|5'9", athletic build. Brown hair, basic cut. Tanned. Blue, melt worthy eyes. He's got a skin condition called vitiligo that's most dominant on his left arm and part of his right, giving them a piebald appearance. There is another patch near his temple that streaks to his brow, making half his left brow completely white. The hair on the depigmented patches of his arms is also white. |
Aside from the vitiligo, he appears every bit a cookie cutter teenage jock. Bright, cocky eyes (well, until this morning at least), sardonic lips, young, athletic body he disabuses by attiring it baggy jerseys and the latest (and most expensive) deconstructed denims. For shoes, he wears sneakers that moonlight as spaceships, and on his wrist is the ever popular charity band, only his is bright red and marked with the loud acronym D.A.R.E, perhaps the only material clue which sets him apart from his generation's mold.
Currently wearing a blue and white Lightning jersey (hockey) and jeans. He's holding a 9mm and has some bruising on his face, probably some dried blood (minor car accident residue).
moved away from the small pool of mostly clear vomit he'd just created - not his first since the occurrence - and shakily tested his knees. They worked. He was standing, but his hand was against the wall, his head still reeling from the nightmare, and from facts it just wouldn't grasp. Unlike Lila, he had opted for the discomfort of the floor, huddling there on the
|Assuming it's a typical music room where the space for student performers is arranged upon graduating steps? |
in shocked horror, too terrified for any sleep that didn't involve one eye open. The short burst of sleep he did get had been full of flesh eating monsters, tearing faces off those that he knew.
Not a nightmare, but reality.
A quick glance over the room's occupants told him what he already knew. His father hadn't made it. Running on the street after the crash that had claimed at least a half a dozen cars, his father had shot over his shoulder and shoved him aside. "Get in the school. I'll follow you." Naive, young, and terrified, Cody had obeyed. Through screaming passersby down Northgreen Avenue, past the doors, into the hallways and straight into a man bearing a sword - A Sword!
- and then following him cause he seemed to know what he was doing until they, and a pair of others, ended here. While his father remained outside, shooting. Fighting for his son and his country, a son that had deserted him.
, Cody heard him. You're no good to nobody if you let yourself break.
Miracles were still possible.
Testing his legs, first one and then the other, down the layered platform, he came to a rest at the bottom, not brave enough yet to near the closed door. He spit more vomit flavored saliva from his mouth. After wiping his mouth with the hem of his jersey, he tested his voice. It was just as shaky as the rest of him, but it worked.
"Is everyone okay?"
A stupid question, for sure, but it sounded better than 'were any of your parts eaten last night?'
He still had the gun in his hand. It was like an extension now, something he knew damn well he'd better keep. And learn how to use, fast. Most of the shots he had fired last night had been wide. Running had been more effective. Running and hiding. Wondering about things like ammo and his girl, and amputated body parts, not really paying attention for an answer, he pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed his father's
|And if the phone's not dead, and there's no answer, he'll try his girlfriend (Stacie), and then his mom. That failing, he'll keep going down friends and relatives until he finds somebody - or nobody. |