Zombie Apocalypse Squad (Cancelled !)
- Thread starter Clirck
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[Well okay then oh and where are everybody ? Like location(s) ?]
He flew even further when he finally got to Poland, as the new goverment repeating instructions for safety changed language he knew that that somewhere survivors exist. He sarted sending out his signal.He tried every channel he could.
"Hello, is there somone ?"
He even tried in Russian. [Ideas mssing]
"Kto nibut dam ?"
And, nothing not even a single thing to reqognize survivor. He kept flying towards UK, for not seeing someone in long time he was desperate.
[Nice feedback about poster, thanks ya all.]
He flew even further when he finally got to Poland, as the new goverment repeating instructions for safety changed language he knew that that somewhere survivors exist. He sarted sending out his signal.He tried every channel he could.
"Hello, is there somone ?"
He even tried in Russian. [Ideas mssing]
"Kto nibut dam ?"
And, nothing not even a single thing to reqognize survivor. He kept flying towards UK, for not seeing someone in long time he was desperate.
[Nice feedback about poster, thanks ya all.]
[Well thats why everyone PM me what guns would you like on poster because now I have shitloads of time in my hand so I'll put much efford in next poster. What gun, want a silly oversized helmetChris B Chikin said:
, backpack, a cola can in yor left hand whatever, whatever, whatever.]
can i have my scoped silenced pistol?Clirck said:[Well thats why everyone PM me what guns would you like on poster because now I have shitloads of time in my hand so I'll put much efford in next poster. What gun, want a silly oversized helmetChris B Chikin said:
also the two images are awesome, great job!
Portal walked through the office doors. The secretary was busy with a game of Solitaire.
"Excuse me, may I make an appointment with Him?"
The secretary looked at him. "Take a seat over there."
Portal walked to the waiting room. Roughly 30 other people were there. He plopped down in a chair and waited.
And waited.
[EDIT: Got bored. Turn's out 666 was done by Haze. Coincidence? I think not.]
[EDIT2: Got bored again. It turns out we've VERY NEARLY done 5% of the Forum Games & RP posts!]
"Excuse me, may I make an appointment with Him?"
The secretary looked at him. "Take a seat over there."
Portal walked to the waiting room. Roughly 30 other people were there. He plopped down in a chair and waited.
And waited.
[EDIT: Got bored. Turn's out 666 was done by Haze. Coincidence? I think not.]
[EDIT2: Got bored again. It turns out we've VERY NEARLY done 5% of the Forum Games & RP posts!]
He'd been marching alone that goddamn road for the last two weeks, and God help him, his feet were killing him.
Cole adjusted his bandana on his neck and spat a little chunk of phlegm out of his mouth, shouldering his FN SCAR and continuing his trek down the blisteringly hot Alabama backroad. His worn, slightly patched fatigues weighed on him like lead, despite only weighing a couple of pounds, at most; the British Union Jack stuck out proudly on his shoulders. He muttered angrily under his breath.
"Bloody Alabama, with its bloody stupid heat and its bloody stupid moisture and its BLOODY FUCKING STUPID UNPAVED BULLSHIT ROADS!"
He kicked the dirt next to him as he screamed, exposing a leering skull in the dirt. He shouted in dismay and fell over, tripping over the carbine at his hip and landing in the grass. Getting up again, he looked it over. Bleached bone greeted his questing eyes, tainted with the infection of time and the elements. "Fuck," he whispered to himself.
He glared around the environment, and enterred a quick, bitter revery.
"Look at yourself, mate," he thought. "You're thousands of miles from home, in some fuckin' Yank HELL-HOLE!,with nothing more than a bloody rifle with two extra mags and a pair of bloody pistols for protection. Oh, and the SWORD." He snorted derisively at his own sarcasm, and laughed: the old basket-hilt claymore, a clan heirloom, had come in handy dozens of times so far. "Some way to start your service in the bloody Royal Marines, eh?"
He took a moment to check his supplies, and realized just how much he might need to rely on it from now on. His original estimate for his SCAR ammo was right on the money: one mag already set, with two more as backup; in other words, 150 rounds. He had only two shots left for the underslung grenade launcher, and maybe eight shells for his flare gun. He had half a dozen regular grenades left.
He was more fortunate than most, in that he managed to find two pistols. One of them was a good, old-fashioned Smith and Wesson revolver, capable of carrying 6 .357 rounds; he had roughly 42 rounds. His other pistol was a Bren Ten automatic, with a 12-round capacity; each round hit with almost as much force as a magnum. He had managed to wrangle up fifteen magazines for it, somehow, making it his primary weapon.
A strange crackling near his macabre friend in the grass drew his attention. He crawled over and found a box: no, not just any box, a radio.
A way to find home again.
He eagerly snatched it up, and flipped through the channels: his radio had been irrevocably damaged during the parachute drop into the danger zone. Despite only finding static, he was overjoyed, and tucked it into his sack: who knows when such a thing could come in handy?
His moment of joy froze when he saw the first one coming. A large Arabic man, possibly a body-builder in life. Behind him was a fat Caucasian man in a sheriff's uniform, as well as thirteen others. He calmly backed away and took a look at the tactical disposition of the staggering forms.
"Mob formation, relatively loose," He whispered to himself. "At least ten meters between each target." He unsheathed the sword and grinned ferally. "Looks like I won't need the guns."
His first slash sawed the top of the sheriff's head off, with his hat flying off and landing perfectly on a pole nearby. His second slash hacked a ragged line across the Arab man's neck, the still-snapping head sailing harmlessly over his shoulders, and lead perfectly into a follow-up move which hacked a zombie's arm from its body. He finished it off, and quickly butchered the rest.
He heard something new on the radio as he rested from his exploits, and quizzically picked it up and looked at it. Over one frequency he heard a young woman's voice, whispering is a terrified voice, "Hello? Is anyone alive out there? My name is Lizzie Chapui, and I'm a cheerleader at Alabama State. I-I got this radio off of a dead cop. I've got his... I've got his gun, but its magazine is short one round... He-he wasn't... Wasn't fully dead when we got there. He was... One of them. I'm currently in the university library, with my little sister and one of the football players. He's boarding up the windows and trying to check all the support strucures and stuff, he's got, like, a major in architecture, or something... He's got a shotgun, with a couple dozen shells, too... I'm taking chemistry and stuff, and I know how to work a radio, so I'm sending out this broadcast, and trying to make some sort of weapon..." The voice began to make choked sounds. "If someone's out there... Dear God, I'm so scared... They ate half my class right in front of me!.... God, if someone, ANYONE is out there, please come! We-we have enough food to last a group of a dozen at least a month, and we're more than willing to share- just please help us!"
Cole stood up, and slowly tucked the radio into his pack, pulling out his map instead. He bent over the map, studying it fastidiously, muttering to himself. "So, I'm somewhere around coordinates sixtythree-nineteen, and Alabama State's at about seventytwo-twentyfour," he mused, "So it'll take.... about two weeks, at best." He patted his pack. "Not a problem."
He tucked away the map, checked his weapons. He asked himself one final question before he set down the road, whistling "Scotland the Brave" 'neath his breath: "I wonder if this Yank girl's hot?"
Cole adjusted his bandana on his neck and spat a little chunk of phlegm out of his mouth, shouldering his FN SCAR and continuing his trek down the blisteringly hot Alabama backroad. His worn, slightly patched fatigues weighed on him like lead, despite only weighing a couple of pounds, at most; the British Union Jack stuck out proudly on his shoulders. He muttered angrily under his breath.
"Bloody Alabama, with its bloody stupid heat and its bloody stupid moisture and its BLOODY FUCKING STUPID UNPAVED BULLSHIT ROADS!"
He kicked the dirt next to him as he screamed, exposing a leering skull in the dirt. He shouted in dismay and fell over, tripping over the carbine at his hip and landing in the grass. Getting up again, he looked it over. Bleached bone greeted his questing eyes, tainted with the infection of time and the elements. "Fuck," he whispered to himself.
He glared around the environment, and enterred a quick, bitter revery.
"Look at yourself, mate," he thought. "You're thousands of miles from home, in some fuckin' Yank HELL-HOLE!,with nothing more than a bloody rifle with two extra mags and a pair of bloody pistols for protection. Oh, and the SWORD." He snorted derisively at his own sarcasm, and laughed: the old basket-hilt claymore, a clan heirloom, had come in handy dozens of times so far. "Some way to start your service in the bloody Royal Marines, eh?"
He took a moment to check his supplies, and realized just how much he might need to rely on it from now on. His original estimate for his SCAR ammo was right on the money: one mag already set, with two more as backup; in other words, 150 rounds. He had only two shots left for the underslung grenade launcher, and maybe eight shells for his flare gun. He had half a dozen regular grenades left.
He was more fortunate than most, in that he managed to find two pistols. One of them was a good, old-fashioned Smith and Wesson revolver, capable of carrying 6 .357 rounds; he had roughly 42 rounds. His other pistol was a Bren Ten automatic, with a 12-round capacity; each round hit with almost as much force as a magnum. He had managed to wrangle up fifteen magazines for it, somehow, making it his primary weapon.
A strange crackling near his macabre friend in the grass drew his attention. He crawled over and found a box: no, not just any box, a radio.
A way to find home again.
He eagerly snatched it up, and flipped through the channels: his radio had been irrevocably damaged during the parachute drop into the danger zone. Despite only finding static, he was overjoyed, and tucked it into his sack: who knows when such a thing could come in handy?
His moment of joy froze when he saw the first one coming. A large Arabic man, possibly a body-builder in life. Behind him was a fat Caucasian man in a sheriff's uniform, as well as thirteen others. He calmly backed away and took a look at the tactical disposition of the staggering forms.
"Mob formation, relatively loose," He whispered to himself. "At least ten meters between each target." He unsheathed the sword and grinned ferally. "Looks like I won't need the guns."
His first slash sawed the top of the sheriff's head off, with his hat flying off and landing perfectly on a pole nearby. His second slash hacked a ragged line across the Arab man's neck, the still-snapping head sailing harmlessly over his shoulders, and lead perfectly into a follow-up move which hacked a zombie's arm from its body. He finished it off, and quickly butchered the rest.
He heard something new on the radio as he rested from his exploits, and quizzically picked it up and looked at it. Over one frequency he heard a young woman's voice, whispering is a terrified voice, "Hello? Is anyone alive out there? My name is Lizzie Chapui, and I'm a cheerleader at Alabama State. I-I got this radio off of a dead cop. I've got his... I've got his gun, but its magazine is short one round... He-he wasn't... Wasn't fully dead when we got there. He was... One of them. I'm currently in the university library, with my little sister and one of the football players. He's boarding up the windows and trying to check all the support strucures and stuff, he's got, like, a major in architecture, or something... He's got a shotgun, with a couple dozen shells, too... I'm taking chemistry and stuff, and I know how to work a radio, so I'm sending out this broadcast, and trying to make some sort of weapon..." The voice began to make choked sounds. "If someone's out there... Dear God, I'm so scared... They ate half my class right in front of me!.... God, if someone, ANYONE is out there, please come! We-we have enough food to last a group of a dozen at least a month, and we're more than willing to share- just please help us!"
Cole stood up, and slowly tucked the radio into his pack, pulling out his map instead. He bent over the map, studying it fastidiously, muttering to himself. "So, I'm somewhere around coordinates sixtythree-nineteen, and Alabama State's at about seventytwo-twentyfour," he mused, "So it'll take.... about two weeks, at best." He patted his pack. "Not a problem."
He tucked away the map, checked his weapons. He asked himself one final question before he set down the road, whistling "Scotland the Brave" 'neath his breath: "I wonder if this Yank girl's hot?"
Portal walked through the double doors that lead to God's office. He was welcomed by a blinding light, which slowly dimmed to reveal an old man dwarfed by the sheer size of the room. There was a large open view of The Afterlife behind him. The man himself was a lanky old thing behind a large oak desk. "Please, take a seat."
Portal walked over to one of 3 leather comfy chairs in the room and sat down. He looked around the room and saw the walls adorned by books of varying thickness and age. An intricate rug covered the floor in the center of the room. A diamond chandelier hung from the ceiling. The old man asked, "What my I help you with, Portal?"
He looked at the man. "As you may know, the barrier between The Afterlife and The Mortal Universe is shifting for a select few, including myself. Your assistance is needed to make the transition a safe one."
The old man knitted his fingers together and remained silent. After a few minutes he said, "I have done what is necessary. The people going on the journey are headed to The Gates. Once the time comes, I'll be there."
Portal nodded his head. "Thank you, wise one." He stood up. "I shall see you then. I don't wish to hold you up, so I'll be going." With a bow, he left the office. The double doors closed behind him.
Portal walked over to one of 3 leather comfy chairs in the room and sat down. He looked around the room and saw the walls adorned by books of varying thickness and age. An intricate rug covered the floor in the center of the room. A diamond chandelier hung from the ceiling. The old man asked, "What my I help you with, Portal?"
He looked at the man. "As you may know, the barrier between The Afterlife and The Mortal Universe is shifting for a select few, including myself. Your assistance is needed to make the transition a safe one."
The old man knitted his fingers together and remained silent. After a few minutes he said, "I have done what is necessary. The people going on the journey are headed to The Gates. Once the time comes, I'll be there."
Portal nodded his head. "Thank you, wise one." He stood up. "I shall see you then. I don't wish to hold you up, so I'll be going." With a bow, he left the office. The double doors closed behind him.
(turns to Chris)
but where are we going to go?
we can't just keep driving around aimlessly
(turns to hunter)
if you're joining us you're going to need a weapon
[nice intro angryscotsman]
but where are we going to go?
we can't just keep driving around aimlessly
(turns to hunter)
if you're joining us you're going to need a weapon
[nice intro angryscotsman]
"well god dam it!"
this was getting tireing, all he wanted was a god dammed pepsi and the machine had shatter proof glass, it was just his luck that the gas station still had power and he dropped his cash to make way for ammo, about 40 shells to be exact, only 15 were reachible without getting his pack off, he didn't always use a shot gun but hguessed the tube magazine could hold 8 shells at a time, the Remington 870 he found off a actually dead soldier was a relief as he only had a Smith & Wesson Model 500 and 20 rounds with it , a magnum like that is nothing to underestimate but it sure as hell wasn't somthing to take down the hords, at least it was easy to clean.
what a hell of a way to join the special forces, the canaidian paratrooers! join them! for a cause ,fight the zombies! fight for the right to live!! a bunch of riguros monthes later he's dropped in alabamma to help the americans and for what! his whole troop dead and he's left wandering the place wondering what the hell to do, his dam uniform wasn't helping nether but He wasn't about to rip p the best protection he has! Not to mention it holds everything he needs, but with that said he only had 2 grenaides left and a days worth of food left, IF ONLY HE HAD A DAM BAT! but nooooo he had to get the combat machete, who cares if it's military grade metal now he has no chance of getting a dam pepsi! or at leasat his c7, why did he thow it away? he probably could have found ammo for it, what else? right the dam night vision goggles, a dam lot od good they do him here, well better than nothing
he adjusted his hat, "heh at least I got my fedora" ahhh his fedora, able to stay on his head perfecly like glue never to com off in the heat of battle, and he'd fight god him self to get it back, beatufil white with a small peacocks feather to tip it of, warm in the fall and cool in the summer. "JUST ONE GOD DAMMED PEPS-" " "Hello? Is anyone alive out there?" at least his radio still worked"-cheerleader at Alabama State I-I got this radio off of a dead cop. I've got his... I've got his gun, but its magazine is short one round... He-he wasn't... Wasn't fully dead when we got there. He was... One of them. I'm currently in the university library, with my little sister and one of the football players. He's boarding up the windows" at least they got that common sense and who knows? maybe he'll find som actually solders along the way, just no more flag waving locles, they got him in enough trouble as it is ,trying to 'protect their homes'
well, albama university should be just a fortnight, I guess this ol will canaian has a new assingment
[I read about 3 post's and added some connections so it wouldn't be too complicated adding me to the story, might wanna fill me in though]
this was getting tireing, all he wanted was a god dammed pepsi and the machine had shatter proof glass, it was just his luck that the gas station still had power and he dropped his cash to make way for ammo, about 40 shells to be exact, only 15 were reachible without getting his pack off, he didn't always use a shot gun but hguessed the tube magazine could hold 8 shells at a time, the Remington 870 he found off a actually dead soldier was a relief as he only had a Smith & Wesson Model 500 and 20 rounds with it , a magnum like that is nothing to underestimate but it sure as hell wasn't somthing to take down the hords, at least it was easy to clean.
what a hell of a way to join the special forces, the canaidian paratrooers! join them! for a cause ,fight the zombies! fight for the right to live!! a bunch of riguros monthes later he's dropped in alabamma to help the americans and for what! his whole troop dead and he's left wandering the place wondering what the hell to do, his dam uniform wasn't helping nether but He wasn't about to rip p the best protection he has! Not to mention it holds everything he needs, but with that said he only had 2 grenaides left and a days worth of food left, IF ONLY HE HAD A DAM BAT! but nooooo he had to get the combat machete, who cares if it's military grade metal now he has no chance of getting a dam pepsi! or at leasat his c7, why did he thow it away? he probably could have found ammo for it, what else? right the dam night vision goggles, a dam lot od good they do him here, well better than nothing
he adjusted his hat, "heh at least I got my fedora" ahhh his fedora, able to stay on his head perfecly like glue never to com off in the heat of battle, and he'd fight god him self to get it back, beatufil white with a small peacocks feather to tip it of, warm in the fall and cool in the summer. "JUST ONE GOD DAMMED PEPS-" " "Hello? Is anyone alive out there?" at least his radio still worked"-cheerleader at Alabama State I-I got this radio off of a dead cop. I've got his... I've got his gun, but its magazine is short one round... He-he wasn't... Wasn't fully dead when we got there. He was... One of them. I'm currently in the university library, with my little sister and one of the football players. He's boarding up the windows" at least they got that common sense and who knows? maybe he'll find som actually solders along the way, just no more flag waving locles, they got him in enough trouble as it is ,trying to 'protect their homes'
well, albama university should be just a fortnight, I guess this ol will canaian has a new assingment
[I read about 3 post's and added some connections so it wouldn't be too complicated adding me to the story, might wanna fill me in though]
if you hear the radio signal from Alabama then you are far away from the big group, you're actualy at the start of an entirely new story with angryscotsmanGuitar Gamer said:
Had a stop in small German village called Lebusa, he encountered only two zombies who he killed right when he saw them. Seemed like other infected had moved away from the village and survivors haven't been here.
"How a infection from Nevada could reach here some small village ?"
Gathered some supplies, non-rotten food and everything useful he could find and continued his flight towards UK. He turned on the radio and started looking for live signal.
"How a infection from Nevada could reach here some small village ?"
Gathered some supplies, non-rotten food and everything useful he could find and continued his flight towards UK. He turned on the radio and started looking for live signal.
[Sorry, but how CERN aka European Organization for Nuclear Research is going to get a guy back from arterlife ? I know we have aliens in 51 but it seems too awkwards if you think for a second. Area 51 has myth and bullcrap with aliens for 30 years already but CERN and afterlife ? No offence but my head just exploded.]
[EDIT ! Wait a minute... http://cdsweb.cern.ch/record/1161352]
[EDIT ! Wait a minute... http://cdsweb.cern.ch/record/1161352]