#cheyennestarter

[little-orphan-autumn]

Hopscotch || Autumn and OPEN

Days had ticked by, and the little girl still managed to remain wordless-- something still was missing inside of her. Her heart still hurt, and she still cried every time Anthony decided to leave the plane-- but time had taught her how to lock it up herself and wait for him. 

Today, although a bit chilly, it seemed like a good day to get out and stretch her legs; but not go far at all. After careful collection, adorned in her gift-shop zip up sweat jacket, Autumn had collected enough rocks to make a small hopscotch board right outside the stirs of the plane. The young girl's paranoia didn't waver with her childlike antics and still kept a close eye on what was happening around her. 

one...    two...       one...          one...             two...

She silently counted in her head moving through the make shift board to turn around and hop back. 

[violet-porter]

the absence of god :: open :: cheyenne

Lead-weighted lids droop low over her light eyes, her head lolled over to her left. It's her watch turn, and even though she has no idea what time it is exactly, Violet guesses it must be at least three or four in the morning.                               For a moment, she allows herself a petty wish: that she'd switched watch                 turns with someone who now dozed peacefully behind her. She's always                hated staying up this late. Even before everything. At three or four in the morning there is too much uncertainty and silence for a woman who has spent the better part of her life feigning confidence and propping up silences that threatened to crush this feigned confidence with a steady stream of words.                  Still -- she comforts herself with a glance upward, shifting in her seat on the                 roof -- it's always nice to see the stars. Her eyes find Orion and she allows                  herself a small smile. He is made of the three brightest stars in the sky. Her                 smile dissolves as she recalls that their bright burning means that they are                 close to death.  Brushing a piece of hair from her eyes, tightening her grip on the gun she's not sure she'll ever be able to use. She doesn't want to think about death.  She has to think about it all day long, and has nightmares about it when she falls into fitful sleep. Surrounded by death. Everywhere, the dead walk.  Somewhere, her sons and husband are likely dead. Her daughter may die.  Inside her now, the vicious replication of flawed cells starts her on her way to her demise.                  Suddenly she feels such a pressure in her chest, she thinks she may cry until                 she hears the footfalls behind her. Clumsily she draws her gun, tries to harden                 her eyes at the figure approaching her (probably just a member of her group,                 but one can never be too sure). "Who's there?"

[closer-is-god-blog]

Double Edged | {open} | Cheyenne

Sitting on an upturned barrel at the end of the road, ankles crossed, demeanor lazy like a cat; not calm but deceptively loose. Dean puffed on his cigar, something he'd found in the military base he was staying in now. A real treat from cheap cigarettes and stale gum to try to keep him busy.

"While I may be able to help you," he paused to blow a stream of wild smoke through the crisp but bright air, "--the question is will I."

He was never quick to offer aid; only if it was necessary for his group--his reflexes were never dull when it came to an undead trying to get a taste of someone he was in an admittedly ambiguous, but still spoken contract to protect however he could. But nobody could ever say Dean MacBride had a big heart; certainly no one who was alive.

And giving out supplies, directions, and advice was something he'd never done as of yet, and didn't plan on doing any time soon for anything short of a good price.

[little-orphan-autumn]

Lost || Autumn && OPEN || Cheyenne

"No don't go.." the little brunette girl cried out as a uniformed man placed her down right outside of Cheyenne. "I have to," he cooed at her, kneeling down to look her square in her eyes, brushing a strand of her hair back out of her face. He gave her careful instructions, handing her her backpack and giving her a small kiss on her forehead. Even the small child could tell that the hurt him. As he arose back up, he tipped her chin up towards his own with the gentle touch of two fingers under her soft, pale skin and used the rough pad of his thumb to brush the small tears from her cheeks. 

When a crackling voice came over his radio it broke the moment, pulling the man back into his job. Before Autumn could object, he turned her around by her shoulders, gave her a small nudge-- and he was gone.

Autumn stood a moment of fear and abandonment for the second time in her young life. The memories flashed of her mother and father struggling for their lives as a bush rustled to her right. Already big eyes grew wider with terror at what may lie behind the foliage which forced the little girl to take off in a sprint faster than her little feet could carry her. It was no time before she was back in town.

Blanketed in pure exhaustion, the little girl stumbled downward onto her knees and broke out in tears. Her stomach grumbled, her heat thudded so hard it could break a rib, her eyes were dry and tired, her whole body shook and all she could do was cry. 

[prisonhunt-blog]

Anthony looked over his shoulder. "What - are you here in the hopes of getting more supplies too?"

[paul--murphy-blog]

Quietly Now || Paul & -- || Cheyenne

Even without words, it was clear that Gina Ann knew what was up. Paul knew he needed to leave the house, but he couldn't figure out how. There was no way he was leaving her alone in his house, but there was no way he could bring her. This impasse had stumped him for days, during which time Gina seemed to be getting ill. He knew kids got ill all the time, but he wanted to give her some baby medicine. People who had ransacked the stores in town surely would have left baby medicine, right?

He would't know until he got there and he still didn't know how to get there. He wished his wife, Virginia, was here with him. She could help him. Any other person, actually, would be rather useful. 

Paul walked through the house again. Pacing was natural to him, a way of thinking, from many years in the courtroom. He always thought he was good at thinking on his feet (no pun intended) and had a list of clients a mile long who would agree. But this, this was not thinking well on his feet. Gina Ann needed medicine. He needed to go to the store. 

He looked back over at his granddaughter. She was happily in a little bouncy chair, but looked a few minutes away from sleep. It was getting late, he knew, but if she was sleeping, that would be his best chance. He waited until she was sleeping before scoping her up into a carrier. How many times had he made fun of his son-in-law for carrying her around in it? Perhaps it would be life saving. He grabbed his wife's handgun and an old baseball bat, before leaving the house and locking the door. For a moment, he wondered if he should leave it unlocked, should he be running away from zombies, but he decided against it. No one could it without obvious damage this way. 

Thankfully, there was a pharmacy six or seven blocks away from his house. The door was long gone, but it appeared to not have been fully pick through. Quietly, he walked towards the spot with the baby medicine and began to put all of the types into his pockets.  Suddenly, he heard footsteps and Paul turned towards the noise. The footsteps seemed to be heading away from him, praise the Lord. That was, at least, until Gina Ann woke up and started crying. 

Shit, Paul thought, switching the bat to his left hand and grabbed the gun. 

[prisonhunt-blog]

trespassing | cheyenne | open

Anthony pushed the cart full of food into the kitchen and began to store them inside the freezer room. The airport was a relatively small one that only hosted domestic flights, sometimes private jets, and so it was not that hard for Anthony to gather whatever resources he could find. 

The past few days he had spent seeking refuge in the airport have been hectic. It almost felt like he had spent a lifetime inside. At first it was him and couple of survivors who stayed together after the outbreak, but they soon fell into the hands of the walking dead and Anthony has never felt the same satisfaction of human company again. 

He came out of the freezer room with the emptied cart when he was done. Perhaps he should go back to sleep. The day has been passive, if not lethargic. Anthony did not come across a zombie when he gathered resources within the airport perimeters. That was a good thing. He was sure that he had wiped all of them out after coming back from that one fateful encounter. 

Anthony was just locking the freezer room when he heard a noise.

He paused; listening and observing his surroundings. When he heard the noise again, he went over to where he left his crowbar and picked it up. 

Perhaps he had not entirely cleared the airport of zombies. He walked out of the kitchen and to his gentle surprise, saw a fellow survivor. He guessed that the person came to the airport. If there were any survivors left in the airport, Anthony would have known from the start. 

"I'm not very fond of trespassers - so state your business here and I might just let you go without making a scene," he said in a low, but audible voice. It was quite evident that he was being rather overprotective of the resources he had just gathered. 

[violet-porter]

Brushing what were once bangs, but are now just overgrown layers, out of her eyes with a heavy sigh, she tries hard not to think about how bad her hair must look. It's petty. So, so terribly petty and vain, to be worried about her hair in the face of the apocalypse, but between the humidity and the finger combing, she knows it must be reaching rather astonishing heights. Casting her gaze sideways, mind ceasing vain preoccupation to focus on something more pertinent, like the approaching member of her group. She offers the young woman a soft, smile. A tender hand laid on the other's shoulder. She's never had any concept of "personal space," and this has remained true, even now. "Morning, Amelia."