Meltdown || Literate Zombie Survival RP--ACCEPTING

Zombie strippers?

...Wut?	0.0%	[ 0 ]
I'm game. *shrug*	42.9%	[ 3 ]
HELL YEAH! BRING ON THE NAKED ZOMBIE BITCHES!	28.6%	[ 2 ]
I'd hit that...with a METAL BAT!	28.6%	[ 2 ]
Total Votes:			[ 7 ]

[James Phobos]

As a general rule, movies are generally really stupid things to follow life by. You are not The Chosen One, pills don't make you a hero but they do make you retarded for a bit, you cannot stop bullets with your hands alone, and there is no way in hell that you can blow up a gasoline tank with a pistol, James Bond you ******** liar. Of course, Zeb figures as he anxiously follows the little group they have going on here, zombies were the kinds of things that were supposed to stay in movies. So now is probably the exception to that general rule of life, and he finds himself trying to rake his brain for all the random knowledge that helped people in the movies stay alive during this kind of crazy s**t. As can only be expected, he can't remember s**t. Well... There's one thing. But it's kind of obvious.

Headshot, headshot, [********]

In times of stress, Zeb often found himself imagining what his family would say in the kind of situation he was in. For this oh-so special occasion, he imagines his littlest brother Leigh, staring at him with the odd kind of blankness some little kids possess. Do you really want to get that close to a zombie, Zeb? imaginary Leigh asks with wide eyes. Of course, Zeb is already slinging the guitar case off of his back and into his hands, even as the PA crackles to life again and Mars takes off with Margot in tow. "You heard the man," Zeb mutters to no one in particular. "Running like hell-"

And then Margot makes her little observation. Against all common sense (which is telling him to just run ), Zeb looks back. He immediately regrets it.

No he tells imaginary Leigh with the sinking feeling that he'll have lost all semblance of sanity by the end of the night. No, I really, really don't want to get that close to a zombie.

"Running like hell is a fantastic idea!" he hisses, smacking the bottom of his guitar case against the back of Sol and Ms. Stiletto's (Livi, right? ) legs as he tries to make the two hurry. He ends up looking like some sort of deranged sheep herder. "Mush, mush!"

[Seven VII]

Sol didn't have to be told twice. He grabbed Livi's wrist quickly and tugged her ahead of Zeb's harshly prodding guitar case. "Great idea!" he squeaked, doing the wise thing by not looking back. He had no desire to give himself a heart attack. "Let's get going, Livi!"

It figured. The one day he actually thought about not wanting it to be bad, and it looked like it was quickly turning shitty. Sol gave a quick shake of his head and tried to ignore the moaning. It didn't help much, and Sol's thoughts quickly took a turn for the worse. Scary movies? Zeb's thing. That wasn't his thing, he preferred normal action-drama type films. Still, one zombie, now a lot of zombies.... Oh man. He raked a hand through his hair anxiously. Zombies were never good. Oh, why couldn't they just have gotten a ********' serial killer instead? Terrorists?

[Kriemhilde]

Mars didn't want to look back. He really didn't. He kept moving in this pace that was something between a half-assed sprint and power-walking. He had almost forgotten about the strange little caravan he was a member of until he heard Margot whimper. Autonomously he tightened his grip, pulled her up off her feet and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of fertilizer.

Mars Atari was a violence-loving man if ever he was a nature-loving one. He could still recall the long debates he would have with his friends (the few weird ones he had managed to find, hiding in the darkened corners of graphic novel shops and cheap movie stores) about the relative speed and strength of zombies. While these debacles had been all well and good when the threat was a shapeless phantasm that would do him no harm. Now the problem was real, and any rationalizations he might have had about the threat these things were was now voided ('Cause they not existing is ********' rational in the first place, Em I right?). So he kept moving, having no idea how close they were (His heart was pounding too loudly in his skull) or if they were moving fast at all. So he didn't look back. He refused. Instead, he asked the tiny shoulder-phantom he had just acquired the first thing that popped into his head. The one he and his friends would use to describe the very thing he now wondered.

"So," he puffed, breathing in after every few words, "Whaddaya... think? Dawn 'er... Shaun?"

Margot's eyes bulged comically as she went up and over the tall man's shoulder. Her head almost hit his rear and her hands hung uselessly down his back. After a momentary struggle she had righted herself, pushing on the small of Mars's back as to be in some form of an upright position. She was halfway between laughing at the hilarity of it all and shouting at him to drop her or she'd bite his right buttocks clean off, thank you very much. Seeing the floor bounce past in jarring movements was making her a little sick.

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" She yelped, trying to look up (intently trying to avoid the faces of the rest of the group) and back at the zombies.

She was having an eerily easy time of calling them that, she realized with a shiver.

"Dawn of the Dead... or... Shaun of the Dead?" Mars breathed. She wasn't heavy, but a human being is an awkward thing to carry, no matter how you go about it. Unfortunately, Mars knew this from past experiences. "Fast, like... in the new version... or slow?"

Margot looked back at the zombies (There it was again! So abnormally normal. Another supressed giggle.), assuming he was talking about them. She still had no frigging idea what he was talking about, as she hadn't seen enough zombie movies. Not to mention that the party was moving at a fair speed - it was hard for her to tell just how fast their shuffling assailants were going.

"Slow, I think!" she called. She could hear his breathing - now loud, laborous - and felt bad for needing to be carried (Like a sack of potatoes. Or a cavewoman about to get me some rape. At least buy me dinner first.). "You can put me down now!"

But Mars didn't listen. He felt (or would have felt, if animal instinct had temporary control over any form of internalization) as if someone had quietly flipped the switch to the 'OFF' position for the Mars Atari persona.

[NicGuy]

Frank zoned out for awhile. Seeing what appeared to be a zombie broke any kind of thought he might have wanted. it was a zombie, and that's all his mind could repeat.

He thought the Mall would be a good idea..but after seeing the crowds- the many "might be's", he had to think of something else. He murmured to himself:

"I need my camera. I need my zen."

The group stopped on what they were doing to catch Frank running of towards the 2nd gate.

The Evans were at plane 202, he recalled. Maybe they had gotten away. Maybe they hadn't shown up? Maybe they were trapped inside a plane surrounded in zombies. He didn't know why he was acting the way he was. Some invisible force was calling to him. He didn;t know where the writer was taking him. he didn't care.

"Maybe I'll get a pay bonus!"

The gate was sparse. He could hear screams coming from the distance, but he knew they were not from the aircraft. There was however, blood. Lots of it.

A trail led from the entrance, and through the movable hallway that led to 202, and it kept going, until it dissipated in the darkness of the planes insides.

"Hello? Mr. and Ms. Evans?"

There was a sound. He tried to fallow, but the darkness was too much for him. He pulled out his matches and lit one-

Bodies laid across the plane. Some were in seats, some of them over the seats, some under.

Ahead, towards the cockpit, there was a shadow hunching over another.

"Hello?" Frank spoke to hard, and the match went out. he lit another.

The shadow was gone.

The light that he had was little, but he had the comfort of the planes exit, which was still open.

He crept forward, as to not evoke other shadows to appear and devour him. The crew was dead, and he knew it. He still went inside the cockpit. And with his last foot step, the demon had triggered his trap- The exit door slammed shut.

[Homie G Luxory]

Max could have slapped whoever thought it was a good idea to call all the passengers into one area in the middle of a zombie invasion. It was like guiding cattle into the slaughterhouse chute, but instead of burgers and steaks you got zombies. ********. Speaking of zombies, Max spotted them about the same time Mars decided it was a good idea to beat feet and get the hell out of here. His poor brain had locked up as he had counted them, he didn't even hear Margot--Maxwell was stuck on the blood that was apparent on each shuffling form, and was busy trying to convince himself it was all fake, just like in his favorite horror flicks. Red paint, catsup, Karo Syrup, Kensington Gore, ******** Bosco's Chocolate Syrup; anything but real blood. He couldn't handle real blood. [******** ******** ********] was the theme of today, and Max couldn't make his feet move, couldn't move other than to tighten his hold on the flimsy metal rack.

Thank god for Livi and Sol moving into his line of sight as they rushed to get away from their zombie visitors; it gave Max that split second he needed to break his fixation on the bl--chocolate. ********. syrup. As soon as Zeb was past him, Max turned and followed, not running yet, but pretty damn close as he jogged along.

[This Is Zen]

Empty.

Empty empty empty Jesus Christ God in heaven it was all empty.

Phil had kept to a walking pace. It was quieter, and with the blood-covered metal pole hefted over one shoulder, he didn't want to appear crazy. He didn't want to appear threatening.

Good god, he didn't want to happen to him what he'd done to that poor SOB. He still couldn't figure out why he did it... There had been no indication. He seemed to fit the bill for someone infected, but... God, if it was just a disease, why? He must have whited out standing for a few seconds, because when he could see straight again, there was nothing left of the guy's head. One of his eyes had been hanging from the optic nerve, white and bloodshot and staring and accusing...

Phil shook his head, clearing the thoughts. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but he was certain the one guy had killed the other. It only made sense to defend himself, right? Yeah, that fit, that fit. He rubbed one hand against the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and stopping for a moment.

In his head was the image of the entire body this time. The boils... the puss oozing out of scratches, the sickly pallor. The smell. Phil was a C student, so he didn't think of the black plague in Europe. No, he thought of that one movie about the epidemic in Britain. What was it? Doomsday or something..? Whatever it was... he just hoped... hoped Meagan and his daughter were alright. His son was half the country away in college, so he'd be fine, but...

No time to worry about that. He set his jaw again, started walking again. Almost to the mall. That was where people would be. There'd be security there, with the answers. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose again as he walked, though. Phil had been alive too long to be optimistic.

There would be people there, though, and that was what mattered.

Preoccupied like this, only strangely sharp reflexes kept him from being the next in a long line of people in this airport to run headlong into another person. He jerked to the side as a giant of a man with dreads passed him by, carrying a girl on his back like a sack of potatoes. His fingers tightened around his makeshift club, he started drawing in deep breaths. Eyes wide. He hadn't realized how on edge he was, and now...

Before any suspicions of the intentions of a man carrying a woman off could arise, he heard it. Footsteps behind him, but also shuffling. Other... things were moving. A quick glance behind him confirmed it. Not enough time to count how many or get more than an idea, but there were more of them chasing this group.

Phil, out of shape as he was, fell in step behind the dreadlocked giant, doing his damnedest to keep up.

He was failing, but all that mattered was that he wasn't the one furthest behind, right?

[Phantasm of the Orchestra]

Alarm bells rang louder than Notre Dame in Chrys’s head; not that she had any idea how loud Notre Dame actually was. The disheveled man was nowhere to be seen. ”Did he run off?!” Chrys frantically screened the vicinity, but to no avail. Chrys felt a chill steal over her, as if someone had poured a glass of cold water down her back. The man’s unexpected disappearance and the equally unexpected announcement over the PA had her body simulating flu-like symptoms. She shivered and pulled her parka closer to her body. As she replayed the words of the now-silent speakers, she felt an inexplicable wave of distrust. Deciding that they have wasted enough time, she turned back sharply to the remainder of their rag-tag group.

“We can play catch-up later.” She frowned, thinking hard. “For now, we ought to get somewhere safer. That man insisted there was something dangerous in the bathroom, and now he’s gone. Then they’re screaming serious, unknown diseases, while at the same time are acting like it’s a piece of cake and we should all group-hug. If they don’t know who has the disease, and they want us all to congregate in one area and possibly spread the disease further...just...I think the people in charge are idiots who don’t know what they’re doing.” She paused in her rant, oblivious to how the others were reacting. “We need to put some distance between us and this area, and move toward the mall. The shops should be starting to close up; we can snake one that hasn’t pulled down the security gate yet. A store with food. Hang out during the night, listen for more announcements, plan our next move from there. I don’t like the idea of sleeping in the foodcourt, I mean, what if the disease is spread through the food? And out in the open, no thank you.”

She huffed, and squared her shoulders. “Agreeable?” she asked, staring determinedly into each of their faces, ready to stomp off regardless. "And, um, it's Chrys." she added, speaking mostly to Venus. Her expression softened.

The sky outside was steadily growing darker, and the wind screamed at the windows like the savage undead.

[Homie G Luxory]

Helen listened this time to the announcement, but something made her turn to look over her shoulder just in time to see Grizzled Guy disappear around a corner, running manically. She didn't know what that was about, and all she could do was silently wish the stranger luck. "Did he run off?!" she heard the girl ask, and shuddered. What the hell kind of crazy move was that, running off alone? Then the girl was launching into a rant, and Helen stayed silent, thinking over everything she said.

Yeah, how stupid was that, to put everyone in once place when nobody knew who was sick and who wasn't? It was almost like management wanted it to spread or something, come on. Ugh, Helen did not want to be dealing with this. But then the girl mentioned food, and she was suddenly reminded of how hungry she was. Shop sounded good, security gate sounded really good, and food sounded spectacular.

"I agree with Lucy Liu, let's find some place to hole up for the night. And a security gate between us and the infected sounds mighty good right about now." Helen jerked her head in the direction of the mall, looking at the cop and his prisoner. "You coming along, or are you gonna run off like Mr. Grizzly? Cause I think I'm gonna stick with Chrys." She has a plan and she seems to be in a lot more control than I am. Pfft, some hardcore woman you are, Helen, can't even take care of yourself on your home turf. "And I want to get the hell away from those bathrooms in case there's really something in there."

[Storm Aether]

Richard watched quietly as the two debated amongst themselves, slowly lowing his arm and clipping his badge back onto his belt. Not being a people person, he failed to really take in their appearances or gauge their personalities with any depth--He just figured the Asian was the boss. "I'm obligated to see you to safety, that's not a choice I get to make," He responded when asked if he would follow with them.

Months later, he would look back and be impressed with his own ability to remain calm in that situation. Sure, he had seen death. He had struggled with dangerous men, and even been shot at in his line of work... but there he was, surviving a zombie outbreak without so much as his sidearm, and he was calm and collected about it all. Partly, it was his nature to take things one step at a time and always believe what couldn't be denied, and partly it was his training and experience as a cop, but more than anything, he kept his cool because he needed to keep these people safe. He knew that.

"I need to get in contact with the department as soon as possible. A radio would be nice," He commented, contributing to the strategic discussion. He had to wonder what had happened before. The line went dead... had it been cut at the airport, the station, or somewhere in between? And why?

Victoria, intellectual that she was, sized up the two women with meticulous attention to detail. The taller woman had a glamorous appearance, the kind that a lot of effort goes into over a long period of time, and one is usually very proud of. She was probably snobbish, and stuck-up, and never had to do any real work a day in her life... Vicky didn't like her.

The Asian wasn't much better. She was not gifted with the vast aesthetic advantages that come with being Caucasian in America, but her style of dress was not dissimilar. Yet there was a difference in her eyes... maybe it was the relative calm, compared to the other woman's thinning nerves. No, that wasn't it... she was looking back. That was it. The Amazon didn't want to meet Victoria's eyes--she seemed intent to pretend she wasn't there--This one, however, recognized her presence, and seemed almost... perhaps... intrigued. That said something about the kind of person she really was.

In realizing this, Victoria's lips thinned and curled into a suspicious smile even as her eyes narrowed mischieviously. She still felt the lump in the pit of her stomach, the fear of death and uncertainty that she had moments ago, trying to start smalltalk with the cold detective, but this gave her something else to think about. Just enough to keep a cool head. She was lucky, really, to be deprived of the need to think for herself at the time.

[Homie G Luxory]

Now that Helen had realized the cop wasn't going to be their great savior, her mind let her focus on the bigger picture. Almost as if she hadn't notice the girl in the handcuffs before, she took her in. Really, Helen'd only given her the most cursory glance before, homing in on the cop, but now she was intrigued. Helen liked the hair, it was rebellious and cool. She remembered her brief stint with colored hair (pink and purple when she was fourteen, done by her friend Susan, and her father had threatened to send her to the Catholic school in Newburg if it wasn't put immediately normal). Taking in the cuffs again, she wondered if they were necessary, and shook her head.

"Hey, uh...cop guy. Are those cuffs really necessary? I mean, we're facing some kind of epidemic where the infected attack people." She raised a brow, frowning. "How's she supposed to defend herself if she's cuffed? I mean, she can't have done anything too big and bad, or she'd be with airport security instead of you right now. Right?" She ran a hand through her hair, looking around almost as if she expected one of those 'infected' to jump out and attack them right there.

[Phantasm of the Orchestra]

Chrys trudged along the hall, noticed how much sound her heels were making as they clicked against the linoleum, and softened her steps. It seemed even the quietest movement echoed throughout the hall, ripples of sound reverberating across and sloshing against the walls. They had agreed upon finding a shop that carried electronics, food, and other such supplies that may aid them should the quarantine go awry. Chrys remembered walking past such a place, a typical minimart that held a variety of basics, before she had back-tracked to the bathroom. Which, as she remembered wryly, was nestled a rather long distance away. She started stomping again, forgetting her inner critic’s need for composure. Her memory chose to lock onto MaxMart not only for its general selection, but because it had both closing glass doors and a security gate that could slide down and bar them against…well, disease addled-freaks lunging at them, for starters. Violent looters. No individuals that might fit those descriptions had made an appearance so far. Either way, she desperately wanted to find somewhere safe so she could attempt to call Max. She ignored the cold churning in her stomach at the thought that he might not be safe.

She glanced over her shoulder to assure herself the others hadn’t suddenly disappeared as well. Contented that they were indeed following, she refocused on their destination, almost willing the store to appear before her.

They turned a corner, and walked into the widened vicinity of main hall. “It’s just a bit further down here.” She called over her shoulder. She spied MaxMart, lights still on, large red block lettering still flashing. Further down the hall, she saw what looked like a store employee walking quickly around a corner, probably heading toward the foodcourt. Nerves must have gotten the better of him, standing alone in an empty mall with a disease epidemic raging. She didn’t see anyone else, though there was the muffled sound of voices in the distance. Surprised and excited that the employee didn’t even bother locking up, she quickened her pace, feeling as if she was running against the clock, and she might not reach the door in time. With a little too much energy, she grabbed the bar of the door and yanked it open, ushering the others in. Closing the door and turning the lock, she quickly scanned the vacant store, eyes lighting on the door of an employee bathroom and store room, before turning back to the main entrance. Without wasting a minute, she reached toward the above screen, fully determined to slam the screen gate down. She came up short. Defeated, she turned back to the group, placing her hands on her hips instead. “A little help?” her voice came out harsher than she intended. She chewed her lip nervously, dropping her gaze at the officer’s knee apologetically.

[Kriemhilde]

Margot was looking.
Margot was still looking.
And she realy didn't want to.
She hardly noticed as a slightly overweight older man joined their ranks as easily and without any objections as if he had been called back after a long time away. If she had really noticed, she would have probably laughed.
It barely registered in her mind that the teacher-looking man (Max, right? I can't remember...) gradually fell behind the group. It wouldn't have mattered much if she had noticed, these were... what had he called them? Shaun zombies?
It almost didn't occur to her at all that Mars was slowing down, that a dull murmur of voice had become apparent in the air, and that, where it had darkened before, the sickly yellow of emergency power lights was taking over the dark. But if it had, she would have tried to slip off of Mars's arm, laughing with ill-gotten relief and trying to hold back tears.

She was still looking at the zombies with some sick fascination.
There weren't that many of them and yes, they were becoming more and more difficult to spot in the dark as the large Mafia-esque man sped away with her over his arm (Usually she almost would have been embarrassed that her slim frame could fit over his entire shoulder, but she didn't have time for it to bother her now), but she could still see them.
There was blood. Blood, all over them. Blood like her short trip over the embankment in the woods into a ditch full of broken bottles when she was seven, blood like her neighbor's head smashed halfway-in when he fell off his bike and hit the corner of the bricks when she was eleven, blood like her mother's half-term miscarriage when she was fourteen.
Blood.
It was just like in the movies: caked on their face like ketchup or fried chicken grease, dripping down their dirty necks and butterflying down and out as it reached at their shirt collars, down along the fronts of their clothes. It was on their arms, caking their fingers, probably packed under their fingernails like dirt (Deity save me if I ever get close enough to find out), running up their pale forearms or soaked sleeves as if defying gravity. It was dark, and she could barely tell it was red, but she knew it was. She could tell, even from that distance, that their faces were pale, their eyelids were dark, and their skin was sweaty and covered in those boils and sores, just like that one, just like him.
Margot's bare arms shivered violently, and clutched the back of Mars's jacket tighter.
I just want them to go away.

Mars stared ahead, jaw set in an indifferent scowl and eyes almost frozen open, his hard stare breaking only as he heard people. He took in a sharp breathy gasp, as if he'd forgotten to breathe for a moment. Whoever had flipped the switch for the Mars persona had finally returned it to the 'on' position, and he started hyperventilating with relief, squinting ahead.

There were flickering lights around the corner, and he could hear people talking. He didn't trust medical facilities. He didn't trust the police and he didn't trust shelters in crisises (It's not the same as a zombie movie, God dammit, he kept telling himself.), but he was more glad than he could say at knowing they had reached the safety point unscathed.

Turning the corner was like opening the shutters to let sunlight into a blackened room (Mars wasn't much good at similies, but that's what he thought of). Cots were set up, and people wrapped in blankets huddled together or wandered around, their gentle murmurs the perfect antithesis to the hystrionic screams they had been emitting as they ran pell-mell in the opposite direction of those... (Mars couldn't even say it to himself in his head.)

Mars, Margot still slung indifferently over his shoulder, finally stopped his feet, standing there in the dim light, watching people in blankets shuffle around.

[Storm Aether]

"Hold on a second," The detective said calmly, slowing the pace of the entire scene. "Leave the gate open while I check the back rooms. We might need a quick exit," He said contemplatively, scratching his beard and gazing at nothing in particular upwards and to his left. He turned on his heels abrubtly and scanned the nearest shelf for something that could be used as a weapon. Finding nothing, he took the steel handcuffs out of his pocket that had recently been removed from the arrestees wrists. He would have to figure it out later.

He went to the back and opened the restroom door, peered inside for what seemed like an eternity, scanning the visible area, listening for zombie-like sounds... he even thought about trying to detect the scent of decay that might loom over one of those creatures, but he decided it would be prominent enough to not need to take a nice big whiff of restroom air. Satisfied, he moved to the store room, and peeked inside. It was more spacious, so he stepped in and took a look around, leaning this way and that with one foot still outside the door. Satisfied that it was clear, he stepped back out of the door and gave a nod to the others.

[James Phobos]

Martial artist.
Cop.
Soldier.
Doctor, war vet, terrorist, escaped convict, football player, fencer, stuntman-
All and any of those would be useful in a situation like this. Any of those would make sure that he survives longer, wouldn't they? Damn. Zeb curses himself for the lack of ambition he's held throughout his entire life. That's karma for you, he supposes. All his life, his family has told him that he needs to make something of himself. Do something! they'd say. Follow in Theo's footsteps, become a cop. Follow in Jav's footsteps, become a doctor. Do something, Zeb.
Why bother? That's what he'd always thought, back then.

Those were hero things, good things, hard-working things, and Zeb just could never see him doing it. Couldn't see himself in a crisp blue uniform taking a crook to jail, couldn't see himself in a doc's coat and standing over a patient's bed. Sure, he wants to help people, but in the small ways. Help the old lady across the street ways.
Of course, just like everyone had always said, now it's come back to bite him in the a**. They probably never meant it so literally, but oh well.

That's life for you. Throwing adulthood at you along with the occasional zombie invasion.

For now, he just thinks the condensed version of all this, which is [******** oh ********, should've been a cop, wish I had a gun. Very desperately, he tries to ignore the moaning his keen hearing can pick up, and just tries to focus on other things. Follow Mars, cursing Sol for being a stubborn sonovabitch and not taking his medication, and then he suddenly notices the footsteps of Max lagging behind him. "Can you go any slower?" he hisses.

Even with the flickering lights that are up ahead, Zeb feels something twitching uncomfortably in his gut. Paranoia, as far as he's concerned, is perfectly justified in this situation. Sure, everything looks fine and dandy, but so do abusive husbands when they're not beating the tar of their wives. Still twitchy and ever so aware of the zombies that are still far too close for comfort, , Zeb still keeps his guitar out even as he stumbles to a stop. "Alright, boys and girls," he mutters, "raise your hands if you're not paranoid right now about following the instructions of the people who just locked us in with zombies."

[Homie G Luxory]

Now that it was established that the store was clear of zombies, Helen sighed in relief and stepped forward to help Chrys pull down the security gate. Getting it down the first two feet was difficult, and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face as she pulled and strained. After that, something seemed to pop and it was a helluva lot easier to pull down. Once the gate came into Chrys's range, the two women pulled the gate down together.

"Just a sec. How easy is this going to be to get up and down, in case we need to let someone in? Or need to get out?" Helen looked at the others. She didn't have anyone in particular that she needed to find, but Chrys didn't strike her as the type to be in St. Hope for no reason, and hadn't the cop said he could use a radio? Helen doubted there was a radio in here. She wiped the sweat off her forehead, waiting.

Max wasn't exactly huffing and puffing and falling behind, so he rolled his eyes at all the protests and urgings that he hurry. Hadn't these guys ever watched a movie or played a co-op videogame? Mars had taken point (though it was more like he'd grabbed Margot and ******** beat feet, screw everyone else) and Max had fallen back to be rearguard. He wasn't going to complain, though, it would just be silly. The addition of a heavyset man with one of those poles slung over his shoulder like a club didn't really phase him, Max just counted their numbers higher and felt a little blessed that they would be less outnumbered when it finally came down to a battle. It always came down to a battle in the zombie flicks.

So when they all come to a halt just outside the food court, the zombies far behind them--but definitely not far enough--and Zeb asks the big question, Max just shakes his head. "Of course it's a stupid idea, we might as well just pour steak sauce over our heads and go ask the zombies to dance." Maxwell has no trouble calling them zombies, using the zed word. As he's seeing it right now, it's just a movie or a videogame, and he just has to survive, keep his little ragtag team alive until the military comes in, or some other Deus ex machina saves the day. "You'd think they want more zombies, the fools. We'll have better luck of surviving this if we get what we need from the food court and then move along." He looked around at the others. "Agreed?"