The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Zombie or Post Apocalyptic themed fiction/stories.

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Mr. E. Monkey
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Mr. E. Monkey » Mon Sep 12, 2016 8:12 pm

No new story? Completely unacceptable. :vmad:

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Thu Sep 15, 2016 2:05 pm

OK, just finished binge reading a rather excellent zombie/TEOTWAKI series on my kindle (Surviving the dead if anyone's looking for a decent read), but now have nothing to look forward to for my weekend that starts after my OT day today...well tonight, since I'm back on nights for now.

Really needing a fix TB... Help a brotha' out would ya?
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Hunt4lyf » Tue Sep 20, 2016 10:15 pm

Anything? Can we get anything? Seriously TB, just stop in and say high so it will get our hopes up just for the briefest second when we see that you've posted.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Mr. E. Monkey » Wed Sep 21, 2016 5:40 am

Over two months with no Tinderbox? Man, I think that his story was the biggest factor in bringing me back from my self-imposed exile. Without moar story... :cry:
SMoAF wrote:'Tis better to light a flamethrower than curse the darkness.
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by teotwaki » Wed Sep 21, 2016 10:26 am

Mr. E. Monkey wrote:Over two months with no Tinderbox? Man, I think that his story was the biggest factor in bringing me back from my self-imposed exile. Without moar story... :cry:
I hope Mrs. TB hasn't terminated him for not doing his chores...... :ohdear:
My adventures and pictures are on my blog http://suntothenorth.blogspot.com

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by akraven » Thu Sep 22, 2016 7:08 pm

Looks like he last logged on here Aug 29th. He may have abandoned us :cry:

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by FlashDaddy » Sat Sep 24, 2016 6:42 pm

TB often has long breaks in the story. It is a great story IMO and I'll happily wait for more.
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Halfapint » Sat Sep 24, 2016 8:16 pm

FlashDaddy wrote:TB often has long breaks in the story. It is a great story IMO and I'll happily wait for more.

I'll break with you on the "happily" I definitely want MOAR now..... but It is a fantastic story and sometimes they require more brain juice to keep things flowing.
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Nature_Lover » Sun Sep 25, 2016 2:44 am

Tinderbox, I miss you and your most excellent story.
I will keep checking in here until you tell us what's happening in the aftermath of your apocalyptic world.

I've been here since the beginning, and I will keep checking to see it through to your end.

This story and your characters have me hooked.

Well done!

Where are you?

What the heck is happening while we're all waiting for the author to clue us in?

Umm, OK.
I'll go first.

I'm in Missouri and waiting to learn more about what happens when TSHTF in TB's universe, I'm just patiently waiting.
I COULD post memes and pics of critters and humans impatiently waiting, but somehow I don't think that would move the story forward.

So I wait.
And I'll check in weekly (that's why your page views are so dang high) HA! I keep coming back. :)
I keep stopping by for a new installment and you haven't let us know whether you are working on the destitute mountain crew, or if you're writing a screenplay and don't need the encouragement of us moar fiends.

I hope you're doing well.
PUHHLEEASE? MOAR?

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Tue Sep 27, 2016 8:40 am

What are you doing? the voice kept asking him. It was an old voice from before the world broke down and the dead rose up. It’s the end of the world, it told him, the actual end of the world. What are you doing?

Most of the time he ignored the question, but the voice in his head was so insistent that sometimes he would shrug and answer out loud, “The only thing left to do.” Still, he understood what the voice was hinting at. It was the end of the world. He should be driving fast cars Mad Max-style through the wasteland. He should be torching the remains of the cities with a flamethrower. He should be riding a motorcycle through the halls of the abandoned White House or at Mount Rushmore spray painting his name across George Washington’s left cheek. But instead, here he was, trudging along a pine tree shaded trail, crossing the crest of a mountain chain on foot, following the direction the GPS device had given him before its batteries died, going to find Lux.

If he hadn’t been so totally and completely alone, he might have enjoyed the hike. Not that he’d ever minded being alone before. He was never a person who craved the company of others. Even as a boy, he’d often gone off on his own to play. When he was a teen, his schoolmates never understood how he could go to movies or music clubs by himself and not mind. But this was no afternoon spent playing in the woods near his house. This was no quick trip into the city on his scooter to see a show by the latest and greatest indie rock band. Every step he took up the mountain trail toward the pass made him more exposed and took him farther from shelter. There would be no abandoned cars, empty houses or burned out gas stations to sleep in where he was going. And there certainly would be no help for him if he found his life hanging by a thread. The hikers who traveled this trail before the world ended could use cell phones or satellite devices to signal for help. But if he twisted his ankle, fell and broke his leg or was mauled by a bear, there would be no search and rescue teams for him. Despite all of this, Lucas Locke continued his climb.

“What else is there?” he said aloud to no one, to nothing but the trees and clear mountain air. There is nothing else, he repeated to himself. The words had become a mantra to him, answering the ever-present question at the back of his mind.

The first three miles of the trail after leaving the campground was a series of switchbacks that took him up the pine-covered slope. At the treeline, mountain peaks rose up on either side of him, severe against the blue sky. But the trail that led through boulder fields and past patches of dirty snow that had survived the summer was well-worn, reminding him that people used to frequent the place on weekends and holidays. This was the easy part, he told himself, where day hikers in their spandex shorts would head out with small knapsacks on their backs and digital cameras in their hands. They would pass other hikers on the way, smile and nod politely, all the while wishing the trail was theirs and theirs alone. Lucas had different reasons for wanting to be the only one on the trail. He found himself scouring the ground for signs of footprints, but the last ones made before him had weathered away. Fortunately, except for some birds, numerous biting flies and a few fat marmots that he resisted shooting for fear of the noise he’d make, he was alone.

He came upon a wooden sign that gave the distances to points ahead: Doubtful Falls 4.2 miles, Glacier Basin Camp 7 miles, Wolf Meadow 13.9 miles, Tall Bridge 31 miles. And a few miles beyond that, according to his map, the tip of the fifty mile-long lake that would take him onward.

As he reached the pass and started down the other side, he found scattered bones and immediately assumed they were human remains. It gave him pause when he spotted the skull of a mountain goat. Weird, he thought, how he just assumed the bones had been human. A year before, finding human remains would have been an alarming, life-scarring thing. Now he was more surprised to find that they weren’t human. After a few miles, though, there were indications that other survivors had made this hike before him. Maybe, he thought, the people who had parked their cars in the campground where he’d parked the Cadillac Coupe deVille; out of gas, out of hope, except for the hope that they’d find more safety on the other side of the mountains. But like the paths travelled by westward bound pioneers in the 1800s, the trail was dotted with belongings they’d discarded along the way to save weight. Amid the litter of empty plastic water bottles and faded food wrappers he passed small coolers, sleeping pads and a fold up cot, several pieces of luggage and numerous articles of clothing mashed to the ground by the winter snows. Every so often he’d spot a well weathered smartphone tossed amid trailside patches of bitter fleabane and coyote mint. Once, he even came upon a pair of ski boots and skis propped up neatly against a boulder. He thought about his revolver and the weight of Lux’s carbine and pistol, but he knew he wouldn’t be tempted to leave them behind. Nowhere along the way did he see any discarded firearms, not when those who preceded him down the trail were facing a thirty mile hike through the wilderness all wrapped up in an apocalypse where the dead refused to stay dead.

Before long he was looking down a distant glacier-carved river valley with mountain peak after steep, jagged mountain peak towering above it. He would be heading down in elevation from there, but with the late start he’d gotten it looked like it might be two days – maybe three if he had to detour around washouts or landslides – before he was out of the mountains.

A half hour into his descent, he came upon a shoe – a single, tiny shoe, like the kind a one year-old child might wear. During a year of snow, rain and sun, it had faded from purple to lavender, but the cartoon character stitched onto the side was still recognizable. As he stood staring at it, hating the monkey’s insipid, banana shaped smile and big, empty, crescent moon eyes, a shadow slid across the alpine slope to his right. Looking up, he saw thick clouds spilling over the sharp mountain peaks behind him.

“No, no, no,” he breathed, making barely a sound. It wasn’t time to panic, he assured himself. Not just yet, anyway. He tore his eyes away from the disappearing blue sky and continued downward along the trail, fighting the urge to double his pace.

He drank from his water bottle at every waterfall that splashed across his path and refilled it before he went on. When a portion of the trail ahead of him became visible in the distance, he stopped and scanned it through his binoculars, but saw nothing out of place. By late afternoon, the sky had become crowded with looming clouds and he stopped trying to pretend that the weather hadn’t turned against him.

What’s it going to be? he thought before mumbling out loud “Snow or rain?” He glared at the darkest of the clouds now hiding the highest peaks from view, and for his answer he received a distant rumble of thunder. “Or…” he said, thinking resentfully of the blue skies that had welcomed him only a few hours before, “…why the hell not both?” It was almost enough, he mused, to think the storm had blown up just for him, a conceit that had never tempted him before. Since the world had started to unravel, he’d always considered himself an insignificant dot in the middle of it all. Even when he’d found it had swallowed up his family, his had been merely one tragedy among billions. But he’d survived so much since then. And now he had Lux; a reason to go on. And if the world was going to keep trying so very hard to kill him, he thought it might not be much longer before he started to take it personally.

The landscape around him was robbed of its colors by the darkening sky. The wind gusting down the mountain slopes had turned cold and began to push against him with force, as though trying to bully him along. The stream tumbling down the rocks and boulders that crisscrossed the trail stopped looking like an inviting place to soak his feet and became a hazard that, if stepped in, might combine with the cold wind to chill him to the bone. When the distant rumbles of thunder became much less distant and much more frequent, he gave up on thoughts of hiking for another hour or so and began to think about shelter from the coming storm. There were stands of pines in the distance and he set his sights on them to make camp for the night.

He trudged along the trail under the weight of his pack and the thunder roared like a beast at his back. Being so high up in elevation, seemingly so much closer to the threatening sky, made him feel like a morsel of food on a plate, ready to be gobbled up at any second.
With the wind now whipping around him and the hairs on his arms standing up alarmingly with all of the electricity crackling through the air, he came upon a fork in the trail marked by a sign that read Old Gambler Mine .6 Miles. In an instant he made the decision to follow the side trail, motivated by the thought of a hole in the side of the mountain that he could crawl into for the night and escape the weather.

Halfway to his goal, a curtain of gray descended the mountain slope before him. When it hit, it wasn’t the cold rain he’d been braced for, but hard, pelting, pebble-sized hail. The assault took the last dim light of day and plunged him into a murky darkness that made the trail before him all but invisible. Only the frequent slashes of lightning illuminated his path as the mountains echoed with thunder. He took a few moments to kneel and untie the tarp from his pack. He stood and continued onward, hunched over with the tarp held over his head in an attempt to shield himself from the blast of ice pellets. The wind clawed at him and tried to tear the vinyl sheet from his hands. With each gust, the hail drove at him horizontally, slowing him even more.

For the next thirty minutes he slogged along as the hail changed to an icy, stinging rain and then to a wet, clinging snow before changing back to sleet. Despite the tarp, his clothes were soaked and he felt the cold seeping in around him. There was a reason, he realized, that people didn’t go backcountry hiking dressed in jeans, leather jackets and Limberjack t-shirts. Eventually a rock wall rose up in front of him through the storm. Wet, blinded and staggered by the ice that was now transitioning once more to stinging drops of wind driven rain, he fumbled along the path, falling to his knees now and again on the slippery rocks. When he stumbled the last time, his numbed hand came to rest upon something that was not rock. The next flash of lightning showed him a human skull at his fingertips, its mouth agape. The skeleton it had once been attached to lay disarticulated around it. A rapid series of lightning strikes revealed several more piles of bones nearby. They were spaced randomly, he saw, not laid out in a nice, orderly way. They’d died violently, he decided, with no one to bury them afterward.

Rain began to pound down from the now pitch black sky, making a deafening sound on the tarp covering his head. By the white light of the next flash of lightning, Lucas saw the opening in the rock wall ahead. He dragged himself toward the entrance to the mine, thinking only of the shelter it would provide. At the last moment, however, the hard-earned lessons he’d learned since the world had ended stopped him. He took out the small flashlight he’d taken from the belt of a KT’d motorcycle cop and aimed it into the mouth of the mine. The weak beam penetrated a few feet into the opening, showing him nothing. Drawing his revolver, too tired to think of using the spiked weapon he’d fashioned and confident that the sound of any shots would be lost among the booming thunder and howling wind, he steadied his arm against a boulder.

“Hey!” he barked into the blackness within. “Hey, anybody!”

The storm might have hid the croaking, belching sound of stale, rotten air being expelled from dead lungs – or maybe, he thought, it was just one of those corpses with punctured chests who couldn’t hold air. The body of the middle-aged dead woman came plodding forward from the recesses of the mine, its flesh white in the feeble glow from the flashlight. With an unsteady hand, Lucas aimed and fired – and missed. The bullet pinged against the rocks of the mine shaft and the corpse swayed closer. Disturbed by his failure, Lucas aimed again. This time the .357 magnum slug passed through the dead woman’s nose – or where its nose had once been – and the corpse crumpled to the rocky ground at the mine entrance. But as the body fell, it revealed another corpse lurching along behind it. This one was the body of a younger woman still clad in hot pink hiking clothes. Shaking his head, Lucas took aim and, once more, missed. The bullet tore a channel along the dead girl’s ear, leaving it cleaved in two and sticking out from her head like a set of small, fleshy wings. Cocking the revolver with a cold-numbed thumb, Lucas fired again and the corpse fell atop the first. But in a gruesome stab at comedy, another body was revealed behind that one; the shambling remains of a little girl, bundled up in a thick winter coat many sizes too big for her. One round sent the small corpse to the ground just behind the other two.

With the wind-swirled rain whipping around him, the tarp flailing at his back and three rounds left in the Smith and Wesson, Lucas waited. Only after staring into the mine opening for a full thirty seconds did he relax his shaking arm and re-holster the revolver. He looked at the three KT’d bodies and wondered if he should simply climb over them, leaving them there at the entrance. Animals, he considered, didn’t seem to like the peculiar smell that reanimated bodies gave off. Despite the musty roadkill-like reek, he supposed that he might sleep a little more soundly with what amounted to a pile of bear repellent at the mouth of the mine. Tired and shivering where he knelt among the rocks, he was still pondering the question when he heard a sound from behind him. He twisted around. The tarp still flapped wildly at his back, obscuring the dead body until the moment it fell upon him.

The corpse of the middle aged man with a white mask of a face had approached on stumps that ended at the knees. It was missing all but two fingers on its left hand and a sizeable chunk of flesh from the back of its neck. Motivated only by the urge to eat, it had lifted itself from the brush at the sound of Lucas’ voice and had become even more excited by the gunshots. The ghostly remains of instinct that dwelled at the base of its mostly dead brain told it that only food made those noises. Now it let the remains of its body fall forward on the figure before it, arms outstretched, mouth open wide, ready to bite with its remaining teeth, to tear away chunks of warm, wet dripping food and chew and chew. It was the only thing in the world that it wanted, the only glimmer of thought left in its slowly rotting head.

Lucas opened his mouth in surprise, but the only sound came from the flashlight clattering to the rocks. He tried to pull his revolver, but the weight of the corpse knocked him forward and onto his side, pinning his right arm beneath him. Only the tarp coming to rest over the side of his face kept the corpse from tearing into his cheek. He could feel the dead man’s jaw working, trying to bite through the thin layer of vinyl. Panicked, he tried to roll away from the corpse, but the pack on his back kept him from doing so. Furiously pumping his legs, he managed to push against the reanimated body and disengage himself from his backpack. Scuttling forward against the cold, wet rocks, blinded by both the pelting rain and fear, he got to his knees and drew the gun at his side with an injured right arm. Lightning flashed as he fired the revolver’s last three rounds. One bullet merely touched the hair pasted against the top of the corpse’s head, struck the boulder behind it and ricocheted away into the storm with a high pitched whine. The second round smacked into the dead man’s collar bone, sending fragments of it into the air. The third entered the corpse’s chest, putting a hole through its shriveled, long dead heart.

The dead man felt nothing from the bullets but the most distant of sensations. Crawling rapidly forward on its arms and leg stumps, it became entangled in the straps of Lucas’ backpack and wound up dragging it forward with him. His gun empty, Lucas was trying to lift one the rocks at his side, trying to heft it overhead to bring it smashing down on the dead man’s skull, but the rocks were heavy and slippery and his arm was hurt from having fallen on it. He’d managed to raise one halfway by the time the corpse grabbed his left arm. Dropping the rock, Lucas managed to clamp one hand around the dead man’s neck, keeping his gnashing teeth from closing the last few inches to his face.

“I’m not dying…” he managed to say, though his jaw was clamped tight “…in the fucking mountains.” Not here, he thought feverishly, not now.

The glow from the flashlight showed him the man’s empty eyes staring lifelessly at him. Thin rivulets of rainwater trickled down the corpse’s cheeks and Lucas thought numbly how they made it look like the dead man was crying as he relentlessly tried to eat him.
Fumbling along the elastic cords on the side of his backpack, Lucas’ left hand found the wooden handle of the spear he’d fashioned from a police baton and the metal spike he’d sawn from a pitch fork. The dead man had delivered it to him when he’d become entangled in the straps of his pack. Now, holding the man’s weeping face inches from his own, he slid the makeshift weapon free and maneuvered its metal tip to the edge of his hollowed, lifeless eye socket. With a meaningless, barbaric yell that was lost amid the raging storm, Lucas put all of his remaining strength into driving the metal spike forward.

When he had twitched for the last time, Lucas released his grip on the dead man’s neck and rolled the body away from him with a kick. Lighting flashed again, turning the world around him ash gray. Thunder followed after half a minute or so, giving him hope that the worst of the storm had passed.

The mine cut into the mountain began with a relatively wide chamber, but the tunnel that led back into the darkness descended rapidly and was soon filled with black water. The dirt floor showed the remains of a campfire, but there was no wood left inside to burn. A tangled nest of matted clothing and twisted, soiled sleeping bags showed where the mine’s last occupants had spent their final hours. As he concentrated on reloading his revolver with icy cold fingers, he contemplated gathering the material and burning it for warmth, but decided the smoke from all of the nylon wouldn’t do his lungs much good.

“Too…freakin’…tired,” he said to the empty mine. Instead, shivering and hardly in control of his limbs, he changed into his least wet clothes, wriggled into his damp sleeping bag, pulled the still dripping tarp around him and lay down against the chamber wall.

Before turning off the flashlight, he gazed rather sheepishly at the carbine strapped to his backpack. It was wrapped tightly in plastic against the weather and bound with paracord. Inside his pack, similarly wrapped, was the pistol to match the CX4 Storm carbine; Lux’s guns. Feeling stupid, he thought about how useful they might have been for him only a few minutes ago. He thought about the ridiculousness of carrying them that way, about how useless they were to him in a pinch, about what choice obscenities Lux might have to offer on the subject of his stupidity. Reason told him if he wasn’t going to have them at the ready, he should ditch them to save on weight. But reason didn’t have much to do with anything, he told himself. And, he realized as he drifted off to sleep, he wasn’t ready to let go of the image of her face, the one he imagined he’d see when he handed her guns back to her.
Last edited by Tinderbox on Wed Sep 28, 2016 11:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.
"...the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Tue Sep 27, 2016 8:47 am

I can only say sorry for the long delay -- sorry and THANK YOU!!! for staying with this thing.

There's still a good amount of story to tell. With autumn here and less and less outdoor chores to take care of, maybe I can step up the pace of the updates.

Thanks again.
Last edited by Tinderbox on Tue Sep 27, 2016 9:29 am, edited 1 time in total.
"...the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by JeeperCreeper » Tue Sep 27, 2016 8:50 am

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
They see me trollin', they hatin'.... keyboardin' tryna catch me typin' dirty
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Tue Sep 27, 2016 9:03 am

gunsandrockets wrote:...the title doesn't reflect the story anymore. You are going to need something different for Part II. Zombie road? Pilgrims of the apocalypse? The Good, The Bad and the Dead?

Finding Lux? :lol: (I kid! I kid!)

I do need an overall title that encompasses The Dead at Destitute Mountain, Along the Craving River, The Dead in Their Numbers and whatever sections there are to come. Something with the word DEAD in it, 'cause when you see the word "dead" in a title, (that James Joyce thing aside) you can be pretty sure what genre you're looking at. :wink:
"...the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Tue Sep 27, 2016 9:07 am

Zimmy wrote:...


As for myself, my latest story is stuck in a fog of visions of disconnected scenes and people talking that I don't know yet..... :ohdear:

I know that fog. I live in that fog. But isn't it great when it lifts for that one brief second and something clicks into place? Sure, it doesn't happen often, but.... :)
"...the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by JeeperCreeper » Tue Sep 27, 2016 9:09 am

Tinderbox wrote:
gunsandrockets wrote:...the title doesn't reflect the story anymore. You are going to need something different for Part II. Zombie road? Pilgrims of the apocalypse? The Good, The Bad and the Dead?

Finding Lux? :lol: (I kid! I kid!)

I do need an overall title that encompasses The Dead at Destitute Mountain, Along the Craving River, The Dead in Their Numbers and whatever sections there are to come. Something with the word DEAD in it, 'cause when you see the word "dead" in a title, (that James Joyce thing aside) you can be pretty sure what genre you're looking at. :wink:
I like "The Dead at Destitute Mountain". It has such a good ring to it. If you publish it (WHEN YOU PUBLISH IT), I would just add onto it since it would be multiple books. "The Dead at Destitute Mountain: Apocalypse Road" or "The Dead at Destitute Mountain: The Legend of Curly's Gold"
They see me trollin', they hatin'.... keyboardin' tryna catch me typin' dirty
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Her secondary offense will be nagging.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Tue Sep 27, 2016 10:05 am

Image

Thanks!
Molon Latte...come & take our coffee order
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Tue Sep 27, 2016 10:06 am

Minor points: "... Limberjack shirt" and fired 3 bullets... should have been 2 remaining, correct?
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Tue Sep 27, 2016 2:29 pm

91Eunozs wrote:Minor points: "... Limberjack shirt" and fired 3 bullets... should have been 2 remaining, correct?

Limberjack is this fictional (I hope) rock band that Lucas never liked. But he was in a store (like a Hot Topic) in a ruined mall and the dead were coming in so he quickly grabbed a stack of Limberjack t-shirts before escaping. And at one point early in the story, a minor character gave him a Smith & Wesson Model 327 TRR8 which holds eight rounds of .357 magnum.

I'm living vicariously through Lucas Locke there; I'd really like a S&W 327 TRR8, but it's way too much $$$ for me!
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And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Tue Sep 27, 2016 7:10 pm

:lol:

Awesome.... I was thinking he was just really flexible, with a penchant for chainsaws and axes n' stuff!
Molon Latte...come & take our coffee order
Doctorr Fabulous wrote:... It's fun to play pretend, but this is the internet, and it's time to be serious.
zengunfighter wrote:... you don't want to blow a tranny in the middle of a pursuit...
woodsghost wrote:... A defensive gun without training is basically a talisman. It might ward off evil, but I wouldn't count on it.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Mr. E. Monkey » Tue Sep 27, 2016 8:10 pm

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YAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!!!
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Spazzy » Wed Sep 28, 2016 7:12 am

Awesome! I look forward to another year or two of this story now. LoL
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by teotwaki » Wed Sep 28, 2016 12:53 pm

That was soooooo good!! :mrgreen:
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by TheWarriorMax » Wed Sep 28, 2016 8:59 pm

Yesssssss. THANK YOU
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Nature_Lover » Thu Sep 29, 2016 1:39 am

Thank you tinderbox! I am thrilled that you have started updating your story again. :)

I went back to refresh my memory about Lux and Lucas, and found the post where we first met Lucas on Fri May 24, 2013 3:12 pm.
If anyone knows when we met Lux, or parted ways with them, please share it?

*bracing myself to become a moar zombie again.

Thankyou Thankyou Thankyou

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