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Thomas Blackthorne

A Canadian soldier far from home.

0 · 1,351 views · located in Season 2

a character in “The Walking Dead: Online”, as played by Ragnarök


Sergeant Thomas Blackthorne


- Template #: 6
- Profession: Combat Engineer/JTF2
- Specialization: Engineer/Demolitions/Boat Operator
- Portrayed By: A Real Life Combat Engineer
- Age: 30
- Gender: Male
- Height: 6'4
- Weight: 230 lbs
- Ethnicity: Caucasian
- Tattoos/Scars: Scars around his abdomen from an IED explosion


- Strengths: Combat veteran, calm under pressure, skilled engineer
- Flaws: Quick temper, arrogant, sarcastic


- Fears: Drowning, burning to death, dying without a weapon in his hand.
- Aspirations: Finishing out his 25 year service, moving to Spain.
- Dominant Emotion: Duty
- Demeanor: Like many men and women of the combat arms he tends to distance himself from those who have never shared the dangers he has. He is efficient in his work, quick to criticize someones poor work, and then provide them the tools and knowledge to fix the mistake. He is often very serious but once you can crack the iron shell you will find a man who loves animals, mountain biking and hiking, and joined the military to protect those to weak to protect themselves.
- Quirks/Oddities: Can be found having entire conversations with himself.
- Skills/Proficiencies: Majority of firearm use, swimming, running, hiking, vehicle operation (Including heavy machinery), can speak Arabic and Spanish, military first aid, combat triage, military combat training, excellent un-aided eyesight, excellent with all forms of animal life, master diver, can handle explosives, etc.


- Carries a standard M-16 carbine and 9mm Sig Saur pistol
- Wears his uniform regulation style
- Wears Thors hammer about his neck


- Born in Banff, Alberta, Canada
- Attended Mount Royal University in Calgary and earned a Bachelors Degree in Communications
- Joined the Canadian Forces when he was 22.
- Served two tours of Afghanistan and one in the Golan Heights with the United Nations.
- Wounded in Afghanistan serving with JTF2
- Returned home for recovery before redeploying to the USA to undertake his Combat Divers course in Los Angeles with other NATO Special Forces

NATO Fireteam Bravo

NATO Fireteam Bravo is a young team. All of them have served at least five years and three tours as members of the regular military. They were involved on a unilateral training exercise off the coast of LA when the first outbreaks occurred. Their Commanding Officer was killed along with the majority of the senior NCO's. Now they are on the run and looking to Sergeant Thomas Blackthorne for guidance. There are four of members who survived the underwater attacks and they are briefly listed below.

Sergeant Terrence Holloway
- Profession: US Navy SEALS
- Specialization: Heavy Weapons/Insertion/Pilot
- Portrayed By: A Real Life US Marine
- Age: 28
- Gender: Male
- Height: 6'9
- Weight: 295 lbs
- Ethnicity: African American

Corporal James Bishop - DECEASED
- Profession: US Navy SEALS
- Specialization: Demolitions/Rifleman/Insertion
- Portrayed By: A Real Life US Soldier
- Age: 27
- Gender: Male
- Height: 5'11
- Weight: 195 lbs
- Ethnicity: Caucasian

Corporal Eduard Butskiy - DECEASED
- Profession: US Navy SEALS
- Specialization: Sharp Shooter/Communications/Rifleman
- Portrayed By: A Real Life US Soldier
- Age: 27
- Gender: Male
- Height: 5'10
- Weight: 190 lbs
- Ethnicity: Caucasian

Corporal Spencer Clarkson
- Profession: British SAS
- Specialization: Communications/Rifleman/Insertion
- Portrayed By: A Real Life British Soldier
- Age: 27
- Gender: Male
- Height: 6'3
- Weight: 225 lbs
- Ethnicity: Caucasian

So begins...

Thomas Blackthorne's Story


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Thomas Blackthorne

"Dive! Dive! Dive!" The boat coxswain roared at the top of his voice as the assault boat slowed to twenty miles an hour. Thomas, seated third in the row on the starboard side of the vessel gripped his regulator tightly with one hand and allowed himself to fall backwards into the water as the man in front of him vanished into the white wake.

The water hit him like a prize fighter, momentarily spinning him around like a rag doll. It took him several seconds to orient himself, clap the regulator between his teeth and do a quick check to make sure his gear was still attached. He was sinking slowly and a quick burst of air into his floatation vest stabilized him, allowing him to hang virtually motionless in the water.

"Charlie Team, confirm." The words crackled loudly in his ear and he winced slightly, his tongue flickering out to adjust the volume control inside his helmet. He waited as Charlie One and Charlie Two checked in before speaking.

"Charlie Three, confirmed." His words sounded hollow in the strange helmet he wore. It was the first time he had had access to such gear. The Canadian Combat Engineers, while being arguably the best in the world, did not have the same budget as their US counterparts and he had admit, he was damn jealous.

The remainder of the team sounded off. Their mission at this moment was to advance on a small island on the edge of the harbour and take it from the enemy force that was holding it. For all purposes it was a terrorist base with heavy security. Due to the nature of live fire however, there weren't actually any enemy troops on the island. Rather they would have to approach and infiltrate undetected by a whole range of electronic warfare systems.

"Charlie Team, close on me." The order came through and a quick glance at a wrist mounted map showed him the bright little dots indicating his five team mates. He began to slowly kick towards the dot indicating Charlie One.

"Charlie Four is that you?" Charlie One suddenly came in over the radio again. "Why the hell are you on the bottom?"

"Negative Charlie One, I am not on the bottom. "

"Then who the fuck is that?"

"Is it a person?"

"I don't know, looks like, I'm going to investigate. Close on me."

There was something about the situation that suddenly didn't feel right to the seasoned combat veteran inside Thomas Blackthorne. Of the team he was on, he was the oldest and the only one who had actually seen combat. The majority of the two teams out today were new bucks, only he and the engineer sergeant on Delta team were actual combat veterans.

"Charlie One, Charlie Three, do no approach alone, wait for the team to assemble."

"It's a..." Whatever else Charlie One had meant to say was cut off by a horrible scream that nearly burst Thomas's ear drum. He didn't wait as he ordered the team to close on Charlie Ones position and make contact.

It's got to a be shark. Please Thor, let it be a shark. Thomas could feel the blood pounding in his temples as he swam as quickly as could through the murk. He was on top of Charlie One almost before he saw him and only his height off the ocean floor saved him from what had befallen his brother in arms.

Four of them had him, they had ripped his helmet off and one was chewing off his lower chin and lip. It looked ridiculously comical, the slow movements of the attackers and the quickly weakening struggles of the dying soldier made even more slow motion by the water. Thomas could see that they were human, or had been once upon a time. Their features were distorted, their skin grey, their eyes like strange white orbs as they turned their attention from Charlie One and tried to reach up towards him.

"Holy shit..." He said aloud into his mic.

"Charlie Three, say again." The voice in his ear almost scared him to death and forced himself to focus on the situation at hand.

"Charlie One is down. I repeat, Charlie One is down. Do not approach, hostiles appear to be humanoid and..." His words faltered as he watched in horror as Charlie One began to move again, small jerks at first, then more violent until suddenly the head rotated towards him despite the yards of small intestine that floated freely in the murky brown cloud of blood. The eyes had gone white and arms began to reach towards him.

"Jesus christ!" Charlie Four had arrived, barely avoiding the now five creatures that were clawing up at them. "Charlie One is, what, jesus, fucking holy christ."

"Calm soldier." Thomas snapped into his mic as the stunned youngster joined him.

The five creatures, one of them now still in it's black military issue dive gear, were trying to reach up, white eyes fixed on the two floating men. It took Thomas a moment to realize that Charlies Two, Five, and Six had not checked in. He tried to raise them on the mic but got no response.

"Mother fucking Christ..." Charlie Four suddenly spoke again. "Sergeant, what the fuck."

He was pointing and Thomas became aware for the first time of a mass of dark shapes moving towards them along the sea bed. There must have been at least a hundred of them, all of them wearing bathing suits, beach wear, or nothing at all. One had a military issue dive mask wrapped around its head, it could explain why nothing had been heard from the other team members.

"We're bugging out." Thomas ordered, filling his vest with air and rising towards the surface. They had been down for no more than 30 minutes and he wanted out. A cold fear he had not felt since his first night patrol was taking hold. "But first."

He raised his weapon, the standard issue M-16, and fired two rounds into Charlie Ones torso. It wasn't rational thinking, he couldn't even imagine what that would be like right now. Cold had training had taken over and he could hear his own heavy breathing loud in his mask. It took a moment for him to realize that the bullets had done nothing and that the dead eyes were still reaching up towards him.

A swift kick and he had changed position, steadied his aim as best he could and put a bullet right between the milky white eyes. In an instant Charlie One was gone, his place taken by other creatures as they reached towards him. Nothing made sense and it was all he could to keep from vomiting into his mask as he kicked towards the surface. As it got closer he prayed it was just a dream, that he would break the surface and wake up in his own bed.

Instead he found himself on the edge of a city engulfed in hell.


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Thomas Blackthorne

"This is the Los Angeles Police Department. Do not attempt to engage the enemy in hand to hand combat. Seek shelter. Barricade your doors. Wait for help to arrive."

The message was playing like an endless loop on every single civilian radio station that Thomas could get a fix on. He was trying everything he could to get some news of what might be going on elsewhere in the country but nothing was working. The emergency broadcast network had been activated. He supposed it was probably for the best, people might take some unnecessary risks otherwise.

Around him the half dozen survivors of Charlie and Delta Companies were sitting in a half daze as they gazed towards the city. Most of them were new to the teams but had seen combat at some point in their short military careers, such was the job of Americas elite warriors. What they had seen beneath the surface was another thing altogether however.

"Command is ordering us to assist local civilian authorities where we can." Their reverie was broken by the young voice of Lieutenant Donald Summers. He was probably a year or two younger than Thomas but he had earned his position like the rest of them and all turned to listen to him without complaint. "It sounds like the harbour has gone straight to hell so we won't be entering it. I am recommending we simply beach the boats, leave a guard, and find as many as we can and pull them off with us. Any thoughts Sergeant?"

He turned to look at Thomas who, in the last twenty minutes, had become the ranking NCO of the outfit. The men looked at him intently as well, all of them knew who really ran the platoon even if the orders came from someone else. He nodded in assent, they had to do something, anything was better than sitting out here.

"Agreed sir. I recommend that the boats hold off shore until we signal them in, those things are under the water as well. They could easily overwhelm the boats if we're rammed up on the beach. I volunteer to lead the beach landing party sir. I recommend you stay here to maintain contact with command."

The Lieutenant tried to argue but Thomas insisted firmly. The officer has a family of his own, Thomas had none. It was agreed, they would leave the two boats at sea with two men each, and one wounded man who said he had torn his suit on coral when he rolled over the side. Perhaps if Thomas had not been in a state of shock he might have thought to look more closely at the wound the man was pressing a bandage to.

The boats moved swiftly into the shore, nudging their bows up onto a stretch of sand deserted save for the dead. Thomas leapt into the surf, counting off his half dozen men before they gave the boats a push and watched them move out into deeper water. A quick weapons check and the team moved off, seven men moving swiftly up the sands, weapons ready.

At first Thomas thought they were going to be alone for the first while until he noticed that some of the "bodies" were still very much alive and thrashing in the sand, unable to move because of damage to their legs. They halted by one, she would have been a very good looking blonde girl not long ago. Her bathing suit had been torn from her body to reveal $10,000 worth of plastic surgery that jerked and bounced in odd contrast to her maniacal struggles to reach out towards them. She had bite marks all over her and dried blood pooled all around. One arm was hanging by threads and both legs had been torn off. He shot her between the eyes.

That one shot was a mistake. Within moments more of the creatures began to appear along the formerly deserted boardwalk and start slouching towards them.

"Fuck..." Muttered one man. "That might not have been such a great idea Sarge."

Thomas didn't reply but only nodded as he took a quick count of the oncoming creatures. He glanced up and down the beach and saw an elevated lifeguard shack some distance away. It wasn't much but it had sturdy steel pilings beneath it and was at least twenty feet above the sand, it would make for a decent back up if they couldn't return to the boats.

The thought had no sooner entered his mind then screams sounded from the water and he spun. Something was happening on the boats, he could see figures struggling on one of them as the other moved in closer, the men with their weapons raised. He hauled out his binoculars and aimed them at the scene and his heart sank into his gut.

Their wounded man seemed to be biting at the throat of the young Lieutenant, blood splashing across the side of the boat as he tore his fellow soldiers helmet free. The second boat, moving in close, opened fired and the reports of gunfire came swiftly over the water to them. The attacking soldier collapsed into the boat and the Lieutenant staggered back as the soldiers, remembering what Thomas had told them of the under water attack, shot him as well. Their gunfire served to attract even more of the shuffling undead towards them.

While this drama had been playing out, the boats, pushed by incoming tides and waves, had drifted closer to shore and as Thomas watched with helpless horror, arms reached up from beneath the waves, grasping at the sides of the boat. For a moment they could find nothing to hang onto but then one of them found the lifelines that hung along the sides. Normally used for divers to hang onto as the boat pulled them through the water it now allowed the under water creatures to find a purchase and in a moment more hands and then a head appeared as they hauled themselves over each other, trying to climb into the boat. The boats crew noticed within seconds and began firing into the water. Bullet after bullet spat into the waves but there were to many and slowly the boat began to list and then finally flipped over, the screams of the boats crews muffled by the water. They never resurfaced.

"Jesus fucking christ..." Thomas could think of nothing else to say as he stared at what was supposed to have been their salvation. His attention was broken only by the first of the heads that now appeared out of the surf as the creatures began to appear, shuffling slowly up the slippery sand. The men around him muttered similar comments.

"We have a serious fucking problem gentlemen." Thomas said as he glanced around. He estimated at least three hundred of the creatures were coming from the boardwalk and half that from the ocean now. "Make for the lifeguard shack, go."

They began to run along the sand, avoiding those bodies that still moved. The moans of the enemy were loud all around them as they ran. Being in excellent shape they did not have any difficulty out pacing their pursuers. He made a mental note to himself, Rule Number One: Cardio. If they could just stay ahead of their enemy they had a good chance. The main concern was going to be how would all seven of them fit into the lifeguard tower.

Thomas made a quick decision. "Stand your ground here. Try to hold of firing at all. Let them get real close if you have too. Use bayonets when possible, destroy the brain. I'm going to see if we can find a way out of this from up there."

No one questioned his orders and he thanked the gods for such highly trained soldiers as he began to climb the ladder into the lifeguard shack. He had barely got a foot in the door when he noticed a human figure crouched in the shadows, in one fluid motion he drew his weapon and began to bring it up, finger already on the trigger.


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Stevie heard the piercing gunshots blast outside, a commotion of voices occasionally ringing through, as well. Something was happening out there. She peeked through the crack of the door and spotted what looked like several divers carrying weapons as they worked to trek across the sand. Stevie's stomach twisted. What the hell was going on?

From the other side of the shack she heard other gunshots and noises. What she had thought must have been the sound of crashing waves distorted through the shack's building material was, in fact, a loud series of scraping and grunting noises on the boardwalk she'd seen about a hundred yards or so beyond the shack. What was causing that?

Stevie retreated from the door and sank back against the wall. She felt stupid for staying up in the shack for what had been several hours by then. But something told her to stay inside, and not come out, despite the fact that their rental vehicle wasn't far away at all. She had no idea what had happened to Dean... if those surfers had aimed to rob him, or hurt him somehow, then it made sense for her to run, right? She was starting to feel immensely guilty about it. But what was she supposed to do? She'd tried the "Emergency Call" feature several times by then, with nothing but a tone at the other end of the connection.

Then there was the sound of footsteps clanking up the ladder. She backed up further against the wall, dragging her back back with her. Who was coming up? Was it one of those divers? Was it one of the people who attacked Dean? Or maybe was it Dean?... She looked panickedly around the dark interior of the shack, not sure if she really was hoping for any of those outcomes; the surfers would surely attack her, Dean probably wouldn't be in great shape... and she had no clue what to expect from the divers.

The door burst open. A diver. He raised his weapon quickly. She looked down and raised her hands just above her head.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" she repeated quickly. "I've been up here for hours. I don't have a gun. I have no idea what's happening out there!"


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Thomas Blackthorne

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" The words registered in Thomas's brain immediately and yet they somehow seemed so alien on this day when everything had gone wrong that he almost shot the girl anyway. His finger fell off the trigger but he snapped on the flashlight attached to the bottom of the barrel and quickly played it over her, reassuring himself that she wasn't bitten.

He panned it up to her face and realized with the jolt that the look of terror on her face would be as much for the Walkers as him, he hadn't done anything other than almost shoot her and was now shining a bright light in her face. He lowered it at once and shoved it back into its holster.

"I don't think anyone really knows what is happening out there miss. We just lost our commander and well over half our team. I'm Sergeant Thomas Blackthorne, 41 Canadian Combat Engineers." He gave her a strained smile. "I'll fill you in a moment but right now we've got to find a way out of here."

He turned away from her and looked towards the boardwalk. Roughly three hundred Walkers were slouching and moaning towards the tower across the sand, most of them still well over a few hundred yards away. His team below was staying calm, no shots were fired, and he even heard a couple of strained jokes that all men tell when they're afraid.

They had come ashore into an area of boardwalk that was backed by a big residential neighbourhood. Big expensive homes lined the background, palm trees waving in the wind as screams filtered out of the streets and the first fires began to pump black smoke into the sky. It seemed that the majority of the Walkers were located on the inner streets, drawn there by the screams of civilians. One point in particular he could see that was drawing the largest number of Walkers was a Police Tactical unit. The team had clearly been clearing a house and been attacked from behind, they were now in the process of being overwhelmed.

Only half a black away their two black armoured cars still sat idling, the drivers having run to try and assist their buddies and even now were being dragged down screaming as they tried to engage hand to hand. He made a mental note to not try and wrestle with the things. Thomas lowered his binoculars and turned to the woman.

"We're moving out. I recommend you join us at once."

He hurried to the head of the ladder and dropped swiftly to the sand. His men looked at him with relief. They were all clearly nervous, their youth showing through, their eyes wide, fear plain on all their faces.

"Listen up boys. There are two police tactical trucks about half a klick west. We're going to make for those. The cops didn't make it, do not, and I repeat DO NOT, try to engage these things in hand to hand combat. I also found a civilian woman up there who we will be taking with us." He jerked his thumb at the tower, his back to the ladder so he couldn't be sure if she'd followed him or not. He saw their eyes light up and nods all around. He smiled to himself despite the situation. Take a bunch of tough guys and give them a woman to defend and they would be like the Knights of the Round Table, someone to fight for..


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Stevie Darden

Stevie looked out of the shack as she approached the doorway, and suppressed an urge to gasp loudly upon seeing the mayhem that had developed while she'd been hiding. Her brief glimpses out of the door didn't reveal anything like this.

She turned around and swooped her arms down to the rails on either side of the ladder and descended after Blackthorne made quick work of heading down. Her brightly-colored ensemble she'd carelessly put on earlier in the day was a stark contrast to the gathered soldiers' attire. Briefly in her mind she collected observations while the sergeant discussed a plan to take two armored cars. It certainly brought back memories—visiting her dad at work, primarily, and watching and interacting with the soldiers there. Being the commander's daughter often meant that she was treated with a high level of hierarchy-derived respect, but she held such a solid and fond appreciation for what these folks did that she was not at all prone to abuse that respect. It had been several years since she'd really been on an installation; she always felt a little bit nostalgic driving by Joint Base Lewis-McChord, which was a stone's throw away from Seattle.

They nodded to her respectfully, still as if she were the CO's daughter. She nodded back. The lingering stares then made her realize that it wasn't at all like she was the CO's daughter. The military sure looked different at 28 than it did at 12. Some things never changed. But, as she had to admonish herself promptly, this was a stupid time to worry about stereotypes, and decided instead to just laugh it off internally.

Blackthorne barked out instructions to the group, then turned to her and said in a far lower tone of voice, "You, just stick behind me." He beckoned for her to follow as he started to head forward. She obliged and started to sprint as best as she could to keep pace, regretting immediately that lately she hadn't had the time to enjoy a simple run and keep her physical endurance up.

It was then that she saw him. She paused in her run, having recognized Dean standing still off to the left, about 50 feet away, all by himself, his right-side profile visible to her. His clothes were spattered in red. His shoes were missing. His shaggy blond hair was matted at the ends, and he had a wound on his forearm.

Without thinking, she broke her path following Thomas and beelined for Dean. "DEAN!" she screamed, her eyes welling up. "Dean, are you all right?!"

His chin jerked up haphazardly, and he turned his body to face her. His shoulder was shredded, chunks of flesh blackening ominously, even staining his blue shirt. His left arm was conspicuously missing, as was his left eye.

Stevie stopped in her tracks and covered her mouth with her hands. Her heart jumped into her throat and her face turned as white as a ghost. He began to amble toward her, his remaining arm reaching forward and his head twisting uncontrollably. His eyes were flat and blackened, no longer the bright blue they'd been before. Clearly, Dean wasn't Dean anymore.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her Ruger, something that Dean had repeatedly poked fun at her for having and even bringing with her on the trip. Her father had taught her how to shoot and respect the value of a firearm. It wasn't a popular view to have in her social circles, but she wasn't one much for letting others tell her how to think. And she'd definitely lied to Blackthorne about not having a gun; she just didn't have it at the ready when he had burst through the shack's door earlier.

Those thoughts whirled through her head at a million miles an hour as she started to defensively step backward as Dean started toward her. She kept the pistol aimed downward; after all, as her dad said, you shouldn't directly point a gun at anyone unless intending to kill them. And she wasn't exactly sure if she really did want to kill him.


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Thomas Blackthorne

"Dean!" Thomas stopped so suddenly at the scream that Bishop almost ran square into him. Both men reacted at once, turning, kneeling and levelling their weapons, expecting to see the girl with one of the creatures on top of her. Instead she was running towards one, calling out loudly and attracting the attention of every Walker within a hundred yards that wasn't already paying attention to them.

"Silencers." Sergeant Holloway said quietly and Thomas mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. Each man on the team carried a silencer for his side arm and long arm, it was hard to do a low key insertion without one. In the time that it took them to screw the silencers on the girl was standing there, a pistol held loosely in front of her, staring at the creature shambling slowly towards her. She took a step backwards.

"Grab her." Thomas snapped at Bishop and Clarkson. The two men seized her by the arms and, with Holloway in the lead, made towards the trucks again. Thomas stayed for a moment, staring into the blank eyes that had once been human. He fired one round, the creatures head snapping back with the effect of the shot before the body hit the sand with a thud. Contrary to popular Hollywood science, a silencer does not make a gun sound like a pee shorter, rather it makes a whip-crack sound that, even with the moans filling the air, still seemed dangerously loud.

Thomas turned and hurried after his team, noting that the girl was still staring at her fallen friend where his body lay in the sand. Bishop and Clarkson had her under the armpits and we hustling her along as fast as they could go in the loose sand. Holloway and Butskiy led the way, hand guns drawn, only engaging those Walkers close enough to be considered an immediate threat, ammunition was going to be scarce for a while.

They reached the APC's at a dead run and Holloway ripped open the door to one and immediately leapt back with a yell of surprise as a German Shepard narrowly missed tearing part of his face off. The dog was in a rage, snapping, biting, snarling, lunging at the soldiers as it tried to break free of the harness that held it into the seats.

"Shit. We'll grab the other truck." Holloway said turning towards the second one.

"Dude, we can't leave the dog here to be torn apart." Bishop had let go of the girl and was trying to calm the dog who was having none of it as it continued to lunge at them.

"Well there is no way I can get to his harness, he'll attack us as soon as he's free. These guys only respond to their handlers, the body of which I suspect is over there somewhere." He jerked a thumb towards the house where the SWAT team had been massacred.

They were wasting time and Thomas knew that they couldn't argue about this forever. He pushed Bishop aside and shot the dog twice in the chest. It gave a whine, sagged, and then collapsed onto the trucks back seat. Bishop looked at him for a moment with a look of horror on his face.

"Sarge, what the fuck..."

"Can't leave him and can't take him with us, no other way, and we don't have time to coax him out."

The others nodded though Bishop looked disgusted for a moment before sagging slightly in his combat harness. "You're right, sorry."

"Anytime guys." Holloway interrupted from the second truck. He was already behind the wheel, the girl buckled in to the back seat. The remainder of the team quickly hurried to join him. The truck was large, armoured, and fully prepared for SWAT operations with bullet proof windows covered by metal cages. It looked like the perfect vehicle for the situation until Holloway gestured towards the dashboard.

"Half a tank, takes diesel, and I don't know how to tell you this, but with gas stations being so automated these days and my credit card being at the base, we aren't going very far."

"Let's get a move on Holloway, we can worry about this when the times come."


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Stevie Darden

Stevie shoved her bag at her feet and squeezed herself against the window to give as much room as possible for the armed men piling quickly into the vehicle. Her heart pounded in her throat. Already it felt like it had to have been a lifetime ago that she saw Dean's head fling backwards, body completely horizontal in the air as the bullet dragged him backwards into stillness. After the two soldiers had tucked her up and away from Dean, they took her gun and rushed her along. Everything after that felt like it may or may not have happened, even the sudden shooting of the angry dog. Her mind felt like a record skipping every few seconds and starting the song over.

The APC lurched forward, jolting Stevie out of her head and back into the vehicle. She turned to her right and noticed Thomas occupied the spot next to her. She edged toward the window to give him room to turn to talk to his colleagues. The sun was on its way down.

The vehicle rumbled ahead, mainly street lights acting as the source of illumination along the road. A fire was burning just down a ways. Several disabled cars littered the road, forcing the APC to maneuver carefully through them. Not far away, two hunched-over figures were crunching their teeth on a screaming woman pushed up against the inside of an open car door. Stevie watched in complete silence, noting the similarities between that and the surreal sequence of Dean's attack. Whatever this was, it was happening everywhere. The occasional dead body sprawled out on the ground amongst the cars.

She kept her mouth shut while the group talked amongst themselves. At this point she couldn't see what she could contribute. Right now it was her job to just follow along and stay out of the way. Except... She pulled her bag up to her knees, unbuckled it and retrieved a folded-up map of the Los Angeles metro area. She opened it up and offered it to Thomas cautiously, having the strongest desire to be helpful. "We're not far from Santa Monica, right here," she said, pointing to a specific spot.

Holloway looked back over his shoulder. "Sarge," he said, trying hard to hide any kind of bewilderment upon the sight of a group of approximately twenty pallid, dead-faced men and women shuffling in place about fifty yard ahead, the largest group they'd seen yet. "We've got company."


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Thomas Blackthorne

The first part of the drive through the suburbs was surreal. Most people here had heeded the broadcasts from the LAPD and were barricaded into their homes. Small groups of walkers were battering away at locked doors and in many cases the doors, or windows, had been smashed in and figures could be seen staggering around the inside of the houses, screams came from all corners.

The Team spoke quietly amongst themselves as they went, excluding the woman due to her civilian status. It was a fast urgent conversation. They had to reconnect with command but all of their radio equipment, save for the short wave sets on their combat harnesses, had been in the boat that flipped over. They could still pick up snatches of military, police and civilian broadcasts but even the radio within the APC was virtually useless. Someone, somewhere, was holding down, or more likely had fallen onto, the transmit button which made it impossible for others to get a word in edgewise.

Thomas was wracking his brain for a plan, he didn't know the area at all, none of them did. Salvation came from an unexpected quarter when the woman suddenly piped up, shoving a map into his face. At that moment he could have kissed her. It was a little old fashioned but it didn't require a cell tower or data streaming so it would do nicely. He quickly folded it down so he could make out the majority of the waterfront. Bishop identified the intersections they passed through and Thomas quickly located them on the map. They were indeed somewhat near Santa Monica, but they were also near to Naval Weapons Station Seal Beach. They might be able to find other soldiers there, or at least make contact with the command.

Holloway interrupted his thought process. He sounded bewildered and Thomas couldn't blame him. Only an hour or so ago they had been engaged in training to combat living, thinking, and well armed enemies but now they were faced with something that no amount of training could have ever prepared them for.

50 or so Walkers were shambling down the street. Some of them were bare ass naked, others in their house coats, and even a few in civilian issue hunting camouflage, for all the good it had done them. They were in slow pursuit of a cat that was staring at them in surprise as it skipped a few feet ahead of them. It sensed danger but was clearly one of those few felines that genuinely liked people.

"Run them down, and then take your next right." Thomas said, his finger on the map.

The big trucks engine roared, the cat fled, and the Walkers turned just in time to get hit by a tonne of speeding metal. They bounced off the armoured sides like a bouncy ball does off a wall. Their reaching, grasping arms, made no impression on the armoured plating. Most of them vanished underneath the truck as it roared through them but one, taller than the rest, was hit so that its head tore lose, slammed into the window and for one horrible moment they were face to face with it as it tried to bite through the window. Holloway gave a shout of alarm, hit the windshield wipers and the head vanished. It was almost funny. Thomas hadn't even looked up other than to make sure they didn't miss their turn.

They stayed close to the water as they went. The vast majority of people would likely have headed towards the edge of the city, those that could flee at any rate, and the growing fires further inland testified to the horror that would be taking place there. Street after street flashed by, the entire Team having to avert their eyes every now and then as they saw Walkers, whose numbers seemed to by multiplying swiftly, break into houses and the screams of those inside mingled with the moans as gunshots rang out.

"We can't stop lads, I know it's hard." Thomas felt a great ball of anxiety in his own chest as he spoke. The Team was riding in tense silence now as they watched the city dissolve. "We don't have nearly enough ammunition to be effective out there."

The others nodded and he was grateful for their silence.


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Stevie Darden

Stevie gripped her seatbelt as she watched walkers. Her first estimate had not been correct; there were far more of them than she'd originally thought that the vehicle sent hurtling off in all directions. She gripped her leather bag and watched in stunned silence as the walker's head gnashed its teeth upon the reinforced window, flicked aside by the swiping windshield wipers thanks to Holloway's quick thinking.

She watched as the APC turned and commandeered a pedestrian walkway as it navigated close to the coastline, avoiding main thoroughfares with more cars lined throughout. Bicycles were still hitched into concrete-laden racks, some in disarray. One person lay clutching the back wheel of a bike; obviously, he hadn't unlatched his lock in time, or had just plain attempted to grab any bike in sight to get away from whatever got him.

The APC remained ensconced in silence as they headed south toward Seal Beach, just outside of Long Beach. Stevie didn't want to open her bag and possibly risk a distraction or annoying the others, so she started to mentally recount what was in her bag. She was in the habit of carrying a bag on long trips; her suitcase was now a long ways away, and held spare changes of clothes, a hair dryer, materials from the conference that she decided she'd just unpack after returning home, and a few small souvenirs she planned to send to her family stationed in D.C. Her parents, and most recently Dean, always poked fun at her for over-packing the bag she'd actually carry with her. Previously she'd had her Ruger in there, and made a mental note to ask for it back when the time was right. She'd had the metro map in there, and also had a map for the entire Pacific coastline stashed within, as backups in case their map apps on their phones were sidelined by sparse rural California cell coverage; other contents included a makeup bag, packs of gum, fruit leather, a cell phone charger, Kleenex, a spare shirt and leggings in case she spilled coffee on herself (as she was prone to do) and didn't want to dig in the packed suitcase for a change of clothes...

Her mental inventory was interrupted by a swift interjection. "Hey, we're not long at all," someone said, "it's just up ahead."

She didn't realize how far they'd traveled; it was almost 40 miles, according to a quick glance at the map's distance key. She peeked carefully over Holloway's shoulder and noticed that the red line on the gas tank was pointing dangerously close to the "E" on the left. She kept her eyes ahead, looking for signs of the black iron fence that typically surrounded most small installations.


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Thomas Blackthorne

They saw the Walkers before they saw the fence, hundreds of them, all of them moaning and trying to climb the high fence, even ramping up in some places. Massive floodlights lit the space beyond, affectively back lighting the entire horde like some grotesque nightmare.

"Go left, go left!" Blackthorne shouted to be heard over the din of the Walkers. "Access gate should be two hundred yards up on your right!"

Holloway spun the big trucks wheel and it drifted slightly, smashing into the crowd of Walkers with a dull meaty thud. Tires screamed, the smell of burning rubber mixed with cries of the Walkers and then the truck leapt forward again, ploughing through the Walkers like an NFL line backer through a little league team.

Blackthorne strained to see into the Naval Station and what he saw did not fill him with much hope. Small arms flashes were everywhere, bodies littered the tarmac and he could see desperate hand-to-hand combat on at least two of the three moored ships. The first two were old class Frigates, one was even on fire, it was clear that their crews were not winning the battle. The third, and furthest down the wharf, was a big Guided Missile Cruiser and he could see the name Bunker Hill printed on the gangway that led from shore to ship.

"Hang on!" Holloway yelled as he swung the truck to the left and then slammed the wheel to the right so that the heavy vehicle tore into the massed Walkers that were already surging through the broken gates. A dozen paces inside the gate a military police truck was rocking violently as Walkers dragged the passengers from inside and began to tear them apart. The APC narrowly missed the back end of the MP's car, two walkers crunching brutally under the reinforced tires.

"Make for the third ship!" Blackthorne roared at Holloway as he popped the hatch above his head and stood. He turned in place and fired a short burst into the head of the struggling MP closest to him. The man was missing half his leg already but the mercy kill would save him the pain of what came next.

Blackthorne turned back around so that he could see down the length of the wharf. Small arms fire pricked the night from the flight deck of the big cruiser and he could see her lines beginning to snap one by one as power was given to her engines. The gang way was falling free. It hung for a moment and then plunged into the sea.

"Mother fuckers! NO!" He swore and then, with the vehicle swaying beneath him, he aimed and fired a burst at the super structure of the ship. He saw sparks fly as the bullets cut a path high above the heads of the human defenders but it sure got their attention. They looked towards him, finally, and he waved frantically. He almost cried in relief as he saw someone wave in response as they grabbed a radio.

Then the APC gave a cough and the engine died.

"That's it!" He heard Holloway shout from inside. "We're walking!"

They were still a hundred yards from the Bunker Hill and he could hear the men on the flight deck screaming at them to run, the ship was going to begin making way shortly. Fifty or more Walkers lay between them the ship and, as the others piled out, Thomas began to fire into those nearest to them. He emptied his last clip for the MP5 and threw it aside, drawing his pistol as he dropped through the hatch and clambered out on the pavement.

"Move your asses!" Someone on board the Bunker Hill had gotten their hands on a megaphone and was encouraging them as only the military mind can.

More men appeared at the rail of the flight deck and a murderous barrage of fire was laid down, clearing a path for the refugees. Blackthorne grabbed the woman about her waist, amazed she was still with them, and began to run with her, firing at the Walkers with his sidearm. The big ship was still moving slowly forward and her last lines snapped with a sound like a gunshot.

He threw aside his pistol as the last round was expended and focused all of his efforts on running. The woman was in good shape but nothing compared to the special forces soldiers and he could feel her tiring.

"Holloway, her other arm!"

The big black Sergeant fired his last round and grabbed her other arm. Together the two of them virtually lifted her off the ground as they ran. They were gaining on the ship and Blackthorne could see a mass of white foam pour out from beneath the stern as someone ordered the engines reversed for a moment to hold the ship steady.

"Heads!" A shout came from the flight deck and a rope curved high and then fell towards them. It struck the tarmac thirty feet in front of them and Bishop hurried forward to take hold of it.

"Girl first!" Blackthorne panted as he and Holloway rushed up. They took the rope and made a quick sling out of it, placing the rope over her head so that it was beneath her arms and then hurried her to the edge of the jetty. It was a good forty-foot drop and Blackthorne made certain she kept her eyes on him as he spoke quickly.

"Hold on here, with both hands." He guided her hands with his. "Close your eyes and don't open them until you're on board." She nodded and he pushed her into space. She gave a small scream and then spun crazily for a moment, bouncing off the steel hull before she shot skyward as dozens of willing hands took hold of the line and dragged her upwards. She vanished over the edge of the flight deck in moments.

"We've got company Sarg." Butskiy shouted, still kneeling and firing. The Walkers, while not terribly fast, were relentless. Dozens of them were slowly pushing forward and though the gunfire from the upper decks remained undiminished it was clear that the shooters didn't know they had to hit the head to kill them. Blackthorne saw countless little pops of grey flesh as bullets passed through torsos. He turned and shouted up towards the flight deck.

"Head shots! Head shots!" It was no use; they couldn't hear him over the blaze of gunfire.

Three ropes came sailing over this time and landed virtually on top of the small party. Blackthorne tapped Butskiy on the shoulder and took his weapon, jerking his head towards the waiting ropes.

"Up you go. And don't fucking argue." He snapped as the other man opened his mouth to argue. "Move yourself."

The three corporals went next while the Sergeants, Holloway and Blackthorne, stayed on the tarmac, firing carefully as the horde drew ever closer. Blackthorne risked a glance over his shoulder, the other three were only half way up to the flight deck. He swore and fired the last round from his weapon. He fitted his bayonet while Holloway did the same next to him.

He heard a shout as the three soldiers made the flight deck but didn't have time to turn as the first of the Walkers reached them. He ducked a clumsy swing and stabbed swiftly with the bayonet. It struck the creature right in the eye and it collapsed with a gurgle. He kicked the bayonet free and jabbed towards the next attacker, the long blade travelling up beneath the jaw and forcing its head back but failing to reach the brain.

He tried to drag the blade free but it had become lodged somehow and the weapon was torn from his grasp by the Walkers frenzied movements. He kicked out, sending the Walker tumbling back into several of its advancing fellows. Then he heard it, the blessed call from above.


Whoever had made the throw deserved a pitchers job in the Major League. The throw landed on his shoulder. He didn't even bother to flip it under his arms. Instead he wrapped it around his right forearm and with a quick step hurled himself into space. He felt a hand grip his harness and heard the grunt of a Walker as it came off the jetty with him.

Their combined weight made their drop, and subsequent fall, happen that much faster. They slammed into the side of the ship and the creature lost its grip, plunging down into the water, still trying to reach towards him. Pain had exploded in his brain and lights danced before his eyes but he held on for dear life as the rope rose swiftly towards the flight deck. Above him he could see Holloway vanish over the side.

Then it was his turn, willing hands reaching down to pull him to safety. He gasped a thank you to the men who had grabbed him before collapsing onto his back on the flight deck. Never had non-skid decking felt so welcome in all his life. His entire right arm and side were on fire. Beneath him he could feel the rumble of the ships engines as they engaged and began to drive them forwards once more.

A Petty Officer knelt next to him and offered him a bottle of water. "Rest easy buddy, we've got you."

"Thanks." Blackthorne responded as he chugged the water even as he turned to look for his team. Four grins and thumbs up told him that they were okay. He painfully dragged himself to his feet and staggered over to the woman they had brought with them. She was sitting staring towards the city and he knelt next to her, wrapping his good arm around her.

The city was burning. Somewhere something had exploded and the fire, unchecked by man, was raging out of control. Walkers seethed everywhere, in every street, on the beach and even in the harbour where the water was choked with floating, writhing corpses in lifejackets. The APC sat forlornly amid the sea of Walkers that had flooded through the broken gates and behind them one of the warships shivered from an internal explosion.

"I’m sorry about Dean." Was all he said as he gave her shoulders a squeeze.


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Stevie Darden

Stevie swiveled her head over to meet the Sergeant's exhausted, wired eyes. It took her a few seconds to process what he had said. She nodded and pulled her knee-length orange coat, spattered with rust-colored flecks of blood, off of her shoulder opposite from Thomas. After all the running combined with the warm night air, it was beginning to get hot. Earlier in the day, when there was a breeze in the morning, the coat had seemed like a good idea, even though Dean had made fun of her a little for wearing it.

She felt as stiff as a board, surprised at just how calm she really was being. Freaking out wasn't her go-to reaction during a tough situation, but she still found it incredible that she hadn't been in an all-out panic mode. "Don't be sorry, you did what you had to do," she responded quietly. The image of Dean with his arm missing and his face torn to shreds filled her brain. She took a deep breath, feeling her chest start to tighten. She exhaled and shook her head, still looking ahead at the burning city. "By the time you did it... it... it wasn't him anymore. Don't even worry about it."

Everything felt like a blur. Even the beach felt like a blur. Even the hours spent hidden in the shack felt like they might have never happened. Her head spun and her heart pounded. On the surface, she looked exhausted, with flushed red cheeks and blinking eyes. On the inside, she fought against her body's urge to pass out, the fires starting to form sparkling, cloudy dots in her vision. It was everything she could do to keep from passing out.

She looked over her shoulder in the other direction at one of the men who'd helped her onto the ship. "Hey," she called out, "you don't have a way to access a DSN line on here, do you?"

The Petty Officer furrowed his brow, unsure of how a civilian knew what that was. "We've got VoIP capability, but good luck even getting on right now," he responded. "Why?"

She took in another deep breath to clear the clouds from her eyes. "Pentagon," she managed simply, "my dad's at the Pentagon. He and my family are in D.C. I have to know that they're okay."

He nodded. "Sure," he said slowly. "First chance we get, we'll try that. But for now we still need to make sure we get out of here safe."

Stevie sighed again. "Okay, thank you so much," she answered politely as the man sauntered off quickly to learn what else needed to be done. She had a feeling that her family was going to be okay. If anyone were to be able to survive anything like this, it would be them. Dad might have made it to the point in his career where he spent more time behind a desk than being out and about, but his years' worth of experience as an infantryman was never going to go to waste. Add one determined mother and two unbelievably tough sisters, and a family contingency plan they'd always talked about while growing up: stick together at all costs. Stevie suddenly felt bad for anyone who might cross paths with the four, and her heart sunk a little at the thought of being separated from them to the tune of thousands of miles.

But being on a frigate was the second-best possible outcome. In a strange way, it felt at least a little normal. She'd spent most of her time around the U.S. Army, a lot around the Air Force, and not as much around the Navy or Marines, but still a bit. A quick study of Thomas in her mind told her that he wasn't American. Canadian, maybe? His accent wasn't too far off.

"What do we do now?" she asked him, somewhat comforted by the feeling of his arm around her, reminding her that everyone else was probably just as scared as she was.


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Character Portrait: Harper Hopkins Character Portrait: Thomas Blackthorne Character Portrait: Nathan McDonald (NPC) Character Portrait: Stephanie "Stevie" Darden Character Portrait: Calvin Hawke Character Portrait: Tara Schantz (NPC)
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Harper Hopkins

Schantz jammed the tripod in the door's handles as Nathan pinned the door shut. While Harper shut off her IFB channel, the small helicopter started to prep for takeoff, its rotor blades starting to whir centrifugally to life.

Harper ran over to grab her large purse and her jacket that she'd removed earlier. "Harp, those people are STRONG," Schantz called over the noise. "I don't know how long that thing is going to last."

They got their answer when they heard the sharp whine of fast-bending metal. The top-of-the-line, titanium-reinforced tripod was no match for the walkers in the hall as they succeeded in busting the doors off of their secured runnings. A few more good pushes and that thing would crumple out onto the ground.

Schantz ducked under the spinning blades and hurled herself into the seat next to the pilot, motioning for the two to join. Nathan and Harper started to sprint ahead, just as the tripod predictably sprang apart. Maxine and two editors started to break toward them, snarling like vicious primeval predators. Nathan looked over his shoulder as he pushed Harper ahead, shocked that the wild-eyed, messy-haired, thrashing bony walker rushing toward them was so much unlike the old Maxine, slow and dramatic and sour-faced, without a single hair out of place.

Nathan skittered under the helicopter's blades and climbed in. Harper threw her bag ahead into Nathan's hands and made her way inside. A lot easier than they thought it would be. Nathan pulled the small hatch shut seconds before the trio smashed into the side of the chopper, their bodies smashing against the hull. The small craft lifted off of the ground and took off southward to Seal Beach. Harper was glued to the window, observing the fast-moving rush of bodies, face and arms as they got smaller and smaller. "Buckle up!" the pilot attempted to shout over the engulfing noise.

Too late. Harper fell face-first into the wall as the craft banked a hard left to circle off in the correct direction. Nathan, who had already secured himself in the bench seating behind the pilot and Schantz, instinctively pulled her away and close in, wrapping both arms around her waist. She kicked her feet onto the wall to stabilize herself. Nathan pulled her in a little more. She reached a hand up to her face and grimaced as she felt a trickle of blood. "FUCK!" she burst out, the first moment she had shown any sign of real panic in hours. Nathan kept her pulled in as the craft leveled once again, gripping tightly to keep her head up and away from the door or the ceiling. It briefly made him think of the night he met her, after the station welcome party when a group decided to go out on the town. The two danced for what had seemed like hours to Nathan. Very enjoyable hours.

Harper breathed heavily, briefly staring ahead, adrenaline rushing. If she had a reply, Nathan didn't hear it over the noise. He loosened his grip so that she could set herself into her own crash webbing, seated close to him on the bench.

The pilot shouted above the noise once more, knowing full well that not everyone in the craft had a headset to hear him better with. "JUST AHEAD, IT'S SWARMED!"

Harper's jaw dropped as she saw Seal Beach from overhead. The Naval Station stood out sharply, fires blazing off of the customary cookie-cutter buildings littered across the installation. Just off the shoreline a few frigates sat atop the orange water, some spewing flames of their own. One, however, featured people dotting along its surface, broken away about one hundred yards away from the others.

The pilot took a hard dive toward the frigate. Nathan swiped his arm behind Harper and covered her head. Schantz gripped the edge of her seat and turned behind to the two. She mouthed something, but the pilot inexplicably lost control of the craft and suddenly the water was above their heads.


Shutting his eyes, he unbuckled Harper's restraints and set himself free next. The doors had blown their way open. Harper's bag flew off of her, becoming disattached from her shoulder, as she sped kicking for the surface, grabbing Nathan's hand and pulling him up with her.

The four popped their heads above the surface of the water, drifting in a messy spiral thanks to the still-spinning blades as the helicopted submerged further and further beneath the surface of the water. They'd barely missed the frigate.

"HEY!" Nathan managed up to the crew looking over the edge of the floating safe haven, his boundless energy powering the volume of his shout, "A little help?!"

Harper blew the salty water out of her nose and worked her way to Nathan to float beside him. Schantz approached as well, her wet hair matting flat on her head as she struggled to keep above the choppy water. The pilot had started to swim on his way over, but let out a yelp as he was dragged beneath water. He splashed back up. "HELP!" he called out.

"Just swim!" Schantz responded to him. "Just swim over!"

Harper yelped suddenly when she felt a cold, squishy hand grip her heel. "They're in the water!" she screamed, kicking her white flat off along with the walker's hand.

The pilot disappeared back below the water, then popped back up, a raw, salt-rotted face ripping his collarbone to chewed ribbons.

Harper screamed again, feeling some kind of relief when she saw Schantz lift up into the air. She looked over and saw Nathan struggling similarly, kicking his legs down and smushing a face below the surface. "Come here!" he shouted to her as he took a hold of a lowered harness.

Without thinking she flailed her way toward him, the cold blast of Pacific water switching fast into frigid ocean breeze as she sailed into the air. Nathan held her again tight around the waist, very close, and she flung her arms around his neck to stay stable. The next thing she knew, Nathan hurled her over the metal rail aboard the surface of the frigate. She coughed and rolled over on her side, curling into a ball as she caught her breath. Nathan followed suit, flat on his stomach beside her.

Schantz was already up, a blanket draped around her shoulders and holding a bottle of water, standing in front of a small group of assorted sailors and a few others. She stared at them wordlessly, too tired to think.


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Thomas Blackthorne

“What do we do now?’

Those words hung in the air and Blackthorne found that he had no answer to give the woman. He suspected that he and his team would soon be reassigned or split up, depending on how the situation looked to command. She would probably be kept on the ship or relocated.

He was saved from vocalizing his thoughts aloud by the arrival of two men, one of them a heavily armed Marine, the other wearing the red cross of a medic on his shoulder.

“Need to do a full visual inspection Sergeant, sorry. No one stays on the ship without one. CO's (Commanding Officers) orders.”

Blackthorne didn’t bother arguing. He gave the woman another shoulder squeeze and then stood with, offering her a short smile. “I’ll be right back.”

He followed the two men to a temporary screen that had been rigged to hide the view. As he stepped behind it he saw a burly female soldier and a female medic approaching the woman for what he assumed would be the same conversation.

Behind the screen he was asked to strip naked. The medic quickly and expertly checked him over for signs of injury. All the while the Marine who had come with them stood with his firearm leveled at Blackthorne. He offered the Canadian a slight shoulder shrug.

“Sorry Sarge, had a couple turn on the boat while we were preparing to get clear, can’t be to careful.”

Blackthorne nodded. He was tall enough to see over the screen and he managed to catch the eye of the woman he had brought aboard as she head behind her own screen and offered her a wink.

The inspection finished quickly and the Marine lowered his weapon as Blackthorne began to redress. The Medic stepped out and returned a moment later with a set of Marine fatigues.

“Probably a bit more comfortable than your dive suit Sergeant.” He passed the uniform over to Blackthorne who nodded his thanks and stepped thankfully into the warm dry clothes. His legs were raw between the thighs from running in his dive suit and he winced slightly as the cloth rubbed over the sore patches.

“Thank you Sergeant. I’ll check the rest of your team and we can move you guys onward.” Said the Medic as he gestured that Blackthorne was free to go.

Holloway was next. The remainder of the team sat quietly under guard at the rear of the flight deck. Whoever was in charge of this operation wasn’t taking any chances. All of the new arrivals were spaced out, at least four feet between them, if someone turned they would be shot before they could infect someone else, hopefully.

Blackthorne, for the moment alone, took a moment to sit on the edge of the flight deck and look out into the harbor. The Bunker Hill was swiftly approaching the breakwater and the open sea. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a helicopter and he glanced up to see a small helicopter labouring across the sky. It was clearly overloaded and losing its battle with the strain on the engine. For one horrifying moment Blackthorne thought that the pilot was going to try and land on the Cruisers flight deck but then the helicopter gave a last despairing chop at the air and its engine died. He had an impression of scared faces staring at him from the window as the chopper fell and then it slammed into the water no more than twenty feet off the port side and in an instant sailors rushed to the side, harness and ropes in hand. Blackthorne, already seated on the port side could see four heads appear around the quickly sinking aircraft.

One of them vanished almost immediately with a scream as something grabbed him from beneath and Blackthorne shuddered at his own memory of the grasping hands below him in the inky water. He was about to offer to assist the sailors at their task but more rushed from the hanger and quickly had the three new arrivals dragged onto the flight deck.

The helicopter had sank from sight and Blackthorne was turning to study the new arrivals who were quickly being hustled into the medical inspection stations when he found himself face to face with a strange officer he did not know. The man looked exhausted and strained but he offered a genuine smile and shook Blackthornes hand.

“Welcome to the USS Bunker Hill Sergeant. I am Lieutenant Jack Georges, Deck O (Officer). I am sorry to tell you this but we have to put your team back in. Sergeant Holloway tells me he can pilot a chopper and I have two SeaHawks, orders to airlift out as many survivors as I can and no pilots. Holloway said he wouldn’t fly without his team so I have to put you guys back in.”

Blackthorne nodded. His side was still on fire from his clash with the steel hull but it was minor compared to the fate that awaited those still out there. “Yes sir. Permission to re-arm my lads from the ships armoury?”

“Granted. I need you lifting out of here in no more than 30 minutes. My boys are wheeling the chopper out now.”

Even as he spoke the huge hanger door began to grind open and the tail rotor of a SeaHawk helicopter appeared in the flood lights as sailors rolled it onto the flight pad. It was a long lean grey aircraft, identical to the Blackhawk helicopter made so famous by Hollywood, only a fe minor modifications made for firing torpedoes.

The survivors still seated around the flight deck were moved into the now empty hanger as the flight crews began to prep the helicopter. Blackthorne waved his team over and gave them the news. None of them complained and he thanked the gods for their stoic calm in the face of what was the greatest disaster he had ever heard of. It probably helped that none of them had close family or friends, the military was their family.

Georges led them down to the armoury where each of them was outfitted with their choice of weapons and the far more comfortable Marine battle dress, their dive suits tossed over the side to prevent any of the matter on them from contaminating the ship.

They were back, fully kitted out, in the hanger within 15 minutes. They gathered around Georges who had a simple roadmap of LA covered in all sorts of markings. It was clear that the ship had not been ready for any domestic operations. The few other maps that had been posted on the bulkheads (Walls) all showed various maps of the Gulf of Aden.

“For the moment we need you guys to start taking people off rooftops. It’ll be your discretion on ROEs (Rules of Engagement) as well as who you will and will not attempt to recover. If the situation looks like total shit, don’t risk it. We can’t afford to lose you or that chopper. Command has issued strict orders that we are not to get into any pissing matches with the Walkers, nor are you to attempt to enter structures. Understand?”

The soldiers gathered around him nodded and he gave them a tired smile. “I know it’s been a long day gents but we don’t have anyone else we can rely on. God speed.”

He offered them a salute and they turned and jogged towards the helicopter. It’s blades were already slowly rotating as Holloway, the only one not in the briefing, engaged the engine. The cabin light, a low vis red light, glowed eerily on him as they ran and he gave Blackthorne a thumbs up through the windshield.

Blackthorne was halfway across the hanger floor when he caught sight of the woman from the beach sitting amongst the refugees, staring at him. He turned towards her and jogged over, kneeling down in front of her.

“We’re going back in to look for survivors.” He wasn’t entirely sure why he was telling her, maybe it was because he had no one else who might care and suddenly, in the midst of all the chaos, he needed someone to come back to. “We’ll be back.” He took her hand in his and smiled. “Keep a light on for us okay?”

She managed to smile back and then he was gone, hurrying to the helicopter that was now throttling up to a heavy roar. Lieutenant Georges stood at the hanger door and Blackthorne could see a number of the refugees and ships crew join him.

The helicopter began to lift off even as the Bunker Hill cleared the breakwater. On the flight deck Lieutenant Georges waved his hand in farewell and spoke almost under his breath. “You brave bastards. Go with God.”

Blackthorne, one leg thrown over the side of the chopper so that it hung into space, waved back as the helicopter circled the ship once and then dipped its nose and roared back towards the city in the ever increasing darkness. For a moment it was silhouetted against the flames that seemed to be growing everywhere and then it passed into the smoke and was gone.


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Character Portrait: Harper Hopkins Character Portrait: Thomas Blackthorne Character Portrait: Nathan McDonald (NPC) Character Portrait: Stephanie "Stevie" Darden Character Portrait: Tara Schantz (NPC) Character Portrait:
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Stevie watched Thomas head off after saying goodbye to her, her exhausted eyes still doubting what she'd seen that day. She noticed that he'd changed clothes, then reflected on the fact that he, along with some of the others, was wearing a diving suit during the day while all hell was breaking loose around them.

It was almost absurd.

She smiled a little to herself, finally finding something to laugh a little about. It certainly wasn't in the spirit of making fun of him or the others; after all, she was wearing an orange coat and yellow boots. They did exactly what they set out to do, which was get to safety. Had it not been for them, she wouldn't be there.

She heard a voice call out from just off to the left. A tall, tan blond man was sitting with two women, one stoic-faced and one with a bruised cheekbone who looked on the verge of shock. "That your husband?" he asked. "Do you know what's going on?"

Stevie shook her head. "Nope, just met him today," she said simply. "He doesn't even know my name."

The man paused. "So, what just happened?" he asked, now obviously intrigued.

she shrugged and opened up her bag, pulling out strips of fruit leather, then offered them to him. "He shot my boyfriend," she said simply.

The man paused again. "Would you mind re-stating that so that that doesn't sound crazy?" he said slowly as he accepted the gift. The stoic woman immediately reached for one, pulling the wrapper off and chewing restrainedly on it.

Stevie paused. "Well, maybe it wasn't him," she mused out loud, then settled back against the metal wall, her feet stretched out before her. "This morning my boyfriend and I were getting ready to drive back to Seattle. We went to Santa Monica to go have breakfast before we were supposed to go visit friends in Venice Beach. While we were waiting for a place to free up a table, we went wandering out on the beach. Some of those things walked up behind him and snatched him up."

The stoic woman continued to chew on her fruit strip. "You mean you didn't help him?" she asked bluntly.

Stevie's stomach twisted. "I didn't know what they were," she said glumly. "I thought they were just a couple of assholes joking around. You know how people can be."

The woman nodded. "Sorry," she said stiffly. "Well... what happened next?"

Stevie opened a piece of fruit leather for herself. "After that, I hid up in one of those lifeguard shacks," she continued. "Then a group of them found the shack. He actually found me." She nodded her head in the direction Thomas had gone off in. "They said they'd take me with them. Right after we started to take off, I saw him." She paused as she felt her chest start to tighten. It was the first time she'd put any thought into walking herself through the day. She stopped and looked down at her hands. "It wasn't him. He was gone. He was one of those things."

The woman with the bruised face blinked as she heard the story. "That's awful," she said sympathetically, moving a hand up to her face quickly, briefly wincing in pain. "So they brought you here." Stevie nodded. "Well, we're all lucky. I'm really glad that these people were here. And back there with you."

Stevie looked at her for a moment. The pretty, slight, dark-haired woman looked very familiar. "Hey, I know you," Stevie said briefly, reaching into her bag and pulling out a pack of Kleenex and a small bottle of witch hazel, something she used every day in applying makeup. She soaked a few of the tissues and handed it to the woman, gesturing for her to put the makeshift compress on her face to bring the swelling down. "You're not friends with Mark Sanchez in Seattle, are you?"

The woman half-smiled under the compress. "Yeah, he was my photog in Atlanta," she said kindly. "You know him?"

Stevie nodded. "Yeah, he and I went to college together, then we were roommates in Seattle with a few other people," she said. "You're Harper. You've done a lot of cool stuff. I'm Stevie."

The woman smiled. "Oh, yes! He's talked about you!" she responded. "They were all so bummed when you left. I came up to visit a weekend that you were gone. I was sad that I missed you. You're the one who did the radio shows and had all that stuff in Rolling Stone?"

Stevie nodded, and the woman introduced her two co-workers, Tara Schantz and Nathan McDonald. Schantz seemed a little removed at first, but was starting to slowly stop pretending that she wasn't interested in the conversation taking place. Nathan seemed a bit obnoxious, but not particularly harmful. Harper was gracious and doing her best to be polite, even if she was a little on-edge. What were the chances of meeting someone she knew through an old roommate?

# # #

Hours later, Stevie lay on the floor, reflecting once again on her day. She had a habit of playing everything a million times over and over in her brain, wondering about potential outcomes and what may have led up to certain things happening. It was a bit of an annoying habit to have on most days.

She had been subjected to a quick check from one of the medics on board, and was pleased to get a clean bill of health and sent back out on her way. It was fast, too fast for her to possibly feel any sense of embarrassment. She was even more pleased that the group next to her that had flopped their way on the boat after the helicopter crash had reached out to her. It didn't hurt that Thomas had come to see her, either. He'd given her the most information that anyone had given her the entire day.

Harper, Nathan, and Schantz had related the story of their day, which seemed almost more incredulous than hers, going from interviewing the actor, Calvin Hawke, to hopping into a traffic chopper and crashing into the water.

After sharing fruit leather in her bag and enjoying more bottled water handed out by some of the sailors on board, the four lined up against the hangar wall to try to catch some sleep. Nathan slept like a rock just a few feet away from the women. Schantz had finally fallen asleep. Harper lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

Stevie looked at her from her spot and waved her hand just slightly. "You all right?" she whispered, picking up fast on the woman's anxiety that was becoming harder and harder to contain as the hours waned on.

Harper turned over and looked at Stevie. "I'm fine," she insisted politely. "Just hard to sleep."

"No, you're not fine," Stevie responded. Harper didn't say anything. "Do you need something?"

Harper propped herself up on her elbows and turned the little compress over. She'd been re-soaking the patch of tissue with water every now and again. It felt good on her face. "I, uh... I'm just missing my medication."

Stevie nodded. "How can I help?"

Harper looked at her bag. "Is it too much to ask if you've got a Valium, or some Xanax?"

Stevie paused, and then started to dig through her bag. Dean had asked her to carry his medication for him during the trip, as he suffered the occasional panic attack and didn't exactly carry a bag with him. Stevie had panic attacks, as well, but far more infrequently than what she'd had when she was younger. She fished out the orange prescription bottle and feathered her fingertips through the fifteen or so small tablets, finally getting a hold of one. She offered it to Harper. "I'm happy to help," she said quietly.

Harper smiled and accepted it, swallowing it down with a sip of water. "Thank you," she responded graciously. "I-"

"It looks like you've had a rough day," Stevie said, re-capping the bottle and putting it back into the bag. "I guess it might not be long before I'll want one of those, too," she added dryly.

"Please don't tell anyone," Harper said quietly. "I work with these two... I work with Nathan almost every day. They don't know."

Stevie nodded in understanding. "Don't worry, I won't say anything," she said.

Harper nodded back. "Let's not let the four of us get separated," she suggested, lowering herself down from her elbows to lay back down on the cold metal floor. "Come with us. We lost our group, but let's look for them. Join us."

"That sounds great," Stevie said, partially enthusiastic and partially wondering when Thomas was going to come back. She looked at Harper, and noticed that she was missing a shoe and that her clothes, like Nathan's and Schantz', smelled like the salty ocean. She looked into her bag again and pulled out a couple of hotel samples she'd tossed in without thinking before she and Dean had checked out. "Here, have these."

Harper accepted them. "Thank you," she said gratefully. "Maybe we can laugh about this someday, right?"

Stevie smiled. "See you in a few hours." She settled back and closed her eyes.

# # #

Harper drifted awake a few hours later, still feeling the quiet and still haze of the medication. Stevie was still fast asleep, curled up on the ground covered in her coat, hugging her bag against her stomach. Her folded glasses were parked not far from her head. Nathan was sitting up, drinking a bottle of water, and Schantz was holding a sleeping baby.

Harper sat up and ran a hand through her ocean-stiff hair and took a look at Schantz staring down at the calm child, then look up to meet her stare. "Her mom asked me if I could hang onto her," she whispered over. "She's just over in the bathroom, I guess."

Nathan nodded. "Lady was tired," he added. "She's been gone maybe 10 minutes. Schantz has the magic touch."

Schantz rolled her eyes. "I hate babies," she managed half-heartedly, lying poorly.

Nathan shrugged his shoulders. "This baby doesn't hate you, that's for sure," he said. "You got your technique down and everything." Harper rolled his eyes at him. "What? My brother's wife had a baby and there's a whole way of doing this stuff. It's complicated, man."

Harper laughed slightly and tried not to think of her own family, her own nieces and nephews, one of which must have been the baby's age. She took a deep breath and re-centered herself. "You guys sleep okay?"

Schantz nodded, continuing to rock the baby, who snoozed away happily. "I don't know about you guys, but I was pretty tired," Nathan chirped with a grin, scooting closer to Harper. "It's about 6. Someone said they're opening the doors soon. Don't know much more than that."


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Thomas Blackthorne

Dawn. It came creeping over the horizon, the sun spreading its rays across a landscape that had descended into hell. Fires raged everywhere you looked and the roads were choked with those trying to escape the undead onslaught. You could see the Walkers eating their way up the lines of stalled cars, dragging people screaming from their vehicles and though daylight made it slightly less hellish it also made you very aware of how widespread the destruction was.

On the USS Bunker Hill the sunlight was dazzling as it danced across the water, blinding the flight deck crew as they searched the sky for signs of the SeaHawk returning to station. Orders had come down from Command that no more rescue flights were to enter the city until after Airforce units had bombed the heaviest concentrations of Walkers. Once that was completed, there would be time to go in and mop up. So simple and so naive.

The thud of rotor blades came over the water at last and the sailors took up their positions as the grey helicopter swept into view. It was laboring slightly, the blades clawing at the air as it came in low with barely enough altitude to reach the flight deck that rose and fell with the sea.

It hung for a moment above the deck and then as a wave crested it dropped neatly onto the pad with barely a thump. Sailors hurried forward to help offload the civilians, nine in all, who had been plucked from the roof of an apartment building. They were inspected at once, the Marines lurking close by, as the rotors spun down.

Holloway sat slumped in the cockpit, exhaustion written across his face. Bishop was next to him in the co-pilots seat and all he could do was stare vacantly at the hanger door in front of them that was, even now, beginning to grind open to allow a flood of light in, and a flood of refugees out. Only two other men were in the helicopter. Clarkson was seated in the gunners’ seat for the M60 machine gun but he was oblivious to the landing or even to the thanks of the refugees.

Blackthorne sat alone on the port side of the helicopter, his head in his hands. His fatigues were torn, blood was running down his face. He moved long enough wave away the medic who hurried towards him. He felt empty, exhausted beyond all reason and, for the first time in a long time, he felt like crying.

He was no stranger to death, he had killed his fair share of men during his combat tours but nothing could have ever prepared him for the emotions that threatened to rip him apart at that moment. He could still see the Walkers dropping in droves and see the look in Butskiys eyes seconds before he shot himself.

The helicopter swooped in like a giant bird, the heavy down draft of the rotors battering at the crowd of huddled refugees flat against the open space of roof they had been frantically waving from. There were six of them, all young women from a modeling agency in the building below. They estimated the oldest to be no more than seventeen or eighteen.

There was no clear space near to the refugees and so Holloway brought them in for a winch pickup, hovering no more than fifty feet off the ground as Blackthorne and Butskiy repelled swiftly to the rooftop. The first two girls, their voices almost drowned out, were gesturing to a nearby rooftop penthouse. Walkers, possibly dozens of them, could be seen banging on the glass, trying to reach the refugees. Most of them, like the girls, were clad in little skimpy outfits, it looked almost hilarious at first glance.

It was no trouble to winch the first four girls into the helicopter but fate is a cruel mistress and as a gust of wind hammered into the helicopter, forcing it closer to the glass, the down draft picked up some loose debris and hurled it at the glass. Spider webs appeared across the surface of the glass and in seconds it collapsed under the weight of the walkers who poured onto the roof.

A collection of cell towers prevented Holloway from rotating the chopper so that the machine gun could bear on the Walkers and Blackthorne and Butskiy suddenly found themselves faced with a small swarm, and the need to still winch two refugees into the helicopter.

The harnesses came down and the girls were quickly hooked up but it took precious seconds and lack of gunfire allowed the Walkers to close within a few yards. The two soldiers began firing again, dropping those closest to them but there was going to be too many.

Blackthorne quickly signaled to Holloway to pull back towards the edge of the roof and he and Butskiy began to fall back, firing as they went. It looked for a moment like they might be able to pull out without any issue, and then Butskiy went down.

He had been stepping back, coolly picking off the Walkers as he did so. With the helicopter maneuvering and the moans of the walkers he couldn’t hear Blackthornes shout of warning as an arm shot out from beneath an air conditioning unit and tripped him. Before he could do anything teeth had sunk into his leg and he found himself face to face with a naked Walker. The man must have once been a well-built fellow, possibly a model himself, but now he was a ravenous monster that clawed towards Butskiys face. How it had come to be there they couldn’t guess, maybe someone who had fled to the roof to take cover and then reanimated. It didn’t matter. The damage was done.

Blackthorne shot the creature and knelt next to Butskiy. There were tears in the smaller man’s eyes as he clutched at the Sergeants shoulder. He had to shout to be heard but there was no mistaking his words.

“Been an honour Tom! See you in hell!” He gave the Sergeant a heavy shove and, his leg dragging uselessly behind him, he began to limp towards the Walkers, firing as he went. He was screaming something in Russian that Blackthorne couldn’t make out and he felt hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he turned and ran towards the helicopter.

He was hauled in by willing hands and looked back down to the rooftop. Butskiy had fired his last rounds from his submachine gun and dropped it, drawing out his pistol and continuing the massacre. He killed them all, every single damn one of them, shooting the last one as it tried to lunge for him, waiting until his pistol almost touched its forehead before blowing its grey matter all over the broken windows.

The helicopter has remained on station and Blackthorne felt a knot in his gut as a man he known less than a week yet had shared more horrors with than most others in his life, turned to face them. Even at this distance Blackthorne could see tears running down his friends face as he threw them a jaunty salute and then put a bullet in his brain.

“Sergeant. Sergeant Blackthorne.” The gently spoken words brought him back to reality and he found himself face to face with a pretty female medic who was crouching at his feet, hands on his knees. “We need you Sergeant, your boys need you.”
He nodded numbly and allowed her to take his arm for a moment as he pushed himself away from the body of the helicopter. His fingers seemed unusually heavy as he pulled open the cockpit door and shook Holloway gently.
“Come on Hollowayt, let’s get some grub in us, grab a shower.”

The black man nodded and unbuckled his harness. Next to him Bishop did the same and Blackthorne could hear Clarkson swearing quietly as he fought to get himself out of the gunners seat. The three men joined him on the flight deck and they began the slow walk towards the ship. Curious civilians, at last released from their night in the hanger, were kept back by a cordon of Marines.

Once into the ship they were relieved of their weapons by the Marine security detail and checked over once again by the medics before being shown to a cabin that had been set aside for them. Their uniforms were taken to be washed and each of them was given a clean set.

Blackthorne lay down on one of the bunks and stared at the ceiling. The hum of the ships machinery was soothing and the whir of the air-conditioning unit a welcome change from the thump of the helicopter rotor blades. Beneath him he could heavy breathing as Holloway passed out within seconds of his head hitting the pillow. It was not so easy for Blackthorne but when sleep finally came it was the complete and absolute sleep of a man pushed beyond his limits.


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Thomas Blackthorne

Blackthorne was shaken gently from the deepest sleep he had ever experienced by the young medic who had talked to him on the helicopter. She smiled at him the red glow of the cabins light and jerked her thumb quietly towards the doorway.

"Sorry to wake you Sergeant," She whispered. " But you've been requested on the bridge asap."

He nodded and swung his feet over the edge of the bunk. To his surprise she knelt quickly and slipped on his boots before handing him the new fatigue jacket he had been given. He pushed his arms through the sleeves, aware of the snores of the men who were still passed out around him. He looked from them to the medic and raised an eyebrow, she shook her head. They stepped quietly out into the passage way and she closed the door behind them, speaking in a low voice as they made their way down the passage.

"You've been out for the last six hours. I refused to let them wake you until you'd had at least a couple hours to yourselves. You guys have been through hell." She turned to smile at him as she said it. "I thought you could use it before your next tasking."

"Which is?" He asked but she shook her head and he sighed to himself, he was sure he didn't want any part of whatever it was they had in mind for him and his team.

Several ladders and they climbed into the operations room of the Cruiser. There was a small collection of officers present, certainly not the full compliment but enough to run the ship, for the time being at least. They all nodded towards him as he appeared and none objected when he didn't bother saluting.

"Welcome back to the land of the living Sergeant." Said Lieutenant Georges. "How're you feeling?'

"Like shit." Blackthorne said simply.

"I suppose I deserved that." A smile twitched at the corners of Georges mouth. "Let's get right into it then. It has been made clear to us that your team is the only combat effective unit not already actively involved in trying to contain this thing. Even as we speak, National Guard units are closing in on Los Angeles and the Airforce and Marines are going to begin bombing runs within the next two minutes. Hopefully we can take out the largest concentrations, mostly around hospitals and..."

"What?" The officer was cut off by Blackthornes question. "You told us we wouldn't be rescuing those people until more resources were into place."

Georges looked at his feet for a moment and then back up at Blackthorne. "Command decided that those people would remain in place as bait to keep the undead concentrated for aerial strikes."

"Of course they fucking did..." Blackthorne said, wishing at that moment that he could lie back down and die. The faces of those people on the roofs as the helicopter roared by were bad enough but the knowledge that they had been deliberately left there to die made him sick.

"It's a slim chance." Said another officer. "You may have been asleep for this Sergeant, but things have gotten a whole lot worse."

He gestured to footage of New York taken from a drone circling above. It showed a street level battle between the Walkers and a motley collection of soldier, police and civilians. The Walkers took the day swiftly enough, slouching and surging their way through the streets and out into the suburbs.

"So far it is confirmed that over half the eastern seaboard is lost." He tapped a keypad and, just like in every Hollywood movie ever, a screen zoomed out to show the bulk of the United States showing in light grey. "In fact much of the country is being over run. The world isn't much better off."

Another click and it zoomed out further, the world slowly spinning to reveal just what was going on. Everywhere it panned there was grey, or in some cases black and he didn't need those zones explained to him.

"The government is doing its best to save what it can and we've been tasked with providing security to the FEMA camp just outside LA. I've already dispatched half my Marines. You and yours are being sent in to retrieve the medical team. I'm sorry Sergeant, but you're back into it."

Blackthorne nodded and stretched his back, towering over the assembled officers by a good six inches. He gave a humourless laugh and then glanced at the map that was still showing a slowly revolving world.

"Guess you'd better put us back into the game coach."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

An hour later the SeaHawk helicopter was back in the air again and roaring towards the mainland, now roughly 25 kilometres away. Holloway was back at the controls and Blackthorne was in the co-pilots seat next to him. Bishop and Clarkson were seated on either side, the doors had been removed so they could quickly get in and out of the helicopter.

"Heads up." Clarksons voice seemed loud in the headphones. "Fighters bombers at 2 o'clock."

Blackthorne peered up through the windscreen to see a dozen aircraft racing towards Los Angeles. He knew that they had come from an aircraft carrier somewhere off the coast but wasn't sure exactly where. The sleek grey aircraft shot passed them in seconds and towards the downtown core of the city.

It was more than five kilometres to the city but Blackthorne didn't need binoculars to tell him the bombs had hit as fresh flashes lit the sky and more smoke was pumped into the already hazy blue sky. There was something else, beyond the city to the north, a massive wall of flame and smoke was advancing slowly south and he pointed it out to Holloway.

"Forest fires."

"We're lucky there aren't more of them." Holloway responded as he gazed towards the fire. "The camp is a ways from the city and might be okay yet but I imagine they will have to do something about fighting that blaze or it will become a real problem."

Nothing else was said as the aircraft passed from the ocean and over solid ground. They were more than a few hundred feet high and Blackthorne could see Walkers staggering amongst the trees, along roadways, and much more. As they roared over the Highway 57 he was shocked to see thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of Walkers shuffling slowly along the roadway, drawn onwards by the gunfire of a National Guard unit that had blocked a narrow choke point. They had blown up the buildings around them to force the Walkers towards them.

"Brave, brave bastards." Holloway muttered. "They must have no idea what they're up against."

Not that it mattered, half a kilometre later a second swarm was eating it's way up the stalled rows of cars. There wasn't even a smartass saying to be heard amongst the entire team as they stared down at the chaos. Each of them knew that it could easily be them down there and none of them wanted to tempt fate by voicing the thoughts aloud.

"There is it." Holloway said at last and they all craned their necks as the FEMA camp sprang into view. It was poorly placed, that was evident at once, and straddling the main highway so it was only a matter of time before the swarms reached it. The mass of humanity below was packed into numerous tents and temporary shelters. One series of buildings, more organized than the rest and protected by fence, was painted with large red crosses on the roof. Blackthorne pointed towards it.

"Set us down there Holloway, on the pad by the largest shack. We want to be ready to pull out at a moments notice."

No one spoke as they set down on the ground. Curious faces pressed against the fence, staring at them, a few of the children even waved. Blackthorne couldn't bring himself to respond. In a matter of days, perhaps hours, most of these people would be dead. He looked around at the rest of his team and saw his own feelings mirrored in their expressions. It took a certain type of man to do the job they did but none of them had to like it.

"Holloway, Bishop, stay put. Clarkson on me."

The two men took off at a quick jog towards the nearest building. The gate into the small compound was visible nearby and the two Marines who stood guard over it offered them tired salutes. Blackthorne returned the gesture as he took the steps in a single bound, pushing open the door to find himself confronted by a cheerless and poorly lit pre-fab hospital.

"What the fuck, looks like something out of Afghanistan." Clarkson said as he joined the Sergeant inside the doorway. They only had time for a brief first impression before a doctor hurried towards them, his hands and coat covered in blood.

"What can I do fer you boys?" He asked in a typically midwestern drawl.

"Sergeant Blackthorne, we're here to evacuate you and your people, now if you please."

"Evacuate? Why?" The Doctor asked, surprise plastered across his face. "I thought more troops were on the way!'

"Yea, we're them, now let's go." Blackthorne interrupted. "I was told it was you and six others. Round them up and lets go."

The words were no sooner out of this mouth than the sound of screams began outside. In an instant he and Clarkson had knelt next to the doorframe. Gunfire sounded nearby and then suddenly died away again. The doctor behind them hadn't even moved.

"Small outbreaks have been happening all around. They get put down quickly enough."

Blackthorne was going to repeat his insistence that the doctor join him when Holloway came jogging up, Bishop close behind, both men looked grim. Blackthornes heart sank as he looked at their faces and then towards the helicopter. There was no mistaking the pool of liquid that was spreading down the side of the chopper and dripping onto the concrete below.

"Hydraulic lines been hit, start bullet from the shooting." Said Holloway.

"Well fuck."


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Stevie Darden

Stevie parked her car in the garage and looked at the clock. 2 a.m. It had been a long day, but it was worth spending her evening with Dean's sister and the baby. Her recovery was hard and her husband had to be out of town for work. Stevie didn't mind at all when Heather called her at 5, asking through frustrated tears if she could come over and spend time with the baby while she took a much-needed nap. Heather was sweet, and Stevie knew that if she was making the call that it must have been a very long day alone with a four-week old. Dean was the closest family she had nearby, and this particular January happened to be fairly cold. Besides, Stevie liked Heather.

The elevator stopped her off on the eleventh floor. Right before Christmas she'd moved out of the Fremont apartment she had shared with three other roommates to move in with Dean. She unlocked the door, stuck her keys and coat on a peg, and glanced out the window past the kitchen, overlooking Pike's Market and the waterfront. Bainbridge Island glittered faintly in the distance, and the rest of the city reflected sparkily on the calm water. She pulled off her yellow boots and placed them by the door.

She bent down to greet Dean's very old dog, a slow, graying Cocker Spaniel named Jeremy. She'd always thought it was a funny name to give a dog--but that's what made it so amusing. She scratched behind his ears and talked to him quietly and gave him a little peck on the top of his old skull. He let out a small "oof" noise and contentedly trailed his way back to his pillow near a heating vent. Stevie smiled at the dog and said good night, hoping that he still had many good nights left in his old bones.

She opened the door to the bedroom. Dean was stretched out on their bed, reading the latest issue of Spin. A lamp lit the room in a soft yellow glow. He looked up and smiled. "Hey," he said, "how's it going? You didn't text."

She walked over and gave him a kiss. "I didn't want to wake you up," she said, "and I was listening to Spiritualized in the car. Kind of wanted a few minutes."

Dean laughed quietly and put the magazine down on his nightstand. "I wanted to wait up for you. Thanks for going over there," he said. "That was nice of you to do on a Tuesday night."

She smiled and unbuttoned her shirt, tossing it into the laundry bin. "It was fun. Your nephew is a sweet little guy. I think Heather's having a tough time, though. Hopefully Jeff gets back soon."

Dean pulled the blanket aside. "Yeah," he said, trailing off, unsure of what to add. "Heather says you've got a knack for it."

Stevie kicked off her leggings and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her hair out of its rubber band and smiling. "Babies are pretty cool," she said, nodding and grinning enthusiastically. "They're just these tiny little creatures that are completely helpless. It's a little hilarious. But they just need a good cuddle and life is good, you know, Uncle Dean?"

Dean laughed again. "No, I don't know, I can't even figure out how to handle the little guy," he said. "I can't say I like anything about them," he added jokingly.

Stevie unclipped her bra and flung it like a slingshot at Dean. "The only thing you like about babies is making them," she said mockingly, grinning. "You're terrified of babies. You even sound like a baby."

He let out a louder laugh and threw the bra back. "You read my mind," he declared back, "secret's out. You got me." He looked at her for a moment and smiled. "Well, I'm sure I can get over that someday."

Stevie smiled back and tried to hold back the butterflies in her stomach. "If you want me to keep sticking around, you're going to have to," she said, leaning forward and pulling off her glasses. "I'm a bad Catholic, but I'm not that bad."

There was a long pause as the two stared at each other intently. But before they knew it, the fire alarm started to trill screamingly through the apartment and the halls. Jeremy let out a long howl from the living room. They laughed; someone must have been cooking, and doing a poor job of it, at a really bad hour. Stevie pulled on a sweater and a pair of Carhartts and Dean got up, already dressed. She pulled out a pair of slippers while Dean situated Jeremy on a leash, and made their way down to the street level with the old canine in tow.

# # #

Stevie jolted awake suddenly from her dream, hours after she fell asleep. In her head that fire alarm was blaring, screaming, so loud until she'd managed to wake herself up. IV drips could mess with your mind sometimes. As could sedatives.

But she couldn't hear the labored breathing off to her side anymore at all. Instead, all she could hear was the ticking clock, every stroke echoing loudly within the temporary metal walls, punctuated irregularly by a couple of clumsy footsteps. She wondered if the sedative had worn off or if it was still working.

Then a noise. A faint sputter from beneath the curtain in front of her. Stevie darted her eyes diagonally. Down below was another woman, the nurse who had helped with her IV, crawling on her elbows. She looked up at Stevie, half of her face red and sliced and her forehead turned to ribboned flesh. She opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly disappeared, yanked away by some unknown force.

A scream emerged from the other side of the curtain, a lot like the noise that had echoed in Stevie's head moments ago. A wet chewing noise silenced the outburst, continuing past it. A few more footsteps. A few more slow-gnashing sounds joining in.

Stevie tilted her head to peer through the slit in the curtain. Her eyes snapped wide open once she recognized the gray-skinned, dead-eyed appearance of the infected. She leaned back slowly. Two of them, gnawing on the body of the nurse. Two more dead bodies laid still near the entrance: the doctor who had greeted her coldly upon her arrival and had given her the sedative, and a man in a blue shirt.

The silence was louder than the sounds of the feeding.

She sat very still, hoping that maybe she could stay like that for a long time before maybe someone opened the door and distracted them. She kept every muscle in her body tense and still. She breathed low and quiet, fighting the urge to suck in oxygen. The smell in the mobile was horrible.

A thump on the door. A muffled voice called out. The walkers stopped chewing and focused toward the noise, and started to make their way over.

Stevie huddled herself backwards, trying hard to remain quiet as she did so. Unfortunately, she didn't consider her weak, IV'ed left hand, losing her grip and falling loudly onto the floor, first falling back-first on the metal drawer posted next to her, the contents spilling out on the floor. The needle ripped out of her skin and she let out a scream as the metal bar with the two half-filled IV bags and the raised cot came crashing down over her.

The curtains were torn asunder as the two walkers sought the source of the scream. It didn't take long for them to look down and see the frightened, half-naked young woman in glasses scooting her legs fast to get away from them.

She managed to pull the lightweight bed frame over her head, preventing one walker from getting a hold of her long hair and pulling her upwards. It bellowed low as it flopped its arms around, trying to remove the object and get to its food. The other walker crowded directly behind.

Her heart pounded and her throat felt tight as her white-knuckled hands hung on to the frame and shoved it hard against the undead assailant. She felt hot tears coming to her eyes, suddenly feeling extraordinarily angry about everything that had happened. Her adrenaline surged, spurred on by both survival instincts and overdue distraught rage. None of this was fair, for anyone. She briefly imagined Dean on the beach, and how similar his eyes were to this poor soul's. How Dean might have done this very same thing had he been here in the mobile with that injury. How maybe she should have just shot him, since she couldn't help him in the first place. How angry she felt that she'd had a dream about something that happened four months ago after seeing that awful, dead face on the beach.

The walkers' hands and teeth were starting to hack apart the thin foam padding and the metal frame.

It was then that she remembered what had killed Dean. Thomas had shot him in the head.

She reached out a hand to grab a hold of the base of the IV stand, and wrested her arm to knock it forward, ambitiously hoping to skewer at least one walker's head. It didn't work out as she'd planned; it slipped from her grip and swatted forward. It forced the second walker back a few feet, but the first one stayed and lowered its face toward hers. Panicked, she threw her right hand to the floor and snatched up a pair of plastic-sealed first aid scissors that had fallen from the drawer, and shoved them between its eyes. As she quickly pulled the scissors out, a spout of thick red blood splattered down over her medical gown. She watched in horror as the figure collapsed on her stomach, grateful to have subdued it but still shocked, all the same.

The other slowly started back toward her. She pushed the heavy body off of her and stood up, continuing to grip the scissors, aiming them toward the head as it lurched forward robotically. Another one down. She stepped over the toppled bedframe.

The lights flickered heavily as more shouts were heard at the door and the handle jiggled uselessly, a few pounds intermittently whomping through, shaking the light metal walls. The door was locked, probably with the intent of keeping the dangers of outside away from the patients inside. How wrong they were in this case.

The walker sprawled out near the door sat up as though jolted by electricity, locking eyes with Stevie. The lights continued to flicker, then dimmed significantly. Before her eyes could adjust, the walker was on its feet. Stevie instinctively stepped backwards and slipped on the pool of blood that had trickled toward her feet, landing on her back in the red puddle. The air whooshed out of her lungs, causing her to cough and gasp. The walker was on top of her in seconds, face roaring near hers, hands trying to get a hold of her struggling head for long enough to bite into it.

Several seconds' worth of struggle. The light flickering threateningly. Stevie had been weak a few hours before but now fought for her life, managing to overpower the larger walker. She straddled its chest and dug her knees against its shoulders in an attempt to immobilize its arms.

She looked down at its face as it struggled beneath her: it looked a lot like how Dean had on the beach, with shaggy hair and a missing eye. The resemblance was almost uncanny—same gray complexion, same milky hollowed dark eyes. Same shoulder bite, plastering all over the inside of her left leg. Most of his left arm was even missing, and he wore a blue shirt.

The sedatives. The fever. The heat. Whatever it was, it clicked in Stevie's brain.

The single second of hard-hitting clarity. Life was different now. Everything had changed. And it was as simple as that.

She drove the scissors from one side into the walker's temple, sending a spray of blood upwards. She flung out an elbow to shield her eyes and mouth.

She rested for several seconds, then climbed off of the walker and sat up on the floor. She rested herself up by her palms, knees halfway up in front of her, staring toward the quiet door. No thoughts moved across her mind. Just silence. She blinked her eyes slowly, barely moving. Her shallow breathing was quieter than the sound of the slowly-ticking clock.

The door then burst open with a forceful booted kick, and a familiar figure stood in the doorway and shot the dead doctor at the door square in the head without hesitation. The echoing bang didn't even bother Stevie as she connected her knees quickly, her big brown eyes on the verge of tears. Her glasses were smudged with blood, arms wobbling behind her, her right hand still clutching the bloody scissors. She looked ahead and struggled to see the person around the flashlight shining directly in her face.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Harper Hopkins Character Portrait: Thomas Blackthorne Character Portrait: Nathan McDonald (NPC) Character Portrait: Tara Schantz (NPC) Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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Harper Hopkins

"It's working!" Schantz' idea to hotwire the damn thing actually worked.

Harper and Nathan hopped into the older-model SUV and slammed the doors behind them. Schantz slammed her foot on the gas pedal and they motored ahead, leaving the three walkers in their rearview mirror as they took off along the grass beside the highway.

Smoke from nearby car fires plumed up into the air like black clouds, hanging over the sky like a low ceiling against the nearly-set sun. Some people still occupied their cars, huddled inside like scared rabbits. It wouldn't be long before the sun would set and cast cool darkness over southern California, plunging the camp and others into a new category of danger.

Harper looked out of the backseat window while Nathan and Schantz discussed whether they ought to head east toward the Ontatio airport or south toward Hollywood. Schantz reasoned that the airport would be farther out from the city and possibly feature some kind of safe haven behind a fence; Nathan reasoned that if bombs would drop that a dent must have been put into the walker population in the metro area, and they'd have to find Calvin.

# # #

"Did you hear that?!" Schantz suddenly exclaimed, jumping up from her place and staring at the wall of the tent.

"Hear what?" Nathan asked.

"That rumble!"

"No. Someone just dropped something huge. Hopefully it's a big box of food. They still haven't opened food service and we've been here for how many hours, now?"

Harper ignored him as she looked in the direction that Schantz had, and immediately dashed for the entrance. A large group gathered, staring westward at the sky; a few heavy jets slowly inched along the sky. "They're flying over the city!" someone cried out.

"Are they planning on bombing it?!"

A hush broke out over the group gathered before dispersing minutes later. It wouldn't be long before an all-out panic would break out and cause complete pandemonium. Harper looked at the other two; it was clear that they were thinking the same thing.

It wouldn't be long before the sun would begin to set. They had to get out, bombs or not.

"We have to go get Stevie," Schantz said, tearing into the bag and pulling out a small red wallet. She opened it and pulled out her driver's license. "Here, this is how we find her. Where'd they take her?"

Nathan gestured off in one direction. "They've fenced off the hospital area, whatever it is," he said, "someone said there've been walkers coming through there. Saying people die after the fever."

"We've got to get there right now!" Harper said steadily, trying to hide the frustration in her voice.

The three took off, running a ways to the fence surrounding the large medical unit, surrounded by several smaller units. A helicopter similar to the one that brought them to the camp was grounded beyond the fence. Maybe it was the same one. No idea.

Nathan pointed. "Hey, what do you know," he commented, nodding toward the tall stranger who had come to say goodbye to Stevie the night before. "The Canadian." He stood in the vicinity of the huge craft with a few other uniformed men.

"Hey!" Schantz called out to the man promptly. Nothing. "Hey! Canada!" He turned his head slightly, then turned back. Schantz called out again, gripping her fingers through the chain links and shaking furiously. He fully turned toward them this time, staring stoic-faced. "Are you going to come over here or what?!"

Harper balked a little at Schantz, then looked forward. "Do you know where Stephanie is?!" she called out loudly.

The man stood still, then looked around him and cautiously walked up to the fence after saying something to the others near him. "Pardon?" he asked in a dry but polite fashion after leaning toward the three.

Harper nodded. "We're looking for our friend Stevie," she said, "her real name is Stephanie. Darden."

"Ma'am, I honestly don't know," he responded, eyeing the three coolly. "The only names I know here are mine and my team's."

"You know her," Harper said. He stared back. "Short. Glasses. Blue dress!" she rattled off, trying to think of what Stevie had looked like when she was on the frigate. "You said goodbye to her!" Schantz held up her driver's license.

His expression remained calm while he paused and studied the card. But it was clear that he understood now. "Start over again," he instructed carefully. "Tell me what's going on."

"She's sick," Harper said hurriedly, "not with the flu, she just gets sick sometimes, and it happened to hit. They stuck her in quarantine. We don't know anything else. But we've got to get her out of here."

He shook his head. "I've got no idea where she is," he said.

"She's in quarantine!" Schantz insisted.

"She just said that," he answered, gesturing slightly toward Harper.

"Well, can we look for her?" Schantz fired back.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you in here."

There was a long, tense pause as the three looked at him, anxious and frustrated. His face hadn't changed a single bit since he approached the fence.

"I'll keep an eye out for her," he finally said, breaking the silence. He looked over his shoulder and then turned back to the trio, looking directly at Harper and hushing his voice. "But I'm going to tell you something. Things aren't looking good. Get a vehicle and get out."

Harper shook her head. "We can't leave her," she said emphatically. "I know you're in a tough position, but-"

"Ma'am, just head to a safe place."

The three looked back over their shoulders. The tension in the air was palatable.

Nathan nodded. "Okay, we'll do that." Harper darted her head over sharply, surprised that he acquiesced to anything at all.

Schantz held up Stevie's phone and wallet, and tried to angle them through the fence. "At least give her these," she said, far calmer than before. The man took the items and pocketed them.

"Thank you," Harper said quietly, unsure if it really had been any help at all at this point. "Maybe we'll run into you somewhere."

He nodded a good-bye and they scurried toward the edge of the camp.

# # #

"There's an airport not far from here," Harper said calmly. "I think that's where we should go. If it's a place we can get to by tonight."


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Character Portrait: Thomas Blackthorne Character Portrait: Stephanie "Stevie" Darden Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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Thomas Blackthorne

"Negative Sergeant, we have no available aircraft or pilots to come and pull you out. Over." The radio crackled quietly in Blackthorne's ear as he sat in the cockpit of the damaged helicopter. He slumped slightly, a heavy sigh escaping him as he resisted the urge to punch the console.

"So we're up shit creek without a paddle? Over." He glanced out the cockpit window at the remainder of his team who were sitting down and enjoying a quiet meal, it might be the last for some time.

"Affirmative." Came the response. "Be advised that multiple airstrikes have been ordered for the Los Angeles area and downtown core to try and hit the worst of the infestation."

Infestation. So that's what they were calling it now. Such an American solution, they were going to hit it with the biggest hammer they could find and hope for the best. Blackthorne felt slightly sick to his stomach as the voice on the radio continued.

"The situation is extremely hazardous. Command estimates that the FEMA camp you're in will be overrun in the next 6-8 hours. National guard units blocking the route have been wiped out."

Now Blackthorne did punch the console and regretted it immediately as pain shot up his arm and blood oozed from his knuckle. The three outside saw him do it and quickly climbed to their feet, making their way over towards the helicopter, meals still in hand. He took off the headset and turned up the volume so that they could all hear the next words as they came through.

"New orders from Command instruct you and your team to secure the Medical staff and get the hell out. Keep your SAT phone on hand and we'll contact you when we come up with a extraction package. Over."

"Bravo One roger, out."

"Best of luck Sergeant, god speed. Command out."

Blackthorne threw the headset into the cockpit and looked at his team. Three pairs of tired eyes looked back at him. Holloway spoke first, as Blackthorne knew he would.

"Seriously? Fuck Command man." He did a lisping mimic of the radio operator. "Don't call us, we'll call you sweetheart." He spat on the ground. "Sounds like the short of shit you tell a girl you never want to see again after you've fucked her." That got a few smiles.

"Agreed." Said Blackthorne. "But we need to get the fuck out of here and soon. I'm all for rounding up the medical staff and starting..." He was interrupted by a shout from the fence, turning briefly to see a band of civilians against the fence line, he ignored them. "Get them packed up and out of here stat."

The shouting increased and in irritation he turned to tell them to fuck off when he realized that he recognized them. He held up two fingers to his men indicating he wouldn't be long then jogged over to the fence.

"Do you know where Stephanie is?!" Asked the woman.

* * * * * * * * *

Blackthorne watched the refugees hurry away and turned to look at the ad-hoc FEMA medical unit. The fact that the girl Stephanie was still alive gave him a slight surge of elation. Another friendly face would be welcome. At least he knew she was somewhere nearby and she would accompany them if possible.

He returned to his teammates and gave them a brief synopsis of how the conversation had gone. They nodded slightly and Clarkson gave him a sly smile that, even that this moment, was in keeping with the rather dark sense of military humour they all knew so well.

"Cute bird, blue skirt, sounds like ye've got yerself a date for the end o' th' world Sarge." The man winked and Blackthorne actually laughed at the thought. Though, if he were honest with himself, she wasn't a bad looking woman if he remembered right.

Their conversation was cut short as a Medic came running towards them, waving his arms and yelling that one of the Doctors had locked himself into one of the medical units and was attacking his patients. In a heartbeat the whole team was in motion, sprinting in the direction of the mans frantic pointing, weapons swinging into firing position, silencers in place.

It was one of the smaller buildings, almost as far from the helipad as one could get, and two other male medical staff were trying to break down the door with a chair. Blackthorne shoved them aside with ease, eyed the door for two seconds and then, using Clarkson and Holloways shoulders for support, slammed his left heel into the door just above the lock.

The door shuddered but held. He swore, braced himself again and this time slammed both heels into the door. It flew open and he swept up his pistol as he stepped across the doorframe. He came face to face with a Walker wearing a doctors torn and bloodied lab coat at nearly point blank range, he fired without even thinking as he did it.

Then his eyes swept the room along with the flashlight on his pistol. It focused on a small huddled figure on the floor spattered in blood, holding a gory pair of scissors and squinting at him through filthy glasses. The other soldiers moved swiftly passed him, checking the remainder of the building. Two shots rang out in the back and Clarkson appeared from one of the last beds.

"Another one, still strapped to the bed but trying to rip itself free."

Blackthorne gave him the thumbs up and then knelt before a face that was familiar, even covered in blood and deathly pale from whatever illness had brought her to this place of death.

"Stephanie." He said her name gently and saw the recognition in her eyes. "I need to know if you were bitten."

There was the tiniest shake of her head.

"Are you certain?"

The small shake again. He laid a gloved hand on one knee and she started slightly, still clutching the scissors as she finally made eye contact with him. He could something in her eyes that hadn't been there the last time. A sort of haunted look and he couldn't blame her.

"We have to be sure. Someone will need to look you over."

A tiny nod. She resisted slightly as he took the scissors from her hands and threw them into a corner. Then he stooped and slipped a hand under her legs and behind her back, carrying her out into the fresh air. She clutched him about the neck as he carried her across the compound and into another building. The three male medical staff were there and he jerked his head towards the chem showers.

"Find me a female staff member. This girl needs a proper check up and a shower."

The three looked at him, then at each other, and then back again. "We're it sir." They clearly had no idea how military rank worked. "The rest have either fled, or, well, you saw it back there."

Blackthorne stared at them for a long moment and then sat Stephanie in a chair and turned back around to find the remainder of the team grinning at him like apes despite the situation. Clarkson was the first to speak.

"Permission ta volunteer fer this dangerous mission sah! Pon my soul, do me proud ta make sure this 'ere lassie is checked over proper."

The "lass" in question had sat upright and Blackthorne saw her lip twitch in a tiny smile at the Britishers words. She had spirit, they couldn't take that away from her but someone was going to have to check her over. Blackthorne knelt next to her again and saw that she had already recovered rather well mentally.

"Well Stephanie, I'm sorry, but one of us has got to look you over. The best I can do if offer you your choice of "physician"." He smiled as he said it and, not for the first time, had to admit that the girl had a hidden reserve of strength he didn't think possible.


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Character Portrait: Thomas Blackthorne Character Portrait: Stephanie "Stevie" Darden Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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Stevie blinked and reflected on the situation. It was everything that she could do to keep from laughing.

The past 24 or so hours were so absurd, garnering a great deal for her to laugh about from a certain perspective. In that span of time, she'd watched Dean die. Twice. She'd crammed into an armored vehicle with a bunch of strangers. She flew into the side of a massive frigate and rode on a helicopter to a FEMA camp and had vomited profusely throughout. Add a kidney infection and a forced quarantine and a couple of hungry dead people, and that far outweighed any definition she could have possibly conceived of applying to the phrase "worst day ever."

Add this new quandary, and everything suddenly stepped up the next level of being just extraordinarily funny.

She looked at her feet and allowed a slight laugh and sighed loudly. "Well, I don't know who this has to be more awkward for," she piped somewhat sheepishly. "I'd say nobody, but it looks like there's not much of a choice. I'll need a shower and my clothes. They're back in that mobile... white bag with yellow boots. I'd really appreciate it." She smiled broadly, hoping that someone would help her out. It would be just absolutely impractical to be without normal clothes.

Holloway stood and nodded. "Ma'am," he acknowledged politely as he headed out, kindly sparing her from one option as he took off, heading back in the direction from where they'd all come. One down.

Stevie looked at both men's faces, still slightly bewildered by the situation but making herself consider the options. The goofy British soldier seemed like he would be a hell of a person to socialize with, but the thought of him inspecting her for walker bites just seemed a little too ridiculous, leaving the Canadian who stood well over a foot taller than her.

Well, it wasn't the worst thing. Not exactly the best of circumstances to have to get undressed in front of somebody, but she supposed that she'd hoped to see him again. Not that this was ideal, but, well...

She nodded her head toward him and stood up wobbily, refusing his help to stabilize her by gently waving a hand as she ensured she had part of the hem of her medical gown gathered in her other hand. "I hope you don't mind if I freshen up first," she said quickly, heading over to disappear behind one of the curtains with one of the showers.

She mindlessly untied her gown and tossed it into a nearby bin marked with a "Biohazard" sticker, then pulled quickly on a lever on the wall. The device vaguely reminded her of her chemistry classes. A stream of cold water surprised her and caused her to yelp loudly. The British soldier let out a loud laugh as he walked out of the unit.

Well, it was funny.

Had she not endured these last several hours, she would have been shocked at the ribbon of inky red water disappearing around her feet through a drain, clearing the residue of the encounter in that unit from her arms, hair, and face. Once she was satisfied that the water ran transparent, she shut the lever off. A towel soared over the curtain and landed on her head; she moved her arms quickly to catch it and patted her face, arms, and legs with it.

"Thanks," she called out to Thomas, and poked her head out and looked toward him. "The sooner we get it over with, I guess?"

He didn't show much on his face as he walked over slowly and stood at a safe distance away from the curtain. Stevie's face reddened just slightly as she held the towel out to her side, stretching out her arms. She just looked up at his face, trying to just pretend she wasn't naked in front of someone who really was a stranger. He did a quick visual check, then spun a finger around in the air. She complied, trying hard to not laugh or blush or say anything that would somehow make the situation just that much more laughable in general.

"What happened to your left hand?" he asked carefully.

"I fell off of my cot and my IV ripped out."

He reached out toward the hand in question. "May I?"

"By all means." She stood quietly as he studied the red dot on her hand followed by a relatively long cut and already-forming bruise.

"You're all right," he said finally, then darted his eyes to look away as she wrapped the towel around herself, but not walking away from his spot. "You have a lot of tattoos."

"I do." Stevie wrapped her arms around her covered ribcage, very grateful that the experience was as painless as it was over. "So much for leaving the light on."


"The last time I saw you, you told me to leave the light on."

He laughed just slightly and nodded. "Oh, right," he remarked. "Well, you're obviously not bitten." A pause. "I'm glad."

Another pause. Stevie smiled and relaxed just slightly. "I wondered if I'd run into you again," she mused aloud, finally allowing herself to make eye contact with her huge brown eyes. She cleaned her messy black-rimmed glasses on the corner of her towel and placed them back on her face.

Another pause. But as he opened his mouth to say something, the door knocked, opened, and a familiar white bag seemed to hurl itself inside about four feet from the entrance. Thomas helpfully crossed to the door and returned the bag to its owner, and offered a small smile. "I don't think you need help with this," he stated quickly as she reached one arm out to accept the bag.

She let herself grin and allowed herself a laugh. "I think I've got it from here," she said tamely. He nodded and turned to head toward the door. "Thomas, right?" she called after him just as he touched the doorknob.

He looked back at her and nodded. "That's me," he responded.

She continued to smile genuinely. "Thank you for helping me."

He just smiled, then walked out the door and shut it behind him, leaving her alone to change back into her clothes.

# # #

Ten minutes later she poked her head out of the unit's door, having made use of one of the hygiene kits to use a small comb to pull knots from her wet hair. In the dry southern California heat, it would be dry in no time.

The sound of bullets rang through the air, causing her to stop in her tracks. A couple of bodies fell flat to the ground not far from the unit.

"Stephanie!" Thomas called out quickly, waving for her to follow along.

... out of the reach of a couple of wandering walkers.

Nothing seemed surprising anymore. She bounded after the three as they wove through the fenced-in area, trying hard to keep pace with them as she didn't quite feel like she was out of the clear as far as the kidney infection was concerned.

Nobody in the camp moved once as massive display of fireworks darted into the sky from the west, distracting even the walkers. Must have been a mistake... Either way, those bombs were due to hit the center of the city, and soon, so perhaps it was best to find some kind of cover. Things were getting worse, and fast.