The Doomed

The story is about a bunch of convicts that are the only humans that survived a nuclear attack on the World. You create one of the convicts and try to survive in a world where your best friend could kill you over just a morsel of food and the terrian is totally different.

Rules
-One character per person
-NO GOD MODDING (I reserve the right to brreak this rule if the only other option.)
-Only humans
-no super powers
-Put a character outline (Use mine for reference)
-Please follow rules



Name: Jason McDowell
Age: 25
Crime: Three charges of murder
Loyalty: None
Current Residence: The Old City of New York

Jason kicked the man into the corner. "Why? All it was, was a piece of bread?" The man screamed as blood streaked his face.
"Yeah but food is hard to come by and I don't want to end up a crack pot like you. Now gimme the bread!" He pulled out a gun.
"No please-" The shot echoed through the streets. The man fell limp.
"Sorry mate." Jason said as he pulled the bread out of the man's hands. "It's grim I know, but it's grim times."

Name: Aren Petric (female)
Age: 20
Crime: murder, asult, robbery
Loyalty: to close close friends, which she has none, so screw that.
Current Residence: The Old City of New York
Discription: Brown hair in two braids and sharp blue eyes, calased hands, yet pretty face.

Aren slowly walked around the street a gun she had stolen in a chest holster. then a few knives hidden here and there. She heard a gun shot and frowned. Her gun came out as she looked around.

Name= Emma Cole
Nickname= Ember
Age= 23
Crime= She's an arsonist and has committed a long list of offences but the one that put her in jail was a year ago when she set an old warehouse on fire and two people lost their lives. She has also took part in theft but has never been caught for that.
Loyalty= To herself.
Current residence= The old City of New York.
Hair= Chetnut red.
Eyes= Honey brown.
Figure= Small and slight. Appears to be no older than 19.
Belongings= A few home made bombs, a cigarette lighter she has managed to get her hands on and a few daggers. She has little skill with a gun but has learnt how to defend her interests with short knives, long knives, daggers and any other small blades. She's also pretty good at picking locks with the hair pin she stole from another survivor.

Name= Cadena Tontell
Age= 17
Crimes= 17 charges of murder and one robery.
Loyalty= Screw it
Current Residence= Just moved to The Old City of New York from New Jersey, but there was almost no one there, at least still living, in New Jersey.
Appearance= About 5 foot 11 inches. Weighs about 120 pounds. She has long brown hair that she keeps in a ponytail, but her bangs hand in her face. She as light skin, and dark brown eyes.


(Sorry I'll put more, but gtg)

(A question: How long after the "Nuclear War" does this take place?)

Name: Rush Baugh
Nickname: Aristocrat
Crime: Extortion, Blackmail, Arson, Kidnapping, "Manslaughter". However, Rush was on Death Row not because of his past crimes, but because he planned and participated in a conspiracy which involved breaking into a Private bank and stealing information which could shut down half of the United States' power grid. (Conspiracy, treason, terrorism). Obviously, Rush is not a nice guy.
Loyalty: Mafia
Age: 31
Current Residence: The Old City of New York
Hair: Black
Eyes: Electric blue
Belongings: A SIG Pro (Semi-automatic pistol), stolen from one of the dead high-security gaurds at the prison.
Personality: Rush is dangerous, smooth, and smart. He could talk anyone out of anything. And if he couldn't, well, more forceful persuasion would be incorperated. This guy may seem like a gentleman outwardly, but inwardly Rush is a killer.

The smell was sickening.

Putrid stenches emanated from the broken, burned, unrecognizable bodies of the citizens of New York. Or at least what was left of them. They were in the streets, in the buildings, in the cars, on the rooftops. The bloody carnage was ubiquitous. The bodies were as common as the flies that buzzed around them; eating their braised flesh, gorging themselves on well-done meat. Rush Baugh stumbled down Broadway, nearly overwhelmed by the death and destruction staring him in the face. The whole situation was disgusting. Wrong. The bodies glared up at him, silently screaming for salvation. He heard the same cries shrieked at the top of lungs across the world echoing down Broadway eerily. Hide. It’s coming. It’s here. I’m not ready. My death has come too soon. Death layered the air heavily.

Rush sighed and kicked the door of a corner bistro, SIG Pro in hand. It gave in easily and fell with a crash to the ground of the café. Which, like everything else, was strewn with corpses. They had probably once been business men, waitresses, children, wives, fathers, lovers. After all, it had just been another day in New York for them. A war raged elsewhere, but it was of no concern. They were safe in their metropolitan haven. Nothing could touch them. Nothing would.

Obviously, their misconceptions and false hopes had been deadly.

Rush made his way into the back room, hunched over his gun, and nudged the charred body of a cook from the door of a refrigerator. He found the cook’s corpse sickeningly comical. Ironic. He had broiled and fried and baked so much meat in his lifetime, but had never expected his own flesh to be cooked. And served up to flies. Rush couldn’t help smiling at the thought as he forced open the blackened fridge. The interior was just as he suspected. Stocked with meat and cheese and vegetables and fruits, but none of it edible. Mold had overtaken the food long ago and was proceeding to assimilate it. Sighing again, Rush snatched a jar of pickles from a shelf and greedily unscrewed it, dumping even the brine into his mouth. It dribbled down his chin and onto the cook under his feet. Seasoning, Rush thought. For the flies. Tossing the empty jar into a corner, he turned, opened the back door, and stepped into an alleyway.

Then he heard the shot. Loud, harsh. To his right, fifty feet down the cobblestone side road. He raised his SIG in it’s direction and saw a young guy – twenty five maybe – standing over a freshly killed body, half of it’s head missing. The man was busily stuffing his face with a chunk of bread, torn from one of those long baguette sticks sold in delis and bakeries. Rush smiled. A comrade.

“One more poor soul added to the body count, huh? Take what you can, while you can. No holds barred. Did the bastard deserve it? Or were you just hungry?” He said loudly, over his SIG.

Startled, the man looked up, gun immediately in hand. The hard-won bread fell to the ground, momentarily forgotten.

“Just hungry,” the man replied warily.

“How noble,”

“Hey, man. Get the hell outta here before you loose half your head, too.”

“No need for threats. Can’t you tell we come from the same House” He motioned towards the orange jumpsuits they both wore, with “New York Penitentiary” Stenciled on the front.

“So?”

“So we be brothers,” Rush said with a lopsided grin, slipping into prison slang. “I can be your ace-duce, man.”

Cadena had just gotten to New York. There wasn't much life here either. She guessed she might run into a few people. She had changed from the horrible prison suit into some Jeans and a black sweatshirt. They may be men's clothing, but they fit and hid her gun. She walked down the street scavenging for food. She saw a piece of bread on the floor and two men in orange jumpsuits talking. She figured she might just get a few holes in her if she reached for it. Ugh. She hated talking to people, but figured it best because it was rare you saw anyone alive these days. She put a hand on her gun that was in her pocket.

"Survivors eh?" She said, making them both turn to her.

"Run along little girl." The older one said pointing a gun at her. "You ain't getting no sympathy from us."

"Sympathy?" She laughed. "I just came to see the first living man I've passed by in oh so long. Or men that is. And you'd better watch where you point that thing." She moved the gun from her face. "You might hurt someone." She laughed again.

"Don't tell us what to do!" She pulled the gun out and all of the sudden she had it in the boy's mouth.

"I'd keep your tongue in your mouth before you lose it." She growled. She yanked it out of his mouth and started to walk away.

"Oh wait!" She said and turned back to them, "What's your names?"

"Why?" The older one asked.

"Just thought I'd see if I knew the name. That's all."

Name= Tara Sinbad
Nickname= Sinbad
Age= 24
Crime= five murders, charged with being a hit man, three arsons, aremed robbery, and terrorism
Loyalty= none
Current residence= The old City of New York.
Hair= gold-blonde
Eyes= hazel
Figure= svelte
Belongings= M16 kept in a shoulder pack, C4, a 9 mm in her boot, and a silencer for quick, quiet jobs.

((I'll add more later))

Ember

How ironic. A nuclear bomb hits and the only survivors are high security prisoners. Must have been a pretty awesome bomb. It even melted half my cell and that cell was supposed to be indestructable. I suppose I should thank the fool government for saving my life. I smiled to myself and continued to walk through the street, scavenging for anything that was salvagable.

Into the silence, a gun was fired, not far to my left. I decided not to get involved. Not when I'd just located what used to be a fabric store. Stepping in, I sifted through the disitegrated pieces of cloth until I found some that looked reasonably intact. I spread the largest piece out on the floor, piled the other pieces on top and then brought the corners together and tied them with a scrap of cords so I could carry the bundle.

Then I hit the jackpot. A safe. The metal had begun to melt, leaking down the side but not enough that the contents could be damaged. I took my hairpin out and slotted it into the lock. Nimble fingers rememberes old traits and I sprung the safe open. Delving into the dark exterior, I withdrew a few piles of bills and an elaborate necklace. Why was there never anything useful in these high security vaults? Sighing, I threw the money on the floor and strung the necklace around my neck.

The sky was full of smoke and Tara kicked the cell door one last time before it finally gave. She leapt nimbly over a pile of rubble and looked around. She had an escape plan, but this wasn't part of it. She was surprised at how devastating the bomb was. It melted the two inch thick, bullet-proof door she had been locked behind.

She walked calmly past obliterated cells, grimacing at the charred bodies. She came to the armory and chose a few "items." Top on her list was a good M16, her favorite type of gun. She found one in good condition and fired a few rounds. Perfect. Next, she found a 9 mil, some extra clips, and a silencer. She wasn't sure why the prison had this in here, but it would help in a case where another survivor needed to die quietly.

She noticed that a few bundles of C4 had survived. This was her lucky day. She scooped them up and grabbed a black shoulder pack from under a metal table. She placed the C4, silencer, and spare clips inside and slung the pack onto her shoulder, keeping the M16 ready, and slid the 9 mil into her boot.

Sinbad, as she was called by others, hurried from the prison grounds and down Broadway. She saw a group outside an old bistro and hesitated. She slid the M16 into her pack and moved the 9 mil from her boot to her jacket pocket before approaching.

(Hey, I found this great site with prison slang A-Z in it. If you guy's want to look up the "slangy" words I use go to http://dictionary.prisonwall.org/)

Rush smirked. His name. How long had it been since he had used his name. He was number 0972 to the wardens and security guards. He was Aristocrat to inmates. In another time, in another world, his name had been important. Deadly. It had meant a gun to your head. It had meant terror. It meant backstabbing and murder. The man who went by that name had threatened to break kneecaps. The man who went by that name had been an underworld “tax-collector”. People had to pay up to him or else da godfadder would hear about it. They had used that name with a trembling lower lip. With fear. Rush smirked again in the direction of the girl. And now she wanted to know this name. This perfect stranger. She was young. Even younger than the kid who had killed for a scrap of bread. Sixteen. Seventeen. And yet she looked grizzled. Already hardened by a life of crime. Yes, she could know his name.

“You can call me Rush,”

His “ace-duce” turned cautiously around, half-oriented towards Rush, and half towards the girl. Paranoid.

“Jason. Jason McDowell,”

“A pleasure to meet you both. Call me Cadena,” the girl said with a flourish of her hand and a bow, eyes never leaving their guns, “Now who wants to toss me that bread.”

It was Jason’s turn to smirk, “Screw you. Lady, you’re barred from this side of the yard.”

“I don’t appreciate the slang.”

Rush concealed a smile. She was obviously a prison inmate. In all likelihood, she had used her fair share of slang behind bars, like the both of them. It was endearing. It was a mark. Speak like a bird, and you’ll be heard, a mafia thug had said to him once.

“Looks like we got ourselves a featherwood, man. Haul outta here, Cadena. Trust me, you don’t wanna end up like this guy,” Jason gestured at the dead man, lying at their feet.

Cadena held up her palms, “Hey, just wanted to click up.” But she stayed where she was.

Jason held up his gun and flicked the safety off audibly, “I’m gonna count to three. One…” Cadena didn’t move. She was smiling broadly.

“Do your worst, diddler.”

“…Two…”

Rush saw a change in Cadena’s stance and the grip of her gun. It looked as if he was going to witness and old-fashioned show-down. The girl had guts. Either that or she was just stupid.

“Thr…”

Jason didn’t get a chance to finish. Cadena fired her gun. Twice. The bullets carved through the air and Rush heard them thud into Jason’s shoulder. He let out a startled gasp, twisted where he stood in a grotesque pirouette, and slid down the alley wall, groaning.

Aren heard the fires and ran towars them, gun out and ready. She saw the girl holding up the gun and a dead guy, with another leaning over him.

"He'll live" he said flatly. 'Ok, so he isn't dead,She thought

"Wha'd ya think I did, kill em?" The girl asked. Aren smiled.

Sinbad stopped in the middle of the street when the girl fired her gun.

"Might not want to get mixed up in this." She told herself a little louder than she had meant to.

She saw the girl and the uninjured man turn toward her. "Too late." She muttered as she approached, hands up and palms out.

TNCOWGIRL!!!!!!!! Jason is not dead!!!!! He is only wounded!!!!! Didn't you read my entry!!!!!!!??????? It said Jason was shot in the shoulder!!!!!! It was not a lifethreatening wound!

!!!!!!!!!

-Kylan

woah...lots of !'s

Cadena stood over the man.

"By the way, I wouldn't judge me by my looks. I've killed fish stronger than you and it don't cost me a minutes sleep."

Rush helped Jason with his wound and turned to her. "Cadena, I am guessing you've been in the big house?"

"Yeah. I might've beened locked up a few times." She smiled. Jason was cursing at her but she blocked it out.

*Sorry so short. I'm a bit bust at the moment.*