Post by Gruntyking on Aug 24, 2009 7:45:47 GMT -5
(Setting: Death struck Britain. You can choose to be one of Ernest's supporters, a military soldier, or an Infected. Simple enough.)
They said the military would protect them. That quarantine would keep them safe. Bull. All of it. Every lie spoonfed to the people of the world, now spat right out on the ground, a sour meal for a sour day in a sour place that might as well be as sour as hell. Ernest here, he ain't no leader. Ernest is no leader's name. And yet, he still gets up at the crack of dawn and commands the people around him. Foggy Britain, raining like hell, and Ernest has to lead the only resistance in town. What kinda bloody shit was that? Ernest kept telling himself he was no leader, and by God, on most accounts he was right.
He worked the graveyard shift at the local Petrol station, lived alone and thought alone, doing little for anyone not paying him. At forty, with not a single friend in sight, and little more than books and pornos keeping him company, Ernest was no leader. He was timid, oafish and tired.
But they flocked to him regardless. They liked his thick American accent and odd, almost backward sensibilities. His lifestyle was successful in today's day and age, when you couldn't busy yourself by touring the city without getting gnawed on by the monsters outside. Ernest's solution was simple. He blockaded his home and waited. Oddly, others followed suit, when the would-be heroes all died on the pavement. He felt uncomfortable sharing his street with those strangers-his neighbors. And yet, he, a former (and damned handy) carpenter bravely barricaded his home. Then the street. Then his neighbors. And fought the fuckers off, too. Ernest was a hardworking type of strong that was long forgotten in such a fast-pace society. His project took months to even get half-way completed. By then, he was swamped with survivors that were cold, scared and hungry. And he got them to help him. In the wake of death and destruction, Ernest's work ethic and detached, commanding nature lead the pack.
They called him a hero, a legend, a savior. Ernest didn't like titles. "Just call me Ernie and we're good, I'd reckon that." Ernest was the first man to go to when a question needed answering, and he was the first to answer. And when everybody else was bickering about the fall of society, Ernest brought books and pen and paper back from one of his sojourns.
"Real men put their thoughts on that paper, and do what they can real goodly. No need for arguin', that's what my Pa told me and I'll tell you."
And with the backbone set, Ernest felt good. But the military did not. In a year's time, a fascist movement within the European government would take hold and domineer over the land, threatening Ernest's quiet abode.
And by tomorrow, the problem wouldn't be the Infected, but the military.
They said the military would protect them. That quarantine would keep them safe. Bull. All of it. Every lie spoonfed to the people of the world, now spat right out on the ground, a sour meal for a sour day in a sour place that might as well be as sour as hell. Ernest here, he ain't no leader. Ernest is no leader's name. And yet, he still gets up at the crack of dawn and commands the people around him. Foggy Britain, raining like hell, and Ernest has to lead the only resistance in town. What kinda bloody shit was that? Ernest kept telling himself he was no leader, and by God, on most accounts he was right.
He worked the graveyard shift at the local Petrol station, lived alone and thought alone, doing little for anyone not paying him. At forty, with not a single friend in sight, and little more than books and pornos keeping him company, Ernest was no leader. He was timid, oafish and tired.
But they flocked to him regardless. They liked his thick American accent and odd, almost backward sensibilities. His lifestyle was successful in today's day and age, when you couldn't busy yourself by touring the city without getting gnawed on by the monsters outside. Ernest's solution was simple. He blockaded his home and waited. Oddly, others followed suit, when the would-be heroes all died on the pavement. He felt uncomfortable sharing his street with those strangers-his neighbors. And yet, he, a former (and damned handy) carpenter bravely barricaded his home. Then the street. Then his neighbors. And fought the fuckers off, too. Ernest was a hardworking type of strong that was long forgotten in such a fast-pace society. His project took months to even get half-way completed. By then, he was swamped with survivors that were cold, scared and hungry. And he got them to help him. In the wake of death and destruction, Ernest's work ethic and detached, commanding nature lead the pack.
They called him a hero, a legend, a savior. Ernest didn't like titles. "Just call me Ernie and we're good, I'd reckon that." Ernest was the first man to go to when a question needed answering, and he was the first to answer. And when everybody else was bickering about the fall of society, Ernest brought books and pen and paper back from one of his sojourns.
"Real men put their thoughts on that paper, and do what they can real goodly. No need for arguin', that's what my Pa told me and I'll tell you."
And with the backbone set, Ernest felt good. But the military did not. In a year's time, a fascist movement within the European government would take hold and domineer over the land, threatening Ernest's quiet abode.
And by tomorrow, the problem wouldn't be the Infected, but the military.