R.V.S [Origins Au]

[🥀] David Romero [1]

Mentions of killing and injury

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A middle aged man, looking to be in his mid thirties, enters a small camper. The camper looks abandoned, covered in grime and dented up, old blood stains accompanying it's once white surface.

The man inside sighs and sits back in one of the tables chairs. He kicks his legs up and draws a cigarette from his pack, placing it to his lips and lightning it with his lighter. He takes in a deep breath and sighs, a cloud of smoke puffing out. He sits there silently, thinking of his next plan of action. His eyes wander past the boarded up windows, looking out across the barren and abandoned camp grounds. He shakes his head turning his attention away from outside. The man stays in silence for a little while longer, just smoking; there was no need for talk when one was all by himself.

He eventually relinquished his cigarette and ground it out into the table. He gives another tired sigh as he stands. He stretches out and walks into the small bathroom area to wash up from his most recent expedition. He stands by the mirror, simply washing his hands before he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He pauses momentarily, the water flowing down his clasped hands, his focus on the mirror before him.

He didn't remember the last time he genuinely looked at himself. His ginger hair, once a nice short length, hung over his eyes, he hadn't noticed just how long it had gotten... It was partially matted and sticking out all over the place. The next thing he notice we're his eyes. He never really saw them until now, yes he knew they were brown, but now they looked almost black; maybe it was just the light play tricks on him... Another thing he caught were the undeniable eye bags from lack of sleep and stress. His skin had become somewhat wrinkled from always being tense and worried. As the man studied himself further, he couldn't help but notice how far he'd let himself go...

He snapped back into reality and dried his hands. He searched through some drawers and cabinets in the bathroom before... ahah! Scissors! He knew that the effort was useless to most, but a trim would clear the hair from his eyes, and make himself feel just the bit better. He stared for a moment, knowing how horrible this may go, but who cares? It wasn't like people would care about how his hair looked, and if anything, hair grew back! He decided to just go for it, wetting his hair partially before just snipping away. "Oh shit that was short, too late now." He murmured, chuckling to himself as a small grin crossed his face.

After some time, maybe about twenty minutes, he was finally done. He stared at himself in the mirror before he broke out laughing to himself. God, it was so fucking choppy it wasn't even funny, but he was delighted with himself. He sighed and messed around with it. "I should get a cosmology license." He joked to himself, relaxing a bit against the counter. He looked a bit better, less of a mess, but better... He looked lifted, just with a simple shitty hair cut, almost like he had before the apocalypse... like before...

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     The day had been normal, like the way most fictional dramatic story's start, but this unfortunately wasn't just a story. It was real life, and there was no escape. There was no stopping it, it just happened, and it happened fast. How it got into the city limits was unknown, but somehow a hoard of at least twenty stage two's and three's got into the city limits. All hell broke loose...

     He had been at the gym, accompanied by his new trainee, Micheal Ellis. The boy was in his mid twenties, if he remembers right he had just turned 24. The male was short, not exactly the strongest, but he sure as hell had determination, and it in some moments, was admirable. He had to give credit when it's due, and in this instance, it was.

     At the time of the incident, he had just finished up warm-up with Micheal, and they were about to head onto cardio. Their plans came to a screeching halt when a shrill scream broke through the music and conversation. A loud crashing of glass occurred up front, and suddenly everybody was running and screaming with terror. A group of at least several stage two's had broken through the front of the gym, and had began running at and after some of the gym goers.

     Many people ran for their lives, not thinking of those surrounding them, which was understandable in a situation like this. Just as he were about to run, he made a last minute decision, grabbing onto Micheals upper arm and dragging him through the back, past the groups of rushing men and women. They ran out the back entry way, an employees only entrance that he had access to as he worked there. He kept dragging him, ignoring the smaller's  quiet protests.

     They ran through the sidewalks, it all hell out there as well, and unfortunately they grew mobbed into a pack of running bodies. His grip had loosened and eventually drifted from the younger man, he had only realized once he'd shoved his way through the crowd, much to his horror. Before he could even try to relocate the smaller, screaming and crying of agony originated from his right. A trio of stage three's had began mowing through the crowd, ripping, tearing, just absolutely mauling any living thing in their path. The stench of iron, of blood, filled the surrounding air, the warm liquid drenching the concrete below. Before he could even think he was already running. He legs reacting almost as if on their own accord, carrying him away from the brutal scene. He wanted to turn back, to try and find Micheal, but he knew better than that. He simply had to believe he'd make it out... he believed enough to not once look back. Or maybe that was his fear talking.

     He didn't know where exactly he was running until he saw the familiar signs and houses of his neighborhood. He'd been running home. He slowed, realizing just how far he'd ran, and just how hard he breathed. He was practically wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. From the way people were acting, it was assumed that the news of an outbreak had already spread to the neighboring areas. Though the neighborhood was outside of the city, there was still the chance of them being overridden by infected... He watched his friends, neighbors, and strangers jam their cars full and speed off. The thought was nice, but there wasn't anywhere to go.

     He sighed, walking with his burning legs into his home. Wincing, he now realized how sore and stupid he was for running. If his home area had also been under attack, he would've been done for. He shook the thoughts away and began to pack a spare backpack up with some essentials and changed his clothes. He figured something comfortable yet sturdy would do well; he didn't know the next time he'd be able to change. He changed out of his gym attire into some jeans, a long sleeve cotton shirt, a heavy duty cargo-like jacket, and one of his more durable running sneakers. He through on his throughly packed bag and went into his gun safe, drawing his rifle and all the bullets he had for it. Then, he was off...

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     He recalled the day very vividly, half of him wishing he went back, or even searched for Micheal at all, but it was pointless. There was a high chance that he was dead. Not that he didn't believe in him, he did! He just... he just knew that it would be difficult with how many infected roam the barren city now.

     He sighed and shook his head, that was one way to dull his mood. He walked out of the bathroom and swiftly took out another cigarette, lighting it and sighing. He hadn't known the kid all that long, maybe three or four months at most, but he had enjoyed his presence. Like an older brother would of course, he'd viewed the younger as a little brother, in some way. He continued smoking his cigarette, pushing the thoughts away, he couldn't think like that now, it was too late and he had to focus on survival...

     His attention snapped to the door when he heard four loud bangs onto its metal surface. His cigarette dropping from his frozen hand. Someone was outside, and whoever, or whatever they were, they wanted in.

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