Weston Olan's Story

Sometimes life just happened to you, and you couldn't dodge it. It crashed into you because it wanted to test what you were made of...Well, in this case it wasn't so much life as it was death. A wall of raging death thrashing against the lining of the world you thought you knew...

The ineffable vicissitude overtook Bullet with such a violent jerk, she hadn't a moment to prepare herself. One second she was bobbing to the bassline that made her pulse thrum in time, and the next people were clawing to escape the confines of the tightly packed club, howling in terror. Was there a fire? She had to get out least she be trampled. Somehow she had ended up on the pavement soon after she breached to door, a body writhing on top of her, using it's blunt teeth and filed nails as weapons. Was he coked out? She couldn't tell and she couldn't get free of him...That was when suddenly someone kicked the damned guy off her and yanked Bullet to her feet. It wasn't until then as she rose that she knew, that she was sure. She had seen enough zombie movies in her lifetime to recognize one in the flesh, snapping it's dislocated maw in her direction. No matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut, when she opened them Hell had unfurled. The hallow of this horror, stomach seizing, she waited desperately for the moment to right itself, to stop the confusing motion of this creaking fear...but it never did. Her savior tugged at her wrist forcibly, dragging her toward a van, and in the hope of an expeditious get away, she didn't hesitate to climb in after her before they peeled out. Fuck this noise.

From the tinted window of the vehicle she could see outside into the darkness of the night. She could see her face in the black. She knew at once how ghosts must have felt, this strange procession of dead feeling as she watched herself reflected in the gloom. Bullet deviated her gaze from the glass to her hands, hands with bruised knuckles that were stained red; she used them to pluck out the gravel tangled in with the strands of her hair as if it were threaded in. She worked at keeping her eyes anywhere but on the girl that had rescued her, not that Bullet had ever need rescuing in her life...or at least that's what she told herself. The rest of her company consisted of an asian guy at the wheel, a frail looking wisp of a blonde, and a dejected man in a suit with a hard jawline and grief in his eyes...they all had grief in their eyes, she realized. They had all lost someone tonight, and somehow even still had been willing to save her sorry ass. They spoke to one another in hushed and familiar murmurs, all but the man and Bullet, they were the odd ones out.

It wasn't soon enough before they had pulled off the road at some old farm house with a pealing exterior, long since abandoned, windows boarded shut. The brunette who's gaze Bullet wouldn't meet climbed out first cautiously. She worked at breaking in, and Bullet let her, staying safely within the van. It didn't matter that she had a lock pick in the lining of her jacket, it wasn't like they were asking for volunteers. Once they got inside, she finally climbed out to take a look around the place, realizing it wasn't half as shabby as some other dwellings she had rocked in her lifetime. The nature of living after death had come to reap the earth had to be one of decay, she thought. It was perfect. She could feel the walls shuddering in this house, the damp creeping in－the kind that left a cough settling deep in your lungs. So much for purification. So much for absolution. Wasn't the end of days about those kind of things? But instead of being born-again, the world was already rotting. Bullet wandered towards a block of murky moonlight light and threw back the disintegrating curtains, feeling them come apart in her hands like old spider webs and tried the window. It would not budge - besides the slates nailing it closed, it was painted shut and must not have been opened in 20 years. No one was getting in through there, at least not with ease.

She toed back over toward the center of the livingroom where everyone else was congregating; one of the guy's producing a blanket for the blonde in shock after starting up a fire, the women sitting on the floor, backs to the couch. Bullet wanted to join them but didn't feel safe just yet. She made herself useful by grabbing the back of a solid armchair in the corner, offsetting the couch, and pushed it with difficulty to the front door so she could brace it beneath the knob. At least it was something. She wiped her hands on her jeans in the effort to clean them of that dust that left behind a lingerng moldy scent before she turned around to meet everyone, Weson starting off introductions. "Bullet." She offered monosyllabically. She finally locked eyes with the brunette. "And thank, I guess...for letting me tag along." She couldn't choke out the phrase 'for saving my life', so that would have to do.