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I'll be Their Bogeyman
Topic Started: Aug 5 2013, 03:24 PM (977 Views)
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((Rutherford "R.J." Roger Jr.: B032 -V5- Continued From OX/3))

As R.J. lied in the coffin, he thought of whether or not to leave it. If he died in here, it'd be the closest thing he would get to a proper burial on this island. Or anyone else like Cap, Mark, or Luca would get either. Maybe it was selfish, hogging the surprisingly cool coffin to himself. Maybe it was finders keepers. Still, it wasn't like he had planned to stay for long. He was only here because it was the closest thing he could call a shelter that didn't make the collar beep. He had to find something after leaving the obstacle course, he had barely slept a wink. Maybe there were better places to sleep, like the floor, but he doubted they had cushions.

Mark's body was still close by somewhere in this amusement park. Splattered. He was keeping his arms busy, pushing up the coffin lid, then let it fall back into his palms. Repeat. Up and down...open and close...quick glances of the decorations of the interior around him. Monsters, ghosts, spiders, all that cheesy stuff. New things with each push. Only one constant, no matter the position of the coffin lid. R.J. eyes began to close out of tiredness. He slept.

Dark.

"El Cucuy"

Nope.

R.J's eyes broke open. The coffin was still closed. His body acted on it's own and rocked around out of panic. He could feel it falling off the table, along with the wooden trap. His bag and himself spiraled upside down. There was a loud banging noise, along with a small clicking one. His cheek was now smushed against the lid. He tried pushing himself off of it, but the coffin had put all of it's weight on him. He was stuck. As best as the muffling coffin would allow, he pleaded for assistance.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckin' heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeeeeeee"

Repeat.
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((Lauren Rowe continued from Borrowed Time))

Time was running out.

That's what she had told herself, that's what she still believed. And yet, time hadn't ended for her, not yet, and despite the growing urgency that kept her moving, one step after another, she had nothing to show for it all. She'd traced a path across the island, all the way across to the west, then all the way back east. Eating, sleeping when she could. Still nothing.

Another day past.

Another day wasted.

How many days did she have left before it was all over, before she realized that she was a failure for not even accomplishing the one thing she had to do?

Kelly was dead. Iselle had killed Sven.

She didn't know why. No reasons were given, nothing that she would believe from the man on the intercom. She didn't trust him, only knew Survival of the Fittest enough to believe the killers and the killed.

Carmina was dead.

Lauren knew she was most likely going to die. What chance did she have, with a weight bar, when a girl with a flamethrower didn't make it past the first two days?

She'd failed the girl with the hope of escape, she had realized a while ago. She was supposed to deliver the note, not the message. She hadn't understood. She'd dropped the note. Maybe that plan was doomed, just because of her. Failure to communicate. But there was nothing she could do about that now.

Still moving. Always moving. Now through the entrance of a haunted house, cursory examination, then on to greener pastures. Probably west again, to check out the other two newly cleared danger zones.

She had to find the softball girls. She knew they could stick together, tough it out. As long as they looked out for their own, they would be better off than everyone else, and well, not many would stand against them. She doubted those who did would live.

She had her friends, and she had her plan, and if they weren't already following it she knew they had the drive to be already doing something worthwhile. If she helped them, if they helped each other, they could make it. One of them could. Probably not her, but together they had a better chance than everyone else.

It was foolish, she knew, to just go off murdering and killing, because that drew attention. Attention was never what Lauren had wanted, and it wasn't what any of them needed right now, when attention was just an excuse to get killed. So no, no unnecessary risks, no letting emotions get out of control just to rack up a kill count that had no direct correlation to actually living. She wasn't looking for a fight.

But if it came to blows, she knew whose lives she valued most.

She kept moving, past wax statues, past paper ghosts, past a coffin upside down on the floor. If she didn't find them, she knew she was going to die trying. She hadn't come this far to give up now.
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It had been an hour, not that R.J. could tell. One hour of screaming for help till his voice was hoarse and his knuckles purple and green from hitting the wood. He thought he was ready for death at this point, everyone else quickly two steps ahead of him. He thought it'd be okay if he never saw home again, that it'd be better if he didn't have to hear about how his friends died anymore, that he could be tough and accept it all.

But he was afraid. He wanted to meet Veronica and Joey and his dog again. He felt horrible, just now realizing this, hoping that there were people who might want to see him too. Being trapped in this coffin, this wasn't meant for him. They weren't made to die in, they were for the dead. And he was still breathing, and he wondered if that would stop. He had heard the scary stories, about the ones of people clawing their nails off after being buried alive and losing oxygen. He wasn't buried underneath the earth, but he was still scared nonetheless.

He was even more tired then he was after entering the coffin, but he knew he couldn't sleep now. Whether it was the nightmare in here or out there, he proffered the one where he could understand and have some control. R.J.'s body and mind were struggling for him, letting him know for all the trouble, they were still willing to work for him. His elbow bumped into the MAT-49.

It's not like he hadn't thought of shooting his way out already, but it seemed dangerous, having imagined almost every way it could go wrong. But he was desperate at this point. Taking the gun, he placed it between the area of where his legs separated, a new imagination now forming. Licking his lips and with wide blind eyes, bullets were fired. The hot shells and blistering wood stung his face, hands, and torso. But he smelled smoke and felt his feet kicking the outside. He flipped his body and left in a scurried crawl, head first.

Eyes adjusted to the barely brighter room, R.J saw freedom from the smell of sulfur and gray smoke. A dark figure also found it's way in his viewpoint. It was a monstrosity, with it's alien and yet human anatomy and movements. There were other reasons he let the bullets fly at the figure. Surprise, anger, delusions, depravity, the will to live. But there was one reason that R.J. was always aware of.

He was weak.
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Lauren died.

It was that simple, that complex.

When the gunshots started, her first instinct was to step back. After that, she was going to duck. Going to run. Going to do any number of things. She knew she had no chance fighting against a gun.

A figure burst out of the coffin.

As it happened, she didn't have a chance anyway.

The first few bullets missed, but volume of fire won out in the end.

One of the bullets hit her in the chest. Center of mass. The bullet tore through her ribcage, through her heart. A few more hit after that, a few more missed, but the damage was already done. She managed to step back, not even noticing as the weight bar ripped free from her hands and plummeted to the floor.

Then the shock kicked in. Her body's response to the massive trauma to her internal organs was to shut down, and the last thing she was aware of was falling backwards and never hitting the ground.

Her heart stopped beating a few seconds later.

The rest of her cells kept going a while after that, but by the time that everything shut down, it didn't matter to her anymore.

G069: Lauren Rowe - DECEASED
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"Pschft...ahaha...hehheh..."

This was silly. Of course there would be monsters in a haunted house. All that being scared, using all those bullets on what was probably a statue. Just a statue. Somebody probably worked really hard and cared for it. It sure as hell scared him in any case. R.J. needed to get a hold of himself, had to be more responsible with his weapon.

Scooping the rest of his body along with his bag, he began to feel calm again. If he had just trusted himself, he could have been out of that coffin a lot quicker. He brushed his hair with a deep sigh, letting it be a live and learn type of thing. He began his way to leave the haunted house till he almost slipped on a metal pole. Part of the statue maybe.

Curiosity made him fetch his flashlight. Pointing at the floor, it was revealed to be a weight bar, not too unusual for a statue. But the slippery red liquid under his all-stars made his breathing become shuttering and frigid. As it's smell left it's mark, R.J's flashlight found the spilling source.

A girl.

R.J. was not the type to let his body freeze. Especially not at this moment. His legs ran wild, like they just learned how. Tripping and charging himself right out of a window covered by wooden planks. Blinded by the cloudy day, R.J. ran all the way to nowhere, staining the ground red.

((Rutherford "R.J." Roger Jr.: B032 -V5- Continued In Dyspnoea))
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