Zombie Apocalypse Story

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Plot:
A year ago, a deadly virus began to sweep over the entire North American continent. This deadly virus turned people into living zombies, it was transmitted by biting. One bite from one of these "zombies" would turn a normal human into the living undead. The virus worked by slowly sapping the persons strength, until they could could barely move at all. Then it killed them, and resurrected them as a zombie. Most cities have been infested with "them" so the only safe place is the unpopulated areas. A few bands of survivors have been seen wandering in the deserts. Their mission is to survive. One bite from a zombie, and they're done for.

The sun begins to peek over the dunes of the deserts of Arizona. It has been a year since the outbreak. Most major cities are desolate of life, except for that of the living dead. The deserts of Arizona are barren for the most part, apart from the occasional gas station or convenience store. The majority of the population of North America has become one of the living dead. Only around .01% of the total population remains alive.

Current Participants
Harukastu(Kitteh)

Summary of what has happened so far
Nothing. Will update as the RP goes on.

Current objectives
Find a safe place to park the convoy each night.
Collect enough food so the convoy can survive.
[Optional] Find enough ammo for the convoy.
[Optional] Find antidotes and keep them cold.

Aridianu sighs, looking down long enough to flick his lighter, lighting the cigarette in his mouth. He looks back up, into the bright sky, the sun directly overhead. He slips the lighter back into his pocket, puffing on his cigarette as he does so.

He reaches back and scratches the back of his head apprehensively as he begins to walk slowly again, trailing at the back of the convoy. He checks his SPAS12 is clear in his custom holster on the side of his leg. It seems easy enough to pull out. He wonders how long things will go on for, forever moving, forever fighting. Surely they'd be able to find some place safe? Surely..... they'd be able to outlast the zombies?

The end of the world was about as close to an event that defied explanation as there ever was. As the old world crumbled around the survivors, ordinary people stood up to take the mantle of leadership. Farmers, hunters and military men joined with book keepers, store clerks and video game enthusiasts, men and women from all walks of life that would someday become legend for their actions.

Simon Crook was well on his way to becoming such a legend.

Rumor and superstition tend to spread quickly among survivors of an apocalypse. It would be no surprise then that word of a lone rider traveling on horseback across the desert would spread among caravans and convoys. Mr. Crook would often be spotted far on the horizon, shadowing a convoy for several days before simply vanishing. Attempts to track the rider down often failed, and his presence was often discounted as a mirage. There were those who knew the truth though. Those who had witnessed the courage and chivalry the man displayed. They described him as someone straight out of an old western movie - the cowboy, the lone gunman riding across the country helping those in need.

In the convoy led by young Harukastu Nekomata, such a sighting would likely have been reported by the watchmen on guard when dawn came about; a dark silhouette in the rising sun, high up on one of the rocky outcroppings.

Now later in the day, the day to day life of the travelers would be interrupted by the very casual appearance of the lone rider himself. Simon Crook rode out a good distance ahead of one of the scouting vehicles, riding parallel to them at a relaxed pace. His appearance alone would likely make him seem like less of a risk. Any other worry of his posing a threat to the convoy would no doubt be put to rest by the fact that he seemed completely oblivious of the group of travelers. His horse meandered along between the rocks and shrub grass on some path known only to it. He held an old worn out map in both hands, his head turned down to study it causing the brim of his hat to hide his face. Still, despite his apparent disinterest, he was slowly closing on the lead vehicle.

Alastor turns his music up. He's been scolded more than once about his music, but, as he often argues, the rumbling of the convoy is going to attract far more attention than his music ever will. So it plays on, especially when the Pale Horse is chosen to take point. Which is almost all the time. Raising a hand from the wheel to his mouth, Alastor yawns, eyes squinting with the action. For a moment, the world in front of him blends into a watercolour image without detail. When his mouth closes and his vision returns to normal, he has to blink. He can see a lone rider up ahead.

run to the hills...

Alastor swats at the arm of his passenger, and then points toward the casually approaching mounted figure. "Get on the .50 cal." He snaps, the friendly tone draining out of his voice.

run for your lives...

"Don't worry about him, check the flanks, this screams ambush. So keep your head down. And don't you dare pull that trigger unless I say so." His eyes are set back on the rider before he finishes speaking, his orders have been given and he's moved on to other things. His left arm drifts down to the side of his seat, checking for his P-90, but not picking it up. Then he reaches for his sound system dial, turning his music off. He settles his foot onto his clutch peddle, and puts it to the floor, disengaging his gearbox. Then he stands on the accelerator, revving the obnoxious V8 engine several times before reengaging the clutch and readjusting his speed. "Yeah, I see you." He mutters, patting his gun. Then he shoves his left arm out of his window, and signals for the convoy to keep pace. If it is an ambush, he'd rather be in a position to roll on through, than get stuck and have to fight it out. No stopping.

Mina muttered, shaking her head at being pretty much ordered to man the gun. She glared at Alastor...Who the fuck named their kid Alastor? Then again... Mintaka? She didn't have room to talk. "Turn that off, if you don't want me to shoot you before the shamblers show up. And why me? I'm an actress, not some...grunt! You're really starting to get on my nerves, Ally." It was the pet name she'd taken to calling him in an attempt to get back for his godawful metal. Nevertheless, she couldn't drive a stick, and refused to admit that fact. Therefore, she clambered her way to the back seat, holding her skirt down in case he happened to try catching a look in the rear view mirror.

All the while, she complained about the situation she found herself in silently, mind blazing. The hell kinda person puts a fifty-cal on a jeep anyway? For that matter, who the hell FINDS a .50 just laying around? This guy scares me. Still, he had picked her up. Whatever the current situation, Mina did owe Alastor her life, for the moment. She'd have died of thirst weeks ago without him. Forcing the latched trapdoor up, which was decidedly more difficult than it actually looked, she stood, thumbs obediently a considerable distance from the button triggers atop the handles of the gun.

"Hey, mister, you need water?" She called out over the din of the caravan. It was amazing what a little acting training could do for helping one's voice carry. She politely kept the gun faced in any direction away from Samuel. She observed that his horse looked a little tired, and felt kinda sorry for him.

Haru sits up from the warm bus seat. "Hmm, seems like I slept too long....everyone started without me..." He scratched at his head, brushing down his bed-hair as he does. "This is embarrassing...." he stands up from the bus seat and makes his way to the front of the bus carefully. "How far have we gone....?" He listens to the driver talk for a second, before responding. "Shit, that far? Why didn't anyone wake me?" He listens again, nodding his head as he does, "Yeah...it was that dream again..."

His eyes scanned the horizons, looking over the barren hills. "I guess we haven't found anywhere to stop yet..." The driver spoke and he listened, "I realize we are close to Tucson...but do you know how many of them are going to be there...?" He sighs, "It's too much of a risk....we can't get within a mile of there." He put his hands behind his head, "We'll have to stick to the small cities..."

His hand reached out and grabbed the transmitter of the two way radio on the bus. He depressed the button and spoke into it, "All cars report, this is Haru. I apologize for oversleeping. Has anyone seen anything out of the ordinary? Or any places to stop? Over." He let go of the button and waited patiently for the responses.

Aridianu takes a drag on his cigarette starting to get bored of just trailing. He notices the convoy pulling away again, his walking too slow to properly keep up. He starts to run. He can feel the blood pumping as his feet pound against the sand. After feeling he's within a reasonable distance, he slows down. As long as he can keep the convoy in sight, he should be fine.

He turns around and walks backward, scanning the horizon they have travelled. Nothing. It seems like it's the same landscape wherever they go. Sand, sand and.... well. More sand. He sighs as he begins puffing his cigarette again. Aridianu spins around again to face the convoy, scanning the horizons to the sides, hoping to see something new.

The rider continued on along his path until it drew him up alongside the vehicle, nudging the sides of his horse to rouse it out of it's slow pace up to a clip that kept pace with the pair in the jeep. The horse gave a huff of indignation but complied, pulling up on the driver side a few paces back from the front of the vehicle to take advantage of the draft. It seemed the horse wasn't as much tired as it was bored. It's ears perked up, eyes focused on the road ahead and not the least bit put off by the blaring music or the roar of the caravan. Well trained, and likely unphased by gunfire as well if it's demeanor suggested anything.

His head lifted up, hands folding the map down in half. His face was weather worn, with an almost leathery complexion of someone who spent all his time in the sun despite the dusty white cowboy hat shading his brow. His eyes wandered the horizon for a moment before he turned his head slightly to his right, eyes darting to those in the pair of convoy scouts. The corner of his lip twisted up in a brief smile while a hand lifted up to tip his hat down to the pair. "Much obliged, miss. Can't say I wouldn't appreciate it, but I've got enough to last me a while." He called out, dropping his hand down to pat one of the cantines slung over his shoulder. "If you've got anything stroger though, I'd take that offer. It's been a long while since I've been offered a drink from the good old US Cavalry." Of course, they weren't likely military, but if the rest of this convoy was armed as well as their scout, they were as close to the cavalry as one could hope for out in the deserts these days.

Carrying on without waiting for them to take him up on the offer of a drink, he folded the map smaller and tucked it into a pocket in his duster. "You folks realize you're heading into more heavily populated territory, I take it? Your leader have any particular destination he's taking you all too?"

Alastor cringes. He hates that nickname. Ever since he was a kid, someone always thought Ally was a great way to shorten his name, and patronize him. He thought he'd stopped that kind of thing for good when he joined the army, but he was quite wrong. In the army, Ally became an almost permanent name. And now, not even a zombie apocalypse has rid him of it. A peek in the rear view mirror offers no solace, pah. The least the bitchy woman could do was flash him."You're lucky I need someone on the gun, or I'd be using you as zombie bait. The music, by the way, is the only thing that stops me from shooting myself, having to listen to your constant griping."

Alastor watches the rider in his side mirror as he forms up beside the jeep, keeping an eye on him without taking his gaze off where he's going. When a voice crackles in on the CV, he reaches for the transmitter. He has two radios in the truck, a military issue and a CV he picked up along the way. "Sleeping beauty wakes..." He mutters to himself before making his reply. "Pale Horse reporting. It's been clear all the way, no zed sightings. But we have a guest. Could be a scout for a raiding party, so I advise all vehicles keep moving. Clint Eastwood here has a map, though, and seems to know the area, so it might not hurt to accommodate him. Over." He shakes his head, putting the transmitter down. A glance to his side, and he leans out the window. "Not much cavalry here, Clint. Just a bunch of kids playing soldier." He ducks back inside, and a moment later, a metal canteen is tossed out toward him. A sniff would reveal it to be half full of whiskey. He leans out of the window again. "But I'm your huckleberry." A lazy salute offered, and he turns his attention back to the route in front of them, waiting for a reply over the radio.

Mina heard the cackle of the radio, but not what was said. At Ally's mocking of their 'leader,' she suppressed a grin - she had heard that. Looking down into the car, she smiled innocently. "But Ally, you mean if I broke your radio I'd never have to listen to you again? That would be so utterly terrible." She sighed, then turned her attention to the rider, watching the canteen of whiskey fly across the distance between them before realizing something. It was hers. Ally had tossed the rider her last canteen of booze. Mina's expression darkened considerably.

Trying not to snap, she spoke to the rider. "If he wants to take us into more populated areas, he can try. I have no intention of suicide, thank you very much. There's a lot more to gather just skimming outskirts and I've seen too many people get bitten by bad luck." She shook her head, considering. She didn't hear the rider referred to as Clint Eastwood, nor did she catch the huckleberry line. "We've got the gun, but not much else... We can do all right for a while. What's your name, mister?"