xmansion | [ log ] zombie apoc au

CONVENIENCE STORE

[ His nose tells him it isn't one of the infected that's entered the store when he hears the door creak open, but if he's learned anything, it's the fact that the living hurt more than the dead do. Logan's ears are peeled as he moves into a crouching stance, hiding behind the counter with his backpack of (admittedly scarce) supplies hugged to his chest, and he keeps his breaths as shallow as possible.

The convenience store has been pilfered of most things, but not all, and though there isn't any water left, there're quite a bit of foodstuffs on the shelves. Logan'd say there's a sizeable amount of painkillers left, too, though he hadn't taken them for himself.

Mostly he hopes this person leaves quickly. Mostly he hopes they don't notice him, and-- ]

Fuck. [ Whispered softly, so softly under his breath, he stares at a freshly-eaten peach cup on the floor just by the entrance to the counter.

The peach cup he'd eaten.

The things he does for fruit...! ]

THE HERD

[ There's one man in the middle of a herd of the infected, snarling and roaring and slashing three long claws on either hand without control. Rotten blood flies everywhere, heads and limbs sent left and right, and it looks like it'll never end, especially because all the noise he's making only draws more of them in. It looks like he has it under control. It looks like something you shouldn't be sticking your nose in, either. Besides, if you draw attention to yourself, then you're definitely not going to be faring any better.

But they're biting into his flesh, pressing their dirty fingers into his eyes, and the roars of rage start to twinge higher in pain.

Somehow he's survived this long, but he's hopeless, right? A man that damaged is going to turn, no doubt about it.

He seems to know it himself, too, roaring out: ] Just kill me already!

CAMPFIRE

...yeah, I travel alone.

[ Logan frowns at the fire, keeping the can of beans over it with one claw pierced through. He doesn't seem particularly interested in having a companion, but he's let you stay with his fire, so surely that ought to count for something. ]

Dunno about you, but it's been easier that way so far.

FUNERAL

[ You've buried the last of your group. Whether you've been together a few days, a week, a month, a year-- it doesn't matter. They're gone now, dead, and they're not coming back.

The only survivor with you is Logan, who stares at the last mound of dirt you'd completed. He holds a shovel in one hand, his expression unreadable but for the miserable, resigned fury, and stays standing there in silence for a good few minutes before he lets the shovel fall and stomps away.

This happens every time. He'd told you this when you were digging with him. No matter what group he joins, what group he tries to make, nobody survives in the end-- and God knows the only reason you did was probably dumb luck.

In the distance, Logan struggles to keep quiet, but his claws have come out and his fists are moving. He slashes at tree bark, movements sloppy and hurried, and cuts and cuts and slices until the tree is nearly cut halfway through.

Then he moves on to the dirt and grass.

If you come close enough, you'll see he's crying. ]

Edited 2018-10-18 05:37 (UTC)

[Cable has been wandering for days, in the same direction, foraging along the way. He's the last of his group--the last three groups--and he's decided maybe it's for the best. He was never really part of a group anyway, just the weird guy with the metal arm that had seen better days, and a knack for killing zombie mutants as easily as humans, when needs be. People could be even more dangerous than the dead.]

[He bangs on the door with his sawed-off shotgun, trying to rile up any of the corpses that may still be walking around. Maybe scare off any humans that aren't dead ~~yet~~. After a few moments, he decides it's as safe as he's going to find it and steps inside. Dust follows him in and curls around his boots.]

[The convenience store looks picked over, but one never knows until checking it out for yourself. He'd been lucky a couple of times, maybe this will be another one. He wanders the couple of aisles, finding a few things to eat--these he shoves in his worn backpack--and leaves the rest for whoever stumbles upon the place next. The painkillers are a welcome sight, and he takes a couple of bottles.]

[He's just about to move around the counter when he sees it, an open fruit cup, the inside still shines from the juice.]

[He drops his pack and pulls his rifle. It's loaded, two in the chamber.]

Show yourself. Now.

[ Logan has one thing to say, and it's "shit". Granted, he doesn't say it out loud, but he'd heard the fall of the pack and the unmistakable shifting of metal, and he knows the guy's got some kind of weapon in his hands.

Weapons aren't so bad, technically. But the last thing Logan wants is to have to kill someone because they tried to kill him first (control's been harder to come by, these days).

So he rises, albeit in the laziest way one could.

Logan reaches a single hand up. ]

Come on out. I don't wanna hurt you.

[Just to make sure the person on the other side knew he meant business, he uncocks the shotgun to make sure it's loaded, even though he already knows it is. The mechanical sound of the gun snapping shut is the distinct sound of a warning.]

Ah, Jesus.

[ So the second hand comes up (a dull thud marking the dropping of his pack), and Logan slowly unbends his knees. It's the points of his hair that appear first, then the entire back of his head, and he moves and moves until he's standing on straight legs.

He holds his hands over his head, staring at the wall in front of him, and resists the urge to growl. ]

Go ahead. [ He looks over his shoulder, glaring. ] Shoot me.

No God or Jesus out here.

[Cable raises his left arm and an orange photograph shimmers in the air above it. The photo is grainy, but the features mostly sharp. Underneath the photo is the name: Creed, V.]

Turn around, nice and easy, so I can see you.

[ Logan's head turns swiftly to the light, as if uncertain, but just as the man says he turns and shows himself-- the irritation in his expression, the way simmering, controlled anger has his upper lip curling in distaste. It would've been easier if the guy just finished what he did and left, and if not for the fucking fruit cup... ]

If you think I'm Victor, [ there's annoyance there, frustration ] I'm gonna punch you myself.

[Cable snorts, turns off the gear.]

No, I don't think you are, now that I'm lookin' at you.

[He picks up his pack and shoulders it, keeping his gun level. He's not sure about this guy, and he sure as hell doesn't trust him.]

I'm gonna back out of here, and you're not following me. Understand?

Yeah, bub, trust me, I ain't in no hurry to follow your crusty ass--

[ There's a dull thud that comes from the front window of the store, and Logan turns immediately to look at it. He doesn't see anything, but the hairs on his skin stand on end.

Another thud on the window sounds, closer to the door. Another. Then another.

Briefly, a rotted hand flicks into existence before disappearing again, and now it looks like the door's gone and opened on its own.

Logan stays still as a fucking rock. ]

Shit.

[Carefully, Cable draws his knife, shifting his gun to it's holster hanging from his belt. Faster than a man built partly of metal should, he turns around just as the first zombie shuffles in. Cable plants his knife into it's head. Two more appear in the doorway, and he steps back, pulling his knife out of the first one's head with a quiet thok.]

This place have a back door?

[He stabs the next one in the face, but the third is following too closely and grabs his arm to bite it. Cable kicks it back out into the street, or would have if there weren't several more of the damned things there for it to bounce off of.]

[ Watching the man go is like watching something out of a television show-- and Logan hasn't watched TV in years, now. Though most of him has given up, there's something about the sheer will to survive-- something that makes Logan's throat go dry as he picks his pack up and hooks it over both his shoulders. ]

Yeah. [ Vaulting over the counter, he grabs the end of a shelf close to the window and drags it forward just enough to kick it. It slides across the floor before teetering, then lands with its weight supported by the doorframe of the store.

There's enough space in the tilted angle for the infected to reach their hands and feet out, and soon the shelf will be overturned again, but Logan figures the few seconds of time will work.

Is there a back door? Logan said "yes", but he doesn't fucking know. But he cocks his head towards the direction of the staff room-- locked, but not impervious to adamantium, obvious when a single claw pushes from Logan's fist and he slices the deadbolt off. The door opens with a swift push of Logan's hand, and though the only exit appears to be a few windows that're far too high, Logan growls and pushes the rest of his claws out to slice an triple-lined "X" formation into the concrete and bust through it with his boot. ]

Out here! [ He's not going to go out first, though. He presumes the guy can't heal like he can, and if there're any undead that need to be held back, Logan's fine with taking one for the team. ]

[Cable vaults over the counter and follows Logan, watches in surprise as the other man makes his own back door with claws?? No time for lollygagging, he moves past Logan and out into the alleyway. Dead on one end, bouncing back and forth between the buildings. To the left it's clear, and that's where he heads.]

Come on, follow me.

[At the end of the alley is a street, and across that street are more buildings, and more of the dead. Cable swears he'd combed this place before starting to scavenge.]

My truck is down that way.

[He points at a small group of the dead. At least there's only two or three. They'd both be able to take them easily, right?]

[Rhus-- short for Russell from London as he introduced himself to this new group not too long ago-- is old. Impossibly so. He's watch civilizations rise and fall, nations start and change, loved ones grow old and die...

But it never gets any easier to lose someone. He just learned how to stop crying. Or perhaps they all dried up long ago, when his last mate finally give up the fight against old age and shuffle off the mortal coil years and years ago, before all of this even happened.

Rhus has stopped needing to smoke long ago when fogweed died out. But sometimes he wishes he still did. This is one of those times. Nowadays his only retreat is into the old tome he carries around with him at all times, filled with calculations made during an era long past, meticulously preserved by his own hand.

But right now, he isn't reading.]

Oi.

[That's all he does to announce himself as he perches, cat-like, on a fallen log until he waits for Logan to be done, tail curled around his ankles.

He can smell the salt of tears.

He'll be here as long as he needs to.]

[ Logan's only saving grace is he isn't sobbing out loud. But the tears continue to drip, and even when his fists stop pounding the dirt, his claws remain buried with trembling arms to hold him up.

He doesn't look back. He knows it's futile to say he isn't crying, but at least like this-- turned away, hunched over, refusing to show Rhus his face-- he can pretend. ]

...what. [ The word is hissed out. Logan doesn't mean to sound so cold. ]

[He wants to dispense some old knowledge, sayings from an old mentor who went through so much war in his lifetime... But Rhus has to remind himself that no one knows he's more than he seems.

To anyone else, he's simply Russell from London, a strange cat-like mutant with a scar on his face that he refuses to let anyone else see.

They don't know he's an entirely different race of human. And no one will anymore, because now it's just the two of them left, and Rhus doesn't know who else is out there. He just knows there are more left because the spoken-- just humans, now, humans and mutants-- has always been a resilient species.]

Breathe.

You should breathe, Logan.

I'm breathing. [ That's louder than it should be, rough with emotion, and when he brings his fist up he brings dirt and roots with it, slamming his claws in one more punch into the earth. His knuckles can't even bruise, he realises-- for all intents and purposes, he'll look like nothing happened, just as he always does, and it'll be as if he'd never lost anyone in the first place. ]

That's the whole fucking point, Rhus. I'm breathing, and they're not, and that's why this is fucked up!

[ He realises he's yelling far too late to take it back, a hand flying up to smack his palm to his mouth and keep himself quiet.

His arm trembles. His shoulders shake.

Logan thought he wouldn't start sobbing.

He was wrong. ]

[Rhus hops down from the log, boots not making a sound as they make contact with the log. He's shorter, smaller than Logan, but he places an arm around the man's shoulder's anyway, getting his jeans dirty as he kneels on the ground.

They're already bloody filthy anyway.

Sometimes he wishes he were still a healer... and then the thought sends a pang through his heart, reminding Rhus why he gave up his white mage's cane long ago and took up the arcanist's grimoire. All this death that he wouldn't have been able to stop, he would have tried to bury himself alive with the first group he lost.

Which was back in the west coast of the States, not London.]

Aye, I know. [Sometimes he slips back to old speech patterns, despite not having used any of it in so long. But it just makes people think he's posh and pretending to be a commoner, or some shite like that.] But I want you to keep breathin', all right?

[ It occurs to him then that he and Rhus are the only ones left. Logan bites into his own palm, covered in dirt as it is, to stifle the noise that threatens to leave him. He crumbles under Rhus' hold, sinking completely as his legs fold beneath him and his eyes squeeze shut in his misery. Blood is drawn beneath his teeth, and Logan continues to cry, trembling as Rhus keeps him steady.

It's a few minutes before he does anything else. He muffles his cries and his swears and all his frustrations into his palm, and then shakes as he tries to regain what little composure he has left.

When he does, he wipes at his tears and the snot that drips from his nose, smears his forearm against his mouth to remove the saliva there.

He doesn't have a fucking choice but to breathe, and even if he's stopped sobbing, his lip continues to quiver as he shuts his eyes against the continuing drench of tears. ]

...fuck this. [ Turning, he looks at Rhus with sad, tired eyes. ] I'm just gonna lose you, too.

[Rhus just lets Logan cry, tightening his hold to two arms than just the one.Adjusting his position so he's crouching, all his weight on the balls of his feet... And Logan's as well, if the man just needs it.

Logan has enough tears for both of them, and in some ways, Rhus is jealous. Crying is an outlet.]

No, you're not.

[If anything... Rhus is going to lose Logan one day. It might take a few more hundred years, but Rhus will be the one alone eventually.]

'M not going anywhere, Logan. You try to leave me behind and I shan't be gone for long.

[ I'm not good for you, Logan wants to say. Bad shit happens to everyone I care about.

Instead, he presses his face into the curve of Rhus' shoulder, breathing his scent in, and even if he doesn't smell like he's lying, it doesn't stop him from aching just thinking of losing him.

Rhus isn't allowed to make promises like that.

But Logan stays there anyway, sniffling and shivering and wishing he could die with all the friends he's lost, and lingers for as long as he can before he starts to feel like a fool. ]

We. [ Voice muted, rasping, he lifts his head a measure, blinking hard to get rid of the last of his tears. ] ...we gotta get moving.

[Times like this, Rhus is glad for his strength, that he can physically support the weight someone carrying a skeleton of metal in him. He is always careful not to reveal more than he should, or do more than what's expected of him. Just some cat-like things and he isn't under suspicion because people merely chalk it up to his "mutation".

Though sometimes he does wish he could do everything he can freely. In some ways, he's jealous of Logan for having such accelerated healing that impossible feats are expected of him. Rhus just gets hurt and the injuries stick unless he dies-- not what one would expect from immortality.]

Yeah. [But before that... the Miqo'te turns the sleeve of his jacket inside out, and uses the dry, clean inside fabric to wipe Logan's face clean and dry.

When he's done, he gives Logan a squeeze on the shoulder, careful to keep his grip soft as a human's, and stands.]

I packed up. All we need now is to just grab the bags and leave.

[But perhaps... they should have been more alert of their surroundings, because the world is still harsh no matter what. The sounds of dozens paws pounding the ground reach Rhus' ears, but what makes them pin back against his mane is the scent of infection.

He hisses.

A wolf pack. An infected wolf pack.]

Logan--

Edited 2018-10-19 03:19 (UTC)

[ Logan hears it, too. And as briefly, painfully human as he'd felt in that small space of time where Rhus cleaned his face and comforted him, it fades like clockwork into hopelessness... and after that, the knowledge that Rhus is here with him, and that Logan can't give up when there's still someone by his side.

Damn it.

Their bags are close to the graves, a few metres from where Logan had chosen to mangle a tree and the ground beneath. He grits his teeth. Damn it. ]

You go ahead, I'll catch up. [ Because he's getting up on legs he doesn't want to move and sprinting for his life towards the packs they'd taken with them.

The first wolf sticks its head into the clearing. Logan swears.

It's got his scent, and with both hands slinging the straps of both packs over his shoulders, he hightails it back as fast as his feet can carry him.

But the wolf and its companions are following, and they're as fast as you'd expect animals to be. ]

[Rhus bolts on Logan's instruction, but he just remembers with startling clarity that wolves hunt by seeking out prey that has foolishly wandered off on its own.

And right now he's that foolish prey.

One of the wolves trips him by running into his legs and he hits the ground too hard, tiny stones and dirt and leaves scratching his skin and making it sting. He's only lucky that nothing got into his eyes, but he's still unlucky. Another wolf latches onto his ankle, shaking his leg so hard he knows it wants to break it so the Miqo'te cant run anymore. Bloody buggering fuck, he thinks, because he can feel the fangs break skin and he knows that Logan will not miss the scent of his blood in the air. Nor that this would mean Rhus has become infected. (Again.)

His heavy, steel-covered grimoire is in his pack-- with Logan-- and he has no way to defend himself and justify how strong he has to beat these wolves just so they let him go.

It blows, as the Americans would say, to have to pretend to be less than he is.

But Rhus lashes out anyway, kicking with old dark knight strength in his free leg hard enough to crack the skull of the wolf, enough to make it release him but not enough to kill it. He makes to scramble to his feet, but yet more infected wolves descend on him, and one manages to find his neck in its jaws.

Not once does he cry out for Logan's help this entire time. He's never asked for help at all if he could help it, and he's not going to do so now.

But he wishes he could apologize. The breaking of someone's neck under an animal's jaws is not pleasant.]

[The fire is nice. Sure, it's possible it may draw the infected, but it's still hard to determine what does and does not attract their interest besides human flesh. For the moment it seems safe; there weren't a hell of a lot of people living in Northern Alberta to start with, which cuts down the number of undead significantly.

Jean-Paul sits across from Logan, knees drawn up to his chest.]

Ouais. Nobody can keep up wit' me, anyway.

How long have you been on your own?

[ Logan can tell Jean-Paul the exact number of days since he and the rest of his group were swarmed by a herd inside a warehouse to the east in Saskatchewan. He can tell him what it feels like to have fingers in his eyes and his nose and ears and his mouth, to have dirty, disgusting teeth ripping him apart, to be reduced to nothing but a regenerating meal for the dead to tear into--

But he glares at the beans instead. ]

Few months.

[ And then he turns the can over. ]

Came across a couple people in town, but. [ He didn't think to join them when they asked. ]

Hn. Either those beans have personally offended you, or it was really bad.

[He shrugs. Of course it was bad - everything is bad, now.]

Better not to be in groups. Slows you down.

You look like a "slows you down" guy.

[ That is, that he's the type to dislike groups for that reason. Logan pulls his claw and the can on it back when it's more or less cooked, then takes a tin from his backpack and lays it on the ground.

Retracting his claw quickly, both his hands reach out to grab the can's hot ends before it falls. Logan pushes and cracks the metal in half at its punctures. Its contents spill into the tin like a fresh egg's yolk would.

He holds said tin out. ]

I don't have any spoons. [ But at least he's giving him the first bite? ]

Edited 2018-10-18 07:06 (UTC)

[He laughs acidly but says nothing. He watches the entire serving operation with some amusement, and when the tin is offeted to him he smirks and holds up a finger.

He goes into his bag and produces a spork.]

Et vòila.

[He accepts the tin and helps himself to some of the beans, then passes it back - spork included - to Logan.]

I ran into a group of Americans. They figured there were no undead in Canada because it's too cold. Pity for them it was only September on the West Coast and therefore fifteen fucking degrees.

Still. It's not the dumbest idea in principle. I'm going to try the Northwest Territories.

[ Logan almost says something stupid along the lines of I grew up there.

Instead, he scoffs. ] Doesn't account for the mutant infected.

[ He eats a few mouthfuls before handing the tin back. He's not quite as concerned with eating; plants and fruit, at least, don't get mutated like animals do, and Logan's good at finding those.

Jean-Paul owns a fucking spork. Maybe canned stuff's what he's used to. ]

You're-- what, stupid fast? You can just go wherever the hell you want.

Mistake to settle down anywhere, anyway.

I know. But it cuts the numbers down.

[Of course he has a spork. Three world has gone to hell but he's not a savage.]

Stupid fast, ouais. That doesn't always matter. [He studies the fire, resolutely not crying.]

You get tired of running.

World like this don't give much of a choice.

[ Jean-Paul's not taking the tin, so Logan's going to eat a bit more before holding it out again. He's more or less relinquishing what's left to him.

He sees the appeal of having a place to settle in, but he's also fairly certain there isn't a point to it. Maybe if the undead couldn't use their powers, but... ]

You get a couple months tops before something finds you, and you'll have to run again. [ His expression sours. ] ...by then you'll be attached to home. And you'll have to lose it all over again.

[He doesn't want to eat, not really, but hi s metabolism is demanding. He takes the tin and eats. When he hands it back he looks at Logan with furious grief.]

I've already lost everyt'ing. What's one house in comparison?

You're as clueless as anyone about what comes next. So do me a favour and don't treat me like I'm some idiot child.

[This should not be so candid a conversation when one party is twice as big as the other, furry and capable of speech when everything about that goes against the laws of animal biology and nature, but look what else is around them. There's nothing natural about what's happening all over the world, biologically or otherwise, but here they are. Just a guy and his giant wolf sharing a campfire, trying to pick up the pieces of one massive mess that just keeps on giving — just one day out of what is sure to be many, many, many to come.

Belly to the ground, muzzle to the dirt, Bigby presses his nose in deeper until all he can smell is earth. Not the lingering traces of animals or the rain they've been getting on and off all day, just earth. It's a collection of so many scents that come together and form an absolute. Dig deep enough and smother yourself in the dirt and you can block out anything. Even blood.]

So what changed?

[He genuinely wants to know. While he won't act like Logan's comment isn't a sincere one, he wonders where the but comes in. There's always a but. "But I'll make an exception until we get from Point A to B." "But I didn't plan on you showing up." "But this is new to me too." Maybe he's expecting too much to think the answer's going to be tidy, but hell, something is better than nothing. And anything is better than silence, just this once. It has to be.]

They needed help.

[ They, he says, but what he really means is those kids. The graves he'd dug were too short, probably too deep, and he'll stare at the dirt under his fingernails later when Bigby isn't looking at him. ]

And no offence, but you don't have opposable thumbs. [ Not that he's really discounting what Bigby'd done so far for them in the time they'd spent together-- longer than Logan had been travelling with their group, anyway-- but God. Fuck. He hadn't counted on a mutant infected that could escape both sight and scent the way it had escaped them both... hadn't counted on it stalking away from the herd he and Bigby tore (or huff-and-puffed) through to attack the teenagers who'd likely been breathing too fucking loud (the blonde had asthma).

Thinking of how many people he's stabbed through the forehead with his claws makes him want to vomit.

Instead, he just turns the can of beans over. ]

Someone told me once that "anonymity is a mutant's first line of defence". [ He scoffs. It's the fact some of these things have powers that inexplicably work out of nowhere that gets their kills happening when you least expect it. No matter how well you plan, you can never plan for the powers in a fucking zombie herd piñata. ]

What a load of bullshit that is now.

[There's a muffled sound against the dirt mound Bigby's buried his nose in — a laugh. Or something close to one anyway.]

Like that's stopped me before.

[It's not a comment Logan's liable to hear, though, and even less likely to care about in the grand scheme of things with what comes next. When the tightrope of tension they're walking suddenly goes taut and sags all the weight of the day's events come bearing down on it and everything just

("I'll be right back.")

snaps.

Well. About time for the other shoe to drop.

Bigby doesn't say anything at first. He just listens to the crackle of the fire, the pop that comes from the wood splitting apart against the flames licking at it, the scrape of nails against tin. It's funny how these pictures, these still images, are never just one big solid; they're a bunch of little things that come together to form one big thing, each with their own unique quality. The hiss of a campfire. The clatter of a tin can. The whistle of air escaping through a shredded throat. The sun reflected through a pair of clouded-over blue eyes from a blonde teenage girl, still open, still wide, frozen forever in mute terror.

The little things.]

Where do you think that someone is right now? [When he finally does speak, the time that's gone by is enough to pass for respectful contemplation, and the question is similarly phrased.]

Oh no, I understand that.

[X'rhun feels tired beyond his years. He's only forty-two, but he feels much older than that, having aged so many years since this happened. Good thing his fur has always been silver, otherwise he would have gone gray so quickly.

Sometimes, it's easier to not have someone else, because either person will eventually pass. His idealism has no place in this world. Seeing all of his horror is wearing him down. But still, X'rhun craves companionship, even if just for a little while.

That's why he still smiles.]

Faster travel, less resources used... [No one to worry over when things inevitably sour.] Has it been that way for you from the start?

[ No. ] Yeah.

[ X'rhun's smile unnerves him. He looks too-- kind, too delicate, for a place like this. A world like this.

It makes Logan want to run away before he, or his terribly fucking luck, eventually ruins him. ]

You meet people along the way, but they never stick. [ Punctuated with a flip of the can to cook the other side. ] People're different now from how they were.

Wanting to live makes you selfish.

It's also what makes us human, my friend. [He's seen enough in the few tours of war he's done, after all. And definitely more than enough when the undead showed up.

Though sometimes he still wishes he did die in the war. Now that is selfish.]

Never gave any thought to finding one of those sanctuaries then?

[X'rhun did, a few times. But staying in one place for a long time has never sat well with him. Some people used to joke that he's no indoor cat and... just thinking about them hurts.]

Edited 2018-10-19 00:23 (UTC)

[ Given the first thing he did when the outbreak began was create a sanctuary for his students, Logan knows well enough what happens to those.

Plainly and simply, ] They don't last.

[ The beans smell more or less done. Locating a tin from his pack, he retracts his claws and and catches the hot metal before it falls down. Logan cracks it like an egg with the punctures as breaking points, emptying the can's contents into the tin.

He thinks about getting a handful, but offers it to X'rhun first. He might not be especially keen on having someone with him, but... well. He isn't a complete ass. ]

Maybe they could've, if these freaks didn't have powers. But...

[X'rhun raises a hand, shaking his head at the offer of beans. He prefers meat-- needs meat. Other foods can only do so much to tide him over until the next meal... but beans gives him uncomfortable gas.

Not to mention... maybe he might cause Logan to lose his appetite if he mentions he prefers fresh, raw meat. Preferably newly killed. He knows many people who saw him hunting his own meals began to look the other way whenever he passed them by. How they started keeping their horses away from him, like he was going to start eating them.]

That's true, I suppose. [X'rhun tucks his tail close around himself, curling around his ankles.

He knows a few of the sanctuaries he's seen fell apart not too long after he left them to strike out on his own.]

Isn't it lonely though? No man is an island, and that includes us mutants.

Yep. It is.

[ Tony has buried some friends already. Other people he has met on the road as well. He doesn’t know how the fuck he keeps managing to survive, but here he is. Worse for wear, especially comparing him to the images his publicists and the media always used, but that man is long gone.

That lifetime is long gone.

The Jeep he uses for transportation has the things he has been working on - weapons, a suit, some arc reactors to use for electricity - but sometimes it still feels like it’s nothing considering everything that is gone. ]

Where were you when the shitstorm started?

[ Logan doesn't like thinking about what was for obvious reasons. The memory of his kids listening to them, working so damn hard to fortify the mansion and turn it into a sanctuary, and then the subsequent pride when they were done...

And how that pride crumbled with the first time they had to deal with a herd and one of them had the mutant power of fucking earthquakes.

Still, the knuckles of his free hand flexing, he mutters, ] Westchester.

[ Now he's going north-- and he supposes having met Stark on the way, he's probably going there, too. Some people say the zombies can't survive the cold. Logan is just going north because he's going home. ]

I worked at Xavier's.

[ Walking through the store, Steve keeps his steps quiet. His movements measured and controlled so that he could scout the area. He expects this place to be pilfered through like all the other places he has been to lately, but he has to try. The supplies aren’t even for him, he’s trying to find some more food for the camp he’s staying in for now before he moves on to the next one.

The fruit cup stops him, though. From the looks of it, it was recently opened and immediately his guarded stance changes to one that’s ready for a fight. Against his hip he has a hunting knife and a gun that he could use, but Steve never starts off with either weapon. First he wants to see what he’s dealing with. ]

Come on out. I’m not going to hurt you.

[ Logan thinks if not for the healing factor, he would have died ages ago. Probably one of the first to turn, even, after that first wave of undead children. He keeps making stupid mistakes like this, keeps forgetting to be observant all the way--

(Maybe it's because he doesn't want to make it.)

--and he takes in a breath before exhaling in something like irritation. ]

They always say they're not going to hurt you. [ And they always end up attacking anyway, Logan nearly continues, and then instinct takes over and he pulls the claws out, and before he knows what's happened he's got heads rolling on the ground.

But he lifts both his hands up, showing them over the counter. He's stubbornly refusing to stand, however. ]

I don't need whatever meds are here. Just took the cigarettes and some food.

[ The sound of that voice makes him freeze immediately. It's a voice he recognizes, but that he hadn't expected to ever hear again. After all, Steve had woken up from his slumber in the ice believing that everyone he had known had died. And, before he could really see for himself if that was true or not, the world had gone sideways and...now here they are.

In a store. With someone that he had known a lifetime ago, and that Steve never thought he'd ever see again.

But, he tries not to get too ahead of himself. He swallows, trying to get his throat to work again. ]

I promise, I won't hurt you.

[ He keeps his voice leveled at the promise, as if trying to reassure him so that he could lure him out. He'd like to see for himself if it's truly who he thinks he is, or if his mind is just playing tricks on him. ]

My name is Steve.

[Whatever Rielle wants, Rielle gets. And what Rielle wants right now is for Sidurgu to find out who's been caught in the middle of that horde of undead, screaming like some bloody moron. The dragon-like mutant would have been happy to just let him be if he had some kind of a death wish, especially when he's probably infected at this point... But he cant say no to the young girl he's guarding, can he?

So Sidurgu sets off, cutting himself a path through the zombies with a machete in hand, protected from teeth and infection by the layer of scales over his skin.

He makes for a sight, a tall man with such pale skin and dark scales and horns, wading through the herd and swatting them away like flies. And when he reaches the stupid, suicidal mutant, he grabs Logan's collar and starts dragging him away.]

You're coming with me. [His voice is deep, accent definitely not from around here. British English-- Estuary, in fact.]

Whether you live or die, 's not my problem, but I'll put you out of my misery soon enough. [Just until he can show Rielle that she wanted him to save a lost cause.]

Edited 2018-10-20 06:10 (UTC)

I. Friendly fire

_{[It's possible you might not have noticed you had company scavenging in the shopping mall this fine day. Quieter than a church mouse and quite content to stay that way, he's kept to himself on the upper floors of the shopping center, having climbed in through a shattered skylight in the roof.

Hearing the groans of a crowd of zombies log-jamming on the escalators changes things--if they're swarming, it's usually because they're chasing a food source. He reveals himself by way of a dark head of hair poking over the railing that looks down over the rest of the lower floors. It gives him a clear view of what's happening--and a clear shot. The bullet that whizzes past might just silence the nearest set of rotting, clacking teeth. Close, but not so close as to endanger anything living. He's not that reckless.]}

II. The apocalypse brings people together

_{[Zombies not liking the cold isn't just a myth, it's an unfortunate reality for anyone caught in the path of a migrating horde as zombies shamble south for warmer climes. How long does it take for a couple hundred thousand Zs to stagger through town? Too long, is the answer. Longer if they find prey to chase and linger in the area. It could be hours--it could be days. Street smarts say to settle in for the long haul.]}

I'm going to go look around. There might be supplies we can use.

_{[Nothing quite breaks the ice between strangers than needing to take shelter in the same building to wait out said zombie exodus.

Although young and alone and built like a stiff wind could knock him over, 10K doesn't seem overly bothered to be trapped with someone he's known for little more than ten minutes, slipping the strap of his rifle off his shoulder to dangle in his hand. This is one of those survival situations that trumps paranoid tendencies: they have a mutual goal in not attracting the attention of the zombies. Even if he were in the business of doing so, he couldn't risk the noise to pop off a shot and rob a fellow survivor any more than they can risk sticking a knife between his ribs and having him scream.

They're temporarily united, for better or worse. Best to make the most of it.]}

III. IDK, come play with a zombie apocalypse kid

_{[Wildcard me! Let's do a thing, any thing! All the things!]}

[ log ] zombie apoc au

logan | xmcu

store

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funeral

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campfire

maniacal, furious laughter

THE DEVIL

A STRONGER MAN WOULD RESIST TEMPTATION

I am weeeeeak

its ok me too i mean i... made this fucking open post in the first place

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campire, maybe after the funeral

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the herd

10K | Z Nation