Description
Full Name: Aaron Samuel Cross
Nickname: Dutch; it was an old nickname he got in highschool, apparently it had something to do with the way he looked.
Age: 18
Gender: Male
Role: Non-Immune
He was a prepper before the apocalypse; and an avid collector of antique military equipment.
http://www.deshow.net/d/file/games/2009 ... -496-2.jpghttp://fc07.deviantart.net/fs27/i/2008/ ... steamw.jpgHe always wears his gas mask, and has a deep-seated, frenzy inducing fear of it being taken off. This makes eating and drinking a chore for him, because he has to find somewhere he thinks is safe enough to take it off. These places are few and far between. His real face is large and broad, and he has a rather large head on his shoulders. He is blonde and large bodied with blue eyes, and stands about six feet tall. All things included, he has the body of a grown man, but not the mind of one. He always wears his camouflaged parka and clothing, and has not taken his boots off since the initial outbreak of the virus. He keeps his whole body covered, hands, arms, everything. He wears his parka hood constantly to cover his head.
Personality
Personality:
Aaron suffers from post-traumatic-stress disorder, as most people do in the current world. He has night-terrors, flashbacks, and is all around paranoid. The fact that he is a teenager who hasn't even finished dealing with normal-life coming of age stress has done nothing to benefit his condition. He despises being in large groups of people, and though he has worked with other survivors before for mutual benefit, he is a loner who prefers to "do his own thing".
Quiet and introverted but not unfriendly, he is a recon-scout in the classic sense of the word. He is protective of women, especially young girls (those that are left), and will put himself at risk to help one even if he would not do the same for another man. He enjoys company, but only one or two, anything more is a crowd. In a large group, he will become close to one or two people, but from the others he will tend to stay distant. He has been hardened like everyone else from the shock of losing a friend. He won't break down in tears if you die, but he'll sure as hell kill the person (or former person) who did it.
He has a paranoid fear of being infected, and keeps himself completely covered at all times.
Theme Song(s): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHhtO9TSRTQ Kammarheit: The Starwheel (Counter-Crosswise) - Paranoid/Terrifying situations
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhGTsTa8 ... re=related Northhaunt: Night Alone - Normal
Equipment
Weapon: A Mosin Nagant rifle with a classic, cross-hairs scope. Nothing fancy, no red dots or laser sights. Just old fashioned steel, wood, and glass.
He takes the scope off when he gets into closer quarters.
Entrenching tool. A sharpened shovel that doubles as a throwing axe or hatchet.
Bayonet/Fighting Knife. Singular, despite the picture.
A variety of pocket knives.
Inventory: Canned goods, canteen with water, ammunition for his Mosin (loaded in stripper clips), 30$ (for what its worth).
All inside an old Swedish WWII backpack
Skills: He's a scout by nature, and is very good at recon. He has a great memory, and can scout out an area, come back later, and remember its layout very well. Still, this is not a super-power, and he is not a master sniper "I'll pwn all you nub zmbies" kind of person. He has never received weapons training from black-water or gone to the USMC Sniper Academy. Everything he knows, he knows by learning it the hard way.
But, he is really good with his shovel.
History
Aaron is what most people would consider, well, a weirdo. Born in Northern Kentucky, he lived his life on the border of the suburban and rural lifestyles. At the age of 16, he began to collect gear for the "apocalypse" along with his closest friend Phillipe. It was more a joke, really, something to pass the time. Phillipe and Aaron were both weirdo's in that they did not put much stock into the things most teenagers do. Romance, drama, Summer, parties, none of it really interested them. So, instead they were both incredibly interested in antique military gear and weapons. Phillipe, who was two older than Aaron and better off financially, set about finding old weapons and ammunition from under the counter sources. Aaron, on the other hand, did his best to find a variety of maps, clothing, and most importantly of all, knowledge. He has memorized the route of every train-track in the Eastern U.S. While this may seem like quite the feat, for Aaron is was easy. Instead of goofing off with a girlfriend like most other guys his age, he looked at maps. Lots of maps.
Then the virus. To Aaron it seemed as if he had been awakened violently from a dream. In fact, it was. He fell asleep in front of the TV, only to be awoken by the nation-wide alert. Before he understood what was happening, he was grabbing a duffel-bag and throwing everything he had collected into it. Camouflage, boots, knives, and maps, lots of maps. His parents were both at church retreat, and he had convinced them that -now being 17- he could stay alone for a few days. He has never seen his parents since.
For a while, he simply sat on his couch, watching the T.V. in disbelief, his duffel-bag laying across his lap. Then, suddenly, a pair of lights flashed into his house. Headlights. He ran to the window, to see Phillpe's white sedan parked in his driveway. He hesitated for a moment, then ran outside. He closed the front door behind him and practically leaped into the passenger side of the car. He noticed a variety of weapons laying in the backseat. They didn't speak immediately, they just drove. They drove and drove all the way back to Phillipe's large home on the other side of the county line. The first word uttered was spoken by Phillipe, as they ran from the car into the house.
"They say its airborn."
"Yeah."
Phillipe's father was a wealthy businessman, away on a trip as well. He didn't have a mother at home, his father had divorced. They waited in the house for days, until the true terror of the virus became apparent. They duct-taped the windows, the doors, everything. Any crack was covered. But they couldn't get them all. They had thought for sure not shred of the disease could reach them, given their precautions and the house's lonely location in the woods. So when Phillipe became sick, they were both dumbfounded. They tried to blow it off for a few days, wait it out. Maybe it was just a cold? After two days though, it became obvious this was not the case. Phillipe locked himself in his basement, and told Aaron the location of everything he had managed to obtain over the years.
"The gas mask, keep it on, don't ever take it off. As long as you can, don't ever take it off."
These were the last words Aaron heard his closest friend say. Rasped from a hoarse throat down a flight of stairs behind a locked door.
Aaron left the house the next day. And has never gone back. Even though he has heard rumors of the virus not being airborne anymore, he refuses to remove his gas mask. This is partly for a practical reason, as it prevents any gore from getting on his face, mouth or eyes. However, it is also because of his intimate experience with what happened to his friend.
He is currently scavenging for food and trying to stay alive in a dead world. He has managed to, almost miraculously, make it all the way to Milwaukee without being infected. Hopefully, he can keep it that way.
So begins...
You can see truth through the scope.
Your own eyes may fail you, or imagine things that aren't there. But the scope shows you truth. The truth sometimes terrified Aaron Cross.
He watched the bar intently, breathing deep, controlled breaths and observing. It seemed to be quite the hotspot. It was a place most people would have passed by without a second thought, and yet for some reason it seemed as if it drew people to itself like a magnet.
One survivor risking a run in the street to get to it?
Understandable.
Two?
Not so much.
Regardless of their reasons, the two survivors had caused quite a ruckus. The big man simply seemed to radiate.... himself. He knew it didn't make sense, but what else did now? The bruiser was the type of person who drew attention to himself inadvertently, that's just the way it was. The way he moved, the way he fought. All of it was brutal and loud. The girl, on the other hand obviously either had a death wish or wasn't gun wise. She had been throwing bullets around like a drunk cowboy. Together they had managed to make a royal mess of things down below.
He sighed and re-positioned himself into a more comfortable squat. He was kneeling down in the second floor of an office building about a block away from the bar, his Mosin laying across the window frame. He knew it had been a bad idea coming to Milwaukee; and yet here he was, seriously considering doing something very stupid.
Still, he had seen the small girl who dragged the cowgirl into the bar. She looked to be about nine, and the thought of her meeting a fate the walkers outside wished to give her sickened him. He carefully wiped off the eye-pieces of his gas mask and leveled his right eye to his scope once again.
He took an incredibly deep breath, and then let it out slowly. Slowly. Slowly. He sighted a walker, about to throw itself against the front door of the bar. He placed his cross-hairs over it, then closed his eyes. He opened them, the cross-hairs had moved. He sighted again, closed his eyes again, opened again. He waited until his lungs had completely emptied of air, then he squeezed the trigger down.
Compared to the small caliber rounds the survivors had popped off, the Mosin Nagant sounded like a howitzer.
Aaron laughed quietly to himself. What the frig was up with this bar?
He watched another giant of a man run up to the door, a sword in his hand and a woman draped over his shoulder, like some viking raider or barbarian.
He grimaced as the man slammed against the glass of the window, face first.
"Too many movies. I wonder how many people Hollywood has gotten killed with stunts like that yet?" He said under his breath.
He fired again, his round ripping another walker's spine in half before it could launch himself at the big man. He wasn't surprised that the man didn't notice him; it was impossible to pick out something like one extra dead walker when you were fighting for your life at close quarters. He fired once more, his Mosin ringing out and sending another lead reaper into the midst of the now substantial horde milling around outside the bar.
He smiled to himself behind his gas-mask. With so much live bait running around, the zed-heads had hardly noticed him yet. The ones who had he had quickly dealt with. He began thinking about how to get the attention of the people inside, their escape plans may different if they knew they had a friend on the outside. Still, he wondered if they really wanted to risk running at all.
It was ultimately a gamble for them, either wait it out until the crowd dispersed, or run before more came.
What they didn't realize was that sooner or later, no more random survivors would come busting down their door. And then every single frigging rotten one of those ugly faces would be turned towards him.
He worked the bolt on his Mosin, wishing he could feel the cold steel in his hands. He always shot better when he could feel his Mosin Nagant with his bare hands, but he dared not take off his gloves in the city. Too risky, even for a moment. He was about to slam another stripper clip of rounds into the rifle when he heard feet pounding up the stairs behind him.
"Frig." He said aloud. He dropped the Mosin one the ground, no time to reload.
He quickly snatched his entrenching tool from its pouch on his hip, just in time for the walker to come bursting through the door. He didn't risk throwing it, he wasn't good enough at it yet. He waited until the sick thing charged forward; its sharp, broken fingernails aimed for his throat. He waited until the sick thing's hands were nearly clutching his gas-mask, then he shoved the sharpened edge of the short-handled shovel into the demon's face. He felt the thing's face break, and the jelly matter of what was once a brain began to pore out of the fissure in its cranium. He wrenched his entrenching shovel out and stepped far back, remove as much risk as possible of it touching him.
He ran to the door to the flight of steps and slammed it shut, then dragged a desk in front of it. Something he knew he should have done in the first place. He knew he couldn't touch the body to move it, so he simply left it, and went back to firing.
It was all too possible, he thought, that he was going to die here. Trying to help out people he didn't even know.
Funny.
Aaron "Dutch" Cross
Movement caught his attention. He swiveled his Mosin around, homing in on it. He had to blink twice to make sure what he saw was real.
Another survivor, obviously insane. He was dragging some kind of bizarre, makeshift altar-on-wheels behind him. Aaron grinned behind his mask.
Funny.
Through his scope, he could see the man's eyes go wide with startled terror when he spotted the horde outside "Uncle Jack's". It became apparent that he wasn't quite as insane as Aaron had previously thought though, because he abandoned his altar as soon as he saw them. He sprinted with speed granted by primal terror and leaped over the iron fence like a monkey.
"Heh."
Funny.
Then he watched the man whip out a big black gun. A military carbine. That peaked his interest. He continued to watch as the man took out a few, then ran out of ammunition. He still put up an admirable fight, throwing several heavy stones at the demons.
"He looks like the kind of person who would do anything to stay alive. He'll fight tooth and nail to get out alive." He thought.
He smiled again.
Funny. He would die if he fought tooth and nail to stay alive now, unless he was immune.
Suddenly, the realization hit him that he was holding a rifle in his hands. He grimaced.
Stupid.
He slammed another stripper clip into the Mosin and sighted up again. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He waited until his lungs were completely empty of air, and then he squeezed the trigger once more.
The resounding crack shook through his body again. He watched as a walker with a broken face took the round in the back, probably breaking its spine. It wouldn't be moving anytime soon. He smiled behind his mask and licked his teeth. He could have aimed for the head, but he didn't want to spray the man with Zed-brain. Then he would have wasted a perfectly good bullet.
The man behind the fence probably heard the blast from the Mosin about a second after the round hit.
He worked the action on the bolt, then sighted again, he took down another, then another. None of them were true kill shots, but he had learned that breaking the spine was just as effective.
"Reduces splatter." He said to himself.
The last Zed seemed confused, it seemed to be just about as befuddled as a Zed could be. The man seemed just about as surprised as it.
He sighted again, breathed again, and felt the comforting wave pass through him again.
He worked the bolt on his Mosin and licked his teeth again. At least if he was going to die today, 'Vera' was going to get a nice workout.
Aaron saw the uplifted can in the man's hand through his scope.
Hungry.
Stupid.
He didn't know who the frig this guy was, or even if he was clean. He decided that the only way to find out was to let him come up, it wasn't like they could exchange cell numbers.
Besides, he could always shoot him through the door if he was infected. And if he was a carrier, he wouldn't let him in.
Hungry.
Well..... He would leave his gas mask on.
He looked around the office building. He had no idea what it had been used for, but he eventually found a cubical with a white board pinned up on the wall. He wrenched it off and found a fat red marker. He scribbled something on it hastily and walked back to the window. He held it up above his head and waved it back and forth twice to get the man's attention.
"UP"
He knew the survivor wouldn't have trouble getting up to him, he had killed all the infected he saw inside on his way up. He had a feeling the survivor could deal with a few stragglers anyway.
He wasn't so sure his altar would make it though.
He really hoped this guy didn't try to convert him to whatever crazy religion he followed.
The thought suddenly entered his mind that he couldn't eat with his gas mask on.
"Frig."
Brendon saw the large bold UP in red. "Either he wants me to kill me or benefit from my presence..." Brendon thought aloud. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to find out." Grabbing his cart, he pulled it up to the door of the office building the man was in. Dropping his cart in the lobby, Brendon heard a moan. An infected was slumped over the receptionists desk, re-animating. Brendon quickly hit it with the trench knife to the temple.
He wiped his hands on some papers on the desk and began to ascend the stairs. He stopped on the stairs and turned around. He decided he would rather carrying the heavy gear to the man's perch than leave it in the lobby for a scavenger. Collecting the guns, he knew he was making a noise, but he still decided to announce his presence just to be safe. "Hey! It's me! From the park! I got some gear on me. A couple of firearms. Don't shoot. I'll leave them outside your room to show I mean no harm!" Brendon then began the hard process of climbing each step. The weight got heavier with each step. Finally getting to the top, he knelt over and threw the firearms on the ground. Pulling a pack of twinkies out of his bag, he figured the sweet tasting snack would be a good sign of good will to his newly met survivor. He decided to pick up his M1911, and chambered a round, just in case.
Brendon walked into the room to see a figure decked out in what looked like something someone from Chernobyl would be decked out in. This was a hardcore survivor, and the Mosin-Nagant confirmed how dedicated he was to survivalism. "Nice Mosin you got there, damn things just won't break. They're the AKs of the bolt action rifle family. I got me this, a small surplus M2. It isn't the most hardy thing to carry, but it gets the job done. Here, I brought you this. Some twinkies and canned dog food...Uh...It says beef, so I assume it will taste like it. Let me grab my blowtorch and heat it up." Brendon said turning his back to the man while he dug around in his bookbag for the blowtorch.
*Note: from now on I'll be writing Aaron using his nickname Dutch.*
"Hey! It's me! From the park! I got some gear on me. A couple of firearms. Don't shoot. I'll leave them outside your room to show I mean no harm!"
The voice came from below, at the bottom of the staircase outside the door. Dutch leaned Vera against the wall beside the door and moved the heavy desk out of the way. In time to hear footsteps slowly coming up outside.
Smart.
If anything, this guy had a healthy sense of caution. He could picture him in his mind, stalking his way up the steps, gun in hand.
Dutch wondered if he had been in the military, he seemed fit enough, and handled his weapon with practiced skill. Maybe he was just rich. He had heard of wealthy individuals purchasing training from "private security organizations" like Blackwater. He smiled, now that would be something, having a Blackwater watch my six.
Funny.
The sudden sound of heavy objects hitting the ground outside the door brought his mind back into focus.
"A couple guns?" He thought. "More like the armory of Ticonderoga."
If anything, the guy was surprising. Capable of being cautious or radically bold at the drop of a hat. The man suddenly barged into the room, a .45 in one hand and a twinkie in the other.
"FRIG!" Dutch screamed in his mind. He snatched up Vera and leveled it at his hip, the business end in the man's chest.
A momentary flash of surprise crossed the man's face, almost immediately covered by a mask of cordiality.
"Nice Mosin you got there, damn things just won't break. They're the AKs of the bolt action rifle family. I got me this, a small surplus M2. It isn't the most hardy thing to carry, but it gets the job done. Here, I brought you this. Some twinkies and canned dog food...Uh...It says beef, so I assume it will taste like it. Let me grab my blowtorch and heat it up."
The man's barrage of chatter struck Dutch almost dumbfounded.
"I guess its true what that guy back in Ohio said." He thought. "Only the weird ones survive."
The guy abruptly spun around and started digging around in a bag.
"Woah! WOAH! Hold the frig up there!" Dutch said.
The man turned around and looked at him. A look passed over his face, as if he only now realized that a gun was being pointed at him.
"Stop, move away from the bag. Real slow like." Dutch said quietly.
The man took two measured steps away, then he bent over and laid the 1911 and the twinkie on the ground.
"Are you infected?" Dutch asked simply.
"No, no way man, I'm clean, I'm fine!" He replied.
"Are you a carrier?"
"What?"
"The disease! Do you have it? Can you pass it on?" Dutch said, a pang of frustration hitting him. What was up with this guy? Did he think he was just going to stroll in without being questioned?
"No, I'm not immune."
"Are you SURE?" Dutch asked again. "I'll let you go if you are, I won't shoot you."
"No, seriously, I'm not immune."
Dutch sighed slowly. At least he tried to sigh, the noise that escaped him was more like a ragged wheeze.
For some reason, the tension in the room began to evaporate quickly. Dutch lowered Vera and slung her over his shoulder by the leather strap.
"Oh well." He thought. "Even if he is a carrier, he can't infect me as long as I keep my mask on and I don't eat or drink after him."
He motioned for the man to continue what he had been doing, and the thickness of the air dissipated.
"I'm Dutch, by the way. No, I'm not in the army. I was a prepper, I was into old military stuff before... all this." He said calmly. "What should I call you? I don't need a name if you don't want to give it, just something to scream when a hunter is about to put its fingers into your back."
Brendon stopped digging and pulled out his blowtorch. "Brendon. Brendon Krugman." He said while heating up the can. "Do you have a double edged knife? All I have is this tri-sided trench knife, not exactly legal, but hey, what are they going to do now with the human species on the verge of extinction?" Brendon chuckled to himself with that thought. He remembered his lessons back in school of the Homosapien and Neandertals competition for dominance. He laughed. "So the stupid take their revenge." He thought in his mind.
"Here." Dutch said to Brendon, throwing him a small sturdy utility knife. "Thanks." Brendon said. The word felt almost foreign to him. It seemed strange. While opening the can, he decided to ask Dutch how old he was. "Seventeen." Dutch said. Brendon looked dumbfounded. "You're seventeen and you've got all this gear? Damn. I wish I was as prepared as you are now." Brendon said stirring the meat. "Let me taste this stuff to see if it is good or not. After all, I am the one offering the food. No need to poison you." Brendon said while grabbing a nice hearty chunk of meat. He popped it into his mouth and felt the juices leak out off the meat. It was heavenly. "This is the first time I have had meat since the outbreak, and my god, let me say, for dog food, this is like the highest quality steak to me." Brendon said offering Dutch the can.
Dutch looked at the can for a second and pulled his mask off. "I guess it couldn't hurt..."
Tasting the piece of meat, both boys laughed at each other. "Can you believe this? Dog food cuisine!" Brendon felt safe for the first time in days. He had found a partner. An ally. One who was ready. One who was skilled. No need to waste him like his other partner. "So can I bring the rest of my gear in here?" Brendon asked after putting the last piece of meat into his mouth. Dutch was in the middle of cleaning the bolt for Vera, so he just nodded. It didn't matter to him. Brendon grabbed the rest of his gear and brought it in. "Want a grand tour?" He said jokingly while he sprawled the contents of the three dufflebags he had filled with scavenged goods.
Funny how much happens when your in a cabinet.
Tammy had been in this office building for at least a day now. Or, it felt like it, anyway. When she had first walked upon the town, it had been pretty empty. Not many zombies were around, just a few stragglers. Nothing she had to worry about. There was also a bar, but she didn't bother going over there. She instead decided to walk into the first place she saw; an office building. The only person that was in there was a dead receptionist, and he wasn't going to stop her. So she took camp in the corner of the room, taking time to eat some dried apples and look over her weapons. But when night came, she felt too vulnerable. So instead, she realized she was small enough to fit in a tipped over cabinet that was just around the corner. And even when she didn't think she could, she slept like the dead that night.
Bad choice of words, huh?
She was awoken when a gunshot was fired upstairs. She wasn't sure when the person that had fired that shot had gotten there, but she wasn't about to find out. It was obvious they were alive. Which ultimately meant they could kill her, too. Instead, she stayed curled up in the cabinet, waiting. She had been aware of somebody running past. That was when she was sleeping, of course. And somehow, the moans had entered her nightmares too. So obviously Walkers were roaming now. Isn't that great. Through a crack, she could see the door to the office. Now she could tell if anybody was going to come.
And they did. It was a man, who seemed a bit older then her. He went upstairs too. Ah, so he was familiar with the other person upstairs. Now sure that if there were two survivors, there must be more, Tammy crawled out of the cabinet and stood, stretching her limbs. She then walked over to the receptionist, who was dead for the second time today. Poor guy. Shrugging, she sat on the desk, her duffel bag over her lap and her gun in hand. She swung her feet, so her heels connected with the metal desk, making a very loud thud everytime. She wanted the people upstairs to know she was here. And if they tried to attack her, she would attack them. It couldn't be that hard, right?
"Are you insane!? Do you realize what you've done? There's a whole pack of them waiting outside!" The girl's voice rang out, echoing slightly against the tiled walls. No bother. Tammy's handgun was already pointed at the girl's head, right in between her eyes. 3 survivors in one day. Damn. Her finger rested on the trigger, ready to pull it at any second. She could do it. And if she had to, she would. Especially because this girl had just banged in here, and was pointing fingers.
"I haven't done anything! If you want to be mad at someone, you might want to go talk to the lads upstairs!" The girl was surprised at how loud she spoke. She hasn't even talked for a week, and here she was, screaming at the first person she had ever saw for a while now. At her anger, her finger pulled back on the trigger a little bit more, but she stopped herself before the bullet was released. Her hand was still steady, her aim in between the girl's eyes. Which were actually a beautiful color... How stupid are you? Focus! Shaking her head a little, she returned her attention to the task at hand. She didn't attend to say anything more, but she was sure anybody that was in this building could hear them, dead or alive. Great.
Tammy's blue eyes scanned the girl. She didn't seem scared at all. Good for her. When she actually looked over the girl, she saw she was actually at least a year younger. Her hand faltered slightly at the thought, but she quickly regained her state of confidence. She bit her bottom lip, which she had been doing a lot for the past few days. Okay. She had to say one more thing. Just one.
"What's your name?" Her voice was quiet, but steady. She looked over the girl, with a small curious expression. She doubted she would get an answer without some sort of sarcasm, but it was better then not getting it at all. Not like she was planning to give her name, anyway.
Dutch froze, his blood suddenly turning to ice in his veins.
"What the frig?"
Brendan looked up at him from his pile of guns, a questioning look on his face.
"What is it?" He asked.
Dutch didn't answer, he quickly shoved his gas-mask back over his face and ran over to the door. He hesitated for a moment, then opened it halfway, turning his head in the direction of the stairs.
"Do you hear that?" He asked.
Brendan stood up and walked over beside him. They stood, unflinching, for a few moments. Every ounce of concentration focused on their auditory senses.
From down below a rhythmic, metallic banging noise was shuddering up the stairwell. Dutch licked his teeth, what the frig was this? He looked back over his shoulder at Brendan.
"What does that sound like to you?" He asked.
He could see the man's mind working behind his eyes, trying to conjure up anything he had seen on his way up that would make such a noise.
"I have no idea, this whole place is made of metal, it could be anything."
He was right. It really could be anything.
Then, another sound came up the stairwell. The sound of raised voices.
Dutch and Brendan met eyes for a moment, understanding passing between them. Survivors. More, frigging, survivors.
Dutch instinctively opened Vera's bolt and slid five of his loose rounds in before twisting the bolt back in place. There was no point in using his stripper clips when he didn't need too.
"Were gonna have to postpone that tour." Dutch said. "This place is getting too hot, too fast for me. I'm bugging out, come with me if you want. But I'm not going to carry your armory for you."
"Is there a backdoor in this place?" Brendan asked.
"Somewhere, probably. But we would waste too much time and make too much noise trying to find it. We're going to have to go straight through the front again. This time, I'm not stopping till I'm out of this hell-hole." Dutch replied. "I'll take point with Vera for now, you go get yourself situated with whatever military death-machines you want. I'll wait for you at the bottom of the stairs."
Brendan nodded and rushed back inside.
Dutch stalked as quietly as he could down the stairs, his jack-boots sounding fearfully loud to his own ears. The voices grew louder the further he descended. Not because the people were speaking louder, but because he was edged closer to them. He hated this, he hated getting this close. Watching people from a window inside an office building was one kind of scouting, but this was another thing entirely. A whole different beast. His insides were coiled up as tight as a spring, he felt like throwing up. He finally reached the bottom of the steps and stopped, Vera's metal butt-plate pressed against his shoulder in a white-knuckle grip.
He suddenly realized that he had forgotten to remove the scope from the top of the rifle.
Stupid.
He quickly loosened the keeper screw and slid the scope off, stowing it in the pocket of his parka. He brought the iron-sights up and tested their alignment. All was well. He waited for a few moments, controlling his lungs and trying to remain calm. He decided he couldn't wait for Brendan. Their quests-which were apparently in the lobby judging by the direction and volume of their speech-could decide to scope the place out at any moment. Dutch wanted the drop, the surprise, of bursting in behind them. Something he wasn't sure Brendan could help with while carrying a pile of guns.
He stepped over to the ajar door which led into the lobby. The voices continued, though his own blood was pounding so loudly in his head he couldn't make out the words. He could feel his muscles tightening all over his body.
Shock value. Shock value.
Dutch's adrenaline fueled kick smashed the door aside, creating a snapping sound as its hinges were torn from the cheap wood frame. He stomped into the room, his boots clacking loudly against the floor. He leveled Vera instinctively, only to find his rifle pointed at two young women. One of them held an axe which looked comically large compared to herself, the other one pointed a handgun at him also comically large in her hands.
Despite himself, Dutch felt his face tighten into a vicious grin behind his gas-mask.
What the frig was up with Milwaukee today?
"Well hello there, ladies. I'd much appreciate it if you could place that scary gun on the desk, I'm liable to act rashly if I'm frightened."
The thought occurred to him that he himself must look quite comical. A freak kid with a gas-mask and an antique weapon.
'Huh. Well, I should have expected this.'
Olive stood petrified and blank-faced in front of this girl, whoever she was, who had had her suddenly snagged at gun-point.
Despite her petrified form, Olive's mind whirred with thoughts. 'What the hell? Who did this chick think she was anyway? And what was she seriously planning to do with that gun?' At first glance, Olive wouldn't have thought this girl could make the mistake of attracting even more of those things when Olive had so selflessly risked herself to let her know. This girl looked adept, particularly because of the fact she was able to whip out her gun faster than Olive could have realized. But she was even more so convinced by the way she presented herself. She was announcing her presence to the entire building; she had to be hardcore. However, even if Olive thought positively about this stranger, it didn't mean the girl's thoughts were the same. How would she get herself out of this situation with no obvious way out; there was, obviously, the gun pointed at her face to think about, and the zombies immediately outside the door.
As she evaluated this situation in her mind, gun girl seemed to defend herself, "I haven't done anything! If you want to be mad at someone, you might want to go talk to the lads upstairs!"
Olive's luminous eyes flitted to the caved ceiling above her for a quick moment, as if she could suddenly sense the presence of others in the building, and at once returned to look in the face of her threat. 'Friends of yours?' Olive thought to ask before the girl asked for a name. A name! Did she ask this out of sincerity, or was she just toying with her? Olive was at a complete loss of what to retort with, that all she was able to vocalize was a few unintelligible pieces of words that she planned to say, but hadn't completely translated well out of her lips. Then, she couldn't help but burst out in an awkwardly brief instance of laughter. A moment passed when she clapped her free hand over her mouth in confusion. Boy, was her insomnia getting to her.
A "Sorry," was all Olive could get out before one of the doors beside the lobby unhinged from it's frame and fell to the ground, causing a slight tremor that shook the debris, as well as herself, slightly off the ground. A large bulk emerged from the darkness from behind where the door had been, and revealed what she believed to be a man in a serious ensemble. He wore a gas mask for Christ's sake! Where were these people coming from all of a sudden?
"That was quite an entrance. So you're the--," this is where Olive would have said idiot if it weren't for the gun he also clutched in his hands. Olive looked to the fire axe she gripped in her right hand, then back and forth to the guns she couldn't have possibly competed with. Sigh.
She shook her head back into attention, and her fierce eyes locked with those of the new intruder.
"So I suppose you're the one who alerted the whole fleet of biters outside within a 5-mile radius, hm?"
"Well hello there, ladies. I'd much appreciate it if you could place that scary gun on the desk, I'm liable to act rashly if I'm frightened." Tammy had her gun pointed at him by the time he said hello. Already, she had fished her knife out of her duffle bag and was pointing it at the girl, so she didn't have a weak point. What the hell was going on here? Two survivors, staring at her. She wanted to ask a million questions, but decided her best bet was to remain silent. It's worked for her so far in this mess. She looked at the girl as she turned her accusation to the man. It was, after all, him who brought those monsters to the door.
But she was still aware that the girl hadn't given her a name. Flicking her eyes to the man before her for a second, she realized this people were probably the ones she would either have to stick with, or kill. For some reason, killing them made her feel a little uneasy. But that could always be the best option. She frowned and furrowed her brows for half a second, a habit she has had when she was thinking since she was a child, before returning to her mask of showing no emotion.
"Okay, I know we just had a nice meeting and all, but I want to know names." Tammy's voice was rather sarcastic, but was once again curious in the end. She looked at both of them, but her eyes settled on the girl. She had been here longer. And the only thing she had done was apologize.
"Maybe if I tell you my name, you'll be less shy. It's Tammy. Tammy Jones." Although she had said her name, she said it so quietly they probably couldn't have heard her anyway. And after she spoke, there was a silence. At least, in the bar. She swore she could hear other people talking. No, she was imagining it... But she still found herself walking towards the door. She was quite aware of the zombies that were crowded at the door, moaning as they pushed against the glass and tried to get in. If you looked over them, however, in front of that bar, was a van. That was full of survivors. Her blue eyes widened slightly at the thought, and she blinked a couple of times, to make sure she wasn't making it up. But there it was, solid as ever. With a small girl in the back seat, sleeping with her head in the lap of an older girl. And an injured girl, with another girl speaking to her. And many, many more people. Too many to think of.
Turning around, Tammy regained her stance of having the gun pointed at the man, knife pointed at the girl. She then gave a small nod of her head towards the door, and looked at both of them.
"Come look. There's more of them."
Dutch's eyes moved back and forth between the two women. He realized it was a mistake not waiting for Brendan, he really hoped he would pop up behind his shoulder any second now. The dark haired girl he wasn't too worried about, even if she turned out to be an axe-murderer, she wouldn't be able to reach him before he could train Vera on her. The other young women, however, was peculiar. She seemed abnormally calm; like someone who believed they held all the best cards in the end, despite any circumstances.
"Okay, I know we just had a nice meeting and all, but I want to know names."
Dutch blinked.
"Maybe if I tell you my name, you'll be less shy. It's Tammy. Tammy Jones."
She began walking backwards towards the glass doors of the office building. For a moment, Dutch thought she was about to open the doors and make a run for it. He considered shooting her on the spot. He had never killed a live person before, and he didn't like the idea of starting with a girl. Still, if he had too, he was pretty sure he could.
"Come look. There's more of them."
He followed her gaze out the door for a brief second; Vera still pointed at her. All he saw was the line of walkers behind the glass, snarling at them. He realized both the young women thought he had brought them, accused him of attracting their attention. For a moment, his pride was hurt.
"It was those gun-slingers across the street at the bar that brought every walker in Milwaukee here!" He thought.
Still, he had to admit that he had been quite a gun-slinger himself today. He had brought the attention from the bar to this building through his actions. He knew that had been stupid. Still, at the time he had thought he was only going to have to take care of himself. Then, when he managed to get Brendan inside, he had thought it would be even easier to make a getaway. But now, with four people.... Two of whom he was still pointing his rifle at...
Then he saw, behind the walkers, the police van. The survivors from the bar were getting away. Good. At least if he died here, he could die knowing he helped save some lives.
He sighed and suddenly lowered his rifle. Both the young women looked at him quizzically.
"Well, there's no point in killing each other with the enemy at the gates." He said. "I've been on a generous streak all day today. Those walkers out there are partly my fault, but I wasn't aware I had stowaways down here. For that I'm sorry."
The two women continued to look at him. He took in their faces for the first time. They were young, but obviously older than him by a few years. He smiled behind his mask. On of his favorite side-effects of wearing his mask was that nobody could see or remember his face. The two young women probably didn't any idea how young he actually was.
"If you want to get over to the van, I'll help you. Don't ask why, I don't have a frigging clue, I guess its payback for helping get you into this situation. But there's not enough room in that van for everybody, and I don't like crowds. They may even decide to kill you before you get close." He said.
The girl by the door lowered her pistol.
"What are you proposing?" She asked.
"I'm proposing that I make a distraction. I've got a buddy upstairs who can help me out once he gets down here. While I do, you take miss axe and book it over to the van." He said.
He watched the gun-girl's mind working behind her eyes, working out the possibilities.
"Unless you want to come with me." He said, looking over at Miss Axe now. "I don't plan on dieing today, and I don't think my friend upstairs does either. We have enough guns for the both of you."
Miss Axe's hands fiddled with the handle of her weapon as she looked back and forth between the two of them.
"I can track that van, no problem at all, seeing as how there's only one direction where they can go from there. South. I was already planning on leaving anyway. We can follow the road out of here and meet up with them again eventually. I doubt they have enough gas to get far, and every gas station between here and Cincinnati is tapped dry. " He finished.
He didn't know why he was offering, he didn't know who these people were. Still, he had offered, and that was that. Besides, it gave him an excuse to finally get out of this frigging city.
"By the way." He added, looking back at Tammy was it? "Call me Dutch. That's it."
He heard Brendan suddenly coming down the stairs behind him. Finally. Backup.
"What the hell...?" Brendon said as he ran downstairs. He lowered the Mossberg 500 he picked up from the gunpile to give a more friendly demeanor.
"Dutch, who are these people?" Brendon said keeping his eyes locked on the pair of females.
"This is Tammy...I think..." Dutch said as he pointed to a slender looking girl, around the age of 20.
Brendon nodded for a second then spoke up, "I'm Brendon..." He was hesitant. Stange. He thought to himself. Just a few minutes ago I trusted my life to this stranger who was hundreds of feet away, yet I am trying my best to place trust in these people who are just inches away.
He rested the butt of the shotgun on the ground and leaned against the door frame.
"And this is...Well I don't know who this is." Dutch said looking back at Brendon puzzled.
Brendon stepped away from the door and ejected three shells from the shotgun, exposing the breech to show the gun was unloaded. He pocketed the shells, and began talking.
"So...No sense in blasting each other. I'm not sure what deal my friend Dutch and you struck up, but if you want to join us, we are making our way out of the city. I have enough supplies in food, water, weapons, and ammo for all of us to carry out of here without the use of my cart. What do you guys say? I'm sure Dutch would be fine, and I would too. Strength in numbers, am I right?" Brendon said putting on his best fake smile.
He didn't really care if they came or not, it made no difference. More people=More responsibilities. More people=More resources. It worked both ways for him, and the risks and the benefits both evened each other out.
"Olive-- My name is Olive."
The tone in her voice oozed with impatience and confusion. These people were already making plans for an escape? Did they not realize how naive they sounded? Even with their guns and ammo, and whatever else they had, there was no way they were going to make it out of that front door with that many walking corpses, much less make it to the van they were aiming for. She wasn't trying to be a downer, she was being realistic. Olive did have an idea though, but it wasn't going to be easy.
Despite the pestering light-bulb flickering in her head, she stood quietly in the corner she occupied, ruminating in her own thoughts. 'Hadn't I already told myself that I wouldn't try and be a hero. I also remember myself saying that I wouldn't depend on anyone, either. Why was that, I wonder?' Olive mocked bitterly in her mind. She hadn't been around people for so long that it was hard not to want to try to keep company, or just have a conversation. But, it was different now. Now that she had this monster of a disease stuck to her, was her own loneliness worth the heartache of having to down a friend who had turned because of her? She couldn't. She wouldn't.
What she could do, though, was make one last leap for these people she hardly knew, but felt so close to at the same time. After all, they were all stuck on the same boat; all Olive had to do was give up her own life-vest this time.
"Look," Olive started, her voice echoing loudly in contrast to the odd silence in the room. "Frankly, there's no chance anyone of us will get through those doors alive." She pointed to the entrance as a zombie tore through the window-view on the door. It put it's face to the broken glass, oblivious of the shards ripping through it's skin, as it ground it's teeth menacingly and gave a bloody growl.
"There is, however, another way. Let's hope none of you are afraid of heights." The glow in her eyes shifted as she looked to the stairs where she had just came, and a knowing smirk teased the corners of her lips.
"There is, however, another way. Let's hope none of you are afraid of heights."
Dutch clenched his teeth. He didn't really care how, but he was going to get out of here. He didn't know about Tammy or Brendon; but this Olive girl obviously had a plan.
He glanced over at the glass door. Anything was better than the alternative.
He looked back at Brendon and Tammy, then made his way over to stand next to the reception desk closer to Olive.
"Hell, I don't know about you two, but I'm going with her. It's better than trying to book it across the street to a bunch of strangers." He said.
Funny.
Did he not consider these people strangers anymore?
Brendon nodded his head to Dutch to let him know he was in as well. He picked up what gear he had and threw the rest to the others.
"Don't loose it. These are more valuable than any of us right now!" Brendon said.
He gulped at what this girl had planned. He didn't want to say it, but he actually was scarred of heights. Even climbing a rockwall would cause him to shake and tremble.
"Get over yourself Brendon." He thought to himself. He took a big breathe and let it all out.
"Ready when you are."
Tammy looked at all of them, frowning. She was actually considering leaving. Just... going on her own. But she didn't know if she could stand being alone much longer. Company came with a price, she knew that. For all she knew, one of these people could be a psycho, just waiting until she turned around to stab her in the back. She chewed on her bottom lip until she could taste blood, just thinking. The silence was endless, and it was all because she couldn't make one freaking decision.
"Alright. Where's this amazing escape of yours." She finally said, standing up straight and lowering her gun completely. A ghost of a smile could be seen, but it was gone as fast as it had came. No need to show any type of weakness, no matter what it was. She scooped up the duffle bag she had put down before and went over to stand next to Olive, still thinking about leaving. She had been doing alright on her own so far, why did she need help now? Her eyes darted over to the hallway where the cabinet was for about half a second. Nope. She was staying, and was going to find a way to get inside of that van, no matter where the others went.
"Alright. Where's this amazing escape of yours."
Dutch breathed out slowly.
He had been worried about Tammy. It was clear she had mixed feelings, any sane person would considering the circumstances. Still, he was quite sure that she would have died had she tried to get out on her own. What did he really know though? For all he knew, she could be a CIA trained killing machine. Still, it was better that they were together. They could split up later if they wanted too, but Dutch really did not want to leave behind anyone in this building. Even if she were able to make it out on her own, Dutch would never know, and he knew deep down he would never be able to forget her face. He would have wondered about her fate for the rest of his life.
He knew this for a fact, because there were already several faces that flashed through his mind at night, and kept him from sleeping.
He watched as she walked over to stand next to Olive. Everyone's attention now rested on the dark haired girl. All that was left now was for her to get them out of here.
Funny.
He couldn't think of another time in his life when he had more fully placed his own life into another person's hands.
"Frig."
He couldn't actually say the word. His jaw was clenched so tightly, there was no way he could speak. The fire-escape was only a few feet away from the window. Just a few scant feet, easy stuff. But he still couldn't move.
He took a deep breath, and slowly forced himself to relax. If he worked himself up now, the chances of him falling to his death would only increase. He placed his right foot on the window sill. His goal was a rickety iron fire-escape, bolted to the side of the building. Between him and it, was open air. He turned around one last time, glancing at the faces of the people standing in the room behind him. Why the frig had he decided to go first?
He reached out with his gloved hand, placing a firm grip on the fencing of the iron structure. Then he swung his foot out, stepping on the fence. Finally, he pushed off with his remaining foot, and flung himself into the wrought iron cradle. He immediately stood and tested the security of the structure. It seemed intact enough, and all the walkers were still at the front doors of the building.
The ground was clear.
He looked around him desperately, searching for a way to drop the ladder to ground level. He eventually found the release lever, and the ladder quickly extended all the way to the street below. He signaled for everyone else to begin to follow him.
Then he began the long climb down, only hoping a pair of claws and teeth did not await him in the shadows below.
He noticed the sun was setting.
Great.
