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Post by Generalfoley on Oct 7, 2009 21:43:38 GMT -7
"Coast is clear, my friend." Joe entered the gun shop and looked around. Cleaned out. Joe smirked. He walked toward the wall, ignoring Mike for a moment as he felt the walls, looking for something, an lever, a switch, anything. He kept feeling along the walls, until his hand hit something. "Ah-ha!" Joe exclaimed in triumph. He flipped the switch, and the lights powered on. Joe hung his head in defeat. "Damn."
No safe came up from the floorboards. He drew a Glock, and walked around. He looked around for the generators that were obviously powering the shop. He turned his head to the left and found a rug laying on the ground. Hoping for possibilities, he ripped off the rug, revealing a ring in the floor. Joe smiled in triumph as he pulled on the ring, opening a basement door.
"Ha! Found it!" He yelled, aiming his Glock down the hole. He searched his pack for a flash light when he found a light switch on the side of the staircase leading down toward the dark abyss that hopefully was still full of weapons. He flipped the switch. A long groan came from the basement. He unsheathed his butterfly sword and walked down the stair case, his butterfly sword held akimbo to his Glock 35.
Once he reached the bottom, he found a green, almost rotting zombie, tied to the wall by a chain and rope. Joseph unloaded three .357 bullets from his modified Glock into the zombie's skull. Once it slumped against the wall, and he was satisfied it was dead, Joe resumed searching for weapons. It wasn't long, though. He swore in Mando'a and many other fictional languages, before returning to the Irish accent he had.
"Barzûl!" He swore in fictional dwarvish. "Mike! Found some more weapons!" Joe yelled up toward the stairwell. He once again looked at the seemingly ancient weapons that lined the wall in front of him. Two unusable Thompson M1A1 submachine guns, one Karabiner 98k, a couple Colt M1911 pistols, an old Stevens 512 Gold Wing O/U Shotgun, an unusable Browning Automatic Rifle, an unusable MP40, a very, very old looking M16 rifle, a Kimel AP-9 SMG, and an old M1 Carbine with an even older scope. He walked over to the gun rack and picked up the M1 carbine. He pulled back the bolt, and looked down the barrel, knowing the magazine was empty. Looked good enough to use. It would break down in a month or two with out proper maintenance, though.
He looked around, finding boxes of 9mm rounds, a couple dozen twelve gauge solid slugs, for the Stevens 512, a small box filled with 300 .357 magnums, and a box filled with .45 APC rounds around the basement. He searched through various drawers of a near by desk, and found some old .30 caliber rounds. He looked around, his eyes glued to a safe. The handle and lock were rusty, so maybe he could bash it off, leaving the contents free of damage. He took the unusable B.A.R and bashed the butt of the rifle onto the rusty lock.
A loud clank sounded, and the lock of the safe fell off, a few dents in the safe. As Joe opened the safe, his breath hitched. There were three small boxes in the safe. He pulled out the top box and opened it. He coughed from the dust, and stared at the small cylinders in the box. He picked one up, looking at the side label. Joe sighed. A smoke canister. Joe looked back at the box. There were nine canisters, including the one he was carrying. Nine canisters per box, he assumed.
He pulled out the other box, and opened it up. There were nine green cylinders in the box. He recognized the cylinders as 'flash-bangs'. He put the box aside, and reached in for the third box. He opened up the final box, and discovered six Model 24 Stielhandgranate grenades. He remembered these grenades from when he used to watch World War II movies with his father. The Germans used these grenades, and he saw they had melee potential. "Mike! Get down here! We hit the jackpot!" Joe grinned until he realized that these grenades might not work, due to the time they might have been here.
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Post by Zeno on Oct 8, 2009 7:08:15 GMT -7
Mike stored the .44 rounds in his backpack and took out a spray can, jumping over the counter again, and crouching down. He started spraying, writing 'Mike wuz here' on the counter. He hummed the tune to Eminem's song 'Must be the Ganja' as he finished writing, signing it with his signature mask and cross-swords.
He skipped around the store, when something caught his eye. Mike hopped over the counter again and crouched down, a grin appearing on his face. There, in an open cabinet by the floor, was a 10 gauge Ithaca Mag-10 "RoadBlocker" semiautomatic shotgun with a sawed-off stock and barrel. Judging by the blood splatter on the shotgun, the store owner had been reaching for it when he died.
Mike grabbed the shotgun and cocked it. It was loaded. Grinning, he reached for the floor, grabbing a discarded shotgun shell and pocketing it. He'd have to find ammo for it later. He grabbed a shoulder strap and attached it to the shotgun, shouldering it.
"Mike! Get down here! We hit the jackpot!"
Mike jumped over the counter again and looked around. Where the hell was Joe? He ran toward where Joe's voice came from, looking around the store, when suddenly, he fell down a staircase. He rolled down the stairs, grunting in pain, until he came to a stop, right next to a dead zombie.
"Ow..." he whined as he sat up, completely ignoring the zombie. He looked at his left hand, where he felt a lot of pain, and saw his index finger bent backwards. He groaned as he grabbed it, snapping it back into place. "You know, a 'Mike, I found a basement' could have been nice..."
Mike got up, and walked over to where Joe was, rubbing his sore finger. He saw the granade Joe was holding. "Hey, do those still work?" he asked as he grabbed one of the grenades, staring at it. "How do you do this?" he asked, searching the grenade for the pin.
When he didn't manage to find the pin, he simply threw it over his shoulder without a care as he lookec around, spotting the box of 12 gauge slugs. "Awesome!" he exclaimed as he ran up to it, grabbing it and opening it, before filling his pockets with the shells.
"So, what was up with that guy?" Mike asked when he was done and turned to Joe, pointing over his shoulder at the dead zombie on the floor.
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Post by Generalfoley on Oct 8, 2009 15:54:07 GMT -7
Joe turned around at the loud crash that sounded behind him. "Ow..." Joe chuckled. He forgot to yell basement. "Hey, do those still work?" Joe heard as Mike picked up a grenade. "How do you do this?" Joe saw Mike throw the grenade back without a care, and his eyes widened. Joe dove for the grenade, catching it as it fell. Joe glared at his friend. "Don't do that, man! The grenade could have gone off accidently, and kill us both." Joe said, walking back over to the crates of grenades.
"I think I'll use the Stielhandgranates, since you don't know how to use them and all." Joe picked up each Stielhandgranate and loaded them into his backpack. "You could use the Smoke canisters and the Flash-bangs, since they're easier to operate." Joe instructs Mike. Joe got up and walked towards the wall of ancient weaponry. "Now, time to divide up the weaponry. The Thompsons, the BAR, and the MP40 are all useless, mind you. I'll take the old M1 Carbine and the old Stevens 512. You take whatever you want." Joe said as he took a box of solid slugs for the O/U shotgun and loaded the M1 magazines with the .30 caliber rounds.
"So, what was up with that guy?" Joe turned around, looking at the zombie he killed. He shrugged. "He was chained up in here when I came down. It might've be the previous owner." Joe said, getting up from loading his magazines. He had 4 magazines total, each holding fifteen rounds. That meant he had 60 bullets that he had to make count. He counted his slugs. He had, at the most, eighteen shotgun solid slugs, including the two he had loaded in his double barreled O/U Stevens 512.
Joe walked over to another desk, hoping he could find something useful. He opened the first drawer, and pulled out a few maps and two radios and two small headsets. The radios were small, black boxes, about the size of one's palm. The headsets were black with silver lining, about the size of one of those old Bluetooth headsets people used to wear all the time before the outbreak.
He checked the radio, seeing that it was charged up, before linking the radios to their respective headsets. "Found some radios. Take one, it'll help at the Monticito, if we split up." He set a radio, with it's headset, onto the desk infront of him. "Channel Seven." Joe said, switching the radio he had to the channel. "Now, let's try and police as much as possible from this place. Check for food, more ammunition, clothing, and anything of value. If it's shiny, take it. You look down here, I'll check upstairs." Joe said, mentioning the second story of the building.
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Post by Zeno on Oct 8, 2009 16:22:18 GMT -7
"I think I'll use the Stielhandgranates, since you don't know how to use them and all." Mike nodded. That'd be for the best, really. "You could use the Smoke canisters and the Flash-bangs, since they're easier to operate."
"No way, man," Mike said, shaking his head. "What good are those going to do against zombies? If I wanna blind them, I'll spray paint their eyes," he said, grinning at the thought.
"Now, time to divide up the weaponry. The Thompsons, the BAR, and the MP40 are all useless, mind you. I'll take the old M1 Carbine and the old Stevens 512. You take whatever you want."
Mike showed the shotgun in his hand. "I've already found what I need. This... is mah boomstick." He snickered after saying it, grinning widely behind his mask. "I always wanted to say that."
"Found some radios. Take one, it'll help at the Monticito, if we split up. Channel Seven." Mike walked up to the desk, grabbing the radio.
"Christ, man, you're really planning..." Mike was never much for plans. He usually just... did things. He was a very impulsive individual, and never really had time for plans. So, meeting someone who actually made plans was... interesting.
"Now, let's try and police as much as possible from this place. Check for food, more ammunition, clothing, and anything of value. If it's shiny, take it. You look down here, I'll check upstairs."
Mike actually laughed loudly at that. "Yeah, as if I wouldn't grab anything shiny. Hell, I even collect forks." He looked around the room. Then, his eyes landed on the smoke grenades. Shrugging, he took off his backpack and started loading it up.
"I'm a little teapot," he sang, humming the rest of the song as he got up, looking around the room. "There's nothing shiny in here..." Clicking his tongue, he headed up the stairs again, but not before spray painting a smiley face on the dead zombie.
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Post by Generalfoley on Oct 8, 2009 22:53:03 GMT -7
Joe moved to the kitchen of the building first, scavenging for food. He wasn't suprised when some of the food was gone, but found a door that had a password lock. He chuckled to himself as he tried the first password that came to mind. The door opened, and Joe started cracking up. How was it that almost every computer or password he came across was 'password'? He opened the door, and his eyes widened.
"Awww! Come on!" Joe yelled a complaint, resisting the urge to slam his head into the wall. Behind the door was many piles of boxes that had MREs packaged in them. "I'm sick of MREs!" Joe sighed before moving up to the second story. When he made it to the second floor, he grimaced. The walls of the hallway were splattered with the blood and gore of victims past. He was glad he had his gas mask and goggles on. He saw the entrails and gore molding everywhere, glad his gas mask protected from the air around him.
Joe drew his pistols and tried entered a door on the right. No luck. Locked. He tried kicking it open. It didn't budge. Joe frowned as he kicked it again. On his sixth try, however, it splintered open, and he dived in. He scanned the room, pistols at the ready. No zombies. But this one only had a dead, decaying body of a twenty year old man inside the room, the back of his head open for the world to see. Suicide, he concluded. The body looked at least a few months old. Joseph muttered a prayer for the man, laying two pennies on his now closed eyes, hoping he found his way to the Pearly Gates before he scavenged what he could.
At the end of the search, he gathered three dufflebags, two backpacks, some undershirts, a box of .30 caliber rounds, and a set of keys. He didn't know what the keys when to, but he was determined to find out. He exited the room, and entered the one across from it. Luckily, this one wasn't locked. In fact, this room didn't have that much blood in it.
He saw a few zombie corpses and a headless man, with a broken shotgun and a knife lying next to the corpse. The zombies looked as if they were blown away by the shotgun, and judging by the damage of the shotgun, one of the zombies had broken it, and bit the now headless man. With his knife covered in blood, he probably stabbed the last zombie, and used a shell to kill himself, somehow. He prayed for this man as well, for he fought valliantly, before Joe started searching the room.
He found a couple flashlights, a zippo lighter, and a few glowsticks. Joe shook his head. He packed the stuff into the duffle bags, and headed down stairs, towards the basement, to pack up all the extra ammo into the dufflebags, while he would pack up some MREs in the backpacks.
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Post by Zeno on Oct 9, 2009 6:12:32 GMT -7
Mike was sitting on the counter, trying to load his shotgun with the 12 gauge shell, groaning in frustration. He cocked the shotgun, and caught the shell that flew out of it. Then, he held it up, along with the 12 gauge shell.
"Too big," he said to himself, groaning again. He loaded the 10 gauge shell and started going through his pockets for the others. What good were 12 gauge shells if you didn't have a 12 gauge shotgun.
Mike stared at the shells, noticing how the light reflected off of the brass heads. His fingers twitched, and he grabbed the shells again, shoving them into his backpack. He heard a footstep, and quickly drew his .44 Glock and aimed at the doorway. There was no one there.
He heard a low meow, and looked down, finding a gray tabby cat sitting below him, looking up at him. A grin appeared on his face, and he got off the counter, crouching down in front of the cat. "Hey there, little guy. What's up?" He reached into his pocket and took out a piece of beef jerky, handing it over to the cat, who ate it quickly, as if it hadn't eaten for a long time.
Mike smiled and took off his backpack, opening it and emtying it of the smoke grenades, before taking off his ninja-to and his hoodie, folding it and shoving it into the backpack. Then, he picked up the cat and put it into the backpack, before closing it slightly, so the cat could poke its head out.
"I'm gonna name you Cat," Mike said as he put on the backpack, and strapped his ninja-to diagonally to the back of his belt. Cat poked its head out of the backpack and looked over Mike's right shoulder. In response, Mike gave him another piece of jerky. "Hey, Joe! I found a friend!"
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Post by Generalfoley on Oct 9, 2009 15:49:30 GMT -7
"Hey, Joe! I found a friend!" Joe was finished packing before he heard that. He walked around a corner, looking at the scene of Mike feeding beef jerky to a cat in his pack. "That's nice, man." Joe said, hearing a rythmic tapping. He opened a nearby window, and closed it quickly once a raven came through. The raven landed on Joe's shoulder, and pecked his neck. "Yeah, yeah, I know." He said, reaching into his pack, and pulling out a MRE.
He pulled a chunk of beef out of the package, and fed it to the black bird. "There, ya happy?" The raven nodded, seemingly content with the MRE bit. Joe looked at Mike, holding up the keys. "Let's search the building for the vehicle that these keyes go to."
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Post by Zeno on Oct 9, 2009 17:04:03 GMT -7
Mike noticed how the cat didn't react to the bird, and shrugged, before grabbing his shotgun. He looked to Joe when he heard the jingle of keys. "Let's search the building for the vehicle that these keyes go to."
"I seriously doubt it'd be inside the building," Mike said, snickering as he headed for the door. He opened it and poked his head outside, giving a sharp whistle. He waited for a few seconds, and a zombie came out from an alley, running toward him. He pulled one of his Glocks and fired, hitting the zombie in the forehead.
"No one else is around right now. Let's go," he said as he stepped outside, just in time to hear a couple of low groans to his left. He turned, and saw around two dozen zombies limping toward him. "Oh, crap..."
Just then, an LAPD police cruiser burst through the pack of zombies, the tires squealing as the driver hit the breaks, doing a perfect 180 turn and stopping next to Mike. The door opened, and out stepped a man dressed as a SWAT, wearing a gas mask.
This was Jack Steele, former SWAT and BORTAC. He raised his supressed M4A1, firing single shots, each of them hitting a zombie in the head. Once every zombie had dropped, he turned to Mike. "It looked like you needed help."
Mike, for once, was speechless. "That... That was... Holy shit..."
Jack gave a lazy salute, nodding to both Joe and Mike. "I'm Jack Steele. Is there anything I can help you with?"
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Post by Generalfoley on Oct 15, 2009 18:18:02 GMT -7
Joe's head turned to something shiny. An ax. "My god, did this dude plan for firewood, or zombies?" Joe exclaimed as he picked up the ax. Seemed in good enough condition. He heard groans outside the building. And Joe ran. He ran through the door, ax in hand. He stopped, however, when most of the zombies were dead... Well, more dead than usual. Joe heard a groan, and twirled around. He saw the zombie, but he didn't see the ax head that launched itself from the handle, and embedded itself into the zombie's chest.
The zombie looked at its chest, as Joe looked at the remaining part of the ax, the wooden handle. The zombie and Joe looked at each other. The gaze of the zombie sent waves of sadness and despair to Joe, who, in an act of mercy, drew his Glock 35 and sent the unholy undead to whence it came. Joe blew the smoke away from the barrel, dropped the stick the handle had become, and walked towards the corpse of the zombie. He prayed for the sad soul that had been turned into an undead scourge. Once done, he laid pennies upon the zombies eyes, and turned to the two figures, one who was not known to him, said his name was Jack Steele, or something of the like. He saw a sergeant patch on Jack's shoulder. "I don't know if we need anything, Sergeant, unless you could give us a ride in your cruiser." Joe asked, pointing his Glock at the LAPD cruiser.
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Post by Zeno on Oct 15, 2009 18:30:39 GMT -7
"I don't know if we need anything, Sergeant, unless you could give us a ride in your crusier."
Mike turned to Joe, then back to Jack, nodding in agreement. Jack looked them over, before nodding. "Well, sure. I don't have anything else to do. This is what I came here for, after all."
He grinned behind his gas mask and saluted them. "Let me reintroduce myself. I'm Sergeant Jack Steele, Zombie Hunter 5. Anything you need, I'll do, but nothing sexual. So, you need a ride? Get in the back," he said as he got back into his car, leaning his M4A1 against the passenger seat.
He grabbed the mic and brought it to his face. "Hunter Base, this is Hunter 5. Vegas is clear of human life, save for two. I'm picking them up and transporting them to their destination. However, it's pretty packed here, so another Hunter or two would be nice, over."
"Roger that, Hunter 5. We'll send Hunter 3 later. He's nearby, and should be there in two days, over."
"Thank you, Hunter Base. Hunter 5, out." He put the mic away and turned to the two. "So, you coming, or not?"
Mike nodded and headed over to the car, getting into the backseat. "Come on, Joe!"
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Post by Generalfoley on Oct 16, 2009 11:36:46 GMT -7
'A Zombie Hunter, eh?' Joe thought, climbing into the back seat of the crusier, M1 Carbine unholstered and safety off. Joe slammed the door of the cruiser, pulling out an old iPod. He turned it on, and put a headphone in his ear. He searched the database, as he liked to call it, for a song called 'The Blood of Cu Chulainn', an old Irish song he liked.
He aimed his M1 Carbine out the window of the cruiser, pulling out a pack of tic-tacs as he did. He opened the little container and popped four or five of the spearmint flavored mints into his mouth. He put the pack away as he sucked on the mints. His eyes focused and unfocused as he thought of his home back in Dublin.
He remembered training in Zui Quan with his father, Wong Heung. He remembered going to church for the first time. He remembered reading his first book. He remembered his birthday, when he gained his blades. He remembered the joy he experienced when he got them. He shed a tear when he remembered going to his father's funeral. He remembered leaving Ireland on a ship.
He snapped out of his reverie when the song ended as he wiped his tears and replaced his goggles. "Hey, Jack, do you have any Thirty Cal rounds you could loan me? I'm running kinda low." Joe chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head.
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Post by Zeno on Oct 16, 2009 11:54:44 GMT -7
"Hey, Jack, do you have any Thirty Cal rounds you could loan me? I'm running kinda low."
Jack shrugged and jutted his thumb over his shoulder. "Check under your seat. There should be something under there. I think I got some .30 cals, a couple of 9mm, and some .45's."
"Any 10 gauge slugs?" Mike asked, and Jack shook his head.
"No, sorry. I've only got a few 12 gauge left, and they're for my shotgun here," Jack said, patting the Remington in his passenger seat.
Mike opened a side pouch on his backpack and took out the 12 gauge slugs he'd gotten back at the gun store and dumped them in the passenger seat. "Here, you can have them."
"Thanks, man," Jack said with a grin behind his gas mask as they drove down the Strip. "So, where are you boys headed? And why?"
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Post by Generalfoley on Oct 16, 2009 12:06:36 GMT -7
Joe checked under the seat, and found a box of .30 cals. "Thanks, Jack. I owe you." Joe said as he put away the box of brass death. "So, where are you boys headed? And why?" Joe shrugged. "We're heading to the Montecito Casino, for salvage." Joe popped another tic-tac.
Joe held out the tic-tacs, offering. "Tic-tac, anyone?" It was the least he could do for new friends. It was part of his tradition that he should offer tic-tacs to new friends. It was weird, yes, but it was better than offering the business end of a rifle. Or a zombie head. He offered that once, and the survivor just ran away, screaming. Fat dude, too, ran across a football field, and was caught by a zombie. Poor bastard.
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