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 ]

[Adnella]

Livi could feel herself loosing touch with reality. 'Man its been a weird day...' she thought feeling disconnected to her body. Like that nice little half-sleep state you fall in right before you catch some Z's. 'Am I fixing to faint...?'

A small distant thump hit the back of her legs. Then a harsh tug at her wrist as she realized she was being pulled along...

On either side of her were two young men, One being mister bunny hoodie himself, and the other being a young man who seemed in deep thought. After a brief fleeting moment of recollection she remembered the announcement. Just that moment, Bunny hoodie staggered to a halt and raised his guitar as he muttered;

"Alright, boys and girls, raise your hands if you're not paranoid right now about following the instructions of the people who just locked us in with zombies."

She took what she felt like was the most crisp breath of air she had ever inhaled. He was right. Who ever was making the calls around here wasn't planning on letting them get out alive.

"I know I do." she answered as she bent down and fastened her unpleasant accessories on her most lethal weapons, Reached into her hand bag for her fountain pen and clicked it erect. She had had a brief moment of confusion but now she was back on the field. Her eyes narrowed.

"And we're getting out of here alive. "

[Kriemhilde]

Mars's brain was working again, albeit in a fog from finally finding other people (Not screaming and running like ******** lemmings, thank God), and now he could just hear the dissent from his group. He glanced back to see Zeb, the poster boy for Jailbait Monthly. The fog snapped out of his mind, and he concentrated on the boy making the statements. ********' kid. [******** kid, it's not a ******** movie. They can't be that stupid. We're safe now, don't say that s**t.
If he hadn't been so scared, Mars would probably not have lost his temper.
But he was, so Mars lost his temper.
He really lost his temper.
Margot was off his arm and on her feet in half a second (stumbling slightly and nearly falling from the unexpected gesture. Had anybody been paying attention, they would have seen her windmill her arms, her eyes bulging, looking like a cartoon.), and Zeb was almost off his, the collar of his jacket balled up in Mars's fist and the toes of his shoes just brushing the linoleum. He shoved the kid's back against the wall, once, twice, three times, before staring into the boy's eyes, notrils flaring with rage.

"********' listen'na'me, yuh little s**t," he snarled, not loud enough to be noticed by the would-be airport refugees shuffling around, "This ain't no ********' movie." He pounded the boy against the wall as if to punctuate the sentence. "This ain't ********' Dawn of the Dead." He hit the wall again. "This s**t's real, an' I ********' doubt they'll keep us in heah' without some form of blockade, yeah? We ain't just ********' locked in wid'a bunch'a zombies. An' if some s**t do happen, you can worry 'bout it then. "Til then, shut ********]' mouth."
He released the boy and stalked over to where Margot was standing.

Margot was staring up at the massive windows lining the walls of the airport. The sun was just setting, voiding its final light, peach-coloured blood through the air over any surface it could in its death throes as it fled Diana, the corner of her chariot just visible over the horizon as her horses trampled day into dusk.
It sounded good in her mind, at least. I should write that down, or else I'll probably forget it. Did Diana have horses? or was her chariot pulled by cows? Maybe deer? It wouldn't be very impressive to get trampled by cows or deer, so I should look that up before I write it into anything. I hope it was horses, because I don't want to change it that much. Maybe horses isn't a good term, anyway. I can't remember what it's called...
Mars dropped her, interrupting her thoughts. She nearly fell backward onto the floor. In an instance images of shattered tailbones, twisted wrists and bloody skulls flashed through her mind. She righted herself again in time to see the man fling Zeb-Peter Cottontail against the wall and growl in his face (she could have laughed, but didn't. Growl was such an appropriate word to describe his behaviour). As he moved back to stand beside her, she stifled the phrase threatening to escape from her lips. Instead of saying it loud enough for anybody else to hear, she whispered it to herself.
"He's an angry elf."
Her lowered voice didn't work. Apparently the man had hawklike hearing, and he glanced down at her (As if from ten feet up, she realized cheerfully), raising a singularly displeased eyebrow. She was tempted to burst into gales of uproarious laughter at the motion.

[Storm Aether]

Victoria stood staring out the glass storefront for a while, her expression frozen, her arms slightly flexed and bent, her hands balled in loose fists, her jaw set in a rather masculine portrayal of defiance. She had stayed quiet for most of the journey--the removal of her bonds had started her thinking about ensuring her own survival. She almost expected something to materialize right there in front of the door and come flying through while everyone else had their backs turned. But then the gate came down. The crash of the metal against the floor seemed to wake her up.

In that moment, her arms curled almost to her chest, her eyes widened, her spine straightened, and her expression relaxed. She looked back and forth quickly, her lips pressed, to see if anyone had noticed her sudden reaction. Satisfied that no-one cared, she smiled mischieviously and turned, bouncing and swaying at the hips to the tune in her head. She disappeared into one of the aisles and could be heard rumagging throught he shelves for several seconds, before climbing over and sitting on top of the shelves.

"I don't trust airport security," She said before taking a bite out of a pilfered nutrient bar. She mumbled something incoherently while chewing before stopping, forcing herself to swallow, and continuing coherently: "I think we should forget this quarantine and get the hell out of here."

[Seven VII]

Wait, wait, what? Sol blinked, feeling conspicuously out of the loop. They weren't staying with the people with the supplies? Well, then what the hell were they going to do for food? Hey, he wasn't the only one who thought that trying to steal would just end in a big scene, right? Shifting in place and letting his hand fall from Livi's arm, Sol frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Unfortunately, he couldn't get a word in edgewise between Sol, then Max, and finally Livi. Ha, the irony. Usually, it was the other way around.

Finally, he took in a deep breath and began determinedly, "Hey, guys-"

And then Mars decided to flip out on Zeb. As the taller man stomped away, Sol groaned and put his face in his hands. "Oh Christ," he groaned. "We're so ******** screwed." With quick jittery movements that made him look as if he was on some sort of drug, Sol quickly followed after Mars. "Hey, Mars, lemme talk for a minute?" He stepped in front of him, and held his hands out defensively. "I mean, I know sometimes Zeb kinda deserves to be punched, and I probably deserve it too, or will, anyway-" Sol's words hurried out in a rush, in typical panic fashion. "But, um, maybe it kinda flew over your head when we were running, I sure knew it flew over mine, but we're being chased by zombies." He paused, an eyebrow quirked as if he was trying to make sure that went in. "Zombies. Things that, well, eat people." A tinge of green swept over his already pale face at the thought. Okay, bad thoughts were bad. He had to stop thinking bad thoughts. And why did he feel as if he'd had this conversation before? "And we're stuck in an airport. So, um, can we keep the in-group attacks to a minimum? Please?"

Okay, he'd definitely had this conversation before... Now, he just had to stop panicking long enough to figure out why.

[Kriemhilde]

Mars turned to look down at Sol, his expression hard and closed-off. Mars, while an almost unexplainably angry man, was rarely pointlessly unreasonable, and therefore listened to the man's statement before replying, unable to attain a civil tone.

"Y'don' think I know what's goin' on? I ********' sah that s**t back theah. I get it, w'stuck wi'da buncha zombies, yeah. But I ain't leavin' the people with the food an' the plan 'till bad s**t starts up. Ain't nothin' bad happened again so fah, so I figyah we good f'now. So tell y'friend he needs to keep his mouth shut, 'cauz ********' dissent in the ranks ain't gonna make the situation any bettah."

Mars would have continued, and probably said something smart-assed if Margot had not wrapped her tiny hand around his forearm. He glanced down at her out of the corner of his eye again, this time surprised rather than annoyed.

Margot was, despite the state of numb shock me must be in, absolutely terrified. The yelling and physical abuse being handed out by the large man was not helpful, but it was real and almost normal. It made things human again. She found that she liked the man quite a lot; the smelly hippie in her (as Father Dearest would say, calling out over the hood whilst fixing smelly automotive things in the garage) felt a strange sort of wavelength connection to him.

Or he was just big and strong, and a great zombie-barrier. The Mag-Lite he held was like a shining beacon of survival (no pun intended, she told herself quickly); a sword against the armies of evil.

"I'm with Ganja-Man," she said quickly, tightening her grip on his arm. "Food: good. Aimless wandering through zombie-infested darkness: bad."

[James Phobos]

Is it odd of him to be more aggravated at the fact that the a*****e can't even remember his name then the whole violence thing? The thought briefly flashes through his mind, and then it snaps right out again as his back smacks into the wall. Zeb gives a harsh grunt at this, and it's only when his hands snap up as if to grab at Mars' wrist that he realizes he dropped his guitar case at some point. Blurred images and thoughts dash through his brain at record-breaking speeds, and his fingers spasm over the skin of the giant's wrist, although they don't quite touch.

Raise of hands for those who aren't a fighter, and Zeb's would be one of them. It's stupid, he always tells himself, even as his fingers hesitate on some course of action (tear through skin or jab into the ******** eyes). It never gets him anything. In fact, it always pushes people five steps back. That's what he's been told, that's what he's seen. Driving his foot up between the psycho would just cause more trouble. That's what he keeps telling himself, even as his fingers fall away and the large hand lets go of his jacket. The shock of landing back onto his feet leaves him momentarily shaken, but Zeb doesn't have anything on his face to hint at this. Instead, he just stares, narrow-eyed, at Mars' back, even as Sol, optimist and peacekeeper, darts up to him to try and settle everything.

He's always been proud of the fact that he's never really anger-management prone. A lot of his family got angry. Friends of his got angry. He's always been the one to just stay mellow and avoid all the crazy conflict whenever he can. Still, as Mars and Sol talk (with the words flying right over his head), Zeb feels his fists ball up, shaking with the effort of holding back the urge to just try and jump the violent sonovabitch-

One second. Two seconds. Three. The tension just oozes right out of him while a numb kind of apathy just floods right in, and Zeb leans back against the wall as he takes in a deep breath. Doesn't get him anything, doesn't get him anything... Ugh, just... To hell with it. Just to hell with all of it. He just wanted to visit his hometown, and now there's zombies and all sorts of crazy s**t and ugh. Hell with it. Shaking his head, Zeb pushes himself off of the wall and walks over to his poor, now-battered guitar case. As he hefts it up, he mutters, "Pardon me for not going insane in my own special way. Not all of us can just be violent crazies." Once the case is properly set straight so that he can use it as something to lean on, Zeb glances around at the rest of their wacky little survivor party.

And this is the group I'm probably stuck with for my survival. Well, s**t.

The sight of the bizarrely normal guy carrying around a bloody ribbon pole only made him pause for a second before Zeb brushes it off. Margot's to thank for that, he supposes. "Alright, so, what are we doing?" he asks no one, or maybe anyone. He's just tired, by this point, and he knows it probably shows.

[Phantasm of the Orchestra]

Chrys's mouth went dry, her tongue cemented to the roof of her mouth. Getting the hell away from the mounting hysteria and disease was just so obvious a plan, Chrys was stymied that she hadn’t considered it before now. So far the airport staff had demonstrated their lack of organization and expertise in the area of containing medical freak outs; surely they might have overlooked some minor doorway, some small exit to a loading zone. And if most of the staff and security were concentrated in the foodcourt, coupled with the fact that the group hadn’t crossed a single person in the long stretch to the store…they might be able to pull it off.

Of course there was the obstacle of the growing darkness outside, along with the building storm. Chrys frowned, plans and options surging to the forefront of her thoughts, some only to be immediately tossed aside. It still looked as though they were sitting ducks until morning. They should probably strike at the crack of dawn, when security was still groggy and the masses of people were probably still asleep. Chrys didn’t know where the others were from, but the cop was at least from around here, they could pile into his car, and from there she and Max could…Max could… “Oh. s**t.” Chrys bit her lip hard, in some kind of attempt to steady herself when the realization punched her in the stomach. She still had no idea where Max was. Stuttering and cursing, she jammed her fist into her coat pocket and yanked out her cellphone. Finding herself hindered by her messenger bag, she slid it off and dumped it carelessly onto the floor. She proceeded to curse profusely once she remembered that her laptop was in there.

As her fingers fumbled around the keypad, she offered a “I was supposed to meet my boyfriend here, I don’t know where he is, and I’m sure as hell not leaving until I find out” to the uncomfortably quiet store at large. Pressing the phone to her ear, she listened to the harsh, buzzing rings, counting them without noticing that she was. Pick up, come on, pick up.

[Homie G Luxory]

Max was about to repeat the plan for the third time (seriously, his college students payed more attention, and they were nineteen and twenty) when his pocket loudly emitted Jefferson Starship's Miracles. He dropped the chip rack and yelped, utterly surprised, before realizing it was his phone and it was Chrys's ring tone. His hands scrabble frantically at his shirt, and he tore his pocket in his fervor, finally getting the phone and pressing the little green button, jamming it against his ear.

"Chrys! Sweet Christ, Honey, are you somewhere safe?!" One hand held the phone close to his ear as the other reached out blindly and grabbed the wall for support. ********, he'd completely forgotten about his cellphone, how stupid.

((yes, failpost after three days, someone shoot me I'm a terrible ******** person D: ))