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Author Topic: Seeking Writing Partner for Post-Zombie Outbreak Story  (Read 508 times)

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Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Seeking Writing Partner for Post-Zombie Outbreak Story
« on: December 07, 2011, 05:01:01 PM »
Although I'm getting a little full on games, I have been craving a good story after a zombie out-break.  What I'm looking for is something resembling "The Walking Dead" or "Dawn of the Dead", in that the story takes place not long at all after the beginning of the outbreak.  Nitty gritty, story based story of banding together and surviving.  Ideally I'm looking for someone to write a female character, but I definitely would not turn down a good male character.

Quote
Standing at the corner of Main Street and Broadside Avenue, Michael Harper couldnít help but to think back upon the memories of his childhood.

It seemed like a lifetime ago in his eyes.  Looking at the smoldering burned out remains of the old Peteís Market, he couldnít help but to remember the countless summer days of hanging out in front of that store, eating ice cream in the smothering heat of summer.  The sight of the old Majestic theater at the end of Main, just before it turned into Penny Way, with itís marquee smashed in, barely hanging to the faÁade of the building by the nuts and bolts, brought back the swarm of memories of spending so many days and nights at the theater enjoying his childhood.  Seeing the parking space just a few feet away from the theater brought back the memory of reaching third base for the first time in his life still brought a smile to his face.  But in that very space laid the dead, rotted carcass of some unfortunate person.

Times, they are a changiní. 

No longer was the air filled with the familiar scent of his home town.  Instead, the only smell was that of death.  That seemed to be everywhere in his opinion.  But standing out on that corner, standing upon the cracked cement sidewalk, the smell of death seemed to be stronger than ever.  Not even the flies were buzzing about in the carnage of death and destruction.  The death of the life and town he had left behind years and years ago was something he wasnít going to forget any time soon.  The small little town of Stevensville had been dead in his mind for years, but seeing it in all of itís ruin was something he wasnít prepared for in his wildest dreams.

It had been more than a few long years since Michael had stepped foot in the town that had been home for so many years.  He had thought he would never step foot in the town again.  He knew he would never step foot in the town again.  Convicted cop killers donít usually get out of death row, let alone prison.  Even if he did, he doubted very much he would be welcomed back.  Killers donít usually get the welcoming parties.  By chance he happened to get free.  Never in his wildest dreams did he think of stepping foot back in town, especially not in the bright orange jumpsuit he wore upon his body.

The hand upon his Glock handgun tightened  as his eyes looked down at the death and decay of the town he had been born and raised in.  Half of his mind wanted to turn back, to get his ass back away from it.  More than a few times he had heard of Them sticking around town and cities.  Familiarity, he thought, looking for food.  But when there was no place else to go, where else could he go?

Thereís no place like homeÖ He thought to himself, slowly and cautiously beginning the once familiar trip down the road of death.

Every step he took made his heart beat harder.  It felt as if it were ready to burst free from his chest.  Fear laced adrenaline coursed through his veins.  Every part of him felt alive, every single nerve on end.  His eyes were alert, keeping his vision wide open on the storefronts before him.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his eyes peeled for any single sound that would come to his attention.  That eerie calmness around him was unsettling, only fuelling the surge of adrenaline within his body.  It felt like the calm before a storm, a storm he didnít want to stick around to witness.

Over and over his mind thought of the destination at hand.  Only a few streets down would be the familiar sight of his old manís auto shop.  It drove him on, giving him the motivation he needed to walk into the middle of town, past the ruined relics of his childhood, past the death and destruction that laid all around him.  Get a carÖ He told himself.  Get a carÖ  Change of clothesÖ  And get the fuck out of town.

A sound of metal against hard concrete from behind instantly grabbed his attention.  It sounded as loud as a gunshot to his sensitive ears.  Time itself seemed to slow down, the air stilled, all feeling gone.  He didnít hesitate at all in turning around on a pivot, the gun raised and leveled at the first moving target he saw. 

But the sight of what he saw was something he just wasnít prepared for.

Michael had heard of Them before.  It was hard not to with what was then wall-to-wall coverage on the news.  Even behind bars word of Them painted a chilling picture.  But seeing one up close, a few feet away from him, was something he just wasnít prepared to witness.  The rotten, graying flesh.  The dead, lifeless eyes.  The flap of flesh that was once a cheek hanging from the dead manís face.  Slowly it inched closer, the deathly rattle of his breath more than enough to send a shiver up Michaelís spine.  And yet, even with the gun leveled at the walking dead manís head, he couldnít help but to pause.

The movies, the books, everything make it seem like an easy task to carry out.  But for Michael, he couldnít help but to feel a sense of hesitation.  He contemplated, in that moment which seemed to drag on and on, about the human that was before him.  He thought of him, thought that perhaps he came from the same place of him, that perhaps he even went to school with him at one time, ate at the same place, went to the same movie theater, hell, even made out with the same girl.  The possibilities were endless.

But at the end of the day, the dead were just that:  dead.  Infected.  Beyond his, or anyone elseís help.

With the pull of the trigger, the gun fired, blasting the small bullet deep into the dead beingís head.  Michael watched as it snapped back with the sheer force of the bullet ripping through itís head, only to watch the body fall to the ground at his feet.

At first, he did not believe the stories.  More than a few thought it was nothing more than a hoax, some practical joke like it was a modern day War of the Worlds.  But as the stories went on, the news reports poured in, and the videos began popping up, the thoughts of hoaxes and jokes went out of the door.  The Dead walking the Earth.  It seemed like something out of a nightmare.  But when you come close to it, when you see the infected, when you see that blank, dead stare out of those cold dead eyes, when you hear that rattle of breath, when you see them coming towards you out of that desperate hunger for flesh, fantasy becomes reality.

For a moment he stood, looming over the dead.  His heart raced as he looked down upon it, that ever present fear of the unknown powerful in his mind.  The thought of placing another bullet into itís head crossed his mind, and as he raised the gun, his finger so close to pulling the trigger, the sound of movement ripped through his mind.

His eyes raised, looking down the street adjacent from which he came at the creatures crawling out of their hiding spots.  Men.  Women.  Children.  The dead stares were filled with hunger, that basic need to feed the only thing in their mind as they came staggering out.  From storefronts, from alleys, from under cars, they came, the sound of the gunshot like a dinner bell ringing and echoing through the silent town. 

ďHoly shitÖĒ He muttered, cursing under his breath. 

He didnít wait, didnít wait a second before turning and running.  Running like never before.  Certain death had a habit of doing that, and nothing was a motivator like the sight of the Dead slowly coming out of their places, hungry for flesh.

Their cries, their guttural groans and moans, filled the streets.  What was once silent soon became loud and full of life.  His heart was racing, pounding in his chest as if it were ready to burst free from itís muscle and flesh confines.  He couldnít think about them.  He couldnít.  It would only slow him down, take his mind off of the most basic of human instincts:  survival.  But with each hard, quick thrust of his legs to carry him further and further away, it was becoming increasingly harder.  Seeing them slowly emerge from their dwellings, from broken, looted storefronts, to the burned out remains of cars and abandoned alley ways, from any and all directions around him was more than enough of a reason to think about them and only about them.

Ammunition was limited.  He had no idea how much he had left, and being stuck in the middle of the road was the last place where he wanted to find out.  With the gun firmly grasped in his hand, he ran, ran harder and faster than Michael ever had in his life.  The pain in his lungs, the ache of his heart, the growing resistance in his legs, was all ignored, shoved out of the back of his mind. 

Canít stop, he thought to himself.  Canít stop.

Michael didnít stop.  Seeing them coming out all around him, from the sides, from in front of him, hearing them behind him, he couldnít stop.  Not even as he felt the cold, worn flesh of dead hands lunging for his body.  It wasnít until the sight of the old Allen Auto Repair building at the end of the road did he feel just a sliver of hope within him.  That small, little ounce of hope that flickered within him like a dying flame, that small little bit of hope that burned for the thought of living another day.  The sight of it gave him a second wind.  Hope could do that.  As much as he hurt, as painful as his ribs and lungs hurt from the hard run, as fiercely as his heart pounded, and as tense as his legs felt, that burning flicker of hope pushed him on, pushed him past the growing horde, and right on through the opened chain-link gate at the entrance of the shop.

His hands trembled with the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he grabbed a hold upon the gate.  Using all of the strength he could muster, he pulled it shut, dragging the tall gate closed before locking it with the chain and padlock upon the opposite side. It creaked and whined with the effects of stiff bolts, the fence gate clinging and clanging as it was pulled in and locked.  It would hold, he thought.  It would hold, but not forever.  That was made clear with the arrival of the dead.  Towards the fence it ran, pulling and shaking it out of utter frustration like a starved and caged animal being taunted with a piece of meat just beyond their reach.

But never once did he let his guard down.  The grip upon the gun tightened.  His breathing was heavy, panting fiercely as the sweat ran down his face.  Slowly he made his way through the deserted auto repair lot, through the remains of the broken down cars that would never be repaired.  What bodies he found were dead-dead, and that gave him a slight sense of comfort.  It was sure as hell better than being locked in with the Dead outside and inside.

With a groan, he sat himself down upon the dirt-covered ground, resting his back against the side of a truck.  Slowly he regained his control of his breath, easing his tired body.  Out of sight of them, tucked safely behind the brick building and the brick security wall, Michael felt just a slight bit better.  Out of sight, out of mind, even if they were a sight he would never forget. 

This was the place he had spent so much of his childhood playing about as his father worked.  He could remember playing with his toy trucks, digging in the same dirt he sat upon.  This was where he enjoyed his childhood, where he earned his first dollar off the sweat of his back, where he became a man.  But he never thought he would be sitting there years later, surrounded by things he thought only existed in horror fiction.

He had been sitting there, running his fingers through his blonde hair when the crackle burst of a radio startled him.  His body jumped, slowly rising to his feet.  From behind him came another burst of static.  Quickly he turned around, peering into the window of the tow truck at the CB Radio.

It's been left kinda open ended.  Is there someone watching him from the bluffs above the town?  Is it someone sending out a cry for help somewhere close-by?  It's up to you.  This is just the start.  It can definitely be changed and altered.  By no means is this set in stone.

If you're interested, please send me a message.  I'm more likely to see a response to this in my inbox rather than coming back to check this.
« Last Edit: December 08, 2011, 11:01:20 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

  • The Baddest Bitch in All the Realm. Mother of The Bieber. Defender of the Brotherfucking Faith. Captain of the Raven. Queen of Gilea. Lover of all things Kenneth Parcell and Lucielle Bluth.
  • Lady
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  • Join Date: May 2009
  • Location: Cloud Cuckoo Land by day, Isle of the Damned by night, Church of the Sacred Union every Sunday
  • Gender: Female
  • "Illiteracy?!? What does that word even mean?"
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  • Referrals: 6
Re: Seeking Writing Partner for Post-Zombie Outbreak Story
« Reply #1 on: December 08, 2011, 11:01:36 PM »
Updated

Offline Fairehawke

Re: Seeking Writing Partner for Post-Zombie Outbreak Story
« Reply #2 on: December 09, 2011, 12:32:07 AM »
PM sent, Interested :)