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Snippet #2372012

located in Quarantine Zone - America, a part of Blindsight, one of the many universes on RPG.

Quarantine Zone - America

Electricity works. Water flows when needed. You can even access the internet to a degree... But none of that matters when the infected never rest. The Quarantine Zone -America... where the American dream rots slowly.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Haytham Collins Character Portrait: Maximus Collins Character Portrait: Lauren Collins Character Portrait: Briar Lorris Character Portrait: Allison Nonelle
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OOC: And, I forgot to hit the Area 2 button. Darn. I'll do that next time, bear with me.

“No one really understands, do they? Everyone always thinks they’ll be such a badass when disaster strikes. They daydream about stopping the gunman that enters a school building; they imagine fighting when everyone else cowers. They imagine being the god-damn hero. Everyone always wants to be the hero. They think they’ll be cool when disaster strikes. They think they’ll be the savior when Armageddon or apocalypse or whatever the hell you call it comes striding in, head held high like the bastard it is. They think they’ll be the one to stand up to it. That they’ll be the one to put him in his place and save the day.

“Everyone wants to be the fucking hero. They all want to be superman. The badass. The savior. Not for the reward of helping people, but for the high it brings. The eyes looking up to you, the praise, the ego boost. Everything. Everybody wants to be the hero. But, in truth, few actually live up to their fantasies. The ones that are heroes, well, they don’t sit there and fantasize about it. They know that bein’ a hero isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It doesn’t live up to the hype. It isn’t really a high-paying job. Yet it’s the dream job… people just don’t understand, do they? They don’t understand how hard it is. How much responsibility it is. How easy it is to fail. They just…they don’t understand. I don’t even think I understand. Not fully. Hey—are you listening, or are you just gonna sit there and drool?”


“I know you’re in there somewhere. Go on, hun, say something.”

The creature only looked up at her, a seemingly exasperated demeanor taking over its rotten features. At least, that’s what it looked like to Allison. Who knows if they could feel anything beyond gluttonous desire, in reality. But, you can’t crush her efforts, right? This small hope at reform was all she had at the moment. Sighing, she leaned back on the roof of the old fire station and listened to the zombie’s vain attempts at reaching her. It was getting smarter, indefinitely, trying new routes to climb up to the roof, but it still failed each and every time. Allison had saw to that with her slicking the side of the building and, if worse comes to worse, with her 5 foot 6 inch long copper pipe. Never underestimate a chick with a stick. It was pretty easy to wap them on the head—maybe knock off an arm or something—if they ever got too close.

“Let’s try something…simpler. What’s your name, hun? I’m Allison,” she paused briefly, waiting for an answer she knew wouldn’t come, “Y’know, you look like a Benjamin to me. Why don’t I call you Ben Franklin? That’s a good name. An intelligent name. And, you always want to be one of the smart ones. The smart ones always cover their assess. It’s much better to be smart than strong.”

Evidently, after nearly two days of trying, the damned thing finally gave up and hobbled off. “Oh, are you leaving?” Called Allison, genuinely sad to have lost her patient. Ben was making some progress, she thought. She was getting several different noises, instead of the usual moans. She got growls, too. That was great process. Maybe the speech part of the brain was starting to re-form neurological connections or something? Maybe…? It was a long shot, but whatever kept the girl sane.

Sitting up, she took a spray can from her bag. There wasn’t anything in her bag, no gun, no food, just a little water, some empty bottles, a few assorted cans, trash, and little devices she rigged up. As much as it went against societal norms, she really did live day-to-day. There was no stockpiling. Everything she stockpiled just got re-gifted to some lost soul. It was what it was. Hell, even cats and stray dogs had joined her entourage in the past. Some still found and followed her every once in a while.

The zombie was still only a few feet away. It was slow, as most her “patients” were. Carefully sitting up on the roof, she sprayed the back of his head with the neon green paint, marking him like all the others she encountered. It didn’t like the gesture, obviously, but was soon on its way half an hour later. Once Ben Franklin had officially left her company, she scanned the surrounding street.

It WAS the fire station, wasn’t it? Hell, it’d be just like her to read it wrong and go to the wrong place and then be completely lost and let the guy down. What a failure, sometimes. Damn it all.

What did that text say? It said to go to a station and wait for a phone call. Well, there’s the first problem. Her phone almost NEVER gets service. So, she should probably be inside by a landline. Then, id all she can recall is the word “station,” there’s a million places she could narrow it down to. Fire station. Train station. Imagination station. One of the six thousand gas stations—god, she hadn’t even thought about gas stations. What was it? Shell? BP? 7-eleven? Kroger, Wal-Mart, or Target? Meijer? There were so many freakin’ gas stations! Then, it could be stationary—so a hallmark store? Isn’t there a central station somewhere? That was it. She was in the wrong place.

Great. Just great. Peachy. Lovely. Fantastic. Oh, damnation. Now she’d have to find this mysterious station. Fuck this scavenger hunt!


I can’t tell you how long she wandered around for. It was the gas stations she tried first, with no luck—of course, and then she more or less gave up and just walked aimlessly.

Eventually, though, it hit her like a dampened towel. God, did it sting. It was so fucking OBVIOUS. The police station. Obviously. Jeez.

Finally finding her way to the mentioned building, she paused at the doors, listening intently. It was quiet, but she could make out the sound of a door closing inside. A door closing? Closing? If she knew one thing about zombies, it was this: they don’t pick up after themselves. Thus, they do not close doors. They just don’t do it. So, either Ben Franklin gained a few million brain cells or there were people in there. PEOPLE. God, people. Civilians. Individuals. Humanoid creatures that didn’t enjoy devouring flesh. Well…at least, she assumed they didn’t.

Briefly, she considered shifting in reverse and hauling her ass out of there, to avoid contacting more people to disappoint, but she didn’t. Why she didn’t, she’ll never know. But, the zombie-whisperer managed a hand on the cold metallic knob, turning it gingerly like the cap of a 2 liter ready to pop. No—even more careful than that. She made almost no noise as she forced herself into the building, but it wasn’t really an attempt at stealth. Anyone with god-damn eyes would be able to see her. Sure, she wasn’t a rocket scientist—but she knew that much. It was okay, though, right? She was unarmed—well, besides her pipe—obviously not a threat of any kind, if they don’t find her pipe intimidating, and a naturally sweet-looking girl. If these people were sane, it would all be okay.

Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t worried about her safety. Nope—she was worried about their safety. People do scary, stupid shit when they’re frightened or surprised. Allison didn’t want to be the cause of any stupid moves on their part. Hell, people have accidentally shot themselves and stuff. You never underestimate how pathetically lame humans can be. Never. They’re all idiots, one way or another.

When she did happen to enter n her a-little-too-quiet-manner, it was just in time to catch the end of a sentence.

“—anyone else is coming?”

Deducing the prior part of the inquiry—at least, what she assumed it was—she raised a hand in a motionless wave. There were two younger boys, teenagers…probably underclassmen, and maybe brothers? They looked alike. Then there was an older women sitting on a desk—well, not really older per se, maybe 2 or 3 years older than Allison. Finally, there was a brute looking guy…probably, er…seemingly mimicking Elvis Presley. For not having seen too many individuals this past month, she sure found an interesting lot. Brother Bear, Koda, Glamour, and Elvis; if you want to go by her actual thoughts. Now, the trick was not to call them that to their faces. Good luck with that one, Ally.

Clearing her throat and speaking softly, “Actually, yeah… I didn’t know there were still people alive. It’s been awhile... I guess I’m a little late to the party, then? Sorry,” Offering a sweet smile, but remaining by the door, she watched the cast of this odd reality series with some level of interest and healthy caution. Only a little caution, though—if they didn’t do anything stupid in the first 15 seconds, she could relax. "Uh, did the guy call, or am I in the wrong station again?"