We Are Awakened With The Axe [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

The city has been abandoned.

Its infrastructure has been slowly deteriorating for quite some time, now. Traffic has long since ground to a permanent halt, taxis and trucks rusting by the curbs or abandoned mid-intersection. Most of the ground-floor windows have been shattered. Electricity is spotty, if it can be found at all. The eerie silence is broken only by the wind, the calls of crows, or the gentle collapse of some structure or other. And, of course, the occasional screams.

The city has been abandoned, but it is not empty.

What caused the various outbreaks hardly matters. Viral infection, fungal infection, some new or ancient bacterium suddenly released into the general populace - who knows? What does matter is that the city has become home to thousands if zombies, some slow, some fast, some mindless, some retaining a savage kind of intelligence. And they are all so, so hungry.

There are weapons to be found or improvised, and places to hide if you're lucky enough to come across someplace well-fortified and otherwise empty. Others have clearly had the same idea, leaving hastily constructed barricades in some places. You might even take those as a blessing, if the conspicuous absence of the original builders doesn't bother you. They're probably living on a nice farm somewhere.

One thing is certain: if you don't want to succumb to whatever plagues have ravaged this place, you will have to fight for your survival.

[OOC: usual dream party rules apply; all are welcome to participate, and characters can remember or forget at the players' discretion. Also, usual zombie rules apply: if you get bitten, you'll be turned into the sort of zombie that bit you. Whether your characters deal with comically dim shamblers or the terrifying sprinty variety is up to you.

Finally, let's just go ahead and say tw: violence and gore for the post as a whole, because it's gonna get messy, folks.]

Comments

[postictal]

He puts his full weight on each leg experimentally and is rewarded by several stabs of pain up his spine. Tim winces.

"Yeah," he says, the word a pained scrape over his vocal cords. "Yeah, I'm good."

Sorta.

Kinda.

Mostly.

He plants one hand against the wall and starts hobbling forward, mouth set in a determined line.

"Okay," says Tim, trying to recover some of his missing wherewithal and authoritative outlook. "Let's get someplace not-here, then."

[deadeyedchild]

Jay drifts ahead, never too far, unwilling to let Tim stray out of his sightline - not that Tim's moving very fast. Slow's fine, as long as Jay can keep protecting him, preferably without any more near-fuckups. Slow and careful.

He slides up to a stairwell, hoping maybe it'll lead them to the ground level and a way out, and stops short, holding an arm out to keep Tim at bay.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Okay. Uh. Turn around slowly."

Cause he's not sure he can take out that many at once.

Most of them don't look as deadly and fucked up as the last few he's had to help Tim with, just sort of shuffling aimlessly around at the foot of a half-blown-out staircase and seemingly unaware of the presence of others.

"We're going that way," Jay says quietly, turning around.

Well, at least they have a set direction now.

[postictal]

Ignoring the idiocy of Jay trying to physically hold Tim back - he might be more solid than he is in reality, but that doesn't change that Tim could probably walk right through him regardless - Tim tracks the line of Jay's stare to glimpse - oh, that looks nice.

Tim backs away, mouth twisting in disgust. Some of them look weirdly stiff or contorted in unnatural formations, like rigor mortis set in belatedly.

He doesn't need to pursue that line of thought. He turns around and moves in the opposite direction.

"How many of these things are there," he hisses under his breath.

[deadeyedchild]

"I really don't know," Jay murmurs back. "There were a ton outside too. I mean, we're not really safe anywhere, but..."

He heaves a sigh, which, perhaps comically, propels him up by a few inches. "Look, I know you think death is gonna be a quick way out, but I can think of plenty of reasons why that's not a good fucking idea. There's no death here that'll be quick or easy, and there's no fucking guarantee it'd even kill you. What if you turn into one of them? Do you think for a second the rift wouldn't make you dream about that?"

That's got to get his attention. Surely.

"I'm finding somewhere you can hide," he says, attempting to sound firm and decisive. "And I'll protect you until you wake up naturally."

tw: suicide ideation

[postictal]

"It'd be better," Tim mutters, half to himself. "At least I wouldn't need to think about this shit."

Would it be better? It'd have to be, really. Much as he grew to dread the blackouts, the moments where his brain lapsed into inactivity while something dark and inhuman took hold of his skull, at least he was spared the bleakness of reality for a little bit.

And it's so fucked that he's even considering this.

"All right," he says tiredly, turning to face Jay. "Where to, then?"

[deadeyedchild]

Jay's never been the one who leads Tim. Not unless Tim's chasing him cause he took off running after a hooded stranger like an idiot. It's always been Tim - from "some light trespassing" to "where could he have gone?" Tim is the leader, of the two of them. He's smarter and more practical. But Jay has to now. And he's not going to fuck it up. Goddammit.

"Up," he says. "They have access to the ground level, obviously. I don't think those ones can climb very fast, those are more like... Romero zombies. Slow and stupid. The ones we've been running into are like, I don't know, updated video game shit. But I guess they don't move in packs, so I can pick them off. So."

Hey, look, his fucking film degree is sort of coming in handy.

"So we go up," he says, and directs Tim toward the opposite stairwell.

[postictal]

God, between the running and hiding that's comprised the majority of their adult lives, Tim's almost forgotten how much of a movie buff Jay was.

Is.

It's such a deceptively normal trait. Like their lives haven't dissolved into utter chaos. How long has it even been since either of them have had the time or energy to sit back and watch a goddamn movie?

Maybe not a zombie movie. That would feel too much like Tim's life.

Progress up the stairs is agonizingly slow, emphasis on 'agony'. Tim's ribs hurt, his legs hurt, his fucking lungs hurt with whatever the hell was in that smoke he breathed in. That better not be what infected these things in the first place. That would just be the fucking kicker.

[deadeyedchild]

Jay floats up each flight and keeps lookout as Tim follows. He looks like he's in a fuckload of pain, and Jay tries not to let his own nervous impatience show. He wishes he could help.

"Almost there," he says after a few climbs. "We're getting close to the top now."

And there, godwilling, they will find a safe sturdy room to sit in and play twenty questions until they wake up.

Yeah. This is a great plan.

[postictal]

"Awesome," he grunts, and there's just no way to make it sound sincere even if this time, for once, it actually kind of is.

He's practically gasping by the time he reaches the top, planting one hand against the wall, coughing up a storm.

Oh god.

Fuck. No. No.

Tim lurches to his knees, then to all fours. He can't stop. His throat's on fire. His head is burning. Something smothers the panic building in his chest, in his skull, suffusing the pressure with an ungodly ache. He can't see beyond the worn concrete, the flecks of crimson hitting the ground the longer he coughs, no, no, no.

At least he can't hurt Jay like this.

Because Jay's already dead.

And it's all - your - fault.

[deadeyedchild]

"Tim?" He turns back sharply when he hears that cough, hears it worsen. He floats over as fast as he can. "No, nononono, Tim!"

He crouches down, or rather just sinks into the floor a little ways, resting his hands on Tim's quaking back, trying desperately, hopelessly, to soothe and still him. "Tim!" he cries. "Come on, buddy, stay with me!"

Almost word for fucking word.

He doesn't remember seizing up on the lawn behind Alex's old house but it happened, and Tim pulled him out of that too.

Why can't he make this stop?

"Tim, please," he begs, pressing a little harder, trying to will it away.

tw: extreme mental distress, self-harm, mild finger trauma

[postictal]

Jay's voice cuts through the fog briefly, and Tim recovers enough wherewithal, barely, to reach up with a hand and swipe wildly away. Get back. Get back.

Oh shit.

He can feel himself shuddering under the weight of each hacking cough, his body buckling, his fingers curling into claws as they dig into the rough stone, scraping them open, tearing his fingernails, leaving his hands raw and bloody.

He remembers the first time this happened, the first time he knew, really knew what was happening to him as he shook and spiraled into distressed sobs, hands cupped over his face as other parts of him leaked through to crush his mind into compliance.

It hurts.

It fucking hurts.

It's every nerve being carved out and rearranged, it's his body being jarred into submission, it's his lungs left heaving and empty, it's mind being flayed alive. It's something bestial clawing its way out from the furthest corners of himself, something mired in that, that thing, eyes dark and empty, mind dark and empty and horrible and swirling and alien and its thoughts and its mind and it, its being pressing up against his, choking him out, drowning him, muzzling him.

Tim's body folds forward and into silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Then.

His eyes open.

It always feels that it has been too long since this body was theirs.

[deadeyedchild]

"Tim," he says pleadingly, trying to grasp at his hands, stop him from hurting himself. "Tim, no."

It's no good. He can't do shit. He remembers only distantly what this feels like, and how impossible it is to keep it from happening. He keeps his hands on Tim even as he goes still and silent. Gone. For a moment Jay almost hopes he'll just wake up. Maybe this can't happen in a dream. Maybe-

And then he wakes back up, only it's not him anymore, not with those distant staring eyes. He lifts his hands away and backs off a bit. Even if Tim can't hurt him he still feels wary.

"Let him go," he whispers, angry and hopeless.

[postictal]

They look at their hands. They flex them. The fingers ache, the skin sore and abraded.

They look up, and see the thing that flickers in a familiar shape.

One of their hands stretches through it, and touches nothing but air, cooler and denser than they are accustomed to, but it will not be something they may deal with appropriately.

They turn away from it. This body has been mistreated. It throbs deep within itself with each movement as they move through crumbling stairways and empty halls.

Where is this place, and where is their friend.

Where could they have gone.

[deadeyedchild]

They look right at him, and don't seem to see him. They reach out to touch him, and he can't help flinching a bit, but apparently his visual presence isn't enough to trigger the murderous impulses Tim's other half usually displays whenever it's confronted with him. Maybe it operates more on touch or something. Jay has no idea how it functions - it's not like it's human.

He's not letting it carry Tim away, not when he's already so hurt. "Hey!" he yells as he hurries after it - at least their paces are matched now. He seizes Tim's shoulder and tries to jerk him back. "I said let him go!"

Does it understand human speech, even? Does it matter? He's basically just babbling at this point, frustrated and scared and alone, again, inevitably. What if Tim wakes up in this state, and there's nothing Jay can do to warn anyone?

[postictal]

The persistence of speech is irrelevant. They wish they would not need to hear it. They wish they had the right face. They wish they could find their friend.

They wish for a lot of things

They do not receive most of them.

But ahead, something stirs. A congregation of unidentifiable somethings, the whisper of their raw and decomposing flesh soft against the floor of this building with its ceiling and its walls.

They do not know them. They creep curiously closer, head to one side.

[deadeyedchild]

Tim's body-snatcher continues to fucking ignore him, and Jay's starting to wonder if he should get more aggressive or just let this thing run its damn course, when, inevitably, it stumbles upon another little zombie pile. Fucking spectacular.

There it goes, with that birdlike head-tilt, limping toward them all curious and silent. This is going to end so fucking well.

"Fuck," he snaps to himself and blows forward, through Tim, toward the zombies, which are starting to notice the body inching toward them, and starting to inch back in return. There's a fair few of them, more than Jay can handle at once; all he can hope is that the thing in Tim's body will be able to handle itself.

He doesn't waste any time plunging his hands forward and ripping the nearest zombie out of existence. This dream fucking sucks.

[postictal]

Then, abruptly, the things are torn from being, reduced to shreds and then to nothing.

They retreat, jerking back in silent indignation as some invisible force rends them before they can get an adequate look at what they may be, what might be their nature or their purpose.

They see the disturbance in the air, that which they cannot affect, and they turn away. It seems intent on disrupting their efforts, and they cannot harm it.

They swipe another stolen hand through it with escalating outrage, trying to affect it, wave it away, anything. They do not like it. It is not right. They do not want it.

[deadeyedchild]

Oh, that got his attention. Nice.

He hesitates, looking at Tim, his creepy, dull expression, with bemusement. What, exactly, are they trying to do to him?

"Yeah, I'm not a fart," he says as the hand passes repeatedly through him. "Good luck with that."

Meanwhile, there's plenty more zombies where that came from, all starting to close in on Tim. Jay swats Tim back irritably and propels himself away, reaching for the nearest of several.

tw: bone breakage and violence

[postictal]

There are noises and shifting things behind them, and these are things they may affect.

They turn and launch this borrowed body for the nearest one. They land heavily on top of it, their weight bringing it to the ground in a smooth arc.

It snarls at them, its face twisted by an emotion they do not know, deformed beyond recognition.

They hook fingers around its neck and lift its head from the ground, then bring it down again.

It continues to make its noises. They bring its head from the floor to impact it against that surface again.

Again.

Again.

Something beneath their hands gives way with a sickening crack. The thing does not move again. They turn to the rest.

This is something they can do, something their friend would want them to do, and they will do it.

So they do.

[deadeyedchild]

There he goes. Jay watches with grim satisfaction as the creature uses Tim's body to destroy everything around him, aiding him as best he can. He feels a warped kind of relief, like at least that thing has a fucking sense of self-preservation. It's almost better this way, providing Tim doesn't wake up like this. It'll keep him alive.

Fuck, just how desperate is he, here, to be grateful for something like that?

He keeps pace with the thing, grateful, too, that it can't see or stop him.

Hey, they're almost fucking functional like this. Dead and possessed. You'd think they'd have cracked that a while ago.