The Flowering | Post Apocalyptic, NSFW

[MolarityMolality]

OOC (Please Read!)

I want to do a bit of an Exquisite Cadaver with a Post-Apocalyptic setting I created. There is only one rule to this thread, if something you do makes someone uncomfortable or they object to it for a valid reason, you are to re-adjust your footing. Besides from that, we can take this in any direction anyone desires, and anyone is allowed to take part in this little adventure. The setting is Planet Earth, a year after an event called The Flowering caused plants to overgrow the entire planet. Here's my opening post, use it as the Exquisite Cadaver to create your responses, and anyone is welcome to join.

Thursday. Day 366.

Ulysses marked down the days in his journal. He used to write in it the first few months after The Flowering, but he eventually lost all inspiration to do so. His routine was the exact same every day, writing it down just solidified the minutiae of it all.

Every day he went outside, armed with Sulfuric Acid, a pair of Industrial Grade Pruning Shears and a Splitting Maul, he fought back The Wilds that seemed intent on consuming his home. Then he went into his green-house to check the plants, and reap, cultivate, or fertilize--whatever they needed.

Then he went into his lab to check on his samples: The Flowering had created hundreds of new species of plant-life. The Yellow Poppy-like pods decomposed into sulfuric acid if placed in Salt-Water, The ichor inside of the roots of some of the smaller trees could be fermented into a strong liquor, If the purple lichens were finely shredded, placed in a saline solution and injected as a Suspension--

--Well, he'd rather not think about that, not again.

Today his schedule went on as planned. Nothing had changed. It was around noon when he finally stepped back inside of his office, and took a glass case off of the wall, and looked at the paper within.

"Certificate of Specialty In Toxicology

Ulysses Meyer, M.D."

No use for a Doctor anymore, there was no-one to help. It had been 366 days and he hadn't seen a single soul. There had to be people left--some nights he heard gunshots--or was that just the sounds of The Wild, or his brain playing tricks on him?

He put the glass case back on the wall and sat down at his desk. He knew that he still had a will to find other people, a hope that they were out there: Because every day he sat down and pressed a button on a microphone hooked up to a radio and a receiver.

"This is Ulysses Meyer. Does anyone read me?"

Sometimes he would hear from the Receiver voices, or music, or sirens. A part of him hoped that this was a sign that life was still out there, but deep down he knew that it was probably just the receiver picking up old snippets of radio transmissions from before The Flowering.

Still, Ulysses sat at his desk, talking into the Microphone, hoping today, something would finally change.

 

[IamStroodle]

Victoria held the hand radio in one hand, a pistol in the other. She had been getting closer to the scrambled voice on the other end, navigating the warzone of a labyrinth the city had become.

For her the transition to the apocalypse was almost too easy. She had never been one for rules, always a rebel without a cause. She enjoyed fighting, and had no problem killing to get what she wanted. But she knew if she wanted to survive, she couldn't fight everyone, it just made sense to fight other, saner, people to do the things she couldn't be bothered to do, fix the things she couldn't be bothered to fix.

She crept through allies and darted across streets to avoid getting spotted by anyone who wanted what few supplies she had left. Only stopping to catch her breath, duck down, turn on her radio and listen for the signal "T..s ... ...lyss....Me....D...one....ed....me?"

'Damn..." she muttered. She switched her gaze to a nearby door in the alley. "Maybe if I go...yeah." she muttered again, holstering her pistol, silencing her radio and grabbing her pump action. She checked if the door was open first, but the damn thing didn't budge. She turned her head left, then right before raising a steel toed boot to kick the door open . It falls open with a heavy crash, sending dust everywhere. Another thunderous clap resounds as a shot fires off from inside, hitting her square in the chest. She grunts and fires blindly into the dust cloud with a spray of buckshot. Another thud is heard as someone falls to the floor.

The dust clears and Victoria checks herself. She felt the bullet strike her in the gut, but thankfully she had already donned a 'borrowed' ballistic vest. Her victim however was less lucky, as the shotgun blast found enough of it's mark to turn them into a bloodied wheezing mess. She approached him, a kid, barely seventeen from the looks of it. Victoria leaned over and grabbed his gun, and traveled up the stairs, leaving him to bleed out. Thankfully it seemed the kid was alone, trying to get the drop on her, or anyone desperate enough to bust in, or maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, either way not her problem now.

She found the roof door much easier to bust open, stepping out she could see a few blocks, all overgrown with those annoying flowers. She grabbed her hand radio again, tuned it to that signal and waited. The message was usually pretty frequent, but sporadic, it'd probably be a few hours before she'd hear it again. She sat herself across from the door to the roof, shotgun in lap, waiting for the signal or anyone to bust through and take their shot at her.

" Th.s .s Ulys..s Me..r. Doe. an.n.e re.d me?"

Victoria paused a moment, before her finger pressed against the button "I read you."