A loud crackle of gunfire, followed by a thump; another Walker down. Locke hovered his holosight over the center mass of each approaching walker, before correcting himself and taking a shot towards their head. Headshots were the only way to kill the infected; body shots only staggered them.  As he fired more and more, emptied brass casings littered his boots, and the amplified crackle from his Noveske amplifier drew more Walkers into the kill zone. This area was almost completely clean, thanks to the efforts of a few remaining soldiers and survivors. As the last of the walkers dropped from precision rifle fire, the men atop the large gates adorning the safe zone relaxed their arms. Locke removed a fresh PMAG from his chest, and swapped it for the old one in his rifle, tucking the spent magazine back into a magazine pouch.

“Shit. Must’ve taken out half the entire city…” Locke sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead, and letting his rifle fall on its sling to his side.

He stepped off of the plywood structure that sat atop a group of HESCO barriers. The wall that protected the Safe Zone was little more than a
makeshift fortification after riots blew apart the actual concrete walls set up by the metropolitan police and national guard. What was left was set up frantically by combat engineers and elements of a small group of SOCOM personnel, along with numerous civilian refugees holding out deeper in the makeshift fortress. When the Military flew in with rescue helicopters in abundance and multiple platoons of angry U.S. Marines ready to kick zombie ass, the safe zone on the outskirts was nudged to the side in favor of various other refugee groups. After all, who would the military take priority over in Washington D.C.? Squatters and Scavengers or the U.S. Government employees held up in the National Mall? At that point, however, they had drawn most of the fighting to the inner city, and small groups of survivors could still be heard every day clashing with the undead and one another in the distance.

It had been 2 days since the evacuation when the survivors picked up radio broadcasts from the U.S. Military. A Scorched Earth operation was planned by the U.S.A.F., and anyone remaining in the city had to leave by the end of the week. Without military support, the survivors had to take matters into their own hands. Sending a party out with the most skilled individuals among them, they’d brought back a small amount of vehicles meant to take them west; hopefully far enough to reach safety. Leaving by sea was no option; as the Navy blew any departing ship that wasn’t its own sky high, and the only refugees authorized to leave by port already took off with military forces from Fort Bragg before D.C. was ever hit. Only by unfortunate circumstance was a small fleet of station wagons and a single armored Humvee their salvation to the West.

Walking across the green field, Locke surveyed his surroundings. A few workers were burning bodies, some mercenaries were loading their magazines with fresh cartridges, and there were undead canines barking beyond the dirt walls of the HESCOs. He shook his head, continuing to a small Barracks set up for soldiers in the initial days of the outbreak. There, the other survivors were gathering to plan the odyssey to the west. As he walked closer, the vehicles they would be using came into view. Each had its trunk open, and some poor sap was grunting and groaning, lifting large boxes of food, clothing, and ammo into each. Fuel tanks sat around as well, yet those had not been loaded quite yet. Locke came up to the door, and twisted the handle, sending it open with an eerie creak.

“Now we wait.” He said to himself, leaning against a bunk and waiting for the rest of the survivors to show up.

@matticus4205 @HaroldBatman @GUARDian @nelson01023

Locke:

Coffin was one of those few unlucky enough to stuck outside the Safe Zone, for days on end he'd been using his skills as an Operator to avoid patrols both dead and living. It's not that he didn't like people or anything he just didn't know who among the living he should put his trust in. He made camp inside a small apartment area just a mile or two away from the inner city. "Fuck.." He muttered to himself as he unloaded an empty magazine from his MK18. In rapid succession he loaded a fresh mag in the receiver and slapped the bolt release. Once again he would click on his headset in hopes of reaching friendly forces, "Any station this net, this is Husky 2-1. I say again this is Husky 2-1 how copy." He heard the soft shuffle of footsteps and the groans of walkers just outside the apartment. "Fuck..." he whispered to himself. Quickly he dove behind a couch away from the glass slide door that lead to the outside area, he would try his radio again but in a hushed tone, "Any station this net, this is Husky 2-1, is anyone receiving over."