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Fire?

That was one key to Saul's survival. When someone says duck, you duck. No questions asked.

Alarms went off and Saul moved. Off guard, rifle slung across his back, he ran.

Narrowly evading any s**t fired at him by the shuffling heaps.

Saul ran, and ran. Hoping that discretion was a fair portion of valor.

He almost rolled his eyes at the horrible timing of the alarm. Gabriel followed the main force, not intent on letting this opportunity at a close-encounter of the enemy pass by. What he found was unsettling. This wasn't what he expected at all. Whatever the 'zombies' were, they weren't human, at least not anymore. The grey mass of flesh that was once a human being almost made him sick to his stomach.

Gabriel was lucky enough to be behind the guy that had been entangled by the vine, but didn't move quick enough to help him, because a well-timed burst of fire seemed to take care of that. So Gabe did what everyone else around him was doing.

He lowered himself to one knee, unslung the rifle from his back, shouldered his weapon, and took aim at the closest human/cocoon thing he could find. A squeeze of the trigger and three rounds were well on their way to impacting against what could best be described as a grey...er...head?

What Gabriel didn't stop to think about was that the only thing standing between him and the oncoming horde was a guy with a flamethrower strapped to his back. Hopefully nobody behind him was a bad shot.

Damian seeing the lightning wielding man, is embolden and moves the sub machine gun extion forward and unleashes a hail of bullets. He sees some of the creatures get and go down but most of them seem to keep on coming. When they are close he uses the flame thrower to burn the flesh of the creatures and reduce them to ash. Several of the smaller ones gets near and he uses the hand holding the katana to wildly slash at the creatures because he couldn't control it well with one hand.

"Fire!" Just that one word inspired a variety of responses.

"Oh s**t, it's a raid!"
"We're all going to die!"
"Look at how ugly they are!"

And so on and so forth, the people panicked to say the least. Oddly enough most of them took the time to run right over every 'booth' and snatch up stuff. By the time the stampede of people rushing away from combat ended most dealers were out of merchandise.

By the time Tweak, yes that was his name, managed to scratch and claw his way out of the stampede, his merchandise was drastically reduced. Two packs of cigarettes and one can of pasta or something were basically the remainder. Well they were all unless you counted the switchblade he was waving around threateningly at any more would be ********! My goods, the hell man, that was some beastial s**t!" Such an eloquent cry as he shook the knife at those nearby eyeing his cigarettes. See'ing as how the guards were fighting for all they were worth--not much--it seemed as good as any idea to head that way. Well by 'head that way', I mean more very gradual advancement. Moving slow enough that if the lines should break he could totally make a run for it.

...He would need more goods afterall, it was too early to call it quits yet.

Drake's pace is deliberate again; he walks towards the remnants of the foul creatures as bullets fly around him. One gibbering cocoon lumbers towards him, its claws extended. With a grim smile, Drake's blade flashes through it so quickly that it attempts to keep walking as its upper half collapses backwards. Drake's katana then de-limbs the moving remnant of the cocoon...and his eyes light on the twisted, vaguely human features left on the being.

Drake: "May Death free you from this slavery."

With that, he plunges the katana through it before backing up to allow the gunmen a better chance of hitting the things and not him.

It wasn't till Saul started seeing identical, though wrecked and ruined, looking houses. Suburbia. Home sweet home.

It sounded something like Oh ********. Where am I?

Saul certainly could have found his way back, by listening for gunshots. Slowing from full-on runforyourlife sprint to a jog, Saul stepped up onto an overturned car and leapt behind it. Landing prone, on his chest. Cover was cover.

Any port in a storm.

Heart pounding and breathing heavily, he took note of everything.

No gunshot wounds.
No zombie bites.
No crazy slime.
Lot's of scrapes on his bare arms.

Should have worn a coat.

On his stomach, in a pile of broken glass, in the middle of xenomorph suburbia.

Saul drew his Colt .45, and listened.

Drake surveys the field before him. Several of the things lay on the ground, sliced to pieces by the hail of gunfire and his katana or scorched and more of a puddle than anything from his lightning strike. Only three of the cocoons and the "fly-trap" seemed to retain any mobility, and they seemed to be focused on the one guard who had been caught, who was still firing valiantly at the approaching things. Drake knew that would last only so long. With a quick swipe, he steals the gun of a surprised soldier and begins firing in a wide arc at the limbs of the monstrosities.

Drake: "If they cannot move, they can do less harm!"

((WHOA.

I spy some speedhacking and puppetting.

Mind letting the DM do some DMing?))