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The Crawl » Places

Places in The Crawl

This is a list of locations that can be found in The Crawl.


All Places

Post-Apocalyptic Earth

4 posts · 4 characters present · last post 2014-07-17 17:49:40 »

         The day while sliding right out of his fingers, it seemed. Decklan scratched at his face absently before shoving a dumpster away from the walls of a building, into an alleyway. Nothing. He sighed audibly, rubbing his sunburned neck. It had been weeks since he was last in a city, but this one seemed to be devoid of all useful things. Even a rope could be useful. He could feel the wear of wandering and the bite of loneliness as he kept walking down the sidewalk, kicking the occasional pile of refuse out of the way.

Decklan tightened the straps of his bag across his chest, bending down to sift through a few wooden boxes. Nothing. He stood up on creaking knees and let his shoulders sag. Though his vision was impaired, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his good eye. He didn't alter his behavior, and kept walking down the street slowly, scanning the ground for anything interesting. However, he now listened very closely - catching a step here, a scuff there, and he was certain after a few minutes that he was being followed. Decklan kept his head down, pulling the machete from his hips slowly, as if he needed it to hack brambles out of his way. He wasn't well-armed, but he was strong, even dehydrated and tired.

The wanderer was momentarily distracted from the pursue, by a painted sign on the canopy above a doorway across the street. He looked over the exterior of the building - it was large, and very tall, but the windows on the bottom floor were boarded up sufficiently, and large red x's patterned the wood. He pounded a fist on the board, letting the thumping sound through the entire floor.

Silence.

After a few moments without a vicious response, Decklan shoved the dull blade of the machete into the jam of the door, ripping off chunks of board and splinters of wood. He landed a solid push from his heel right above the doorjam and the entryway gave with a groan, and slid open. He couldn't read the painted sign above the door, and even if he could, he wouldn't know what the words meant.

The lower floor was mostly empty, and dark without the light from the windows. Decklan let his eyes adjust to the darkness, but stayed within the ray of light shed by the doorway. Stools and chairs littered the floor, and a long counter expanded the back of the room. Behind it, he felt a quiver in his stomach - bottles. Hundreds of bottles. Briefly he thought of drinking himself to death, before pulling the torch from his belt and shaking it quickly to get a better look.

The bar counter was filthy, and so were the bottles, but there they were, unbroken. Cleaner alcohol was useful medically, and it would be a godsend to purge the infection likely growing on his face. To his left, a lower-set area with broken tables, a few splintered chairs, and old plastic electronics. Things were broken from rot, not from intrusion, it appeared. It was rare to find an undisturbed location, even more so in a city. To his right were double doors. The right wing of the room would wait - Decklan skirted the counter and slipped a few small bottles of clear alcohol into his bag, along with what he could salvage behind the counter - cutlery mostly. He resurfaced from the counter and gently, hesitantly pushed his way into the right wing of the floor.

Having never seen a restaurant or kitchen in his life, he was puzzled momentarily by the grimy metal appliances. He didn't let the deduction of his whereabouts linger long, and Decklan was immediately rummaging through drawers and cabinets. In all, he found a large steak knife, a whetting rod, and a can opener. Canned food was almost useless now, and so he left the canopener behind. The knife and whetting rod were as good to find as the alcohol.

It wasn't until Decklan was approaching the doorway that he recalled the tail he'd gained while scavenging, and he hesitated to return outside.

You cannot tell exactly where you are.

Inner-City New York

1 posts · 0 characters present · last post 2014-07-06 02:42:34 »

         Dawn's bag was called Frankenstein; her mother had named it so. Such a strange name, Dawn always thought, and a funny one too. She had no idea what such a name meant or where it had come from. When asked, Mother seemed not to know where the name came from either but said that it had something to do with being made from many different and mismatching parts. That certainly fit. Dawn's mother had owned the bag as a girl long before she was ever a mother, and at that time it had been a nice backpack, clean and neat and a solid deep purple, with pockets of various size and sturdy straps which supported much weight with little strain on the back. But the decades had worn it down just the same as the earth had been worn down. Countless tears had ripped through the fabric, and Mother had had no choice but to cover the holes with patches of any cloth available. Here a red patch, there a green, this one cut from floral curtains, that one ripped from Mother's own shirt. Anything to keep together the bag which held every possession they owned. Little of the original fabric remained visible, and what could be seen was no longer purple but an ugly, murky grey. Dirt and dust became permanently embedded in the strands. One strap had been completely detached, and what was left of the remaining hung on feebly by poorly made stitches.

The bag was called Frankenstein, and it was dirty and torn and broken just like Dawn. It was her most precious thing.

She had the strap hanging by her neck to keep both arms free as she stretched for the next ledge. The scalding brick of the building burned her hands with each moment that passed. With every hand hold she could feel the bursting of old blisters and the formation of new, and her muscles ached in protest both from the heat and from the strain of pulling herself up yet another foot. But she could not stop or rest, not even for a moment. The sun was setting, and it was a 10 story drop to the broken asphalt below.

She grabbed a hold of the next ledge and felt the brick crumble into dust beneath her hand. Suddenly she was slipping, the air rushing up beneath her and the ground rapidly approaching. A screech like that of a small animal escaped from her throat. She reached out blindly, grasping for a hold of something, anything. A heart-stopping despair ran through her being. She never let herself fall. Before now, anyway.

Halfway down to what was sure to be her final moment, Dawn's hand finally impacted with a broken window still, a sharp shard of glass cutting into her palm. Fighting against instinct she tightened her grip around the impalement. The fall was broken, causing the entirety of her body weight to hank down sharply on a single arm. It was only from her cry of pain that she was unable to hear the pop as the bone dislocated from her shoulder joint. Her Frankenstein bag pulled down on her throat, choking her, stealing away her breath if only for a moment. She gasped. She gasped for air and for relief that she still had air to gasp for. Adrenaline fed into her veins and allowed the pain to fade, but she knew the effect was temporary. Slowly, surely, she began to lightly swing from side to side. Each swing to the right she reached her uninjured arm up, grasping for the window sill. More glass scattered the sill and cut into flesh when she finally made contact. She could feel the warm blood spreading between the fingers of both hands, making her grasp slippery, and with the slightest movement the cuts in her palms grew deeper. The dislocated shoulder made her left arm useless, forcing her to rely on just one to pull her up and over the window sill, finally rolling limply into the room inside.

It was a suffocating kind of darkness in this room. The last hints of day's light refracted through shards of glass and spilled out on the floor beside her, highlighting a circle of deep brown blood crusted into the carpet. Dawn could see no more. Her breath become caught in her throat as she fumbled in the Frankenstein bag for her flashlight, a temperamental nearly dead thing which gave light only at its convenience and a dim narrow ray at that. Batteries were so hard to come by. Fortunately it saw fit to work at this moment, and Dawn cascaded the weak light across the room she now found herself in.

It appeared to be some kind of one room apartment. Chairs and a table lay broken on their sides, one chair completely shattered as though having been thrown against the wall. Clothing cluttered the floor as well as papers which crinkled and fluttered with every breeze through the window. The thrown open drawers of both a dresser and desk suggested that the place had been hastily fled, or perhaps raided by bandits, or both. The curtain waving peacefully beside Dawn from the window railing was ripped from top to bottom in three long, claw-like tears. Everything was filled with silence. The door to the outside hallway was closed shut, but the closet door across from her sat ajar. Dawn's flashlight was unable to penetrate the darkness within. She held her breath, waiting to hear the familiar deep growl, or to see a pair of bright eyes flash open. But after several moments of nothing happening she accepted that she was alone.

Dawn evaluated her situation. She had cried out not once, but two times in her fall. Bandits, thieves, cannibals... Beasts... anyone or anything nearby would know where she is. But as dangerous as it was to stay in this place, it was more dangerous to leave. Night was here, and everyone knew it was suicide to wander in the city at night. And with her shoulder... Dawn bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut as pain washed from her shoulder and through her arm and body. The cuts on her hands she could handle, but a dislocated shoulder made her useless for climbing, and climbing was the best way she knew to survive. Even if she survived the night, what was she to do when the morning came? How was she to search for supplies, so scarce and running lower with each passing day? Hopelessness sunk like a pit in her stomach.

Dawn wrapped her hands the best she could and fashioned a lousy makeshift sling from a ripped pillowcase on the bed for her shoulder. It was not enough. She had no idea how to do about putting the shoulder back in place, and there was nothing to do for the pain. She allowed herself a small sip of water from the bottle of water she was preserving; she had found it just today, nearly empty, beneath a pile of gravel, the plastic of the bottle melted and deformed from the heat and leeking chemicals into the water , and the water so hot it burned her tongue. But her thirst was so dire she would drink anything.

With nothing left to do, she held the Frankenstein bag to her chest and waited, waiting for something and nothing to happen. Tears formed in her eyes.

"Mom," she whispered into the dark. "Mommy, I need you... I'm scared. Please, I need you. I don't want to die..."

But she was, of course, completely and utterly alone.

The city towers over you like headstones of a cemetery. The shadows from the buildings engulf the little light that penetrates the spaces between towers.

The Wilds

1 posts · 1 characters present · last post 2014-07-02 21:10:21 »

         It's been so long since mother told me what the stars looked like. A shimmering blanket wrapped around our world, she said. At night, past the coin of the moon, you could just look up, and there they'd be, shining down and illuminating the earth's face. She told me about a band that wrapped around the sky, like a belt, but I don't remember the name. Now, you can't even go outside after the sun is gone. She said it was our fault, but I still don't know what she means.

The orange sun scalded the earth like a wave, sending shimmers across the broken, crumbling asphalt. The yellow lines down the middle of the road had worn away and brushed off over the years, and an old sedan sat, slanted, on the edge of the barrier, rusting. The tires had been stolen, the windows broken, and the interior gutted. A few birds fluttered about inside, enjoying the shade from the boiling eye in the sky. The heat was intense in the afternoon, and more so in the empty, overgrown fields. In the distance, the highway lead straight to the city, like a river running into nettles. The northbound highway was littered with wreckage - barricades, old signs, cars. It was nearly silent, save for the small mutterings of small animals and the wind in a few sparse trees. The grass was knee-high, overtaking houses and old cars and forcing itself through sidewalks and pavement alike. The wind carried over it like ripples on an ocean. The heat was blistering as the sun baked the earth, seeming to suck the moisture out of the air.

Decklan didn't take solace in the silence.

He was jogging - moving quickly was the best way to stay alive. A light satchel, roughed up and torn in places, bounced on his back as he made his way through the suburb. Old houses stared at him with dead, windowless eyes, and he could feel the gaze of hungry beasts hiding from the sun's sweltering burn. His own skin was deeply freckled and tanned from countless days. His hair was cropped, shaggy and greasy, plastered to his head. One half shaven, the other trailing in short, thick braids that bounced on his shoulder. His lips were cracked and dry, parched and dehydrated. His clothing was simple rags, baring skin to the unyeilding heat of the sun. The clatter of metal on asphalt behind him made him pick up his pace - it was likely a bird taking off, or a car finally rusting to pieces, but he didn't stop to look back. His boots ground into the crumbling road, the treads wearing out over the last few months of moving constantly. Cities were dangerous, and he knew better, but he had no choice.

Buildings always held beasts, hiding from the sun's grimace in the dark. Cities held people - looters, rapers, theives, bandits, or cannibals. But he was so desperate, so low on supplies. So thirsty.

Another rustle from the brush, only a moment after the clatter. The brunette produced from his sagging leather belt a long icepick and a slightly rusted, hardly sharp machete. He rounded to the noise, only to come face-to-face with a coyote.

Over the decades, large animals had become so rare, in some places, they were fables. The coyote was slender, and so skinny that its ribs stuck out like spines from it's chest. Fur was falling out in patches, and it's eyes were milky and rolling. Mouth open, frothing slightly, and nose dryer than the pavement. It was snarling and rolling back and forth, rabid and starved. The omega stumbled out of the brush, before sprinting at Decklan. The man leapt aside, nearly losing his footing. A bite from the animal could end his life in a few short hours. He swung outward with the machete, landing a long, deep gash down the animal's thigh. It didn't even respond, only turned, limping, to lunge at him with both forepaws out. His feet failed him, and he fell under the beast's lashing head. Filthy claws ripped open the right side of his face, and he let out a yelping cry. The flesh ripped aside as the grimy claws made their way off of his face, and the coyote reached down to snap at his throat. Despite the blood pooling in his fading vision, Decklan drove the icepick through the beast's eye, killing it. The furry mass twitched and seized as he shoved the coyote off of him and staggered to his feet, one hand cupping the right side of his face, now mutilated.

He was groaning, dropping his bag to the ground and blindly fishing through it for precious cloth strips to keep his face together until he would stop for the night. Around and around his head. He had no water to rinse the wound with. Decklan padded scraps of fabric onto the eye socket, in between layers of bandaging, and only stopped when the moist warmth stopped seeping through. He sobbed dryly, shallow breaths escaping his cracking lips. A migraine was splitting his head. He sat back on his heels, holding the bag between his knees, wiping blood from his left eye. his vision was dark, and the sun was setting fast.

It was about half an hour before he could force himself to stand, and pull the icepick from the beast's head. He had to find shelter, or face death with the setting sun.

...

It was late afternoon by the time Decklan was immersed in the cement jungle of the city. He knew how to take cover for the night, and was looking for shelter. He had sped up his jogging until he was glistening with sweat, sore, and aching all over from tremors.

The traveler finally felt his knees tremble from exhaustion, and his head spun. He tore the plywood off the nearest entryway and pushed the door open with his shoulder, out of breath. A boarded-up building with red spray painting usually was empty. He closed the busted door behind himself, shaking the torch from his belt to produce light. The corner store was empty - if it hadn't eben, something likely would have charged to meet him. With the remains of trembling strength he shoved the heavy metal shelving units in front of the door, effectively barricading himself in. The windows had been boarded up years before. Although the wood had rotten away in some spots, some previous tenant had covered the holes with black plastic. He slumped down behind the counter, next to a rusted cash register. He slid his backpack onto his lap, and passed out from the dehydration.

You have left the city.

The Warehouse

it is cooler inside the shade of the warehouse. There are a few piles of refuse, but it isn't that bad.