"TWD: Yerba Buena"

[KockRoach]

The Walking Dead
"Yerba Buena"

OOC Thread​

August 4:

The morning fog had finally pulled back toward the coast, exposing the little island of Yerba Buena to a bright and clear August day. A Humvee pulled up quickly to the United States Coast Guard station's Command building. Two men leaped out, carrying their chosen death dealers: the Coastie carried an M-16A2 in one hand and a .40 Caliber SIG-Sauer on his hip; and the Civie carried a Browning semi-automatic 12 gauge shotgun in his hands and both a 9mm Glock on his hip and a .38 Smith and Wesson in his belt, pressed into the small of his back.

They each wore concerned looks as they hurried up to a Coast Guard officer standing on the steps of the Command building. The Coastie -- Chief Petty Officer Hugo Rhymes -- explained his expression by lifting his rifle before him and saying, "We're out."

The civilian -- Mark James, a former US Navy petty officer contracted to the base as an electrician -- repeated the gesture with his shot gun and clarified, "Out of everything. We need more ammo if we're going to keep them back, let alone take and secure the island."

"We don't have more," responded the officer, Yerba Buena's now-Commanding Officer, Captain Lee Stewart. After 36 hours of mayhem -- sometimes including killing their own friends, family, and fellow servicemen -- Lee was the highest ranking officer known to still be alive on the island in the middle of the San Francisco Bay. "Pull the fifty from the cutter and--"

"Done that, Captain!" another voice called from where a group was repairing a chain link fence that had been overrun by Walkers during the night. The pretty but also muscular woman in a USCG uniform, First Class Petty Officer Emily Hanover, hustled over as she explained, "We moved the fifty caliber to a Humvee last night and took it up to the north east entrance to fight back the Oakland wave. Tried conserving ammo, but ... hell, Captain, they just kept coming."

"Where the hell are they all coming from?" asked Rhymes, the fear and tension showing in his voice. He'd joined the Coast Guard because he thought he'd be serving his country chasing down drug smugglers in speed boats and rescuing shapely and eternally grateful swimmers from the chilly waters of the bay and ocean, not hunting down crazed monsters who were eating the flesh of the people he knew and sometimes loved. "There's so many of--"

"Treasure Island," James cut in, jerking a thumb to the northwest, in the direction of the man made island on which he lived. As a civilian contractor, he wasn't allowed to live on Yerba Buena itself, which was reserved for security reasons to military and Homeland Security personnel and their families.

Continuing on about Treasure Island, he said, "There was no way for the people there to escape, 'cept by boat or swimming the bay ... and we know how easy that is from the history of Alcatraz, don't we? The bay bridges are clogged. No ones going no where on those."

"But the Walkers are still using them," Hanover said. "We saw it when we were up there, constructing more barricades. They're walking right through ... coming onto YB. Why the hell can't they go the other way, toward Oakland or the City?"

As the conversation continued, James considered their situation. He looked to his left, toward the southwest and San Francisco. He couldn't see the western expanse of the Bay Bridge from here on the east side of Yerba Buena, but he knew the situation: both levels of it were closed by a multitude of wrecks, and only foot traffic -- human and Walker alike -- was moving upon it now.

He looked to his right, to the east and Oakland. He could only see a small portion of the newer expanse of I-80, but he knew that it, too, was closed by wrecks, as well as a huge fire that had been burning for the past several hours.

He had a better view of the old eastern expanse of the bridge which had been undergoing demolition for the past couple of years. It was thought that the bridge's demise was still at least 10 years away.

James considered that for a moment more. Would the bridge's demise come now that society's demise had come before it? Was this the end of mankind -- of life -- as they knew it? It hadn't even been two days, and jet James couldn't help but think that this was the end of the world as he knew it.

He suddenly realized that someone had said his name, and he quickly looked to Stewart saying, "Yes, sir."

"We need to check every house on YB for survivors," the Captain said, his expression suddenly gaining a very concerned expression. "I can't order you to do this. You're not Coast--"

"I'll do it," James cut him off. This wasn't his first dealings with Captain Stewart. James knew the man was more than just a set of gold eagles on a spoiled Academy graduate. "I actually live on Treasure Island, but ... I'll still do it. We have to know."

"He'll need someone to go with him," Hanover said, her tone making it obvious that she was volunteering. "But we'll need weapons ... and ammo."

Stewart set in motion the search for weapons, ammunition, and anything -- food and bottled water included -- that might be of value. Boats, buildings, and vehicles were to be thoroughly searched, with anything of value brought back to the armory, which was the most secure building on the base.

James stepped over close to Hanover and said, "Thanks. I ... this is a bit overwhelming for me ... all this shooting people and stuff."

"Been there, done that."

The woman smiled as she raised the sleeve of her work shirt, revealing the big tattoo on her muscular upper arm. It commemorated Fire Fight Albacore, in which a sea going USCG vessel and its smaller boats took on four boats of Somali pirates that had been trying to seize and Italian fishing trawler.

"You were there?" James asked surprised.

Again she raised part of her shirt, this time exposing her belly and the ugly bullet wounds there. "Took two for the team ... but not before tearing apart the ass ends of a boat load of ... arrrgh ... pirates."

She laughed, partially at the shocked look on James' face. He couldn't believe that at a time like this, she was making jokes about having almost been killed -- and by normal every day killers, not the monstrous kinds that eat your body even before you're dead.

"Eighteen hundred," Stewart was saying, catching James' attention again. He finished handing out orders to those who would continued working on barriers, who would search for and gather weapons and other good of value, who would stand watch, and more.

The Captain asked for four more volunteers amongst the two dozen people assembled to go out with James. He got them: a Coastie, a civilian contractor, a tourist, and a minimum wage worker from one of the base's little shops. He didn't ask them if they had experience with weapons, let alone with combat: they were running out of experienced warriors, so it was time to go with the B-team -- or the C- or D- or Z-team, if that was what they had.

"Eighteen hundred," Stewart repeated, "anyone without a current assignment or anyone who is done with their current assignment by then, report right here. We'll work on the next step then. That'll be all."


(OOC: I will be writing James, Stewart, Hanover, and Rhymes, though for how long I don't know, as they might be expendable characters. The four people mentioned two paragraphs above, as well as any of the others, are available characters. If you have an interest in this RP, PM me for more information. I will produce a Profile Sheet tomorrow. For right now, I have things to do.)

 

[KockRoach]

5:50pm:

Martin Cooper had been hiding in his basement for two days. A devotee of the local Public Broadcasting Station, he'd heard the news report of rioting and looting and dead in the street and wasted no time snatching all he could carry and heading downstairs.

He was a 73 year old Coast Guard retiree, and as such had been able to remain in the home he occupied on Yerba Buena when he retired in 1998. Every morning for the past 15 years, he'd taken a walk around the entire island, once called Goat Island, with the leash to his little dog in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other. And every night, he'd gone down to the Community Center to hang out with the Old Salts, playing Hearts and Dominoes while watching the female Coasties on the exercise machines that Martin and the others had conned a Custodian into moving to just within line of sight of the Dirty Old Farts.

After two days of being cooped up in the dark, dank basement, he'd just about had enough -- as had his little dog, which had had to pee and shit in a corner on a sheet of absorbent paper left over from when Martin had been able to work on his car, necessitating oil drop cloths.

The power had gone out in the house for reasons he couldn't explain, and the batteries in the radio that had been a back up to the electric one had just run out. He was blind down here, figuratively. And Martin Cooper didn't like not knowing what was going on in the world around him.

He put Fluffs into his dog pen and made his way carefully up the steps and out the basement door. Someone had been in his house: he'd heard it the day before and saw the mess now. The cupboards were all open with much of their contents either missing or on the floor. This was the work of looters, he knew, but his greater concern was what the radio had referred to as Walkers.

He made his way slowly through the house with his old Colt .45 out before him. One room after another was looted or simply trashed, but there was no sign of anyone, living or undead.

He'd made it all the way back to the kitchen and was about to return to the basement for Fluffs when a sound startled him from behind. He spun and pulled the trigger instinctively, putting a round right through the upper arm of a woman standing in the doorway.

She screamed and jumped at the sound, then looked down and realized she'd been shot. Blood was beginning to color her tight fitting white tank top and jogging shorts as she swayed a bit and then, shocked more by the attack then the damage from it, fell to the floor, unconscious.

(OOC: The Female role is available. PM me if you are interested.)

 

[Virgininneed]

Anna had been through a lot in the past few days. Everywhere she went, there were raiders, walkers, and psychos everywhere. It was a good thing she was very fit, but running so much was making her ache all over. How had her life come to this? She was climbing to the top of her career. The principal dancers had been helping her improve.

That wasn't even considering the worst of it. She tried to block that scene out of her head and not think about it. Those thoughts she couldn't handle at that moment. Anything but that. Right now she needed to survive. She needed food, water, and some kind of weapon to defend herself with.

There was so little food left after the initial riots and looting. She'd searched many different houses, almost all of them empty. None of them had any food of substance. Mostly junk and candy. Then she found his house. It was mostly looted, but there were still some cans of food in the kitchen. She looked through the cabinets before going to check the rest of the house.

There wasn't much, but she might be able to stay the night. She returned to the kitchen and was suprised to see a man in the doorway. She didn't see the gun his hand, only hearing the sound as she jumped back. It took her a moment to register the pain, what had happened.

Her arm was bleeding badly, staining her tank top. She trembled before falling to the floor, her eyes blinking before they closed.

 

[KockRoach]

Martin stood there is shock, unmoving as the young woman dropped to the floor. He'd just shot someone ... point blank range ... a girl!

It took a moment for his brain to get past the panic and engage. He set the pistol down on the counter and hurried over to her, checking her wound as he apologized to the barely conscious or maybe even fully unconscious Anna, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry ... oh god, I ... I ... I didn't know..."

The amount of blood told Martin that he'd nicked an artery or vein. He clasped his hand over the hole and struggled to figure out his next move...



8pm:

The world outside the house was dark by the time the woman's eyes began to flicker. Inside, a half dozen candles were spread about the living room and kitchen, and an oil lamp sat in the middle of the kitchen table to Martin's left, casting one side of his face in a bit of eerie darkness.

"Welcome back, Child," Martin said with a smile from the coffee table just a foot in front of Anna, now laid back upon the raggedy old couch in the living room. "You had me scared there for a bit."

Martin had stopped the blood loss using his belt as a tourniquet, then bandaged Anna's arm, reaching back into his Viet Nam past as a gun boat medic.

He flashed the semi-automatic Colt before him, then set it carefully down on the coffee table, saying, "I'm really sorry about that, Child. I thought-- Well, no ... I didn't think. I reacted." He chuckled, but the pain in his voice was obvious. "Blame it on being an old man."

He stood up, a bit slower than he would have thirty years ago but faster than many men in their 70s could. "I'll get you a glass of water, Child. Maybe something to eat. You stay there ... rest. You're safe here."

He turned and headed for the kitchen, either forgetting that he'd left the weapon unguarded or simply not caring.

(OOC: If she doesn't say or do anything that will stop him, he will go to the kitchen and get food and drink and return.)

 

[Virgininneed]

Anna blinked as she lay curled up on the couch, covered by a blanket. She looked around, trying to remember what had happened before she'd fainted. It was dark, and only a few candles and a lamp lit the room. She heard distant moans of the walkers in the distance.

"Welcome back, Child. You had me scared there for a bit."

He was an older man, maybe seventy years old, with the posture of a soldier. She glanced at the gun on the table, remembering him shooting her, but was calmed as he set it down and apologized. He'd only been afraid, probably thinking she was a walker or raider. She couldn't blame him for it.

"I'm really sorry about that, Child. I thought-- Well, no ... I didn't think. I reacted. Blame it on being an old man."

"Right now, I probably would have reacted the same way. It's really dangerous out there, with those things around. And there's people who have gone crazy or are just violent. You were only defending yourself. I can't blame you for anything."

"I'll get you a glass of water, Child. Maybe something to eat. You stay there ... rest. You're safe here."

She gave a small smile as he went to get it, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself as she shivered from the cold. "Thank you," she said quietly, watching him go to the kitchen.

 

[KockRoach]

Martin filled a glass from the water cooler in the corner and was about to return to the living room when he noticed something on the floor. He smiled, picking up the box and returning to sit across from Anna.

"Graham crackers," he said opening the box, snapping one in two, and offering it out. He donned a quizzical expression and asked, "Why do you suppose they call them a cracker ... when they're sweet like a cookie, not salty like a saltine?"

He shrugged and pulled out a cracker for himself, nibbling on the edge. Martin had a way of eating that tended to drive people nuts. He nibbled like a rabbit. But it, with his morning mile long walk, kept his lean and mean, or relatively so considering his age.

He glanced around the room at the mess the looters had made. It hadn't even occurred to him to ask Anna if she, too, had partaken in the pillaging of his long time home. She just seemed too sweet. He stood and wandered about, picking up the framed photos and knick knacks he'd collected from around the world over the decades.

"I got this one in Hawaii," he said, holding up what looked like a pineapple. He pressed his thumb upon its top and a flame popped up. Martin smiled. He could still remember people asking him why the hell he'd bought a cigarette lighter when he didn't smoke cigarettes. But he hadn't purchased it to use it: he'd purchased it to further the conversation with a beautiful young Polynesian girl who'd he'd been trying to screw. He murmured, "Good memories."

He looked back to Anna, then crossed to sit across from her again. Smiling, he said, "So, Child ... tell me something about yourself."