[Visual with some Location chucked in for good measure]
It hadn't been a good couple of days.
Paul spent the first day of the zombie invasion serenely unaware of it, concentrated on the mundanity of grocery shopping in his ongoing quest to make food that tastes like food. On returning from shopping he'd made sure his tablet was locked in a drawer as he scribbled out some schemes for further ways to acquire fingerprints of his fellow citizens. He was rapidly becoming aware that the 'fingerprinting' thing was sort of a spitting-in-the-wind gesture, that what with the various non-humans and vampires fucking vampires (that he was still having some trouble processing the existence of), the fingerprinting might be all sorts of useless-- but it was something to do.
After cooking a lunch for himself he'd gone from fingerprinting plans to "what to do in case of vampire" plans. A sprig of vervain was now nailed above the shop's door, a purchase made at Tamper and Trick, and a stake was in the shop's top counter drawer. Remembering the speed that Godric and the other guy had shown in the brief clip he'd seen, he sincerely doubted he would be fast enough to ever be effective, but fuck, a guy had to use the best options available.
Salt and garlic and holy water-- obtained from a cathedral manned solely by Extra priests, so even if Paul believed in it-- which he was firmly insisting to himself that he did not-- he wasn't sure it was going to be remotely goddamn useful-- and the drawers of his clock shop were starting to remind him of some sort of truly ludicrous summer blockbuster. He composed taglines to himself while pricing various sundries on the hatches (crossbows, flamethrowers-- all well out of his budget, despite his very penny-pinching methods).
Once, he was an FBI agent helping crazed religious vigilantes! Now, he's in hell, and discovering the demons are real! Paul Smecker is... a vampire hunter!
His own bitter laugh to himself in the silence of the shop sounded more than a little hysterical.
At least so far he'd refused to get a crucifix of any sort. The thought alone conjured Irish accents, tired eyes, cheerful smiles, and he obstinately shut that mental pathway down.
After doing his best to stock up on anti-vampire weaponry, there'd been some ruminating on the idea of magic, based on his incredibly loose understanding of it so far from his conversations with Tara Maclay. He felt he could grill her for a week and still feel like a kid sitting before a chalkboard scrawled with quantum equations. Maybe you had to have the 'gift', whatever the fuck that was.
Paul missed when the hatches went off, but he couldn't help but notice the power going too. And the water.
At first he dismissed it as just a 'glitch' in the sense that was meant back home-- something was technically wrong, it'd be back in a bit, bitching is only useful if you have the right person's phone number. But as a long night stretched on, Special Agent to the FBI Paul Smecker began to feel increasingly uneasy.
Candles. Why in Christ's name had he never bothered to hatch candles? A night-time trip to the downstairs hatch revealed it was out of order. Paul dragged a now-empty merchandise shelf in front of the front door, all too aware it was a useless deterrent what with the huge fucking plate glass windows that were too big to be blocked or barricaded. He went back upstairs, and waited.
Day two, and he'd made a wary way out into the light, at first seeking merely a working hatch and in the end resorting to the Taxon equivalent of Wal-Mart. He'd loaded a shopping cart with bottled water, candles, binoculars, a flashlight-- all the while cursing himself for having taken the comforts of civilization for granted so far-- and finally broken down and gotten some guns as well. They were under lock and key; Paul broke the glass.
The eerie thing was that not only did no Extra cashier politely object to his doing this, they weren't even evident in the store at all.
He'd wheeled a hurried way back home with his cart of stolen merchandise, one rifle, one handgun, a silencer, and all the ammo he'd thought to grab. There'd been clouds of smoke on the skyline; distant sounds of screaming. He'd fought down twenty-plus years of training that said he should go investigate. Go help. That was his job.
Except it wasn't, anymore, and he'd gotten home without stopping to look too hard at any of the scenes that he caught in his peripheral vision of 'looters' that he was pretty sure weren't looters at all.
He'd abandoned the ground floor as indefensible, but the top floor with only the narrow staircase up had some promise. That door he had barricaded the hell out of, and then spent the rest of the day sitting at a window with the unfamiliar rifle, glasses trained on the street below, listening to broadcasts from his tablet. Watching things on the tablet.
Things like the non-human members of Taxon engaged in what could only be called butchery-- with their bare hands as often as not. He wasn't even sure which was more horrifying-- the shambling Extras, more mindless than ever but driven now with terrible purpose, or the blood-spattered forms of what he supposed were, in some fucked-up way of reckoning it all, the 'good guys'.
Maybe he'd been preparing for the wrong monsters; maybe he should have been prepping for the slow-walking Extras. Or maybe-- this thought coming while seeing Godric half-covered with blood, the juxtaposition of the unreal fangs and the waxen calm expression-- maybe he had been entirely right.
He'd caught Cain's broadcast; ground down on the knowledge of his own uselessness. He wasn't a doctor, and that was obviously what Cain needed. Paul Smecker watched the street, and watched his tablet, watching some dots converge in little clusters of dubious defense, and other dots cut swathes on their own through streets that were now a battlefield.
He slept sitting up, and didn't light the candles at night, and shot the odd few that broke through the glass and wandered up the stairs to his little fortress.
Day five, and things on the streets looked abysmally quiet. The quiet before the end of the world.
Paul Smecker broke his radio silence, tapping his tablet into life and showing an unshaven, haggard face on the visual that he broadcast:
"Pertinent fucking question: Where are the current safehouses or defense points or whatever anyone is calling them? Do we have any? I'm considering making a break for it out of Speares right now, because despite myself I'd just love to see a face that isn't rotting, but it'd help if I had a clue of where to try and get to. So. Anyone running any sort of fortified place? Anyone? Bueller?"
ooc: Paul will get zombified at some point in the comments, so... warnings apply! But any advice/CR from peeps before he does so is welcome!
Paul spent the first day of the zombie invasion serenely unaware of it, concentrated on the mundanity of grocery shopping in his ongoing quest to make food that tastes like food. On returning from shopping he'd made sure his tablet was locked in a drawer as he scribbled out some schemes for further ways to acquire fingerprints of his fellow citizens. He was rapidly becoming aware that the 'fingerprinting' thing was sort of a spitting-in-the-wind gesture, that what with the various non-humans and vampires fucking vampires (that he was still having some trouble processing the existence of), the fingerprinting might be all sorts of useless-- but it was something to do.
After cooking a lunch for himself he'd gone from fingerprinting plans to "what to do in case of vampire" plans. A sprig of vervain was now nailed above the shop's door, a purchase made at Tamper and Trick, and a stake was in the shop's top counter drawer. Remembering the speed that Godric and the other guy had shown in the brief clip he'd seen, he sincerely doubted he would be fast enough to ever be effective, but fuck, a guy had to use the best options available.
Salt and garlic and holy water-- obtained from a cathedral manned solely by Extra priests, so even if Paul believed in it-- which he was firmly insisting to himself that he did not-- he wasn't sure it was going to be remotely goddamn useful-- and the drawers of his clock shop were starting to remind him of some sort of truly ludicrous summer blockbuster. He composed taglines to himself while pricing various sundries on the hatches (crossbows, flamethrowers-- all well out of his budget, despite his very penny-pinching methods).
Once, he was an FBI agent helping crazed religious vigilantes! Now, he's in hell, and discovering the demons are real! Paul Smecker is... a vampire hunter!
His own bitter laugh to himself in the silence of the shop sounded more than a little hysterical.
At least so far he'd refused to get a crucifix of any sort. The thought alone conjured Irish accents, tired eyes, cheerful smiles, and he obstinately shut that mental pathway down.
After doing his best to stock up on anti-vampire weaponry, there'd been some ruminating on the idea of magic, based on his incredibly loose understanding of it so far from his conversations with Tara Maclay. He felt he could grill her for a week and still feel like a kid sitting before a chalkboard scrawled with quantum equations. Maybe you had to have the 'gift', whatever the fuck that was.
Paul missed when the hatches went off, but he couldn't help but notice the power going too. And the water.
At first he dismissed it as just a 'glitch' in the sense that was meant back home-- something was technically wrong, it'd be back in a bit, bitching is only useful if you have the right person's phone number. But as a long night stretched on, Special Agent to the FBI Paul Smecker began to feel increasingly uneasy.
Candles. Why in Christ's name had he never bothered to hatch candles? A night-time trip to the downstairs hatch revealed it was out of order. Paul dragged a now-empty merchandise shelf in front of the front door, all too aware it was a useless deterrent what with the huge fucking plate glass windows that were too big to be blocked or barricaded. He went back upstairs, and waited.
Day two, and he'd made a wary way out into the light, at first seeking merely a working hatch and in the end resorting to the Taxon equivalent of Wal-Mart. He'd loaded a shopping cart with bottled water, candles, binoculars, a flashlight-- all the while cursing himself for having taken the comforts of civilization for granted so far-- and finally broken down and gotten some guns as well. They were under lock and key; Paul broke the glass.
The eerie thing was that not only did no Extra cashier politely object to his doing this, they weren't even evident in the store at all.
He'd wheeled a hurried way back home with his cart of stolen merchandise, one rifle, one handgun, a silencer, and all the ammo he'd thought to grab. There'd been clouds of smoke on the skyline; distant sounds of screaming. He'd fought down twenty-plus years of training that said he should go investigate. Go help. That was his job.
Except it wasn't, anymore, and he'd gotten home without stopping to look too hard at any of the scenes that he caught in his peripheral vision of 'looters' that he was pretty sure weren't looters at all.
He'd abandoned the ground floor as indefensible, but the top floor with only the narrow staircase up had some promise. That door he had barricaded the hell out of, and then spent the rest of the day sitting at a window with the unfamiliar rifle, glasses trained on the street below, listening to broadcasts from his tablet. Watching things on the tablet.
Things like the non-human members of Taxon engaged in what could only be called butchery-- with their bare hands as often as not. He wasn't even sure which was more horrifying-- the shambling Extras, more mindless than ever but driven now with terrible purpose, or the blood-spattered forms of what he supposed were, in some fucked-up way of reckoning it all, the 'good guys'.
Maybe he'd been preparing for the wrong monsters; maybe he should have been prepping for the slow-walking Extras. Or maybe-- this thought coming while seeing Godric half-covered with blood, the juxtaposition of the unreal fangs and the waxen calm expression-- maybe he had been entirely right.
He'd caught Cain's broadcast; ground down on the knowledge of his own uselessness. He wasn't a doctor, and that was obviously what Cain needed. Paul Smecker watched the street, and watched his tablet, watching some dots converge in little clusters of dubious defense, and other dots cut swathes on their own through streets that were now a battlefield.
He slept sitting up, and didn't light the candles at night, and shot the odd few that broke through the glass and wandered up the stairs to his little fortress.
Day five, and things on the streets looked abysmally quiet. The quiet before the end of the world.
Paul Smecker broke his radio silence, tapping his tablet into life and showing an unshaven, haggard face on the visual that he broadcast:
"Pertinent fucking question: Where are the current safehouses or defense points or whatever anyone is calling them? Do we have any? I'm considering making a break for it out of Speares right now, because despite myself I'd just love to see a face that isn't rotting, but it'd help if I had a clue of where to try and get to. So. Anyone running any sort of fortified place? Anyone? Bueller?"
ooc: Paul will get zombified at some point in the comments, so... warnings apply! But any advice/CR from peeps before he does so is welcome!