Ahhhhh! Real Zombies!

[Khendon Sevon]

(OOC: Consider this a What-If Zombie RP. If you wanna’, join the rules are simple: play yourself, only use resources you could reasonably get. Consider these your shambling, mindless hordes of undead searching for living flesh to gorge themselves on. The military is in shock because it makes things more interesting. If someone wants to explore why, feel free. Primary uber rule: have fun :) )

Andrew sighed heavily as the night wore on. It wasn’t unusual for him to be typing away at his laptop until two or three in the morning. One of the advantages of college, he had found, was that winter break afforded plenty of time to sleep.

With headphones on, as to not wake his parents, and good music pumping, he continued his cyberspace exploration. One of his favorite stops was a small, tightly knit forum oddly titled “SW-Fans.Net.”

On this particular night, a thread caught Andrew’s attention. Normally, he would be preparing a post for an epic saber battle. However, this dark, starless night found him reading a rather comical thread in General Discussion.

Instead of the usual rants, there was a link to CNN and a brief, thought provoking article on “The New Bubonic Plague: Real Zombies?” With all the tact of a veteran web rat, he posted a comical response remarking that it wasn’t quite April yet.

“Hey,” his mom walked into the room, “go to sleep! I’m waking you up at 8 tomorrow so you’ll clean your room!”

“Yeah, Ma’. I’ll go to sleep soon, don’t worry. Bon’huit.” She went into her room and he slid his headphones back on. The rhythmic harmonies of a metal band danced in his head.

It was a night like any other.

[Charley]

It was a long night, and I decided to hit the sack. Staying at Christins meant I had to wake up early for work. I shut everything down and hauled my P32 and XD40 pistols into the bedroom, tucking them into the bedstand next to me. As I walked into the living room to check the door lock, I heard a faint moaning outside, obviously a good distance off.

Creepy stuff.

Of course, this house had plenty of such moments. I was almost to the point of getting used to it. Still, it had an effect of making me a little twitchy.

A shot of Maker's Mark for a nightcap and another for dessert. Now I was ready to call it a night. Just two more days until the weekend. The glorious weekend when I'd get to bench test my new AR-15.

Kicking cats off of the bed, I turned off the light and tucked in.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Perhaps the greatest thing about living across the street from the beach (apart from fresh crab whenever it struck one’s fancy) was the soothing sound the waves made as they gently rolled up against the banks. It was a sound familiar to Liz, from childhood, and despite the nearly constant background staccato of police sirens, its consistency made being eighteen and alone for the first time a little less daunting. She had a clear view of the cove from her desk, and the hushed rippling melody and sharp salty scent drifting in through the window almost convinced her that the rent was worth it.

Almost.

With a groan the young woman let her head fall down against the oak desk, sliding forward on the mess of bills that had arrived so cheerily that morning. On her left a cup, bigger than both her hands together, sat steaming with chamomile tea; she’d switched from coffee a few hours ago, hoping that maybe when it came time for bed she’d be able to sleep.

It had been a long day. The morning had been routine, with Elizabeth rising early to get to Starbucks, her am barista alibi awaiting. Before she knew it the clock had turned noon, and she was off and running across town to the Lassen Gallery, a second job that often made her wonder if Nietzsche wasn’t right; a loving God would have smote Christian Riese Lassen’s fruity little backside years ago.

She’d spent the afternoon on the phone with the artist, trying to explain that she just ordered the pieces, she wasn’t in charge of the gallery’s PR. Somehow by five o’clock she’d ended up wrangled into planning the upcoming event: Christian Lassen Presents: Endless Dream.

Endless nightmare was more like it. There wasn’t enough money in the world to make this worth the while. Liz sighed and turned back to her computer where a tentative guest list had been started. Several local catering websites were minimized, mostly sushi places--one which Lassen was partial too because each order came with a naked model (tastelessly draped with palm fronds) as the serving platter. Bloody marvellous.

She’d call her brother, Liz decided. He always made her feel better, and it was nearly seven where he was. Smiling for the first time that night the tired Canadian got up from her desk, popping her neck loudly, and quietly padded into the kitchen to find the phone.

[Lilaena De'Ville]

"Love you too. Drive safely." I clicked my cellphone shut and left it on my desk, slightly hidden under a paper towel that was in disguise as a napkin. My husband Ty was starting home from work, which meant I wouldn't see him for two more hours. Commuting sucks. Hell, working sucks.

Outside my office door the cats were clawing up the carpet; their way of telling me that I was spending too much time on the computer and not with them. To explain the two bald corners, I told Ty that they wanted hardwood floors more than I did, and had decided to get a head start on pulling out the carpet. I don't think he bought it. Although... he did say the other day that we were going to get hardwoods, after telling me no for a year.

Giving in to the demands of my still growing, healthy and large cats, I signed off of AIM and left my book filled office for the living room. Catching up the TV remote, I flipped through channels, looking for something to watch. Will and Grace was on live, and it caught my attention for a brief moment. Jack was funny, but the rest of the cast had never really caught my attention. What can I say - I have better things to do. Nah, not really.

Curled up on the couch, Jack prancing around my TV with Karen yipping at his heels, and my kitties comfortably situated on my body, it took me a while to catch that there was a news ticker running at the bottom of the screen.

ague reported in France, Germany, Great Britain. All international flights have been shut down and the borders are closed by order of the President. If you have symptoms, call the CDC at 1-800

Ague? Didn't sound too serious, but if the borders were closed... The ticker kept going and began to repeat. Oh. PLague. I checked the microwave for the time, it was about midnight on the East coast. Why hadn't I heard about this before now? I sat up, dislodged my comfortable cats, and went for my phone.

[Charley]

Work came and went. A little more hectic than usual, but more of the same for me. During the day, I browsed CNN about some new viral outbreak in Europe. Some speculated that HN-51 had gone airborne, but it was fairly up in the air. Still, the web was buzzing with it, and it was hard to tear myself away.

Eventually, I found myself on the road - and in gridlock. With the fuel light on, it made my commute back home frustrating. The traffic was worse than I'd seen it in months. The interstate was a crawl all the way back to the eastern metro. Just when I thought either my patience or my iPod playlist would run out, I finally hit an exit ramp in Roebuck, only to find that gas had jumped a dollar fifty?!?!

In one day???

Wiping the pure shock off my face, I was now officially worried. Something was wrong here.

[Khendon Sevon]

I always keep my blinds open; it’s just something I do. That morning, light cascaded through my naked windows and cast itself upon my eyelids in protest of my slumber. It was routine and only bothered me for the moment it took to turn on my side.

The glowing numerals on my digital clock read 9:00. Great, plenty of time left to sleep. I drifted back into the mix of semi-realistic subconscious dreams that only happen in that odd state of morning repose.

12:00 o’clock found me warming up my grumpy RX-8, it seemed the rotary engine had been sleeping pleasantly and now blinked the oil warning light in anger. Whatever, calling the dealer would only result in them changing the oil and saying they couldn’t get the light to show. It didn’t matter, a friend had given me a fistful of the right oil for dirt cheap.

With leather jacket fending off the cold bite of winter, I jumped into the embrace of the racing seat and revved the engine once for good measure. Backing out, I hit the horn. The stupid neighbor was out in his pajamas and blocking the way. What a moron, I never understood the guy. His wife was a painter or something and he seriously seemed to be the woman in the relationship. Did he work? All I ever saw him do was trim his bushes and drive his wife’s paintings to galleries.

I honked again; this guy wasn’t getting the message. The fool craned his neck towards me. That’s when it hit me, the poor sap looked sick as a dog. His skin was pale and blueish, not healthy at all. There were deep circles around his eyes and they even seemed recessed. His lips were far too red, like he had a fever or had drank a quart of someone’s blood.

He shuffled out of the way; I floored the car in reverse and turned it with rage. Lowering the window, my heavy metal tunes rolled out of my car like a vicious tsunami and he took a step back. I cursed but the word was drowned out by my music so I held up a finger for good measure—people don’t mess with my car, this guy was asking for it.

One time some jerk had held a rake out in front of my little Mazda as I zoomed down a street. I had made a rapid K-turn and given him the same treatment. It wasn’t road rage and it wasn’t being mean. It was being from Jersey. I’m a Jersey driver, that’s all.

[Wyl Staedtler]

"C'mon, pick up." Liz sighed as another tinny ring rattled in her ear and tossed her cell phone onto the worn passenger seat of the Camry. Eight o'clock traffic was even more horrendous than usual and she was already a half hour late for work; Jon Peter had probably chewed his fingers to the knuckle by now, worrying whether or not a client would call and discover that the manager of the gallery knew less than nothing about the prints he sold.

Six calls to her brother had gone unanswered, an unusual occurence for the obsesively neurotic Vancouverite. Besides that the coffee machine had broken that morning, the cable company was having some technical difficulties which resulted in snow on all channels, and the cats had refused to come out from under the bed (even after a desperate plea involving a bowl of pink salmon.)

It was a particularly ominous start to a Monday.

The sleek Liberty in front of her ambled forward a few inches, the first movement in nearly twenty minutes. A frown creased Liz's forhead and she worried her bottom lip with her teeth; getting into town was always harrowing, but generally after seven things cleared up. She quickly tried to remember the date, wondering if perhaps there was a holiday she'd forgotten about; no, nothing like that.

"What the heck is going on?" the woman muttered, slamming a fist onto her horn and reaching out with the other to twist on the radio.

[Solidus]

Tim started his weekday morning like any other. He got up after everyone else had left, and shumbled out to the kitchen, putting some bagels into the toaster.

The teenager had blonde hair, green eyes, wore glasses and was overweight, but the fat hid his muscles. His arms weren't as strong as his legs, but they did in a pinch. In the meantime, he wouldn't be winning any weight-lifting contests. He also had a brown birthmark on the left side of his face.

He went to the nice surround sound system that his parents had, and popped in a burned disc of music, starting off with some good bagpipes to wake him up in the morning. Unlike other teenagers, he used music and not caffeine to wake him up.

He sat at the kitchen table. His parents and sister had already left. His classes didn't start for another four hours, so he decided that the best way to start was slowly, and with good food.