Bloody Sods Law [Entrance Post]

[Eddie "The Mutt" Sillian]

Edward opened his eyes. He couldn’t move. What the fuck!?. His mind raced through all of the possible causes. Zombies? No, he wouldn’t still be thinking, he’d be moving, trudging around the streets eating corpses. Tied up? No, his hands were at his sides. Actually, they moved. Come to think about it, he could move his arms, and his toes...

He nearly choked with relief, physically laughing as he realized his mistake. The two heavy dogs had slunk onto his makeshift bed in the night and it seemed, made themselves comfortable on his back and legs the weight of them pinning him down entirely. Now that he wasn’t worrying about his body, he ran his internal checking process of thoughts. It ran like this;

Yesterday, what happened? I was on the streets running, the dogs killed them... I got into a shop... house! Flat above the shop. What did I do after that? I barred the door, wait no. I got food from the shop then came up and barred the door. I ate, I smoked... I drank. He moaned. That explained the throbbing head and the huge almighty straining of his bladder. Urgh.

Suddenly rather urgent he pushed his hands under him and pushed hard. It made absolutely no difference. He couldn’t have gotten up if a horde of zombies started chewing on his toes. It did wake the dogs though and they reluctantly got off their warm bed, Malificent leaving a rather large damp patch at the bottom of his back where she had drooled in the night. He pushed himself up and darted around the flat, nearly running into a wall on autopilot, only remembering at the last second that this wasn’t his flat.

He threw open a door, relieved to find himself in a bathroom. The dogs still in the bedroom heard the clatter as the seat hit the cistern and the huge sigh of relief from Ed as the pressure was lifted. He returned to the room moments later and sat down on the bed, his head throbbing from the effort of running. A moan escaped his dry lips, he could still taste the alcohol crusted on them.

As soon as he had himself seated Jones leapt up at him, licking Ed’s blanched face and wagging his tail madly. His alpha was up and looked unhappy, he would cheer him up. Ed pushed the Alsatian’s muzzle out of his face in a gentle way, onto to have the dog come back and lick him again, fixing his huge jaws around Edward’s slightly stubbled chin in a way that to dogs was a friendly greeting and sign of respect.

Finally, after giving up on removing him, Ed acknowledged him with a firm scratching behind the ears and around his ruff and nudging him away. He gave his customary good morning to Mal, a rub of her head, before going into the kitchen of the flat to find himself something to eat. He opened the fridge. There was no power here and all that was left was a putrid rotting mush that was dripping down to the bottom of the fridge. The vegetable drawer was a graveyard of decayed fruit.

He closed the fridge with some despair on his face and turned to look at what he had grabbed last night. A row of tins was on the bench as well as a row of empty bottles. Damn... he had more than he realised last night. He ran his tired, bloodshot eyes over the tins, what was there. Peaches... bastard. He hated peaches.

Custard and mushy peas! He had got the last three tins he could find and what were they, peaches custard and mushy fucking peas. He snarled in irritation, the sound making the dogs look up and see what was wrong. When he resumed clattering around the kitchen they put their heads down to get some more sleep.

Ed began to search through the drawers looking desperately for a tin opener. He became more and more furious with every drawer he opened. “How many bleedin’ drawers can one person fuckin’ need?” His voice was even gruffer than usual, as if he had been smoking permanently for the last 15 years. Well, in actual fact he had but that was beside the point.

“Damn it! The one place I choose in this whole fuckin’ street and it’s the one place without a damn tin opener!” He shouted at the cupboard and threw a tin at a wall in outrage. The already weakened tin smashed on the wall and dripped down onto the floor. It had been the mushy peas. Ed sighed, determined not to throw anything else, lest he lose the custard as well and be left with only peaches. He’d rather starve than peaches... nearly.

Moving into the sittingroom, he placed the two tins on the coffee table in front of him, watching and looking at them for a long time as if in a trance. All of a sudden he drew a knife from his side and began stabbing wildly at the tins. “Fuckin’ open you fuckin’ bleedin’ twattin’ bastard!” He shouted in synch with his stabs, most of them missing and taking chips of wood out of the table.

He calmed down when he managed to puncture a hole in the custard and pulled the tin to his chapped lips, consuming all he could as quickly as possible and cutting his lip at the same time. Sods bloody law. Finally putting the tin down, he took a drink from his water flask and poured some more into a bowl for the dogs. They came and lapped it up greatfully.

Moving over to his pack, he dug his way into the bottom and fished out a couple of rolls of dog food. Some kind of tripe and liver... lovely. No, he wasn’t that hungry. He cut open the sausages and put them on the floor and watched the Rottweiler and Alsatian tear into them, demolishing both in less than two minutes.

Three months. Three months living like this. Well no, living better than this. The problem was, the safer areas had been cleared out of food. He had to keep wandering into worse places just to find something to eat. Damn it. This place was shit. He drew the stub of a cigarette out from behind his ear, the nicotine graveyard always had something to provide him with some comfort, and put it to his lips, lighting it with a match.

Smoking the cigarette intently, he looked out of the window down onto the empty streets below. It was fairly quiet below the shops, what was he saying, it was dead quiet. Rolling his eyes, he went to the door and unbarred it, hitching it open and whistling for the dogs. They launched after him and ran in front, noses to the floor, sniffing out the trail from last night. Nothing had followed them.

Walking down the stairs he emerged in the back of the shop. It had been late last night when he got here, too dark to see properly. He’d grabbed all he could find and gone upstairs to hide as he had been doing since this had started. Now he took his time to examine the stores more, he found another tin of peaches on the floor and a bottle of water in a desk drawer. He took it with him in case.

He peered his grimy face out of the door of the shop and looked out onto the silent street, glaring at the mass of empty cars that could disguise a zombie. The problem was that with his heavy pack it was hard to run fast. He needed to be cautious. The dogs went out first, tails upright and wagging, no sign of anything dead and moving around.

[James Furnell]

Clad in an oversized khaki hooded top, a leather coat over the top and a thick pair of leather gloves, James slowly trudged down the street. Yesterday’s raid got him thicker clothes to protect him from bites – not that he’d let anything get close enough to bite him; better safe than sorry, though right? His left hand was limp from the hefty wrench, while the right fingered a cold revolver, which was hardly of any use in his hands – even less so with only three rounds. Slung over one shoulder and crossing his body was the heavily worn bag he kept everything useful in; a bottle of water from an empty house, flashlight and lighter so far.

The day was dark. It was always dark, it seemed. Black clouds slowly drifted over the city, concealing it’s hell from the pure-blue sky.

Each of his steps were loud to his acutely tense ears. Every foot seemed to kick up more noise than the last, and he feared that every noise would cost him his life. Paranoia filled his veins like a poison. Up ahead was a small store, it was completely trashed but he’d search it anyway. He had to survive until help came.

Help… Military, Police… anyone.

James zig-zagged between the cars, keeping his eyes on the darker places – doorways, alleyways. He’d already spotted three or four monsters idly lurking within. None of them spotted him; not yet anyway. Then he saw him – an infected standing right outside of the shop, little over a hundred yards away. James stopped dead in his tracks, his legs unwilling to take him in the direction of the monster. Suddenly his hands were icy cold, his face torte and his stomach churned violently…

[Eddie "The Mutt" Sillian]

Mutt hitched the pack higher onto his shoulders, letting the dogs go past his legs as they sniffed at the air, ears perked up and alert to any sign of movement. The pair glanced back to him for instruction as always and he waved a hand in a circle. Scout the area. He would whistle when they got too far. He gave himself a final check over before he raised his head to look about.

The dogs had stopped, crouched down, fur standing on end the deepest of growls rippling from their throats. Instantly Ed was alert, he crouched and eyed the dogs hunkered down between cars, their eyes on the same spot. A spot little more than a hundred metres up the street. Someone was standing right there, and looking at him.

He gasped and a cold shudder ran down his spine, he had faced them before but this one... damn it it would be right on him and his gun... his gun was in his pack. The dogs circled even as he stared getting to a better position, they wouldn’t attack unless he told them and he didn’t want to risk them.

Slowly his hand edged up to the side of his pack, slipping in one of the side pockets to root around for the gun, desperately trying not to move. Perhaps it couldn’t tell if he was one of them or not, but if he looked avertly human then it would be after him. Shit and god damn it.

[James Furnell]

He spotted a dog, a big dog. Shit, another dog – James wasn’t even aware that animals were affected by the sickness. He backed up slightly and looked up at the single infected eying him hungrily…or at least…eying him.

The dogs growled and eyed him with deadly intent. They’d happily snack on his flesh, it probably tasted far better than the corpses. He didn’t know what to do – shooting at one would open him up for the other, besides he’d only miss. The revolver was heavy in his hand, he felt weak. His legs couldn’t run if he wanted them to.

Good dog.. He thought frantically. One of them seemed to reply with a deeper growl. Shit. Instinct took him and James grunted – ugh! Like a primate, a beast. He hoped it would scare them, but it only revealed him to other infected. Argh! He tried again.

Farnell was terrible with animals. He was better with kids. The thought of his children passed by him and his eyes were immediately dampened with tears. Their faces haunted him – he had to kill them, they were in agony with the sickness.

Ugh! James roared and raised the revolver above his head. With a mighty crack, the gun went off and echoed around the street. It filled the open doors and alerted hordes to his position. ”Back off!” James shouted in anger, as if the animals would take heed.

[Eddie "The Mutt" Sillian]

The thing had eyed his dogs. Damn it. He didn’t want them hurt. He groped desperately around in his pack with his right hand, he needed the gun, protect them. He gave low whistle and the dogs circled rather than standing still, it couldn’t keep both in it’s sights that was a bonus. Jones had to slow down to let Mal keep up but between them they could at least distract him long enough for Ed to get a potshot. Don’t go for the head, not good enough to hit that. Go for the leg, the bone anywhere in the leg.

It was then that the thing shouted, a gun flailing in the air and going off. Infected didn’t carry guns, and they certainly didn’t shout. The thing was a him. And damn it he would bring them all out. He could see shadows moving out of doorways, breaking into the light toward them. Ed shouted in panic, feeling that they wouldn’t only be behind him.

“What the ‘ell are you doin’ you bloody idiot!” He snarled, running toward the figure, shouting loudly and waving one hand. The dogs turned around and face him, stopping circling the figure and running toward their sprinting master. Their fur was standing on end and their growls had become louder, they could smell the dead and were panicking.

Ed ran, he didn’t even stop to talk to the man, just whistled at the dogs and leapt clumsily onto the top of a car, running along the boards someone had laid down before them. The dogs followed after him in between. He didn’t worry about them too much, he would be the target. The man running with a heavy pack on wouldn’t be half as fast as they could be. He shouted at the figure of the man as he passed. “You wanna live you run mate, and bleedin’ fast! I ain’t coverin’ your ‘ide.” He snarled, letting a potshot go at a shadow ahead, probably missing but not looking to see.

[James Furnell]

Another survivor! He’d only seen one other before today; this meant that there must be more. The man had an accent too – Aussy, maybe – and he had a gun. The dogs were off in an instant at the man’s command, following him to an unforeseen hideout. James didn’t need telling twice, he began after the man and his dogs to wherever they planned on going. Behind, he could hear the shrieks and painful screams of the dead bounding after them.

Over cars, between alleyways, the man led them towards a dead end – James knew the city well. ”Here!” he warned and stopped to fling open a chain gate into another alley. ”That way leads to a brick wall!” It was frantic, they had merely seconds before the horde would flood the alley. Fear and cowardice took James over and he darted through the gate and down a new route onto another street. A glance behind saw that the Australian was behind him, although slowing with his large bag.

‘The Incan’ was just ahead – 3 or 4 blocks, through a street of ‘amblers’ (Infected, aptly named by James, due to the way they seem to ignore him on his raids). ”Keep moving! Get to the bar!” He shouted recklessly behind him as he weaved between the swaying undead. Some of them groaned at his passing, while others reached out seconds after he’d gone by.

[Eddie "The Mutt" Sillian]

He had been launching himself at an alleyway, he thought it was the one that would take them back toward the mall but he had been wrong. It had been dark last night and the fact was, he didn’t know where he was. The other man quickly outpaced him , something that really annoyed Mutt. Now he was the distraction. The dogs had slowed down, now loping at his side, the Rottweiler panting but steadily. They were bred to drag carts, she wouldn’t tire before him.

He raced after the other, throwing himself after him and into a street filled with Shamblers. He groaned as he saw them reach out after the man who was now some way in front. But they were warned, they could see him coming. He dodged past one, the dogs easily snaking past their legs and running ahead of him. Malificent barged them out of the way, not bothering to attack, simply pushing them down for her master before launching out of their way, too fast for them to grab.

Ed was stumbling now, exhausted from the weight of his pack and he could hear the pounding footfalls, the screeching of rotting, desiccated vocal chords and even more, the overpowering stink. The smell of them made him retch even as he ran, bile eking up his throat. He spat it out disgustedly and ran all the faster. Anything to get away from the smell.

Should anyone have been listening, they might have heard the rantings and curses that streamed out of his mouth as he dodged past shamblers, letting the dogs do most of the work. He could still see the other man and that gave him a burst of speed, a pub, a building. He must know it was cleared, he must know it was safe or he wouldn’t bother going there. He raised his head just in time to see Jones leap into the air and grab one of the undead zombie things by the shoulder, pulling him to the ground and leaping off the body before it could grab him permanently. Slow but wicked strong. Even the dogs knew that.

And he could see it up ahead, the pub. “Oh sweet Jesus Christ, dun let ma legs fail me now!” He screamed as he could feel the muscles burning, aching to stop. They were like jelly underneath him, wobbling like mad as he ran full pelt, taking all the speed he could.

[James Furnell]

One of the Ambling managed to wrap a hand-less arm around him, but James struck out with the heavy wrench. In a whip motion, the heavy end connected with a crunch and the corpse collapsed. Not that James stopped to admire his work though, instead he continued towards the bar. He stopped at the door and frantically pulled at he bar-lock (to stop infected getting in) and dived inside, followed closely by a dog, then another…then the man with streaming curses.

The door slammed closed and James instantly kicked the wedge under a carved part of the frame. It was a temporary lock while he barricaded it. For a good few minutes the horde crashed upon the bar like a cold sea. It screamed and thumped, but they were outside. The two survivors were both out of shape, that was for sure; panting more than the dogs did. It was amazing to have someone else with him, though, finally. He’d been alone for weeks in the belief that he was the last surviving human in this God-forsaken city.

”Let’s get a fire going…” James suggested breathlessly, as the sea began to break away outside.

[Eddie "The Mutt" Sillian]

He saw the door fly open and put his hands up, preparing for it to slam back in his face. When it didn’t he fell through it with shock, skidded across the floor and fell into a wheezing, panting heap at the other side of the room. He couldn’t move, he shoulders heaved, his legs spasmed and his chest burned. Actually... his chest really did burn. He looked down and saw holes, small holes and could feel the burning on his flesh.

He’d been smoking when he was running. In fact, he still had the cigarette clamped in his mouth, but it had gone out, but the ash had fallen onto his chest and was smouldering at his skin. He pulled open his shirt and jacket and hit at his chest madly, yet more blasphemous words echoing around the bar to the thudding noises of the ghouls outside.

“Oh fuckery fuckery fuck...” He moaned, wheezing still and coughing the typical smokers cough. The dogs stood, legs wide apart and panting but otherwise fine. A little worn but they soon steadied their breathing and lay down, ears flat on their heads, noses wrinkled. Ed’s own nose was wrinkled, he could smell them out there, it disgusted him.

“What the ‘ell did you go an’ do that for?” He panted between breaths, shrugging off his pack and pulling himself to his feet. “Nearly got me bloody well killed, dincha!” Even though he said this, he couldn’t blame the man, the dogs were big and intimidating, and he had been thinking about shooting himself. He rooted around the room, looking for dry timber, not that it was hard. There were plenty of stools about the place.

[James Furnell]

The australian swore like a trooper while slapping at his chest. His dogs were already at home, sitting on the floor happily. James fished for his flashlight and quickly lit it up.

"Go and do what?" He asked indignantly and propped the light so that it shined into a corner - it gave the entire bar a very dim glow. The way he saw it, without him, the Aussy would be stuck in a dead end, probably a snack for the dead right now.

"There--" James instructed, sort of a mid conversation remark; it wouldn't interfere. His dirty hand extended towards a bag resting on one of the tables, it was open and contained completely dry wood.

[Eddie "The Mutt" Sillian]

“Bleedin’ shoot at me dogs. Animals dun get infected.” He moved over to the bag that he pointed out. “Americans...” He muttered to himself under his breath. “...Always bleedin’ trigger ‘appy.” Now that his breathing was returning to normal he dug out a dog end from behind his ear and lit up, wafting the match out and flicking it into a fireplace not far away.

Grabbing some wood, he built up a fire. Or at least, he did it how he had seen people do it on TV... It didn’t look quite the same. It looked less like a Tepee and more like a... a lump. He sighed and turned to the other bloke. “Wotcha, ‘m Ed. ‘nd still alive. Beside their best efforts.” He grinned lopsidedly, still gripping the dog end firmly with one side of his mouth. Smoke streamed out his nose as he breathed out, billowing down his thick black/grey jacket, complete with ash burns now. It looked like it might have been a uniform once. In fact it had been his dog handling uniform. Particularly thick and bite resistant but if one of them got hold of you it would still do no good.

He ran a mucky hand through the thick black hair making it stick out at even worse angles more like a hedgehog than a hair style. He coughed hard, a loud barking cough which was a typical of a smoker, one that sounded nearly throat ripping. It made his throat and chest heave, the dog bites and scars on his throat that were visible rippled madly. It had been about two and a bit months since the dog had bitten him there and the scars were still pink and raised. Rather sore if he thoughts about it, but he didn’t.

[James Furnell]

The fire was starting to burn and James killed his flashlight. He loved the sound of wood crackle, but something about the fire smelled particularly sweet tonight. Perhaps there was an alcohol soaked log there somewhere.

"Heh, I didn't shoot at your dogs. I'm James. Where're you from?" He asked and dragged a crate over to the fireside. Somewhere behind the bar he'd stashed a half dozen sheets and a sleeping bag - the newcomer could have them tonight.

He pondered over survival; with two of them they'd find it far easier - except feeding, that would be twice as hard now. For the first time in weeks, he had some sort of hope - hope that he'd find his wife and start afresh in the waste lands. It would be a disjointed life, but they could make it.

[Eddie "The Mutt" Sillian]

“Naw, ya didn’t... still ya got ‘em zombies lookin’.” He sighed and sent another puff of smoke out of his nose, more to clear the senses and block out the smell of corpse than anything else. It was lingering still. Probably some shamblers outside. “Prob’ly a good thing though since I was gunna shoot ya if ya hadn’t screamed.” He laughed again, that harsh laugh that creaked in his throat.

Settling himself in front of the fire, he motioned to the dogs who trotted over and sat down beside him. He gave them a good scratch before giving them a check over, make sure they hadn’t got a bite or a bruise. Jones had a mark on his gums, Ed guessed where he’s bitten one of the zombies had been wearing a necklace.

“England. Not far off London centre.” He looked at the other man hesitantly “No need to ask, you’re American so it’s bound to be the suburbs around here, right?” No need to ask, but he still did. No good being too sure of yourself. Mal lay her huge head down in Ed’s lap as he scratched her head absentmindedly.


(OOC: I like the signature. xDD. LCD screens rock for contrast changing. =P)