Post by albub on May 7, 2008 14:29:49 GMT -5
As he wandered the darkened hall of the cinema, Alex allowed his mind to wander.
"dammit, I lose again..." He muttered, nearly startling himself as his voice broke the still air. He scolded himself for his carelessness, and prayed there weren't any zombies - or worse - hostile humans that had heard him. He hated fighting in his nice jacket.
With a start, he realized he hadn't hid his bag, just left in in a corner in the lobby. He turned around and maintained a faster, less cautious pace as he retraced his steps, hoping nobody had stolen his scotch glass.
It remained untouched in the corner, where he had left it. Still, he felt compelled to look inside and ascertain that all of his things were still inside. Nothing had touched it.
He took it with him this time. To be on the safe side, he took out the scotch glass, and carefully unwrapped it, making sure not to pop any precious bubble wrap. He then opened a fresh bottle of Glenfidditch scotch. Not as high quality as he would have preferred, but he couldn't afford to be picky. Liquor stores were running low wherever he went, and killing someone for their scotch - regardless of the quality - is not a classy thing to do, and only to be done as a last resort.
He needed somewhere more secure to stash his effects, and resolved to find a way up to the roof.
He wandered down a corridor with screening rooms on either side of him. Someone had scraped "DO NOT ENTER" in rusty block letters on one of the cinema doors, and while he wasn't interested in catching a film right then anyway, he made note of it.
Eventually he came to a ruined stairwell, with a tattered rope hanging from it. It looked as if it had been tied there for months, maybe years, and was rotting away in the damp. He downed his scotch, took off his shirt and jacket, and wrapped the glass in his clothing, then set it in his bag. He tied the bag to the rope, hoping it would hold, before taking a few steps back to assess the damage. It seemed someone had set to the stairs with a sledgehammer, and hacked away the ruined pieces with something, maybe a grinder or - more likely - a hacksaw.
The stairs were untouched after about 10 feet, maybe a little higher, so with little effort he just jumped up using the wall as an extra platform to push from, and grabbed a hold. In one of his frequent moments of reflection, he was mighty glad he had decided to learn parkour a few years back. With a bit of monkey work, he finally swung his feet up on to the stairs, and gently began to pull the rope - and his pack - up towards him. With a sigh of relief he brought it over the edge without the rope breaking, and set it down carefully.
He kept going to the roof, which was gone in places. No doubt as a result of the dolt that had blown in the front doors as well. He found a convenient hunk of rubble, and withdrew everything he would need for the next few hours before tucking the rest away safely under the blasted concrete. He walked to the edge to get a glimpse of Sertin in the dying sunlight, and with a smile watched the zombies still milling about aimlessly on the roof. Then he stepped in something that felt distressingly human.
He started and stepped back quickly, looking at his feet and cocking the hammer on his Steyr-M. It was just a body, charred and aged, almost definitely not a zombie, but he stomped the skull nonetheless. There was an old russian pistol on the ground a short distance away, a t-33 perhaps. There were no spent casings on the ground by the corpse nor the pistol itself. Indeed, there were no signs of struggle at all. This person had likely been keeping watch from the rooftop when the rocket hit. He hoped he could get his hands on the idiot that had fired it.
He headed back inside, with his scotch glass refilled and in hand, and a sweatshirt this time. It was torn and bloodstained, but he'd far prefer fighting in it than his fine linens.
"dammit, I lose again..." He muttered, nearly startling himself as his voice broke the still air. He scolded himself for his carelessness, and prayed there weren't any zombies - or worse - hostile humans that had heard him. He hated fighting in his nice jacket.
With a start, he realized he hadn't hid his bag, just left in in a corner in the lobby. He turned around and maintained a faster, less cautious pace as he retraced his steps, hoping nobody had stolen his scotch glass.
It remained untouched in the corner, where he had left it. Still, he felt compelled to look inside and ascertain that all of his things were still inside. Nothing had touched it.
He took it with him this time. To be on the safe side, he took out the scotch glass, and carefully unwrapped it, making sure not to pop any precious bubble wrap. He then opened a fresh bottle of Glenfidditch scotch. Not as high quality as he would have preferred, but he couldn't afford to be picky. Liquor stores were running low wherever he went, and killing someone for their scotch - regardless of the quality - is not a classy thing to do, and only to be done as a last resort.
He needed somewhere more secure to stash his effects, and resolved to find a way up to the roof.
He wandered down a corridor with screening rooms on either side of him. Someone had scraped "DO NOT ENTER" in rusty block letters on one of the cinema doors, and while he wasn't interested in catching a film right then anyway, he made note of it.
Eventually he came to a ruined stairwell, with a tattered rope hanging from it. It looked as if it had been tied there for months, maybe years, and was rotting away in the damp. He downed his scotch, took off his shirt and jacket, and wrapped the glass in his clothing, then set it in his bag. He tied the bag to the rope, hoping it would hold, before taking a few steps back to assess the damage. It seemed someone had set to the stairs with a sledgehammer, and hacked away the ruined pieces with something, maybe a grinder or - more likely - a hacksaw.
The stairs were untouched after about 10 feet, maybe a little higher, so with little effort he just jumped up using the wall as an extra platform to push from, and grabbed a hold. In one of his frequent moments of reflection, he was mighty glad he had decided to learn parkour a few years back. With a bit of monkey work, he finally swung his feet up on to the stairs, and gently began to pull the rope - and his pack - up towards him. With a sigh of relief he brought it over the edge without the rope breaking, and set it down carefully.
He kept going to the roof, which was gone in places. No doubt as a result of the dolt that had blown in the front doors as well. He found a convenient hunk of rubble, and withdrew everything he would need for the next few hours before tucking the rest away safely under the blasted concrete. He walked to the edge to get a glimpse of Sertin in the dying sunlight, and with a smile watched the zombies still milling about aimlessly on the roof. Then he stepped in something that felt distressingly human.
He started and stepped back quickly, looking at his feet and cocking the hammer on his Steyr-M. It was just a body, charred and aged, almost definitely not a zombie, but he stomped the skull nonetheless. There was an old russian pistol on the ground a short distance away, a t-33 perhaps. There were no spent casings on the ground by the corpse nor the pistol itself. Indeed, there were no signs of struggle at all. This person had likely been keeping watch from the rooftop when the rocket hit. He hoped he could get his hands on the idiot that had fired it.
He headed back inside, with his scotch glass refilled and in hand, and a sweatshirt this time. It was torn and bloodstained, but he'd far prefer fighting in it than his fine linens.