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PG-18 We're The Last (IC)

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Jester

Can we pretend airplanes are shooting stars?
Community Volunteer
Reminder you guys: 100 words post minimum. Good grammar is really appreciated.
 

IAMUS

A lonely wraith dude.
Mkay. Imma try my hand at this.

Some fires still slowly smoldered in the streets. A constant hum filled the air as crowds of mindless creatures slowly jerked through the streets and piles of smoking flesh. Somewhere near the edge of the city a 16 year old boy ran down an alleyway with a bloody bat in hand towards the suburb area. He stopped and pressed himself against the wall struggling for breath amidst the rancid smell of slowly burning bodies. He peeked out towards the street at the crowds of things wandering the streets. knowing that somewhere his father was amongst them. The same one that brutally abused him after his mother died, and the same one that had been screaming for him to run while he clobbered a group of the things with a seat while still half drunk. He pushed those thoughts from his mind and continued to run. Hoping and praying to all that was holy in this world that he might find another survivor willing to help him.

This suffice?
 

JodoBird180

Protein Powder is Deliciousness
Wither walked casually through the abandoned streets, looking for a decent place to stay for the night. He already found a few places, one in a mostly open dumpster, but even he had better standards than that. The smell of burning flesh was vile, and several times even he had to swallow down bile from his throat. He almost enjoyed life like this though. He knew the in's and out's already, how to find good loot, reading other people, pretty much everything, and a major plus was the fact that there were no more laws. He could do anything at all, and no one would throw him in the pits again for it. The only thing that was different was that these things walked around the streets in place of the people he once saw, but never cared to get to know.

He found a pretty fitting name for them, but it seemed un-unique and washed out. Husks. Which, in terms, was what they were. The empty husks of people after they got bitten or sick with the virus. Just the useless shells, but who's gonna name something that could kill someone a shell? No, Husk was in a way, threatening and added something to it. But, that was really just Wither entertaining himself during the long, boring days of hiding away in cramped and clustered places.

He walked down the street, hands in his joey pocket and looked around, not a care in the world. Until he heard the loud shuffling and groaning of the bastards in the streets. He looked around and found a roof access ladder and changed direction towards it. He studied the pad-lock on it, and decided to pull out his Leatherman and cut the lock, and that’s what he did. He climbed up the ladder, sometimes causing the worn down rungs to let out a loud creak or sometimes even bending, which would get the attention of one of the creatures at the back of the pack.

He would stop, silent for a moment, until it lost interest in what made the noise, then continue on until either another noise was made, or he reached the top. Once he got to the top he looked over the city and sat on the edge of the roof. Stragglers from the main pack of Husks where everywhere, and sometimes they would actually bat at each other carelessly. He looked around for survivors, but not a soul was in sight. That almost pleased him, but one thing he knew was the truth behind 'safety in numbers', but he also knew the truth in, 'the more people, the more mouths to feed'. He also wasn't in the mood for awkward conversation and hauling someone's ass around. Just didn't appeal to him too much.
 
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