Forsaken Life (IC)

The sun had only risen fully half an hour ago, its sunny rays doing little to detract from the snow that blanketed the area within and surrounding Silvanos City and the snow in turn did little to detract from its desolation, but the weather was the last thing on Gerrard’s mind as he drove away, not once looking back. It was strange circumstances that had originally found Gerrard Harris in America and it was now more strangeness that found him in the middle of the zombie crisis and to be honest, Gerrard was dealing with it all rather well, in that he wasn’t really dealing with it.

It probably helped that outside of the city there was little to no sign of the crisis, the mostly undisturbed snow blanket offering peace to his troubled mind. Immediately, Gerrard’s eyes zoned in on the area of snow that had been disturbed, his eyes wide as he noticed a sluggish walk imprinted in the snow, heading into a forest. Gerrard looked through his window at the forest, slowing his van but not stopping it, astounded to find a driveway nestled in between the trees. The radio message abruptly started again, but Gerrard took it in as background noise, as the message had played many times over now and he knew it by heart now, indicating his right turn by habit and turning into the driveway to discover that the forest wasn’t a forest at all, but a means to hide the huge driveway and mansion hidden within.

It was with wary eyes that Gerrard scanned the building, frowning at the dead gardens and the derelict look of the place, thinking that if this was someone’s idea of a safe haven, they must be desperate, though he gave silent credit to the giant double doors that looked incredibly sturdy. Driving quickly up the gravelled road to park beside the black Chevrolet already there, though Gerrard couldn’t have begun to guess the make, he switched his engine off, stepping out of his vehicle quickly, moving rapidly to approach the house, wary and ever conscious of the Infected, electronically locking his van as he tried to slide open the door.

The door didn't budge open, making Gerrard frown with frustration - what kind of person sent out a distress call and then locked the door to the place that offered safety. Granted, an electronically locked door granted safety, but only if one could get inside. Slowly, Gerrard raised his fist and banged it against the door three times. "Hello, is anyone there? I got your transmission."

Weston gripped his rifle as he awoke with a jolt. He had been having similar dreams since he left the Marines: The faces of Iraqis had since been replaced with people whom he had known in Tuscum. They all looked up at him with hollow eyes, some with tears falling from the exposed, bloody sockets and others covered in blood with missing limbs or holding dead loved ones. The sounds that escaped their twisted lips took the cacophonous element of wolves tearing into a carcass. They would reach up to him begging, their fingers clawing at the dirt and rocks that separated them from Weston until the their fingernails peeled back and exposed soft skin to been worn away to bleed. His hands were glued to his assault rifle as he stood over them and he couldn't reach down to offer his hand. Sometimes he’d cry with them, his own voice would abandon him and instead mimic the whimpers of an abused dog; other times he’d fall to his knees, in hopes that he could offer his rifle for a child to grab onto so he could pull them out of the trench. But as he'd kneel down and lean forward, he'd be pushed into wriggling grave and sent flinging forward. The glue holding his rifle in place would dissolve and the rifle began to burn. Startled, he’d let go and the rifle would fling from his body as if by it’s own accord. As he fell, the trench became infinitely deeper and the victims that had once been in the trench began to blend into the walls.

He didn’t know how long he had slept until he pulled the sleeping bag from over his head and embraced the sun. He used one gloved hand to wipe his deeply sunken eyes as he braced the other on the side of the deer stand which he had found. In the middle of the woods and abandoned, the deer stand was made out of sturdy wood in the shape of rectangular box big enough for Weston to crawl in. Weston figured it had been abandoned after Fall because it had been spray painted with leaf patterns of browns and gold. He had only been there for a day or two, sleeping as best he could at night and keeping watch in the morning. Every now and then, he’d climb into his pick-up and drive around a bit. He no longer had hope of finding any survivors and had since stopped listening to the radio. His truck was his only friend.

The snow that had gathered into his bunker during the night crunched as he pulled his feet beneath him so that he could position himself to look through the peephole, a modest knot that had been drilled away, on the side of deer stand. He saw his red truck covered in its own white blanket. When he saw nothing peculiar about his surroundings, he rose to his feet. Even with the trees that surrounded him, he had a clear view of several miles in all directions. He gathered his belongings including his food, loaded it into a duffel bag that he had used as a pillow, slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, strapped his gun to his back and made his way down the tree using wooden planks that had been nailed to the trunk. On his feet he quickly made his way to his truck, taking long strides and crouching low.

Once inside, he pulled out a map from his glove compartment. On it, he had marked where ever he found deer stands, gas stations or anything else that would aid in his survival. He had only branched out but 150 miles from where he had started, engulfing himself in the wilderness surrounding Tuscum. He gathered everything that he thought would be remotely useful and had set out on his own, leaving the small town to fend for itself and against itself.

He locked the doors and pulled off the white and gray parka, exposing a brown thermal shirt before starting up the engine. It struggled and whined, Weston’s hoarse voice coaxing it forward.

“That’s my girl,” he cooed as the vehicle purred and vibrated beneath him in victory. He shifted into gear and made his way a well-worn trail heading North.

"The sun is finally rising..." A young, pale female told herself as she sat up in the back seat of her '04 Toyota Tacoma. She rubbed her weary eyes as they adjusted to the amount of white outside the windows... It seemed almost scary. Even the trees of the woods around her were mostly white.. It'd been the third night in a row she had stayed up and the third night in a row she had seen the sun rise. Though she had done it all throughout her life, it was still beautiful... But the past three mornings weren't beautiful like she once thought. The peace she had once known was no more. She sighed and held her head, her cotton-gloved hands giving warmth to her head. She was wrapped in a heavy jacket, blue jeans, detailed cowboy boots, and a heavy blanket she had brought from home. In the background, she heard nothing. Her car wasn't running for she was afraid to run the battery down. Not even the hated sounds of the infected could be heard.

She leaned into the front seat and turned the keys that stayed in the ignition one knot till the battery was on. The radio came to life and warm air blew gently from the AC. She smiled slightly. Always had she hated the winter and cold weather. Though, she hated hot weather as well. She pulled the blanket off of her and grabbed a half-full bag Macadamia nut cookies from the pocket on the back of the driver's side seat. She ate a couple as she listened to the continuous radio broadcast that played. She had to find that mansion that was talked about. It had to be around somewhere...

She closed the bag of cookies and crawled into the driver's seat. She turned the AC temperature from warm to hot and turned the keys again. The engine roared unnecessarily loud as it came to life. She flinched. "Stupid move Sam..." she muttered as she could hear the haunting moans and groans of several Infected waking from their slumber. She turned her head quickly to the right as 5 Infected came slinking out of the dense trees. She slumped in her seat. "Shit..." She had managed to avoid them thus far, but apparently she'd have to face them some time... "Wait... You have an approximately 2 ton car..." She looked at the 5 zombies and grinned evilly.

She slammed her foot on the gas, causing the red truck to rocket forward. She quickly spun the steering wheel as she slammed on the brakes. She was now facing the 5 Infected that were now standing in the middle of the street. "Take this bitches!" She slammed her foot on the gas once again and sped toward the 5 creatures. She slammed into them, full force, causing them to either fly forward or, somehow, fly onto the hood and crack the windshield slightly as they tumbled over the hood of the truck and behind it. Sam was breathing heavily as she skillfully turned the Tacoma back around. She scanned the area. The 5 Infected that had come out of the woods were lying on the ground, unmoving. "I believe I'm done here..." Samantha resolved as she placed her foot on the gas pedal and drove away.