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Old 09-10-2007
Mk23 Mk23 is offline
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Default Lucky?

Lucky. He was lucky. At least that's what the news reports that still trickled in kept telling him. Mass panic, government collapse, infrastructure failure, supply shortages, relief efforts overrun and consumed... and that's the relief WORKERS, not the rations they were trying to bring in.

And here he was, idly examining the tacky prism-nameplate from his desk. 'R. Ryan'... a few guys in the company had bought that as a Christmas gift when he had become de-facto President of the company, only the idiot engraver had gotten his first and last names reversed. He was in a company office building and warehouse complex of an optics company that did international business all the way across the pacific, throughout Asia. Power still up thanks to solar panels and a room full of industrial batteries for backup power... cost a small fortune to set up, but it was probably tax-detuctable. Or maybe it wasn't. He'd have to ask the CPA, but he got eaten a few months ago. High-tech communications satellite dish on the roof... he could still even watch Taiwanese TV on the PSP in the office thanks to that LocationFree thing he'd set up in the apartment on the island. He really had no idea how the fuck that thing on the roof WORKED. he'd have to ask the IT guy, but he managed to be visiting his hometown in India right when the outbreaks were made public. Nice fucking timing. There was also a set of snack food warehouses right across the street in the same walled-off warehouse complex. Frito-lays, nabisco, that kind of crap. Yep, he could stay here for a loooong long time.

And he was bored out of his god damn mind.

He had sent the people he knew in town, including the guys that he had trained, his dad, and his dad's ex-military friends on a trek up into the Alaskan bush where he knew people who had been surviving well for a months now. They were all people capable with weapons, and with very useful skills to survive in this new world, but at best, all they could do was survive. They wouldn't thrive. That's why he had sent them there with the majority of his extensive weapons collection.

And now he was sitting at a large table... well, rather a large number of tables from the entire building set up together so he could organize all the equipment he left for himself. The nifty thing about having an optics company warehouse at your disposal, is that a lot of nifty gadgets are stored there that you'd never get a hold of otherwise. Prototypes, samples from other companies, the cutting edge in digital night vision, laser rangefinding ballistic computer rifle scopes... even boxes of Insight Technologies LAMs of different models because the DoD wanted the company to develop lighter IR lasers for Iraq.

He got up, started walking up along one side of the table... guns, gear, ammo, mags... lots of custom made gear, and rail accessories which were prototypes for if and when the company went into tactical accessories, not just optics related. There'd be no wasted space on his person, but the table just went on. More guns, different kinds of ammo, different gear for other environments and other situations, food, water, medicine. Of course, his blades. Two Bainite Katanas, two custom machetes, a Dark Ops E&E Interceptor, a KA-BAR hobo knife, a Victorinox Swisstool... more guns, more ammo, more mags...

He reached up, taking the pair of eyeglasses off of his face and putting them on the table, replacing them with the Oakley Gascan sunglasses he'd received in the mail not two days before the outbreak. Polarized black iridium lenses, gun metal logo, matte black frame, 'Neo-Sparta' in white at the bottom of one lens. Pricey, but he was good for it. He pulled the elastic band from his hair, and retied his ponytail up higher than before, noticing that tacky prism-nameplate again through the dark tint of the Oakleys. "R. Ryan." he said aloud... then said it again... then on a whim, picked his suppressed Professional Arms MK5 off the table, seated the mag, slapped the bolt handle, and fired a single shot into the nameplate. "R" he read the sole surviving letter aloud, "R... sounds better I think. What do you think?" he asked as he patted the MK5 on the top of the Insight ISM-IR he'd mounted on it. Nifty little gadget, and also restricted from individual sales. He made a mental note to shoot any ATF guys he came across, zombified or not. He took the Oakleys off again, glancing from one end of the table, to the other "...I'm going to need a big fucking car." he mused aloud as he started walking towards the warehouse door to the small company parking lot behind the warehouse. He casually reached over, and pushed his laptop closed as he walked past, that simple email still taking up the entire screen.

'Neo Sparta: Haven if you can make it. Bring beer.'
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Old 09-11-2007
Mk23 Mk23 is offline
Super Senior member - Has no life and spends a lot of time here
Join Date: Apr 2006
Posts: 320
Default Re: Lucky?

He sat down at the array of tables again, which were considerably less cluttered now. He'd spent the better part of three days cramming all the stuff into the company's Escalade. It was actually rather boring getting the Escalade into the warehouse from the parking lot. Apparently not enough zombies were interested in warehouses to get over the 8' stone-and-concrete wall surrounding the place.

He leaned back in the rather comfy office chair, resting his arm across his forehead. These preparations were so mind-numbingly tedious, but at least they were almost done, and the only things left on the table were the items he'd wear (or more likely toss in the back of the Escalade until he needed to be all 'geared up'), his laptop, and scattered bags of potato chips and biscuit-snack-thingies that he'd been munching on. Hey, they didn't taste BAD, and he'd already packed all his MREs into the Escalade anyway..

"I guess it's time to see who else is 'almost ready'." he thought aloud to himself, reaching over and opening the laptop. He brought up the old 'haunt',, and went through the various members one at a time, contacting them however was listed to be most convenient on their profiles.

Uzi and JCoyote were listed as being in Texas and OK respectively... they might've fled to elsewhere by now, but he made plans on how to get to their towns just in case they didn't. Armorer was in Georgia, Yankee in Ohio. And of course PT was in Italy, which had gone completely under going by the news reports, so at least he wouldn't have to deal with THAT emotional, idealistic Euro. He sent messages to ALL of them of course, just in case.

He put his eyeglasses back on just as he hit 'send', smirking to himself as he said, "O magic mirror, tell me who's still alive..." After all, the flat screen of the laptop certainly resembled a mirror more than a box.

The message itself was simple as well, although whimsically he decided to sign it to his 'new name' instead of his familliar screen name. To avoid TOO much confusion, he put a photograph of his Katanas as the background to the message (which would possibly be unfortunate for poor Armorer and his 28k connection). What other Securityarms member would use THOSE?

'Who's still alive, and where are you? --R'

Last edited by Mk23 : 09-11-2007 at 11:41 PM.
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Old 10-05-2007
Mk23 Mk23 is offline
Super Senior member - Has no life and spends a lot of time here
Join Date: Apr 2006
Posts: 320
Default Re: Lucky?

It was the morning after he'd sent his brief 'roll call' message out. He was at his computer again, finishing off a small package of biscuit snacks when both of the replies appeared on the screen. He grinned, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms behind his head as he read the first reply.

'A-ok, S-Ga. Set to roll-- need to decrypt coordinates and GTFOD: get the fuck outta Dodge. Headin Northwest and running to the neutral strip. Possible hook up with UZI in Tx. You needin backup or delivery, no msg?"

So Armorer was still alive. The former teacher had started a job at a gun shop and was practically an apprentice of their gunsmith the last he'd heard. He'd at least be bringing his Springfield Operator, and the Blaser... ah yes, that Blaser LRS2 and the pictures of targets that were shot by it. Groups and distances he could never quite manage to outdo with his Weatherby. He made a mental note to dig out another one of those ballistic computer scopes, and another Insight LAM as a bit of a care package for Armorer for when he would meet up with him.

He glanced down at the other message on the screen, making a mental bet with himself about who it would be from. He was hoping it would be from JCoyote, who had contacted him by AIM just a few hours ago... from Berkeley, California of all places. He and a small group of survivors had gotten possession of a boat and had holed up on Alcatraz Island. He'd sent them North along the coast of California to Crescent City where they could meet up with a few people who made it out of Portland, Oregon. The Convoy he had sent out earlier was headed north to Iowa to pick up some survivors in a small town near Burlington, then head west to Crescent City to pick up JCoyote and the others, then North again, all the way up to the little settlement in the Alaskan bush. It would mean that JCoyote wouldn't be joining up for a while, but at least there'd be a friendly 'town' out there with a Spartan that had access to R's own extensive weapons collection.

He used a bare foot to move the mouse, clicking on the second message (he couldn't be bothered to unfold his arms from behind his head at this moment!)... and needless to say, he lost the bet with himself. "....You're fucking with me." he griped at the screen, then removed his foot from the table to lean forward towards the laptop, "...God damn."

'PT, you rezident Kommie. Alive and well in beautiful Las Vegas.'

Seems that the idealistic, emotional Euro had gotten out of Italy after all. He certainly wasn't looking forward to having to keep the Italian gunwriter from wigging out in the kinds of bad situations that were undoubtedly to come... far worse than what any of them had experienced even up until now, doubtlessly. Nothing to be done about it of course, since he probably couldn't get away with abandoning PT out there... but he sure as hell wasn't going through Las Vegas just to rescue him, especially not all by himself. He checked his maps, picking out likely rendezvous locations with PT if he could get out of the city. Places close to the halfway point between El Paso and Las Vegas, taking into account things like town population, the availability of supplies in the towns, any ammunition to be found in gun stores, etc... Guiltily, the idea of staying here and subsisting on mummified slices of tuber while waiting for Armorer to show up was admittedly rather tempting.

He got up from his seat at the computer, putting on his kevlar-toed and heeled boots, zipping them up, and grabbing the MK5 off of the table along with a pair of binoculars, and one of his Katanas. There was access to the roof of the building from the inside, and he was certainly glad of that fact as he undid the ceiling panel and unfolded the ladder down. He was going to have to take a look outside if he was going to make any kind of intelligent decision on what to do next.


He was greeted by the familliar purple-tint of the El Paso early-morning sky as he popped open the roof hatch and climbed up onto the roof. It was still rather dark, the sun nowhere in sight in the sky, but not so dark that he would need night vision to see. He walked over to the edge of the roof, observing the dead metropolis below. El Paso had such a large footprint that rarely did buildings rise above two stories. It actually looked rather peaceful, with the silence, the complete lack of traffic along the unlit roads... there was occasional movement as zombies trudged past intersections and the like, but El Paso wasn't so densely populated as to have hordes of them concentrating in place. Truth be told, things didn't even look that abnormal for this time of day, as not many people would be out and about yet... maybe one solitary car driving down a road, loud enough to be heard even from here...

Only that sound in the distance wasn't a car...

He turned towards the source of the sound to see a small group of fighter aircraft flying in from the west. Navy Hornets, probably flying from the Gulf of California. "You're about three months late, assholes." he murmured to himself, raising the binoculars to his eyes to get a closer look at them. He saw them drop bombs, simple Mk82 iron bombs from the look of it... they erupted into huge black clouds as they hit, the thunder-like crackle of the explosions not reaching him until several seconds after. It took him almost that long to realize that the faint vibrating movement on the ground there wasn't smog or heat haze. It was a veritable sea of undead, making its way across the border. There had to be thousands, hundreds of thousands of them... at the spead of their shambling, it might take a few days for them to reach the office complex, but there wasn't anything left around here that was going to stop them either.

"...Guess it's time to go." he said to himself, before climbing back down into the building.


'El Paso being overrun from Mexico. Avoid.

Will meet PT at:

Wickenburg Municipal Airport

33 57'56.00" N 112 48'13.50" W

Will secure and await Armorer's arrival/further communication.

PT, get these from the SHOT show for me if possible:

MP5 select fire trigger group
Tromix Saiga select fire parts
Select fire Bushmaster Carbon-15 5.56mm LE Pistol'

He hit 'send' on the message, and just sending it to everyone he could rather than wasting time personalizing it any. It's not as if any of them wouldn't understand it if it wasn't directed specifically to them. He was still irritated at having to deal with PT so soon, but Wickenburg was certainly closer than GA, and had a low enough population. If he remembered right, Uzi could fly a Cessna, which would be a definite bonus if Armorer could find him.

He climbed into the fully prepared Escalade and started it up, taking off his glasses and looking out the windows at the warehouse, "...Goodbye business. I will certainly miss the money you brought in." he then put his glasses back on, and drove out of the warehouse, "...But not much else."
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Old 10-22-2007
Mk23 Mk23 is offline
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Join Date: Apr 2006
Posts: 320
Default Re: Lucky?

The trip to Wickenburg was mostly uneventful, if you can consider crushing occasional undead bodies underneath the wheels of the SUV 'uneventful'. He avoided Tuscon by making use of the small roads linking suburbs around the northeast of the city, and circled around the southwest of Phoenix through the criss-crossing small roads that went through what was probably ranches, although those delays meant it was close to the dead of night by the time he reached Wickenburg. Wickenburg itself was so sparsely populated for its size that there was at least 50 meters of desert between each house on the south side of town, which he was simply driving through to avoid the roads. He could see smoke to the north, only by the hint of orange glow that highlighted the smoke against the night sky. If he remembered right, that was the city center, with shops, restaurants, and stuff like that, all packed in close together. By how dull the glow was by now, it was probably well on its way to burning itself out.

As he entered the desert to the south of the airport, he turned off the car's headlights (he was certainly not going to let himself be a brightly lit beacon all the way out to his /actual/ destination!) and turned on his special pair of night vision goggles. He wore them by an elastic strap as if they were the oversized paintball goggles that they really did resemble, extremely lightweight, and with the intensified image projected on the inside of a transparent visor covered with a perforated mesh screen that he could see through to keep full awareness of his surroundings with the night vision turned on, or off. It took a little getting used to, being able to see through a transparent night vision image, but he had DEVELOPED the damn things, he knew how to use them.

He killed the engine as he got closer, taking off the goggles and grabbing the binoculars he had thrown in the back of the vehicle before he left. There wasn't much light, but he could at least get a better idea of the layout of the airport... hangars to the south, a terminal building to the north that was larger than he expected, along with smaller buildings around it, a control tower that was larger than he expected too... probably doubled as offices of some kind. He thought he saw a dim white glow inside the tower /move/ slightly, just before a much brighter one suddenly shone into his vehicle from his left. Dammit!

On reflex he scrambled to the other side of his vehicle, opening the door and tumbling out somewhat ungracefully... at least he had the Escalade between the light and himself, even though he was certain whoever it was had seen him already... although the only person he could think of being here would be... "Who's there? Come on out, I already saw you in the vehicle." ...Okay, no Italian accent, so it couldn't be PT. Granted, he'd never heard PT /speak/ before, but PT even /typed/ with an Italian accent, he just couldn't wrap his mind around it if PT was actually a speaker of perfect American English. The firm, 'in-command' tone sounded like the man had taken it right out of a police manual, so he was probably a patrol officer of some kind... SWAT types were less friendly about their verbal instructions.

He thought over his options at this point... he was only armed with his Dark Ops knife on his belt, his HK45s at the back of his waist and on his left-handed shoulder holster on his right side... he had his fingerless SAP gloves and the forearm web-bracers to his gear, but otherwise was just wearing a black T-shirt with his BDU pants and boots. 3 HK45 mags on his belt... he could probably outshoot him, but the fact that the cop hadn't shot at him already was a good sign he wouldn't have to...

"I said come out! Now!" the cop's voice shouted, louder this time.

Okay, running out of time now... he tightened the muscles in his throat before answering, giving it that scratchy, 'froggy' sound like a Marine Drill Instructor... it was somewhat comical in retrospect, but it would keep his voice audible without allowing it to carry on across the desert. "Okay, okay, just get that god damn light out of my face!" He made a point to peek up at the officer, holding one of his empty hands up, shielding his eyes from the light... and the light lowered away. He kept his hand up, but used his other hand to raise his goggles back to his eyes, turning them back on to get a look at this man. He was just noticably smaller than R himself was, shorter by about a full inch. Early-mid 20's, caucasian with the beginnings of a mustache... what was it with male cops and having mustaches? He was wearing rather typical American SWAT gear over what looked like an average police uniform. Tactical vest, helmet with transparent goggles pushed up on top of them. He had a fixed-stock MP5 with a forend light, and carried his handgun on a waist holster instead of a thigh holster... and he was still wearing a side-handle baton on his belt. Even more telling than that, was how the cop was APPROACHING him. This guy couldn't have ever made SWAT, let alone be one already. He decided not to commit to anything just yet... get as much information out of the policeman as possible, and set up a more favorable kill scenario if he had to.

He lowered the goggles again, letting them just hang around his neck by their elastic strap. He was already taller than the cop, and didn't need to look any more threatening by having fancy goggles over his eyes. He walked back out around the Escalade, saying in the same froggy voice, "You're a cop?"... using a voice like that made his throat a little raw, but it was a minor discomfort at best. He made sure to keep his voice 'hopeful', as if he felt like was suddenly rescued by the presence of this borderline incompetent.

The policeman turned slightly, to shine his weaponlight on the Escalade, "Yes, sir, I am..." his voice faltered just a bit as he undoubtedly spotted the array of weapons arranged inside the car... "Sir? You're going to have to come with me."

He wanted to ask 'why', but that wasn't a question cops liked to hear, so instead he asked a more cooperative question, "Where?" It would tell him where the rest of them were, at the very least.

"With me, to the control tower, sir." his voice got firmer as he continued "You'll have to turn your weapons over to us, and we'll protect you." This obviously wasn't on a whim for this officer. Probably standing orders to disarm civilians 'for their own safety' as zombies overran the planet, and this guy was too green to even consider questioning it.

He couldn't help a slight twitch in his face, but the cop didn't seem to notice... He took the last few steps towards the cop, making sure his head was turned to the side, leaning over just a bit as if getting a better look at the control tower, "The airport's safe?" he asked, to reinforce the impression he was just getting a better look at the place, still showing as few signs of non-cooperation as possible.

"The control tower is safe, yes sir." Which probably meant they hadn't secured the terminals yet, at the very least. Most likely they had just went up to that oversized tower and holed up for safety. And from the tone of his voice when he'd told R to turn over his weapons, the rest of the cops here were going to ask the same thing, and the only other people he knew were coming out here were certainly not going to respond favorably. Could mean PT's in some trouble... oh well. <Time to make a move, I guess...> he thought.

"Okay, here. I'm taking out my pistol." he answered, still not looking directly at the cop. He slowly reached to his shoulder holster with his right hand, awkwardly removing it from its holster. He hit the magazine release with his thumb, letting the mag drop free, then with his other hand, pulled the slide back to eject the remaining round, making sure he only grasped the slide with his ring and little fingers... then dropped the now empty handgun to his feet as he used his remaining three fingers to grasp the end of a knife (a Cold Steel Delta Dart to be exact) concealed in his forearm web-bracer. As it came free, he rotated his wrist and stuck the point of the triangle-shaped blade into the policeman's neck and left it in, moving his now empty hand firmly down over the top of the officer's MP5, reaching down with his fingertips and pulling the ambidextrous safety lever up to the 'safe' position, and holding it there. As the cop moved his free hand to try and remove the knife from his neck, R swung his other arm across, knocking his hand away, then slid his foot backwards, driving his fist to the cop's throat. A perfect punch. He could even feel the energy flow up his leg from the earth, up his back to his shoulder, where it exploded forward through his fist. The metal knuckles of the SAP glove struck the protruding pommel of the knife directly, driving it all the way to the back of the officer's neck, and into the bone.

The officer went limp instantly, and R quickly wrapped his arms around the MP5, holding the man up by the sling of his weapon, then after turning off the weapon light, slowly lowered himself onto one knee, lowering the body down onto its back as quietly as possible. He turned the body sidewards before reaching in and removing the knife, HEARING the sound of blood flowing, as it was too dark to see... flowing freely as if it were from a faucet, spilling out over the sand. The heavy metallic odor of the blood hit him an instant later... distinctly different than killing a zombie, with their thickened, congealed blood that would barely ooze out from gunshot wounds. In a moment of curiousity, he put his night vision goggles back on, leaning in closer to the officer and looking into his open, dead eyes... He could see fear and anger in the look frozen on his face, but above everything else, was shock and disbelief. He'd caught the man completely off guard, which brought a smirk to his face.

He worked the MP5's sling off of the man's shoulders, removing the magazine. He could tell by the weight it was fully loaded. <Now to find PT...> he thought as he recovered his handgun, reloading it and holstering it again.
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