Flesh and Bone

READ EVERY POST IN ITS ENTIRETY PLEASE. SOME WILL BE LONG. NO TL;DR ACCEPTED KTHX

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Green.

A field, to be exact.

Ulysses walked through the field, looking at the beautiful flowers that soaked up the midsummer sun. He picked one up, an orange daylily, and examined it closely.

There was nothing remarkable about the flower. Ulysses put the stem in between his thumb and index finger, spinning it around. A beautiful little thing, he thought, but common. Few things that are common retain such beauty, he knew.

He put the heart of the plant, the flower, in his fingers. He rubbed it, and the fragile thing was reduced to pieces, the broken shards of the once pretty flora falling steadily to the ground.

After walking further, he noticed patches of weeds littering the ground. Weeds are plants, he thought, but they are not fragile, and therefore they are not beautiful. But they are strong.

Strength is not appreciated like beauty. You can beat and slice a weed to its roots; you can spray it with chemical weaponry. Yet still, it will grow back. It will keep on fighting and it will not go down for anyone. If not for the reason of living, then for the sole purpose of surviving the attacks of opposing forces.

Strike a weed down, and it will rise again. It will always rise. Flowers have human beings to keep them alive for their beauty, weeds have only themselves. And a weed has just as much right to live as a dandelion.

Ulysses kept walking, wishing to leave the weeds alone. The scenery was now becoming bleak and devoid of color. The same things existed. The dandelions still stood, the weeds still stood. Yet they lacked the charm they had exuded so proudly before.

Ulysses kept walking. The same pattern occurred. For every few steps he took, his surroundings turned darker and darker. Nature’s lifeblood was being sucked out, and eventually, there was nothing. Black nothingness. He looked behind him and could see, way off in the distance, a colorful landscape with a pale blue sky. He looked in front of him and saw nothing.

It was then that they struck him: black tentacles, seething, filled with hatred. They wrapped around his body, rendering him defenseless. They pulled him slowly into the darkness. All he saw was the beauty that he had left behind. Then he saw nothing.

---

Ulysses woke up.

Ulysses woke up on the cold, uninviting floor.

It took him a moment to gauge where he was, but he remembered that he had chosen to sleep outside of the System that night. He recalled that he had wanted to live as the normal people lived, outside of his comfort zone. Only now was he realizing that his idea was not nearly as fulfilling as he’d imagined.

He began to recollect what had happened the night before:

He had walked in to a downtrodden, rotting pub. It was owned by a powerful figure that had an alliance with Ulysses and his partner Odysseus, and Ulysses assumed he was safe there. It was a convenient place to grasp the lifestyle of the ragged proletariats, and it offered what the pub's newest occupant assumed was security. He had ordered a few drinks there, paying with a few cartridges of ammunition, had gotten drunk, flirted (and possibly fornicated, he couldn’t remember) with an ugly prostitute named Shelly. He remembered paying a bit too much for the ability to sleep upstairs, and had subsequently passed out there.

The pub had no name, or at least its name was the pub. There were other bars in the city, but when someone said the pub, they meant the pub or they were mistaken. It used to have a name, but the sign was stolen, so the nickname suited it well enough. It was owned by Phillip Juggs, a merchant and underworld boss. Ulysses had met him once or twice, and they had a couple business arrangements regarding prostitution, arms trading, et cetera. The merchant had a famous following of disgusting hoboes called “The Good Brothers,” that did whatever he asked. What precisely he offered them to gain such strong loyalty was subject to much debate. They weren’t the best soldiers, seeing as none of them were good at anything but breathing and that they were equipped with rusty pipes at best. Still, the amount of displaced hoboes in the city amassed to become quite an impressive (at least impressively large) army.

Ulysses got up. There were no bathroom facilities here. Most people just went outside to do their dirty work. He was regretting the time he had spent here. Ulysses looked at his pile of equipment in the room, and realized that most of it was not there. He suspected a member of the Good Brothers, as all of them were kleptomaniacs. Ulysses saw that his weapons were gone, as well as his bulletproof vest and mask. He had possessed a Springfield XD .40 and a sawn off double barrel shotgun, too. In addition, the walkie talkie used to contact his base was gone. [These items will be available for purchase or theft later in the RP.]

All that as left were his shirt, pants, and coat. He looked in his pocket and saw his steel knuckled gloves were still there. The Good Brothers didn’t always take everything, because they weren’t that observant. Luckily, his vest and mask could be replaced, but it would be a dangerous walk to the system.

Ulysses put on his coat and walked downstairs. In the city, temperatures usually stayed a bit below 50 degrees Fahrenheit, about 10 degrees Celsius. It could fluctuate, but was generally fairly consistent. Most people chose to don outerwear.

The city’s sky didn’t change much. It was usually fairly dark, and at night it became darker, but it always retained its dark, depressing, greenish hue. In the old days, most places would open up their windows to soak in the beautiful sky- now it didn't matter whether the sky slipped in or not, most places were still melancholy.

Weaponless, Ulysses walked through the pub. The pub was a fairly typical establishment found in the city, and in the morning, it was even worse of a sight to behold. There were a few people passed out around there, a couple unattractive women and a few drunkard men. The ugly and poorly dressed bartender was still at the bar, and while it looked like he was drunk, people knew he was just “special.” Ulysses looked at a door by the bartender that probably led to the true heart of the Pub: Juggs’s office.

Ulysses stood in the middle and looked around. Something seemed off, but he dismissed the feeling, knowing that he had never seen the pub in the morning. But still, he felt like he could hear heavy breathing. There was an overturned table, and he imagined that whatever was making those unsettling sounds would be behind there. He nonchalantly walked toward it, and looking behind, saw a grotesque human being in a torn trench coat. The man jumped up relatively sluggishly, attempting to lob Ulysses in the face. Being proficient in krav maga, or at least not being dumb enough not to dodge the attack, Ulysses sidestepped it and twisted the man’s arm. The attacker was now grappled, and the more skillful combatant knocked his head against the wall.

It was then that another man, similarly clad, jumped up from behind the bar, right next to the bartender. The guy hopped over the bar and ran full speed at Ulysses, apparently hoping for the best. Crouched on the ground, he clothes-lined the man in the stomach, swiveling him around and putting him in a chokehold.

With the human shield faced toward the bartender, Ulysses yelled out, “Hell is this, man? Didn’t you notice this guy?” The man in the choke hold wiggled and grunted, but didn’t offer an intelligible reply.

The bartender slowly went and grabbed something from below the bar, pulled it up, and revealed it to be a single-shot 12 gauge shotgun. Ulysses pushed his human shield toward the hostile bartender and jumped to the side. The heavy buckshot connected with the human shield, shredding him and propelling him a bit backwards. Ulysses ran toward the bartender who was now reloading his weapon. He vaulted over the counter and kicked the bartender back into the wall, breaking all the glasses and the shelf. Ulysses regained his ground and hit the man three times in the nose, his steel knuckled gloves instantly breaking the bartender’s nose. The bartender sank to the floor.

Ulysses took the single barreled shotgun, took one shell and loaded it, and put five in his pocket. He looked at the bartender, whose face had been reduced to a bloody pulp. He wasn’t moving. Glancing at the buckshot recipient on the ground, who was presumably no longer with the living, he then looked at the guy behind the table, who was either dead or knocked out.

Ulysses walked out the door. There were a few more people passed out or high on some strong drug, for they hadn’t noticed the blast inside. He scanned the area and could see an alley down the street, where a couple hobos seemed to notice him. There was an entrance to the subway, Ulysses’s home, just a few hundred meters away. He broke into a quick walk towards it. The hobo-infested alley was behind him, and when he looked back, he noticed that the hobos had begun running at a full sprint towards him. Swiveling around, and taking no chances, he discharged a shot at the horde. He didn’t look back to see how many had been incapacitated, and jumped down the steps to the subway entrance. At the bottom of the steps, there was a steel door, the type that all entrances now possessed. It was a solid piece of reinforced steel with a prison-like slit that was closed. Ulysses was out of view of the hobos, but would be cornered if they chose to follow him.

He banged on the steel door. The slit opened, revealing a peace of one-way bulletproof glass that he could not see through.

Nothing happened. He knew there was a two way sound system, and he heard through some sort of amplifier a voice of a guard.

“Who are you?” the voice asked.

The horde of hobos was coming closer. “It’s Ulysses!” he screamed, and there was silence for another moment. Then he realized it: not all the guards he employed had seen his face. He realized his own mistake, and knew that this overly cautious guard would’ve questioned him with or without the mask. Anybody could wear the mask, he thought.

The horde came closer. A group of hobos was just a few feet away from the steps. The steel door swung open, two guards armed with automatic rifles ushering Ulysses in. What looked like ten hobos fell down the steps, the others climbing over them. Ulysses jumped in, and the door swung shut.

Ulysses panted, his heart racing. He never imagined that he’d be so frightened by common vagrants. He looked up, seeing a 20 ft hallway where the guards were stationed. There was an additional steel door with another slit at the end, which swung open with an additional tier of guards. One couldn’t be too safe in the city.

Ulysses walked down further stairs to the subway platform. It looked like any metropolitan subway, only older and darker. The lights used electricity of a generator, so they had to keep the whole facility darkly lit.

He could hear the familiar screech of the subway car coming to greet him. There were about 15 other people that waited there, accompanied by one of Ulysses’s scavengers. The scavenger walked toward him, carrying an assault rifle.

“Good to see you. We were lucky enough to find some useful survivors out there. Two doctors, good catch.” the man said.

After the new colonists were brought to their new home in one of the many stations of the complex subway system, nicknamed simply the System, Ulysses paid a visit to what had become an improvised science center. The compound was not ideal for creating homes, but it was ideal for safety, seclusion and travel. System soldiers could sprout up at any strategic location in the city.

Since the System was so complex, residents were designated to different stations and street entrances. Since the subways only consisted of platforms and train tracks, they had to spread everyone out. There were areas where survivors would sleep on cots, and each of these stations were equipped with simple appliances and cooking implements installed by Ulysses’s engineers.

Ulysses shared control of the System with his partner, Odysseus. After the apocalypse, the two had secured resources and taken everyone they could find to the subways, which had been largely deserted. It was rumored that Odysseus kept all memories from times before the apocalypse, but he rarely shared any information regarding the past.

Odysseus was a narcissistic scientist that was developing the next big thing: humanity’s salvation. He had devised a sort of shielding system to protect the city from toxic gases that plagued its outskirts. Odysseus said that once signs of the apocalypse arose, anyone that inhaled one breath of this gas died immediately. It acted as a fog, concealing everything behind it. Among the only information Odysseus had shared was that he had helped build the shields before dawn of the new age. At present, he was building a method of routing the shield’s power to a mobilized version that could protect a large amount of people as they moved. The problem was that once the power was rerouted, the shields encompassing the city would fail; everyone not in the mobile shield would die. Ulysses and Odysseus were planning to transport a colony of people to the lands that were outside of the city, though none knew exactly what was out there.

Ulysses got off of the subway car and stepped on to a platform that led to an area with a series of complex electric machinery and monitors. Sitting at a table, reviewing documents, was Odysseus. Ulysses always thought that Odysseus spent too much time on his carefully manicured appearance, but he never said anything.

Ulysses sat down next to the scientist. “Salutations.”

Odysseus didn’t even look up from his reading, saying, “Find anything?”

“No. Scavengers picked up a few survivors, found a few supplies. That’s about it. I went out last night, didn’t find anything.”

“I wouldn’t say it was a completely unfruitful evening. You smell of liquor, so I would say that there is more to your story than meets the eye. And seeing as you lack any sort of weaponry besides that shotgun, which is not something you would usually carry, I would say that you lost more than you found. And I do not see your usual…” he raised his hand in a “shooing” gesture to assert the frivolity of Ulysses’s equipment before he concluded, “battle implements.”

Odysseus dressed markedly different than Ulysses. He usually wore suits that had somehow held up after the apocalypse. Today, he had chosen a brown suit with thin, white pinstripes; a matching vest; a white, wrinkle-free shirt and a brown tie. His dark brown hair was in a perfect comb-over, not one strand out of place. He wore what would’ve been considered a high-end watch before the rebirth of civilization. He wore small glasses and had light blue eyes. He had a smaller, more delicate face than that of Ulysses, but still remained handsome and knew it.

Ulysses looked down. “Can’t say it was an amazing evening, can’t say it was a good morning either. I got ambushed by a bunch of hobos.”

Odysseus looked up from whatever he was reading. “Now that is information that is much more important and vital to my well-being. We should have started the conversation with such talk. If this was a truly unprovoked attack, then we have a larger problem than your confrontation with these ‘hobos.’ For if this was a premeditated strike from our merchant ‘friend,’ it complicates matters.”

Ulysses leaned back in his chair, folding his arms on his chest. “I’m not sure exactly what to do here. What are you thinking? Strike back or let it play out?”

Odysseus clasped his hands on the table and sighed. “I would say we’d let it play out. Take some soldiers over to the Pub and disguise it as a night of fun for your best men. See what he does.”

Ulysses stood up. “I’ll do that. But first, I want to make sure the medical staff has everything they need and then replenish the armory and my equipment."

Odysseus looked back down. "You do that."

Dreams tormented by nightmares, resulting in night terrors. In his sleep, Grayson seemed almost possessed by some demon out of The Book that old Juggs preached from frequently. Grayson's amnesia-stricken mind and recent incurable insomnia had caused his dreams to become terrifying rides through horrible memories and figments from the darkest reaches of his subconscious. He shook violently, ground his teeth, and often, screamed.

These night terrors became so frequent that Grayson accepted them. He would never see a sweet dream again, never rest peacefully, until the day he would eventually die.

But tonight, his terrors were unbearable. They shook his body, made him reach out and clutch onto the greasy, unwashed and matted fur on his faithful companion, Evan. Grayson's eyes shed tears for names and faces that passed him in his dreams. Names and faces that belonged to those who were lost in the apocalypse, attacked by mutant creatures.

Grayson was mourning in his sleep. And he had almost no idea who these people were. His mind released a name, a face occasionally, but one thing was sure. They were all dead. Every last one.

He awoke in a cold sweat. As he sat and looked out on The City from the rooftop he called his home, he couldn't shake the dream from his mind. Evan walked up to him, curled up in his lap, and rested, comforting his master.

"It's okay buddy. We're okay. I'm okay." Grayson said, looking off to the distance, where a group of vagrants had seemed to take an unhealthy interest in one of The Pub's customers.

Grayson hadn't particularly liked the Good Brothers, or their leader. Although he didn't have a particular distaste for them either. They left him alone, he left them alone. Only in special circumstances where innocent people were involved in their so-called "Business Practices" had he opposed them.

Grayson shook himself awake, and roused Evan with a ruffle of the fur on his head. He retrieved the long wooden makeshift walkway he had made to reach across the alleyway and onto the roof next to his home and set it into place. After tossing his bag ahead of him across the alley and onto the opposite roof, he and his companion crossed, and hid the walkway in some old junk.

The walkway was one of Grayson's brilliant ideas for security. Looters and raiders couldn't be trusted in The City, let alone the zombies. So, in defence, he found two buildings with equal height roofs, and made one completely inaccessible. Then, he built a sturdy walkway to cross to it from the other building, and set up a home there with a tent and various things scavenged from around The City. He then brought the walkway to and fro, between the rooftops, to prevent coming under attack by the city's terrors. If anything wanted to attack him in his sleep, it would have to try it's hardest to get to him, first.

Grayson now walked alongside his dog, machete in hand, to scope out The Pub, and loot what he could from the drunken rampage that no doubt had taken place the night before.

Death, decay, ruin, sadness, those weren't the only words to describe the current events, how the city came to be after what happened what seemed ages ago to Will, but those were the first coming to his mind. Losing memory of his previous life somewhat disoriented the ex-police officer for a good amount of time after the apocalypse, but what he had to face after seemed to be a nightmare without an end. Some days, Will would've hoped he'd just wake up from all this and find himself in his bed, in the arms of his beloved wife, Anna. Unfortunately, he'd realize that this was the truth, the pain was real, and everything was reality, no matter how bad or unrealistic the whole situation came to be.

It would happen sometimes for Will to just lay down for a moment and think of everything that happened so far. Sometimes he would not believe what sort of things he went through and would confirm he was not making up stories by looking at his journal. His last stand with his policemen comrades against a horde of infected, mindless people recently named "Zombies" at the police station, only to be one of the few to have survived the attack. Using the police database, he found out where his home was, and shortly after discovered their gruesome half-eaten bodies. He ran away as fast as he could, but no matter how far he went, he would never forget the horrible sight.

Will frowned, wiping a few tears from his cheeks. He had day-dreamed and mourned his family long enough, he had to get up and continue. His sorrow and weariness changed into a vengeful look for a few seconds, blaming his misfortune on the Zombies. He would never forgive or show mercy on those filthy creatures. They have to pay for killing his family; they all have to die before creating any more sorrow. But at that moment, Will brought his cold right hand to his face, and took deep breathes, as if a part of himself told him to calm down. He wasn't the only one facing this situation. He had to remain calm and sane to keep himself alive. Staying alive was the only way to avenge his family. He had to stay alive to help those who also lost their family and prevent any more lost.

After calming down, Will got up, taking his supply bag and his shotgun from the floor and swinging the bag over his shoulder, keeping his shotgun in his right hand, close to him. He was now ready to exit his improvised hideout from a dark alley in the city he shared with a few other citizens to head out for the streets. Rumors say that hobos are become an increasing danger by the days. It seemed that they got violent all of a sudden on one guy earlier, as one guy named Jake witnessed running back to the hideout to share what he saw on the streets.

Will loaded a rubber bullet in his shotgun, just in case something goes wrong on the streets today. The police officer knew the dangers of the streets in his early days of his career as a cop, but they never were as casual as of nowadays.

"Going out today, Will?" One of those sharing this small piece of the dark alleys asked Will as he noticed him heading out.

"Time to investigate those rumors." Will simply answered to the frail lady.

"Watch yourself, today started quite violently. It’d be a shame if you died for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." The man named Jake advised Will.

Will just nodded and headed to the main street. It was a bit cold today, or so was the impression the dark alley gave to Will. As he went outside, it was a bit better, but it was nonetheless cold. For today, he would try and meet the group he had heard about, those people lurking in the subway. Thinking of subways, Will located an entrance yesterday night, near the pub, but didn't go down there yet. There was a bit of a mess as he headed there. Just like Jake said, there seemed to be a few grunts injured, bleeding bruised. Will wondered what exactly happened, but didn't wanted to get involved in all this. They didn't seem to be the kind of trustworthy bunch. Will quickly learned to not trust and hang out near bunch of shabby gangs, as it may quickly result in being stripped of any supply, even of one's life.

"Nice gun you got there." A filthy and dirty man sitting on the edge of the street, playing with a knife, said to no one in particular with a grin.

Will gave him a threatening glance before turning his head back towards his destination. Not to be cool and all, but he had to also focus on his other surroundings. Usually, these sorts of guys are not alone, waiting for an opportunity to ambush. It would pretty stupid though to face against a guy with a shotgun, even if it is loaded with rubber bullets, but they don't know that. Will quickened his pace unconsciously towards the subway entrance to avoid meeting that gang of villains he heard from Jake earlier.

Before he knew it, Will founds himself face to face with a man. Unkept hair, morning beard and stinking of alcohol. The ex-law enforcer figured that this man was drunk, if not high on some drugs already this early. Will examined the man, but found nothing threatening on him, although the man's attitude seemed to tell otherwise.

"Got a problem, buddy-hic?" The drunk man said with an aggressive tone.

"Nothing." Will answered.

Will tried to make his way around the man, but he obviously was trying to pick a fight by pushing Will. Took by surprised, Will tripped backwards and fell prone on the ground, near a dark alley. With a grunt, Will got quickly on his feet and waited for the man to make his next move. As expected, the drunk man charged him, but he stumbled on his feet and fell in Will's arm. Prepared, Will grabbed the man and threw him on the ground, chin against the ground. A police officer would have no problem handcuffing a drunk man, so did Will.

As he should've expected, but got distracted, Will got hit by something from behind. Two fairly large men stood behind Will, and one of them was holding a baseball bat, the one who hit him from behind. Will rolled backwards, but was half-stunned from the hit. He grogilly drew his handgun, but by the time he would be pointing his weapon at his assaillants, he was locked in a grapple with them. Even if he was well-taught in wrestling, Will was unable to escape his assaillants grapple.During the struggle, Will was punched on his torso and on his head repeatedly. As Will was struggling for his life, his finger slipped on the trigger, and a shot from his handgun could be heard. One of the two dropped slowly on the ground. The second man, shocked from the shot and his partner suddenly falling on the ground, broke the grapple and ran away.

Will, dizzy from that sudden attack, fell on both knees, trying to catch his breath. But as he breathed, he felt a sharp pain in his torso. The ex-member of the police reached the part where it was hurting, and belt a hot fluid on his fingers. Looking at his hand, it was drenched in blood, his blood. The pain seemed to intensify as adrenaline seemed to fade away.

Will struggled to get on his feet, but he managed to do it in pain. He was pressing his hands on his wound, walking away from the alley. The sharp pain was reflected on his face, and it seemed to worsen by the seconds. Will walked towards the pub, hoping there would be someone able to help him, although it seemed to be unlikely.

"Anybody? Help..." Will tried to yell, but the pain kept his voice at a moderate volume.

He heard the gunshot. Gunshots only mean one thing. People in trouble. He ran to find Will, clutching his torso where blood flowed down from a wound made by a knife.

Grayson ran over to Will, who was in severe pain after being attacked by the assailants. Instinctively, he grabbed him, and pulled him to his feet, moving him quickly to his safe and secure rooftop. All the while, Will was screaming, his cut bleeding horribly, and fighting for his life.

They reached the top of the roof opposite his home. He set Will down, propping him up against the stairwell access. Grayson quickly dropped the walkway into place and ran across to grab gauze from a medical crate he took with supplies from a nearby abandoned hospital. Returning to Will, he bandaged up the man, and forced him to swallow pills that would dull the pain and force his blood to coagulate faster.

Once the pain had subsided, and Will had enough energy to speak, he did.

"Thank you." Said Will, breathing heavily.
"Don't mention it."
"I owe you my life."
"That's the painkillers talking. Besides, I thought you pigs wore vests to prevent this kind of thing"
"Lost mine."
"Let me guess, Good Brothers? Ah, anyway, you'll be fine in a few days. If you like, we've got food and water, and Evan and I don't eat very much. Why don't you stay here?"
"I guess so. I haven't got much of anywhere else to go."

Grayson helped Will to his feet, and cafefully across the walkway. He set him down in his tent and found a tarp and various other materials he had used to make barricades before he decided just to blow the stairwell up and not worry about invaders.

Within a few hours, Grayson had built him a small 6-foot shack with 3 walls and a floor for Will, and gave him a promise to build a better shack or find another tent to pitch soon.

"So what were you doing, going to The Pub? You don't look like the drinking type." Said Will.
"It's a long story. I've heard rumors, that they're going to shut down the shields, kill everyone except those in The System. I thought maybe if I could get my hands on that Book Juggs keeps on him, I could get enough time to talk him into helping me stop it." Explained Grayson.
"That doesn't seem like your battle to fight, kid." Said Will.
"Well, I haven't got much to fight for anymore, and I think to really be living, you need to fight for something." Said Grayson "Now get some rest.".

Another sleepless night, thought James. Looking for something to pass the time, he pulls a stone from his pocket and begins sharpening his knife. The the harsh scraping of the stone on the blade always seemed to comfort James in a way that no one else could.

James was just starting to work on sharpening his sword when a gunshot sounded in the distance. Gunshots, while not uncommon, usually mean that someone is in trouble, and James could not resit the urge to find the source.

James quickly puts away the sharpening stone and jumps to his feet. His mind is racing as to what could be happening. Either there were zombies nearby, or someone got into a fight. Either way, he felt the need to help whoever was in danger.

Sliding his knife out of its sheath, James stepped out of the warehouse and and began to work his way to where he heard the gunshot. He decided to take a path through the abandoned buildings because there would not be as many hobos there as opposed to on the streets. Still, he kept his knife in hand just in case a crazy hobo decides to attack him.

Eventually James reaches where he thought he heard the gunshot. His suspicions were confirmed by by the blood on the ground. James spots the body on the ground and decides that it was a fight, but the only sign of the other person was a blood trail leading away. He can’t tell if the body is the assailant or the victim. Despite a part of his mind screaming to leave the blood trail alone, James’ curiosity gets the better of him. He decides to be cautious, but he still follows the blood trail.