A van is parked in the middle of the highway in the middle of absolute nowhere. No houses, buildings or fences line the road. No abandoned cars clutter the pavement. But most importantly, there are no walking dead slowly dragging their tired corpses around. This is the middle of absolute nowhere.

The van is a few years past it's prime, if it ever really had one. At one point having held a mom with too many soccer games to get to and never enough time, it now carried three teenagers. Wyoming was taking a leak in the ditch beside the van. Atlanta and Dakota found themselves seated inside, chatting casually.

Soon coming down over the next rise would be a surly looking black pick-up with a lift kit, slowly approaching the only other people in the middle of absolute nowhere.

"So he starts "Truth Doesn't Make a Noise" with the piano, does the first verse and all. Then he goes and does the guitar part and he does that riff and he hits the Whammy and drops the octave all the way down! Blew my fucking mind! Oh, man, it's so good. Like that whole first set is one song, essentially. He starts with "When I Hear My Name" and plays straight through to the end of "Jack the Ripper" without stopping. It's like the coolest thing I've ever seen." Atlanta was ranting about the old days. About the things he used to do, things he'd once enjoyed. "Y'know, I was watching Under Blackpool Lights the night of the Fall. I thought "If this is it, I wanna be played out by Jack fucking White."" He shook his head, hearing how silly a thing that was now.

The thin young survivor breathed slowly as he steadied himself, exhaling as if about to pull a trigger, or swing a weapon at a walker. Only thing was that this time the only thing he was swinging was his limp manhood, trying to conjure up the feeling of security and privacy that people used to need in order to do their private business. It wasn't the way of the world anymore, to have security, or privacy (at least when part of a group), so maybe Wyoming was old-fashioned, much like his views on other things. Luckily for him he was quick learner.

The silence permeating the air broke as the teenager began to do his deed, churning up the drab soil at his feet, the incline creating a downward stream. Next to Wyoming's foot lay his crowbar. Taking this time for contemplation, he was sure he could imagine what Atlanta and Dakota were talking about in the van, quietly appreciating the comradery he was lucky enough to afford. When alone, it was best not to to think of the past, or the future for that matter. Best to focus on the present.

Presently, a vehicle began to approach their position on the side of the road. Its slow approach was muffled at first by the sound of Wy's urination, but the kicked up gravel soon became distinct.

Eyes widened as the previously tranquil survivor realized what was happening, and immediately he tensed, entering flight-or-fight response, pee-or-no-pee. Cutting off his current duties immediately, and then fumbling as he tried to right his pants the way they ought to be, he panicked while considering his few options.

Warn them, warn them, warn them. Wy urged himself in a heated internal voice, while simultaneously he considered that he had no time to act without exposing himself, if in fact the approaching vehicle had not yet spotted him. He turned abruptly, moving with a duty to warn the others in the van, but slipping in the now wet soil as his foot pivoted, causing him to stagger and slide further into the ditch, more out of sight.

Utterly fucked, he hugged the ridge of the ditch, crowbar at least within easy grasping distance, his heartrate racing as the truck closed in to meet his friends, himself pitiful and scared but hopefully concealed out of sight. If he had an opportunity to act, could he? He wish he already knew by this point..

Seated in the drivers seat, Dakota listened to Atlanta talking. She rested her elbow on the window, and her head on her arm. They had been on the road a while and she was board. There was no radio anymore, and Atlanta talking was the only thing close to passing for entertainment.

"I don't know who that is." She said wryly as she turned to face Atlanta, who was sitting in the passenger's seat. "So he must not be very good."

She noticed Wyoming fumbling around outside and falling over. What on earth is that idiot doing? she thought. Focused on the boy fallen on the ground in the ditch, she didn't see the truck coming up the road behind them.

Atlanta was outraged. "Are you even listening to me!?!?" He hung his head in his hands. "The White Stripes!" he shouted. "I've been talking about them for the last, I dunno, ten minutes. And now you decide to tell me that you have know idea who I'm talking about?" Atlanta turned back towards Dakota. The way the sunlight caught her hair made her look nice, he supposed. "You know that song, "Seven Nation Army?" Duh, Duh dun dun dah daah dahh." He hummed the famous melody as he tapped his foot. "C'mon, there is no way you haven't heard that song! Everyone and their dog knows that song!"

Atlanta want on, oblivious of what Dakota was looking at, and the approaching truck.

The black Ford pulled up behind the mini van, engine rumbling. Everyone inside the other vehicle would be aware of their presence now. Brett sat in the driver's seat waiting, watching. Seeing if the van was friendly or not. The driver pushed his black Oakleys down his nose as he observed. "Looks ripe" he uttered to his brother beside him.

Two men stepped out of the truck. Both wore dark sunglasses, pricey boot-cut jeans, and cowboy boots. Their features were similar, though the second man was younger. Brett walked towards the van, gently slipping a large, silver handgun from the back of his pants. "Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!" His voice trailed off leaving the rest of the rhyme implicit.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:01, Tue 09 Dec 2014.

"Oh shit-balls!" Atlanta exclaimed as he whipped his head around to see who was out there. "Where's Wy?!?!" The other boy was out of sight. That was either a good thing or a bad thing. Atlanta reached over in Dakota's direction and pulled the keys from the van's ignition. Then he reached into the cubby on his door and grabbed a little folding pocket knife and tucked it, blade open, into his sock and pulled his pant leg down around it. Atlanta sighed.

"Hey there!" he called as he opened his door and climbed out. Atlanta discreetly scanned the ditch to find Wyoming in his cowered position. "Stay here" he said seemingly to the girl but actually to both. Atlanta walked briskly to the front on the van, meeting the armed man face to face, and drawing attention away from Wy. There could be no benefit to revealing his position, he thought to himself,  so this had to be better. "Haven't seen anyone out here for a while! How might we be of service to you fine gentlemen?" He spoke politely with excitement, keeping his hands visible.

Wyoming tried to breathe as little as possible as he kept low, fingers slipping around the crowbar just a few inches away at the top of the ditch. He wasn't sure what he was doing, if he could do anything, but he wanted his crowbar just in case. Be careful At'lanna.. Wy urged his comrade silently, though he was more concerned for himself and Dak than he was for the new guy, who had on occasion shown he could handle himself, perhaps only too well..

Kicking up dirt, the Ford rolled up beside them. Looking at Wyoming on the other side of the truck, she understood the situation by its sound. She sat straight in her seat, looking forward. If she drew attention to Wyoming she put them all at a disadvantage.

The action happened so quickly, Dakota hardly had time to do anything before Atlanta snatched the keys and was outside talking to the Oakley-wearing cowboy boot dicks, one of whom had just pulled a gun. So, it was fair to say that shit was going down.

Dakota locked the electric locks on the van doors. She dove out of her seat onto the floor. Crawling along the floor to the back row of seats, she grabbed a dark blue duffel bag, unzipped its main compartment and searched it. Not finding what she wanted, she turned the bag upside down, and among the cloths that dropped out, something metal, something heavy hit the van floor with a thud.

Derrick was standing with his back to the ditch, having failed to notice the teen hiding there. He watched as the girl inside the van crawled towards the cargo area. "Brett!" he called to his brother as he leaned on a shovel. "I call this one!" he said pointing inside. He watched her dig around back there. "She's scared. I like scared... the way she'll writhe beneath me..." The younger man stared through the back window with an evil grin until he was interrupted by his brother.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:48, Mon 15 Dec 2014.

"Derrick! Enough of that." Brett disapproved of his brother's talk. He addressed the shaggy haired boy in front of him. "Let me clue you in to what this is, to who's standing in front of you. We're the bad guys, boy. We want what you have, and we're going to take it, one way or another. And you, well you're just small enough, just weak enough, and just scared enough, that you're going to give it to us." Brett levelled the gun at Atlanta's head. It glinted in the sunlight. "Show me what you got, boy."

Atlanta jingled the keys like sleigh bells. "Okay, whatever you say. You can have the supplies, you can have the girl, whatever you want, you're the boss. Just don't hurt me, okay?" Atlanta took a hesitant step forward, and got a nod from Brett in return. He lead the man to the rear of the van, giving a look of "just trust me" to Dakota through the window. Now both of the highwaymen, Atlanta, Dakota in the van, and Wyoming in the ditch, were all clustered around one single point.

Atlanta drew the keys towards the lock on the back of the van. Suddenly they fell from his fingers and landed beside his shoe. The boy let out an awkward half-sigh, half-laugh. He reached down to grab the keys but instead clasped his fingers around the handle of the little folding pocket knife in his sock. He straightened and turned in one swift motion, drawing the blade cleanly across Brett's stubbled throat. Blood sprayed from the wound like water from the little misters that spray the broccoli at the supermarket. The warm liquid coated and dripped down At'lanna's face. The fine spray gave way to a full slosh as Brett's body hit the pavement. A dark red puddle began to form.

And that was the last thing Atlanta saw before Derrick smashed him across the face with the shovel he was holding.

The as of yet unnoticed van dweller shook as he listened to events culminate up top of the ditch near the van. His underweight frame hugged the dirt wall of the incline, one hand enveloping the grip of his crowbar, perspiration forming upon him. Listening to events, his ears would perk when a body hit the pavement, followed by another almost immediately after.
Brown eyes widening, his heart rate firing up like an engine, Wyoming clamored quickly up onto the roadside, spotting his comrade and one of the strangers incapacitated. At'lanna's dead.   Panic and adrenaline fueling him, Wyoming swung down at the surprised man, aiming not for the head but for the stranger's right wrist. He wanted to take the guy out, but murder wasn't something he'd become capable of yet. A broken wrist would have to suffice so the guy couldn't swing the shovel again.

"Stop!" Was all he could yell, unsure what to do after his initial strike, whether it succeeded or not.

Fumbling through the contents of the bag, she picked out the small, black 9mm that the trio had been packing. She crawled back to the front of the van and heard the sound of Wyoming hitting the attacker with his crowbar. She unlocked the van doors, and hopped out. Standing on the opposite side of the shovel wielding guy, she points the gun at him.

"Hey dick! Drop the shovel!" She yells. "Hit him again Wy!"

Derrick's wrist snapped with the impact of the crowbar. The shovel dropped to the pavement with a clatter. "OH shit, please don't kill me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Okay?" He began to weep. His brother was dead and how his wrist was destroyed and he was being held at gunpoint. A tear ran out from behind the lens of the Oakley sunglasses.

When she jumped from the van and pulled the gun on the now weeping-like-a-little-girl bandit, Dakota thought she was prepared for anything. She didn't expect this reaction from the creep who talked about raping her.

"Umm..." Dakota looked at Wyoming, at Atlanta on the ground. The other man, laying in a pool of blood. The black Ford. Her eyes snapped back at the crying baby boy.

"Listen, haul the dead guy into your truck, which is a piece of shit by the way, and get the fuck out of here. Wyoming will help you." She gestured toward the body with the 9mm. "Go on, you heard me."

Wyoming blinked as he registered the sound of bone snapping, instant guilt flooding him about it. Dakota's voice rang in his ear, urging him to continue attacking, but he couldn't do it, and he shifted weight indecisively. "Why couldn't you just leave us alone!?" Wy yelled in frustration at the man now begging for mercy, anger and anxiety in Wyoming's eyes, yet sympathy and pity for the now one-winged man.


Appreciating the reprieve from violence by Dakota, yet getting the grisly task of body removal as atonement for his lack-of-action, he still felt that it was the moral choice. Wy nodded in agreement with Dakota, both relieved and ashamed, and dropped his crowbar near her feet to free both hands.

Assuming the man would comply, Wy neared the body of another man, blood pooled all over the man's front upper body, his throat having been slit. The teen felt and appeared disgusted as he prepared to pick the body up from under the arms. "It didn't have to be like this." He muttered lowly, at a loss as to why people had to be so barbaric. Turning his head slightly to view the crumpled form of Atlanta on the ground, he prayed that the other boy wasn't seriously hurt.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:07, Tue 03 Feb 2015.

Derrick agreed the the arrangement and ran to pull open the tail-gate. He returned to help Wyoming pull his dead brother into the back of the Ford.

As those two were occupied, Atlanta came to, spitting and wiping blood from his mouth and eyes. "Kota? What the hell is Wy doing?" he asked, groggily. Atlanta sat up, leaning against the bumper of the old van. His head was pounding from being struck with the shovel, and was bleeding a bit from around the temple, but he'd be okay.

The dead highwayman that Atlanta killed had beed stashed in the back of the truck. Wy was returning and Derrick was getting in the truck. Though, as he tried to start the engine, he realized that the keys were in the back, in his dead brother's pocket.

"You're not going to let him go, are you? Not after he tried to kill me, and certainly not in that truck! Look at how shitty this van is!!" Atlanta stood, unsteady with his head ringing. "Wyoming! You can't let him go! Get him before he gets back in."

Wyoming blinked as Atlanta angrily addressed them and ordered him to attack the highwayman, finding the directive abhorrently against his values. "Its over, At'lanna, we're letting him leave." He replied as he walked back over to the others, bloodied slightly from carrying the dead man."Y-You didn't have to kill the guy. W-We could have scared them off." The teenager stammered as one hand gripped the wooden crucifix that hung from his neck, and muttered a prayer under his breath as he stopped to stand near Dakota. Bending to pick up his crowbar, he just wanted to move on. "This is frigged up. What's Washington going to say.."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:28, Thu 26 Feb 2015.

The job of moving the dead body had gone smoothly and quickly, and now that the Oakley wearing dick was leaving in his shitty Ford, Dakota could relax. She was both relived and annoyed to hear Atlanta. Relived he was alive, annoyed at his insistence on being in charge.

"Oh great you're alive." Dakota said dryly and with sarcasm. "Shut up get in the car shovel face- and don't fall asleep, you might have a concussion."
The trio of teenagers loaded into the van. Dakota, having retrieved the keys, sat back in the drivers seat. "What the hell were you thinking! Jumping out there with half a plan! There were two guys out there, you can't just do that."
Plugging the keys into the ignition, she tossed the 9mm onto the pile of clothes and things she had dumped out of her bag in search of the gun. "We should really get bullets for that thing."

Atlanta got back in the passenger seat and wiped the blood off his face with a spare t-shirt. Dakota's reaction was necessary on her part, but he didn't mind. The fact that she reacted so strongly meant that she cared. And caring was a half-step towards feelings. And feelings, he could work with.

The shitty old van rolled away with Derrick and the Ford disappearing in the rear-view. Instead of defending his actions, which really would not be relevant, Atlanta changed topics to something more entertaining. "What bands do you like Dickota?" He masked the insulting pun on her name with a pleasant and cheerful tone. She wouldn't notice.

Dakota pulled the van back onto Interstate 10 and the trio headed home with the sun setting behind them.