User:Galahad/Family
Bishop: the Child
"Michael, I'd like you to meet..."
The sun-drenched beach provided a welcome relief from the torrential rains that plagued the cottage for nearly a week. Though the island was remote and tropical, the rain almost dampened what should have been Michael's greatest summer ever. Like most 8 year-olds, the boy burst with energy: since this was his first trip to anywhere outside of inner-city Malton, he was fascinated by the sandy atmosphere and refreshing odor that the oceanic waters offered. With siblings at tow, the child leapt and ran and hustled through that one shiny day, taking in all that the sun could offer him. So absorbed was he into the day, Michael failed to notice his mother's own curious activity - failed to see the laughing and playfulness she shared with a man that she had just met on the beach.
Though he later would recall the day in vague undertones and dismiss it as childhood folly, only the stranger boldly stuck out in his mind. Possessing an imposing physique, and with an unnerving twinkle in his eye, the stranger seemed quite distant and cold. What Michael felt didn't matter, however. What really mattered was that his mother was happy, something he hadn't seen in a long time.
Bishop: The Malton Aftermath
"What's wrong with you? Don't you ever listen to your mother any more?"
The van swooped down Hersant Avenue, where a fiery stench of burnt flesh permeated the air. The vacant streets were strewn with long-dead corpses, systematically and, Bishop thought, almost gently, placed along the curbs and sidewalks. The fire-squad had already started their trek across the city, "cleansing" the corpses through 600 degrees of oxygen, heat, and fuel. Unfortunately, it also created a foul stench that added to the decaying odor that the infected carried with them - an equally horrid smell of decomposing flesh that attempted vigorously to stay "alive."
The vehicle quickly came to a stop. Bishop, along with his other men, exploded through the back door and onto the streets, paying no attention to the gunshots, groaning, and other indescribable noises that were carried through the wind. A shadowy figure approached them, eyes gleaming as the mouth puffed away at a homemade cigarette. He carried a slight limp on his right foot, but tried his best to stand tall anyway, with a confidence necessary for a soldier's commanding officer.
"Ladies, Mother Nature has declared war on us. The city of Malton has become one big giant shithole, man oh man, has she left a pile of shit for us to deal with."
Bishop nodded firmly. He knew full well that this wasn't going to be your typical warfare. Sure, war against other humans was unpredictable too, but these, these things, were something else entirely.
"You all have been assigned to the 32nd Brigade here in New Arkham. Various other brigades are spread throughout the city, but the mission is the same: evacuate as many survivors as you can. The goal is not to cleanse the epidemic, gentlemen, but to contain it. Remember that. Separate, and your brigade will fall."
[Evidence]
Postcard received from his sister during his second tour in the last Gulf War:
Postdate: Unknown, but estimated at 6 days prior to Outbreak I
First Encounter
It's warm...
The door creaked and sighed as it opened into the foyer, with the wood stripped and clawed from its very surface. The lights were out - as it had been all over town - and broken glass was scattered ubiquitously across the floor. Each crackle and crunch that emanated from his footsteps seemed to echo around the hall, which grew hauntingly close with each reverberation upon the walls. Michael focused his flashlight on the blood-soaked floors below him, following a grisly trail that seemed to shuffle along all around the house. Then there was that sound. At once unfamiliar, it was if someone was carefully peeling off a peculiarly tough hide of an orange or banana. Slow and steady, Michael could hear the sinews of this fruit forcefully torn from its base, done at an almost climactic pace. He knew what was going on. Like most people though, he just didn't want to believe it.
The peeling, the chewing, the clash of teeth and bone - the sound grew louder in intensity with each step into the darkness. Rifle in hand,
