Charlie McGee (justbackoff) wrote in safezonehistory, @ 2009-12-11 12:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | charlie mcgee, closed, narrative |
WHO: Charlie McGee and various NPCs
WHAT: The encounter with zombies that led to her invitation to the Safe Zone.
WHEN: November 23, 2009 - late afternoon
WHERE: Thirty miles west of Charleston, South Carolina
RATING: R, to be safe (descriptive violence, disturbing imagery, and language)
STATUS: Complete; narrative
NOTES: Just something I felt the urge to write. It gets a little more in-depth about the zombie fight that led to her coming to the Safe Zone, as touched upon in her application.
Ultimately it was the sound of machine gun fire that got Charlie's attention. She had stopped off at an abandoned farm in search of supplies and a secure place to rest for the night when the noise drew her out of the kitchen and onto the front porch. A quick look around guaranteed that the threat wasn't too close, but a glance at the horizon told her that it was only a matter of time before it might be. With her hands shoved inside the pockets of her leather jacket, the woman debated on searching out what was obviously a scuffle of some kind and offering her assistance. Then she decided against it and, with a shrug, headed back inside to explore the home that she'd chosen as a safehouse for the night.
It was as she was passing down the hallway and trying pointedly not to look at the pictures of the happy family that were hanging on the wall that she began to re-think her decision. The people here were gone. Either dead or infected. The scattering of shotgun shells leading up to the front door told her that clearly there had been a fight. A fight that they had lost.
Had someone else passing through possibly heard it? Had a neighbor realized what was going on and opted to save their own skin, rather than lend a helping had? If someone had chosen to step in, would the family still be alive?
Charlie wasn't, by nature, a selfless person. She knew how to be selfless, just as she knew how to be brave. Both traits, however, had never served her very well. So she didn't do either often. She simply stuck to herself, looked out for herself, and let the chips fall where they may for everyone else. But as she stood in the hallway, forcing herself to look at the picture of a little blond girl with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile, she knew that this time she had to make an exception.
A few minutes later and her motorcycle was roaring to life. It kicked up a cloud of dust as she steered it off the winding dirt road and in the direction of the fighting.
"Oh, you have got to be shitting me," she muttered under her breath as she finally came upon the reason for the noise. She pulled off to the side of the road, shielding her eyes against the rays of the setting sun, and peered across the sloping land spread out before her to get a better view of what was taking place. Sure enough, it was the military that was under attack.
They had barricaded themselves within a self-made bunker of sorts, created from a partially dilapidated barn. Although it was hard to see from such a distance, Charlie was fairly sure that there were at least a dozen or so soldiers who were behind the makeshift wall that they had erected. Each was armed and shooting at the zombies who were still coming in veritable waves at the group.
Bodies littered the ground all around. The faint scent of death hung in the air and made the blond's stomach churn. Bits and pieces of people could also be seen. An arm here, a leg there. It was impossible to tell if they had been zombie or soldier before, but she supposed it didn't matter now.
"Screw this." The words were spoken with an undertone of anger - nay, hatred - for those under attack. Who could really blame her, though? The military had been her foe for most of her life. Ever since she went public with her tale, told of The Shop and what it had tried to do, there had been operatives assigned to her 'case'. Even when she dropped off the radar and left the country, they had always been there. Lurking. Waiting. Wanting a chance to take her down in a legitimate fashion, where bad press couldn't hope to touch them.
There were times when Charlie wondered, if she hadn't told them once upon a time that she had loads of evidence against them that would only come out if she came to harm, if they wouldn't have just killed her already and been done with it. She was pretty sure they would. After all, she was a threat to national security. A woman who could wipe out entire cities simply by willing it so.
Nevermind that she would never do such a thing. Nevermind that she was still plagued with nightmares of the lives that she'd taken that dark night that she brought The Shop to its knees. No, her own repentance and decision to control her ability rather than allowing it to control her was all moot. She was a threat and thus had to be dealt with accordingly.
So they could die, for all she cared. The less trained operatives who knew how to bring her down, the better. It was harsh, yes, but it was a matter of survival.
Climbing back onto her bike, Charlie was all set to leave the men to their fate. She even started up the engine and began thinking of a new plan for herself, as clearly this area wasn't nearly as devoid of zombies as she'd first thought. However, before she could pull away in a roar of dust and gravel, a scream reached her ears. And then another. And another.
Charlie closed her eyes and gripped the handles on her bike. "It's not my problem," she whispered softly. "They shouldn't have been out here anyway. Who in the hell sends an entire unit to the middle of fucking nowhere?" There was no answer, of course, except for a very faint voice that had been warped over time but still sounded eerily enough like her father that she listened.
Don't you be like them, baby. Don't you hurt them just because you can do it. If you do, that's when they've won.
Andy McGee's statement was little more than a vague memory. Spoken to a young girl who had just lost her mother and wanted those responsible to pay. He had wanted the same, had even gotten revenge on those who had actually killed his wife, but he had fought like hell to keep his daughter from being touched by that darkness. He had done his best to teach her to take the high road. To do what was right.
With a heavy sigh and a scowl at a man who had been dead for twenty-seven years, Charlie turned off her bike and looked back to the battle taking place just a handful of acres away.
"Dammit," she swore, even as she began making her way down the embankment and closer to the trees that blocked her path to the veritable war zone. Taking shelter behind the foliage, she drank in the sight before her not with the eyes of a horrified observer but rather with the mind of a woman who could give even the best trained of the Special Ops a run for their money.
The zombies hadn't quite made it through the barricade yet. A handful had - hence the screaming - but for the most part they were still just attacking in swarms. Large numbers, dozens upon dozens, coming in waves. And while the soldiers were picking off as many as they could, the fact of the matter was the zombies simply moved too quickly for most bullets to hit their marks.
Charlie, however, didn't rely on bullets. She didn't use a gun. She loathed them, in fact. And while she wasn't able to follow the movements of the zombies anymore than any other average person could, she didn't necessarily have to. Catching a moving target on fire didn't require anticipating their next step. It simply took her wanting them on fire badly enough that it would happen.
Lowering her hands to her sides, Charlie focused on the first wave of zombies - the ones closest to the soldiers. Her face was a mask of concentration as she willed her ability to the forefront of her mind. She could feel it churning within her. Crashing in on itself until it was demanding release lest it burn her from the inside, out. Slowly a breeze picked up around her. Searing hot air that blew her blond locks around her face and made the branches on the trees nearby begin to crackle.
She didn't blink. Didn't move. And although it felt like much longer, within a few seconds her ability finally gave way with a mental snap and rushed out of her with a roar that she could only feel but never hear.
The first waves of zombies burst into flames almost simultaneously. The gunfire stopped as, she assumed, the soldiers tried to figure out just why it was happening. Charlie didn't bother herself with that, though. Let them wonder. Already she was sweeping her gaze across the clearing, fires erupting upon every zombie she could see.
The smell of burnt, decaying flesh made her nostrils burn. The shrieks of pain coming from the creatures made her eyes blur with tears. There were women and children in the groups. The elderly. The handicapped. Zombies weren't simply men in their prime, with a disease run rampant controlling their movements. No, the Z1N1 affected all walks of life. Wiped out entire communities in a span of days, if not hours. And although it was difficult to watch a ten year old scream in agony as her feet burnt away at the ankles, Charlie continued the assault until there wasn't a single one left standing. Nothing but fine ash, in various piles, already being spread across the land by the winds that signified a rapidly approaching storm.
"Back off," Charlie whispered a few seconds later, willing her ability back inside of her. "Just back off." Her gaze next flickered to a pond and the water began to bubble and hiss, steam pouring off of it in veritable waves that clouded the skies above. "Back off," she hissed and, with a final, loud hiss, it was over.
Her body temperature slowly began to return to normal and the air around her regained its previous chilliness. Her hands were trembling a bit - a side effect of having to exert so much control over such a violent ability prone to run amok without constant effort to keep it at bay - and she exhaled a shaky breath as she finally risked a glance at those she'd been trying to save.
There was movement from within the barn. Soldiers who were beginning to come out, looking around in what she was sure was shock and confusion. Her lips quirked a bit at the thought. Good. Let them wonder what the hell had happened. Let them thank God and believe it to be divine intervention, for all she cared. Her job was done and, as long as they left her alone, that was all the thanks she required.
With that thought in mind, the woman climbed back up the embankment and onto her motorcycle. She started the engine, revving it once to get the dirt out of the exhaust, and took off back the same way she'd came. If she was lucky, she'd make it back to the farmhouse before the storm hit.
As she rode, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to her father. He'd be proud of her, she thought. Glad that she'd helped instead of left the soldiers to their fate. She could all but see his smile, hear his words of praise and pride.
"I did it, Daddy," she whispered, the same words she'd said so many years ago when she had made her way into the office of Rolling Stone magazine to tell her tale and protect others from her fate. "I did it for you."