[Open to Buffy Summers]
[Open to Buffy Summers]
Buffy did in the plan from the start. She refused to cook! Rubbish, that. Margaret loved to cook for him. Then again, Margaret loved to cook. All birds did. Maybe not Yank birds, though. Or birds in sodding 2008.
He hoped he'd see Margaret again.
Gene was surprised to find Buffy gone in the morning. There was no sign of violence, and he certainly hadn't made advances on the girl. Why she'd buggered off was a mystery. On one hand the bird deserved whatever she got, out there all alone and defenseless. Yet guilt gnawed at him. It weren't right, a young thing on her own in the shell of a city. He should have kept her close. Protected her.
He'd avoided the hooligans -- not bloody zombies, what nonsense! -- until the gaol* was three blocks away. Then the bleeding radio in his coat pocket decided to squawk. "--lo? Anyone there? This is Castlewood. Come in if--"
The six drunken hooligans who'd been stumbling away from them whirled around. Gene snorted as he retrieved the still yapping radio. Another sodding Yank. He wasn't worried about the hooligans. That lot was slower an' clumsier than a div.
As Gene thumbed the reply button irregular footsteps grow louder. He looked up to find two of the hooligans running. "Shite!" Gene sprinted uphill as fast as his legs would go.
"Huh?" the git on the radio returned.
Gene screamed into the radio as he ran for all he was worth. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT, TWAT!"
* The British English spelling of "jail"
Sharon 'Boomer' Valerii woke up and gasped at the pain that the simple act had caused. She was laying on concrete in some abandoned industrial park and the cold only made everything hurt more. She carefully pushed herself up, brushed off the grit and tried to figure out what happened. She had been standing over Hera, her hand on it’s throat, thinking if she ever was going to kill something, at least something of her own choosing, it would be that child when... when blackness covered everything. Sharon looked around and a sinking thought filled her mind. Again she had acted on an instinct that felt bigger then herself and again those she thought of as family had cast her out. They were punishing her so she was dumped here…whatever here was. It wasn’t New Caprica, months there had made her familiar with it and these squat, ugly buildings were not that place. No, she thought, this must be one of the 12 Colonies, now empty, left as a tomb for both sides’ failings. She was right back where she had started. A snake biting it’s own tail.
Sharon had made it very clear she was done with humans, each to their own kind she had said back on the Basestar. Yet something deeper then the anger and the hurt made her call out into the empty quiet, “Hello? Hello?”
She tripped. The moans grew louder. Tears stung her eyes. She scrambled to get up. She found her footing. She was running again. The moans were softer now. She was almost away. She saw a door. Her legs burned. They felt heavy and detached from her body. She hated this feeling. It was new. Her breath was ragged. She was exhausted. She never got exhausted running. This was also new.
She had heard about the compound. She knew she was close, but she had no idea how close. She just needed shelter. Just for a little while.
She reached the door. It was locked. She lifted her leg to kick it open. She kicked like a girl. She barely made a dent. The moans were growing louder again. Another couple kicks. At least she still had some muscles left. The door opened. Freedom. Safety. She slammed it shut and shoved a chair against the handle.
The small house seemed to be empty. She didn't hear anything and the moans seemed to pass. They had given up. For now, it seemed. She collapsed onto the ground, but before her breathing could go back to normal, tears spilled out of her eyes. Buckets upon buckets.
She wasn't a normal girl, so why was she suddenly just a normal girl? A few days ago, she could fend off thousands upon thousands of those creatures with ease. And now...she had to run. Just like a helpless girl. And she was alone. Completely alone. And scared. God, she was so scared.
Buffy Summers was no longer a vampire slayer. She was no longer the chosen one. She was just a regular girl. Just another girl. Just like she always wished she could be. And now it was true. And she hated it more than anything.
He didn't like zombies. That was fair enough - zombies didn't like him. Well, they liked him, insofar as they wanted to have him over for dinner (literally!), but they were trying to kill him, and as far as Leon was concerned, if you were trying to kill him, you weren't being friendly. Pretty much if you were trying to chomp on his insides, you were right off the Christmas card list.
Not that he had a Christmas card list, of course, but if he did, yeah, they wouldn't be on it. He had tried the Christmas card thing once, and, well... nevermind.
Anyway, Leon and zombies didn't get along well. Hell, Leon and anything remotely zombie-like didn't get along well. Ditto that with people of the human variety who tried to kill him.
So as he tried to get into the city in his beat-up, used, hasn't seen a mechanic for anything but an oil change in three years jeep, he ended up leaving quite a few corpses in his wake, and he was starting to worry about bullets. And how he would explain the blood on the tires the next time he got them changed, but that was fleeting and rather beside the point. If there were survivors around, he ought to try and find them, though there were an awful lot of zombies.
Survivors didn't tend to stick around where there were a lot of those. Or, if they did, they didn't usually stay survivors too long. A better plan would be to look for someplace that survivors would think was safe - that's what he had done when he had a situation like this unceremoniously dumped in his lap. In Raccoon City, it had been the police station, but he wasn't seeing one here. Then again, it wasn't inconceivable that he just missed it, or it was further on.
He kept driving, at least, until his jeep started making that awful noise that meant something was wrong.
"Shit," he muttered, trying to get the stubborn machine into another gear in the hopes that would help. Leon was not, it may surprise you to know, a car guy. He drove the damn thing, but not much else - he was lucky if he knew the gas tank from the radiator. Fixing it was best left up to the professionals, when he could afford the professionals. And now his car was breaking down in the middle of Zombie Central.
Life was grand. Really.
He pulled to a stop by the side of the road, hoping (he didn't pray, but if he did, he would have been) that it was just a tire problem. Tires he could handle. And there was a gas station right there. Grabbing his handgun (standard issue service gun, leftover from his single-day stunt as a police officer) from the glove compartment and sticking it in his belt alongside his more powerful handgun for his current job (special agent for the U.S. government), he felt a bit more secure.
Finding his Desert Eagle magnum, which, after the Los Illuminados bullshit, he never left the house without, under the seat made him feel much better. If one was going to be fighting zombies, one might as well be fighting them with superior firepower.
"Maybe I walked through them," she muttered, tone disjointed, the words coming with an odd cadence. Like water running over rocks. "Maybe they're not there..."
She walked towards them, away from the building. Had to know if they were real. Was she just imagining it? Had she imagined the people outside? They were so hungry, and they wanted to eat her. Cannibals or something worse, the black death, everybody screaming and the bodies piling up, white circles on the house doors.. Awkwardly she pushed her hair out of her face; it was damp, had it been raining? It wasn't raining now.
Maybe she was dreaming. Or it was the medicine. But she didn't think Simon had been there to give her injections for a while now. If she was dreaming, though...
"Dream you pass through," she said to herself, reaching out to touch the stone wall, cool and sticky-wet. It was solid, pressed back against her fingers like something breathing, or maybe she had moved her hand. "Now it's solid, closes behind you... castle gates. You have to keep locked up, so the plague doesn't get in."
The plague. She stood by the wall, listening to the wind. She thought she could hear the cries of people, was it plague or this cannibal disease? River wasn't sure anymore.
It sounded a lot like plague, though.
"DCI Sam Tyler here, state your identity and location," he shouted over the commotion, taking another one down. Fucking.. zombies? That's what he chose?
Frustrated, he slammed his palms into the makeshift totem he'd constructed for his daily training. He was a shinobi by birth, and to go even a single day without training (that is, if he was not bed-ridden by deadly injuries) made him uncomfortable and snappy.
The totem cracked slightly under the force, but didn't splinter into shards as it usually would have done, if he had had chakra to mold. With a shout, he continued to vent his anger on the wood with his Eight Palms.
Gaius. To return. Then again, even if she knew where he was... where she was; it wouldn't help. She was a Cylon and he a human, maybe--
Sensitive ears picked up the anguished, fearful screams of a terrorized girl. Running to the door and out through the courtyard, she spied the slip of a creature, frowning darkly. If she let the girl in, she could be infected, but if she left her for dead...
"A conscience? Oh, isn't that precious."
"Shut up," she snapped, creeping to the edge of the fence to get a better look.
The metallic smell the girl was emitting alarmed her initially. Blood. She, of all.. people, would know there was more than one way to get the stuff on one's... person. Frack. Well.. it couldn't hurt to try.
"Hello? Human girl?" she called out, moving until she was several feet away from the frightened creature.
"You're just made of charisma," Gaius snorted, examining his nails closely where he leant against the gate.