ArchivedLogs:Called Shot

Called Shot
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Kay, Micah
In Absentia	29 December 2013 Assassinations at church on Sunday. With zombies. >_> (WARNING: Violence, death.)
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
This church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Recently, the church has had a new addition -- a rather large structurally unsound hole made through its once-majestic pair of front doors at the hand of a military-grade armored vehicle. Surrounding this hole is numerous pieces of scaffolding to facilitate the process of fixing it -- plastic sheathes descend over some of the more fragile pieces of stained glass to protect them from dust, wear, and vibrations -- with a few groups of carpenters working hard on restoring the doorway. The temperature is cool; the day is getting along -- and Malthus is working. There’s a certain perverse pleasure he takes in working with his hands -- in his position, it is not something he gets to do nearly enough (in his estimation, at least). The dark-cloaked man is dressed warmly -- a black long-coat drapes over his shoulders, with black slacks beneath, and a pronounced bulge where his side-arm is hidden. His face seems relaxed as he works upon a board of wood, intended for scaffolding -- measuring calmly, smoothing his hands over its surface -- even the snarl of his scar seems to have eased its tenseness. The measuring tape slips back into its cartridge with a soft, hissing snpt; he has marked the wood with a grease pencil, and is moving toward a nearby electric saw to make the cut. For a moment, he is alone -- the closest worker is over ten yards away. Even his entourage (two grim men sitting inside a black van, dressed in similar black coats, doing their best to look like they are not even slightly interested in Malthus) is at least twenty yards away, at the side of the street. It’s Sunday and while /this/ particular church is not in /service/ at the moment, there’s still a kind of Sunday morning feel to the air. Few places in New York are ever /deserted/ and this is no exception; it’s quiet, but there are people -- a family hurrying off dolled up in dresses and suits for church, a young man leaning against a telephone pole, smoking a cigarette and chatting in rapid Spanish on a cellphone, a pair of construction workers down the street not actually engaged in construction but swapping banter over cheap coffee. The first real hint of disturbance to this rather prosaic scene comes from just around the corner from where Malthus works; the narrow alleyway between the church and the apartment buildings next door sees a sudden scurrying trio of city rats, inordinately large in the manner of city vermin, shooting out of the alley to disappear into a gutter. And then a woman, stopping nearby with a fidgety small terrier on a leash, cautious-uncertain in her careful: “Hello? Sir, are you alright?” There is a shuffle of footsteps, moving closer to the mouth of the alley (as the woman draws her dog in close and hastens across the street.) The pair emerging from the alleyway have a slow unsteady gait that has grown quite /familiar/ to New Yorkers in the past season. Far too pale, far too unfocused, though they’re /intact/ and with clothes scuffed but not torn; if they /are/ dead it doesn’t seem they’ve been that way particularly long. At first perhaps they were focused on the rats -- then the terrier. But with its hasty retreat it’s the church they turn towards. Not without some small amount of /commotion/. New Yorkers who’ve managed to be still /alive/ these days aren’t exactly the types to panic at the sight of potential hungry undead, but they are the type to move with some amount of haste at their appearance. A couple people simply flee, backing off to call -- there’s actually a dedicated zombie /line/ for emergency services these days. “Aw, shit,” is all that one of the construction workers says, peering from his vantage point past Malthus up the block. He sets his coffee down on a plank of scaffolding, capping it with more exasperation than real distress and /sidling/ away to pick up a length of pipe. Like an expanding ripple, further and further up the street, pedestrian activity shifts; heads turn towards the trundling shapes emerged from the alley. At a bus stop, a small clump of people begins to break up in a meander, an elderly woman fitting her clutch bag beneath an elbow and easing away. A man in a business suit hovering his cell phone away from the side of his head and easing backwards. One young man, a broad-shouldered blond-haired buck in a crew cut, sporting a varsity-style jacket with ASSKICKER emblazoned on the back and an earring, braces his feet and steps partly /forwards/. His big hands flex open and closed at his sides. Micah is exceedingly uncomfortable. He is wearing a heavy kevlar-insert vest and has his running blade attached to his prosthetic leg in preparation for a hasty retreat. The gun feels intensely heavy at his side, simply hyper-present. Not that any of this is visible under the veil of illusion he wears, courtesy of Regan. Currently, he appears to be a tall, lanky thirty-something with dishwater blond hair done in poorly tended, chunky white boy dreads and a matching scraggly goatee. His cheeks are sallow, eyes a little bloodshot, teeth and first two fingers of his right hand tobacco stained. Both his clothes and fingernails are dirty, a denim jacket worn over a holey grey T-shirt and faded cargo pants, all entirely too large for his wiry frame. He shifts restlessly from his seat on the bus stop bench, hands fussing at his jacket on and off. He stands when the jock does, kind of bouncy nervous-stepping after him, hand reaching up to point across the street at the commotion. “Hey, man,” he adds, reedy voice nervous to match the gesturing. “Zombies gonna eat all those guys.” His hand is already starting to reach under his jacket. Malthus’ response is quick. The escaping rats draw his attention; the pale, shuffling figures immediately after that. There’s no moment of paralysis, no pause -- in an instant, he is moving -- a slow, steady walk, even as his hand steps out to slip inside of his coat, seizing hold of something. Not, judging by the position of his hand, his gun -- something directly below it. A small black cartridge he is lifting to press against his neck, ever so subtly, depressing a trigger with a tell-tale hiss… his eye growing darker. His gait faster. Even as the cartridge silently, rapidly slips back within his coat. The two men in his car are, while unsubtle about their task, notably attentive -- both eyes rivet to that alleyway at the first sign of trouble. In the next instant, both men are stepping out of the car -- their hands are moving for their guns. Though they haven’t pulled them out yet -- both are moving toward Malthus, slow but sure, to join him in his approach. The zombies move with a more -- well, /determined/, in the mindless single-purpose way zombies tend to be. One is large, tall and well-muscled himself while the woman beside him is shorter and bonier. And quicker, approaching Malthus with arms outstretched. Like for a HUG. The bigger one seems in a pretty huggy mood as well, following after the first in a beeline shuffle as Malthus injects himself. He emits a raspy rattling croak, mouth staying slack-jawed open afterwards as the pair descends on Malthus. "Hey," The Varsity Jacket kid is saying, mouth hanging open, "Hey they're gonna eat that guy." He thumps a hand against the back of (Micah)the dreadlock dude's shoulder like - man, YOU go first. "Dude, they're gonna do it. Do it like, now." Only in touch, through the back of his jacket, Micah will feel the steadiness of the young man's hand. It's warm. And bracing. “Oh/shit/!” Dreadguy-Micah's voice has moved from nervous to panicked. “Zombie's gonna eat his /face/!” When his hand reappears from under the jacket, it is wrapped around the gun’s grip. The hand shakes until such time as it is brought up to aim, then stills perfectly. It could very well appear to bystanders that he is taking aim at the zombie, for its proximity to Malthus. Milliseconds are given to aiming, this scenario having been repeated dozens and dozens of times in training with Regan so as to be automatic. The thought of protecting Spencer is so tied up in the pulling of the trigger by now as to make it faster, smoother, without hesitation. His finger squeezes and the gunshot reports loudly in reply. The gunshot cracks out through the square -- and the result is immediate. Both men approaching Malthus pull their weapons -- dark, glossy black handguns -- in an instant, sweeping the surrounding area. Malthus snaps back -- as if suddenly remembering he has forgotten something. It appears that what Malthus has forgotten is the back of his head -- an orange-sized hole has appeared in the back of his skull. There is a moment where he remains standing, expression serene, staring at the approaching zombies before him… and then, in the next instant -- slowly, as if lowering himself down into a bed to rest -- he falls. First, to his knees; then, to the side. Blood pooling on the concrete beneath his skull -- his eyes still open. His expression strikingly calm; indifferent -- never losing that sense of constant tranquility. “Fuck,” one of the bodyguards hisses, opening fire on the zombies -- even as his cohort drops to check on Malthus. “Fuck.” The smaller of the two zombies drops near instantly when the bodyguard opens fire, skull leaking brain-matter out onto the concrete from the hole sprouted in the back of its head. The other shambles inward, only tipping forward at a delay, to fall half on /top/ of Malthus and the other bodyguard. Bits of blood and brain drip out of his forehead. Possibly onto Malthus’s FACE. Sloooowly, his teeth chomp closed. Really hopeful of getting that one last bite in. The sound of gunfire affects the average New Yorker in a very different way than the sight of zombies - you'd think a low ceiling had suddenly thumped down over the entire street, everyone from old lady to construction workers to those good Churchgoers all ducking up to make their shape smaller. The Jock kid's arm closes around Dreadguy's waist, breathing out low and rapidly, "Run." With a forearm swung low at a level that could be seized of leaned on readily. The gun remains hanging in the air as if stuck for several moments, Dreadguy-Micah's jaw going slack and staring at the fallen form of Malthus across the street. “Fuck.” The word falls out of it in echo of the bodyguard's, Dreadguy's eyes moving to the gun as if in accusation of the supposed error. “/Fuck/,” he echoes again, the arm finally dropping, leaden, to his side. The rest of him seems to have frozen as well, that word from the Jock finally unsticking his feet from the concrete. “Run,” he repeats, with action to follow, aiming for a pre-designated alley and subsequent getaway.