From several hundred yards away, it looked as if a goliath was walking down the late autumn streets in Atlanta. From a shorter distance, you would see forty six. he wore a gas mask, remeniscent of the ones worn in preparation of nuclear fallout some odd 5 years earlier. It was painted blue, with the insignia of a fist on the backdrop of a setting sun emblazened on the cheek. On his back was strapped a
claymore, decorated with a single emerald. The emerald was small, but had an air of elegance. Next to it was strapped a benelli nova, also painted blue. Around his shoulder was slung an M4A1 assault rifle, with a medium sized hunting scope. On his right hip was strapped a .357 magnum, and on his left was strapped a 16 inch bowie knife, caked in blood. several semtext grenades lined his right leg, and his left was lined with strange grenades, which could be incorrectly identified as flashbangs. the armor on the rest of his body alternated black and blue, with the paint wearing off and cracked. Spatters of blood danced elegantly around his armor, with larger patches popping up occassionally. He carried a large minigun, carrying so much wear and tear that the make and model was completely indistinguishable. rain dripped off of his head as he stopped and looked up. He opened his mouth, and a stream of elegant scottish poured out, lighting the cold air.
"Well. These Fuckers have been dancing round' us for a few hours. Where could they 'ave gone to?"
From a large building, natives would have identified it as the cheescake factory, though the factory could have not been used for several decades, jumped a spindly woman of about 24. She wore considerably less armor than her scottish friend, allowing her to act as a scout. She wore an aviator's helmet painted orange. Her eyes were a fierce green, and her face had the enthusiasm of a young girl. She wore a brown blazer, with several layers of clothing stained with the blood of the infected underneath. She wore cracked brown leather fingerless gloves. Her sneakers were old and worn, and the laces were mismatched. slung around her back was a dragunov sniper rifle, painted orange as well. On her knuckles were tattooed a fist on the backdrop of a setting sun. she slowly walked over to her friend, and tentatively said...
"Checked the factory. nothing, nothing at all. this is too wierd, they usually crawl all over the place this time of day"
Her voice had a slight stain of a jersey accent. she continued...
"what'd you find?"
"FUCK NOTHING!" He shouted in reply, "The fuckers are supposed to BE HERE. IT'S A FUCKING RED ZONE!"
"Forty Six!" she replied, stunned, "calm down with the language man! I know it's a red zone, we might have, I dunno, scared them away or something."
"YOU KNOW THA-" He stopped himself in mid-sentence, calming himself down. "You know that they don't scare away. somethin's got them preeoccupied, and whatever it is, I want a peice of it."
"No dice. We need to get more reinforcements to deal with that. Besides, we're just doing recon."
The autumn streets reverberated her sentence, making the silence sting a little more.
"Let's go home."
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Topic: "Darkest of Days" -a zombie apocalypse story game (Read 4073 times)