AU - Reanimation II

Alternate Timelines
1

Unknown Home, Outside Northern Aura
1620 Hours, 1.31.2017

Nimona slammed the door shut to the suburban home, just barely shutting out a pair of rotten corpses that now pounded angrily on the door behind her. She took a moment to let her heart slow down, to catch her breath, to let her legs stop burning.

She clutched her machete close, wiping the blade down with the side of some stranger’s armchair. Pictures of someone else’s family adorned the mantle and walls around the cold fireplace. Her backpack was lighter than she liked, only a few cans of food left from her raids on the surrounding homes. Her pistol only held five more rounds, not even enough to clear out most houses. She pulled out the gun and examined it, the scratched and battered “Civet” branding etched into the side, and the scorched barrel leading into the dark firing chamber below. She stuffed the gun back into her holster, only to wrench it back out immediately upon hearing a shuffle upstairs.

Footsteps; but not like a walker, like a human. How long had it been since she’d seen someone else? Her wife was safe outside the exclusion zone. But she knew the conference had left more than a few leaders stuck in the city, which had been marred and overtaken by the virus in a matter of days. The steps grew closer, and she leveled the red dot sight at the landing on the stairs ahead of her. Moments later, she was into a pair of shaken eyes not unlike hers. She stood resolute, and spoke to the apparent resident.

“F-Friend, or foe?”

2

(OOC: Did you choose 4:20 as the time on purpose?)

Trimola Eknol was on a vacation with her family of four (Husband, three girls), when the disease hit. All flows of traffic halted, and she was stuck in Northern Aura, Emberwood Coast. It had been five days since they first came to Aura, and they sure as hell weren’t gonna die here. The four had been traveling the Auroran highways for a time, when they stopped at a neighborhood. There were a few zombonis, but nowhere as near the amount in downtown.

“Alright, girls, we’re gonna stay here for the night.”

They had found a relatively peaceful house, and set up camp for the night. The next morning, Trimola’s husband took their four girls out to look for food in the surrounding areas (the food in the fridge had gone bad, and all the canned food had already been ransacked). It was soon to be evening, when Trimola heard the front door open. Out of fear of it being a zombie of some kind, she moved towards the door as quietly as she could.

“F-Friend, or foe?”

She recognized that voice! She knew it from all those meetings and assemblies.

“Nimona? Nimona Poole?”

3

Beartrot stood on top of one of the taller monoliths of Civilmagna, looking godlike down to the decimated city. He had two shotguns attached to his shoulderblades, a Bowie and a Butcher hanging off his right end, and a nice pair of flashbangs dangling on the other. He stealthfully clambered down the skyscraper, mostly using the imploded staircases that littered the edges and center of the tower. The office space was obsidian black, and protruded out into the intense daylight. Though humid and miserable, Beartrot charged through like usual.
By the time he got the base of the place, he was in the process of snapping two undead necks almost simultaneously. They didn’t take kindly to him, so he’d just do the same. Nothing personal, of course. Just a game.
Beartrot, although thinking that something like this would never happen, was prepared to the fullest. There was a reason people let him take weapons into aircraft. If zombies somehow got on the plane, you would want that man around. So, yeah; let him keep his choppahs on him.
Beartrot was born for this kind of stuff. He had many lessons in survival, going from the pitching of a tent to the construction of astronomical observation points. If given enough time and a lot of rock, he’d definitely be building you a Stonehenge.
Yes, this was the life.
Our man Bear-Bear had the means of thriving off his knowledge for the rest of hid life, but he wasn’t expecting everything. I mean, even the heroes are surprised by a plot twist.
This included social interaction with other sapient beings.
That is, a family, for Beartrot, would be a disaster.

4

“Yes. I’m… I’m Nimona. And you are?” She sheathed the machete and held out her hand. The pounding on the door faded out as the undead lost interest.

5

“Oh, of course. You probably know my mentor better. I’m Trimola Eknol, an apprentice of sorts of Alyona Petrovavich. I’ve taken her place when she was too busy a couple of times.” She took Nimona’s hand and shook it. The back door opened, and Trimola could hear a “Honey, I’m home! We found a convenience store not far from here that hadn’t been touched. Me and the girls took as much as we could.” Trimola’s husband walked into the area where she and Nimona were standing. “Oh, looks like we have a guest! Welcome to our temporary abode, Mrs. Poole.” Their three girls were shyly hiding behind their father while he was talking.

6

Coyden, Stratarin
1640 Hours, 1.31.2017

Drugov had dealt with many perils in his time as General Secretary. The war against the UIRF, the formation of the Fire Pact, the embargo at the Fire Line, several assassination attempts…

And all of it paled in comparison this.

It had started as seemingly distant. Some vague reports had reached him about losing contact with the Shiro academy, where a Stratarian was enrolled. Next, there was something about the International Sealab going dark. Military reports from Cantaz began mentioning seemingly zombie-like creatures.

And then, one day, a Strataric scientist trapped one of the undead, or Scourges, and brought it back to Coyden for intense study.

Thus began the end.

Drugov’s thoughts were interrupted by an inhuman growl. He turned at shot at the noise, noting with satisfaction that a Scourge fell to the ground, its brain splattered across the pavement.

The General Secretary was currently in a back alleyway, all his guards having long since perished… or worse. However, they had assured him that there was a Inertsiya-class high speed transport waiting for him at port, manned only by a skeleton crew.

As he rounded a corner, a mob of Scourges spotted him and converged.

Chert. Drugov shot several times into the horde then fled the opposite direction, with echoes of moaning following him. I’m getting too old for this.[edit_reason]Verbiage. Also, I killed everyone at Shiro[/edit_reason]

7

-deleted-

Maybe we could release the fridge owls.[edit_reason]Doublepost[/edit_reason]

8

The palace in Atlaerskoiy had been fortified. No infected individuals were allowed near the castle.

King Calvin the I was too old for this. But this had happened sometime in October. That happened regularly, and they were prepared for that. No one was prepared for this.

9

“Thank you. If it’s not-” She was interrupted by moans from the street and the sound of someone dashing out on the street.

10

The anti-zombie fences that were put in use every October were put up on a short notice. Guards had gas masks and machine guns. Many of them patrolled the grounds.

King Calvin the I looked out. His country had been so great…Now it was a ruin. He knew barely enough epidemiology that the disease would spread. They didn’t know whether it was a bacteria, virus, fungus, or prion. (It was probably a fungus or prion.)

Zombies would attack soon. All the military bases were on alert, sending and refueling bombers.

Calvin the I had invested a lot of money into cure missiles when the zombies hit in October. He didn’t really believe in killing his own citizens.

But the disease had mutated, unrecognizable to all the scientists who were still alive. Cure missiles would not work in this scenario.

Most anti-zombie bunkers were still open, but under-supplied. Some of the planes would be dropping humanitarian aid, if it ever reached them.

Calvin sat on his throne, and sighed. If he died, the rest of the country would die with him. It seemed like he was the one holding the Atlae Isles together in this conflict. Martial law and anarchy would be instituted, if the anarchists weren’t afraid of being infected themselves.

11

Presidential Estate, Arcadia
7240 Hours

“Fuck me…” William looked out of the window at explosions off in the distance while Marlene sat behind him loading a M9ES standard issue sidearm. A marine holding a Type 89 stood in the background by the door.

“What’s up?” Marlene said.

“Knowing Velhaus, JFC Arcadia probably has a butt load of refugees and is probably the second most protected place in the city besides here…” William turned around and slid on his old plate carrier over his 1994 issue Navy Combat Uniform which was literally just a two tone blue and white camouflaged BDU. He then walked over to a gun locker, his personal one, and took out a Cole M16A3. The Cole M16A3 was the standard issue service rifle for the Navy before JFC Arcadia made the decision to replace them with the now standardized & Locally made Howa Type 89.

“Marine, hows sector 1-A’s wall holding up?” He’d walk over to the door and Marlene would stand up, following him.

“Sector 1-A is holding for now sir, though it seems as if their numbers are growing quite quickly…” He’d nod and motion for the marine to follow him out, soon enough, a whole platoon of combined marines, navy, police, and some SSOC operators followed him to the gates of the Estate.

“Any word from our strike team in Emberwood Coast?”

“No, sir. Communications have been cut off” William looked slightly down at the ground in disappointment.

[hr]

Lieutenant Julian Kranz shook his head and looked around him, he was the only one in the blackhawk. He looked up to see five other men in SSOC clothing and markings who helped him out of the downed helo.

“What the hell happened… Mike, that you?” He’d ask the man to his right after sitting down.

“Hell yeah Jules, we’re fuckin’ trapped here now” the man who Julian addressed as Mike would peer over a barricade. Julian picked up his Howa type 89 from the ground and checked the ammo, satisfied that it still worked after the crash.

“We can’t communicate with the Fighting 3rd?” Julian used the nickname for Setznan Pacific Fleet Command, the 3rd Fleet. Another team member, a First Sergeant would shake his head. Damn…

“It seems clear, let’s go knocking shall we?” Julian spotted a quaint, peaceful looking house and lead the fireteam up to the door. He’d confirm if there were any signs of human life and nodded. Mike started banging on the door, knocking three times before taking a quick five second break and then repeating the pattern. The other three took cover behind a fence and covered the two while they were to inspect the house.

12

Trimola heard the shuffling too, and shortly after she heard…she heard knocking on the door.

She moved over to the front door, and asked,“W-who’s there?” still a bit confused at the fact that someone actually knocked in this time of anarchy.

13

“Wait stop knocking, I heard a voice…” Julian would stop his friend from knocking any more and called out.

“Setznan Security Forces, is anyone in there!”

14

“Uh, yes! Yes, there are five people in here.”

15

It had been two days since contact was lost with the rest of the world. Jon was sitting in his throne room. Some major nobles, the Ademarite Pope, and his oldest son Alexander were with him. “How bad is it now?” he asked.

“The city has certainly been lost your grace. We aren’t even sure about the rest of Asendavia. We saw a horde of the demons close to the walls. The garrison told me they drove the horde off and further reinforced the gates.” the Ademarite Pope spoke up.

“We still have the secret tunnel leading to the port. Last I heard two days ago, the port was holding out.” Viktor Zharkov replied.

“We have enough food here Father, if the port really is holding out it is possible we could get food from the port. I say we wait here,” Alexander chimed in.

Jon nodded, “We will wait here. We will be able to hold out. If things truly get desperate enough, we will abandon the city and make for the Northwestern islands.”

Everyone nodded.

“Let’s just hope we will be ABLE to survive,” Jon muttered.

16

King Calvin put down the antique telephone down - gently, of course, then removed his gloves. It was an old phone, and if it worked (which it 45% did) the landlines were probably down, and no one would pick up the phone.

He took out his new phone, and dialed the leaders of the SEPC. No one picked up. Out of desperation, he called the leaders of the FPA. No response. He dialed the leaders of every country he could think of. Nothing.

He tried another phone. No signal.

He looked out of the window and sighed. It had rained, too. He refused to let the guards in to rest, because the zombies were still out. He distributed raincoats and umbrellas (the one that could shoot bullets or one with a really sharp edge). He heard the occasional shot, and he felt a pang of sadness for every Atlaesian life lost. His kingdom was expanded under his reign, and it was crumbling around him.

The Royal Guard had started using horses about a few hours ago. They had to stop using them because they didn’t really like the rain.

17

Civilmagna was boring. Nothing to do.
It’s time to go to my roots. Maybe I can even kick some more zombie buttocks in the meantime.
Beartrot sped to the international airport (well, it was an airport, anyway) and found the biggest hangar in the huge expanse. He walked in through the corridors of planes and other aircraft. He saw unusual craft, specifically an ancient, Mexregionan Flare airship, fit for two pilots. He slid into the operating chamber, and clambered his way around the fragile network of wires and red buttons.
Long story short, before he knew it, he was on his way across the North Pole and to another flattened wasteland.

Wonderful.

18

“May you open the door for us, be warned we are armed! Please do not be surprised if you see guns!” Julian would look over to the street.

“Oi, Mike, we gotta move soon! The bloody greenies are coming!” Julian raised his rifle at the incoming platoon of walkers and the others, besides Mike, did as well.

19

Right now, most of the people in Atlaerskoiy (the ones that are uninfected) are in a bunker somewhere (or a fortified hospital), except the palace. They were cowering inside the palace gates, trying to stop the wave of zombies scavenging the capital of the greatest country in the world (besides Pax, besides…whatever.)

Artillery and air support have been dispatched around the Atlae Isles, especially around Fort Michaels, patrolling the border with the rogue nation of Liber Yorvus. Knowing them, they would just send zombies over the border.

20

— Begin quote from ____

“May you open the door for us, be warned we are armed! Please do not be surprised if you see guns!” Julian would look over to the street.

“Oi, Mike, we gotta move soon! The bloody greenies are coming!” Julian raised his rifle at the incoming platoon of walkers and the others, besides Mike, did as well.

— End quote

“Uh, yes! Of course! Welcome to our make-do home!” Trimola opened the door, and a flood of Setznan officers entered the building.