A Twisted Revolution (IC - DISCONTINUED!)

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Post Apocalypse

It's been fifty years since the end of the war. Cities -- metropolises -- were ultimately destroyed. Obliterated. Billions of people died. And those lucky enough to live were only doomed to suffer the radiation that followed after. People left over from the devastation now suffered with scarring and diseases, and a grief that wrenched their souls apart.

But simply living with the ruin was not enough. No, it seemed that they hadn't suffered enough just by living through the horrendous slaughter of their brothers and sisters, parents and friends alike. Something else just had to surface and make their lives worse.

Creatures surfaced five years ago. It's uncertain what they are. Some look human. Others like animals. They're grotesque. Dangerous. Poisonous. They can kill without thought or reason. They suffer, just as the survivors do -- but they appease their pain by inflicting it upon others. Their bile and blood are lethal. Their attacks strong and dangerous. They can wipe out anyone unaware and unarmed in a single strike.

No knows what they are, where they really came from, or their purpose. But in a fight for survival, no one really cares for the details.

They just want to live. And make it through this Hellhole they themselves created.



It was late afternoon, nearing the hour of sunset. Zophe McAllister whistled low as he walked the deserted streets of the city. Once a metropolis, it was now covered in rubble and debris and what remains of corpses that could be identified. Buildings that had survived the worldwide attack now just barely held themselves together by their skeleton, the walls and roofs threatening to (and sometimes actually doing so) fall off like flesh and meat decayed and rotting on a damaged body.

Lifting his hand, he pushed his goggles up to his forehead and squinted up at one of the buildings ahead. Not all buildings were decimated. And were even resurrected. However, the true state of these places were far beyond sad. What buildings actually stood -- homes, apartment complexes, stores -- were slapped together with scraps found off the street by the various survivors that were forced to live this disgusting life.

Grinning a little, Zophe quickened his pace. He, like any other person in this era, was a homeless, unfortunate soul. Like any smart person, he didn't stay in one place too often, maybe for a couple weeks before picking up and moving again. It was dangerous to linger in one spot, though there were many who still did. People with a sense of desperation often clumped together in groups and stayed on the upper levels of buildings, thinking they were safe from the carnage below. But on the contrary, by staying like that, helpless and huddled together in their shelters, they were practically begging to be killed.

Zophe braced the barrel of his shotgun against his shoulder, lightly tapping the side of the handle with his finger as he kicked an empty can down the street. Weapons were hard to come by. It wasn't like it used to be, where there were at least five to ten weapons in every other household. Now, it seemed like only a few people carried any real weapon of sorts. The rest of society just picked up and used whatever they could find.

And it was a wonder why, right? Why should someone have desperate need for a weapon?

Pausing before the doorway, he gave a glance around himself before tapping the door with the back of his fist. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed it open. He was about to enter when all of a sudden something came charging at him. "Shit!"

He scrambled to the side, stumbling and twisting around so he that he could back up quickly. Something large, decaying, dark and looking similarly to a large, mature, discolored, mutated Great Dane with elongated fangs and a missing eye, came tumbling out of the doorway. It panted as any other dog would, drooling at the mouth. But this was not just any drool. No human, no owner of such an animal would ever want that slobber on their face or skin. It was tinged purple and green, a puke-ish color that looked absolutely revolting.

Zophe swallowed. "Uh... hi, doggie. Nice doggie." He slowly leveled his shotgun.

The "dog" looked at him, as if curious about what he was doing. Then, without warning, it charged forward again, mouth agape and snarling. It looked like it had every intention to eat him. Zophe yiped and pulled the trigger on instinct. He missed, only nicking the beast in the flank.

"Holy sh--!!" He dodged to the side, pushing away from the wall and stumbling out into the street. Twisting around clumsily, he nearly fell as he brought his shotgun up. Cocking the barrel, he leveled it again, this time giving himself a moment to aim, and fired. On instinct, his eyes closed when he knew he'd hit his mark this time. He could hear the body flopping down. Dead.

Grimacing, Zophe peaked one eye open and glanced down before him. Seeing the mess he'd made, he made a distressed sound at the back of his throat before he quickly turned around and walked away, patting himself down and brushing off anything that might've... flown and hit him.

"Oh, disgusting..." he muttered to himself, shuddering as he shook his leg to get a piece off.

This was why people carried weapons now. Not because they were collectors items. Not because they were cool. Not because they were mementos from war -- though some probably were. It was because they needed them. Because of things like that.

Zophe abruptly stopped when he suddenly heard growling over to his right. There, at the end of the street, peeking out from between two half destroyed buildings, was another of them -- the creatures that had risen five years ago for unknown reasons. Zophe stood stock still as he stared at it.

"Oh Jesus..." He was heavily debating whether he should just run or not.

Humanity was at war with creatures they didn't understand. Creatures that looked hauntingly similar to their own kind as well as the animals that once roamed the earth before the apocalypse. With only so much left of the earth that survived the destruction, it was a wonder if they would ever survive this new environment, this new world they themselves created.

Zophe swallowed thickly. He really didn't want to fire his gun again.

Ciel strode down the street, her jaw thrust into the air, a gun dangling from her hand with such an air of indifference that it almost seemed it was there for decoration. She didn't take any real notice of her surroundings- kind of pointless, seeing how everything looked the same, and the only thoughts that managed to drift vaguely through her head was whether she needed to cut her hair again- she hacked it off every few months to keep it managable- and where she was going to sleep for the night.

In all honesty, she looked like she didn't give a damn. Sure, the world had ended and society lay in ruins- but Ciel Edwards pushed on, walking through the streets of a crumbled city like she was the baddest bitch around, and she damn well knew it.

Of course, she wasn't always the baddest bitch around, hence the gun.

A cigarette dangled from her other hand, the pinky of which was hooked onto the strap of a tattered messenger bag, and she lifted it to her mouth every so often, her stained fingertips with the gnawed on nails wrapping around the handrolled paper.

The street was empty, a thought that managed to enter her mind somehow before she heard the faint sound of dogs growling.

There was, in her mind, two options- go find the source of the noise, and blow it's head off, if need be, or keep walking and hope to whatever God hadn't been blown to hell with the rest of the world that whatever it was stayed away from her.

Her choice was, of course, obvious, since she was one of the baddest bitches around.

Aiden had been walking for some time now. He had his golden locket in one hand, and his pistol in the other. There wasent a single sound except for his and his dog Storm's footsteps. He put hung the locket by his neck and pet Storm, but then the Lab started to bark frantically.

"Storm! you dont wanna alert the creatures!" Aiden whispered. The dog seemed to hear him, and the bark lowered to a whine. Then a tall girl with a nasty looking gun rounded the corner, about to shoot storm. Damn, the creatures must've heard Storm, he thought, for he has yet to meet another survivor. Aiden aimed his gun with two hands and said "Ah, great.If they keep on coming im gonna need some more ammo." But he didnt shoot. Not yet, anyway.

"Put your damn gun down," said Ciel levelly, glaring at the person before her. "I really don't want to have to shoot you."

The threat was, in some ways, valid, although she seemed to be blatantly overlooking the fact that he, too, had a gun.

The cigarette moved to her mouth, and she let it dangle from her lips, one hand holding one gun and the other pulling another out of some concealed place.

"That your dog?" she asked guardedly, nodding her head towards the black Lab prancing around, not caring that two people were waving guns at each other above its head.

Actually, she didn't much care if it was his dog or not, though she figured it probably was. She was trying to get a feel for him, to see if he was likely to try anything stupid.

Aiden was so suprised that he dropped his gun and stared open mouthed at the fellow human.

"Y-you can talk?? I havent met another survivor yet...and yes, this is my dog," Aiden picked up his pistol and put it in it's holster.

The creature, whatever it was -- Zophe couldn't really see it properly at this distance and angle -- slowly crept out as if to attack him. But suddenly, it stopped and tilted its head as if listening for something. Zophe didn't know what it was, but he hoped it would distract the monster from him. Of course, to his luck, it didn't. It just returned its attention back to him, snarling and spitting.

Zophe's lips pursed as he stared at it warily. He slowly shifted to the side, hoping he could just shuffle away quietly. But just as soon as it learned he was trying to escape, it charged at him. Why, why why did they always have to run? Zophe immediately turned on his heel. Maybe if he pretended, he could just think the massive beast roaring after him was... a car or something. Like a truck from the old days.

Except, this truck had fangs and its gut roiled with poisonous bile and he sure as heck did not want to get hit by it. "Hoooooly Shiiiiiii---" he exclaimed as he dashed down the street, opposite of the monster. He had the inkling to scream -- maybe that was adrenaline talking -- but he didn't, keeping tight-lipped as he darted around a corner and kept going.

He could hear it, the creature was at his heels, just a dozen or so feet behind him. Zophe nearly tripped over some scattered trash as he hurdled over a spilled trashcan. His slip nearly got his head ripped off as he stumbled. Twisting around, he swung his shotgun and smacked the beast in the muzzle. It gave a startled yowl, rearing back a bit.

This gave him enough time to push forward and run anew. He tried to lose it around another corner, but to his dismay, he'd turned down a street where there were more people. Two, in fact, plus... a dog? Zophe didn't have time to question. He just yelled at them, "Hey! Run! I'm being chased!"

True to his words, the beast came skidding around the corner. It paused when it saw new victims to eat as well, before charging forward again. Zophe glanced back to see it come after him, the closest of them all. He inwardly cursed and kept running, hoping he could find some place to hide. He reeeeally didn't want to shot another of these wretched things again.

Jael kicked a piece of debris, causing it to fly and it what was left of the glass on the window. Her soft face was etched with irritation and annoyance. Slender hands reached for one of the numerous pockets of her cargo pants, pulling out a beat up pack of cigarettes and within that pack was an equally, if not more, beat up purple Bic lighter. She brought a slightly bent smoke to her lips, not missing a beat as she lit it and inhaled deeply. There was no way in hell she was going to fix this place up again. She chewed her lip in between her inhales, it was like she had a God damned bounty on her head.

These creatured must have just left... she noted as she looked to the windows, steaming blood was dripping from glass to wood, burning whatever it touched. The smell was horrid as well. Jael shook her head as she made her way through the mess, picking up things that could be salvaged; with a sigh of aggrivation she hoisted her lean form onto the counter. She pushed her hair back behind her pierced ears as she finished off the cigarette, putting it out on the bottom of her boot and tossing the butt into the junk of what used to be her shop.

This definately was not her week, hell everything had gone to shit so it wasn't really anyones week....year...years. She pulled the pack out once again, bringing another to her lips and lighting it in the same fashion, her thin brows furrowed as yelling caught her attention. It was quite a distance away, so she couldn't make out what elactly was being yelled. With an overdramatic sigh she shoved off the counter top, making her way through the mess once again and out onto the street. With her pack back in her pocket along with her lighter she took one gun from it's holister at her hip. From there seh began to walk towards the noise, which was probably drawing more attention that it was meant to.

What the... Aiden heard the screams and saw a man running from one of the creatures. He grabbed his machete with one hand, and his pistol with the other. Bang, the..thing...went limp and died. Storm went over to the dead body and circled it, as if it might jump back up and harm his master.

"Storm, come back. It's dead. And if its not, then i should get a better gun," Aiden went over to the man. "You okay? Wow, i cant believe there are more survivors..."

“Life, my friend, is, at its very core, appropriation still,” the man said with a thick Russian accent whilst Alexander pried at the hinges of the door. They were heavily rusted to the point that they were sealed shut, effectively locking the door. Though Alexander certainly did not look like the man for the job, his Russian compatriot was in a poor state as well. Both men were thin and decaying, neither had a full head of hair, and both were visibly missing a great deal of their teeth. Alexander gave a bemused smirk backwards, all the while sweat dripping down his brow.

“You know, your ancestors fought to overthrow the regime that believed so vehemently in Nietzsche’s works,” Alexander commented. The Russian was quirky but well educated, crude and yet civil. He was a good companion to have around most of the time, for he kept the spirits high. He called himself Dimitri, but never surrendered a family name. Alexander continued, “It’s sort of funny to hear you spouting them out as if they’ve been in your blood for centuries.”

“My friend, my friend, you are mistaken. What the Nazis followed was a distortion of the true teachings of Nietzsche, a mere shadow of his true brilliance. Hitler did not truly appropriate, had he done so we would be speaking in German right now,” Dimitri said as he kept careful eye on the hallway. In his hands an old pump-action shotgun, 12-gauge, rested at the ready in case anything decided it had claim on the apartment. Throughout the conversation a pair of leather-clad hands kept the weapon steady, covering both possible routes they could be assaulted from.

“Perhaps it would be best the Nazis won, if that’s the case,” Alexander grunted out as the top hinge finally popped off the door with a metallic ringing. He then moved back and raised his foot up, slamming the thick sole of his boot against the door. The bottom hinge, rusted and decaying as it was, gave way and it toppled over with a heavy thud. Alexander, put off balance by the act, fell onto his back, the metal crowbar in his hand clanging against the concrete floor. There had one time been a carpet along the corridor, but time had left only scraps of it.

The wreckage of the apartment revealed very little. There were canned foods that did not appear overly radiated, a few salvageable parts from appliances that had not succumbed to excessive rust, and some clothing that had not outright disintegrated. Apart from that, there was nothing. It was not an unsatisfactory haul, but Alexander was far from pleased. They split the shares evenly for the most part.

“You Italians, you’re all the same, you know? You want people to take all your food, it’s a stupid way to live,” Dimitri commented with a sly smirk on his face as he tucked away a few extra cans of beans. Alexander offered up no reply beyond a simple shrug as he straggled towards the exit of the apartment. This is where they parted ways, it would seem. Dimitri liked to stay in one place, liked to camp out and hold down a fort. Alexander was not so keen on such tactics, for he had seen what they brought.

Once he was at street level, however, Alexander heard one shot... then another. Though he was not knowledgeable about guns, the sound was unmistakeable. A shotgun, he would bet it was a shotgun. Then silence. Someone had won that battle and someone had lost, though guessing from the lack of screams it was the human being who had survived.

Or perhaps not.

Another scream, some sort of profanity. Alexander’s ears weren’t keen enough to pick it out, though he determined a direction. Movement through the rubble was difficult, but he started to take a light jog in the perceived direction of the sound. If the unfortunate man was dead, he would have supplies. If the unfortunate man were alive, at least he could chance some degree of assistance. Yet, as he made his way along what was once an alleyway, now a valley between two peaks of red brick and crumbling girders, another shot rang out. It wasn’t as loud, even though it was closer.

The scene he arrived upon was an awkward one, though not one he had never seen before. A small group of survivors attracted to the sounds of commotion, good Samaritans or vultures. Some people traveled light, some people traveled heavy, all people traveled with something someone else coveted. Yet no one was dead, and the only corpse was that of a dog, or what was once a dog. Something had made it a dog no longer.

Alexander proceeded in a straight shot towards the congregation of stray souls. Some of them tried to look intimidating, some of them tried to look friendly. Alexander was fairly certain he was not paid the greatest heed by all, for Alexander was not threatening. He was dressed in neutral, earthen tones, a brown leather jacket over top a green hoodie atop a T-shirt that was at one time white but was now a mixture of brown and yellow. Cargo pants, heavy boots, the kind of formulation you would expect out of a survivor in the wastes. He was careful to keep his newly loaded backpack out of plain view; he wasn’t looking to get robbed.

Alexander raised a hand in a wave, and then pulled his hood forward a few more inches to completely cover his head. They had full heads of hair, it would seem. They were lucky, if nothing else. Lost in what to say, he mustered up words without consciously thinking, “Is everything alright here? I don’t think I’ve heard gunshots in quite a while. Anyone injured?”

Zophe sucked in a breath and stumbled to a walk, letting out a sigh as he slowed to a complete stop. Glancing behind him, he saw the thing that had been chasing him was moving no more. Not even a twitch. The dog circled around it, as though inspecting it for any sign of reviving itself. But the longer it stared, the more obvious it became that the animal... or what used to be an animal, was not alive. Giving out a huff of breath, he turned and grinned at the people he'd just so happened meet during the chase.

Turning to the young man who was calling the dog -- Storm, he assumed -- he gave the guy a thumbs up, laughing a little in relief. "Thanks, man. Seriously. I thought I'd be running for blocks until it gave up or ate me." This was a rather peculiar comment because he still held in his hand his shotgun. He could've easily just turned around and fired the weapon as he did with the first canine-looking beast. Yet for whatever reason, he chose to run instead.

Some people didn't understand why he ran from battle most the time. Those few survivors that he'd come across were seemingly more together than him, defending their "homes" with anything and everything they had, booby trapping their sleeping quarters so as never to be caught off guard and killed in their sleep. Such people were prepared for battle, sleeping with one eye open with a gun or knife as a bed partner. When they saw him, with his shotgun, running, screaming, cowering away from the enemy, they ridiculed him.

What idiot would live in such a fashion? Why not turn around and use the gun as it was meant for? Why even have it if he wasn't going to use it? Other people had need of weapons too! There were other people trying to survive as well. If he didn't want to fight, he was better off handing over his gun to someone else who was more likely to use it.

But Zophe denied them that satisfaction. He kept his weapons, gun and knife both, and smiled at them when they glared back. Their scorn did not touch him. In fact, not much of anything else did. Though he was aware of the devastation around him, a civilization obliterated and crawling back like sewer rats to the surface for scraps, he chose to ignore the worst of it. Even as many of the survivors were struggling to live and fight the disease that raked through their bodies, he turned a blind eye to it and saw only what he wanted to see.

That humanity would prevail. That this sickness that tormented them would pass like the common cold. That these "creatures" they fought daily still held a resemblance to the animals and humans they once were. That water was not closely being watched for poisoning from the lingering aftereffects of the war. That fresh food, most especially vegetables, were practically nonexistent. That meat did not sometimes taste startling like their own flesh. That people didn't have to eat out of cans and from the dying because that was the only source they could find.

He wanted to think of this all as just some sick dream from some experimental drug he took after agreeing to be a guinea pig for the government or some quack science organization. If he could just pretend the worse wasn't staring him in the face... he didn't mind the glaring and harsh insults that followed his back. He just didn't want to wake up to reality and smell the carnage under his nose.

Smiling at the others he saw gathering around, Zophe gave them a small, polite wave. "Wow... so many people in one place! It's been a while since I've seen so many survivors in one area." There were quite a number of them. That guy with the dog, the woman next to him, and a man with a familiar accent Zophe couldn't quite place. The sound of footsteps around them made him believe that more were coming, probably attracted by the gunshots.

Grinning at the last man, the one with the strange accent, he shook his head. "Nope, completely unharmed. And all thanks to this hero over here." He gave a not to the young man who had fired his pistol.

"Haha, it was nothing. After all, your the second survivor i have encountered!" Aiden was still shocked by how there were many more survivors in the world, let alone the city.

"Shotgun run out of bullets?" He said, gesturing at the gun that the man had. "I got some back at my...er...well, you could hardly call it a house anymore, if you need any."

Jael continued to move silently, careful footwork avoiding anything that would make noise if she stepped on it. Gun in hand she rounded the corner fo a building, counting several people standing in the street. She slowed her fast walk to a normal one as she kept her 9mm cocked and ready to fire. While walking towards them she took out and lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply as she stopped a few yards from the group.
"I heard gunshots, what's going on?" she then paused, kicking herself in the ass mentally as she looked down to see a dog...creature...thing laying dead in the street. Guess that answers my question, good job Captain Obvious she thought as she then looked over each individual.
They all held guns, except one, at least she didn't see him with one in plain sight. She placed her pistol back in it's holister at her hip, readying herself to turn and head back to what used to be her weapons shop. Damned creatures, they always seemed to show up at the worst time for her, then again she did seem to have a target attatched to her back. She held her smoke lightly in between her fingers, bringing it up to her lips every 30 seconds or so as her duel colored eyes looked to eahc person individually, trying to judge who was in charge of this particular group of survivors.

Aiden whirled around to see another human.

"Ive been living here for a while, how can i not have seen THIS MANY PEOPLE!"

The woman smirked, "Well, I didn't think survivors gathered in the streets to be easy tragets," the comment wasn't meant to be sarcastic, or cynical but it turned out that's how it sounded. Kicking herself mentally once again she sighed, "I'm sorry," she apologized, "I'm First Sergeant Jael Simmons..." she paused as she smiled only lightly, "Well, ex First Sergeant."

"Well, hello Father; Sergeant Simmonds," He turned to the others, "Im Aiden Kane. Ha, i thought i was the only person in the city. Well, i guess i just didnt go outside a lot.." The young man walked over to a nearby building, kicked down the door, and turned back to the survivors. "I got a few outposts around this area, if any of you want to use them as quarters for the night."

Jack sat on top of the flying tank like machine, there were rails covering the sides so they could hold on top and not fly off, the rest of the vehichle was mainly for armor protection, the monsters unable to attack the crew of the vehicle or the soldiers on the top.
"Kinda cold up here!" he shouted over the wind "Cold! I'm freezing my nuts off here!" shouted one of hsi teammates. "I think I see survivors down there sir!" Shouted his new recruit, leaning over and pointing down at the city. "Okay, land as close as we can, try to be friendly. And private stop leaning over the edge!" He shouted again pulling the private up.

They landed close to a collapsed industrial building, they all hopped over the bars and took out their weapons. The vehicle set off again and flew back towards the military outpost. "Let's move." He said pointing to where he could hear voices.
But about a corner before they made it, the private shouted "What the fuck is that!" before being toppled by a mutant dog and getting his face eaten. Jack and Chung opened fie on it and put it down.

The people round the corner would have noticed, so he walked round with his arms up, "Hold fire, I a Captain Jack Reid and this is Seargent Chung Tsurugi, we're with the military clearing this sector of hostiles and picking up survivors as we go. What's your buisness here, and do you know where the nest of those....things are....Sorry for not warning you, but we couldn't do it sooner seen as we were a bit high in the sky. Nice to meet you." He said looking at them brough the eye slit of his balaclava.

Zophe jerked in surprise at the sudden gunfire. He had wanted to introduce himself as well, not at all partial to being friendly with people who could easily save his butt in a time of crisis, but was interrupted by the noise just around the corner. It had been such a long time since he'd last heard so much gunfire in one area, at a single moment. He'd always thought people went for more blunt, less noisy objects instead. At least, that was how all the other survivors were.

People were lucky to get a pistol! Two even! And they had to have struck a deal or something if they had anything bigger than that. Or... Zophe paused, turning when he heard the sound of footsteps. There, just rounding the corner, was a man in uniform, helmet on his head. He spoke, introducing himself as a Captain. He was military, just like the woman next to him, Jael Simmons, used to be. And there was another guy too, a Sergeant.

Zophe couldn't help it when his brows rose a bit in disbelief at the man's words. Surely he was kidding... right? Picking up survivors? He made it sound like they were all unfortunate people, helpless and seeking his and his military's service. Zophe wanted to scratch his head at that. He didn't think he needed help. Sure, he'd love some real food for once, but... he wasn't completely helpless. He just happened to live in a very delusional world, that's all.

"Uh..." Glancing around to see if anyone would answer first, Zophe saw that no one was speaking up so he gave it a shot himself.

"Well, I don't know how exactly you go about explain what a bunch of people are doing in the middle of the street but it sure ain't roasting marshmallows. --Oh dang, I wish I had some now..." He blinked when he realized he was about to go off on a tangent. "I digress. Anyway, yeah, not much to answer you with. But we all just met."

Zophe pointed randomly behind him at everyone else. Already he was forgetting their names. He had such bad memory, it was ridiculous sometimes. It was like how he had all these keys to different places that he knew he'd visited before, but couldn't remember just what they were or which key when to which place. And he kept picking up more, never really paying attention to where they came from or where they go to. How funny it was, that the keys were just like the people he met over the years. They were familiar, their story similar, but he just couldn't quite get himself to clearly remember it all. There were pieces almost purposely missing from the whole picture.

"Nice to meet you too, by the way. Name's Zophe. Can't imagine what good it'll do you to know my name, though." He paused to look at Captain Jack, lifting one brow in question. "...You're not planning on taking us anywhere, are you?"