Snippet #1752909

((Note to all players: Check the OOC periodically for "checkpoint" updates. For now, the 'player objective' for everyone is to link the characters up with at least one other character. :) ))


The first thing that the cab driver saw on a cold and dusky morning in November was a large fur-lined sweater, checkered like a lumberjack and hooded in a tight circle as to fend off the harsh winds that staked their claim on the townspeople. The man in the coat was gaunt and bearded, a haunted look to his eyes that the young driver didn’t care to think about. Any other day he would’ve dropped the poor sucker off, but it was going on three in the morning, and by the looks of his large knapsack, two canteens, and a curiously dirty baseball bat that looked like it could’ve been aluminum at one point hanging off of it had him feeling sorry for the traveler.

Joe had just been back from dropping a few kids off at a bush party, something that had made him smile whimsically, and was nearly twenty minutes out of town when he offered the traveler a ride.

“I don’t have much,” the man had said. Quiet.

“Ride doesn’t cost much,” Joe replied, leaning over to open the passenger side door.

Those were the only words exchanged on the ride.

Joe couldn’t help but glance in the rear-view mirror every now and then at the traveler’s bag. It was a game he often played with himself on the late shift when he was out and about picking up the shadier and seedier of America’s citizens. He tried to identify the people’s personality traits, put a name to a face that he only saw for as long as his hands were on the wheel and his tires were moving forwards. He had gotten quite good at the game. He noticed that there was a small Canadian flag pinned to the man’s coat, he had a second pair of boots tied to his oversized backpack, itself lumpy and uneven. Joe could only guess what was inside of it.

When they pulled into the small, sleepy town, Joe dropped him off in front of the little motel. The man seemed friendly enough, but by the way that he was wincing as he grabbed his gear out of the back seat, the ease of which he handled the baseball bat (which looked a little more red than anything else, now that Joe thought about it) - it all made Joe feel distinctly uncomfortable. Joe accepted the man's fare without a word exchanged, getting a good look at those ice-blue eyes and grizzled beard.

Without a word, Joe drove away, his hands shaking slightly. He had the urge to call his wife. And he didn't know why.

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On the corner in which he was dropped off, The Canadian took a moment to open his layers, reaching a hand in to touch the spot that was causing him so much pain.

A neat little bite mark, oozing blood gently onto his fingers. Warm to the touch.

With a wince, he headed indoors.

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The light was sprinkled with particles as it shone through the living room window, amplified and changed by the cracks and splinters that spread, like a spiderweb, across the glass. Mark Santos had his eye right up to the dusty pane, through the boards and blankets that had been thrown across it. The barricade would hold, as it had for the last day. They had enough food to last a little while longer, but he had to start thinking about rationing.

It had worked like this, the last six days. Find a fortress. Lay low. Scavenge for food. Repeat. It had gone on and on, dragged for days, until he thought that he and Rachel had had enough. Last night, as he listened to her sleep - the only time she made any sounds, anymore - he thought of an idea.

Escape.

His plan was simple. Gather all those he could, any survivors still in the town, and push towards the outskirts of town. He would use the small highway where the groceries were delivered - maybe there was a truck that was crashed, something, anything with food on it. After an extensive resupply, they would head east, and keep walking until they found other cops, government officials... anyone to explain what was going on.

He heard them, sometimes. Crying and screaming, the sound of a desperate gunshot here and there. He even swore once that he heard a wolf howl. Today's mission was to find them, gather them together, and bring them back for planning, explaining.

He put his sunglasses on and turned towards Rachel, his little girl. He bent to one knee, smiling at her. "Hey, Rach. I'm headed out. You know what to do when I leave, right?" He pointed to the hammer and nails on the ground beside the door, placed delicately on a pile of wood scraps he had found on day two, when they had discovered a door couldn't hold in the horde.

At her response, he smiled, placing a hand on her head, mussing her hair slightly. He checked his pistol, hefted his roofing hammer, and walked up the stairs to the second story. It was there that he had built his entrance, safe from the... whatever. Zombies. In order to bypass the barricade, you had to climb on top of an old abandoned fridge, scrabble up the side of the house, and crawl in through a second story window.

The bedroom Mark had to leave through once belonged to a child. He could tell by the pink wallpaper and the abundance of cutesy, large eyed and very creepy stuffed animals. Mark didn't like looking at it for too long, or else he would get incredibly sad, washing over him like a wave. He stepped around the room, careful not to disturb anything, opening the window with a care not to make too much noise.

Noise and light. Things he'd learned quickly would be not-good ideas.

A quick scrabble of shoes on roofing tiles, a thump of the refridgerator smacking against his boots, and the thud of soft grass, and Mark was on the ground. Roofing hammer firmly in gloved grip, he set out into the early morning, the sun peeking out of the treeline and reflecting the glow of his digital watch, proudly bearing the numbers 7:32, with two things on his mind.

Food and rescue.