rescindment
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I joined July 2011
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Post by rescindment on Aug 5, 2011 1:34:42 GMT -5
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The house in which the survivors have sought refuge, albeit temporary, lamentably suffers from a leaky tap. Although an ordinary and insignificant problem when compared with the situation around them, sometimes it can be the smallest things that drive a man insane. When constantly exposed to the same sound over, and over, and over, it becomes more and more of an annoyance, until it has to be dealt with. Perhaps it is lucky, then, although ironically so, that the occasional scream interrupts the flow.
24 Bedford Lane. The house stood strangely empty, its previous owners long gone. Likelihood is, they never returned from their jobs or school, caught in the tide of bodies that now swarmed - if swarming is appropriate for such a slow mass - the city. Of course, they may have been some of the lucky few, escaping before the quarantine - though the evident lack of any quick exit makes this seem unlikely. A search was conducted by the survivors for anything helpful - food, supplies, weapons - even entertainment, for no matter the situation, boredom must be staved off. The remaining food looked initially promising, but as more and more heads arrived, it became clear that they could not survive on such rationing for long. As for weaponry they found a baseball bat, taken from a child's bedroom and a few assorted and basic tools in the shed outside.
The windows and doors are, of course, barricaded with essentially anything usable - doors inside the house have been taken down and their wood used to cover the various entrances to the house, nailed on with the tools found in the shed. The curtains are always closed. The infected have been known to show a semblance of recognition of light - they understand that where there is a light on, there is often a food source. Understandably, then, the lights have been kept off so far.
The street outside is relatively clear. Though strewn with bodies and the odd car with a broken wildshield, only a few of the infected remain wandering aimlessly - standing and staring longingly at something unknown, or else shuffling in seemingly random directions. It appears that the zombies are incapable of running - simply shambling towards their destination slowly but with an unending and sickening determination. The other houses on the street look empty and forlorn - long since vacated, their previous inhabitants probably roaming the streets.
The nearby hospital, Kingston Medical, stands a few streets away, towering over the houses, and was last used to attempt to treat the infection - and the infected. The dead soon rose in their numbers from their beds, killing all who remained healthy and alive. Since then, it has been left untouched - too foreboding for looters and survivors. The supermarket became virtually inaccessable due to the mass of people congregated there, though there is a possibility that the horde may have shambled on. The supposed "safe" police checkpoint near to it appeared to be manned, albeit thinly, by those willing to fight the walking dead every waking moment.
The power, fortunately, is still functioning. The power plants lie on the very outskirts of the city - it may be possible that they're running on an automation for the time being, or, more hopefully, that the infection hasn't yet spread as far as the edges. However, repeated attempts by the survivors to use their cell phones have yielded no success - there's no signal, for whatever reason, leaving the survivors wholly isolated. The cell phone mast used to stand two or so miles to the east.
The volume low and subtitles on, a TV plays a news report to the survivors. When it finishes..
Drip. Drip. Drip.
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