The Box... Who: Heather, Peter, Claire, and open to anyone else who wants to help. When: Just before midnight May 11th Where: The grassy area between the Ice Room, the Buono Gusto and Main Lodge. What: Heather shifted a large plexiglas container into the best possible spot. With rooftops all around even the squishy could get in some action. Rating: TBA Status: Fizzled
There would be no way in hell she wouldn't beat herself up if anything happened to either person involved. Why had this insane idea been put up to begin with? Why had her fingers moved over the letters to make it live? Looking back it felt like it was almost an out of body experience. Maybe it was? She certainly didn't feel like herself. She hadn't since she'd seen Johnston trailing towards her with that dead look on his face. Then it seemed to snowball, it was one neighbor after another that hadn't been in Jericho when everything went to hell. Logic had told her that they probably were dead, but the optimist in her had her believing in maybes.
She was an optimist to the core. She believed there was good in everybody, even if it wasn't true. But that optimist couldn't chase away the doubt she felt... Not in the enclosure, but in the idea in a whole. She knew the enclosure wouldn't fail she'd tested it by running over each 90 degree angle with Bertha. The joints held solid. It would take an elephant sitting on it to do any damage. And with the 45 degree slopes on all sides it would be extremely hard to push the six foot square over, they would keep the shamblers from being able to get to close to the walls. There was no floor so it would slide around on the grass even if the dead grew smart enough to try to shove it over, and no roof so the scent of the two people wouldn't be enclosed. There was no reason to not believe in the small room.
She was a mess. Between working on the coffins, and everything else she had not been able to get any sleep, making it look like someone had punched her in each eye. It had been hard to hold down anything with all the death and gore all over the place, though she had forced herself to eat fruit and drink water and coffee to keep up her strength, but it caused her cheeks to have a slight gaunt look. The hat she wore hid the fact that her usual illustrious chestnut hair was dull and limp. The dark green, maintenance scrawled on the back her name over her left breast, jumpsuit hid the fact that she'd lost 10 lbs that she didn't need to loose, since the mess started. At five foot even she didn't weigh much to begin with. Her normally bright blue eyes were dull, pupils not more than pin pricks, even in the darkness giving her a wild fearful look. Her fingers were taped because of the damage she'd done to them, her palms bound from one wound or another.
She paced in front of the enclosure, chewing on one of her wrapped thumbs tips, where she had set it up. Every now and then she'd pull the rifle from over her shoulders and put a bullet in between one of the zombies eyes, if it seemed as if they were going to come to close before anything was ready. 'Bertha', the large maintenance ATV with an truck bed and a big dent in one side-thanks to Angel, was parked about five feet away two ladders straddling the bed. A hiking pack with two sleeping bags, and two aluminum yard chairs inside. Was it too late to scrap the whole idea?