nick
New Experiment
Posts: 30
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Post by nick on Jun 14, 2009 17:26:44 GMT
July 1st 2009, 4.36pm.
Although it really wasn't the start, the start must have been several weeks before, but humanity hadn't noticed. A virus was found inside human blood, at this point already 5% of the world is infected. How did no one notice? no symptoms, no problems, nothing to show your infected, governments start to draw lines, to look for a cure, to try and hold back the virus, but with no symptoms, how could they stop it?
Doctors soon found out that it was air borne, nothing could stop it.
September 15th 2009
the population of the world is infected, still with no obvious cause or symptoms. But the world isn't filled with anarchy, most people don't know they have it, the doctors and the government have kept it quiet, and with no symptoms who can doubt them, so humanity continues to live as normal.
January 1st 2010, 2am
the virus mutates. it prevents the blood carrying oxygen, the mutation is global, the effect is total. But 0.1% of the virus infected hosts, randomly don't mutate fully.
This is England, population 640,00
welcome to London population 170,00
of those who survived, 99% mutated but in a different way, the virus began to causes changes in the brain and organs of the host, they became aggressive, had reduced intelligence and a pact mentality. Now these mutants are hunting those still alive and normal.
Welcome to London, normal human population 170.
you are 1 in 1000000, and you are out numbered 1 to 100.
power will last for 1 day, water for a week or more, dogs will begin to get hungry and rats will feed on the bodies.
this is the end of man.
Join as a London based survivor, starting on day 1,
normal usasi rules apply.
give a character intro
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nick
New Experiment
Posts: 30
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Post by nick on Jun 14, 2009 17:47:06 GMT
Nick woke up, it was dark in his apartment, the clock showed that it was 2.30am, something had woken him up, but what? He sat up, he body was tried, he had spent all day working, he worked as a creative ideas guy for his friends company, they made tv shows, well they wanted to make tv shows, lots of violence bad animation.
Suddenly Nick could feet someone running outside, a group of people in fact. What was odd was not that people were running but that the sound of foot steps was the only sound, even at night there are usually cars, people, stuff going on. The sound moved away, and Nick sighed looked at the time and decided to get back to bed, what ever was going on could wait until morning.
He was 21 and needed his beauty sleep, although he didn't need to grow anymore, he was already close to 6ft. relatively well built thanks to there being a gym near by and he had long black hair, which worked well with his relatively Gothic way of dressing.
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Post by Rae on Jun 15, 2009 16:58:25 GMT
Rainbow Broken``Studying in London - not such a primo idea after all...  if the children don't grow up
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up
We're just a million little gods causing rain storms turning every good thing to rust
I guess we'll just have to adjust  
[ age ] -- Twenty
[ gender ] -- Female
[ nicknames ] -- Viva, mainly. Or Genny if you like. She's not bothered.
[ occupation ] -- Law student
[ date of birth ] -- 3rd July 1989
[ home town ] -- Chipping Camden, Gloucestershire
[ face claim ] -- Zooey Deschanel
children wake up
[ lost ] -- Her mother, her father, her boyfriend, her friends, her other boyfriend, her true love
[ residence ] -- Hampstead flat, 2a, the one with the balcony overlooking the park
[ financial ] -- landed gentry, very well off
[ arsenal ] -- twenty bore shotgun with about forty cartridges of lead-based shot, one convertible renault megane in champagne gold, registration FR09 GBJ.
[ useful talents ] -- Has had lessons in racing driving, can J turn to get out of tight spots and is a complete nutter behind the wheel. She is the UK's under twenty-one clay pigeon shooting champion.
hold your mistake up
[ football team ] -- forest green rovers
[ rugby team ] -- the cherry and whites
[ holiday of choice ] -- camel-trekking in the middle east
[ favourite film ] -- The Talented Mr Ripley
[ favourite musician ] -- The Arcade Fire
[ if she could be an animal ] -- she'd be a cheetah
[ if she were a car ] -- she'd be an aston martin DB9
[ if she were a film star ] -- she'd be Stephen Fry
before they turn the summer into dust
[ what hurts most ] -- losing someone
[ what is the most euphoric thing ] -- eating strawberries on the balcony in a white summer dress, listening to Wimbledon on the stereo, feeling your shoulders burn and not caring, feeling your flip-flops blister your feet and not giving a hoot. Enjoying the summer.
[ what will be most missed ] -- Dylan
[ how long will you last ] -- barely days
[ are you alone ] -- yes
i guess we'll just have to adjust
[ history ] Born in England, raised in England, a child of an unspoilt countryside away from the scream of cities. In the summer of 1989 a baby girl was born to entrepeneur Johnathan Burgess-Jones and his wife Andrea, the girl to be the youngest child with five older brothers. Never an easy existence, but without the ever present influence of parental control it can spiral into insanity.
Under the never-watchful eye of alcoholic au pair Elizabeth, John, Theodore, Marcus and Tristan were pretty much given leway to do whatever they wished with their new toy Genevieve, including dumping her in the lake, or leaving her in the orangery and going back to the house. Little things that young boys do, none of them particularly beneficial to a baby girl. She grew up tough, she had to in order to survive, a true English rose ready to bite back should anyone dare to doubt her or give her cause to be defensive. Anything was a distraction to her from the true love of her life, the one constant that kept her sane, and that was the country.
There are people who are devoted to where they live, but none so much as Viva. At the age of eight she was following the hounds on her beloved pony Brannigan, at ten she got her first four-ten shotgun to follow her father in winter and get the pheasants. At twelve she joined a beater's party and went in front of the guns with the family spaniel Gucci. A perfect rose-tinted view of what country life should be, behind the spectacles that only the priveledged few can wear.
She started private school at a very young age, and followed through until the age of eighteen, where, with every grand qualification, she passed on to university, chosing London over anywhere else. She wasn't smart enough for Oxford or Cambridge, nor common enough for Bristol or Liverpool. She found herself in the very heart of the capital, a stranger in this metropolis. Trees replaced by stone and concrete. It took a long time to adjust.
She found her feet in a rather strange community, one that you would not often expect. She avoied lunch with top barristers and would forego any meeting with minor royalty, should there be a secret gig nearby. Her time was spent organising her social calendar, trying to identify where she could get in to private performances by almost unheard of indie and alternative bands. The aim: Arcade Fire. Never before toured England. But one day they would. One day.
Of course, studying and shooting took pretty much center stage. Should she pass up the chance to become a top Barrister, that would be appaling, and should she slip in the youth league tables for shooting that would be an almost cardinal sin. Maintain the intelligent and well-off front. Buy a flat in Hampstead, a convertible car, prove you still have it.
Of course, she didn't need to. Her friends were few and far between, but those she had were important to her. Until the virus.
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Post by Rae on Jun 15, 2009 20:09:00 GMT
It was quiet, and rightly so. She sat on the sofa, an errant child, dressed in clean clothes, freshly ironed and freshly ordered, the neat t-shirt, pleated skirt, long socks and cute heels. She stared with platinum eyes at the window, and the occasional creature ambling by, her expression cold and blank and one of total sapped emotion. Long black hair, slightly curly, sat around narrow shoulders.
Viva's life had, rather recently, taken a turn for the worst.
In her hands she clutched the tool of her trade. As a young clay shooter her gun was important to her, but never as important as it had been today. Behind her, the door was shattered off it's hinges, and the body of her most favoured landlord Dylan Wilde lay across the doorway, the soft sand-colourd carpet sprayed with deep crimson blood, running from his blonde hair. She had to, no matter how much it hurt. She had to do it or he would have killed her, like he killed Sophie, the only other person she knew that was alive.
Her alarm clock beeped for her to wake up, far behind her in her bedroom, announcing that it was half ten. She'd already been up for four hours, she had been woken this morning by her neighbour Sophie , to tell her that her flatmate Stephen was dead on the stairs. Heralarm stopped, which was odd, and as it did the lightbulb above her head fizzed and cut out, and the radio that had been crackling mundanely in the corner silenced. She stood up, grabbing her cartridge bag, dragged lamely along the floor as she stepped over the carcass in the doorway, her expression still distant and broken.
It had been a long time since Genevieve had experienced such a quiet morning, undisturbed by traffic or by pedestrian noise. She headed down the cast iron spiral stairs, and out of the front door, leaving it wide open. She would not need to return to the flat. She looked across the street at the open park, before walking straight into the road, the place so barren without the constant passing of traffic and people. She rounded the gate, and stood beneath the trees, the shotgun and cartridge bag still hanging in her hands like rags.
He was twenty-six. Only twenty-six years old, a history graduate who was out of a proper job due to the credit crunch, and had been working at her local pub to earn enough to keep him going. Dylan was the constant, as the estate had been in her youth, the solid thing that never changed in her life and kept her sane, and now he was lying dead in her flat, and she had killed him.
It was enough to drive anyone mad.i guess we'll just have to adjust`
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nick
New Experiment
Posts: 30
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Post by nick on Jun 17, 2009 16:12:36 GMT
When Nick awoke again, it was to the sound of his alarm, thus proving it was 8.am, very normal.
Although what followed was far less normal, the radio played static, when Nick got dressed he sat down to check the TV, accepting that his radio must be broken, but the TV also played static, it now that he noticed the silence, no cars, no buses, no people, London was dead.
Other people would have run into the street, screaming for help, to try and find some one, most people in fact did, which quickly reduced the number of normal humans, no what happened to nick was different, he was attacked before he could try finding help out in the open.
Two people started smashing at the door, Nick hide being his sofa as suddenly the door lock broke and the 2 people walked in, they had blood around their mouths, possibly they had already been eating corpses, but Nick knew nothing about that, he didn't even have time to think, they jumped at him immediately, the first jumped over the sofa, jumping to far and smashing into the glass coffee table, the other came round the side and lunged and nick, forcing him to the ground. Nick luckily managed to get his knee up and place a kick on the chest of the attacker, sending him flying into the other attacker who had only just got back to his feet.
Nick ran, diving into the bathroom, they started pounding on the door just as he pushed the lock across, working on instinct he grabbed the china toilet lid and as they broke through the door after him, he swung it, smashing it on the head of the first attacker, who fell to the ground, on top of the other attacker.
In the seconds Nick had he ripped the cabinet off the wall and brought it down on the head of the second attacker. The cabinet smashed, and the attacker went still. The silence of dead London returned. Nick sighed and went to pour himself a glass of gin.
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