For all you latecomers:
PART 1:
http://www.flashflashrevolution.com/...wtopic&t=37493
PART 2:
http://www.flashflashrevolution.com/...wtopic&t=37533
PART 3:
http://www.flashflashrevolution.com/...wtopic&t=37589
The clatter of footfalls echoed off of the stone walls and concrete stairs as the trio climbed. The railing used to be blue, but the paint was so chipped it looked very much like an awkward camouflage that would only be helpful in brackish waters. Every last stair before a door had a yellow stripe, signifying that this might be the place to stop, or a place to rest, but they were only on floor 15.
Iggy wasn’t used to the weight of the gun, and he had tried to tuck it into the waistband of his dirty blue jeans when it discharged and shot straight through the leg of his pants. By some small miracle, his leg had gone undamaged, but he had since contracted a severe case of the shakes. He also decided that carrying the gun might be the best bet.
Gopher was beginning to sweat, but not showing any signs of slowing down. He was leading the group, taking the stairs two at a time and stopping at each landing, having to wait for Eric and Iggy to catch up. On floor 13, he had pried a piece of the railing away from the wall and was now carrying it like some kind of misshapen club, the part of the railing that attached to the wall forming a spike.
Eric trailed everyone, not used to this physical conditioning. He would make up the stairs, he had promised himself that, but it was going to be quite the struggle. His breath came out in short gasps, his legs burned and his face was red. The radio sat in his pocket, silent but on the right channel.
The group had reached floor 25 when Wheels sent a transmission over the radio.
“Hey, guys. How’s it going? You alright?”
There was a long pause.
“Over.”
Eric pulled the radio out of his pocket, and pressed the red “Transmit” button, but couldn’t speak. All that came out was a breath, then another, and another before he finally gave up trying to speak and let go of the button.
“Holy crap, guys? Are you alright? Hello? Over?”
Iggy grabbed the radio from Eric, who nodded, the sweat rolling off of his face with the motion.
“We’re fine, Wheels. Listen, I’m going to silence the radio for a little while because we’re about to hit floor 30 and we don’t know who or what is up there. So just chill out for another fifteen or so minutes, and then we’ll call you, alright? Over.”
“Alright.”
Gopher grabbed the walkie-talkie from Iggy.
“Anything in the closet? Over.”
“Just me and a mouse. That’s about it. Over and out.”
Iggy grabbed the radio back and shut it off.
They continued on for five more minutes before reaching floor 30. The lights were on in the hallway, but only burning at half efficiency, casting odd shadows over the walls. The hum of a generator could be heard down the hall, but it too was faint, dying.
The carpet was a fine lime green color, although the lighting wouldn’t let you see it. Scattered along the hallway were various objects; the top of the water-cooler, papers, pencils, desk drawers. Hell had broken loose in here. There were doors spaced every ten or so feet from each other, the stair-well door swinging open as the trio entered the dimly lit hallway.
“Well… Whoever is in here, there’s a reason they haven’t been transmitting much,” Iggy noted. “I mean, look at this. They’re running off of a back-up generator that’s not even going at full capacity. I doubt they’d have enough power to send any kind of a signal that wasn’t a brief tap.”
Eric was still out of breath, and he nodded. The gun, slick with sweat, began to slip from his hand, but he gripped it tightly.
“Alright… Guys… First thing we do once we’re out of here… Get me a pistol grip… For this gun… In case we ever…. EVER have to do stairs again. Let’s find the studio.”
Iggy took point with Gopher bringing up the rear, the gasping Eric in between them. They made their way down the hall, looking in at the offices, but seeing nothing. The blinds were all drawn and the doors all locked. They didn’t want to scare any survivors by blasting a door open with their pistols, so they kept their objective in mind.
Iggy turned the corner, stopped, and received a sweaty face print as Eric walked into him. Iggy motioned to the end of the corridor where there was a faint light blinking beside the door, shooting red bursts of light over the hallway.
“ON AIR,” it read in faint letters.
The door wasn’t locked, but it was barricaded. The sound-proof window to the studio had spider-web cracks over it, someone trying to get in at some point but finding no purchase. Gopher slammed his shoulder into the door, and it gave way a little. He continued this, making a large banging noise with each attempt, but getting the door more and more open every time.
It was wide enough for Iggy to get in, and he slid between the frame the door. He began to un-stack the boxes behind the door immediately, and soon enough Gopher and Eric were inside.
There was the control center, with papers scattered everywhere. It was an island in the middle of the room, with microphones hanging down from the ceiling, designating stations for employees. The mixing board was a mess of blood and the black viscous fluid the Creeps had running through their veins. In the corner, the afternoon DJ was slumped over, in a pool of his own blood, wrists dangling to either side, slit. In the other corner, the corpse of a Creep.
The DJ had glass in his hands from trying to bust the window out. No one had been trying to get into the studio. He had been trying to get out. How did the creatures get in without going through the door?
Eric noted the screws and the vent screen on the floor.
On the control center, beside the papers were various promotional items that were sent in. In the boxes behind them, more promotional items. Items sent by companies free of charge for advertising. The boxes behind them contained packets of mini-muffins, and the box on the center contained L-7 Professional Tennis Balls, unopened. Iggy picked a can of them up, curiously.
“Hello?” Eric called, tentatively.
No one answered. In the upper corner near the command center, there was a busted in window. The blinds made a bridge from the window to the center, laying across part of the mixing board. Eric walked over and looked at the board, and at the window.
A breeze came across and rustled the blinds, tapping the “Transmit” button once and again until the breeze died down. The very thing that was giving the young man in the closet hope as he listened as destroying the hope of those thirty floors above.
“Iggy, look at this,” Eric called over.
“The blinds are hitting the transmit button? That’s… Wow. There’s no one here?”
Eric nodded.
“This is just like that book,” Iggy started.
“What book?”
“Uh… I read it in tenth grade… ‘On The Beach’. It’s about Nuclear War, and how everyone in the world is dead except for some people in Australia, and they send out a submarine party to find a radio broadcast off of some European coast or something. But in that, it was the blinds, too. What are the odds of that?” Iggy said, setting down the now open can of tennis balls.
“Well… What happened at the end of the book?” Eric questioned.
“Lemme think… Oh, yeah. Everyone killed themselves because radiation sickness and painful death was inevitable. Sucks the be them, right?”
“Yes… Sucks to be them,” Eric said softy.
From under the console, Gopher heard a crinkling noise.
“Wait, guys, there might be someone in here.”
He ducked down and looked, to find a Creep sitting by himself, trying to open a package of the muffins but growing frustrated. It pulled out it’s knife and began to slice the package open when it noticed three sets of eyes staring at it. It hissed and ran out from under the console.
It took a wide swing with it’s knife at Gopher, who threw his club at the creature, grazing the side of it’s head but otherwise not affecting it.
“Over here,” Eric called, attracting the creature away from the defenseless giant.
It charged at him, knife raised, and Eric fired his gun.
CLICK. Misfire.
“Oh, shit,” he cried as the creature jumped on him. He tried to pull it off, move it away, but he couldn’t. It was holding on too tight. He fell over onto the stack of boxes and the Creature raised its blade. Eric tried to keep it away from his eye, but the knife hovered a mere inch above, and gaining ground.
Eric closed his eye in a feeble attempt to prevent it from being stabbed when the Creep let up. It began to shriek and it fell to the floor, its back ablaze.
Iggy stood, coating another tennis-ball in the blue gel from the dead Creep in the corner. He had part of his shirt wrapped around his hand and he hit it against the counter, setting it on fire before hurling it at the creature on the ground. The fireball flew directly and hit the creature in the head, setting its skull on fire.
Iggy took off the wrap, and stomped the fire out, before shaking out his hand.
“That burned so much. But that was SO COOL.”
Eric was in the corner, propped up on his elbows against the boxes, wide eyed. All he could do was nod.
Gopher smiled and then began to laugh.
“What? What’s so funny?” Iggy called out across the room.
Gopher picked up the can of tennis-balls and motioned at the label.
“L-7, yes, so what?”
“You yelled at Iggy and said he was never going to save your ass with a level 7 fireball, didn’t you?”
At this, Iggy began to laugh. Eric blushed, but cracked a smile before laughing. In a room full of despair, the three men laughed.
Minutes passed and tears were shed, when they heard screeching from inside the vent.
“Alright… Let’s get out of here. What a shit idea this turned out to be,” Eric lamented.
They closed the door behind them and made their wall down the empty hallway as the “ON AIR” signal faded to black.
PART 1:
http://www.flashflashrevolution.com/...wtopic&t=37493
PART 2:
http://www.flashflashrevolution.com/...wtopic&t=37533
PART 3:
http://www.flashflashrevolution.com/...wtopic&t=37589
The clatter of footfalls echoed off of the stone walls and concrete stairs as the trio climbed. The railing used to be blue, but the paint was so chipped it looked very much like an awkward camouflage that would only be helpful in brackish waters. Every last stair before a door had a yellow stripe, signifying that this might be the place to stop, or a place to rest, but they were only on floor 15.
Iggy wasn’t used to the weight of the gun, and he had tried to tuck it into the waistband of his dirty blue jeans when it discharged and shot straight through the leg of his pants. By some small miracle, his leg had gone undamaged, but he had since contracted a severe case of the shakes. He also decided that carrying the gun might be the best bet.
Gopher was beginning to sweat, but not showing any signs of slowing down. He was leading the group, taking the stairs two at a time and stopping at each landing, having to wait for Eric and Iggy to catch up. On floor 13, he had pried a piece of the railing away from the wall and was now carrying it like some kind of misshapen club, the part of the railing that attached to the wall forming a spike.
Eric trailed everyone, not used to this physical conditioning. He would make up the stairs, he had promised himself that, but it was going to be quite the struggle. His breath came out in short gasps, his legs burned and his face was red. The radio sat in his pocket, silent but on the right channel.
The group had reached floor 25 when Wheels sent a transmission over the radio.
“Hey, guys. How’s it going? You alright?”
There was a long pause.
“Over.”
Eric pulled the radio out of his pocket, and pressed the red “Transmit” button, but couldn’t speak. All that came out was a breath, then another, and another before he finally gave up trying to speak and let go of the button.
“Holy crap, guys? Are you alright? Hello? Over?”
Iggy grabbed the radio from Eric, who nodded, the sweat rolling off of his face with the motion.
“We’re fine, Wheels. Listen, I’m going to silence the radio for a little while because we’re about to hit floor 30 and we don’t know who or what is up there. So just chill out for another fifteen or so minutes, and then we’ll call you, alright? Over.”
“Alright.”
Gopher grabbed the walkie-talkie from Iggy.
“Anything in the closet? Over.”
“Just me and a mouse. That’s about it. Over and out.”
Iggy grabbed the radio back and shut it off.
They continued on for five more minutes before reaching floor 30. The lights were on in the hallway, but only burning at half efficiency, casting odd shadows over the walls. The hum of a generator could be heard down the hall, but it too was faint, dying.
The carpet was a fine lime green color, although the lighting wouldn’t let you see it. Scattered along the hallway were various objects; the top of the water-cooler, papers, pencils, desk drawers. Hell had broken loose in here. There were doors spaced every ten or so feet from each other, the stair-well door swinging open as the trio entered the dimly lit hallway.
“Well… Whoever is in here, there’s a reason they haven’t been transmitting much,” Iggy noted. “I mean, look at this. They’re running off of a back-up generator that’s not even going at full capacity. I doubt they’d have enough power to send any kind of a signal that wasn’t a brief tap.”
Eric was still out of breath, and he nodded. The gun, slick with sweat, began to slip from his hand, but he gripped it tightly.
“Alright… Guys… First thing we do once we’re out of here… Get me a pistol grip… For this gun… In case we ever…. EVER have to do stairs again. Let’s find the studio.”
Iggy took point with Gopher bringing up the rear, the gasping Eric in between them. They made their way down the hall, looking in at the offices, but seeing nothing. The blinds were all drawn and the doors all locked. They didn’t want to scare any survivors by blasting a door open with their pistols, so they kept their objective in mind.
Iggy turned the corner, stopped, and received a sweaty face print as Eric walked into him. Iggy motioned to the end of the corridor where there was a faint light blinking beside the door, shooting red bursts of light over the hallway.
“ON AIR,” it read in faint letters.
The door wasn’t locked, but it was barricaded. The sound-proof window to the studio had spider-web cracks over it, someone trying to get in at some point but finding no purchase. Gopher slammed his shoulder into the door, and it gave way a little. He continued this, making a large banging noise with each attempt, but getting the door more and more open every time.
It was wide enough for Iggy to get in, and he slid between the frame the door. He began to un-stack the boxes behind the door immediately, and soon enough Gopher and Eric were inside.
There was the control center, with papers scattered everywhere. It was an island in the middle of the room, with microphones hanging down from the ceiling, designating stations for employees. The mixing board was a mess of blood and the black viscous fluid the Creeps had running through their veins. In the corner, the afternoon DJ was slumped over, in a pool of his own blood, wrists dangling to either side, slit. In the other corner, the corpse of a Creep.
The DJ had glass in his hands from trying to bust the window out. No one had been trying to get into the studio. He had been trying to get out. How did the creatures get in without going through the door?
Eric noted the screws and the vent screen on the floor.
On the control center, beside the papers were various promotional items that were sent in. In the boxes behind them, more promotional items. Items sent by companies free of charge for advertising. The boxes behind them contained packets of mini-muffins, and the box on the center contained L-7 Professional Tennis Balls, unopened. Iggy picked a can of them up, curiously.
“Hello?” Eric called, tentatively.
No one answered. In the upper corner near the command center, there was a busted in window. The blinds made a bridge from the window to the center, laying across part of the mixing board. Eric walked over and looked at the board, and at the window.
A breeze came across and rustled the blinds, tapping the “Transmit” button once and again until the breeze died down. The very thing that was giving the young man in the closet hope as he listened as destroying the hope of those thirty floors above.
“Iggy, look at this,” Eric called over.
“The blinds are hitting the transmit button? That’s… Wow. There’s no one here?”
Eric nodded.
“This is just like that book,” Iggy started.
“What book?”
“Uh… I read it in tenth grade… ‘On The Beach’. It’s about Nuclear War, and how everyone in the world is dead except for some people in Australia, and they send out a submarine party to find a radio broadcast off of some European coast or something. But in that, it was the blinds, too. What are the odds of that?” Iggy said, setting down the now open can of tennis balls.
“Well… What happened at the end of the book?” Eric questioned.
“Lemme think… Oh, yeah. Everyone killed themselves because radiation sickness and painful death was inevitable. Sucks the be them, right?”
“Yes… Sucks to be them,” Eric said softy.
From under the console, Gopher heard a crinkling noise.
“Wait, guys, there might be someone in here.”
He ducked down and looked, to find a Creep sitting by himself, trying to open a package of the muffins but growing frustrated. It pulled out it’s knife and began to slice the package open when it noticed three sets of eyes staring at it. It hissed and ran out from under the console.
It took a wide swing with it’s knife at Gopher, who threw his club at the creature, grazing the side of it’s head but otherwise not affecting it.
“Over here,” Eric called, attracting the creature away from the defenseless giant.
It charged at him, knife raised, and Eric fired his gun.
CLICK. Misfire.
“Oh, shit,” he cried as the creature jumped on him. He tried to pull it off, move it away, but he couldn’t. It was holding on too tight. He fell over onto the stack of boxes and the Creature raised its blade. Eric tried to keep it away from his eye, but the knife hovered a mere inch above, and gaining ground.
Eric closed his eye in a feeble attempt to prevent it from being stabbed when the Creep let up. It began to shriek and it fell to the floor, its back ablaze.
Iggy stood, coating another tennis-ball in the blue gel from the dead Creep in the corner. He had part of his shirt wrapped around his hand and he hit it against the counter, setting it on fire before hurling it at the creature on the ground. The fireball flew directly and hit the creature in the head, setting its skull on fire.
Iggy took off the wrap, and stomped the fire out, before shaking out his hand.
“That burned so much. But that was SO COOL.”
Eric was in the corner, propped up on his elbows against the boxes, wide eyed. All he could do was nod.
Gopher smiled and then began to laugh.
“What? What’s so funny?” Iggy called out across the room.
Gopher picked up the can of tennis-balls and motioned at the label.
“L-7, yes, so what?”
“You yelled at Iggy and said he was never going to save your ass with a level 7 fireball, didn’t you?”
At this, Iggy began to laugh. Eric blushed, but cracked a smile before laughing. In a room full of despair, the three men laughed.
Minutes passed and tears were shed, when they heard screeching from inside the vent.
“Alright… Let’s get out of here. What a shit idea this turned out to be,” Eric lamented.
They closed the door behind them and made their wall down the empty hallway as the “ON AIR” signal faded to black.
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