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| Version | User | Scope of changes |
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| Jul 2 2008, 12:54 AM EDT | 13th.Casualty | 353 words added, 7 words deleted |
| Jul 1 2008, 1:58 PM EDT | 13th.Casualty | 5 words added, 2 words deleted |
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by the 13th.Casualty
"This is the police! Open up or we'll break down the door!" a muffled voice came from behind the door. Of course, no one answered. The warehouse has been abandoned for years. Not even the homeless guy with the Irish accent lives there anymore.
"We're coming in!"
There was a loud BOOM! and the door got blasted away in a shower of splinters. There was wood and dust everywhere.
"Alright, boys, sweep the building!" that one was the sarge.
So we were all over the warehouse like clockwork. Just like always. Ten seconds later...
"Clear."
"Clear."
"Clear."
"I was clear fifteen minutes ago."
Now I'm sure we all realized what we were seeing, but it just needed some time to sink in. I mean, c'mon. Even the most hardened war veteran would be surprised at something like this.
"Jesus. Mother. Fucking. Christ...Who the hell lived here again?"
I take the wood and dust part back, there were GUNS everywhere. Barrett M82A1s, AK-47s, Ster AUG A3s, FN FILs, Colt .45s. There were IEDs, plastic explosives, riot armors, suppressors, Dragonskin vests, Kevlar, tear gas and smoke grenades, crowbars, combat knives, machetes...hell, there was enough firepower here to invade North Korea, Fort Knox, and Mount Olympus.
Oh, and my favorite part, the RPGs. Just hanging on the wall.
"No one answered my question. Who the hell lived here?"
"Either Rambo, Bin Laden, or Hitler's grandson. Damn, I've never seen a weapons stockpile bigger than the one in the FBI headquarters in DC."
Let's rewind back a bit, just to fill you in on what happened.
"...either Rambo, Bin La..."
Heh, nice one.
"Jesus. Mother. Fu..."
I love that one, but no. A little bit more.
"...own the door!"
Alrighty then...A lot more.
"There's been a 911 ca..."
This one's it. Let's start from the beginning.
"Alright you guys. There's been a 911 call regarding a suspicious man walking around a nearby warehouse holding an AK-47 and a rocket propelled grenade slinged on his back."
"Permission to speak, sir."
"Granted."
"You rarely get RPGs in the States anymore."
"That's why it's so suspicious, and that's why were going there right now."
We were already on our way when I decided to go get my personal anti-tank missile from my car. Hey, they had a freakin' RPG. No use taking any chances.
Shit, I watch Futureweapons too much.
Anyway, I stuffed it in the spare tire compartment of the SUV, making sure no one saw it, of course, and we drove off.
And then here we are. In a warehouse filled with nothing but raw firepower.
"Hey, sarge, take a look at this."
Have you ever seen those big screens in a war room, maybe in NORAD? Well, this is nothing like it. There was a laptop there connected to five car batteries that had a Playboy slideshow screensaver on.
"Well, well. What's this?" the sarge mumbled, staring at a Playboy bunny on the screen.
"If they're still powered on, then that means someone's been here recently. In fact, they might still be here, hiding."
"Well then, everybody thoroughly search the warehouse. If you see anyone, secure them and call someone."
They all left the laptop room and continued their search, but I stayed. I got curious about what the laptops contained. Besides, I wanted to stare at the screensaver a bit more. So I reluctantly pressed the enter button twice to get out the of screensaver, and what I saw surprised me. This guy didn't have a wallpaper, and he didn't need one. It wouldn't have been seen anyway. Except for a Notepad icon on the top left side, the whole screen was covered with Notepad Documents, from Introduction to Journal # something. Hasn't this guy ever heard of folders?
So I clicked Introduction.
I read. And was shocked.
Introduction:
All Journals in this laptop contains the stories of the thirteen survivors before, during, and after the Second Pandemic. Please read this carefully. We hope you will learn a lesson through our hardships. Remember, if you see a zombie and you don't have something to stab a skull with, hide. If you do, hide anyway. Only use that sharp thing when really needed.
Oh, and everything we say here is totally true. No lies, no exaggerations, no distortions (whatever the heck that means), nothing. Even the random notes we type up without even thinking.
Please take the time to read the following Intros.
Janet Morgan's Intro:
My name is Janet Morgan. I am a survivor of the Second Pandemic. I and my fellow survivors have decided to record the gruesome events that followed the introduction of the parasitepathogen into the system of the Thirteenth Casualty.
I'm a high school student in my sophomore year, and it was spring break for us. I was right outside the local movie theater, but I left my money at home so we really couldn't see anything. (And by we I mean my fraternal twin brother Frank and our friends, Alex, Jeremy, and Jamie.) I was supposed to buy the tickets and the rest of them would buy all the food. Good for me, bad for them, 'cause I eat a lot and the tickets didn't cost much.
We were just hanging out there under the sun laughing at hobos crossing the street. Other than that...nothing much. I knew that Jeremy and Jamie were having fun checking me out again, but me...I was so freakin' bored.
Damn, I'd rather be dead than bored.
I guess my wish came true.
I saw my first one while in the bathroom. I was just washing my face and this little seven year old kid--a boy, in the girl's bathroom--eating this woman sitting on a toilet. She had black hair and dark brown, bloodshot eyes. I think she was about five foot eight or nine, and probably around sixteen or seventeen years old. Worse of all, the Loius Vuitton she was wearing was all torn up and bloody. Uggghh...it still haunts me to this day. The dead chick, I mean.
Well, the purse too...That was a Speedy. So rare...
He just finished gnawing on her neck and was working down to her left tit. Seriously. I ain't kidding here. She had a healthy B or C cup. Anyway...both were drenched in blood. I've seen enough rated R slasher horror and shooter movies not to get grossed out though. HeckHeck, I've even witnessed a death in a bank robbery before. That probably saved my life. I didn't scream or do anything that your stereotype eighth grade cutie would do. I decided to go call the police, but once I opened the door--damn stupid, squeaky door--it turned toward me and started moaning. Ok, that freaked me out. He started coming for me, all slow and stumble-y.
Man, I never thought a person could make that kind of sound. Of course, that's Third Law. Anyone who is turned is no longer human or alive. Do not feel sympathy. This kid isn't a person.
"Jesus, get away from me! You creep! You were gnawing on that girl's-"
Wait just a minute, moaning, slow, stumbling movements, randomly gnawing on people's...is that...a...
"Oh god no. Oh my god no."
I ran. I didn't scream, I didn't wave my hands in the air like those soon-to-be-dead, spoiled, bratty, rich girls in the movies, I just ran.
And I immediately regretted it. Frank, Jeremy, and Jamie's dead bodies were on the ground, with huge, gaping bullet holes in their heads. Everywhere else I looked there was chaos. Again, those shooter movies, slasher horrors, and bank robbery death calmed me down and helped saved my life.
You know...now that I think about it, that death saved my life countless times. When I was there, I kept kicking myself for not somehow stopping the robber, 'cause I was like, what, three feet away? I guess I was scared for my life too. I mean, I was fourteen then, but the guy only had one shot left, and after he emptied his gun, the cops took him down. The point is, by me not saving his life, I saved mine countless times. How selfish can a high school girl get?
Anyways...so...where was I again? Sorry, it gets hard for me to concentrate after a night of burning corpses and outrunning a zack-s.
Yeah, so I was looking for Alex when I saw soldiers down the block. They were shooting at pretty much anything that moved. Anything. Even two year old kids. After that, everything got hazy.
I didn't know what happened. The boss told me but...I don't know other than that. I don't mean to sound so...distrusting (is there such a word?), but, well, I just saw a two year old being shot in the face, and now I wake up strapped to a bed with a gag in my mouth with a total stranger. Just imagine what I was thinking then.
He said it went like this. In a blind flash of rage I took out my hidden Swiss Army Knife (Yeah, I keep a Swiss Knife hidden on me, so what? The boss keeps a .45, expandable baton, and a switchblade on him at all times.) and lunged at the soldiers. I almost killed them too, if it wasn't for him. He tied me up and put my knife in my pocket.
"You think she's one of them?" a soldier asked, his rifle trained on me, hands shaking.
The boss replied coldly, "Hell no. You shot her friends." He jerked his head towards my friends' bodies. "She snapped. I've seen it before a lot of times. She's probably bipolar too." He took out a rifle suppressor and handed it to them. "Take it. You'll need it. And try not to kill everything, will you?"
He carried me over his shoulder and said, "Good luck. Oh, and I heard one in the girls' bathroom."
Just before I passed out I saw Alex covered in blood. Then her skull being blown to pieces.
When I woke up, I was strapped to a bed with a gag in my mouth, as I already told you. I'll spare you the story of how scared I was. I then saw him on the other side of the room loading a 500 Tactical. He heard me make some kind of sound, he's telling me right now that it sounded like the cross between a moan and a grunt, and took of my gag in the slowest way one camcan possibly move.
"What the hell iswas that?" I moan-grunted.
"Mossberg 500 Tactical. My second favorite shotgun ever," he replied, then added, "How are you feeling?"
"I meant the way you took off my gag. You don't look like a 75 year old but you sure act like it," I almost spat at him.
"Well, I didn't know whether or not you're infected. Since you just talked, and you passed my screening test, you're not."
"You're not a rapist, are you?"
That caught him off guard. He had a look on his face told me he wasn't, but I was gonna give him a hard time anyway. I mean, I just woke up strapped to a bed, gagged, and the first thing I see is someone loading a shotgun.
Stammering, he said, "Uh...what? Wait, no...no! Hell no!"
Where the hell am I? I thought I said. I couldn't tell if I was thinking or talking, but whatever it was, he answered anyway.
"This is my yacht. Right now were anchored half a mile from shore." It amazed me how fast he recovered from that unexpected comment. It was as if he it was nothing more but a bad "Yo Mama" joke that just rolled down his back.
He took out what seemed to be a switchblade and cut off the cords that were strapping me down.down -- "Stop moving unless you want to look emo." -- and I got up.
AfterThen I finally got a good look at him. He's a handsome man in his mid twenties with dark skin, dark brown eyes, and black hair. He has broad shoulders and well built arms and biceps. He's also about five feet ten inches tall and 130 somewhat pounds. Something like that. I would've dismissed his as Middle Eastern, but it didn't quite sit right. Maybe Native American? To this day, he won't tell me.
This was the man I would be calling boss for the next few years.
My voice was finally coming back. I rubbed my eyes and forehead and asked, "How long have I been here?"
"Uh...half an hour, just about. I'm gonna be going back to shore and look for stuff we can use. Maybe even survivors. It's the early stages of the outbreak, so there should be lots of lone survivors willing to join a group," by now he was donemonologue-ing. I was barely listening. My head hurt. "If you want to come, take a primary weapon, a secondary, a sidearm, and a melee weapon. You should take that gear too. You can stay if you want, but take a weapon anyways. If you don't want to be with me, then go ahead and leave, but be advised, your family and friends are probably dead or infected, your house ransacked, and anyone who sees you would either infect you, kill you, rape you, or enslave you. Be ready in five minutes."
I stayed, took that Mossberg of his, and he left.
And that's how I met the boss.
David Marquez's Intro:
My name is David Marquez. I am a survivor of the Second Pandemic. I and my fellow survivors have decided to record the gruesome events that took place after the introduction of the pathogen into the system of the Thirteenth Casualty.
Chapter 1 - Shocked
"This is the police! Open up or we'll break down the door!" a muffled voice came from behind the door. Of course, no one answered. The warehouse has been abandoned for years. Not even the homeless guy with the Irish accent lives there anymore.
"We're coming in!"
There was a loud BOOM! and the door got blasted away in a shower of splinters. There was wood and dust everywhere.
"Alright, boys, sweep the building!" that one was the sarge.
So we were all over the warehouse like clockwork. Just like always. Ten seconds later...
"Clear."
"Clear."
"Clear."
"I was clear fifteen minutes ago."
Now I'm sure we all realized what we were seeing, but it just needed some time to sink in. I mean, c'mon. Even the most hardened war veteran would be surprised at something like this.
"Jesus. Mother. Fucking. Christ...Who the hell lived here again?"
I take the wood and dust part back, there were GUNS everywhere. Barrett M82A1s, AK-47s, Ster AUG A3s, FN FILs, Colt .45s. There were IEDs, plastic explosives, riot armors, suppressors, Dragonskin vests, Kevlar, tear gas and smoke grenades, crowbars, combat knives, machetes...hell, there was enough firepower here to invade North Korea, Fort Knox, and Mount Olympus.
Oh, and my favorite part, the RPGs. Just hanging on the wall.
"No one answered my question. Who the hell lived here?"
"Either Rambo, Bin Laden, or Hitler's grandson. Damn, I've never seen a weapons stockpile bigger than the one in the FBI headquarters in DC."
Let's rewind back a bit, just to fill you in on what happened.
"...either Rambo, Bin La..."
Heh, nice one.
"Jesus. Mother. Fu..."
I love that one, but no. A little bit more.
"...own the door!"
Alrighty then...A lot more.
"There's been a 911 ca..."
This one's it. Let's start from the beginning.
"Alright you guys. There's been a 911 call regarding a suspicious man walking around a nearby warehouse holding an AK-47 and a rocket propelled grenade slinged on his back."
"Permission to speak, sir."
"Granted."
"You rarely get RPGs in the States anymore."
"That's why it's so suspicious, and that's why were going there right now."
We were already on our way when I decided to go get my personal anti-tank missile from my car. Hey, they had a freakin' RPG. No use taking any chances.
Shit, I watch Futureweapons too much.
Anyway, I stuffed it in the spare tire compartment of the SUV, making sure no one saw it, of course, and we drove off.
And then here we are. In a warehouse filled with nothing but raw firepower.
"Hey, sarge, take a look at this."
Have you ever seen those big screens in a war room, maybe in NORAD? Well, this is nothing like it. There was a laptop there connected to five car batteries that had a Playboy slideshow screensaver on.
"Well, well. What's this?" the sarge mumbled, staring at a Playboy bunny on the screen.
"If they're still powered on, then that means someone's been here recently. In fact, they might still be here, hiding."
"Well then, everybody thoroughly search the warehouse. If you see anyone, secure them and call someone."
They all left the laptop room and continued their search, but I stayed. I got curious about what the laptops contained. Besides, I wanted to stare at the screensaver a bit more. So I reluctantly pressed the enter button twice to get out the of screensaver, and what I saw surprised me. This guy didn't have a wallpaper, and he didn't need one. It wouldn't have been seen anyway. Except for a Notepad icon on the top left side, the whole screen was covered with Notepad Documents, from Introduction to Journal # something. Hasn't this guy ever heard of folders?
So I clicked Introduction.
I read. And was shocked.
Chapter 2 - The First Reading: Outbreak. Part 1
Introduction:
All Journals in this laptop contains the stories of the thirteen survivors before, during, and after the Second Pandemic. Please read this carefully. We hope you will learn a lesson through our hardships. Remember, if you see a zombie and you don't have something to stab a skull with, hide. If you do, hide anyway. Only use that sharp thing when really needed.
Oh, and everything we say here is totally true. No lies, no exaggerations, no distortions (whatever the heck that means), nothing. Even the random notes we type up without even thinking.
Please take the time to read the following Intros.
Janet Morgan's Intro:
My name is Janet Morgan. I am a survivor of the Second Pandemic. I and my fellow survivors have decided to record the gruesome events that followed the introduction of the parasitepathogen into the system of the Thirteenth Casualty.
I'm a high school student in my sophomore year, and it was spring break for us. I was right outside the local movie theater, but I left my money at home so we really couldn't see anything. (And by we I mean my fraternal twin brother Frank and our friends, Alex, Jeremy, and Jamie.) I was supposed to buy the tickets and the rest of them would buy all the food. Good for me, bad for them, 'cause I eat a lot and the tickets didn't cost much.
We were just hanging out there under the sun laughing at hobos crossing the street. Other than that...nothing much. I knew that Jeremy and Jamie were having fun checking me out again, but me...I was so freakin' bored.
Damn, I'd rather be dead than bored.
I guess my wish came true.
I saw my first one while in the bathroom. I was just washing my face and this little seven year old kid--a boy, in the girl's bathroom--eating this woman sitting on a toilet. She had black hair and dark brown, bloodshot eyes. I think she was about five foot eight or nine, and probably around sixteen or seventeen years old. Worse of all, the Loius Vuitton she was wearing was all torn up and bloody. Uggghh...it still haunts me to this day. The dead chick, I mean.
Well, the purse too...That was a Speedy. So rare...
He just finished gnawing on her neck and was working down to her left tit. Seriously. I ain't kidding here. She had a healthy B or C cup. Anyway...both were drenched in blood. I've seen enough rated R slasher horror and shooter movies not to get grossed out though. HeckHeck, I've even witnessed a death in a bank robbery before. That probably saved my life. I didn't scream or do anything that your stereotype eighth grade cutie would do. I decided to go call the police, but once I opened the door--damn stupid, squeaky door--it turned toward me and started moaning. Ok, that freaked me out. He started coming for me, all slow and stumble-y.
Man, I never thought a person could make that kind of sound. Of course, that's Third Law. Anyone who is turned is no longer human or alive. Do not feel sympathy. This kid isn't a person.
"Jesus, get away from me! You creep! You were gnawing on that girl's-"
Wait just a minute, moaning, slow, stumbling movements, randomly gnawing on people's...is that...a...
"Oh god no. Oh my god no."
I ran. I didn't scream, I didn't wave my hands in the air like those soon-to-be-dead, spoiled, bratty, rich girls in the movies, I just ran.
And I immediately regretted it. Frank, Jeremy, and Jamie's dead bodies were on the ground, with huge, gaping bullet holes in their heads. Everywhere else I looked there was chaos. Again, those shooter movies, slasher horrors, and bank robbery death calmed me down and helped saved my life.
You know...now that I think about it, that death saved my life countless times. When I was there, I kept kicking myself for not somehow stopping the robber, 'cause I was like, what, three feet away? I guess I was scared for my life too. I mean, I was fourteen then, but the guy only had one shot left, and after he emptied his gun, the cops took him down. The point is, by me not saving his life, I saved mine countless times. How selfish can a high school girl get?
Anyways...so...where was I again? Sorry, it gets hard for me to concentrate after a night of burning corpses and outrunning a zack-s.
Yeah, so I was looking for Alex when I saw soldiers down the block. They were shooting at pretty much anything that moved. Anything. Even two year old kids. After that, everything got hazy.
* * *
He said it went like this. In a blind flash of rage I took out my hidden Swiss Army Knife (Yeah, I keep a Swiss Knife hidden on me, so what? The boss keeps a .45, expandable baton, and a switchblade on him at all times.) and lunged at the soldiers. I almost killed them too, if it wasn't for him. He tied me up and put my knife in my pocket.
"You think she's one of them?" a soldier asked, his rifle trained on me, hands shaking.
The boss replied coldly, "Hell no. You shot her friends." He jerked his head towards my friends' bodies. "She snapped. I've seen it before a lot of times. She's probably bipolar too." He took out a rifle suppressor and handed it to them. "Take it. You'll need it. And try not to kill everything, will you?"
He carried me over his shoulder and said, "Good luck. Oh, and I heard one in the girls' bathroom."
Just before I passed out I saw Alex covered in blood. Then her skull being blown to pieces.
* * *
"What the hell iswas that?" I moan-grunted.
"Mossberg 500 Tactical. My second favorite shotgun ever," he replied, then added, "How are you feeling?"
"I meant the way you took off my gag. You don't look like a 75 year old but you sure act like it," I almost spat at him.
"Well, I didn't know whether or not you're infected. Since you just talked, and you passed my screening test, you're not."
"You're not a rapist, are you?"
That caught him off guard. He had a look on his face told me he wasn't, but I was gonna give him a hard time anyway. I mean, I just woke up strapped to a bed, gagged, and the first thing I see is someone loading a shotgun.
Stammering, he said, "Uh...what? Wait, no...no! Hell no!"
Where the hell am I? I thought I said. I couldn't tell if I was thinking or talking, but whatever it was, he answered anyway.
"This is my yacht. Right now were anchored half a mile from shore." It amazed me how fast he recovered from that unexpected comment. It was as if he it was nothing more but a bad "Yo Mama" joke that just rolled down his back.
He took out what seemed to be a switchblade and cut off the cords that were strapping me down.down -- "Stop moving unless you want to look emo." -- and I got up.
AfterThen I finally got a good look at him. He's a handsome man in his mid twenties with dark skin, dark brown eyes, and black hair. He has broad shoulders and well built arms and biceps. He's also about five feet ten inches tall and 130 somewhat pounds. Something like that. I would've dismissed his as Middle Eastern, but it didn't quite sit right. Maybe Native American? To this day, he won't tell me.
This was the man I would be calling boss for the next few years.
My voice was finally coming back. I rubbed my eyes and forehead and asked, "How long have I been here?"
"Uh...half an hour, just about. I'm gonna be going back to shore and look for stuff we can use. Maybe even survivors. It's the early stages of the outbreak, so there should be lots of lone survivors willing to join a group," by now he was donemonologue-ing. I was barely listening. My head hurt. "If you want to come, take a primary weapon, a secondary, a sidearm, and a melee weapon. You should take that gear too. You can stay if you want, but take a weapon anyways. If you don't want to be with me, then go ahead and leave, but be advised, your family and friends are probably dead or infected, your house ransacked, and anyone who sees you would either infect you, kill you, rape you, or enslave you. Be ready in five minutes."
I stayed, took that Mossberg of his, and he left.
And that's how I met the boss.
David Marquez's Intro:
My name is David Marquez. I am a survivor of the Second Pandemic. I and my fellow survivors have decided to record the gruesome events that took place after the introduction of the pathogen into the system of the Thirteenth Casualty.
