The Meeting
The night settled in, creating a gray gloom that hovered about the city like something malleable. A strong gale, blowing in from the northern mountains, scattered flyers and other trash. Footsteps echoed in the halls of the bowl; footsteps that had not been heard in such numbers for three months. A smattering of voices could also be heard: "I saw the lights, too!" and "Who turned them on?"
It had, in fact, been Faladon Mycos who had returned the lights' power. He, Dory, Sarah, and Claire had labored throughout the day, finding fuses and the plugs that matched them. They went about the city to salvage some new bulbs for the behemoth lights.
Now the three sat in the center of the bowl in Bank One Ballpark. More survivors had come, attracted by the lights. They had amassed into a company of one hundred, and even more came by the second. They were wrapped in black cloaks that now flapped in the wind. Others came, armed, also, with makeshift weapons.
The men and women assembled were now creating a mass of people. Now, however, few more came, and the force was near the maximum it could get to.
A drear murmur of anxious voices, scared voices, and working persons filled the cold, stagnant air, accompanied by an unrelenting that seemed to, instead of freshen, only polluted the air more. The will of the living was slowly dwindling. This sombre moment was broken by one event.
Faladon had become overjoyed when he saw Sarah. She entered through a barricade they were constructing and was nearly attacked. But, then, Faladon spoke up.
"Sarah, love," he shouted admidst the sound of hammers and steel and frightened voices. The tense voices ceased when he shouted, and many were gazing at the pair.
They embraced and kissed and retreated into an electronic room that had once controlled the scoreboard.
They came back out in an hour, ready with weapons. It would have seemed that a new light now gleamed in Faladon's emerald eyes. He now strode with an air of nobility, in the stead of his former depression.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Barricades were placed against the entrances. For, now, the group was membered with two hundred plus survivors. The barricades were made of stones and wires and planks of broken wood. A tall, proud man led the company in the building of the defenses, and was due to lead them against the mob of undead that were even now marshalling in the gathering shadows, as though possessed by some malignant will.
The stadium was shaped like a valley. There was a great rent in its southern flank. It was here that the most stalwart of barricades was placed. Other blockades were raised near the stairs that led into the central park, as well as near the western side.
It was here, in the western quarter of the ballpark that a headquarters was set. Where this post was set a hospital had been quartered. Here, Dory, a few doctors who had lived, and many volunteers were stationed. Even now, before the battle, injured were brought into the place of healing.
Now, dusk drew its solemn cloak over the city, shading everything in gray. The living labored in their little fort while the Afflicted gathered just as the shadows. Now the wind calmed but a spot, still a reasonable breeze.
It was that wind that bore a horrible smell. The smell of death and blood: of an old butcher's block. This acrid reek made some of the men and women working in the park gag; nauseated they were; though they continued. For to pause was folly of the deepest degree.
The tall man, who was heading the construction, as well as the imminent battle, approached Fal. Faladon immediately felt insecure, as though he were lower in meaning than this proud man.
The man was now mere feet away. He spoke in a commanding voice: "I respect your decision, though I know it did not come easy. You are terribly wise in gathering these people here, maybe to end their lives. But alas! We shall not run and grovel at the Afflicted's will and beck. Now is the time to band together and purge this world of this foul menace. We are not the dogs!"
With this last statement, the man, Michael, they learned, raised his fist into the air. His eyes were shining with the hope that he may, indeed, leave this forsaken hell to be with his spouse and offspring.
But that time was far off and now was the time for death and pain, not grievance. The battle was imminent.
The night settled in, creating a gray gloom that hovered about the city like something malleable. A strong gale, blowing in from the northern mountains, scattered flyers and other trash. Footsteps echoed in the halls of the bowl; footsteps that had not been heard in such numbers for three months. A smattering of voices could also be heard: "I saw the lights, too!" and "Who turned them on?"
It had, in fact, been Faladon Mycos who had returned the lights' power. He, Dory, Sarah, and Claire had labored throughout the day, finding fuses and the plugs that matched them. They went about the city to salvage some new bulbs for the behemoth lights.
Now the three sat in the center of the bowl in Bank One Ballpark. More survivors had come, attracted by the lights. They had amassed into a company of one hundred, and even more came by the second. They were wrapped in black cloaks that now flapped in the wind. Others came, armed, also, with makeshift weapons.
The men and women assembled were now creating a mass of people. Now, however, few more came, and the force was near the maximum it could get to.
A drear murmur of anxious voices, scared voices, and working persons filled the cold, stagnant air, accompanied by an unrelenting that seemed to, instead of freshen, only polluted the air more. The will of the living was slowly dwindling. This sombre moment was broken by one event.
Faladon had become overjoyed when he saw Sarah. She entered through a barricade they were constructing and was nearly attacked. But, then, Faladon spoke up.
"Sarah, love," he shouted admidst the sound of hammers and steel and frightened voices. The tense voices ceased when he shouted, and many were gazing at the pair.
They embraced and kissed and retreated into an electronic room that had once controlled the scoreboard.
They came back out in an hour, ready with weapons. It would have seemed that a new light now gleamed in Faladon's emerald eyes. He now strode with an air of nobility, in the stead of his former depression.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Barricades were placed against the entrances. For, now, the group was membered with two hundred plus survivors. The barricades were made of stones and wires and planks of broken wood. A tall, proud man led the company in the building of the defenses, and was due to lead them against the mob of undead that were even now marshalling in the gathering shadows, as though possessed by some malignant will.
The stadium was shaped like a valley. There was a great rent in its southern flank. It was here that the most stalwart of barricades was placed. Other blockades were raised near the stairs that led into the central park, as well as near the western side.
It was here, in the western quarter of the ballpark that a headquarters was set. Where this post was set a hospital had been quartered. Here, Dory, a few doctors who had lived, and many volunteers were stationed. Even now, before the battle, injured were brought into the place of healing.
Now, dusk drew its solemn cloak over the city, shading everything in gray. The living labored in their little fort while the Afflicted gathered just as the shadows. Now the wind calmed but a spot, still a reasonable breeze.
It was that wind that bore a horrible smell. The smell of death and blood: of an old butcher's block. This acrid reek made some of the men and women working in the park gag; nauseated they were; though they continued. For to pause was folly of the deepest degree.
The tall man, who was heading the construction, as well as the imminent battle, approached Fal. Faladon immediately felt insecure, as though he were lower in meaning than this proud man.
The man was now mere feet away. He spoke in a commanding voice: "I respect your decision, though I know it did not come easy. You are terribly wise in gathering these people here, maybe to end their lives. But alas! We shall not run and grovel at the Afflicted's will and beck. Now is the time to band together and purge this world of this foul menace. We are not the dogs!"
With this last statement, the man, Michael, they learned, raised his fist into the air. His eyes were shining with the hope that he may, indeed, leave this forsaken hell to be with his spouse and offspring.
But that time was far off and now was the time for death and pain, not grievance. The battle was imminent.