bakerstreet | stay hungry stay free ( do the best you can )

stay hungry stay free ( do the best you can )

THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE MEME
inspired by the Left 4 Dead games, The Walking Dead, and various other zombie-related media.

It's a scenario that needs little introduction: the dead have risen to feast upon the living.
In the beginning there were evacuations, emergency broadcasts, reassurances from the government and the media.
It was hoped that things would return to normal sooner rather than later. But eventually, all that's left are the shambling hordes.
So take up that baseball bat, or your father's shotgun. Cling tight to your memories of the better times, or your faith, or whatever keeps you going.
The odds aren't stacked in your favor....but maybe you'll survive.

WHAT.
a productive survivor is a happy survivor.

1) Scavenge/Search: The end of civilization as we know it also means the end of all things convenient, up to and including hot water, electricity and McDonald's. Whether it's ammo or edibles, you're looking for any salvageable supplies. This option is also for if you're trying to find a familiar face somewhere among all the destruction and danger.
2) Fight: Not for your right to party, but for survival. Whether against a lone zombie, an entire horde or a fellow human being, there's nothing else to do but try and come out of the encounter alive.
3) Barricade: There's nowhere to run, but you can at least hide out and hunker down for awhile. Hopefully being cooped up won't drive you stir-crazy.
4) Escape: There comes a time when the only thing to do is run. Is there a horde on your tail? A final evacuation helicopter waiting just ahead? Whatever the reason, better hope you don't stumble.
5) Scout: Charging ahead blindly is an easy way to get killed. A little reconnaissance can prove to be the wisest decision.
6) Relax: Seems like an out of place choice, doesn't it? But sometimes, peace is just as important as safety. You've managed to secure a little while to breathe, to forget the horror you've just gone through.

WHERE.
location, location, location.

1) City/Neighborhood: These places used to be bustling with life. Now they're silent, littered with wreckage and likely crawling with foes.
2) Farmstead/Mill/Lighthouse: Isolated, secluded buildings out in the sticks.
3) Sewers/Subway/Rooftops: If you're heading through these areas, you're likely just trying to get to someplace better. Here's hoping nothing gets the jump on you.
4) Hospital/Army Base/Evacuation Center: These places once offered hope and protection. There might still be firepower and supplies stocked somewhere within.
5) Woods/Swamp/Coast/General Outdoors: Nature hasn't gotten any kinder, but it might just provide needed cover or a place to gather food the old-fashioned way.

WHEN.
at what stage of the world's end do you find yourself?

1) Initial Outbreak: This awful reality is new and frightening. There's chaos and panic everywhere you turn.
2) Two Weeks Later: The horror isn't quite so fresh, or maybe you're just starting to get a little numb to it.
3) Two Months Later: Some of the dust has settled on what remains of society. How have you been holding up?
4) ???: Specific time of your choosing.

WHO.
humanity's numbers have thinned dramatically, but you aren't alone.

1) Family: In this world, kin may be all you have left, or those who are as good as.
2) Friends: Better to be in the company of those you know and trust than those you don't, right?
3) Lovers: This isn't exactly the time or place for a honeymoon, but you're lucky enough to have found your spouse/romantic partner/fuckbuddy/whatever.
4) Strangers: You don't know this person and they don't know you. In any other situation, your paths might never have crossed. But here the two of you are anyway, like it or not.
5) Enemies: Perhaps you were at each other's throats long before this world went to hell. Maybe you just ended up that way over time, or due to the stressful circumstances at work.
6) Guardian: It could be that you don't even like this other person, but you feel responsible for them anyway.

EXTRA.
feel free to add these at your own discretion.

A) Power Loss: Immortality? Gone. Magic? Nixed. You're just an ordinary person now, for better or worse.
B) Infection: You've been bitten, or scratched, or maybe you're grappling with a sickness that has the same eventual end. You can resist the symptoms for awhile, but the only "cure" to be found is a bullet to the head.
C) Injury: Unlike the option above, you aren't hurt because of a zombie. How badly have you been knocked around?

AS ALWAYS, if there isn't a prompt that suits your needs, you're free to make up your own scene.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Better than sharing a room with diseased sheets and old bed pans.

[His unspoken fear drives Bucky's decision, but it holds water for other reasons. The bedridden never stood a chance against all this; they either expired without doctors to care for them or couldn't defend themselves against the infected. Either way, as quiet as the hospital seems, they can't have any expectations about vacancies.

Bucky quietly watches Rosalind go about collecting what she thinks she needs. He takes a few things for himself: a few stray rolls of bandages, a bottle of baby aspirin from which he immediately takes triple the dose, and a few scalpels should he ever run out of knives in a pinch. However, when she suggests what sounds suspiciously close to surgery, he bristles.

Just a big splinter, he tells himself. Nothing invasive, nothing near his vitals. Because of course she's right, of course he needs it out of him.]

That's the only way you can think of?

[And in here? What he intends to be a teasing dig comes out much less flippant than he would have liked.]

Unless you've suddenly developed eyes on the back of your head.

[She says it in her usual brisk fashion-- but even she isn't entirely heartless. Her voice goes slightly more soothing as she adds:]

I'll be as quick as I can. All I need is to pull it out; you can apply disinfectant yourself.

Not one of my superpowers.

[He goes back to being dry. Bucky wouldn't call anything he can do super, anyway. His right hand runs through his hair and he looks away from Rosalind almost sheepishly; he doesn't relish pity from strangers, but after their weeks together he can appreciate it, or at least how difficult it is for her to express it. They relate on that level, if any.]

I don't have arms on my back, either.

[He can handle the fear, work on it bit by bit, but it has to start somewhere.

Bucky finds a relatively clean office, one that overlooks the town outside. He sits on the abandoned desk and watches as several undead shamble through the streets aimlessly before turning away. So much for a calming view.]

[But as he turns away from the window, Rosalind takes his place at it, gazing down at the undead. She can understand fear of medical procedures, and appreciates that he's attempting to face his fears (though she has no idea how much fear he's truly facing). So long as it doesn't take hours, she's all right with giving him a bit of time to prepare.]

I met a man a few nights ago while you were hunting. He attempted to bluff his way into our protection by claiming he had a cure.

[She says it idly, a conversation starter he can take or leave.]

[Bucky breathes heavily through his nose as he finally removes his shirt. Fabric catches in his wound, and the sting only intensifies. He bites down hard on his lip to swallow a gasp of pain. He's had worse, he tells himself, and would probably get worse. A cut shouldn't get cried over, so he concentrates on Rosalind's voice.]

I hope you told him it's not smart to lie to strangers.

[He scoffs. No one has time to develop a cure. Survival takes priority over everything, not research. Maybe the government has people working in bunkers somewhere, but on the surface, the closest thing to a cure is a bullet, either to the zombie's head or your own.]

Why didn't you mention him before?

It seemed irrelevant. He obviously had no idea what he was talking about, and when I aimed a gun at his head he seemed to get the idea I wasn't one to be pushed around.

[She doesn't turn around, not until he gives the word.]

It might have worked had he not tried it on a scientist, but given that I know a good deal more about biology and illnesses than he ever would . . .

Might be relevant if he decides to follow us.

[He hasn't. Bucky would have noticed. At least Rosalind threatened him; the image makes Bucky smirk with his back turned.

However, he speaks just to interrupt Rosalind before she goes off on another science tangent. They're another thing he usually ignores, but talk of disease, medical biology-- he's heard it all before, under bright lights with the skin of his shoulder splayed open for prying eyes to see.

Now he sits exposed again, and he needs it to be different. Quiet, quick, and with Rosalind taking no interest in anything but his wound. This is on his terms now, he tells himself, even as anxiety zips up his spine and prickles the hairs on the back of his neck.]

Now or never, doc.

All right.

[She comes up behind him. This is no different from Robert, she tells herself, but though Robert had many problems, he had never been able to kill as brutally and efficiently as her companion. She's seen him slice through humans alive and dead alike with the same terrifying coolness, and knows without a doubt he could snap her neck without exerting any effort.

Not such a comforting thought, when he was clearly tense and she was approaching him with a pair of tweezers.

With an exhale that's only slightly unsteady, she puts her hand near the wound and tugs it open. It's an ugly thing, long and narrow, but deep enough to cause him trouble. The top and bottom have healed, at least, but there's a rotting area where the tip of the blade must be.

She focuses there. Holding her breath, Rosalind closes her eyes and pushes the tweezers in-- there's no way she'll be able to see, and it will do her more good to give as much concentration as she can to feeling where the shard might be. Hot blood splatters out over her hands; she ignores it.]

[Ironically, if Rosalind told Bucky about her less than practiced hand, it would have been more of a relief. He can't see her shut her eyes or hesitate, so he can only imagine the clinical stare and cold hands HYDRA accustomed him to. He grunts when she opens the wound, the slow ache he felt magnifying as the skin split around the infection. The cleaner parts of the cut bleed and drip into the weeping infection, and his grip on the desk only tightens. When Rosalind finally sinks the tweezers into the wound in search of the metal fragments, all of the images in his mind turn red.

His own eyes squeeze shut and all Bucky sees is crimson. He can't scream like the scientists let him. They ignored him with earplugs, but that wouldn't be the case with the undead. As the pain seeps deep beneath his skin, he bites his lip even harder than before, until a trickle of blood slips down his chin.

Rosalind's reservations hold water; Bucky holds back the urge to reach around and strangle her before she hurts him more, but he needs to be more than just instinct now. Survival in this environment depended on these fragile threads of near-trust, so through his half swallowed shouts of pain Bucky tightens his grip on the edges of the desk. His left hand splinters the wood as the inner workings of his metal fingers hiss with pressure.]

Almost.

[She can hear the wood crack, and she shudders-- but her hands are steady, and she doesn't stop digging to try to find the blade. She thinks she has the edge of it, but it's hard to focus when you think your patient might actually kill you.]

I'm almost done, Bucky, I'm almost done--

[It's a murmured statement, more soothing and gentle than anything she's said before.]

[Bucky shakes as well, both from strain and from fear. He lets his mouth open to exhale a shaky breath while a film of sweat covers his face. Rosalind's words don't reach him, but the tone of her voice does. Little by little, he notices how every aspect contradicts the voices in his memories: English, feminine, and for once anything but apathetically clinical.

His fingers relax against the broken bits of desk, and though the grip would still be deadly for anything living, he no longer threatens to shatter the whole thing beneath him. Control your breathing, he tells himself, but he just pants instead. Pain shoots through him more acutely to where the sensation of the tweezers telegraph their every twitch around the fragment through his nerves.

He prays for anaesthetic that won't come, and his memories shift all the way back to battling with the 107th, shouting for a medic when bullets mowed down the men around him. By no means is the memory a calm one, but it's not the operating tables, so he tries to stay there.]

[He doesn't respond, either positively or negatively-- but she can hear the creak of wood as he slowly relaxes his grip, and so she keeps speaking.]

At least you're not Robert. He used to carry on like a child when he'd get injured. Not seriously, mind you-- he'd work with me quite well when he was seriously injured. But a tiny stubbed toe and you'd think no one had ever endured such an injury. And illness-- a cold and he'd be utterly useless. Pathetic, really, but he was somehow endearing at the same time--

[She goes on and on, babbling about one of the few things she can talk about for hours. At the same time, she jerks her hand back with a gasp. Tweezers, blade and blood all come rushing out in a gory mess, but it hardly matters-- thank god, they got through this without her being killed.]

[Robert is one of the few aspects of Rosalind's life Bucky ever hears about outside of science. Talking about her brother seems to ground her, though he never pries on whether or not Robert ended up dead in the initial waves of infection.

Her words now start to break through to him, and Bucky forces his eyes open. Still in the hospital office, still breathing. Still free. He listens properly now; it sounds like the opposite of Steve. Never a whiner, even when the slightest cold could floor him for weeks. Bucky might have volunteered a story of his own, but their anxious attempt at bonding quickly shatters when the metal shard rips from his skin. It didn't reach deep enough to affect his spine, but the tear away sends white hot pain up it anyway. He lets out a strangled cry as his back straightens like a ramrod, then immediately crumples and makes him collapse to the floor.

He barely holds himself up, completely with the strength of his metal arm. Everything else saps out of him as he feels blood trickle down his back.]

Just lie there--

[She kneels next to him, immediately applying gauze to the bloody wound. It's not as bad as it could be; it ought to heal fairly quickly, now that the metal is out.]

You're done. I'm just wrapping you up-- you can hold it yourself if you'd like.

[His breath stays ragged as Rosalind starts to bandage him. At the very least, the sickening contrast of warm blood sliding down his cold skin disappears.]

Stay.

[They always left him alone and in agony, whether he writhed on the operating table or he slowly thawed in barricaded room. But that wasn't normal. Even for her, crisp and cold as the air in the hospital, she wouldn't let that be normal.]

I had no intention of leaving.

[She works efficiently, her fingers wrapping around his bare torso to keep the bandage in place. It's most likely excessive, but it will hold for far longer than if she just taped it in place, and who knows when they'll next have a chance to rest?

She can hear the dripping of broken pipes; the sound of both their breaths in the air, his harsh and labored, her own soft and a little fast.]

Robert . . . would have me sing to him. He said it was soothing.

[He doesn't have the strength or the breath to argue semantics, or to say anything, really. The pain recedes somewhat once Rosalind covers the cut, and when she speaks of lullabies, very few come to mind. Most of them are distant, shrouded by other homey sounds and Brooklyn heat, one sits next to his ear, the voice made of silk and the words Russian.]

Big baby... huh?

[Though he teases her, Bucky nods almost without realizing it.]

Terribly so.

[But she can take a hint. Settling back on her knees, she hesitates and then pushes her hand against his forehead, smoothing back Bucky's hair from his face. She can't manage to meet his gaze as she begins singing in a low, soothing voice-- a sad song, to be certain, but soothing nonetheless.]

[Bucky seizes up for half a second when Rosalind touches him, though not as violently as before. It's reflex, with no murderous flashes attached. His eyes don't focus on anything in particular. The room remains hazy, but his body starts to relax and his breathing calms as he listens to her.

He never heard the song before, or at least he doesn't remember hearing it. Regardless, the soothing, natural sound let him release the tension in his arm, and while it hissed, he lowered next to Rosalind's knee. Her fingers felt cool and soft as a wet towel compared to the fever the infection put him under.]

[Her hand smooths against his forehead, a rare smile on her face. She's no singer, and she hasn't the patience to be a caretaker-- but on occasion, when it's someone she likes, she quite enjoys playing nurse.

He's feverish, but hopefully it'll break on its own. Rosalind keeps moving her hand, stroking it occasionally through the tangled mess of his hair, a fond smile on her face. The next song probably won't be too familiar to him, neither the words nor the tune, but it's the only thing she can think of.]

[Bucky doesn't trust scientists on principle. Too many have used his body as a playground for experimentation. He still won't say he trusts Rosalind, not out loud, but there are few others left in the world who could see him like this, with his guard down and his body still.

Auxiliary survival instincts keep him listening for shuffling footsteps subconsciously. Through the pain and the heat, he mentally measures the distances between his hand and the weapons currently on him. In spite of that, he lets his eyes close.

His hatred of hospitals hasn't disappeared, but the fear of them has eased, with the help of the soft melodies in his ears. The small comforts are the only ones left.]

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stay hungry stay free ( do the best you can )

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almost jack kelly'd you

kids who don't appreciate living in New York are banned >[

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