The Walking Dead: The Big Easy / Episode 1

Russell J. MacReady
August 14, 2010

Within the hollow remains of a mostly deserted high-rise apartment building - on the tenth floor - a family eats what's left of their remaining rations around a dining table. Within the room there is five people: a father, a mother, a step-father, and two teenagers. The room itself belongs to Russell J. MacReady, a former FEMA rescue worker and volunteer fire-fighter and the biological father of the two teenagers. The oldest of the two is the daughter, Murphy, who's soon-to-be 18 come next month. The younger one calmly breathing into his inhaler is Russell's 15-year-old son, Michael. Aside from his two kids, Russell chose to share the room with his ex-wife, Emily, and her new husband, Anthony Holt.

"S'pose we're gonna have to head out there soon," Anthony broke what seemed like full hour of silence.

"We can't take the kids out there!" Emily interjected, without hesitation.

"They're not kids, Emily," Anthony responded in a peaceful tone, before continuing, "Murphy's almost eighteen and Mikey's tough as nails. Besides, we're almost out of food here."

"Why don't we just break into the other rooms and take the neighbor's food?" Murphy asked.

"Can't do that. Me and Russ have already been up and down this hallway. Most of the doors are bolted shut and locked tight, and the ones that aren't have either been cleared out or seem to occupied by those things. I think it's better if we just get a move on and search for a rescue team." Anthony suggested as he stood up and began to stretch.

"Isn't the rescue team supposed to come to us?" Michael asked.

"No..." Russell answered in his gruff, raspy voice, "No, they're not."

"Well, what do you propose we do?!" Emily sharply asked feeling one of her daily migraines coming on.

Ignoring his ex-wife's agitated attitude, Russell stated, "Well, we need to start looking for other survivors. Afterwards, we could try the last known refugee center which would undoubtedly be the Super Dome. The military would have more than likely rolled in and taken the place over, so it might be a good place to start. Althou-"

"The fucking military! What are you stupid?! Those assholes blew up the damn Causeway! They were fire-bombing the west side of the city of four days ago!" Anthony quickly disagreed.

Russell just glared at the man for a moment, before continuing, "Although, seeing as how the military fire-bombed part of the city, it might not be the best place to go to. Now, I think we can assume that they were trying to contain and eliminate the infection where they could. For all we know, they did us a favor."

"Did us a favor?! Fuck you, Russ! My cousin lived on that side of the city!" Anthony retorted.

"I understand that," Russell replied in semi-pissed tone, "but we didn't get hit. The air force could have easily bombed the rest of the city, but they didn't do that. So, that either means that the military is still trying to rescue survivors or it's something much worse."

"What's worse?" Murphy asked.

"They're either dead, disorganized, or demobilized." Russell answered.

Everyone went silent as they considered their options. Russell got up out of his dining chair and began to walk into his bedroom, but not before saying, "One way or another, we're gonna have to leave this building at some point to get medicine."

Thomas Rynning

The small four person plane shuttered a bit as the engine nearly stopped entirely.  The worn, tanned man sitting in the pilot seat tapped anxiously on the fuel gauge before sighing and starting his decent.  He had already signaled most airfields in the area a few minutes earlier, and the lack of any coherent response worried him greatly.  Orders to evacuate, orders to stay put, orders to kill on sight, all came through the radio at some point, but the airports seemed dead.

A faint mewing coming from the back distracted the man and for a moment the engine stalled, the plane gliding through the air on momentum alone.  It sputtered back to life a few seconds later.  He quickly pulled it together, taking a deep if shaky breath and scanning the area for a large strip of flat ground, his shoulders tensing.

A freeway.  Looks mostly clear of those goddamn things too.

The plane dipped downward, towards the stretch of freeway.  The tip of one of the wings skimming the top of a tree, and the wheels of the aircraft touched down on the asphalt just as the engine cut out for good.  But the propeller kept spinning for a while and as the plane slowed to a stop, the blades hit one of those... things, flinging gore onto the windshield in a spectacularly disgusting manner.

"...Fuck."  The man muttered under his breath as he leaned back in his seat, staring out the gruesome window with a sigh, the cat resuming it's meowing in the canvas bag in which it was stored for safe keeping.

No fuel, limited supplies, and a vehicular manslaughter charge.  Helluva way to start the weekend.  Or apocalypse.  Or both.

The man bent back his head, cracking his neck before removing his seatbelt and grabbing the bag containing the cat, a rifle, and another canvas duffle.  With an ominous creaking sound, the plane door swung open revealing Thomas Rynning in his entirety.  He looked like shit.  Bags under his eyes accentuated his already aged face, he wore a battered brown leather jacket and desert khakis.  All that along with his hair gave him the general appearance of a slightly irritable yak.

Rynning the slightly irritable yak shouldered his rifle and walked around to the front of the plane to inspect the damage, ignoring the general chaos around him and not bothering to so much as glance at the smoldering city in the background, clearly more interested in his precious plane.

"Ahhhhh fuck. Today is not my day. Wasn't his either, apparently." The man shook his head and looked away from the mess, not willing to look at it any longer than absolutely necessary. Patting the side of the plane with the palm of his hand, Rynning looked around at the world around him, and finally saw what was.

"The whole world's gone to hell..."

Elijah Jefferson

As the pilot examined the world around him, his eyes grazing across scorched vehicles and mangled corpses lying scattered across the highway. Unbeknownst to Thomas, the ruckus his plane had made attracted quite a bit of attention. Southbound along the freeway, a black mass began to form growing larger and larger as every second passed.

"Hey, you! Get out of there! Run!"

A tall African-American man wearing a beanie, faded black jeans, and a dark blue jacket began shouting at Thomas from the rooftop of a nearby CVS Pharmacy, "Those monsters are headin' your way! Get the hell up here! Hurry!"

The stranger motioned his hands towards a big rig truck parked alongside the drug store and directed Thomas to climb it. As the pilot began to move, more of those creatures began crawling out of smashed cars and ruined buildings.

Thomas Rynning

Without so much as looking in the general direction of the man on the rooftop, the man sighed before raising a finger in a 'just one minute' gesture.  Diving back into the open door of the small plane, he took the radio in hand and yanked on it once, twice, thrice.  Finally it came free, nothing more than a small rectangle with a few cords dangling from it.  With a bitter smirk, Thomas tossed it into the air and caught it before stowing it safely in the canvas duffle.

A nod, and Thomas Rynning stepped away from his plane for a final time.  A growling noise emanated from behind him, a greyed and decaying hand seized the battered leather sleeve of his jacket, it's nails digging into it.

"Motherfu- Piss off, will ya?  I'm having a rough day."  The man's voice was gravel as he turned to face the corpse, an old man- weakened and dead, and shoved the body back with no small amount of force.  He stared into it's eyes for a moment before giving the corpse one final kick to the shin in order to gain some time. The man adjusted his rifle strap and started quickly and quietly in the direction of the building, the slowly rotting creature shambling after him.

It didn't take him long to clamber up the truck onto the roof, throwing his bags ahead of him and occasionally glancing back towards the plane and the monsters now surrounding it.  Once standing comfortably on the top of the building, Rynning turned to the man who called to him, the man who saved his life and his soul from those wretched beasts.

"Hey.  Got a smoke?"

Elijah Jefferson

The stranger rooted around his pockets for a moment before pulling out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. As he handed the pilot a couple of smokes, he let out slight breath of relief that quickly formed into a laugh.

"Hahaha, I gotta tell ya, man! I honestly did not think you were gonna stick that landing. Hell, I near about shit my pants when I saw your plane heading my way!" The stranger exclaimed as he reached down to open his black duffle bag.

He pulled out a Taurus Millennium handgun and a Kel-Tech P-11. Eyeing over the two pistols, he turned to the pilot and said, "You gotta piece other than that rifle? If not, go ahead and take your pick out of these two. They're both 9mm just so you know."

The stranger placed both sidearms in front of the pilot's feet before reaching back into the bag. He then pulled out a bottle of water, took a big sip, and glanced back at the pilot.

"Cool jacket, man," The stranger said as he tightened the cap on the bottle, "By the way, my name's Elijah. Elijah Jefferson. But you can just call me Eli. It's probably better to keep things short. Now, how about you? What's your name, flyboy? More importantly, what the hell you doin' in N'awlins? Would've flew my bird straight over this damn hellhole."

Thomas Rynning

Rynning took the cigarettes with a nod, placing one in his mouth and patting his pockets until he came up with a metal lighter, flipping it open and applying it's flame to the tip of the cigarette until an ember started to burn.  Sliding the lighter into his jacket pocket, the man turned his attention back to the world at large, contemplative.

The Kel-Tec scraped slightly against the surface of the roof as the man picked it up and turned it over in his hands, examining the mechanisms that made the small hunk of metal so deadly.  Letting the cigarette smoke dribble out the side of his mouth, Rynning ejected the magazine and counted the bullets with a silently discerning eye.  After another moment of deep silence, he returned the magazine to the weapon and slid it into his belt, shifting his gaze back towards the wastes.

"Outta gas.  Aiming for the Caribbean.  I need a vacation." Thomas took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it for a moment before tossing it off the roof. "You don't happen to have a plane, do ya?"

Elijah Jefferson

"Man, if I had a plane I wouldn't be talkin' to your sorry white ass right now. Uh, no offense." Elijah responded as he slid the Taurus Millennium back over to himself, sticking the weapon down the back of his pants, before zipping the bag closed. "Besides, I would've smashed into a building or something even if I did. I can't fly for shit. So, yeah, either way I wouldn't be talking to you."

Elijah made a groaning sound as he stood up, glanced at the pilot, and grinned exposing his slightly plaque-covered teeth - one of his more noticeable molars showing off a gold coating - before saying to Thomas, "You know, you kinda look like someone I once saw in a movie. Damn, what's the name of it?"

Elijah looked away for a moment and began mumbling something to himself, "Western... some mountains and shit... Who was that guy? Robert Redford? Yeah, yeah, but what was the name of the movie? C'mon, what's it called?"

"Ah! Got it!" Elijah turned back in a swift motion while snapping his fingers and pointing at Thomas, "Jeremiah Johnson! I'm tellin' ya, man, you look just fuckin' like him!"

Noticing the pilot glaring off into the distance, unassumingly unamused by the comparison, Elijah changed the subject, "Listen, man. I'm headin' back to my old neighborhood. S'not too far from 'ere. Last I heard, some of my old boys were settin' up some fortifications around the block. You know, blockin' off roads with dump trucks and semis, boardin' up windows and shit, and I think they've even started stockin' up food for the winter just in case this thing is long term like Katrina. Definitely looks long term to me, but nothing like Katrina. Anyways, you're welcome to come with me, man. It's pretty fuckin' scary walkin' these streets alone. Seriously, I fuckin' hate it out here during the night."

Elijah's eyes suddenly widened up as he remembered, "Oh, shit! Malcolm! Jamal said that Malcolm was still at the old crib! Malcolm's old man flew planes for a living! Shit, hopefully, he knows where it is! Maybe, we can actually get out of this fuckin' place."

Trina Bohorquez

“Mom, I’m hungry!” the shrill voice of my child made its way into my ears.

I wanted to scream back, “Oh yeah? Well, me fucking too!” but I had always thought that you shouldn’t let a shitty situation define your emotions. So, instead, I kept my cool and calmly told him that I would go out and find something for us to eat.

We have been holed up in this vacated house we found for the last week or so. Most homes are now either filled with the dead, or the last remaining survivors who weren’t opening their boarded up doors or windows for anybody. When the chaos first started, we ate like kings. But once it became apparent that power wasn’t going to come back on, food slowly rotted and we were left with canned foods and anything else we could scrape up. You don’t realize how hot it can get in a house until you are left with no air conditioning and no fans.

Sometimes I found it hard to move. I felt like each slight movement was a gunshot alerting every monster that shambled about outside my location. But I had to be strong for Cole. What would he do without me?

Cole handed me my backpack. In it was a water bottle and some basic antibiotics we managed to ransack from the bathrooms. I don’t think they would do much, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I kissed him on the head and told him to stay put and not to leave this room. It was one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Every single time I left him, I thought it was going to be the last time I was going to see him. Each step down the stairs made my stomach drop. It had only been three weeks, but already felt like more. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel if this is how life is going to be from now on.

I passed her and had to cover my face. This house was owned by an old lady who died in her chair. She did not appear to be infected at first when Cole and I arrived. A quick whack to the head made sure she wouldn’t come back. We kept her here because the smell disguised us from the ones outside, but sometimes I felt the stench was almost too much to bare. I covered her in one of those big plastic furniture covers. Her destroyed face haunted me every time I passed her.

My weapon options were sorely lacking. I had a cane from the woman and a metal baseball bat. I found a gun, but there was no ammo and I didn’t know how to shoot anyway. I kept it on me anyway. Just in case.

I peeked out our man-made peephole to the streets. After hurricane Katrina, many of the streets were destroyed. Messy and disorganized. When we first got here, we had to stop our teeth from rattling from driving over them. The vibrations gave me a migraine.

Every day, I leave this house and go just a little bit farther. Eventually, Cole and I will have to migrate again once I complete the radius. Outside, there was one of them. I could handle this. Yeah. Of course I can. I held my breath and unlocked the door. Nothing. I stepped out. Nothing. I closed the door. Nothing.

I took a step forward. Something.

He turned to me. His jaw was broken and hanging halfway down his body. His murmured growls erupted from his poor, broken mouth as he started after me. I swung the baseball bat. Miss. I stepped back quickly and swung again. Hit.

Time to head to first base.

Russell J. MacReady
Apartment Building - 10th Floor

"Dad!" Murphy rushed into her father's bedroom, nearly tripping over a scattered pile of clothing, before grabbing Russell his right arm and pulling toward the dining room. "There's a plane outside!"

"What?" Russell replied in confusion, as he hop-scotched over and around the trash spread across the floor. "Murph, not so fast now!"

"You're gonna miss it! Just hurry!" Murphy responded excitedly before speeding ahead of her father.

Russell followed suit and found his family - and Anthony - all gathered around the balcony. Russell strolled up to the left side of his daughter and peered out into the distance. "Where?" Russell asked.

Anthony, holding a pair of binoculars up to his eyes, pointed his left arm to the east and said, "Over there. Above that bridge. Looks like it's descending. I think it's gonna crash."

"Gimme that," Russell replied, snatching the binoculars from Anthony's grasp, before viewing it for himself. "No, well, maybe. Whoever it is looks like they know what they're doing. This guy appears to be going in for a landing. Can't quite tell where though. Wait a minute... looks like he's gonna touchdown somewhere near that CVS."

"Are you gonna go help them, Dad?" Michael asked.

"Huh?" Russell and Anthony both glanced over at Michael before looking at each other. Anthony glowered and shook his head at Russell feeling that it'd be a wasted effort. Russell glared back and forth between the two before finally saying, "Yeah, we're heading out there."

"C'mon, Russ, there ain't a point in headin' out there. Those people are pretty much dead already and you know it!" Anthony exclaimed.

"No. No, Mr. Holt, I don't know that, but what do know is that we need more supplies and more people if we wanna get through this fucking thing alive! That's why heading I'm out there! Now, you can either come along and help me gather some goddamn supplies, or you can continue showing my kids what a waste of a human being you are by cowering in my fucking house!" MacReady shouted back, slipping on a blue button-up shirt before grabbing his Beretta M9.

Anthony gave Russell a stern look before replying, "Fine, Russ. Have it your way. Let's go."

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Sean Cao
A Shitty Cul-De-Sac

"Yo, Sean. I think it's best if we start headin' back to the base. You know how Malcolm is, doesn't like his people bein' out after dark," said the voice of a young, African-american man.

"In a minute, Jamal. I wanna check something out," Sean responded, prompting Jamal to give him a boost over a tall wooden fence. After Sean was over, Jamal took a few steps back before running forward and latching onto the top part of the fence.

"Shit, looks like all that NBA training payed off after all," Jamal stated as he dropped down behind Sean and brushed himself off. "Say, man, where we even... Oh..."

Jamal hesitated for a moment, realizing that he was standing in the backyard of Sean's childhood home, and slowly walked up to Sean. Jamal glanced around the backyard: To the left was a rusty old swing-set, to the right sat a basketball goal missing the net, and directly in front of Jamal was a deflated kiddie pool that the two used play in when they were younger.

"Sean, brother, I don't think we should be here," Jamal said in a much more somber tone, resting a comforting hand upon Sean's left shoulder.

"I need to know, man," Sean replied with a sigh as he trudged forth toward the backdoor of the house.

Noticing that the door was locked, Sean pulled a key out from his pocket, put it inside the lock, twisted it and then opened the door. He took a deep breathe, brought up his crowbar, and entered the house as Jamal tailed in behind him. The house was filled with a foul odor and shattered memories. Sean stopped for a brief moment to admire a photograph of his father back when he was fighting in Saigon. "Tough old bastard," he muttered.

Sean then wandered into the living room as Jamal ventured down the hallway. The corpse of an old woman rested upon a chair covered in plastic. Sean lowered his head, briefly looked away, and stepped closer to the body. He lifted the plastic a bit to get better view of the corpse's right arm. It was there. His mother's favorite bracelet as well as a family heirloom. Tears welling up in his eyes, Sean easily slid the bracelet off of his mother's limp wrist and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Oh shit, man! There's kid in here!" Jamal yelled from the other room as the child started screaming for his mother.

August 8, 2010
Six Days Earlier


Start it. Start the fucking car. Where are the wires? Yes, rip out the wires. Ah, which ones? Those, yes, those. Put those together and FUCK! Shit, God, that fucking hurt. Not those. These? 

About an hour ago, either the military or the national guard - they were probably one and the same by now - broadcasted a message on as many frequencies that were open informing anyone that was listening that the western part of the city would be bombed soon. And listening to the radio was all most of the remainder of survivors huddled together in fear could do. 

The man - a thin man of average height and personality - had finally found a vehicle that hadn't been torched by mobs or ripped apart for scrap metal by opportunists: a large, rusted red truck with a backseat and a mostly empty bed save for a bent two-by-four and crowbar. What the man considered to be a second miracle was the fact that the truck had been abandoned on a mostly empty stretch of road which was becoming harder and harder to find as the city spiraled into a Katrina-esque anarchy.

Vroom vroom! 

The engine roared to life and a loud popping sound was heard from the exhaust pipe. The man began swinging his arms wildly in celebration of his achievement. He was far too distracted to hear the set of footsteps quickly approaching the truck from both sides. Just as he was saying his thanks to the Lord, he heard the cocking of a handgun and turned to see a gruff-looking man with long, greasy hair aiming the weapon at him through the driver's side window. 

"Don't," the man said in a serious tone. "Just don't. Do. Anything." The assailant's expression was one of deadly seriousness, as if by pointing the gun at him, he was completely within his element.

The would-be driver heard the cocking of another gun behind him and turned to see a far larger man holding a similar weapon at him through the passenger's side window. This one was maybe a foot taller than the other with cleaner, short hair and a more fearful expression.

Despite their differences, the man in the middle thought of his assailants as entirely the same person split on either side of him. 

"Gun!" the one with long hair shouted. But it was the larger man that had fired first.

Pow. Pow. Pow. Pow. Bang. Bang. Bang.

All went black and numb after that first shot. The man went limp and fell forward against the steering wheel. He felt no pain and had no other senses aside from his hearing after the first shot, but he was still alive. He heard the remaining six shots, and slipping into a quickly approaching delirium, compared the sounds of the guns to the sound of the engine that he had so emphatically celebrated just moments ago when he wasn't bleeding out. To him, the guns sounded far weaker and pitiful than that glorious roaring of the engine.

"Shit!" he heard the men... the man shout. The sounds of rustling and doors opening were heard next. "Where is it? Where's what? The gun! It probably fell between the seats."

Strange, he couldn't recall giving the man the slightest impression that he had a weapon. But, maybe he did have a weapon. Did he have a gun? Did he try to pull a gun on this man? Did he deserve this? He couldn't recall anymore...


Richard Stryker


Stryker and Steve had both entered the truck at the same time. Steve probably wasn't thinking when he didn't pull the man's body out and instead shoved it further in. Stryker was now sitting next to the bleeding form of the man that he had just shot and definitely killed. He was desperately searching for the weapon that Steve had called out.

"I don't fucking see a gun," Stryker said, frisking the dead body.

"There's a gun. I saw a gun," Steve quickly replied before turning back and motioning for the rest of the group to get in the truck. 

"There's no fucking gun!" Stryker now shouted. 

The rest of the group - nine others beside Stryker and Steve - piled into the car. The three that Stryker knew by name piled into the backseat of the truck. Lyle entered first; he was a thin and impressionable young man with short, brown, wavy hair and tendency to get into things that he should probably stay out of. Then, Grimm - a brawny, bearded man in his early thirties with a go-with-the-flow attitude and a past that Stryker wasn't so sure about - took the middle seat. Finally, Jess took the remaining seat. Jess was a veritable woman-of-the-streets who had medium-length light brown hair, several piercings around her ears and nose, and a kind of swagger that made a smart man both afraid and curious. The rest of the group remained nameless to Stryker and piled into the bed of the truck.

"Holy shit," Lyle said the moment he saw the bleeding dead body between Steve and Stryker. "Is he dead?"

"Shut up, Lyle," Steve said quickly before answering Stryker again. "I saw a gun."

"There's no gun! You said there was a fucking gun!" Stryker shouted, now looking everywhere for any sign of a gun: under his chair, under Steve's chair, the glove compartment, and even behind the goddamn mirrors. "I shot a man for jack-shit!"

"I swear I saw a gun, man," Steve pleaded halfheartedly, more concerned with making sure everyone was in the vehicle before he revved the engine and got the hell out of Dodge. "We've got to go. Wait, the fuck is he still in here for?!"

"That was you, you shit!" Stryker shouted angrily. 

"Damn," Steve replied.

"Just stop and throw him out," Lyle piped in.

"Wait," Stryker said hurriedly. "Waitwaitwait. You hear that?"

The only thing that could be heard was the dull sound of the engine and the car moving as everyone remained silent for a moment. Suddenly a pained breathing sound was heard and the body between Stryker and Steve twitched slightly.

"Holy shit," Lyle said again. "Is he still alive?"

Steve kept darting his eyes between the road and the body, hellbent on getting the hell out of the west side before the bombs came down. Stryker was physically taken aback by the sight of the man twitching and writhing. There was no way the man was going to live, Stryker thought. It would just be better if he hurried up and died - for both the man and Stryker's sanity. Slowly the body became more and more mobile before finally turning its head towards Stryker and staring at him with dull, dead, grey eyes. 

"Holy shit!" Lyle shouted and fumbled for his weapon. "He was bit! It's one of those things!"

"Damn," Grimm said nonchalantly and began reaching for his own gun. 

"F-fucking deadhead!" Stryker shouted, his voice catching slightly as he did, and aimed his own handgun at the creature's torso.

Jess just stared with wide-eyes at the scene and pulled out her gun with everyone else.

"Goddamn," Steve muttered under his breath and kept his right hand on the wheel as he aimed his handgun at the corpse in an odd and awkward angle.

The hell-wagon sped down the streets of New Orleans as the sounds of gunshots and the glorious roaring of an engine echoed throughout the block.

Cole Bohorquez

Mom sometimes said words I didn't know. She would yell out "Meer-duh!" I tried to say it once, but she hit me in the back of the head and told me not to say things I didn't understand.

There are a lot of things I don't understand. I don't know why the people outside want to hurt us. They don't make any sense. They look like they want to eat us. We should have never left home.

Ever since coming here, I have been locked up in different houses. I want my room back. I want my toys back. I want my mom to stop leaving me alone, especially with that creepy old lady downstairs. She never moves. She is dead.

The food is gross. I want McDonald's but mom says that they all shut down. I don't think that's true because I saw one down the street last time I was outside.

I hear a door open and run downstairs because I am sure it's mom. She usually isn't back so early, but maybe she got lucky.

I heard two people. Then I saw a black man appear in front of me. "Mom! Moooom!!!!" I screamed and screamed. I was going to be eaten. "Mommy!"


Trina Bohorquez

I had to make it to house 7 today. Crouching low, I tried to silence my quickened footsteps. The keyword here is 'try'.

House 1. Boarded up.
House 2. Emptied.
House 3. Emptied.
House 4. Infested. Emptied.
House 5. Infested. Emptied.
House 6. Infested. Emptied.
House 7. Unknown.

Bat at the ready, I tiptoed to the front door and calmed my nerves as best as possible. Which still wasn't enough, but I had to do what I had to do. I checked the door. Unlocked. At least it appeared someone was on my side. I stepped through the door and felt the chill that crawled up my back and threatened to escape out my throat every time I had to step into unknown territory. I didn't know what to expect and that was always the scariest part.

If there were the undead of humans walking around, who was to say that there weren't other things out there as well?

To my luck, the house seemed... dead. Which was good as long as it wasn't filled with the dead. I couldn't hear any movement and I couldn't smell anything deceased, so I took that as my cue to carry on. I checked the important rooms: kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms, and the garage. Food, tools, medication, and clothes. Anything that cold prove useful.

The cabinets didn't have much in them. Some packets of easy mac, a couple water bottles, and some canned goods. Still, it was something. I guess not many people in New Orleans did much home cooking... not when there were so many good restaurants to go to.

After ransacking all that I could carry (some food, a couple t-shirts, Tylenol), I decided it was time to head back. I couldn't leave Cole alone for too long. Quietly exiting the house, I glanced down the street and made sure the coast was clear before making a run for it. Luck was definitely on my side today as I made it back to the house with ease. Not a single dead thing in sight.

Muffled sounds could be heard from within the house. Cole. I slammed the door open and burst inside the house where I saw two men trying to console my son.

"Step the fuck away from my kid or I swear I'll bash your heads in!" I screamed at them, holding the bat up for emphasis.

Sean Cao

Startled by the frantic screeching of the bat-wielding crazy woman, Sean and Jamal jumped back away from the kid. As the kid broke away from the men and bolted toward his mother, Jamal instinctively jerked out his Glock 22 and wildly aimed it at the woman.

"Jamal! NO!" Sean yelled, quickly latching onto Jamal's right arm, as the woman took her son into her arms before flinching away from the men. Suddenly, a shot rang out of the handgun followed by the sound of a shattering glass window. What followed after that was an eerie moment of silence - everyone in the room too afraid to look at each other out of fear of what they might see - before Sean finally opened his eyes and peered up at the young mother hugging her son tightly.

"S-Sean..." Jamal said with a shaky voice, practically on the verge of tears, as he held his own eyes shut. "P-please tell me I didn't hit 'em."

The woman glanced up at the men from over son's shoulder. She could see clearly see that Jamal was propped up against the wall quivering in pure fear as Sean just stared at her and the boy. Sean slowly raised his hand up toward the woman - trying to sign a calming gesture - before finally replying, "It's okay... It's okay. Everyone's okay."

"Thank you, God." Jamal said in a low voice before inching out of the room and into the kitchen.

Sean trudged over to the living room couch and plopped down on it. He just sat there silently glancing back and forth between the woman, her boy, and his own mother lying with with her face caved in under a plastic tarp. After what seemed like five minutes of pure silence, Sean finally decided to speak up, "I'm sorry."

He kept his eyes fixed on his mother's corpse before continuing, "I'm.. I'm very sorry. I didn't expect anyone to be here... anyone alive anyway. Jamal... He... uh... he hasn't on the top of his game since he lost his family, but just... please... trust me he's a good guy. I'm... uh... I'm Sean. Sean Cao," At that moment, he turned his head to face the woman, "I'm sorry. You... You're okay, right? The boy too, he's fine?"

Officer Wayne Torres

Roaming around Louisiana in midday heat isn't too good for ones health. Especially when you're pretty sure you've spent the last several days trying not to get eaten by... fucking... vampires. Or whatever the hell. Prison was starting to look like the better option to Wayne. A cot, three square meals a day, and hey. Might even get lucky and someone drops the soap. Get a little action.

Smirking at his own internal joke, Torres refocused on where he was. Lost, walking down some street. He had a road atlas, at some point. Then a fucking half dead, skin rotted piece of shit tried to drink his blood or whatever, and the map got fucked.

Just my luck.

Nearest he could tell, he was in a residential area. Probably a nice place to live at some point. Might be a good place to stop and try to scavenge up a meal, something to drink. Maybe find a satchel or a bookbag to carry supplies.

Wayne's internal checklist was abruptly cut off by the sound of screaming at a nearby house. Sounded like a kid. Wayne squatted by a nearby car, checking himself in the side mirror, adjusting his badge and making sure he looked like a trust worthy officer of the law. As he stood to his feet a gunshot rang out, and the man gave a start.

The hell? I swear to god, that better have not been some kid getting himself shot, this really isn't what I need today.l

Torres clutched his Benelli Super and jogged to house the gunshot came from. Door was open, may as well let himself in. What he found, at least, wasn't a dead kid. A mixed woman holding her crying child, and a man on couch, stuttering apologies.

"Uh. I'm Officer Torres. Ma'am is there a problem here?"

That sounded cop-like, right? Sure. Yeah. The hell happened here?

Malcolm Westbrook
7th Ward - Four Days Ago

SRCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!

A blue SUV spun out of control before crashing into a fire hydrant on Robertson Street. An eruption of water sprung out from the wreckage and cascaded down onto the car. Following the crash, a barrage of bullets hit the front windshield - mostly striking the passenger side - before the shattering the window altogether. The driver quickly ducked down as water came pouring into through the window.

The shooter moved out from behind a roadblock and inched closer to the car. As the dead began taking notice of the carnage, the driver crawled into the back seat, grabbing his Mossberg 590 pump-action shotgun, before sliding out the right-side door.

"You best be dead, Malcolm!" The young man shouted out slowly making his approach. Unbeknownst to the shooter, the living dead were tailing in right behind him.

"Yeah, an' you best be watchin' them skinners, Forty," Malcolm replied calmly, unconcerned as to whether Forty actually heard him or not, as he loaded seven shells into his shotgun.

Suddenly, a hand crept up from behind Forty and grazed his right shoulder. Forty instinctively flinched forward, spun around, and began unloading his handgun into the drooling husk of a former mailman. All of his shots either missed or simply penetrated the creature's torso but nothing put it down. Hearing the gunfire, Malcolm took the opportunity to roll out from behind the SUV and begin blasting.

The first shot nailed Forty right in the back of his bullet-proof vest and rocketed him forward into the mailman's grasp. Malcolm stepped closer as the corpse sank it's teeth into Forty's neck. Malcom fired a second round into the Forty's right leg, blowing out his knee-cap, causing him to violently collapse onto the ground. He then fired a third shot into the skinner's head causing it to explode like a watermelon. In what seemed like no time at all, Malcolm swiftly dispatched the remaining shamblers before stopping to reload his shotgun.

Meanwhile, Forty clutched at his throat as he tried to crawl away. At that moment, all he was wishing he could was scream out in pain or at the very least curse out the man did this to him. Taking his sweet precious time, Malcolm finally walked over to Forty, rolled him over with his boot, glared into his pleading eyes, and said, "Damn... you is lookin' really ugly right now, Forty. Real sorry I had to do this to ya, man, but I couldn't just let ya get away. Not with you knowin' what you know, not after what you did. The boys wouldn't accept dat... and you fuckin' know they wouldn't. They'd have fuckin' crucified me. An' you were gonna try to tell 'em anyway. This ain't my fault, man. You had this shit comin' to ya one way or another."

Forty attempted to shout some obscenities at Malcolm, but all that came out was this horrid gargling sound of blood followed an immense pain shooting throughout his body.

"Ah, don't worry, little man. You ain't gonna get to back from this," Malcolm stated as he placed the barrel of his Mossberg against Forty's forehead.

BANG!

Trina Bohorquez

I hid Cole behind me as we were now surrounded by three men. The two men and now a cop. Great.

"I didn't realize that there was still law enforcement roaming about," I managed to stammer out after nearly being shot. "If I'd known that, we would have headed to the station ages ago..."

Cole gripped my hand tightly. Not out of fear. Out of nervousness. He wasn't the best around strangers. I was protecting him as much as he was using me as a human shield.

I could tell from the two men that they weren't looking for trouble. I could see from the family portraits hung up around the room that some of the kids in them resembled the man that stood before me who didn't just try to kill me.

"I would feel a hell of a lot better if everyone put their guns away though," I told them and set my bat down next to me as motivation. Instead of waiting for them to cooperate, I directed my attention to the cop.

"Officer, to answer you question, I don't think we'll be having that much of a problem here if these two gentlemen aren't here to rob or rape me or anything..." breath escaped my lungs as I sighed in defeat, "Truth be told, the last couple weeks have made everyone a little bit crazy and on edge what with those dead things walking around out there."

All eyes in the room darted to the old woman in the chair. Tears threatened to spring from the eyes of the man in the pictures. They must have been close.

Sean Cao/Jamal Burris

"We aren't here to hurt anyone, Officer. I only came here for one reason. This is my parent's house... and I'm positive the lady in that chair is my mom..." Sean explained to the police officer and the woman as Jamal silently stepped back into the room.

"You gonna be alright, Sean?" Jamal asked.

"I, uh, I think so," Sean replied, his light-brown eyes now fixated on the grimy, blood-stained carpet.

Having known Sean's mother pretty much his whole life while losing his own parents recently, Jamal knew just how bad Sean had to be hurting. It was clear to him that Sean's mind was a little preoccupied at the moment, so Jamal figured it'd be best if he explain the situation to the officer.

"Officer... Torres, right?" Jamal asked, easily resting his handgun down on the TV stand before continuing, "I'm Jamal. Jamal Burris. That gunshot you heard, that was all my fault. Me and Sean stumbled across her kid while we was looking for Sean's folks. Guess the kid got a little spooked what with everything going on outside and just started screaming. Then his ma came bargin' through the door and I just freaked the hell out and fired. I honestly cannot tell ya how sick I feel 'bout the whole right now, but I can assure you we meant them no harm whatsoever. All we wanna do is get some things and get back to our base-camp."

At that moment, Sean got up from the couch and walked into the hallway. He then pulled a string suspending from the ceiling causing the attic door fall open.

With raised hands and worried eyes, Jamal reassured the officer, "Like I said, he's just getting some supplies and then we're gone. You're welcome to tag-along if ya'll want. That is if you ain't got no place to take them back to, Officer. Don't imagine anyone wants to stay in this house for much longer. So, uh, what'll it be?"

Officer Wayne Torres

Wayne considered telling the woman that none of the police stations were looking too good, or that the cops still roaming about might not be as friendly as he way, but opted against it as he lowered his shotgun.

Torres didn't say a word as Jamal apologised and explained the situation, only raising a suspicious eyebrow when Sean opened the attic.

"There aren't many safe places left, and I'd like to keep an eye on the two of you. If you're telling the truth, that shouldn't bother you, right?" Wayne has halfway tempted to chuckle. Being a cop was fun, you could say the most harmless things and it sounded intimidating.

He turned to the young lady and her child "Those vampire... things. They'll have heard that gunshot. Not to mention your boy's screaming. I'd suggest that even if you aren't comfortable coming with these gentleman, you should probably make like a baby and--" Realizing the second half of his line, and the presence of a child, Torres cleared his throat awkwardly "Uh. You should beat feet, is all I'm trying to say."

Malcolm Westbrook
The Block: Malcolm's Apartment - Two Days Ago

"Baby, why don't you just calm down? Ain't no way them freaks are gettin' inside the block. The crew's got things on lockdown. They got the trucks blockin' off the streets, the generators are running smoothly, and the houses be cleaner than Oscar's bald-ass head," joked a young, dark-skinned woman with butterflies tattooed across her right arm.

This dumb bitch... tryin' to tell you to be calm. There ain't a goddamn thing to be calm about anymore. She even step one foot outside the block? She don't know a damn thing 'bout what you up against, Malcolm. Whole world wants you dead now. Some of them might not know it yet, but it's the truth. What if you're already dead? Maybe you died a long time ago... maybe they did too... and all this... this is your hell to share with 'em. A devil's paradise...

"Malcolm, you listenin' to me?!" The woman asked sharply, snapping her fingers in front of Malcolm's face.

Malcolm's gaze shifted away from his shotgun and onto the woman's dark-green eyes. She stood there scratching her neck waiting for an answer as Malcolm lit up a Marlboro cigarette. Letting a out breath of smoke, he finally replied, "Yeah, I fuckin' hear ya, Jasmine. Problem is, I can't just be calm. You didn't see what them skinners did to Forty. Just tore into his fuckin' throat like he was nothin' but meat to eaten! Forty was a brother to me. Wish I could've done better by him... but there's no helpin' it now. Gots to move on... try and keep everyone else alive..."

Jasmine stepped behind Malcolm and seductively wrapped her arms around him, "None of that's yo fault, baby. Like you said, there was no helpin' him. Oscar, Shifty, Malik, Jamal, them boys know you'd of done anything to save him. It's cause you's a good man, Malcolm."

Turning his face towards hers, Jasmine pulled him closer until their lips met. The kiss lasted for about ten seconds -- and suddenly lost all passion -- as Jasmine began sliding down onto her knees to undo Malcolm's pants. She fumbled with the belt for a moment as Malcolm began looking disinterested.

"Stop," Malcolm ordered -- pushing her hands away -- as he stood up and walked over to the window.

"What's wrong?" Jasmine asked as she stood up and attempted to follow.

"Get the fuck out, Jazz!" Malcolm responded harshly.

Startled, hurt, and confused, Jasmine took a step back as her heart sunk inside her chest. Tears began streaming down her face as she yelled back, "What the hell's wrong with you?! Whatever's bothering you, Malcolm, you can tell me!"

"No, I fuckin' can't!" Malcolm screamed.

The room went dead with silence as neither one of them could think of anything to say. Suddenly, Jasmine walked over to Malcolm -- where he had his forehead pressed hard against the brick wall -- as he held his eyes tightly shut.

Just get out already! You dumb fuckin' bitch! All you're doing is hurtin' yourself! Malcolm thought to himself.

"Malcolm, baby, I love you! All I wanna do is help you!" Jasmine pleaded.

Without even turning to look at her, Malcolm crassly replied, "You can start by leaving."

Finally receiving the message, Jasmine quickly gathered her belongings and hurried off to her room in a sobbing fit as Malcolm beat his head against the wall.

My hell to share with 'em...

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Sean Cao/Jamal Burris
Sean's Family Home - Today

A heavy duffel bag dropped into the hallway as Sean climbed down after it. Unzipping the bag, Sean began laying out a large collection of items: A machete with a brown hilt and an olive-drab cover, two Gerber Mark II combat knives, two cold-steel tomahawks, three sharpening stones, a Vietnam War-era tigerstripe BDU (Battle Dress Uniform) with Sean's surname stitched on above the right pocket.

"Holy shit, Sean!" Jamal exclaimed at the sight of all bladed weapons. "How come you never showed me this stuff, man?!"

"Because I knew how important this stuff was to my father. He told me never to show this stuff to anyone. He made me promise him," Sean replied as he slipped on his father's fatigue jacket.

"Shit, nigga, we hit the motherfu--" Jamal cut off his own sentence remembering that their was a kid in the room, "We hit the jackpot, brother!"

"Yeah, we did, but you ain't nothing yet," Sean responded with a sly smirk. He appeared to be perking up a bit as he began pulling out the big guns: One M1917 six-shot revolver, an M1 Carbine, one Thompson submachine gun, one Ithaca 37 shotgun, two metal boxes full of ammunition, and one Mark II frag grenade.

"Jesus christ! How in the-- Wait a second, you dropped that bag down here knowing there was a grenade in there?!" Jamal asked.

"I'm pretty sure it's a dud, but I'll hold onto it for now. Besides, you gotta pull the pin anyways," Sean responded as stuffed the grenade back into the duffel bag. "We need to disperse the weight, so this'll be easier to carry. Everyone gather around and take a weapon."

Sean took the machete into his hands, gazed into his own reflection beaming off the blade, and said, "This stuff got my father through hell; maybe it can help us too."

Trina Bohorquez

Trina looked between the three men and at the supply of weapons. Then she glanced at her son. No way could just the two of them survive on their own any longer with the way they've been going. It only made logical sense to team up.

"Okay, we're in," she told the men. "I think at a time like this, it's best to stick with people that are, y'know, sane."

The assortment of guns and knives and axe-looking weapons all seemed foreign to her. She liked using her bat for the sole purpose of letting her remain at least arm's length apart from those things running around outside. She didn't want to get close enough to stab with a knife and she has no experience with shooting a gun.

After thinking it over, she expressed that she would stick with her bat for now and maybe one of the axe-looking things (to which the men confirmed that it was actually called a tomahawk) before she learned how to properly shoot a gun. Trina hoped this hell wouldn't last long enough for it to come to that though.

Cole tapped on his mother's thigh to get her attention before whispering, "Am I supposed to get a weapon, too?"

"You're too young for that," she snapped back in a hushed tone. "You just need to do as I say and you'll be fine."

"So, where are we headed?" Trina asked the men and then realized she only caught two of their names. "You all can call me Trina, by the way. And this is my son, Cole."

Officer Wayne Torres

Wayne's eyes widened a bit and he gave a low whistle at the variety of weapons laid out in front of him. He spent a long time eyeballing the Tommy Gun before deciding against it. After all, his shotgun had seen him this far, and he had no intention of giving it up.

He next scanned over the bladed weapons. The tomahawk seemed a bit much, but the serrated edge of one of those knives would be more than helpful in a survival situation. He picked up on of the knives and examined the dark blade until decided it was to his satisfaction and affixing it to his belt.

Lastly, Torres' eyes fell on the revolver. Just looking at a handgun was enough to send him into a cold sweat. He felt sick to his stomache, and even wondered if he was visibly shaking. He nervously touched the freshly healed scars on his wrists, thankful that his shirt was a long sleeve. The events that made him react this way to seeing a simple pistol were fresh in his made. He relived them every night.

Some weeks ago...

Wayne rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had cut into them, slicing them to bits, he would have complained but he was too happy to have been free of them to much care about the scars they would leave. "You're letting me go? Just like that? Why would you do that? Even in a situation like this, I just can't see you letting me go."

The cop gave him a mirthless chuckle, and showed Wayne an infected looking mark on his hand. "You know what happens when they bite you, don't you?"

...

"You turn. I saw it happen to the other prisoners I was with."

"That's right. But that's not going to happen to me."

Wayne's body froze as the officer lifted his handgun to the side of his head. The hammer pulled back, the trigger clicked, and the cop's brains splattered against Wayne's face.


Present Day

Torres' hand idly fiddled with his empty pistol holster. Even after taking the rest of the officer's possessions, he couldn't bring himself to touch the man's semi-automatic. He felt sick at the thought.

Torres sighed and scooped the revolver up, opening the cynlinder and examining it. .45 caliber, nice. "I've got my shotgun, so I'll leave the big guns with you guys. Lost my sidearm though, so I think I'll take this, if you don't mind." Wayne noticed his hand was shaking hard enough that the gun rattled in his grip.

With a hard swallow, he holstered the M1917 in his holster, it fit comfortably enough. He then took a share of ammo from one of the boxes, looking to Sean for approval, and filled the pouches on his belt.

Somehow, despite an empty belly, parched throat, and the burning need to take a piss, the world felt a little bit better with more guns and more friends.

Thomas Rynning

The aged man rubbed his chin, lips narrowed in thought..  A random stranger, a deadly gift given, an unverifiable plan.  Exactly the types of encounters he had tried to avoid for most of his life.  He watched the news, he knew what happened when misplaced trust mixed with danger, and the news was just reporting a phenomenon as old as time.

A sigh escaped his lips, and he half turned, one eye still fixed on the creatures below, shambling ever closer.  One was almost on top of the truck. Guttural noises clawed their way through the corpse's' throat, scaling the buildings walls to assault the man's ears. He almost shivered.

"Fine.  Let's just get the fuck out of here."  The man unzipped both of the bags he had with him, placing them both down on the grey-black tarring of the roof.  The head of a small tabby cat popped up, brushing a piece of clothing off itself with a paw, but he pushed it down before it could distract him with it's incessant mewing.  A few mostly silent moments later and the man had a single pack, essentials, the radio, and a cat shoved into the worn canvas.  He slung it over his shoulder.  It was stupid of him to pack so much to start with, it would just slow him down.  The man blinked once, his wrinkled features looking exhausted in the dimming light.  The cat popped it's head out of the bag again.

"Well? Lead the way."

~~~

Roxanne Salem


"Fucking Christ."  The girl ground her teeth in aggravation and struck the black box. Each blow of the hammer bent the gleaming steel but stopped just short of popping it open.

"Just open already!"  She slammed her foot into the container, sending it sailing across the room and into the far wall.  As the metal latch smashed hard against the drywall, it opened.  Ignoring the pain in her foot, Roxy stepped forward, staring in disbelief at the papers and useless bits of jewelry that had flown out.  It was only when she approached the broken and useless lock box that she noticed the real prize.

Roxy’s eyes came to rest upon the dulled grey steel of a revolver, and she went still.  Blood sounded in her ears like the tide during a hurricane, and her knees hit the floor.  Steadying herself, the young woman took the gun in both hands, untrained fingers fiddling with the simple mechanisms until the cylinder popped open.

Six bullets, and a box full spilling out onto the floor.  A gun was easier to use than a claw hammer.  And she didn’t like it when the blood got onto her. It made her feel ill and it made her feel contrite.

Roxanne swung a backpack over one shoulder, gripped the gun tight in her other hand and approached the bedroom window she had smashed to get into the house.  A moment later the young woman slipped through an adjacent alley and onto the street, silent and deadly as a cold winter's night.

Dimitri Argent

Present Day

He could be seen running through the streets like a madman, searching for any kind of drug store or medical facility that hadn't already been ransacked yet. The pain in his head was becoming too much to bare and it's not like there were any safe, dark places to hide out until the cluster headache went away. Argent only had one pill remaining which would be a waste at this point. His mind and body had become so dependent on oxys that just one didn't cut it anymore. His tolerance was too high.

Three Weeks Prior

"Happy birthday!" they all shouted as Marissa smiled in embarrassment before blowing out her candles. She had just turned 29. One more year until 30, she thought. But she had already felt so old for so long now, exhausted from work. Dimitri kissed the top of her head and rubbed her shoulders reassuringly. He always knew exactly what she needed.

A BANG echoed throughout the apartment, silencing the five adults. Marissa stood up, whispering to her sister, Chantelle, "You didn't invite him, did you?" Dimitri's anger filled his body as he began to march over to the front door.

Marissa grabbed hold of his arm, "No, please don't do anything. Please!"

Dimitri turned to his wife and seethed, "I'm not going to let that fucking psycho back into your life to hurt you again." He brushed her off and continued his march to the door. Marissa had an estranged relationship with her brother, Jeremy... one that included physical abuse due to his psychosis. Two months ago, Jeremy had been released from a psychiatric unit and placed on medication to subdue his frail mind from succumbing to his blackouts of rage. He had tried to get in contact with his sisters again, but the two of them had already suffered enough of his torment.

Dimitri swung the door open, fully ready to brawl with the black sheep brother, but instead was met face-to-face with a disfigured woman. "What the fuck?" The woman snarled at him and lurched at him, mouth wide open. Dimitri quickly stepped back and out of the way into an adjacent room.

The woman turned back toward him, ready to attack again. "Marissa! Call 911! Quick!" he shouted to his wife. He tried to push the woman back away from him, but she was stronger than she looked. Her eyes were a decaying yellow that both appeared empty and glaring at the same time.

Dimitri grabbed the closest object to him--an iron--and smashed the woman's head in. She dropped to the floor, but wasn't dead yet. He frantically surveyed the room for anything that could work as a weapon, noticing two more of these... psychos coming through the front door. They seemed to completely ignore him and kept going down the hallway... toward the kitchen where Marissa and the others were.

The woman was now crawling toward him, ready to latch her diseased mouth onto his leg. Argent jumped back and away from her. His eyes caught the family heirloom sword that hung on the wall and he quickly shuffled around the table, snatching it off its hooks and returned to stab the woman in the face. She went limp. He had never killed before.

"DIMITRI!" Marissa's cry of help broke him out of his momentary catatonic state. He could hear the others screaming and rummaging around the apartment. He ran to close and lock the front door to prevent anymore unwanted guests from entering before flying down the hallway to help the others.

As he stepped into the room, one of the two that had already gotten in was gnawing on Marissa's arm. Blood spewed from the gash and Marissa was nearly going faint from the sight of it. Argent took the sword and sliced it down through the top of the cannibal's head. The body dropped to the floor with its teeth still embedded in her arm, dragged her down with it.

Dimitri pried the body off of her. "Are you okay? Stay with me."

"The... the police. No answer," she managed to say as Dimitri sat her down in a chair. He turned to see the other thing was dead as well. Chantelle's boyfriend managed to grab a kitchen knife in time before any damage was done to them.

Chantelle appeared too shocked to speak. Their mutual friend, Kody piped up, "Okay, what in the fuck was that??"

Dimitri stared at the wound on his wife's arm. "I don't know. But we need to get her to the hospital and report this to the police."

Chantelle's boyfriend, Brady, who was staring out the window, said, "Uh, guys. You might want to take a look outside."

The five of them peered out the window to the streets below, where there were tons of infected. Dimitri held Marissa in his arms and felt her drop. "Marissa..?"

Chantelle screamed. They all rushed to stop the bleeding and to resuscitate her, but it was already too late. She was gone. And Dimitri could feel the pain that he had long forgotten start to bubble up behind his left eye and make its way throughout his head in a cluster pattern.

Present Day

It had been three weeks since Argent had failed to save his wife from her fate and three weeks since he had to sit and watch her become one of the very things that had killed her. And it had been three weeks since he had to stick a sword through her head and watch his wife die for a second time.

Chantelle and the others had sure enough become cannibal food as well in the three weeks since and Argent was the only one left out of that group. He supposed the pain in his head and the rage in his lungs are what propelled him to kill any infected mother fucker that got in his way. It almost seemed all too pointless, but now he was on a mission. He wouldn't let what happened to him happen to anyone else if he could help it. He'd be a vigilante. He'd kill as many of those fuckers that he could fine. And he'd be good at it.

Russell J. MacReady/Anthony Holt
Nearing the Site of the Plane

It had been almost an hour since Russell and Anthony left the apartment. Though there were clear and disturbing signs everywhere around them, the two had yet to see living dead for their themselves. Aside from the ever-looming threat of the infected, Russell and Anthony were still dealing with strong feelings of animosity against each other.

"When are you gonna lighten up around me, Russ?" Anthony asked as he stared out the passenger-side window of Russell's Chevolet Silverado pickup truck.

"As soon as you get away from my kids," Russell replied without hesitation while not even bothering to glance at Anthony.

"That's bullshit, man! It has nothing to do with Michael or Murphy, this is all about Emily! We've been together for two goddamn years! Get over it!" Anthony fired back in an uproar.

"Tell me, were you dropped on your head when you were born? This ain't about Emily, you fucking numbskull. I take it you must've forgot then, huh?" Russell said, stopping the car before glaring into Anthony's bewildered eyes. "Yeah, you forgot alright."

"What are you talking about? Forgot what?" Anthony asked.

"A few weeks back before all this shit started, Murphy barged into my apartment crying and angry. Took about nearly three hours to get her talking. Do you know what she said, Anthony?" Russell asked in an ominous tone of voice.

Holt bit his lip lower lip and looked away from Russell in shame fearing what he was about to say. The memories that he had brushed off as a bad dream quickly began flowing back into his head.

"She told me about how Mr. Holt came home in a drunken stupor. She told me how you were so blown out of your mind that you tried to come onto her and that you might have gotten a little frisky in the process. She told me once you realized what you were doing you let go and immediately began apologizing as she took off back to my place," Russell explained, shooting Anthony with a spine-chilling death glare. "That's why I hate you, Anthony, and that's why don't want you around my kids."

"Shit..." Anthony responded, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "I... uh... that was a mistake, Russ. For whatever it's worth, I am sorry that happened. I have no fucking idea what was going through my head at the time."

"I don't care what you have to say for yourself. Just shut up for now, will ya?" Russ replied, putting the truck back into drive, as Anthony once again turned away in shame.

Glancing up into the rear-view mirror, Russell noticed something moving in the distance, "Is that... a woman?"

"What?" Anthony replied as he peered over the backseat. "Oh, shit. It is. You think she's from the plane?"

"Possibly. One way to find out," Russell replied as he took off his seat-belt before stepping out of the car. Russell quickly grabbed his axe and Beretta M9 before slowly proceeding towards the woman. Anthony tailed in behind Russell with his own revolver neatly tucked out-of-sight in his belt-line.

"Hey, Miss! You okay?! We're lookin' for survivors!" Russell called out the woman, keeping his hands raised in a non-threatening manner, as they made their approach.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Elijah Jefferson
7th Ward

After navigating their way across several rooftops to avoid the dead lurking down below, Elijah and Thomas managed to make to New Orleans' 7th Ward. After climbing down a ladder, the two made their way down street riddled with dead bodies. The smell of decaying maggot-infested flesh was starting to get to Elijah as he shielded his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

"This is some fucked up shit," Elijah said, side-stepping the corpse of a young waitress. The name Tammy was written across the tag on blood-stained blue shirt. He grimaced at the sight of her and said, "God, I think I knew her. Girl worked at a diner down the road. Used to make me coffee each mornin' before work. Wish I had spoke to her more..."

At that moment, out of the corner of his eye Elijah spotted somebody moving around down the street. The stranger appeared to be rummaging through the wreckage of a blue SUV that had smashed into a fire hydrant.

"Yo, Tom, back me up. I'm gonna go see what this guy's deal is," Elijah said, assuming his newly acquainted pal would help him if things were to go awry. As he slowly approached the stranger, Elijah noticed the shimmer of a sword strapped across the man's back. "What the fuck?" Elijah whispered to himself.

"Uh, 'scuse me! Sir! You... uh... you need any help?"

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Sean Cao/Jamal Burris
The Block

Sean and Jamal divided the rest of the weapons up among themselves. Sean strapped the Tommy gun around his back and slid his father's machete into a leather sheathe tied around his belt-line. Meanwhile, Jamal got his hands on the Ithaca 37 and a tomahawk. Once they were done, they packed the remaining weapons back into the duffel bag, zipped it closed, and stood back up.

"Follow us, we have a car around the back behind the fence," Sean informed his new companions.

As everyone made their way out into the backyard, Sean stopped Jamal in the kitchen and whispered, "Is that cop doing okay? He seemed a little shaken up back there."

"I think we're all a little shaken up, brother," Jamal replied before following the group outside.

Sean simply shrugged it off and continued out the back. After helping everyone over the fence, Sean pulled himself and hurried over a beat-up, blood-stained Ford pickup truck. As soon as everyone packed into the truck, Sean floored it the out of there. No way he wanted to be stuck outside of camp come nightfall.

45 Minutes Later...

"Hey! Hey, guys! We're coming up on the camp!" Sean informed everyone as the truck pulled up to a makeshift gate made out of shipping containers and semi-trailers. A guard sat atop one of the containers holding some sort of hunting rifle. As Sean and Jamal waved at the guard, the man turned and gave the order to open the gates.

Jamal peered into the backseat where Torres, Cole, and Trina were seating and in an ecstatic voice hollered, "Welcome to The Block, kiddos! Woooo! We made it!"

As soon as the truck pulled into the safe-zone, Malcolm Westbrook stepped out of his apartment building and walked over to congratulate Sean and Jamal on making it back safely, "Jamal, nigga, ya made it! Glad you see an' Sean are okay..." He then paused upon seeing three strangers stepping out the backseat of the truck, "...and I see you boys brought back some guests too. Good job! Could always use more people 'round 'ere."

Jamal gave Malcolm a brotherly hug and said, "Yeah, we found these guy's out near Sean's old place."

"Oh, did'ya now? And you're folks, Sean?" Malcolm replied.

"Mom's gone... Dad's probably dead too," Sean responded with a sigh.

Malcolm looked at the ground and replied, "Shit, sorry to hear it, brother. If they're anythin' you need, let me know. Ya hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear ya, Malcolm. I think I just need to get some rest," Sean responded, looking rather apathetic, as he made his way into the apartment building.

"Boy's had a rough day," Jamal stated.

While scratching his chin, Malcolm looked over at the group of strangers, leaned over next to Jamal and said, "Well, nigga, you gonna introduce me to 'em or what?

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," Jamal turned around to face the group and said, "Yo, everyone, this is Malcolm Westbrook. He's tryin' to keep everything together 'round here. Well, him an' Oscar. There's about thirty or so other people livin' here, so we're doin' are best to stay on stop of things. That's why me and Sean were out looking for supplies before you folks. Anyways, Malcolm could tell ya more about the place than I can."

"Ya'll have any questions then just come to me, aight?" Malcolm replied.

"Oh, and Malcolm," Jamal said, placing his hand on Malcolm's left shoulder, while pointing at the group, "That's Trina, her son, Cole, and that's Officer Torres."

"Aight. Thanks, Jamal. Go get yourself a meal and some rest. I'll show our new friends around," Malcolm stated in a warm, friendly tone.

"Thanks, Malcolm," Jamal replied as he walked away.

Malcolm glanced back at the trio and with a welcoming tone of voice asked, "Ya'll hungry?"

Officer Wayne Torres

Between the kid, Trina, and himself, the backseat of the truck seemed a little too cramped. Then again, being shoulder to shoulder with a woman when he hadn't seen one that wasn't a prison guard probably had something to do with how uncomfortable Wayne felt. He stole a glance down at her chest more than once throughout the ride. Any time he thought he could get away with it.

Way to act like an upstanding officer of the law, Wayne. Just ogle the first lady you come across. You're a great guy, Wayne. Fuck I have problems.

Sean shouting about them making it to The Block and Jamal glancing into the backseat knocked Torres out of his internal monologue, and he briefly wondered if Jamal caught him staring at Trina. As soon as Sean cut the engine, Wayne freed himself from the truck and stretched out his sore muscles, palming the pump of his shotgun in one had as non-threatening as he could, his free hand smoothing his curly lockes.

Jamal introduced Malcolm and Wayne gave a curt nod when his name was mentioned. Torres didn't know what to make of Malcolm or The Block. They seemed friendly enough, and thats exactly what made him nervous.

Malcolm glanced back at the trio and with a welcoming tone of voice asked, "Ya'll hungry?"

My god I am so fucking hungry, shut up and show me your food.

"Is that a meal offer? I think I can safely speak for all of us when I say: if so, lead the way."

At the first opportunity that Malcolm wasn't looking at them, Wayne leaned over to Trina and spoke in a hushed tone of voice "Hey. Keep an eye out, If this place seems like trouble, you come to me, okay? and gave a conspiratorial wink.

Thomas Rynning

“Yeah, just walk right up to the maniac with a sword.  I’ll stay here.”

Thomas unshouldered his rifle without another word and waited, staring at the stranger with narrowed eyes.  He had a good reaction time.  At this distance he was confident he could take the man down without getting stabbed, or sliced, or otherwise diced.  Assuming he really was a sword wielding maniac, of course.  
He didn’t want to shoot him.  But recently and in fact for most of his life, it seemed that what he wanted made very little difference in the way things turned out.  He hoped to god this wasn’t one of those times.

~~~

Roxy and Jon


Roxanne Salem had ignored the car as it pulled to a stop, still striding towards a boarded up house no more than 20 meters away.  It was only with Russell’s declaration that they were looking for survivors that she turned, quick and without hesitation, to point a .38 caliber revolver one handed at the both of them.  Her jaw was set and her eyes full of intent, but her hands still shook and trembled.

The wind tore through the trees in the silence, and without looking away from the two men, Roxy lifted the gun into the air, the barrel pointed to the clouds.  She fired.

Jon’s eyes went wide.  A gunshot, just outside the house they had claimed for a base, if one could call it that.  The furniture was smashed, the paint chipping, and the roof sagging.  ‘A shithole,’  he had called it.  ‘Good enough,’ she had called it.  

He stepped back, careful not to slam his head on the hood of the car he was failing to fix a few seconds prior.  He didn’t bother wiping the grease from his hands before he grabbed his bag and slid out of the side door of the garage, peaking around the corner.  Roxy, two men, one armed.  His stepsister must have found a gun.  And decided to fire it.  Not good.

“Gah, fuck it.”  He muttered to himself as he darted to the scene.  Not good at all.  He could already hear the dead shuffling nearer, bringing with them the stench of death.

He came to a stop a few meters behind his sister, eyes glancing back and forth between her, the gun, and the strangers.

“Hey sis… you mind filling me in quick, because you’ve ‘angered the swarm.’  They’re coming.”

“I know.  And I’m not your sister Jon.”  She lowered the gun to her side, eyes still fixed on the men.  “You got a camp or something?  I’d answer fast, we don’t have much time.”  
Her hands were still shaking.