The Week of Chaos - Day 4
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"If you are currently residing inside of one of the red zones, we are encouraging you to find the safest possible location you can find and secure yourself. Barricade yourself if you have to, and we are at this time encouraging citizens to arm themselves if necessary," the man on the TV stated. His voice was calm, but there was no denying the underlying fear in his voice. "The Military will be performing sweeps of all the red zones over the next two weeks, and we will give the all clear to the zones whenever we are sure that every addict is eliminated from the area."

"Eliminated!! You're only solution is to kill us outright?!" a man yelled back at the TV. "What the **** is your g******ed problem?? We need a cure, **** it!!"

The man was pacing quickly in the darkly lit room. His breaths were deep, and they stuttered with every in and out. He was dirty and wet from profuse sweating, and his three-day beard was a dead giveaway that there was very little on his mind.

"Unfortunately, this is the only solution that we can offer for what is possibly millions of citizens that are not addicted within these red zones. No cure is currently available, and merely taking more of the drug will only postpone the horrific withdrawl symptoms. It is the opinion of this administration that there is no other viable solution," the man stated with a sense of finality.

Then, in the background coming through the TV, gunshots were ringing out. Then, a series of screams sounded, and finally the camera quickly swiveled to the right. Inside of the small press room, the camera finally came into focus just in time to catch several ragged men tackling the soldiers that had been guarding the room. Their mouths were clamped tight around the soldiers' necks while they beat the soldiers in the chest with their fists. Behind them, several other men and women began to storm the room, and it was plainly obvious that the majority of these men and women had dried blood caked around their mouth and onto their necks and shirts.

"****, run!!" somebody in the background yelled, and the camera rocked and shooked in a sudden motion. Then, the camera seemed to be moving, and it was obvious that the camera operator had disconnected it from the tripod. The view then quickly swiveled around in the opposite direction. A glance at the stage where the government man was standing was temporarily empty as the government had quickly evacuated. However, reporters were now scrambling to climb onto the stage so they could exit out of the back door.

The view then shifted to another door, but the problem was that it was locked shut. Several people were banging on it to try and get anybody to open it. Other people were quick to notice that it was shut and were making a break for the back door behind the stage.

The camera suddenly seemed to stumble forward, and the shot fell out of focus in a blurry mess. Then, the camera hit the ground causing a bit of static to briefly fill the screen. When it came back, the view was now on its side, and the view briefly showed a number of people being beaten and bloodied by several enraged people.

The shot quickly disappeared and the screen went black. "Aww, come on!! Those ****s deserved that ****!! Let me see it!!" the bedraggled man yelled at his TV. Reaching out, he grabbed the set with both hands and shook it violently. Seemingly in response, the TV then displayed a shot inside of a helicopter. It was the same man that had been giving the press conference just a moment ago. "People of America, don't worry. Your government is working very hard to rectify this problem. I can assure you that this won't last for much longer," the man stated as he looked right into the camera.

Before he could continue, a man jumped into view and attacked the man. A blood curdling scream blasted over the speaker of the TV as the man was bitten in the neck by his attacker. The microphone that the man was wearing bumped and squealed, and it eventually went silent as blood poured over it and shorted it out. The attacker then seemed to twist violently away from the man, and just outside of the window of the helicopter, the ground seemed to be rushing quickly towards the view port. Then, static twisted across the screen, and the image turned into nothing but static.

"Heh, served you ****ers right. 'Eliminated' my ass," the dirty man stated as he let go of the TV set. From behind the man, a whimper sounded out softly. Quickly swirling towards the noise, the man then yelled out, "SHUT THE **** UP!!!"

Walking quickly towards the noise, a high pitched scream yelled out. "I'll teach you to yell!!" the man yelled back as he quickly stepped out of the light from the TV. Screams of terror and agony reverbated for the next several minutes until they finally faded away. At the very edge of the light from the TV, a pool of blood then slowly crawled into the light.
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The Beginning of the RP
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The door to the elevator opened, revealing Davey and Sterling. Both of them were obviously angry as they quickly moved towards the security desk. Picking up their SCAR rifles and sidearms, they then turned around to face the door. "Well, at least they didn't take our weapons or ammo," Sterling stated somewhat calmly.

"Yeah, well I guess they can't be arrogant pricks all the time," Davey replied loud enough to make sure that the security guards bristled at the comment.

"Come on, you didn't possibly think that there wasn't going to be some kind of addendum to the proposed payments, did ya?"

"Honestly, I thought that this was going to be a fairly straightforward mission."

"'Straightforward'? come on, we're heavily armed and well equipped soldiers that are well suited for recom duty. These guys are in survival mode, and they'll take advantage of anything that presents itself."

"I can't just accept that, though!" Davey replied sharply. "I still believe that there's a place for honesty in this world, as f***'d up as it is, and I hate it when I get double crossed. That's two lines they crossed."

"And that's not going to get us any closer to making sure that our squad makes it back to safety, either. We need to think about recruiting us a new one," Sterling stated.

Shaking his head, Davey then looked away as he sighed in frustration. He knew Sterling was right. They couldn't just mount a rescue mission, or they would violate the agreement between the UN and this bunch of vampires. They had to go on the recon mission, and if they were going into heavy addict territory, then they were going to need some fresh recruits in case they got into a bad situation.

"Fine, where do you think we should start?" Davey asked reservedly.

Taylor Matthew's was sleeping in the back of a half-truck. The week's had been bad to him and thing's had gotten any better today either. The driver flung a bucket of water over him, causing him to start and fall off the edge. After smacking his head on the floor and cursing at the driver, he rubbed the back off his neck tenatively, feeling tired still. "What a--" He began, but quickly stopped as he saw young children run by. He grunted annoyance and took a deep breath, wiping the dust off his clothes. After securing his weapon's and supplies he began to walk down the road, following it to wherever it would lead.

Taylor made it to a Shanty Town eventually and collapsed on the wall of the nearby building, pulling out his water sack and drinking deeply. Even as trained as he was, it was amazing how he had survived this long on as little as he had. This small sack of water had lasted him three week's, where as a normal man would of drank all of it within four day's, at most. He drank the rest, wiping his dry lip's as he cast the small sack aside. He fell to the floor, clutching his stomach in agony, longing for but a single taste of solid food. He pulled a small can out of his bag, opening it and devouring it's content's almost instantly and then yet again threw it away.

He stood slowly, staggering around as if he had just downed three bottle's of Russian vodka. He pushed his shade's up, trying to block out the sunlight as he made toward's a nearby building. A nearby women, apparently the resident at the named house, rushed to him and helped him stand, seeing he was in such a poor state. She helped Taylor to the nearby house, putting him in it's shade. She spoke a different language, making communication difficult. Though he knew many lanaguage's, Taylor did not have the energy to discriminate Japanese from French or any other such translation.

After a few minute's the women emerged, carrying with her a pan full of water and a small sack of food. After consuming some of the offered meal he thanked the women graciously and turned to leave. He then froze, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a small little sack. He examined it for a moment, then chucked it backward's to the woman. "Gracias." She replied the appropriate word's and he knew she had smiled. He returned the gesture, even though she couldn't see it. He rose his hand in the air and waved goodbye, as he began to jog and leap onto a nearby halftruck.

He sat on the edge, looking out over the terrain. He wished he had something to do, some purpose in life. As a Soldier in the military, he had never felt more useless.

Sam Jackson pulled out his JAE-Gen 2 M1A rifle. He checked the magazines, fully loaded, he checked the barrel, pristine, the receiver, perfect.
" Alright, en-pea." Sam said. He often spoke in Text talk, he found it funny to say stuff like that. He pulled out his Jericho and started cleaning his weapons. His oil was running low, he'd have to barter for some more soon.
Sam opened up an MRE, slowly eating the Chicken Fajita meal.
" Ohhh... Yum!" Sam said, then he heard a whimper. He looked down, there was a little kid, his stomach enlarged from lack of eat, where the gasses build up from your body litterally eating itself. Sam Reached into his bag and pulled out a pack of crackers and cheese. He tossed them to the kid, he leaped into the air, caught them and ran towards his little shanty across the street.
Sam loved helping some people, but they had to come to him, he didn't jst walk around giving hand outs. He reached into his box that acted as his drawer. He dug around until he found his holster. He slid the Jericho into it, then he put a magazine in the side pouch. He reached into the box again, pulling out his bayonet, the magazine pouch, the scope and the sling for his M1A. He put everything on his Rifle and stepped outside, sitting on an old rickety foldable chair that he had found lying about somewhere. He held his rifle across his lap, and gazed into the the distance. Having no electricity, he couldn't spend his day playing games like he used to.
" Oh what I wouldn't give for a generator." He muttered.

Allen Ryan looked up from his M40A1 sniper rifle he'd managed to scrounge up in this little hellhole of a shanty-town. For being on the outskirts of old-Boston, the shanty-town he'd been... sequestered in for the past handful of years was obscenely hot, the heat that stories about the desert talked about.

The desert. That brought up memories of Iraq and his... other job. Iraq, well, he'd spent his week in Hell there... and then volunteered to do more for the US Government. It was amazing just what the human body could do under pressure, a fact he'd seen demonstrated many times for him in person.

Usually it was just as he was observing other men's final moments through a sniper scope.

His head perked up as he heard a familiar sound, a Blackhawk! It was a pretty subtle sound, but it was utterly distinctive to the Blackhawk and, if someone had heard it once than they would know it for the rest of their lives, and he'd spent a lot of time around Blackhawks in his lifetime.

Blackhawks meant the UN was hear! If he was lucky enough that meant that he would be able to get away from these damned Vampires. Working the action on his Colt 1911 he'd taken with him from the Corps and checking his pockets for spare clips (He had several) Ryan stood up and walked towards the noise, careful to keep his rifle away from the dust that somehow seemed to crop up on the ground out of nowhere.

He could finally get out of this place!

***

Charles Coltrane dropped his saxophone as his drummer stopped playing. "What?" He snapped angrily at the man.

"Sorry, boss." The drummer quailed. "But there's some type of helicopter flying over us to land, well, it messes with the acoustics."

"Then get back to work." Coltrane growled threateningly. Caressing the Baretta M9 he had belted at his side despite being in the middle of a gig. "You are being paid to drum, so drum."

"Aye, boss." The man was obviously slow-witted, that was the only explanation that Coltrane had for it at least. But he did, at least, fulfill his half of the obligation and restart drumming.

"Sorry, folks." Coltrane said into the mike he had on hand for occasions rather like this. "But we just had a helicopter from the United Nations fly over for some reason, so, back to the show."

The UN bit was a small white lie, in truth he had no idea who the helicopter was from, but at least it was plausible and seemed to appease the audience... all 14 of them.

Picking up the saxophone, Coltrane started playing again... wondering if his life was going to change at all...

Taylor awoke to find a group of addict's surrounding the small convoy. The driver's had literally armed themselves with anything within reach, but Taylor knew it wasn't enough. The addict's weren't excatly in a good mood, most armed with knives and club's of wood.

He drew his MP5's out of his backpack and reloaded them below the halftrack brim. The sound of the empty shell's clattering on the floor drew the eye of a paticulary enraged addict, as he charged at the halftruck. He was almost on top of Taylor when the driver put a shot right between his eye's. Taylor nodded thank's and hoped he would live long enough to return the favour. He quickly drew a flashbang and shouted to the driver's, telling them to look away. The sound erupted quickly and the addict's fell to the floor, rolling around in agony, clutching their skull's.

Taylor quickly unleashed a salvo upon the addict's, thinning their number's and the bodies fell limp. The fact that the lifeless eye's were fixed upon him discomforted Taylor, but he did not let down his guard. Reloading quickly he cut down a second wave. Then realization struck Taylor. He looked behind him, horrified by the sight of a hundred addict's ripping the caravan to piece's. He deposited him MP's in his backpack, quickly retrieving a shotgun from behind the back seat and loaded it with a few shell's. After unleashing a few shot's he ran out of shell's, forcing him into melee.

The addict's had the upper hand in close range, but he had no choice. He quickly retrieved a broken sniper rifle and snapper of the barrel. He then strapped his combat knife to the end, with a bit of loose wire. As the carvan was overwhelmed he finished his small weapon and utilized it as a crude spear, thrusting it at the addict's. Three fell before he was overtaken, one addict clinging to his back. Then he found a nice little toy. He threw the addict over his head, into the oncoming mass. Then he drew a frag grenade. The addict's froze in realization, backing away. The driver's quickly moved close to Taylor, knowing it was their only chance.

"Now back away!" He held the frag in front of him as he walked into the mass, many of the addict's moving away swiftly. A few driver's moved too close to the crowd and were absorbed into the mass as the addict's overcame them. Only four made it through with Taylor, though without supplies he knew they wouldn't last long. The opening closed quickly, ensnaring three of the four without delay. The last driver sprinted, giving the addict's a chase they couldn't resist. Common sense was overcame as the creature's lumbered forward with amazing speed, intent on catching their prey.

Taylor was knocked down by the charging mass, but none ceased to collect their fallen prize. A few minute's later they were gone, leaving the caravan untouched. He quickly returned to the truck's and gathered some supplies before making haste into the nearby wilderness.

Vlad Rominsky was not a Noble Dead, as he had heard some call him. He was simply a human with a need for blood. But the unaffected humans never understood that. Vlad pulled out his WASR-10 and loaded a magazine, thirty rounds of 7.62x39mm ammo becoming available to his use for an onslaught. He had already checked his USP and his Udar, now he cleaned his Hacking knife, handed down to him from his father. When the blade shined like a mirror, he put it down.The pains were getting the better of him. He pulled out the uncooked hamburger, something he had not really experienced in the Motherland. The 'ketchup' was leaking out the sides. Vlad preffered to remain with the living, if they knew he was a Vampire, they'd treat him like all the others... and then he'd be terribly lonely.

Clyde Johnson lay on the bed in a shack in the shanty town, his Mp5, Micro-Uzis and his sidearm hung on the wall. He was asleep.

He was wearing a dirty white tanktop, a pair of army camo pants, and a pair of black boots. His blonde hair was loosly styled.

An alarm clock rang. Clyde flung up his eyes and flew out of the bed, on the way grabbing his sidearm. He aimed around the room, before remembering he was not in danger. He sat down again, rubbing his eyes.

"I need to get some action, and fast," he said to himself, the alarm clock still ringing. He turned it off, and put on his belt, put the sidearm in its holster on the belt, took down his Uzis, and put them too in their holsters on the belt. He put on his army jacket, and at last took down the Mp5 and hung it on his back. He found an half-smoked cigar, ignited it, and put it in his mouth.

As Clyde wandered the town, studying the peoples struggle, he noticed two men in armor with SCAR's. Interesting, he thought and walked over to them.

Vlad stepped outside. He looked next door, there sat Sam Jackson, his right hand involuntarily twitching.
Vlad walked over to him, " Hallo, Sam, do you happen to have the Makarov Pistol I asked for?"
Sam jumped, reaching for his Jericho. " Oh, Vlad... Yeah, you have know idea how difficult this was to get. I had to give up three days worth of food, Three days! I better get something good for this." Sam said as he went inside.
He came out soon, holding a small cloth packet. He unfolded it and handed him the pistol and two magazines, " Right, now wheres my payment?"
Vlad handed over two bottles of oil. " Fair trade."

"Well, we can promise amnesty or anything like that. And we don't have money for that matter, either," Sterling replied. Davey just raised his eyebrows as he thought for a moment. Looking around at the poor state of the shanty town, Davey then had an idea.

"What about we try to get them to fight for something? I'm pretty sure that most of these people are here out of necessity more than anything. Think about it: would you want to live here?" Davey stated as he looked over at Sterling. "If we can get them to support the idea of expanding this place, I'm sure the vamps would let them start inhabiting these buildings instead of being forced to live in a bunch of makeshift s***-holes."

"And its gotta start somewhere," Sterling added. "Right, well, lets give it a shot then." In front of them was an old bus that was serving as a makeshift home. Davey quickly switched on his strength ability on his suit and literally jumped up on top of it while Sterling walked around the front side.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please!" Davey shouted out as loud as he possibly could. The people closest to the bus looked at him curiously, and they seemed rather unsure if they were going to actually stop to listen or just keep moving. "Let me have your attention, please!"

The crowds started to stop and take notice if and only to catch a glimpse of something that didn't happen on a regular basis. "My name is David Saer. I'm a Captain in the UN military, and I'd like to make you an offer.

I'm fairly certain that few, if any, of you actually enjoy your current lot in life. I can imagine that living here in this mess of a town is more for your protection and the promise of clean water and food. But this isn't a home for you. You sleep here, and you raise your family here. But this isn't your home. You might have even resigned yourself to the likelihood that you'll never again live in anything better than this. But that still doesn't make this your home.

You need a roof over your head that doesn't leak during the rain or let in the cold winds of winter. You need the security of a completely enclosed space; not just a couple of men that patrol the streets with guns.

If you want a home, then it has to start somewhere, and that's where my offer comes in. If we can secure the future of this place, then it can expand and grow. With expansion comes a greater risk, but the rewards are great. You can have a home once again, and you won't have to worry about raids or dissidents. But its starts by establishing something now.

We need your help to do this. We've been tasked with the assignment of locating a nearby dissident stronghold and gathering intelligence, but we can't do this alone. If you have the skills, and you want to have a real home, then come and find me. I'll be here along with my Executive Officer, Captain Sterling. Just remember: this isn't home, but together, we can make it a home for you."

Clyde stepped forward towards the bus.

"I suppose there's gonna be some action," he said. "So I'm in." He walked further forward and turned towards the people.

Allen Ryan was on his way back from the docks after watching some vamps take the squad of UN Military personal prisoner when he heard the announcement.

How bad could it be? He thought to himself. After all, it can't be worse than Iraq ever was.

Making his way through the crowd, Ryan eventually found himself at the bus from where his ear had told him the announcement had came from. The UN, he'd never really liked them, more often than not they'd just been a bunch of bumbling fools, but this bunch... they actually looked like they knew what they were doing.

"Captain Sterling?" He asked the armored man on the ground. "Staff Sergeant Allen Ryan, formerly of the USMC. If you'll take me, I'll come along as a sniper. Anything has to be better than this hell hole."

~*~

The announcement had come right as Coltrane was finishing up the gig, something he was infinitely grateful for. After quickly putting away his saxophone, Coltrane emerged out of the bar he'd been playing in, hissing as the bright light hit his eyes.

"On the ground, buddy." One of the local toughs, most likely. "On the ground."

Coltrane sighed as he obediently got on the ground, making sure to hide his M-9, saying a prayer of thanks that his wallet was in his side pocket instead of his back pocket.

Then, after some scuffling and the noise of his saxophone case being stolen, they were gone.

Grumbling, Coltrane made his way to his 'house' three cardboard boxes that nobody paid any attention to.

"Home, sweet home." He muttered before pulling up a flap on the ground and exposing a hole he'd dug a few years ago.

Dropping down he grabbed his medical stuff, all his money, and a M16A1 he'd stolen after entering the shanty town. He'd been bemoaning the fact that his life was static not fifteen minutes ago and this came! If he wasn't convinced, he was now.

Grabbing a c-4 charge he'd scrounged up years ago, he placed it in his home, above his hidden chamber, and inserted the detonating pin and walked away. As he walked away he pressed down on his remote, destroying the collection of cardboard and then threw away the remote. Good riddance, I never liked that place.

"Captain Sterling?" He heard a person ask before he could open his mouth.

After this 'Mister Ryan' was done, Coltrane started.

"I'd like to apply as a medic, I have completed two years of med school." He paused and then gestured at his M16. "At the very least, I'd provide some cheep muscle."

Vlad and Sam looked at the heavily armed men at the same time.
" Da, what idiots. Yelling like that." Vlad said. Sam stepped forward, then he made his way through the crowd.
" Hey, Davey, I'm in. Anythings better than sitting in this rotten rat hole. I'm your man for explosive ordinance. Hand me some C4 or even some Comb B, I'll take out what ever you need." Sam said as he walked forward. " I served in Afgahn, so I can disable as well."
Vlad came forward too. " Were Sam goes I go, I can provide some lead downrange for you" Vlad hefted his WASR to a more comfortable position.