IC: This is how the world ends

OOC Thread

Malcolm looked out the window of his apartment into the empty streets of Los Angeles. The streets had never looked like this before in the entire time he had been there. Every once in a while he thought he heard a car and ran back to the window, only to be dissappointed, believing himself to be hearing things.

Turning away from the window, Malcolm picked up the remote to his television, flicking it on and going through the channels. Nothing was on except for emergency signals, so he turned it off rather quickly, hating the sound it was making. Sitting in his chair, his mind began to think over the past couple of days, and suddenly he realized that he hadn't actually spoken to another person in more than two days. He took another look out the window and decided that it was time to leave the apartment. There had to be other people - he had to find them. This flu couldn't have taken everyone - that was just insane. The government would never allow something like that to happen...would they?

Adam was amazed at how much life had changed for him since the plague swept accross the world , not only had he discovered within himself the need to be around people, when in the past dealing with others was a thing to be avoided unless there was no other choice.

More startling was his ability to move from law abiding citizen trying to keep away from anyone, to thief and a gun carrying thief at that , he was now based just outside of Mitchell, South Dakota no-one was about and only a few bodies littered the township, he had in two days raided the stores of every canned item and holed -up in a house he could only dream of owning
even with his trust fund which was of no use now.

A Big RV was parked outside the property, and all his work experience before was paying off, he'd had to learn to drive trucks and getting petrol out of pumps when the computers were down...piece of cake...all that he needed was someone to talk to ....and that would be the most amazing thing of all for the lifelong loner.

The city a new begining

He drove slowly to the first city he could think of the west side of the mnts. The roads were quite. No cars, he had never seen the roads like this ever. Even when he would drive at midnight you would see a car or two pass by. Not now the slients of the road was eerie. Taking another turn he saw a sign that told him the city was only 20 min away.

"damn radio" he muttered as he look down at it. The face plate dark nothing lit up on it. When he broke from the world he tried to break away as much as possible that meant smashing his radio so he had no conferting voices to listen to when he was feeling bad. It was just him and him alone out there. Moving down the road he saw the broking down cars to his left and right. No one was near them but he swore he saw someone leaned over the steering wheel in one of the cars.

Entering the city didn't help him much more. The streets were quite well quite if you didn't count the dog barking. Jason for the first time since his almost certen demise 2 winters ago was scared. This was something out of a Sci-Fi flick. Like this is what happens when the A-bomb drops.

Thats when he noticed he was out of gas. Thinking on a 45 min ride you would notice your gas gauge but sometime you miss whats right in front of you. Looking for a station or something that sold fuel he moved slowly down the quite streets to a shell. He couldn't tell if the sign used to move or not it seem to be stuck in one spot as pulled in. The sign said "GAS 5.99 while supply last". Turning the engine off at the shell station he walk toward the store to see if anyone was in there. His hand were sweety one was on the back of his jeans where he kept a old loaded .357 that his dad gave him way back when.

Stepping inside the room was dark no power anywhere. You could smell the old milk rotten in the refedges showing it had been at least a week or two since the power had gone out.

"Even longer since anyone was here i bet" Jason thought then spoke "ANYONE AT ALL. I NEED SOME GAS AND I NEED SOME HELP I FOUND A DEAD BODY OUT IN THE WOODS WHERE IS EVERYONE." Only the silence responded. "CHRIST WELL IF NO ONE HERE GAS IS ON THE HOUSE. Well I know the owner not arround now."

Still scaning he moved close to the gas pump switchs and flipped the one for pump 3 and almost enter 20.00 then noticeing the gas price add an extra 0. He quickly left the station after that and went over to pump his gas still thinking out his next move.

Alley Martin . . . New York City

Alley looked out her window down to the street. It was very unnatural to see the streets of NYC so empty. No people rushing to get a cab, or walking down the street. No messengers on their bikes trying to make their way through traffic. There was no traffic....

Alley was lost, didn't know what had happened. She had been working late at the office, gotten tired and crashed on her couch. Something she had done on many occasions. Usually her assistant woke her up with a Starbucks coffee. Only today there was no assistant, there was no coffee. There was no one.

She tried turning on the television but got nothing. The radio gave her the same effect. She had no idea what had happened to everyone. Why was no one at the office? Had something seriously gone wrong with the world?

Alley decided to venture in the halls and see if there was anything; anything that would let her know what happened. She saw nothing, it was early in the morning, maybe everyones still at home she thought. The power still worked so she took the elevator to her car at the bottom floor.

The doors opened and she knew something was wrong. There was a smell, a horrible oder meeting her. Looking aroung she saw nothing at first, but then something caught her eye. It was Jessie, her assistant, she was slupped over her steering wheel.

"Oh my, no, she can't be," Alley said out loud.

Jessie was dead. As Alley looked around she saw other people slumped over in their cars. All of them dead. Her head felt as though it were spinng, she just couldn't get a handle on this. She ran to her car, got in and sped down the street.

Not knowing where she was headed; she just hoped to find someone alive. Anyone, it didnt matter.

Tara Kennedy - south of Philadelphia

Tara awoke to the sound of a soft snore and the feel of hot, wet breath at her neck.

“Tyler, hell of a watch dog you are.” she rolled away from the massive ball of puppy fur, almost smiling as she wiped her damp neck. “Well, get up now, ye fearsome beastie.”

The big dog is already up and bounding around her in large tail wagging circles as she stands on one foot trying to get her boot on. “Hold, hold.” Her command has no affect on the big puppy, and he continues to dance around her as if trying to get her fall to the ground. Finally, he sits and watches with his big brown eyes, as she gets those boots on and then gathers up their supplies before making breakfast. It was always the same, every morning since they started traveling together.

Tara walked out of Philadelphia seven days ago with no destination in mind, just a direction, south, as far away from cold, northern winters as her feet could carry her. She knew she would never make it back to Ireland, and as miserable as she felt, she was too stubborn to die. Instead, she started walking. Four days ago, she walked up to a farm, maybe in Maryland, but it could have been Delaware. There were some useful items in the barn, useful to a girl always looking for supplies. She was going to bypass the house, she knew that along with anything useful, she would also find the stench of death and she wanted no reminders but she thought she heard a noise coming from the house…

“You’ll regret this, girl. You know you will.” She knew that even a fellow survivor could be deadly… she had seen them preying on each other in Philadelphia, she had tended the wounds, and she had covered the bodies.

She could smell the fetid scent of death even before she opened the door and had to steal herself to push through it. Once inside, the smell hit her like a wall and before she could back out she fell to her knees and vomited, adding one more stench to the room. As the empty retching passed and she regained her feet, she looked around the room, and nearly vomited again.

A family of five … no… six people lay sprawled on the furniture, not victims of The Flu, like every survivor she could recognize those on sight, but suicide and murder. They had been dead for weeks by the look of them. “I hope that it was a choice to die together rather than face The Flu and not…”

Her thoughts were interrupted by the noise, now louder and covering her mouth and nose with her shirt, she followed it down a hall to an old wooden door. Slowly, she pushed it open… Backed into the corner was a large dog, weighting nearly as much as Tara. He was growling, showing all of his teeth, and he looked like he was ready to jump at her with the least provocation, but she also heard the undercurrent of a whine in his growl, and saw the slight wag in his tail. For her, it was the look in his eyes that really gave him away. She knew exactly what the big dog was saying, she felt the same way.

“I don’t want to hurt you but I will defend myself. If you’ll be my friend, I’ll be yours.”

The small Irish woman and the big brown dog have been walking together ever since.

Scott Kingly, Chicago Illinois

One of the tallest, most prestigious buildings in Chicago lay right beside the lake, overlooking it to one side. The other side held an even more beautiful sight, the entire city sprawled out, urban euphoria if there was such a thing.

Both sides held their own beauty, and on any given day of the week, the top exec's would be looked out of these windows inside this tall building, on their phones, in meeting, making million dollar decisions hand over fist.

But, no one looked out the windows anymore.

No one made these million dollar decisions.

Except for Scott Kingly.

He looked good, perfect. Slick back hair, wide blue eyes that seemed to take in the world, and this tall lean frame that sat down behind his desk, looking out at the city that was Chicago.

What would he call it now? The city of Scott? He supposed it was more appropriate. No one was left, they were all dead. By default, if he's the only one... he gets to name it whatever the hell he wants.

The president of PepsiCo never called him back. Scott sat behind his desk, staring at his cell phone, which had gone silent the last couple of days.

His cell phone never went silent. It was an epitamy of this modern technology, ringing every few minutes, people who needed last minute changes, disasters that occured, friends with offers, brokers with inside information, people who wanted his money.

Now, it stood silent, like everything else. His computer hadn't gotten email in weeks. Not even Spam mail... Scott had turned off the filters just to make sure. No spam mail, no one trying to sell him Penis Pills or help him get a mortgage.

The fax, the television, the office, Chicago... the world, they had all shut down one after the other. Shut down and now waited, silently, for Scott to die too.

But, Scott wouldn't die. No, not Scott Kingly. There was too much to do, too many deals to make. That's how it worked. He made the deals, he didn't agree to them. He led the pack, he didn't follow.

He picked up his phone, speed dialing everyone he knew. Some got voicemails, others simply had strange noises on the other end, like he'd gotten a fax number instead of a phone number.

He began dialing random numbers, for someone, anyone in Chicago (Scott, Illinois) to pick up. Just say hello. Tell Scott that the world is ok, that someone else is here. Let Scott make you a deal. We can work something out, how about we sell our PepsiCo stock, put the dividends into Coke, and rehash a new flavor, New Coke, that new Coke taste. We'll redistribute it.

Of course it'll be a ridiculous failure. We jump ship the day it hits the markets... our stock will triple by that time, just from all the hype of the Coke. And by the time it sinks to financial bankruptcy, we'll own three times as much PepsiCo as we did two months ago?

Except, there was no one on the other end of the line to hear his brilliant ideas. No one to share in his philosophies, no one to take down his calls.

No one...

Scott Kingly got up from his desk, adjusted his tie, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out of the office for the day.

He passed by his secretary's desk, where Emily had passed away still in her seat. She'd died of a coughing fit, hurled over on the desk. Little maggots came out of her eyes.

"Hold my calls Emily, I'm going out for a bit."

She remained silent.

on the road

"damn, doesn't this suck ten differrent ways. that's it, talk to yourself, like you've got someone else to talk to."

steve had finally given up on staying at home. he'd buried his mother then thought he'd just camp out at his farm till things got back to normal. he waited, checked his satellite television and radio and there was nothing out there broadcasting. after a few days of drinking till dark then hiding in his house at night, he had enough.

after filling his beemer with food, water and liquor, and making sure he had a couple of pistols and a rifle handy, he headed out to see what was out there. could he be the only person left alive in the whole world? at first, all along the roads, all he found were vehicles everywhere, all filled with dead people. not that he would have bothered to take the time to bury them, but the stench was unbareable and there were so many of them.

approaching pittsburg from the south, he soon found out he wasn't the last soul on earth. he began spotting small groups of people. after his first two encounters, though, he began to wish he were the last one alive. the first, a group of ten were evenly split, male and female, all seemed middle aged. he spotted them camping on the side of the road and stopped to greet the new found "lucky" folks. they were filthy from days of living outside. he noticed they had lots of jewlery on, all expensive. he stayed at his car as the huddled around, all saying how glad they were to see another human alive. then one of the men, looking into steve's car, offered him one of the women in trade for one of the bottles of liquor. "not for keeps, unless you want to make it three bottles", he said. a couple of the women stepped closer, smiling and winking at steve. "pick any one you want, don't matter"

looking around, steve could see that there were many empty liquor bottles and beer cans laying everywhere. "we've been walking the road for a few days now, helping ourselves to whatever we can find." the man said, flashing a shiney rolex watch on his wrist. "folks in those cars don't seem to mind if we help ourselves, but we've run out of booze and the party is slowing down."

they began to move in too close for his comfort and steve quickly opened the car door and jumped in. the group pressed in close, surrounding the car. a loud crash from the rear and another of the men had slamed a large rock through the rear window of the car. steve fired the car up, slammed it in gear and immediately pulled out, knocking several of the people down and dragging the roick thrower a couple hundred yards till he lost his grip and fell.

his next encounter was even worse. as he left the farming country south of pittsburg and began to encounter increasingly more towns, he saw occaisional groups of armed people. some waved, others threatened, but steve did not want to stop.

this was going to take some getting used to. who could you trust? steve always believed he was smarter than most people and could talk his way into whatever he wanted. it didn't look like talking was going to help much now. always brave when he had the obvious upper hand, he had nearly pissed his pats when then party people attacked his car. he was sure he had run over at least a couple of them getting away. was this what the world had become? as these thoughts went through his mind, he sees the road is blocked ahead.

slowing down, aproaching the barricade, he notices armed men in military clothing standing beside and behind the roadblock. he stops several feet short and rolls down the window. "is this a government compound?" he asks.

with a short laugh, one of the men answer. "yeah, our government, not yours. now pull over and let us see what you're carrying or we'll shoot you where you sit" putting the car in reverse, steve begins to back up. "STOP OR I"LL SHOOT!" barely had the words come out of his mouth when the man leveled his rifle and blew out steve's windshield. steve leans over and slides the car around and drives off to a hail of gunfire.

front and rear windows gone and near his wits end, steve drives on, not knowing where but feeling safe while moving. he spots a sign for a local army reserve armory and follows the signs. the gates are closed and he sees a body on the ground just inside the gate. stopping and carefully getting out, he sees the body is a young soldier who must have died while on guard. he yells out, but no one answers. taking his own gun with him, he goes to a door, finds it unlocked and enters. the smell is horrendous! he finds several bodies scattered through the building, but no one alive. he can't believe his luck, though. in the parking lot outside the building are several humvee's, the armored kind. with a little trial and error, he finds keys for the vehicles as well as the arsenal where he takes several more rifles and ammunnition, body armor and even a helmut. as an afterthought, he even takes a few cases of the MRE's and water. moving his own things into the hummer, it is packed full and waering his new found flack vest, steve heads out again.

but where? a vague nagging feeling tells him to go west. but west would mean going through downtown pittsburg and he doesn't want to be trapped in an area of tall buildings and narrow streets. so maybe a bit northeast for now and swing around north of the city. he worries about the coming night. how can he go to sleep while he's all alone? if only he had at least one other person. someone to talk with and watch each other's back. didn't matter, man or woman, just someone. he used to feel lonely when he was living with his mother, but even her harping would be a blessing right now.

Aoife Patrick, Chicago Airport

The airport was dead. Literally dead. The air stank of rotting flesh and decomposing bodies and was silent, utterly silent. Aoife had stopped retching a little while after leaving the small suite of rooms she had been calling ‘home’ since her unplanned arrival at the terminal, she hadn’t gotten used to the smell as such, but there was little else to throw up left inside her.

She had been due to fly, non-stop, to Los Angeles from New York as part of her ‘book-tour’, when the pilot had collapsed with the same flu like symptoms that had wiped out half of the world so far, forcing an emergency landing at O’Hare, Chicago. As a foreign citizen, and a first class passenger, she’d been taken to a set of rooms to await the next flight. But that flight had never left the ground.
For the first day, someone had poked their head in to check on her every hour or so. The following day she was checked on twice. She hadn’t seen another living soul since.

The last person she had spoken to had been Rick. Her fiancé. His voice had been thick with sickness and his nose snuffling as he’d told her that he loved her and would see her when she got back, when all the craziness was over. Somehow it comforted her to know she had spoken to him one last time, almost convinced he would have been yet another victim of ‘The Flu’. The next time she’d tried to call him, the call had never been answered. She didn’t try anymore after that. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Aoife had sat and cried, her voice wailing and echoing in the silence as she said her goodbyes to the love of her life, thousands of miles away.

Now she had decided she had to get out. Get out of the building that had become a graveyard to the hundreds and thousands of people fleeing the disease who had simply surrendered, some sat in the chairs in the lounges, others slumped over their cases, stuffed full of all they held dear.
She’d rifled the airport stores, finding little fresh food that was worth taking. She’d grabbed a bag from a sports store and jammed it full of clothes and toiletries, bottled water, limited food supplies and paper. Reams of paper and pens, notebooks, journals, diaries. Anything she could write on went into the bag. She knew it was partly the writer in her, but most of it was that Human need to leave something behind her. She didn’t know where she was, other than ‘Chicago’. She didn’t know if anyone else was alive here, or anywhere. She didn’t know where to go to, where she should head when she got outside but she could write down what she saw, what she found, how she felt…
Just in case she didn’t make it.

Aoife washed and changed in one of the washrooms, washing her long dark curls in the sink and splashing the water over her body. Making the most of it, not knowing how long it would be before she would get to wash with clean, running water again. She dried her hair, leaving it hanging loose to dry, pulling on some of the ‘new’ clothes she had got. Jeans and vest style stop, with a shirt over the top. Brand new, sturdy looking walking boots, with several thick pairs of walking socks inside. She may be a writer but she was also a lass from the Glens. She knew how to look after herself and had always loved walking out on the moors and in the fells back home.
It all seemed so far away now.

Stopping herself before she got lost in her thoughts, she shouldered the rather heavy backpack filled with her supplies and headed out of the airport. The air outside was fresh, although tainted with the smells coming from the cars jamming the parking lot and access roads. Weaving through them, a headscarf tied around her nose and mouth to keep out the smell, Aoife began to follow the highway towards the sprawling city.

If she didn’t find anyone else on the way…she might find someone when she got there…

Alley Martin . . . New York City

Alley had taken off with no place in mind, but as she traveled she became more aware that something had happened. She remembered hearing about a flu, but surely it wouldn't have caused this.

As she drove to her home she saw cars full of people, then there were those just lieing there dead. She had no idea where to go or what to do. She needed to find someone. Someone had to be alive. She couldn't be the only one.

As Alley pulled into her house she couldn't help but notice all her neighbors cars remained at home. How wide spread was this, she wondered. Getting into her house she stripped off her clothes and took a warm shower. Needing to feel clean after what she had just seen. She put on some sweat pants and a t-shirt; then got a bag together to take with her.

It looked as is she would be going on a trip. She was sure there were surviors, she just had to find them. She stopped off in the kitchen to bring a few snacks with her then back out to the car.

Now all she could do was drive, drive and hope to hell that she came across another person.

Bruce Samson

Bruce Samson drank deeply, the amber liquid burning the back of his throat as he lowered the bottle from his lips. Swerving his rig back onto the road, Bruce swore slightly, corking the second bottle of whiskey that morning and setting it on the seat beside him. “Shouldn’t be drinking this early,” He muttered to himself, the images of the Tunstall truck stop still in his head, causing him to begin reaching for the bottle once more.

He knew something had happened, something horrible, but nothing had prepared him for Tunstall. Bruce was a two time loser according to the law enforcement community but that hadn’t hardened him enough to prepare him for what he’d found as he pulled into the truck stop located a few miles outside of Tunstall, New Mexico. This one had been worse than the others.

The others, that thought alone made the big man reach for the bottle, taking another deep swig. The first day he’d been scared, now, two weeks later he was simply numb. Deep down inside he knew he was still terrified but no emotion showed, he couldn’t feel anything. Tunstall had made him feel again, that damned creeping fear that bordered on panic had been seeping into his mind ever since he pulled his rig into the familiar truck stop that morning. He’d been driving the same route for nearly a year now, ever since he got out of stir the last time, and he always made a point of stopping at Tunstall for a bite to eat and a bit of conversation. He thought Marge, the early morning waitress, might have had a crush on him and he enjoyed stopping in to see her every time he was passing through. He’d known something was wrong the minute he climbed down from the cab, his hand still on the door, as he heard that eerie silence. A few steps towards the truck stop and the smell had hit him, nearly knocking his large body down as the putrid scent of death filled his nostrils. Retching, Bruce had stumbled back to his truck, opening the trailer up and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. The end of the world and he was stuck driving a cargo of whiskey across the country. At least God’s got a sense of humor, Bruce thought to himself as pulled a rag from his back pocket, tucking it into the neck of the bottle, upending it briefly to soak the rag. Pulling his lighter from his pocket, he lit the rag and heaved it towards the deathly quiet truck stop. “Bye, Marge,” He sighed softly, closing up his truck and climbing back into the cab. As he drove down the lonely highway he could see the orange glow of the fire, of their funeral pyre, in his mirrors.

Pulling his thoughts from the morning’s events, Bruce was somewhat surprised to see what looked like a person dart suddenly in front of his rig. Slamming on the brakes, Bruce struggled to keep the truck from jackknifing as it came to a stop. His hand reached behind the seat, coming up with the sawed off shotgun he kept there as he hopped out of the cab. “Hello?” The large trucker called, peering towards the side of the road where the person had run. You had to be careful with these people, Bruce knew, some of the survivors had become aggressive, almost territorial, threatening or killing strangers that trespassed on their territories. The bruises from his last run in with one of these people were just fading, the shotgun being his only real souvenir from that encounter. “Is there someone there?” He asked again, thumbing back the hammers on the shotgun, advancing towards the bushes slowly.

He parked his brand new Porsche 911 Turbo in the White Zone. There had to be something said for this new world, everything was stream lined. He could park in the White zone, and no one would do a damned thing about it.

Of course, that announcer kept saying it was for immediate loading and unloading of passengers only, but that didn't stop Scott at all. The meter maids who gave out those tickets had caught a bit of the sniffles, and were now laying intheir own beds, getting plenty of fluids and watching daytime television.

Power was still on.

He walked in through the doors, his suitcase in hand. No lines for the ticket counters, how incredible was that? He went right up to the front counter, telling them who he was.

A ghost of a town, but he needn't bother with that. This was Sott Kingly, here, the man, the fucking man who owned stock in half of these airplanes here. He made money every time one landed, and each time one took off. Almost a billionaire... almost.

He walked through security, again no line. It would normally take up to an hour to go through this shit. No nail clippers, no pocket knives, had to empty out all your change, take off your belt.

Nope. He just walked through it. The alarm went off, immediately, telling everyone that he was a terrorist ready to blow up every single plane in the airport with his $1.27 in change.

Normally, with the hustle and bustle of people inside the airport, hundreds... thousands of people, this alarm was fairly quiet, only the few people in line noticed.

With it completely empty though, the buzzer rang down all the halls, echoing off empty corridors, walls that seemed to shake with it, reverberate over and over again the alarm sound.

It carried throughout the entire building. He wouldn't have cared if it wasn't so damned loud. Scott umplugged the damn thing, cutting it off in mid blare.

"Fucking piece of shit," He cried, grabbing his briefcase, going down towards his private jet. He was leaving, leaving Chicago, never returning. He was just going to go on his private jet and never return. Back to civilization, back to where people made and lost millions on the stock market.

Back to where he was a somebody!

Mitchell, South Dakota

Adam sat down with a map of the United States in front of him, he knew this map well having walked in every state except Alaska and Hawaii at some point in the last 4 years.

He was trying to figure out where to go to , he'd already discounted staying in Mitchell for while it was beautiful here and he could with a lot of hard work make a life for himself there were too many negitives in staying here on his own.

He had to find others , but where.....

For long moments he stared at the map , you couldn't predict where people would gravitate to , each state had its advantages as a home but he had to work out the most likely place that he would find people and then hope of course that those people weren't utter nutters.

Cities were out, anyone who stayed in a city was either daft, scared and probably armed,or very teritorial none of which was appealling. Hicksvilles were out at least if he wanted to find people unless of course he stumbled accross a small community by mistake ...then his eyes found it right in front of him all the time, the iconic American Road Route 66....it was certainly more likely he would find people looking for people on that bit of road...it was just one big bit of road Chicago to L.A.....

Still his mind made up Adam settled to watch the sun set eating canned beans and chocolate not the best of diets but diet at the moment wasn' the most important thing...tomorrow morning he'd head out RV fully stocked

Melody Bumps Into Scott

Melody had no idea what she was going to do, everything was going on but she didn't understand what the world was coming too, she was heading off to the airport, she had to get away, closing her eyes for a moment as she was outside the airport and heard people around her, but not many. She went to the airport and because her head was in the clouds so to speak she didn't see the man and bumped into him.

"Damn I'm so sorry"

Aoife Patrick, Chicago Airport

Aoife's heart was thudding louder than ever as she ran back to the airport.
At first she thought her ears were playing cruel tricks on her as the sound of a car engine had growled closer and closer. Then it had stopped.
Just as she had turned her back to the terminal once more the alarm sliced through the silent air. Her entire body jumped and before she knew it she was sprinting back towards the sound.
It stopped almost as soon as it started but she knew someone had to have set it off.
They could be a murderer, a rapist...a complete and utter nutcase, she didn't care.
They were alive!

Dodging the parked cars and 'unparked' ones that had simply rolled to a stop wherever their own had slumped over the wheel, she tore through the doors and back inside. No one. Absolutely no one was in sight.
"Hello...?!" She screamed out, her voice bouncing back to her from a thousand empty rooms. She began to head further inside, heading for the departure gates, where the alarms were stationed. "Is anyone here?!" She kept crying out. "Please let someone be here...!!"

Scott turned, looking back, wondering if he had heard anything. Had he? It sounded like a door opening, like high heels clicking on the tile, from far away. He could even hear the breathing. But, the front door was soo far away.

God, it would have had to echo forever to get here. He had turned, not noticing where he was going, and knocked right into someone.

Someone else. A real human being. A girl.

Scott readjusted his tie, even though it didn't need readjusting. His suit was still perfect, his skin flawless, and his hair looked like he'd just combed it ten minutes ago, not a single strand out of place.

"You," He said, looking down at the woman who muttered an apology, "Come with me."

He grabbed her, running back the way he'd come, his briefcase in one arm, and the strange woman in the other. They ran as fast as he could take them, running though another metal detector, which set off another set of alarms.

Then, he saw her. He saw her running towards him, screaming hello, asking if anyone is here.

He didn't stop, just ran for her... for someone. His eyes were shining, and he grabbed her in one failed swoop, picking her up.

"I'm here... I'm here."

He looked up at her, this little stranger, this girl with an accent inside the airport.

The other one looked confused, strange, but she was alive too. He hugged her, hugged them both, touched them, made sure they were real, they were alive.

"I was about to go open some champaigne and leave on my private jet. Would you ladies like to come with me? Both of you are invited... My name is Kingly, Scott Kingly. I'm rich."

Aoife

Aoife ran, weaving through the scattered trolleys and left luggage, crying out over and over again, "Hello...? Is anybody here...?"
Her footsteps bouncing back to her as she carried on through the deserted airport. Then she heard it, another alarm going off. There had to be somone. Why after days of silence would they suddenly go off now? There just had to be someone.
Then she saw them. Not one, but two people, running towards her. For a moment the relief that she was not quite alone in all this madness almost made her fall to her knees but somehow she kept running. She didn't stop until she felt arms wrapping around her and lifting her off of her feet.
"I'm here... I'm here."
"Oh god..." Aoife almost sobbed, clinging onto the stranger for dear life. "I never thought I'd see anyone else again..." They embraced for a moment or two before he finally put her back on her feet. Aoife's eyes were bright with a thousand emotions all at once as she looked from the man who had hugged her to the girl at his side and back again.
"I was about to go open some champagne and leave on my private jet. Would you ladies like to come with me? Both of you are invited... My name is Kingly, Scott Kingly. I'm rich."
"My name is Melody Conner, I'm rich too but with everything going on, it doesn't seem to matter any more"
Aoife didn't quite know why but she felt a little more relaxed to know that all three of them were strangers. Had they been a couple, she supposed it would have been easier for them to abandon her...but she put such rambling thoughts down to her overactive imagination and smiled as warmly as she could at the both of them.
"Well...I'm not exactly rich but I'd love to come with you...please..." Aoife grinned, the expression bringing a light flush of colour to her cheeks and brightening her eyes. "I'm Aoife, Aoife Patrick...and, as you've probably gathered I'm not from around these parts...this was my first trip to the States..." She'd never been so aware of her lilting accent until then. She found herself wondering for a moment if she was the last person who spoke in that way left in the world. "I'm a writer...well, I'm trying to be..." She added shyly.

Alley Martin . . . New York City

Alley headed towards Philly in her car. She messed with the radio hoping to hear something, anything about what was happening. She wasn't getting anything, damn she thought. She put in a cd and began to sing along as she drove.

She thought it ironc when one of the songs that came on was "Don't Dream It's Over"; talk about a song for the moment. Alley laughed, it was like something out of a movie, but yet all too real.

She had finally reached the Pa border and would soon find herself in Philly. She wondered if she'd find anyone there or if it would be as bad as New York had been. Alley hoped she was wrong, she didn't want to be alone.

Bruce Samson - New Mexico heading to PA

“Who is there?” Bruce called again, his fingers gripping the hard metal of the shotgun tightly, his heart pounding in his ears as he strained to listen for any sound. “Come out now, I’m armed.”

“Are you contagious?” A small voice called out from behind the bushes.

“Can’t tell, haven’t any symptoms,” Bruce replied, pointing the barrels at the spot he thought the voice came from. “You?”

“I’m… I think I’m safe,” the voice replied. “What do you want?”

“Nothing, just surprised to see another person. You live around here?”

“Did,” The voice replied, the bushes rustling slightly as the speaker stepped out into sight. “Parents, well, let’s say I’m all alone now.” The young girl replied frankly, her nonchalant attitude not hiding the deep pain he saw in her eyes.

“What’s your name, kid?” Bruce asked, lowering the shotgun as his eyes ran over the dirty young girl that stood before him. She was tall, almost as tall as he was but skinny, almost painfully skinny. Her blonde hair hung in dirty clumps around her gaunt dirt smeared face.

“Allison, but everyone calls me Al.” She replied, her fingers picking at her dirty shirt self consciously as if she knew what he was thinking.

“Want a ride, Al?” Bruce offered, motioning towards his idling truck.

“No,” the young girl stated simply, backing away suddenly, her eyes watching him carefully for any sudden moves.

“Relax, kid,” Bruce told her holding his hands up, hoping to show her he meant her no harm. “I was just offering you a ride, thought maybe you got some family around you’d like to see, or just to get away from here. No funny stuff.”

“oh,” the dirty young woman said, her body still tensed to run if he made the wrong move. “My aunt lived in Philadelphia. Probably dead though. Everyone else is.”

“Couldn’t hurt to check it out,” Bruce shrugged, motioning towards his truck. “You want a lift, Al?”

“Yeah,” she replied after a few minutes of thought, shrugging her shoulders before reaching behind her, her hand pulling out a wickedly curved knife. “But no funny stuff,” she stated putting the knife away as quickly as she had produced it.

“Agreed,” Bruce smiled, turning and walking towards his truck, glad to have some company other then his memories.

"Is that right, a writer and the wealthy? Well, we must have drinks then. And talk of our futures. You see, that is my business, looking into people's future. Why, with your money, and your talent, we could create a masterpiece."

He took them both, one under each arm, strolling down the airport as if it didn't stink of dead bodies, and wasn't filled with the rotting flesh of once friends and family and aquaintences. Scott was a man who saw none of this, only his connections, which now consisted of these two very wonderful people.

He showed them the right metal detector, the one that didn't give off such a horrible blaring sound, off into one of the Tarmacs, passing by these corridors until he saw the entrance to his own private jet.

He opened it up, allowing both of them to go inside.

Inside, it was luxurious, better than most condos. Beautiful white leather seats, television sets, gold inlay for the tables, and desks, two computers, and at the back a working spa.

He turned it on, looking at both of them.

"So, I must know everything about both of you," He said, pausing to go into the back, and change into his simple shorts.

"Tell me everything," He got into the spa, slowly easing himself into the relaxing water. He only wore shorts, his lean frame and muscular chest showing the affects of working out, hours in the gym. Perfect body, perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect specimen of man.

Adam, South Dakota heading towards Route 66

Adam looked at the map it was getting late and he really needed to get off the road.

He hadn't seen anyone close by all day but had around mid day seen a car in the distance speeding along a road several miles away.

The roads had been relatively clear once he hit highways now he was at Ponca City just north of Route 66, he turned off the road at what looked like a hotel but was infact a rather stately home.

He knocked on the door not expecting and not getting a reply, then he tried the door locked ...he took his rifle and smashed the ornate window on the door and carefully manged to open the place up.

He'd half expected the smell of death but in effect all he smelt was stale air of a property not used for a few weeks.

A quick meal of fruit and cheese on crackers followed and he tried his radio getting no signal at all .....except, wait a tick a faint signal a simple beep that repeated every few seconds......someone had left the radio station sending out a default signal the problem was he had no idea who owned the frequency and where they were....but if he found one maybe just maybe he'd find another.

Aoife Patrick, Aboard the Jet

"Is that right, a writer and the wealthy? Well, we must have drinks then. And talk of our futures. You see, that is my business, looking into people's future. Why, with your money, and your talent, we could create a masterpiece."
Aoife felt his arm wrap around her shoulders as he began to lead her and Melody through the airport. This was all so surreal and strange...but then again, the world wasn't the way it had been any more. She listened to Scott talking, his tone was one of a man who hadn't a care in the world but there was something, a darker tone beneath his lightly spoken words, that made her think he was just as scared and confused as she was.

They reached his jet and Aoife felt her jaw drop as she stepped inside. It was all so white and pure, almost heaven compared to the putrid, festering 'hell' they had left behind them.
"It's beautiful..." She breathed, running her finger along the soft leather of one of the seats.

"So, I must know everything about both of you...Tell me everything,"
Aoife felt a little embarassed as she watched his body slide into the waters of the spa, it wasn't as if she hadn't been with men before her fiance but to look at one, even now that she was sure she wasn't going to be marrying Rick anymore, it seemed wrong.
Allowing her backpack to slip to the floor, she unbuttoned the shirt and laid it over the back of one of the chairs. Leaving her in her jeans and vest style top. Moving to take a seat beside the spa, alongside Scott, not sure if she should strip down and join him, although the water did look so inviting and relaxing. Her long dark curls fell down around her shoulders and down her back as she leant against the side of the tub a little.
"Well..." She paused waiting to see if Melody was going to speak first. "...there's not much to tell," Aoife sighed, her green eyes meeting Scott's own. "...I'm 26, I'm from Scotland...from a little town in the middle of nowhere, a place of no consequence to anyone except those that live there..." She smiled, a little sadly, as she thought of her home in the valleys, surrounded by the moutains and on the edge of one of the many lochs. To her it had been, and probably would always be, one of the most beautiful places on earth. "...I've never been to the states before so you'll have to forgive my lack of knowledge...and I'm..." Her eyes fell to the diamond sparkling on her finger, she was twisting it round and round. A habit that had become more and more frequent over the last few days. She felt a lump jump painfully into her throat and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. "...well, I'm me..." She finished less than eloquently. Sighing heavily before looking back up at Scott, certain he'd be able to see the emotions in her eyes but knowing she had to at least try and change the subject. "And what...what about you, Mr Kingly?" She asked softly.

Tara Kennedy

There was good news and there was bad news.

The good news was Tara realized she was on the wrong side of the Chesapeake Bay before she wasted more than a day or two walking. She and Tyler backtracked north and we now vaguely following the path of Route 40 round the west side of the bay. The wrong side of the bay would have meant a crossing via the bridges and tunnels at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay ad that was something she was unwilling to attempt.

The bad news was she had to make a decision, continue south to check the Aberdeen Proving Grounds for signs of life and a military authority, and then go on though the remains of Baltimore and Washington DC or head west to avoid this major metropolitan area. She pondered their ext move while Tyler trotted in circles, exploring the area with his nose to the ground. He soon caught scent of something and off he went, bounding into the trees.

“Tyler! Do not wander too far.”

He had been good company, for the most part. Although she had to admit, the big dog was more like having a child than a pet, a 100-pound toddler.

She sat down on a clump of dried leaves pulled out her new map. The map was definitely in the good news category, and one of the many things she just hadn't thought of when she walked out of Philadelphia.

Days ago, on a lonely stretch of road on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake, they came across an old country store. A couple of huge motorcycles were parked in the front, and at first, she thought she would be running into a couple of fellow survivors and she approached cautiously. It was a different picture she saw when she was closer, the front door was wide open, held that way by the body of man dressed in biker leather. From the doorway, she could see into the little store. Inside, there was the body of teenage girl sprawled on the floor and the body of an old man sitting in chair behind a counter. He had a shotgun slanted across his lap and a box of shells at his elbow. It looked like the old man defended his property but died sometime soon after.

Tara lifted her scarf over her mouth and nose, before walking into the store.

Tara felt no guilt about rifling the bodies and ransacking the store. There was nothing of use to her on the body of the bike or the girl. Cash, jewelry, some illegal drugs… useless to her. The store was like Aladdin’s cave, it was cram-filled with the sort of things that seemed like treasures to her now. The store sold the kinds of things hunters and anglers forgot to bring on their day trips and the things they thought they needed in order to feel like they were really roughing it.

Socks, clean dry socks. The clean dry sock is one of the world’s most underrated beauties, and Tara now had 10 new pairs, she felt like she just won the lottery. Beef jerky, turkey jerky, even a few MRE’s, she tossed these into her pack with the rest of their food provisions. She emptied the supplies from a couple of first aid kits and added the useful items to her own. She thought about taking the old man's shotgun but decided against it, despite being country bred, Tara had never fired a gun. I'll shoot myself before I shoot anyone else, she thought to herself.

In the back of the shop as a storage room and a bed-sit with a bathroom… it was the old man’s home.

Tara heard the sound of dripping water, water dripping from a faucet…running water. The store water supply must be gravity fed, she thought as she twisted a handle to open a spigot. At first, the water ran a rusty brown but it lightened before her widening eyes, until it was running clear. She found some old clothes in a drawer and put them on. In the unheated water from the faucet, she washed every thing she had, including an indignant Tyler.

Tara and Tyler spent that night in the old man’s bed.

"Scott Kingly, and you simply must join me Aoife. Please, come in here, it is nice and warm, with lots of bubbles. If you don't want to get all your clothes wet, please... there are some bathing suits in the back there."

He held her hand, touching it, lightly trailing his fingers against her pale skin. A soft smile.

"You must be a wonderful writer. Look at these hands, they create... like art they move against the paper, or the keyboard. You design works of genius. I would love to read your work."

A soft smile, as he brought those delicate gentle little fingers to his lips, kissing them. His caress just what he needed, what he wanted to help him feel alive. He was communicating again, he was making money.

"Let me tell you about myself," He spoke, so she could hear him in the back, "I am a businessman, through and through. I have contacts all over, any company, just name it... and I know someone there, and not just anyone. Not secretaries or paiges or mail room guys, we're talking C.E.O.'s, presidents, people of power, people of swing. You want to negotiate, you want to talk to the people who can get it done, you go through me."

There was a pause, where, in the back of Scott's mind, he knew that part of him was over. That these people, these rich powerful people who he had built his life knowing and trusting and helping, were all dead. An entire life of networking that amounted to little more than flat abs and a bleeding ulcer.

But, that passed after a moment, and he smiled at Melody, who was honestly quiet and sitting in one of the nice chairs taking everything in.

He grabbed for the chilled champaigne, nice and cold, opening it, pouring everyone a glass.

"But, we're not here to talk about me, Aoife. We're here to talk about you, and the new book you're going to write us? Tell me, do you have any ideas?"