Zombies In Jacksonville|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 6 most recent journal entries recorded in
Zombies In Jacksonville's LiveJournal:
|Wednesday, July 25th, 2007|
Not even turning on the lights, Jake stumbled into the white walled cube. "I hate barracks rooms." Dropping his seabag to the floor, Jake takes off his jacket, shirt, and boots, falling face first onto the mattress, not even minding the stain in the middle.
Hours later, a single shaft of light filtered through the window in the cell he'd been assigned, landing directly on his face, pulling him out of the only place he could see her face. Alex quickly drifted away as the hot yellow beam ripped Jake to the real world. "Urgh..."
Before he could roll over and get back to sleeping, Ryan kicked open the door between their rooms.
"Get up, Jackass. No time to be depressed, we got shit to do."
"Shut the fuck up, I'm hung over...just want to sleep..."
"Man, give it up. She's like 1000 miles away and you said yourself that you don't want to do the long-distance thing again. Remember what happened last time?"
"Reveille reveille. Uniform of the day is...whatever the hell you want to wear. Conditions outside are: hot as balls and humid as Satan's asshole. Today there will be training exercises in Jacksonville, Florida to see how well you handle getting drunk on the beach."
Ryan walked out of the room, only to come back in a few moments later. "Petty Officer Gallagher, you've got a total of 5 seconds to get your ass out of that rack. Five..."
"Two...Christ, I don't want to wait anymore." Ryan laughed with an evil grin as he dumped a large cupful of ice water on Jake's pants, the cubes falling from the bed to the floor. "You gonna get up yet?"
Jake begrudgingly rolls out of his rack, muttering something about being a full-time nuke or something along those lines. "I'm not riding in your shitty ass car though."
There's something calming, going down the interstate on a motorcycle.
Pulling himself into a racing crouch, the wind whistled through his helmet as landmarks blurred past on either side.
Ryan's Eclipse struggled to keep up while Jake weaved in and out of the slower moving cars that crowded the road. Rolling 110 down the cracked gray road, most people would be nervous. But it didn't matter to Jake. Speed was his release, the only thing he ever had control over in his life.
Getting closer to Jacksonville, the northbound lane seemed to be a lot more crowded than the southbound was. "Strange," Jake thought, "it's sunny and saturday...people should be going to the beach about now."
By the time he reached the city limits, the northbound lanes were completely stopped and congested with thousands of cars full of people.
But it wasn't just in the northbound lane that the cars were stopped. More and more, there were small vehicles abandoned on the roadway. On the side of the road, in the lanes.
"What the hell is going on here?" Jake whispered, releasing the throttle some to slow down.
Coming up on the exit for the beach, Jake moved over to the exit lane, only to pull back into the passing lane as an 18 wheeler jacknifed in front of him. Ryan followed suit, moving as quickly as possible to avoid the now rolling trailer and sliding cab.
"What the /hell/ is going on here?"
Exits all along the interstate were blocked with cars, flaming wrecks and torn metal shells. Riding on, Jake finally pulled off at the one marked Jacksonville Landing, in the heart of the city...
Taking off his helmet, Jake looked to the rust orange Eclipse coming to a stop next to him. "Dude, I don't know what's happening but it looks like whatever it is, it's big."
"Yeah," is all Jake could manage to get out, pushing his hand back through his hair, straightening it out.
Just as he was going to put his helmet back on to rev up and get going, a small buzz came from his left pocket.
Looking at his cell phone, the caller ID read Duncan. "Hm."
Sliding the phone open, he answered with the normally sarcastic tone he carried on the phone: "Duncan. I was just thinking, I wonder what he's doing today, probably not nearly as interes--"
"Shut up. Where are you?"
"The middle of fucking rush hour, what do you want from me?"
"Are you in Jax?"
"Yeah, what, you want to meet up and do...well it looks like nothing, because this city's a scene out of Resident Evil or something."
"You have no idea. Get to the The Land--" The call went dead.
"Ryan. We've got to move," Jake said, putting his helmet back on and opening the bike's throttle all the way, peeling out as he sped toward the convention center.
The Landing was a scene in itself. The horseshoe shaped building was covered in banners for something called StuffCon. No doubt an anime nerd's heaven. Dismounting from the bike, Jake took off his helmet and put on his Oakleys.
"What the hell is this?" Ryan asked as he stepped out of his car.
"This, my friend, /is/ hell. Something's wrong here."
"No crap. Grown males shouldn't have tits or cat ears," Ryan replied in customary sarcastic tone.
"No, I mean something is /really/ wrong here."
Getting close to the main entrance, there was a mass of about twenty of them. Strangely enough, some were wearing Army uniforms. "Must be some kind of new fad."
Duncan and some girl were at the doors, surrounded. The girl, drenched in blood, held onto a large spiked club. Duncan clutched a shotgun, and two people lay dead before them.
"Looks like a party. Mind if I join?" Jake yelled across the croud.
And then the mob turned toward him.
|Monday, July 23rd, 2007|
Megan stood at the top of the stairs, hands on her knees as she leaned forward, panting. The struggle to reach the stairs had been taxing. She had a sinking premonition that this feeling of physical exhaustion was not going to be leaving her any time soon. Below on the main floor, the crowd of bodies continued to churn past in a sluggish tide, individuals and small groups clawing and shoving to reach the head of the crowd and attain freedom and safety. Megan’s hazel-green eyes swept the crowd from above for what seemed like the thousandth time, searching in vain for a flash of Sissa’s bright red hair, or the stark white-blond of Jaycee’s. Again, no sign of them. She swallowed uneasily. They’d been near the front of the convention center, maybe they’d been some of the first out. Ignoring the guilt gnawing at her stomach, she kept moving along the upper level balcony, making steady progress toward the source of the disturbance. Here and there she passed small clusters of individuals who had been clever enough to head for higher ground, rather than fight the mob below.
“Take out the stairs!” she shouted each time she passed anyone on this level. “Take the stairs out, don’t let the zombies up!” More than likely they wouldn’t listen, but she didn’t have the time or means to try and destroy every single staircase herself. As she neared the back of the landing, her eyes fell on a very different scene. Here, no one was running. Instead, a crowd was pressed up against the glass walls. This group was eerily quiet in comparison to those taking flight behind them. Someone had gathered the presence of mind to pull the doors shut and shove a small mountain of displays and booths in front of them, thus temporarily blocking the zombies. She thought she could hear shouting from outside. But what were they all staring at? From this vantage point it was impossible to see.
Frowing, she jogged around the edge of the wall until she found what she was looking for. “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY – ALARM WILL SOUND!” proclaimed tall red letters on a white door set back in the wall. “This probably qualifies as an emergency,” she murmured, and slammed the door open with the flats of her hands. Outside, a slender metal fire escape wrapped around part of the outside of the building. Several things happened at once as she reached the collapsible ladder almost directly above the blockaded doors. First, a gunshot ripped through the air, accompanied by a chorus of lifeless moans. As if in response, the fire alarm began to blare, shrieking a high-pitched siren. Megan’s gaze dropped to where the shot had emanated. Her eyes widened .There, standing alone against a small horde of uniformed zombies, was a lone figure in jeans and an orange shirt, wielding what Megan’s inexperienced eyes decided was probably a shotgun or a rifle. It really didn’t matter – he obviously knew how to use it, whatever it was. A zombie with mulch where its head used to be was crumpled at his feet. But above the din of moans, sirens, and shouts, he didn’t seem to notice the vitally important fact that another zombie had managed to creep up behind him. It was merely feet away and closing fast, arms outstretched, bloody maw gaping.
Something inside her bubbled up above the sick dread of seeing bleeding, ragged corpses staggering lifelessly onward. Here was the one person she’d seen doing anything to try to fight back, and he was going to be killed alone, trapped outside, ripped to pieces and eaten? No.
“Hey!” She tried to bellow threateningly, but the warning came out as more of a scream as she stomped down hard on the fire escape. “Behind you!” She stomped again, then once more, and finally the thing gave way, clattering down to dangle just above the ground. Adrenaline made the world seem to move in slow motion. Her feet slipped on the rungs and she slid, fingers burning with friction as she held on tight. The ground rose up to meet her and she stumbled on contact, landing just behind the lone zombie. It turned slowly, blank eyes coming into view just as she hefted the club.
There was a moment of stark clarity where everything seemed frozen. A momentary reflection flitted through her mind that she had never consciously killed anything before, that she didn’t know how to use a club really, that she wasn’t sure she could aim accurately, or hit hard enough to destroy the brain even if she managed to strike her target.
But even as these doubts drifted across her consciousness, she watched as her arms raised as if by their own accord, and the club swung forward, spikes burying themselves in the creature’s yielding skull. Bits of bone and gore sprayed outward, and the zombie dropped, pulling the club and her arms with it.
She cut an interesting figure there: a slim, angular girl with a boy’s haircut, dressed in now-blood spattered every day clothing, one checkered loafer planted on her victim’s neck as she heaved on a stout wooden club, prying the spiked weapon from a dead zombie’s head.
|Sunday, July 22nd, 2007|
((OOC: Megs with a spiked club? Oh noes!))
Duncan's first instinct was to reach to under his arm, to where he used to keep his holster, back home. He stopped mid-motion, however, realizing his error, and spun around to the rest of the crowd: "Shit! Anyone have a..."
Duncan stopped mid-sentence, for there was no one behind him. The crowd was all running, panicked, into the Landing. A loud groan caught his attention, so Duncan whirled back around to the approaching zombies, which were approaching a lot faster than expected. Now that they were closer, he noticed that these we no hospital patients: these were soldiers, the national guard sent to protect them.
Several of the turned guardsmen still had various weapons slung over their shoulders, and, having been infected, apparently had no idea the weapons were there or had no clue how to use them. If only he could get one of the M16s, or even better, a shotgun. Duncan turned back to the Landing, where the scared people were milling about inside, pointing at and yelling about the quickly approaching zombies. They had already attempted to barricade the doors, shoving stands, chairs, anything they could in front of the big glass entrance way. He sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting one up and replacing the pack and lighter into his pocket. Duncan took a draw from the stick, looked over his shoulder to the Landing, and yelled: "Hey, guys! Thanks for locking me out!" He flipped them off and blew the smoke out of his nose as he returned to watching the oncoming zombie horde. "So much for military appreciation."
Almost as if the zombie had heard this, the turned national guardsman broke out at almost what could be called a sprint at him. Duncan's cry of "FUCK!" coincided with a crescendo of screams from inside. Completely on instinct, he quickly sidestepped and ducked the charging guardsman to the left. As the sprint-shambling zombie passed him, he quickly pivoted and rose up from his crouch, grabbing the Benelli shotgun that was strapped loosely around the zombie's shoulder. The guardsman-cum-zombie yanked on the cord as it continued to pass him, almost pulling Duncan along with it, but thankfully the strap broke, sending the zombie tumbling forward and Duncan backwards, cigarette flying out of his mouth the the ground. He quickly scrambled back up, pumped the M1014, and pulled the trigger.
The zombie rose to its feet, and Duncan could hear the rest of the horde quickly approaching from behind. He looked down at the shotgun - there were five 12-gauge slug shells strapped to the side of the gun. He ripped two of them off and, stepping to the side and backing off from the zombie, chambered them into the shotgun. He pumped again, shouldered the shotgun, and aimed for the head. The zombie took a few quick steps toward him and reached out.
"Thank god for boot camp."
The Benelli kicked Duncan off balance, and the explosion of powder behind the slug almost deafened him. The solid 12-gauge slug, however tore through the neck of the infected national guardsman, separating the head from the shoulders in a ragged, bloody cloud of skin and bone. Duncan regained his balance quickly and pumped the other round into the chamber, sending the used, smoking shell to the concrete. Bending down, he picked the still-smouldering cigarette and placed it back in the corner of his mouth. He looked at the Landind, the people inside were quiet - stunned perhaps, as he took the other 3 rounds off of the side of the gun and loaded them into the clip before shouldering his new shotgun. A fat, balding man wearing a Megatokyo shirt broke the silence, yelling loud enough so that even Duncan's ringing ears could hear him, "Behind you!"
|Thursday, July 19th, 2007|
StuffCon, day two. Megan trotted down the hotel stairs uncharacteristically early, clad in a pair of khaki cargos and a fitted ash t-shirt with the Horde banner proudly scrawled across it. Her blue messenger bag, spangled with Homestar Runner patches, thumped against her back as she leapt over the last four steps. Jaycee and Sissa, her college suitemates, were already waiting for her in the lobby when she arrived.
“I told you the elevators were faster,” drawled Sissa, sticking out her tongue.
“Yeah, well,” shot back Megan, hefting the laptop bag into a more comfortable position, “At least if the power goes out I won’t be a zombie lunchbox.”
Sissa and Jaycee gave each other exaggerated expressions of exasperation and sighed. “For the last time, Meg. They aren’t zombies, and keep your voice down. It’s really insensitive to talk about them like that, especially right here so close to the outbreak. They’re just people with a disease, the media’s blowing it entirely out of control.”
Megan stared at them for a moment and shook her head, running a hand through her boy-short brown hair. “Whatever makes you feel better. Let’s just get going before the lines build up, all right?”
Minutes later the trio came pouring out of the shuttle bus along with the rest of the convention-goers, joining the crowd filtering into the thicket of vendors, booths, acts, and demonstrations. It was, Megan reflected, a veritable orgy of nerddom. There were gamers, cosplayers, comic enthusiasts, weapons vendors, webcomic artists, nerd musicians, game previews, movie sneak peaks… A buxom girl dressed like what Megan assumed was supposed to be Sailor some-planet-or-another bumped into her hard, giggled, and staggered away, leaving behind her a distinct alcoholic aroma.
“Little early for that, don’t you think?” Megan muttered, but she was in too good a mood to be really annoyed. She stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better view past the entrance toward which they were steadily edging. She’d heard something about a new Zelda game teaser inside today, and she was determined to be all over that like white on rice…
“Hey Megs, aren’t you meeting that guy here today?”
Broken unceremoniously from her elf-boy daydream, she glanced vaguely back at Jaycee. “Huh? Oh, Duncan? I dunno if he got to make it off base or not today, but I’ll try to give him a call later.”
“Well if he’s cute, I call dibs.” Sissa grinned, tossing her long red ringlets back over her shoulder and dropping her voice to a throaty drawl which she apparently thought was a good approximation of the local dialect. “Ah love a may-un in unifahm!”
All three girls laughed. “Fine, I’ll see if I can talk him into wrapping paper for you,” Megan chuckled, but her laughter stopped as they finally drew beneath the canopy marking the entrance of the convention floor and found themselves finally able to move freely in the much larger space, replaced by an awed gasp. Jaycee let out a squeal of delight. “Oooh, look over there! Behind that booth, that has to be-!” She rattled off a Japanese name which Megan didn’t recognize, and pointed, much to Sissa’s equally fangirlish glee.
“You guys hit that one up,” their short-haired companion urged, waving them on. “I have another stop to make over in the gamerly direction.” She grinned. “Let’s meet for lunch at that café with the kebap, ok? Have fun!”
Waves and farewells finished, the pair were off. Megan looked after them for a moment, then shrugged and disappeared into the crowd. The two of them were from the same high school and had been friends for years, so having only met them two semesters ago she couldn’t help but feel a bit like a third wheel around them from time to time. Still, they all got along well, and Megan had been more than happy to accompany them to StuffCon, if not to partake in anime-induced bliss.
She fished her cellphone out of her pocket. Maybe she should try to call Duncan, see if he was already down at the Convention… idly she flipped to the D’s in her contact list, but then closed the phone again and stuffed it back into her pocket. Stalling. She always stalled about meeting new people. Ok,
she told herself. You go check out the Linkness, and then you call him. You’ve got to get over this timidness… thing.
She never quite made it to the gaming sector. On the way there her attention snagged on a vendor selling medieval weapons of all kinds. She smirked wryly at her constant inability to pass up a chance to look at sharp-and-shinies. The man tending the booth had a tousled head of white hair, somewhat at odds with his perfectly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He was heavyset but grinned as she shouldered in beside his other patrons, ogling the selection of daggers beneath the glass counter. One in particular caught her eye; a long, graceful, silver affair with a stripe of deep blue stone inlaid along the blade. Travis would love this,
she thought as she asked to see it. The smiling man handed her the weapon, which was, she was surprised to find, beautifully balanced and very sharp.
“How much is-” she began to ask, but at that moment the speakers, which up until now had been playing a euphoric techno melody, suddenly went dead. Everyone in the area glanced up as one. With a static pop, a voice cut into the crowd, saying something about the outbreak in Shands, that some of the victims, the zombies
, Megan thought with a chill of fear, had made it out of quarantine…
People were hushed for a moment, speculating with their neighbors, until distant shouts started to filter up from somewhere far in front of her. Megan stood on tip toe, trying to see the source of the disturbance, and was shocked to see people running, shoving, pushing each other in their attempt to get away from something beyond her vision. But she didn’t need to see what it was to put the pieces together, and apparently neither did anyone else around her. The crowd seemed to turn like a single living entity and begin to make for the streets. The dark-haired girl pushed against the counter, clinging to it against the press of bodies.
To her surprise and gratification, the man in the weapons booth did not look at all frightened. Quite the contrary, he was smiling as he reached behind the counter, pulling out an impressively worn and very functional broadsword. “Zombies,” he drawled to her, conversationally. “They can call it a disease all they want, I know what they really are. If you think I haven’t been ready for this since I was your age, you’ve got another think coming. He hefted the sword, resting it against one shoulder.
Megan swallowed against rising fear, knuckles white against the counter. There was something else there though, a spark in her chest that was very different from the terror it swam in – excitement.
She opened her mouth to speak and had to force her words past the constriction in her throat. “I don’t… I don’t have any weapons,” she gasped. “I have a hundred dollars here, if you-“
He cut her off with a belly laugh. “You
gonna fight those things, baby?”
“Don’t call me baby,” she snapped automatically and winced, but he didn’t look angry. “And I’m not just gonna be lunchmeat. Doesn’t look like anyone else around here’s volunteering to do anything useful.”
“That’s the spirit, kid. Here.” He waved a hand at the selection of heavy equipment on the wall behind him. “One fighter to another. On the house.” Absurdly, the urgency of the situation gave way to a flare of kid in a candy shop feeling
“Thank you so much,” she breathed, allowing herself the faintest bloom of relief. “That one,” she said, pointing a trembling finger. “And do you have a sheathe for that one there?” Minutes later, she found her fight against the crowd somewhat easier. No one wanted to bump into a girl hefting an oak club studded with metal spikes, and more than one set of eyes spared the time to flick nervously to the thick dirk hanging at her hip. She wrapped her hands more tightly around the club’s leather wrapped grip, making her way for the nearest wall. She needed to find some stairs.
|Wednesday, July 18th, 2007|
"Ladies and Gentlemen! If you're just arriving: Welcome to Stuffcon!"
Duncan looked over to where the announcement came from - The Jacksonville Landing - as he stepped out of his car. People of every race, gender, and age swarmed the Landing, the din of the crowd almost drowning out the rock and pop music blaring through speakers set up all over. He locked and shut the door to his car, twirling the keys around his finger as he started to make his way towards the two-story red-roofed building. All of the restaurants and bars in the Landing were packed with eager fans of... everything. Vendors and booths were scattered prodigiously throughout, pushing comics, cards, games, weaponry, clothing - almost everything having to do with the world of fantasy.
"I guess I picked a good day to come to Jax," Duncan muttered to himself as stuffed his keys in his pocket and lit up a cigarette. He approached a cluster of vendors and perused the setup of a comic dealer.
"What'cha lookin for, sir? We give military discounts!"
Duncan looked over the tops of his sunglasses, cigarette hanging barely on the edge of his lip, at the vendor.
"You are military, right? Navy? Stationed in Mayport, I bet! What ship?"
He took a long draw from his cigarette, grinned, and straightened up. Letting out the cloud of minty smoke, Duncan responded "Navy, yes. Mayport, no. If she don't go down..."
"...she aint worth ridin! A submariner! King's Bay, then. My apologies!" The guy opened the left side of his button-up shirt to show a US Navy Submarine Warfare Pin - also known as the "dolphins" - tattooed on his sweaty chest.
Duncan was about to reply with a smartassed comment when the loud music cut out.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, if you'd please listen up for a moment."
The noise of the crowd waned slightly, and he took another drag off of the cancer-stick as he turned towards the nearest speaker.
"As you know, there's been an...epidemic, in Jacksonville lately,"
At this, the crowd got deathly quiet. These people came here to escape this sort of reality.
"Some of the...victims have escaped the quarantine zone around Shands,"
Duncan coughed out the cloud of smoke in his lungs, and someone to the right of him murmured "Shands isn't that far away from here", then another added: "Yeah, I heard they kept having to make the quarantine bigger, they couldn't keep the 'victims' in."
"We're going to ask everyone to remain calm - the police and national guard are on their way. Please stay ins-"
The announcer was cut off by a boy yelling, "I SEE THEM! OVER THERE!"
Duncan turned, along with the rest of the crowd, assuming to see the police, hear the sirens. Instead he saw the 'victims' - stumbling, shambling their way towards The Landing.
The cigarette dropped from Duncan's lips onto the ground, a hazy stream of smoke wafting up as he whispered "Shit."
And that's when everyone ceased to be calm.
|Sunday, July 15th, 2007|
Jacksonville, Florida . The largest land area city in the United States, covering 841 square miles. The city itself is home to a major seaport, international airport, the state's major business centers for finance and insurance, two US Navy bases, 12 colleges and universities, and 800,000 residents. The outlying metropolitan areas are home to another 200,000 people.
In 1942, two German u-boats landed in the United States, one of them in Jacksonville, depositing teams of commandos which were lated captured. In 2007 the third, previously unknown-of u-boat, Unterseeboot 102, was found by a recreational diver off of the coast of Jacksonville. The team on U-102, previously thought sunk by the Allies, was on a different mission, but was flooded and all hands lost when they ran aground on a sand bar underwater. They carried samples of a virus designed by German physicians and chemists - the "Untot virus" - with plans to 'test' it on the American population.
U-102 was quickly thereafter raised by salvage ships of the US Naval Reserve and placed as an exhibit and monument in Jacksonville. During part of the restoration and restoration process, a vial containing the Untot virus broke open, some of the fluid getting into a cut on the hand of a Mister Tracy Lawson. Five hours later, Lawson was admitted to Shands Medical Center in Jacksonville with a fever of 102 degrees and vomiting. 3 hours after admittance, his fever had increased to 105 degrees, and he had developed severe dementia. Another 3 hours later, and the fever and dementia persisted, now with lower-body paralysis, despite all medical intervention. 16 hours after exposure, Mr. Lawson went into a vegetative coma. Four hours more and his heart stopped - Mr. Lawson was proclaimed dead and his body temporarily stored in the morgue with plans to be transported to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, GA for autopsy.
Exposure +23 hours: the Jacksonville police were called to Shands Medical Center to help with a patient that was found in the morgue and was attempting to bite anyone who came near.
Officer Martin Gray was a member of the squad sent to investigate the claims. He had only been with the force for two weeks. Fresh out of the police academy, he had started off his term with the Jacksonville police by embarrassingly mishandling what he had mistakenly assumed was a convenience store robbery. Eager to prove himself and replace his humiliating reputation with one a bit more impressive, he was quick to enter the morgue, declaring that the person inside was clearly some sort of drug-addled necrophiliac, and assured everyone that he had the situation well under control. He entered the closed-off morgue cooling room and found the patient to be of a particularly violent nature. Observers witnessed a physical scuffle, with the attacker repeatedly attempting to bite and claw Officer Gray. Things took a turn for the worse when Gray tripped over a morgue table and went sprawling. The resulting scuffle came to a head when Gray's partner shouted several times for the assailant to stand down. The attacker completely ignored all commands at attempts at communication, and finally Gray's partner opened fire. The attacker was shot several times in the legs and body to apparently no effect. Gray himself finally managed to draw his own weapon and shot the patient in the head, killing him.
Gray sustained severe bites and scratches, which were treated at a nearby emergency clinic. He was sent home, and the incident appeared to be over.
As the people of Jacksonville have clearly seen, this is not the case. When Gray did not appear for duty the following day and did not answer phone calls, an officer was sent to investigate found Gray's house. The officer found the house empty, but discovered signs of a major scuffle: the house was in complete disarray and blood stains were found on the walls and floors. Gray's wife and seven year old son were reported missing as well, but no bodies were found.
The same day, reports began to be filed, in slow trickles at first but in growing volume as the day progressed, of unprovoked attacks occurring in a gradually increasing area around the suburb in which Gray's house was located. The victims of these attacks seemed to be completely random, but the attackers were all reported to be erratically acting individuals, all of whom seemed to be intent on biting their victims.
Along with the bitings arose an epidemic of disease in the victims. Hospitals saw an influx of patients with incredibly high temperatures. Without exception, every victim passed into a coma some hours after hospitalization and eventually died.
It wasn't until that night that a doctor from the Georgia morgue identified the dead patient in the morgue as Tracy Lawson, who had been reported dead the previous day, hours before his attack of Officer Gray. Traces of the disease which was supposed to have killed him were found in bodies of victims of this new epidemic. Shortly thereafter, the first of that day's dead victims began to rise. Casualties within the hospital were already high before authorities could begin to isolate the areas. By the time perimeters were formed around hospitals with reported deaths, it was too late. Risen carriers of the virus had already escaped into the city.
The first news story about the night's actions hit television early that afternoon, with the obviously frightened reporter referring to the victims as 'zombies'. Panic spread rapidly through the city. Businesses, schools, and factories were abandoned rapidly, roads clogged with people trying to flee, violence broke out, and it is suspected that many non-carriers were killed by armed civilians mistaking those feeling on foot for zombies. Chaos broke out quickly, and police and military proved able only to keep order in a few isolated areas. Attacks increased, the disease spread, new zombies arose.
The Secretary of Defense has declared Jacksonville a quarantined zone and the national guard is being called for to aid in enforcing the borders around the city, but by this point there have almost certainly been escapes by infected individuals.
Three days after Lawson's infection with the virus, much of Jacksonville finds itself in complete disarray, as some continue to attempt to flee and others arm themselves for battle against the undead.