of it.
Dave looked at the sky.

"You don't ever give me a f**king break do you!" He screamed. His voice broke, and he lay on his stomach.

He was full of rage and humiliation at being left utterly powerless. He crawled to a concrete embankment ten feet away. it took a half an hour.
He sat up, and lay against the wall. He looked up at the sky.

David awoke. Not Dave, David. The voice inside his head, who had egged him on when he was about to quit. Well, Dave was gone.
The differences between them were sometimes subtle, sometimes enormous.

One of those was that DAve had emreged as the pyschological trauma of finding his parents, and seemingly, everyone else, dead.

David used the wall to help steady himself. He skipped practically, never letting his left leg touch the ground.
The entrance fell open as David slammed into it bodily. He fell onto his right side.

"Sonuvabitch." David whispered, grtting his teeth and grinding them together.
He crawled behind the entrance desk, and looked at the map of the hospital.

David looked at the sky once again, exasperated.
"You really are a dick sometimes, know that?" he muttered.

David leaned against the wall for support. He limped towards the medical ward, knowing full well how hard it woul dbe to set his own injury.

He heard the click of a gun being cocked, and stopped.

"What the feth do you want?" David saw the body, dressed in scrubs.

'Oh thank God." David whispered, before he passed out, falling into the figures arms.

Tom was running again. Whenever he was running, life seemed to be clearer, easier. The horror that was unfolding around him blurred away into a stream of colour and light. Tom ducked, and a fraction of a second later a rocket propelled grenade screeched past, leaving a boiling contrail in its wake, that melted the hairs on the back of his neck. The missile slammed into a nearby tree, exploding in a shower of burning leaves. It was glorious. Leaping suddenly, he cleared a ditch, which, at a second glance, had scattered corpses of cultists; impaled upon bloody stakes. Tom didn’t question this, if it had happened it was invariably meant to be. He heard something to his left, and through him self sideways instinctively, where he had been a second ago, now there was a log, that had seemingly dropped from the sky. Tom sat their panting, staring with shock at the trap that could have easily killed him. A cultist suddenly came into view, sprinting straight at him, a baseball bat gripped firmly in his hands. There was a whipping twang! That split the air in half, and a fraction of a second later, the cultist was sliced in half by a monofilament wire. Blood fountained upwards, as the legs crumpled. Tom clambered to his feet, and surveyed the scene around him. What he hadn’t noticed in his flight, he noticed now. There were dead cultists everywhere. What he mistook for a root bursting from the ground, was a severed arm. A large rock; a caved in skull, a pile of refuse; someone’s entrails. It would have sickened him to the core, were it not for the adrenaline pumping through his body. He realised, with a start he was in what essentially was a minefield. Tom sighed, and began to climb a nearby pine tree. Booby traps probably aren’t going to be in the tree’s he reasoned. He was, of course, wrong. He only noticed the wire after he’d tripped it. Sighing again he awaited his fate. The trip wire had been attached to a flame trigger, which, with the tree soaked in paraffin, made for a horrible, horrible accident.

The tree exploded.

The spade bit into the sandy earth over and over. The dirt piled neatly beside the hole gradually grew in size as the hole went deeper and deeper. Finally after about an hours solid digging, Kurt's spade struck the metal cover of the submerged concrete shelter. He smiled as he cleared the hatch and pried off the corroded lock.

Jim Flinn had told him about this stash during his 5th tour - his families "anti-commie" doomsday stash. They wouldn't need it now - they seemed to have vanished along with most of the population when whatever happened, happened.

He quickly checked his surroundings before turning on his torch and descending into the vault below him. The first 10 metres was a long sloping tunnel, ringed with hand holds. The light filtering in from the hole he had dug quickly faded until it was just the light from his torch which illuminated the space. At 15 metres Kurt stepped into a small antechamber; a large metal door blocked his way, the small keypad recessed into the wall provided access when Kurt tapped in the number Jim had provided him with when his last few drops of blood were spilling out onto the jungle floor.

Kurt pulled the door open and stepped through into a large vault lined floor to ceiling with shelving. Each packed with neatly labeled boxes of rations, anti-radiation medication, freeze dried rations, weapons, ammunition, explosives, electronics and everything else that would be required to restart the American race and defend it from the Russians...

David's head rolled. The drugs were mighty powerful stuff. He knew he should be fighting them right now, but the warm fuzzy feeling in his veins was too good to ignore.
He felt some drool out of the corner of his mouth, ignored it. The morphine was still good. He couldn't feel much of anything. His leg was numb, even though the stranger
was working on it. He was twisting the ankle, setting the bone in a cast. He could feel a slight, dull ache, as though he had dropped something on his toe.

The wheelchair was comfy too. The cracked plastic seat supported his tired, sore, aching body, making it all that much harder to resist the morhine's suggestions of sleep.
His heavy eyelids closed. His head fell back, and his tongue snaked it's way down his throat.

David violently shook himself awake. He was lying in a hospital bed, the starched sheets scratching his skin. His foot was suspeneded above him, the cast making it look like somethign strange that looked like it belonged
on a suit of armor. The man walked in.

"How're you doing?"

"Tired."

"That's expected. Your leg was pretty messed up. You should be able to walk on it again in a week though." He replied.

He stepped closer, revealing himself. His face was badly cut up on the left cheek.

"I need to walk now." David replied, urgency visible in his face.

"You can't." The man raised his hand, and touched an IV David hadn't seen. He injected some morphine in it, and chuckled slightly.

Dave tried to pull himself up, fight off the drugs. He fell back, the high too good to resist.

A thing twitched on the forest floor. Its horribly burnt flesh still steamed from where the molten paraffin had washed over it. Despite its injuries, the thing was very much still alive. The charred skin cracked from the movement, and blood seeped out of them. The thing, pulled at his burnt clothes, and found them crumble to dust in his hands. He stared at them very seriously for a second, before he pulled himself to his feet. He fell back down. Tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes. The thing was very much human, and he was crying. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t run. Life seemed pointless.
But something within him, did not let him give up. He began to drag himself across the leaf mould that carpeted the forest, presently, he found himself at the edge of a sparkling lake, His cracked lips split into a grim smile, as if finding something funny about his situation. Clambering shakily to his feet once again, the boy staggered to the waters edge, and began to swim. The boy became recognisable, as filth and oil washed off his body, and the moss that had clung persistently to his body slipped off in the cool water. Soon, he was swimming naked, his body, which still retained much of its skin, glistening in the dusk.

Tom eventually paddled back to the shore. Yawning stiffly, he examined his now clean body. His entire left side of his body was badly burnt, a raw, red and brown mess, with strips of peeling skin hanging limply from his shuddering muscles. He was never going to look the same again. His probing fingers reached down, but contracted instantly from the sudden pain he felt below. He summoned the courage to look between his legs. He almost cried with relief. They were still very much whole. Next his fingers reached up to his face, but he found his face had not been spared, after he realised he couldn’t feel anything on one side of his head. He fell back and rested on the warm sand crying fitfully, before drifting into a painful sleep.

Name: Elric 'Fletcher' Bielski
Age: 24
Physical Characteristics/Abilities:6"1 Green eyes, shoulder length brown hair, thick stubble, scarring above left eye.
Guitarist, lock-picker, adept stick fighter, general knowledge.
History: Born in Detroit, Michigan. Family killed in fire apart from older sister Rosa at age 2. Raised in orphanage until age 16. Left for Boston in 2008.
After APOC travelled south with guitar singing to groups of survivors for scraps of food. Crippled left leg two months ago, limps south to New Orleans to search for Rosa.



The dull pain continued in his thigh, but at least it reassured him that he was still alive.
Fletcher leaned against a lamp post, his grey duster sweeping along the ground and his .44 hung loosely at his side.
The tapping of his crutches on the concrete was enough to create a beat, and he limped in time to it.
The sun was beating down on the wastelands, and sweat dripped onto his dirty red bandana.
The antique guitar case slapped against his back, and the makeshift spear jabbed against his ass, but he was happy.
He had passed the rusting sign an hour ago along the highway, the one that told him he he had crossed into New Jersey.
After the hellhole that had once been the great New York City, he had made it. Only two more state lines to go...

Name: Nicholas
Age:15
Height:5'3"
Weight:175 lbs
Skills: A proficient sniper, hunting, Parkour,first aid
Equipment: silencer, first aid kit, bag of gunpowder Kevlar police vest, auto pistol, Barret sniper rifle, ammunition for both weapons, high ammunition clips (you know the pistol ammunition clips that stick out of the bottom)
Distinguishing Marks:deep blue eyes, raven black hair,a wiry build
if this is open i will post some rp tomorrow

Character Template
Name: Markus
Age: 32
Height: 5.6ft
Weight: 190 lbs
Skills: Survivalist, History Fanatic, Engineer
Equipment: First aid kit, 2 torches, Glock Pistol with 10 clips of ammo, 3 cigarette lighters, 7 batteries, Survival Backpack, Wire cutter, Spanner, Stone hammer, 1 toolkit with various nuts & bolts, 8 spanners,6 screwdrivers, 6 Tnt Sticks, Various rations, 1 survival Knife, 7 boxes of tinder, fishing bait, 3 land mines
Distinguising Marks: long Beard, Scar on the right eye, 3 fingers missing from the left hand, wears a cowboy had with a white feather on it, dress in old worn out suit with a vest on top & a Pancho on to of that
Last Seen: museum at the time of apocalypse

He stopped for a minute, taking on a little of the water he had left. Then he looked out and saw the muzzle flashes.
Feth. He dropped into prone position and pulled out a pair of binoculars. Fires, corpses, and a f*ckload of Sunocos. Sacred Feth.
They were gathering in the centre of the town and chanting as they mounted someone onto a banner.
A girl. Still alive, judging by the pleading and screaming. She looked vaguely familiar, dyed orange hair, the glint of a lip ring.
He wasn't going to let this happen. She was important to someone or something. He could feel it.

He pulled himself onto his feet and grabbed his crutches, lifting himself up. He winced at the pain in his leg, but began to click forward into town, the tapping the countdown before the explosion. The fight would begin. He would survive.