Post by Frostglare on Dec 19, 2009 21:43:38 GMT -5
((This is an RP between myself and a member of FOG, HemioneGranger. I hope you enjoy it as it progresses! For those of you who do not like to be kept into the dark and want to see what this is all about, you can go to the RP's OOC here: www.footstepsofghosts.com/one-on-one-ooc-discussion-f17/the-wages-are-death-ooc-t1920.htm#42399 ))
He woke up during his usual early-morning hours. Groggily, but not with complaint, Steve eased himself out of bed and stiffly walked to the bathroom. A quick cold shower, a bowl of cereal later, and a tooth brushing later he was ready for his routine jog. Steve Bricker put on his gray sweat shirt and pants over his t-shirt with the word "Motorhead" planted on the upper chest area in the recognizable style of the band's logo. He cracked his neck, put his hood up, and walked out the door.
He went down the stairs of the apartment complex, but when he reached the second floor, he stopped. He frowned suddenly. The door to one of the apartments was open. He could hear a strange sound coming from inside. Steve was not the kind to nose around in other people's business, but those noises... they just didn't seem correct. His ears were trained to recognize what was natural, what flowed, what was supposed to be heard, but this was none of those things.
Steve poked his head through the door cautiously. He would have knocked, but his body screamed for him not to. His husky voice spoke out in a mere whisper.
"Hello?"
No answer. He walked across the carpet. The noise was getting louder. Steve had absolutely no idea why he was doing this. He was in someone else's apartment, for Pete's sakes! What if he was tried for intrusion? He stopped for a second as he thought on this. No, no, no, that wouldn't do, but just ignoring this wouldn't either. Steve heard the sound growing more loudly. If he had to describe it, he'd say it was painful, wretched, and very squicky, like grime being roughly scraped off machinery. He was right outside the room where the sound was coming from. His heart was racing, why was his heart racing, why was he here, why couldn't he stop himself from looking inside? He did, the door barely creaking open.
"Hel- Oh... Hell..."
Steve's voice choked on itself as he saw the scene. Blood splatters were all over the place in the form of hand prints, slashes, and all other sorts of repulsive patterns. His eyes sunk in and his face paled as it was directed to the origin of the sound. It was a woman, one who lived in his building he realized, one of a couple. They had been so loud when he'd- when- what was she doing?! She was eating, but she was eating a man! Steve recognized it as her husband. She ripped away ribbons of flesh with savage eagerness. It was her chewing, that squishy, nerve-wracking grinding of powerful jaws against muscular tissue, that he had heard and justly judged as unnatural.
He felt his breakfast lurch upward and couldn't stop the reflex. His meal lay before his feet, splattered on the door and the walls and his shoes. He wiped his mouth, his skin sweating and his breath accelerated.
She turned around.
Steve's eyes took a snapshot. Her long hair drooped over a pair of eyes, eyes that simply could not have been human. They were a verdant, sickly green, with what should have been the surrounding white now a pitch black. Her lips were taineted with her lover's blood, in fact her whole body was. Her skin was a pale gray, unhealthy and unclean. Her hands, arms, nightgown, all was coated in slick red. She was breathing so quickly she made Steve's own breath rate seem like the calm rise and fall of a babe's sleep by comparisson. Her mouth was open agape, her teeth stained yellow and scarlet.
And then she let out a screech. Steve slammed the door fast and turned around to reach for the exit. He heard wood splinting behind him as he closed the door to the apartment. He took some time to clutch his poor, alarmed heart and calm his breathing. However, the peace did not last. Steve heard - felt - banging coming from the other side. This door was more sturdy, but he knew it would not hold. With nowhere to go, Steve went to the safest place he knew: his own apartment. Rushing upstairs, he went inside and locked the door. His body was shaking, his skin still coated in a thin sheen of sweat which was rapidly growing faster. He went to his kitchen and opened a drawer, pulling out a Beretta handgun from it. The adrenaline coursed through his bodies.
Steve heard screaming. He cried out in shock, but realized it was not from directly outside his apartment and it was not from the thing that had killed her own husband. It came from outside the building. He was on the fourth floor. He might get a clear view. Steve's mind, swallowed in fear, didn't want him to look out, but his common sense told him he'd have to. He had to face what was going on. He looked out...
The horrific scene would stay with him forever. People running, pleading for their lives, mercilessly butchered like pigs by those they had walked with not a few seconds ago. He could hear gunshots and one or two of the creatures died, but so did the gunmen. He saw some gang up on a poor old man, stripping him of his flesh from head to toe like a pack of pirhanas to a carcass, and then he saw one that had bitten another. This other person managed to escape, but Steve later saw him again and he was no longer human.
Steve's mind could not wrap around the whole deal. All he could do for now was shut down and faint.
------------------------------------------------------------
That was a week ago. He had woken up, still rattled, but he'd gathered himself together. He'd counted his bullets, seen what food he had available, done everything he could to ensure survival. Now and then he heard new screams and the unholy roars of the monsters, but they did not go near him. He never used electricity and was extremely cautious about sound. They seemed attracted to it. Apparently, they didn't explore new locations. They just let their victims stumble upon them. Steve had taken full advantage of this knowledge.
Now his food stores were gone. He still had his gun and bullets, but against a horde of these things it was useless. He could deny it, say he'd outlive these things, but it was no use. He'd either die by starvation or die trying to find food. He decided neither was an option, that he would find food.
Steve decided to go out during the cover of the night. Grabbing a kitchen knife and his gun, he got the darkest clothing he could find - a black sweater and a pair of black jeans over the same Motorhead shirt he'd worn the first time he'd seen the things - and set out. The nights in Buena Amistad were cold and dry almost all year around, so he took care to be protected from the weather as well as the creatures.
Taking a final breath to gain the courage to step out, Steve's right foot landed outside his apartment. The musician had now entered a world of unimaginable nightmares and hopelessness. He could only pray to whatever God existed, if he indeed did, to let him get through it.
He woke up during his usual early-morning hours. Groggily, but not with complaint, Steve eased himself out of bed and stiffly walked to the bathroom. A quick cold shower, a bowl of cereal later, and a tooth brushing later he was ready for his routine jog. Steve Bricker put on his gray sweat shirt and pants over his t-shirt with the word "Motorhead" planted on the upper chest area in the recognizable style of the band's logo. He cracked his neck, put his hood up, and walked out the door.
He went down the stairs of the apartment complex, but when he reached the second floor, he stopped. He frowned suddenly. The door to one of the apartments was open. He could hear a strange sound coming from inside. Steve was not the kind to nose around in other people's business, but those noises... they just didn't seem correct. His ears were trained to recognize what was natural, what flowed, what was supposed to be heard, but this was none of those things.
Steve poked his head through the door cautiously. He would have knocked, but his body screamed for him not to. His husky voice spoke out in a mere whisper.
"Hello?"
No answer. He walked across the carpet. The noise was getting louder. Steve had absolutely no idea why he was doing this. He was in someone else's apartment, for Pete's sakes! What if he was tried for intrusion? He stopped for a second as he thought on this. No, no, no, that wouldn't do, but just ignoring this wouldn't either. Steve heard the sound growing more loudly. If he had to describe it, he'd say it was painful, wretched, and very squicky, like grime being roughly scraped off machinery. He was right outside the room where the sound was coming from. His heart was racing, why was his heart racing, why was he here, why couldn't he stop himself from looking inside? He did, the door barely creaking open.
"Hel- Oh... Hell..."
Steve's voice choked on itself as he saw the scene. Blood splatters were all over the place in the form of hand prints, slashes, and all other sorts of repulsive patterns. His eyes sunk in and his face paled as it was directed to the origin of the sound. It was a woman, one who lived in his building he realized, one of a couple. They had been so loud when he'd- when- what was she doing?! She was eating, but she was eating a man! Steve recognized it as her husband. She ripped away ribbons of flesh with savage eagerness. It was her chewing, that squishy, nerve-wracking grinding of powerful jaws against muscular tissue, that he had heard and justly judged as unnatural.
He felt his breakfast lurch upward and couldn't stop the reflex. His meal lay before his feet, splattered on the door and the walls and his shoes. He wiped his mouth, his skin sweating and his breath accelerated.
She turned around.
Steve's eyes took a snapshot. Her long hair drooped over a pair of eyes, eyes that simply could not have been human. They were a verdant, sickly green, with what should have been the surrounding white now a pitch black. Her lips were taineted with her lover's blood, in fact her whole body was. Her skin was a pale gray, unhealthy and unclean. Her hands, arms, nightgown, all was coated in slick red. She was breathing so quickly she made Steve's own breath rate seem like the calm rise and fall of a babe's sleep by comparisson. Her mouth was open agape, her teeth stained yellow and scarlet.
And then she let out a screech. Steve slammed the door fast and turned around to reach for the exit. He heard wood splinting behind him as he closed the door to the apartment. He took some time to clutch his poor, alarmed heart and calm his breathing. However, the peace did not last. Steve heard - felt - banging coming from the other side. This door was more sturdy, but he knew it would not hold. With nowhere to go, Steve went to the safest place he knew: his own apartment. Rushing upstairs, he went inside and locked the door. His body was shaking, his skin still coated in a thin sheen of sweat which was rapidly growing faster. He went to his kitchen and opened a drawer, pulling out a Beretta handgun from it. The adrenaline coursed through his bodies.
Steve heard screaming. He cried out in shock, but realized it was not from directly outside his apartment and it was not from the thing that had killed her own husband. It came from outside the building. He was on the fourth floor. He might get a clear view. Steve's mind, swallowed in fear, didn't want him to look out, but his common sense told him he'd have to. He had to face what was going on. He looked out...
The horrific scene would stay with him forever. People running, pleading for their lives, mercilessly butchered like pigs by those they had walked with not a few seconds ago. He could hear gunshots and one or two of the creatures died, but so did the gunmen. He saw some gang up on a poor old man, stripping him of his flesh from head to toe like a pack of pirhanas to a carcass, and then he saw one that had bitten another. This other person managed to escape, but Steve later saw him again and he was no longer human.
Steve's mind could not wrap around the whole deal. All he could do for now was shut down and faint.
------------------------------------------------------------
That was a week ago. He had woken up, still rattled, but he'd gathered himself together. He'd counted his bullets, seen what food he had available, done everything he could to ensure survival. Now and then he heard new screams and the unholy roars of the monsters, but they did not go near him. He never used electricity and was extremely cautious about sound. They seemed attracted to it. Apparently, they didn't explore new locations. They just let their victims stumble upon them. Steve had taken full advantage of this knowledge.
Now his food stores were gone. He still had his gun and bullets, but against a horde of these things it was useless. He could deny it, say he'd outlive these things, but it was no use. He'd either die by starvation or die trying to find food. He decided neither was an option, that he would find food.
Steve decided to go out during the cover of the night. Grabbing a kitchen knife and his gun, he got the darkest clothing he could find - a black sweater and a pair of black jeans over the same Motorhead shirt he'd worn the first time he'd seen the things - and set out. The nights in Buena Amistad were cold and dry almost all year around, so he took care to be protected from the weather as well as the creatures.
Taking a final breath to gain the courage to step out, Steve's right foot landed outside his apartment. The musician had now entered a world of unimaginable nightmares and hopelessness. He could only pray to whatever God existed, if he indeed did, to let him get through it.
