The Jeweler and VP watch on the camera as the Writer’s mini-van bursts to life and tears out of its parking space. The van slides sideways and slams its side into the rear-end of a car across the row. The VP jogs out of the security room and waves down the Writer. The Writer, spotting the VP, slams his foot down on the gas and brings the van speeding towards the hallway the VP is peaking out of.
The Jeweler runs over to the Writer and tries to pull him from the ledge. The Writer grabs his hand but he only manages to yank the Jeweler over the guard rail further. The VP limps over and tries to help too but his wounds are too severe and he only manages to grab a hold of the Writer’s other arm. While fruitlessly struggling to lift the Writer the trio notice an opening onto the floor below them and attempt to swing the Writer onto the Parking Garage’s fifth floor.
The trio charge up the stairs, fighting floor after floor trying to reach the roof. Some floors are worse than others with the trio facing ten or twelve zombies at a time. Others are empty with only a straggler for the group to run past.
The Jeweler slowly opens the door to the generator room and slips inside. Not five feet from him a zombie sits crewing on the guts of a dead maintenance man. The Jeweler lines up his shot and blasts the creatures brains out. Hearing the noise the zombie caught in the generator wiring jerks forward, tearing wires from their sockets. The emergency lights cut out and the characters are thrown into a pool of darkness.
BANG! The Jeweler shoots straight through the monster’s chest. BANG! The VP’s shot passes harmlessly through it’s arm. BANG! The Writer sinks a shot into it’s shoulder without effect. The creature lurches forward and starts to seize the Jeweler but acting quickly the Jeweler shoves the creature backwards and presses his gun under it’s chin. BANG! And the thing’s brains splatter onto the ceiling.
The monsters grab at the Writer and Jeweler without much success before they are dispatched with a lethal efficacy. The Writer tucks his gun under the chin of one of them and blows it’s head clear off while the Jeweler shoves his 9mm into the creature’s mouth and blows out the back of it’s head. The VP comes out of the Men’s room and pats down the bodies. They manage to find three working mag-lights among the bodies.
The characters take a couple of seconds to look around the elevator lobby before making their way over to a dead security guard in the middle of the room. The corpse is face down and it’s arms are splayed out at impossible angles. The back of the guard’s skull has been blown completely off. The Writer holds the flashlight while the Jeweler keeps his gun leveled at the dead guard. The VP reaches down and flips the guard over. His throat was torn out and chunks were missing from his arms and legs. Luckily, his .38 handgun was still in its holster and the VP quickly grabs it.
We open with the Level-Headed VP taking his usual morning “short cut” to the office. His short-cut takes him too close to the quarantine zone and he’s stopped by the national guard. He glances around but doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He gets directions from the guard and heads towards the office.
Awhile ago I was talking with my friend John. You might know him from JohnWickPresents.com. Keep in mind that I called him my friend, it’s quasi-important\interesting later. Anyway, John offhandedly mentioned something about the Forefathers of Gaming. We discussed, briefly, who our personal forefathers were before the conversation moved elsewhere. For some strange reason that conversation has been rattling around in my brain for some time. I keep going back to it and thinking about my personal forefathers. Something about my list just didn’t seem right to me.
Fifteen years ago the whole world feared the Black Seven. Mothers would whisper into their son’s ears, “Behave or the Black Wings will come on the night winds and take you.” We would descend from the tops of the tallest trees in the carroway forests in the dead of night, but only on nights when the winds blew strongest. We could travel for miles on a storm front in search of our prey and ride the currents back home when our job was completed. We were called the Black Seven, the Wings of the Carroway, the Black Atani, and a dozen other names. To each other, we were simply the forest that we lived in. I was the Wrath of Maroa, one of the great Atani assassins.