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FeaturesRambling HistoryThe former Papa and current senile member of the RRF remembers things from the days when he could actually remember things. Listen and learn, younglings!
- by Murray Jay Suskind, COG
The First Battle of Blackmore I
Let me tell you a story about the time that the Blackmore Building was occupied by a bunch of harmanz. Now back in the old days this didn't happen every time some trenchcoater thought it'd be fun to poke our shoulder when we had our backs turned. You see, in my day our opponents had class, as well as perfect hair. So these harmanz decided to run into Blackmore with a bunch of onions tied around their belts, which was the style at the time. Now to take the ferry to Ridleybank cost a nickel, only back then nickels had pictures of bumblebees on them. "Give me five bees for a quarter" you'd say.
Now where was I? Oh, so there were some harmanz in Blackmore. At the time us Ridleys didn't think much, not just because we were dead and therefore have no brain function, but because the harmanz were never so crass and brazen as to think they could actually hold anything in Ridleybank. They'd race into the 'bank and barricade up a bunch of buildings and then leave. Vandalize our homes, but not stay around to admire their handy work. So the whole thing kind of grew until there were about infinity billion harmanz inside Blackmore. It was about this time we noticed that there was plenty of fresh brains delivered right to our front door. So we woke up at five in the morning and drove 20 miles below the speed limit with the left turn blinker on to the buffet.
When we got there we noticed that the buffet had been barricaded to high Kevan. Now, in those days the barricades wouldn't stay down if you had some zombies inside. Nope, one harman would have the pluck and ingenuity to move a plastic tree past 30 zombies and build the barricades right back up if he wanted to. This confused us, so instead of using the fancy, hoity-toity "let's attack the tactical resource point" a bunch of us would break into the harmanz safehouses and eat the easy to get brains. Those were simpler times when getting inside a completely unimportant building for food would make us happy, and that's the way we liked it!
Now about that time a couple of new groups of Ridleys started making a big ruckus in the horde. One comely lass and her friends would even take on the curse of life in order to demonstrate to the harmanz what a detriment it was to them. They were called the Gore Corps, and no one really noticed what they did since there were about three of them at the time. But they killed Ron Burgundy a lot, consarnit! Then there was a group of spry young zombies that called themselves Auxunit 10. They were a crazy group of scallawags putting up all sorts of crazy posters all over Ridleybank and giving themselves crazy titles and killing all sorts of harmanz. I should know because I was one of them. I've even got the branding on my behind to prove it!
Anyway, we didn't have your fancy tactics of all gathering around one vital harman depot and attacking it until it fell, so we kept hitting safehouses and had a nice group of cunning young lads called the Packers attacking Nichols Mall. They were attacking Nichols because... well... why not? Sure there were over 300 harmanz inside Blackmore, but we wanted the famed sugared water of their food courts and the booze in their liquor stores. One thing we didn't have to worry about were those crazy kilts. In my day the survivors didn't wear those awful kilts! They wore their wicked pants and didn't pretend that they had BARHAH! It makes me roll over in my grave to think about those kids running around in their kilts claiming that they're not pants! They are goddamnit!
So what was I saying? Oh, so with the Packers attacking Nichols Mall, AU10 attacking Tynte Mall and the GMTBC off on one of their wacky adventures, there was just a big old group of ferals attacking Blackmore. That was until this strange group of zombies who knew what they were doing showed up. About 100 of them cracked into Nichols Mall at once one night and brought the whole place down. And back then that was really an accomplishment because no one else had done anything remotely like that ever before. The following night, they cracked open Blackmore and a flood of zombies came pouring in. DoHS (which was what the Praetorian Guard was called in those days), Group 0 (which was what DoHS was called in those days) and then the strike teams all shambled into the open brain buffet. There were so many zombies squaredancing (which was hard to do in those days because zombies couldn't gesture!) and groaning and shouting Barhah! that no one had a clue what was going on. But eventually we got the ransack (which was what ruin was called back in those days) and the harmanz fled back to their precious malls in the outlying suburbs.
Yep, back in those days a battle in Ridleybank meant something. The harmanz came for a real fight and we sure as hell gave 'em one. You don't see big groups like they had anymore. Nope, they hole themselves up in Forts nowadays. Hell, in my day a Fort was no more protection than a Police Department. And that's the way we liked it!
Now where was I? Oh yes, so to take the ferry cost a nickel....
Babah TalesAn inspirational true-to-unlife story begins, as a fresh babah takes his first steps into the city of Malton.
August 26th, 2008
The mangled, lifeless body slumped onto the street, a frozen expression of surprise on its face. Standing above it was the zedling which just had risen for the first time, catching the prankster in the act of scribbling some words on the undead's clothing.
The creature felt satisfied. It was fed. But that feeling wouldn't last long, and with the first taste of human flesh came the hunger for more. All over the city he could hear his brethren groan, calling for him to join them... Join them in their hunt for food.
August 28th, 2008
It had been two days now, and the still inexperienced zombie barely found something to eat. His first victim had been an easy one, but most of the prey he now encountered was too smart to get close enough for an attack. Once during his hunt, he senselessly banged on a closed door for hours, his frustration growing with every minute he didn't get into the building. He knew his prey hid behind that door. He could smell it. He even could hear it. Unfortunately, he didn't remember how to open doors anymore. He knew he'd once entered buildings using them. He knew that this was the way in.
In the midst of his mindless rage, he suddenly stopped. The callings of his brethren had changed. From a monotone noise in the background to several outbursts of anger, then rage, then triumph. And he could hear the prey yelling, too. Screams of surprise, of fear and agony flavored the midnight air. This was the place to go. There, he would find what he now was craving for.
August 31st, 2008
And food he got. Plenty of it. Another two days it took him to reach the source of those irresistable sounds. Once there, he found a suburb in chaos. Whole groups of his brethren broke into houses where the prey hid in countless numbers. Screaming in panic, the were dragged onto the street, already bearing lethal wounds, and left outside to be torn apart and eaten. What a rich buffet he found. One of the nearly dead victims had been dragged and left right before him. That was an offer he'd not refuse. He grabbed the prey's head and smashed it to the ground to crack it open and reach for the delicious treat hiding inside. Exhausted from his long march, he fell asleep, right next to the group of elder zombies who let him participate in their feasting.
This day, however, had only been a small glimpse of things to come. The next day they broke into one of the houses where the prey hid when it was injured. The house was filled with food - far more then he and even the whole group could eat at once. The air filled with the smell of blood, as they fell into a rampage of tearing, ripping, feeding and devouring. And still - there was enough food left for the feral zombies roaming the streets. Finally, he felt strong enough to keep with the pace of his brethren while hunting. This, he now knew, was his calling.
Harman Thoughts: Musings of the OxygenatedIn a display of cross-life communication, an unnamed (and un-namnamed) harman gives us a glimpse into the psyche of the breathing, rather than directly into the brainpan as we usually do.
"After 3 years in Malton, I had really overcome any belief that this was a zombie 'apocalypse'. I'd become a creature of habit. Each day I killed time by taking a stroll down the streets, tipping my hat to each zombie I passed."
"Usually they'd greet me with a casual groan. We were practically on a first name basis."
"In all honesty, life in Malton really isn't about hiding and outrunning something that's trying to eat you. It's more of a mind-over-matter thing. When you've lived in this kind of a world for as long as I have, it all blurs together."
"It's gotten to a point where the only entertainment I get in this city is sitting in a dark cinema, pondering what the answer to the celebrity trivia question is, if there were previews showing. All the while, a zombie is fumbling around mere feet from me, comically walking in place since it can't get past the debris to where I'm sitting."
"I ask myself, "Is it even possible to feel fear any more?" It's easy to forget when you're in the midst of what most would call chaos, yet it resembles clockwork more than a 9-5 shift in the office."
"Routine. That's all it is. Playing God by the half hour. I get scratched up, shot, stabbed, and before I can manage a rattle, a pimply faced needle-jockey swoops down from a rooftop to hit me with another cocktail."
"After playing on both sides of the fence, there isn't much left to distinguish. Even those who fight to the teeth against "death" know that they really can't consider themselves superior any more. What good does thinking do when you're a slave to routine? Essentially, it's as if time has frozen."
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