User talk:Book Author

Introduction

Hello, I am a author (as you can see) and I've decided that Urban Dead is in need of some decent story telling. Please allow me to fill in the gaps on the backgrounds, histories, and origins. I will range my stories from specific players to entire groups to the city of Malton. My purpose here is to entertain... play the fool if I may. Now, I don't suppose many people will even bother to read my stories, but if you do (thank you) please comment on them in my talk. Also, if someone requests there is an 80% chance that I will make a story that you want. Again, just say so on the talk. Now, on to the stories. Since I am at a loss on what to right about I will click on the "Random Page". First thing, that I see I will write about. Even if it is a parking lot.

Friends, it has come to my attention that I have just made my first blunder. It should be obvious to even the most Watsonian of individuals. I will fix this in time, but not now.

Stories

[This is the story of an average citizen of Malton]

Thwack! The zed crumpled to the floor with a muffled groan. Barry stood there, hunched over breathing heavily for a while. He straightend himself and looked wearily to the east. His eyes weren't so good, even in the bright daylight these days, but even he could see at least a dozen of the shambling corpses headed his way. He tightened his grip on his bloody crowbar and started sprinting towards the west. He heard over some radio broadcasts there was shelter to the west. Why couldn't they give a name, he thought to himself, Could be a trap. Could be some scavenging murderers... A claw raked across his back. Not wanting to waste any breath on screaming, he clenched his teeth. His weapon seemed to swing on its own straight in the monster's face. It fell backwards in a spray of blood. Another hand swiped at him missing by an inch. He reminded himself that survival was top priority and started running again. As Barry was sprinting, and the hot sun was bearing down on him, he could slowly hear the groans die away. Barry looked back and couldn't see anything. He went to a nearby tree, put his back to it, and slumped down. God, was he tired. Can't fall asleep outside. It's not safe. He could close his eyes for a second, though. So tired...

The sound of someone running brought Barry back from sleep. He grabbed his crowbar and jumped up ready to defend himself. Every muscle in his body tensed. The footsteps came even closer. Blood was pounding in his ears. A woman jogged past him. The survivor didn't even so much as glance at Barry. Barry almost laughed. But he didn't. He cursed softly to himself. How could he be so careless to fall asleep outside? He decided to find his bearings and see if there was any decent barricades around here. He looked at the street sign and his legs felt like they were rubber. Atthill Lane. This was the road his home used to be. He stood there staring at the sign. He had been so careful to stay away from Crooketon. How could he have slipped up? He idly fingered the ring on his third finger of his left hand. Suddenly, he found himself at his old doorstep. He had walked there without thinking. As if in a trance, he slowly opened the door. When the door opened so did the door to his memories. They came in a horrible flood of what was his life. He walked in and smelled the stink of wet dog. He smiled a small smile. The family dog, Rex, had run away 2 days before the outbreak, but it still smelled like him.

The house was ransacked by survivors and zombies alike, but it was to be expected. Someone had spray painted 'Fight the Necro. Find the Truth' on the wall. The chairs were torn apart. The refrigerator had it's door torn off and nothing remained inside of it. Barry was all at once enraged at what the vandals had done and calm because it was not his life anymore. He looked to the staircase and went upstairs to his bedroom. The vanity mirror was smashed and the dresser drawers had been ripped out. No one had even taken the clothes. Remarkably, the bed only had a layer of dust on it. It was still made since the day he left. He sat on it. He felt the familiar uneven mattress and said to himself, "I need to get a new bed." He chuckled a little at his poor attempt at a joke and stopped.

Barry stood up and moved his mattress. He picked up his photos of his wife that he had kept hidden from his son. As he was browsing them he thought, At least you didn't have to see this horror, love. He was going to put the photos back underneath, but instead pocketed them. He had to drop a pistol, but it was worth it. Then, he went to his son's room. He was welcomed to a bright, if dusty, room filled with books. His son was born prematurely with a hole in his heart and couldn't play like other kids. Barry had moved to Atthill Lane so they could be closer to the school. Barry sat on his son's bed. On the day of the outbreak, Barry had gone to Barnicott Walk to rescue his son. He was dead though. Some of the zombies had pulled him to pieces, as well as other children. A tear rolled down his cheek. Followed by another. Why am I still going? What more is there here for me? My whole family is gone. Even the damn dog. What am I going to do, though? Kill myself? Ha. Suicide is only an option if you want to be a walking corpse. I don't want to be one of those... things. I just want to stop... being.

Barry slowly got up, feeling his joints creak. He hit his pants, dusting them off. As he was proceeding to the doorway, something caught his eye. A shiny, blue pebble his boy had found on one of the rare outings to the park. He picked it up and rubbed his thumb over the smooth stone. He dropped it in his pocket along with the photographs of his wife. Barry then, left the room and descended down the stairs and out the front door. He locked it on his way out. What can I do? He looked back at his house one last time. So tired...