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Post by terramax on Oct 12, 2007 12:26:55 GMT -5
"Oh my god!" Carter's knees buckle for moment at the horrendous site. For a moment he begins to move toward the woman, but then he realises there is nothing he can do for her. Instead he turns and runs back inside, or at does the closest he can to running in this weather. "Webby, we need to call 9-1-1! That woman was just run over." Carter yells bursting into the doors as if the others couldn't see what had happened. Carter was too stunned by event to think clearly at the moment. He then turns back to the window to look at the victim. It was certain that the woman must be dead, but still in a moment like this, a man can't help to hope and pray that an innocent woman survived such a disaster.
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Post by phobia on Oct 12, 2007 12:49:20 GMT -5
*** Carter needs to email me a 1d10, per previously posted instructions.
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Post by terramax on Oct 12, 2007 12:56:24 GMT -5
***I didn't know what to call the roll so I left that spot blank. I would assume that was to make it back to the diner? I didn't think of that untill I had already sent the role and looked back at my post to see what I had written.
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Post by phobia on Oct 12, 2007 13:03:06 GMT -5
*** Carter sees the following, up close and first hand. He has passed his fear check, rolling a 9. At this point, I'm hold for posts from everyone, I don't want to get too far ahead of the group.
Upon closer examination it is obvious that she has been killed by the accident, her head is partly crushed and a leg is twisted and broken. There is no blood. For moments she does not move, but then she flounders about and stands...
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Post by phobia on Oct 12, 2007 13:10:18 GMT -5
*** If you had failed your roll, I probably would have imposed some sort of penalty to further action, instead of retconning previous action. However, I will do that if it becomes necessary. In this case, you passed the roll and were able to act normally, considering...
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Post by psiphase on Oct 14, 2007 4:26:28 GMT -5
Ira stands at a window and watches as the events occur. "Poor soul," he says.
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Post by phobia on Oct 15, 2007 8:37:22 GMT -5
Despite the severe wounds--dangling arm, twisted leg and cracked skull--the woman shambles ever closer to the diner. She has now reached the close side of street, near the parking lot.
The snow is coming down hard; Carter can feel the weight of the flakes as they land on his head and shoulders --as he reenters the diner.
Inside the diner, Webby stands frozen to the ground--looking on in horror.
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Post by terramax on Oct 15, 2007 16:16:50 GMT -5
***I thought Carter was inside. IF not, then refer to the last post for my current actions.
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Post by phobia on Oct 15, 2007 16:50:12 GMT -5
***I thought Carter was inside. IF not, then refer to the last post for my current actions. *** Repaired my last post. Sorry for the confusion.
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Post by phobia on Oct 15, 2007 17:01:29 GMT -5
Despite the intense snow, you can see more. Their stumbling, plodding approach, over headstones, and now the guard rail. They are almost to the street. They are heading towards the diner; towards you. They follow the same rough path as the woman who is half way across the parking lot now, only twenty or so feet from the diner.
** am holding for action from each. 24 hours only. :-)
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Post by terramax on Oct 15, 2007 17:42:00 GMT -5
"Oh no, what the- ?! This can't be possible. Man, I don't know about you guys, but I'm outta here." Quickly Carter turns in panic induced by the site before him. He hastens for the back door. Surely zombies can't be real, but Carter is not prepared to risk a confrontation with this mob of the apparent undead.
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Post by psiphase on Oct 15, 2007 23:01:51 GMT -5
"Holy sh*t! What's going on around here?! I've seen and done quite a few things in my life, but never anything like this!" Ira yelled. He started to back up stumbling over the chairs and tables.
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Post by phobia on Oct 16, 2007 13:45:06 GMT -5
Carter arrives at the backdoor. It appears to be a hollow steel door, of standard construction, you cannot tell if it is locked.
The woman is now at the front doors. She is fumbling at the glass, trying to get inside--to get you.
The glass cracks...
*** I will be posting later tonite as well, but will likely NOT post at all tomorrow. Just FYI.***
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Post by Grimsolace on Oct 16, 2007 14:53:37 GMT -5
((Sorry for the wait - I will post what I need to catch up.))
Peck gazed out the doors window at the poorly dressed woman. It was a terrible time of year for automobile troubles, no doubt she was looking for a phone. The cold and Webbys pending bill tempered his chivalry enough to let one of the other patrons crowd out ahead to help the poor lady. Jousha made his way over to the counter, glancing back once or twice to watch the patron and the woman outside.
Peck fumbled around in his pockets for correct change.
The woman was blindsided by a car.
Peck fumbled around in his pockets for his cell phone for correct change for the pay phone.
The woman stood up and started walking sans half her head.
Peck fumbled around in his sub conscience looking for an explanation.
He found one.
"God damnit, Webby!" Peck growled under his breath, "I thought I told you to keep me under four beers tonight."
The barman was too stunned to reply. Peck didn't have time to wait for him to recover on his own, picking up a half full pitcher of beer he splashed it over Webbys face and chest.
"Com'on, it looks like the bar is closing early for Christmas." The writer yelled to Webby and company (Sans Carter, who had the right idea), trying to usher them into action. "Let's take the back door to avoid unfriendly traffic."
"Christ, why can I never get a good nights rest." The writer mutters to himself.
A thought struck him. "Where's Loraine?"
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Post by phobia on Oct 16, 2007 16:14:14 GMT -5
*** just a note, it's 1984. Cellphones were huge back then and IF you had one, you would likely know EXACTLY where it was. ***
Peck hasn't seen Loraine in at least 10 minutes. In fact, no one has. *** send me a die roll, for Peck, for perception. ***
"The back door is locked up, here, kid." Webby tosses a large key ring to Carter. It was a bad throw, the keys bounce off the corner of the counter, hit the floor and slide; they come to rest beneath the fryer.
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