2019-09-06 - Fallen Not Forgotten

Working at the power tower Easton is currently working on his latest set of pull-ups. It's just the start of his workout so his grey tee-shirt hardly has any sweat on it. The tower faces the mirrored wall so he has his back to the mirrors as he pulls himself up again. He has a pair of wireless headphones on, playing something quite loudly in his ears as he works out.

It's been days since Byron Thorne's last workout. His body, while treated by a healer, was still on the mend and with that many broken bones that needed to be set and fused together, he's been taking it easy. Now he needed to play catchup for the days that he'd missed, being the sort of person who finds time for a workout on most days between his work schedule among other things. Preferring to jog out of doors and enjoying the gray drizzle of the summer day, he's already wearing his running gear by the time he hits the gym, having just finished a good cardio session.

Dressed in a form-fitted long sleeved black running shirt and a pair of shorts that cut off at his knees, he pushes through one of the large doors leading into the gym. Like Easton, he's wearing a Bluetooth headset, listening to some tunes to keep his heart pumped up. The gym itself seemed quiet, he thought, aside from Marshall's familiar visage and frame. They were here to work out and do strengthening exercises and all that jazz. Not for small talk. So he'll give his tenant some space, crossing the room and its large floor to ceiling mirrors that cover an entire all of the place, on his way to the rowing machine, needing something to help work out his chest after the recent incident.

The gym is otherwise empty, at least at the moment. Maybe the other tenants are trying to grab up the last warmth of the retreated summer, although the drizzle outside suggests that Gray Harbor's time of sunshine has well and truly departed for the year. Either way, the two men have the gym to themselves, which promises a good workout and a quiet one, as well.

Except that, as they get into their workouts, there's the faintest shaking of the floor and the machines around them, and what sounds - even through their respective headgear - an AWFUL lot like an explosion.

Dropping down from the tower, Easton pulls the earbuds out of his ears. He looks around at the mirrors which distort in waves from the vibrations. The sound of an explosion causes him to grit his teeth and head for the door. He knows that sound all to well. A stoic calm expression falls over his face as he makes his way out. It's only on his way out that he realizes that he's not alone in the gym anymore. He helpfully explains to Byron, "That was an explosion." Or at least he's convinced it was.

Byron was just getting himself settled into the rowing machine, making a few adjustments before lowering himself into the seat. There's this lift and rotation of his shoulders to help loosen them up, if the run earlier hadn't done so already. Leaning forward, he reaches out to grab onto the handles and begins to ease himself back, feeling the pull in his arms and back. He's only able to do this a few more times before the sudden quaking of the floor forces him to brace himself upon the heavy contraption. Then comes to kicker when he hears a loud explosion coming from...

His headset is removed immediately, being stuffed into shorts pockets, where he's also fishing for his phone. "Shit.." He murmurs, meeting Easton part-way as they both have the same idea of heading towards the door. "It better not have been a gas explosion. I had the building inspected just recently."

The door out leads to the lobby...well, sort of. What's left of it, anyway. Whatever happened here, it was no gas explosion. The lobby is a burned out shell of twisted metal and shattered concrete, with glass strewn like fallen diamonds on the cracked, uneven floor. In the distance, the wail of air-raid sirens can be heard, steady and haunting, just at the edge of hearing. What little furniture survived whatever it was has been dragged and piled up into a makeshift barricade, and a small group of men, dressed in Marine urban camo, huddle behind it, armed and facing outward. They haven't seen Easton and Byron, yet - their attention is directed outward. Outward to where the classy, high-end area of Bayside has become a warzone, filled with choking smoke and the scent of blood and gunpowder. Figures move in a dark fog that threatens just outside the building, but it's impossible to make out who they are.

They are armed, however: When one of the Marines pops up to fire off a couple of rounds, a single shot comes out of the dark, catching the man in the throat. He falls backwards, blood waterfalling down the front of his combat gear. Byron has never seen him before. But Easton? Easton's seen this man die before.

The violent shaking, the loud sound of an explosion seemed to be coming from somewhere close, but Byron still had it in his mind that someone's kitchen just exploded, which could've easily taken out a good portion of the building to go with it. It's when they step foot outside of the gym that he realizes just how close they were to the devastation. What he encounters out in the hall, which then takes him with slow, wary steps towards the lobby is something out of a war movie.

The sound of the sirens catches his attention as he edges his way forward until he gets to the wide opening of the lobby to Building A. There are a few fleeting moments when he casts a look across the way at Easton. He'll even make a comment, his voice filled with strained surprise, "I... Jesus, what could've caused,"He's never been to a war zone and he's only driven by the explosion that happened in Downtown, so for a time, he still believes that it could be a gas leak, until they are exposed to the barricade built and the soldiers in Marine uniform. By this time, his phone is out and placed against his ear. He was ready to dial up the gas company to send someone over.

This place wasn't Bayside anymore. I mean, it looked like the interior of his lobby, but what happened here? Sometimes it's difficult to discern when you've entered a dream even though you should know better by now if you've lived here long enough. The sound of gunfire heard and he immediately ducks for cover, "Stay down and out of the way." He calls out, his eyes widening for a moment, before narrowing sharply when he views the man whose throat was pierced by one of those flying bullets. "This can't be... Is it a dream? The Veil?" It's all confusion for now.

Opening the door out into what should be the lobby Easton immediately grasps a few things. First and foremost, he's just slipped. There's something about the siren that feels so out of place that even before he sees the Marines or the barricade he knows that they've moved to a different plane. And somehow that makes him relax. Well relax is maybe the wrong word for it, it let's him slip into his old ways, the drilled responses and tactics that saw him through months of situations like these. He looks to Byron and says, "Keep your head down, stick close to me." As the man tries to come to grips with what caused this.

Byron mimics his call and Easton smiles to himself, "Well at least you've got good instincts Thorne." He likewise squats and moves cautiously up towards the men. When he sees the man get shot he freezes for a moment. "Fuck...Tex." He looks at the man, laying there bleeding and grits his teeth knowing that 'helping him' is not going to help. That man is already dead and this is just some twisted home video version of it. "Sorry Byron. This is my fault.. we're in my Dream." He pulls the gun off the dying man and leans down to whisper something to him.

"Squad leaders! Report! What the fuck are we facing?" Easton's voice bellows out against the other noises as he moves up to take cover behind the barricade.

"Goddamn, Captain! We thought--" The men behind the barricade exchange looks, and gape at Easton with clear surprise. "Never mind what we thought," one barks. "Captain's here. We don't know numbers or affiliation, sir. We were on patrol and the whole fucking world just went to the shitter. That sandstorm came in," a wave at the dense fog that doesn't really look like sand at all, "and we got separated. There's fucking hostiles in there and they've been picking us off one by one." His eyes go past Easton, to Byron, and his eyebrows raise. "You found a civilian? Shit, we ain't seen a single live one in this mess. Good job." There's a ghastly, gallows sort of grin in Byron's direction. "Don't suppose you know how to shoot? Ain't regulation, but we're proper fucked." One of the soldiers has a spare rifle - it's spattered with blood, so likely from a fallen comrade, and offers it over to Byron.

Thorne's good instincts come from this strong desire for self-preservation. Okay, it's been confirmed that this was a dream. The town wasn't suddenly invaded by the military, though he wouldn't fault the government if they did decide to invade Gray Harbor. This was like... paintball. But to a far more severe extent. While Byron's never been to war, he's been shot at in the past, but that was L.A. And it was never to this extreme. Keeping to a low crouched, his gaze sweeping over the lobby, he'll follow Easton's lead, especially when told that this was his fault. His dream.

"Strangely," He murmurs just loud enough for Marshall to hear him, "This isn't the first time I've been pulled into someone else's dark demon world." The last time was just recently as well.

The scenario is intense and he keeps himself behind cover as much as he can. The exchange between Easton and his men is observed, hearing their shouts over more gunfire. The sandstorm that threatens to engulf them in a strange fog is easily noted. There's not much that he can do here. While he has his own firearms, he rarely carries. And not when he's running of planning on heading to the gym. It's when this thought comes into mind that one of the soldiers, perhaps reading his mind offers him a spare rifle, a weapon that he examines then tests within his grip. A nod of thanks is given, but the soldiers can see that the civilian is uneasy in this situation, rightfully so. "So how does this end?" He asks, eyes turning to Easton.

The smell of it is dead on. Something that Easton can't help but notice. It's the mix of blood and dirt and sweat and death, there is thankfully nothing like it. His jaw clenches as he gets his first status report. He hears the marines calling for the navy doctors embedded with their squad who will carry Tex to a Humvee where he will die on the way back to the base. He tries not to think about that. He wills himself not to look around at the other men for the faces of those who died.

"Yea, this is Thorne. He's with us now." He looks at Byron as he gets handed a gun and there is no joke about point it at the enemy and pull the trigger, that's relaxed civilian Easton, he's not here right now. At the line about being pulled into other people's dreams he just grunts, "I'll buy you a drink when we get out of here." It's as close to a further apology as he can handle.

So how does this end?

Easton looks at Byron with a stern look and gives him a half head shake. He is tempted to try and mentally contact the man but isn't sure how open to that Byron is and he doesn't want to risk throwing him off his game right now. But the only explanation he gives is, "We fight it out. We win. Just be glad we aren't in a HUMVEE right now."

To be honest, even the soldiers seem uneasy in this situation, clearly knocked off their (imaginary?) game by being separated from their supports and placed in an unfamiliar battlefield. And although they don't seem to care about the gymwear the two men are in, they do keep giving Easton...odd looks. When they think he's not looking at them. It's easier for Byron to catch these looks than Easton.

One, who Easton recognizes as Fallon, says, "We got a communication before we got separated. Last thing we heard, everybody else was trying to form up and hunker down at a potential reinforcement point. It isn't far. If we can make it." They nod at the fog, and the shapes - just barely seen - that move within it on occasion.

Missing his normal gear Easton is frustrated with his lack of normal outfit. He notices how shaken the men are, but doesn't read too much into the strange looks that they give him. He listens to the brief fro Fallon and nods, "Alright, Thorne here is our local on the ground, he knows the area best and will be helping us find our way. You keep him covered at all times." The thought of putting his men's lives at risk for Byron is honestly not his favorite, but he mentally reminds himself that they aren't real, some of them are already dead.

He picks up his rifle and starts ordering the various squads to setup covering fire positions so that they can leap frog their way out to the road and to the rallying point. He allows himself one brief moment of putting his hand on Fallon's shoulder but withdraws it when he gets a questioning look in return. His jaw just tenses harder as he mentally forces himself to not think about how this turns out.

Everyone else was earing helmets and other gear, shouldn't they be given some too? Byron silently asks himself. This may be a dream, but these bullets would feel real when ripping through you. As would any sort of explosion that the may be caught in. If he got hit this time, it wasn't going to be just paint splattered upon his clothing.

There's this moment where while still hunkered down, his back placed firmly against the barricade after he'd caught the other man's comment on buying him a drink that he might have quietly noticed the odd looks that these soldiers were casting in their Captain's direction. He knew that they recognized Easton, but they seemed surprised by his presence here right now.

The rifle held tightly within a fist, the entrepreneur's dark eyes look to the other soldiers, those who had been tasked to protect him. His lips part, piercing gaze staring up at the Captain with this 'Are you sure about this?', but he doesn't go out and inquire about this. It was a rhetorical question anyway. Instead, he shakes his head, holding the firearm in the proper position now, "Let's move out then."

Somewhere, the quartermaster in charge of supplies for Dreams snickers at Byron's desires. Although, there's always the dead man's, Tex's, helmet if someone wanted to claim that, not to mention any of his other gear. The rest of the soldiers don't seem to find Easton's orders strange, even if they continue to look disconcerted by the man's presence. They form up around Byron, keeping him covered and protected as they follow Easton's orders.

The squad moves with trained precision when the time comes, leaving the shelter of the barricade and taking their first advance into the fog. Easton spots a couple of overturned cars for their first cover point, and under his guidance the squad moves in that direction. Although Byron doesn't have military training, he's able to keep up and keep his head down, moving silently along with the rest of them. They pause for a moment when they reach the cover. In the distance, they can hear gunfire. Another set of rattling explosions that suggest some terrible force is tearing through Gray Harbor. And in the fog, they can see maddeningly indistinct shapes, hunting for them. But none seem to have seen them, just yet, and the shapes themselves are silent.

Easton can't be worried about his lack of gear right now. At least he has his sneakers on and hasn't started drinking in earnest. There are far worse times that Easton could get sucked back into a warzone. By now Easton's noticed the strange glances but he racks it up to the fact that he's dressed like this and just showed up with Byron. He's too focused on keeping people alive to think about what other less pleasant reasons might be.

Easton coordinates the squad leaders and then lets them loose to move their men through the precise movements. Thankfully they trained and fought in urban warfare that doesn't feel too far off from this burned out version of Gray Harbor. The figures in the mist get a snarl of Easton's lips. He turns to Byron at their next stop and he points out to them and then taps his head and looks expectantly. He knows by some weird instinct that Byron has better mental abilities than he does. He's not sure why or how.

If only there were a way to get yourself armored up in situations like these, because though he does pass the helmet of the fallen soldier, Tex, on his way to the first point, there's no immediate urge to pick it up. There are meatshields around Byron, moving along as a unit to reach their destination, so that's a plus. Though he's concentrating on reaching the goal, it's not hard for your attention to be piqued nor the find your hairs standing on end when observing, even from a far, the shadowy forms through that fog. While he'd like to ignore them, just the way in which they move, their very shape, make it difficult to do.

What war was this supposed to be? He wonders, then again, his mind goes back to the fact that dreams make no sense at all. He'd say something to Easton, perhaps make mention on just how uneasy these men seem to be in his presence, but as they are remain so close to his person, there's no real opening to do so without letting himself be heard. There's room to breathe now, a little, once they reach their point and he lowers himself into a crouching position once more. Catching sight of Easton, he turns towards to the shadows, doing as instructed and directing his mental focus there, as if near blindly feeling around in the thick mist to make out who or what those shadows are.

The squad huddles in a defensive semi-circle with the fallen cars to their backs and Byron in the center of the huddle, guns facing outwards. Above, there's the sound of something that might be a drone flying through the air - not quite heavy enough for a real plane, but...something. Something. Hunt raises his rifle, sights on one of the figures barely visible in the fog. "Fucker got Tex," he mutters, just barely loud enough to reach the ears of the squad. "Could pop his head open right here, right now." There's something nervy and on edge about him, like he's seriously thinking about it. Just to try and feel like he's back in control.

Meanwhile, as Byron wishes, wishes so strongly for armor, he can feel...something settle around him. It's not like kevlar or chainmail, or anything he can see at all. Instead, it almost feels like everything that comes close to him is minutely moved away. The tiny pebbles around his feet scoot away from him a couple inches. It might be nothing. Besides, he has bigger problems. He reaches his mental focus outwards, feeling around for the Unknown Hostiles. And he picks up on several minds. He could definitely figure out where they were, in the fog. However, brushing their mind is also horribly familiar, a steady, pulsing rage that he's touched before, and suffered before. But not for a long time, and now doubled, trebled, quadrupled in these nearby enemies. His ribs start to ache with older wounds than the ones that were healed just a few days ago.

"Hold up Hunt. Do we even know what we're facing?" Easton commands Hunt to hold off on shooting just yet, though he understands the desire. He looks up at the sky and narrows his eyes reaching out to find what exactly is buzzing in the air and possibly what it's doing. He points his gun up and with his eyes closed, which is probably a little disconcerting to those around him, he fires off a burst of three at the drone and then another three. He grumbles, "That thing is trouble." But he turns to Byron with a questioning look to get any info he has on the shadows in the mist. Gorillas? Sadly probably not.

Fucking drones. Byron is trying to get a lock on those shadow fiends, all the while keeping himself crouched low as to avoid any unwanted attention or stray (probably not so stray) shots headed his way, but the sound of the drone keeps disrupting his mental reach. Then again, perhaps it's what he senses, the pain and dark overwhelming emotions, that truly gets him to cut off all contact with those things. It starts with a minute inkling of a memory, his recently broken ribs feeling shattered all over again, but as his connection is retained, his mind delves deeper into his past, something which, in quiet silence, makes his heart race and the urge to flee comes to mind.

Then there is the sound of the drone and he's brought back to the here and now, his eyes widened, the muscles in his body tense with one hand squeezing at the edge of the barricade they are hiding behind. Then, he is able to catch his breath, those widened eyes staring into the fog once more, "You don't want to go in there." He'll start, sounding distracted, but not overly panicked. "There's only darkness in there." Whatever they are, it brought up his dark memories, he has to wonder what it would have in store for Easton.

They might not have a choice. There's a series of metallic pings heard as the bullets unerringly find the drone somewhere in the mist. The Marines throw impressed looks in Easton's direction, but the drone's engine sound changes - it doesn't seem to be damaged, or falling, but it is approaching, and seems to have figured out where they are from the trajectory of fire. Still unseen, somewhere up above them, there's the staccato chatter of gunfire from above, a raking sweep that falls into the squad like a divine judgement.

The drone noise changes and Easton gives a rushed, "Incoming." to the other men and then makes a dive out of the way. Rolling off to the side Easton almost misses that the sharp pain his right arm is a bullet piercing through. He comes up and hangs his gun down off his neck to hold the wound with his left while he checks on the other men. "I'm hit but fine. Everyone all good? Thorne?" He scrambles to take cover against a different car now, just to not be in the same place for a second pass if there is one.

"We do not engage the shadows in the mist." He calls out to the other men to make sure they understand. "We avoid. Those are not..." How does he even talk about this stuff with his men? He just says, "Targets. They're hostile and we are going to avoid." He doesn't have to tell them it's an order, or ask them to trust him, it's his call to make. It will certainly cause some consternation, but likely not now.

He reaches out again to see where the drone is and see if he can screw with it in flight, knock it off it's path into a building if it comes back around for them.

If Byron had continued to read the creatures in the mist, being assaulted by memories best to be forgotten, locked up within his mind, he would've been left overwhelmed and gripped by fear, that he might not have been able to leap out to safety in the nick of time. He was still gripped by fear, even if he did his best to hide it and when he moves, it lacks grace when he finds himself tumbled onto the floor, just barely escaping the target zone. Breathing heavily, he turns to look over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone else was hit. Hearing his name called, he returns in kind, "I'm fine! I think.." the latter statement sounding more like a question, coming out in a much softer tone.

Pushing himself up from off the ground, his eyes narrow into a squint when he asks, "You've been hit? Should we get to a safe zone and have you treated?" If a safe zone even exists in this place. It seems that those creatures out there are not his only concerns, his eyes lift, continuing to watch overhead for that drone, looking as if he would try and shoot it down himself if it got within range.

The drone swoops in the sky, unseen, but by sound it's clear it's coming around for another sweep. Before it can line up for it's next shot, though, there's an odd hitch and sound to its engines, and it veers abruptly off to the side, slamming into the barely seen outer wall of what's left of Bayside Apartments. There's a cinematic explosion, muffled by the fog. "We've been made, sir," Gutierrez says, voice low, nodding to the figures in the fog, which seem to have oriented on them.

Hunt jerks in place. "Oh, no," he whispers. "Not again. Not fucking again." He raises the rifle and fires wildly into the fog. One of the hostile figures goes down but - well, now they all know where you are. Fire is returned from the fog, but somehow - like a miracle from God - none of it touches the panicked Marine, who laughs a little wildly and continues to unload his clip.

Easton watches the drone explode with a very satisfied smile on his face as he holds his arm. Byron's question about getting him to a safe area is waved off with a bloody hand. "It's fine. Just a scratch." He does take the time to pull off his shirt and wrap it around his arm to staunch the bleeding. And because Easton needs to be shirtless in a majority of his scenes, it's in his contract.

We've been made sir

There is always a price for using Glimmer. It's immediately clear to Easton how the things in the fog found them, but there's no time to worry about that. Easton growls and says, "Move people. Now." He then turns in time to see Hunt stand his ground and fire into the fog. He grabs Hunt's shoulder and yells in his ear, "Move!" Apparently not all that concerned about the bullets flying at the Marine. At this point he's too far back in it to remember that it isn't real, that Hunt is already dead.

For a while the air remains tense due to the sound of the drone. Byron couldn't pinpoint it, but he could hear where it was coming from and that sound was getting louder and louder. His own trigger finger on the ready, when the flying death machine does make its appearance, its a brief sighting before the thing crashes into the side of the last of the three buildings standing. If the world didn't look like a war zone, if this were in the real world, there would a deep sense of frustration and fear to wash over him, but they had to move. His thoughts drift away from his expensive investment. A brief glance is given Easton's way, watching as the man smiles at the explosion. It's a reasonable reaction, but Thorne can tell that Marshall had a hand in all of it.

Following Marshall's lead, he creeps hurriedly forward in the company of the others, trying his hardest to pay no mind to the shadows, worrying about what he would be confronted with once those things cut their way through the mist. Then the sound of gunfire is heard. It's nothing too startling, they were taking on fire throughout all of this, but now, it seems, they've got the attention of the shadow fiends. "Fuck. Let's get a move on, guys." He's no Captain and no soldier, but he'll add to Easton's command over the others. The weird looks that the Captain was given earlier, it's already slipped Byron's mind.

Getting a move on seems a solid idea right now - after all, that rallying point isn't supposed to be far and the hostiles are closing in - four or five of them, although their shapes haven't yet resolved. The men run, fire pinging off the wreckage of the city around them. Byron, Mr. Runs All The Damned Time, scrambles ahead, lengthening the distance between himself and the hostiles. And the rest of the squad, too. Although that might not be intentional on the businessman's part, since it DOES leave him with his ass out there in the wind, alone.

But if it's not intentional on Byron's part, it might be on the part of others. Because once Byron's clear, Hunt puts on a burst of speed and grabs Easton's good arm. His face is a corpse's rictus, something that should have been buried long ago. And was. Surely? The grip of his hand is strong, though. "Not again," he yells at Easton, the corpse-stink of his breath washing over his commanding officer. "You don't get to leave us to die again! This time, you stay with us!"

Gutierrez, Fallon, and Ramirez have undergone similar transformations into dead men, lunging forward to grab Easton and the two members of the squad who still seem alive - now alive and panicked and terrified as their own brethren turn against them. "You left us to die. You fucking left us," Fallon snarls at Easton, betrayal written across his corroded features. "Now you get to stay." The hostiles, their forms still uncertain in the fog of war, hang back, apparently content to watch their enemies tear each other apart.

Running after Byron, Easton is surprised to feel the grip on his arm. He slows down to a stop and turns to see Hunt's corpse grasping at him. The only indication that he's taken by surprise here is a mild twisting of his lips in disgust at the rotting flesh and smell. He growls, "Oh fuck off. You died. I lived. I get it." Strong words from someone who still can't sleep at night over the death of his men, but that doesn't mean he's about to let them drag him down with them. He picks up the butt of his rifle and slams it down to try and dislocate the arm, possibly tear it off if need be.

Turning to see the other dead men lunging for him and the other squad members he growls back, "Oh fuck you. I did not leave any of you. We brought your bodies home. We mourned you and now you're gonna haunt us? Fuck off!" He raises his rifle but can't quite bring himself to shoot them, despite his words. He calls to the two living members, "Go! This is all a crazy dream, just run."

Byron doesn't realize that he's shot so far ahead of the others. With his rifle in hand and this strong desire to get away from the shadow things, it takes a while for him to even look back. It's a good thing that he's in running attire rather than his suit, it helps with mobility. Those runners on his feet will get him way further and faster than his polished dress shoes ever could. He ducks his head down at the sound of shots fired and would have continued the whole way if not for the accusations and complaints that he hears thrown around behind him. He doesn't stop in the middle of nowhere, Thorne ducks behind some rubble, only then taking the time to figure out that the others were no longer right behind him. And they were no longer on his and Easton's side.

So this is how it ended. Marshall hadn't said anything about it when Byron had first asked. The scene unfolding before his very eyes was similar to a horror movie, the undead trying to tear into the living. Just like with the urge to flee, he has an urge to pick off each and every one of those soldiers. In fact, he rises to stand, the barrel of the rifle pointed into the crowd. Rushed thoughts begin to race into his mind, his finger on the trigger. If he could just reach out to them, make them stop...

Breathing in deeply, he focuses his full attention on the group as a whole, attempting to calm the anger and thoughts of betrayal, hoping to turn it into something of contentment for what Easton informs them of, that he brought them all home. It leaves him wide open and he's not sure whether it will work on the undead, but he'll try anyway.

Hunt's arm gives way with a sort of gooshy crunch, the rotted cartilage separating at the joint. For a moment, the hand itself hangs on, clinging with grim fury even as Hunt himself falls back with a wail of betrayal and pain. "Not again! Please don't leave me in the dark again!"

The other two squad mates struggle in the grip of the dead, panic making them a little less on point than they might otherwise be. Then? Then all of the dead go slack: first their rotting, dessicated faces, losing the twisted anger and settling into placid, corpselike stillness. Then their grips, releasing bit by bit until the other two squaddies can pull free and stagger away. These two? They aren't waiting. Captain told them to run, so they run like the hounds of Hell themselves are on their heels. And now Easton's free as well, the undead staring at him calmly. In the distance, there's the sound of a drone. Then another. Reinforcements, likely.

The wail of betrayal and pain is at least more effective than the angry guilt trip. Easton grits his teeth and says, "I'm sorry Hunt." As he is forced to leave him, but he swallows and turns to make sure the 'living' members of his squads get away cleanly. But then the dead go still and stop attacking. As they stand there slack Easton takes another moment to stop, look at them and tell them quietly, "I'm sorry." But he's not waiting around to see if that's what they were waiting for to gut him. He's headed off towards Byron and the other two, vaguely aware of another drone coming in. "Go go-go-go!" He calls ahead to the other men, hopefully freeing them from waiting for him. The thought of if there even is a 'safe' zone involved in this dream crosses his mind and he forces that doubt back. Don't die. It may be Alexander's chosen farewell, but it's a pretty handy mantra for times like these as well.

As capable as Thorne may feel about his abilities, the ones that he uses most often, he wasn't sure if he would be able to stop the undead. There's hesitation on his part, almost fearful of a replay of what happened with the shadow things, even though he's not scanning the soldiers' minds, he's inflicting an emotion on them all. There's a moment where the anger and rage that he feels coming from them is almost too overwhelming for him to try to combat. Who knows what would happen to Easton if he was slaughtered right there by these men? Who knows what would happen to Thorne if Easton fell. No, he has to try harder.

For all that Marshall can see, Thorne is standing there, looking hesitant to fire off a round at Easton's fallen men, though his mind is reaching out to them, filling their skulls with a minor beat of patriotism, which is followed by a stronger sensation of duty. They had fallen in the line of duty. They were buried just as dutifully and given the respect they deserve. This is something that Byron can relate to as well.

Then it happens. The soldiers all stop, staring blankly, calmly at their Captain. "Thank God.." Byron murmurs under his breath, though does release them yet. Just in case.

If not for Easton, then he may have missed the initial sounds of the drone reinforcements, but the soldiers doesn't need to tell him twice and soon he's scrambling alongside the rest, eyes searching the distance for this safe zone. Go where?

Go there! As they run, Byron realizes that he knows this neighborhood - or, well. Where this neighborhood used to be. The property values here are pretty broken for the forseeable future. The two squaddies are taking them to the Addington Estate. Which - well, it may not be the most favorite place in the world, but it's pretty defensible. As they approach, he and Easton can see other uniformed figures behind sandbag barriers, waving for them to get their asses over there. When they do, they cross the perimeter of the bags, and stumble.

The world shifts, twists, and dumps them rudely out into...the gym of the Bayside Apartment complex. An undamaged gym. No longer unoccupied, as a couple powerwalking on treadmills beside each other suddenly turn around and stare at them, blinking. "Oh, wow," the man on the left says, and points at Easton. "Are you bleeding? Hardcore workout."

Running full tilt for the barrier up ahead he can feel that the tee-shirt bandage isn't quite doing the trick. There's blood running down his arm but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he can hear that drone catching up to him.

And then he's dumped off into the gym. He's out of breath and still wearing his shirt wrapped around his arm, with indeed blood running down his arm. He breathes hard and tries to get his bearings of when they left, how long they were gone and what actually did or didn't happen. He looks around confused for Byron and the other two living soldiers at first before reminding himself that they're gone. At first his face is still set with a deep crease in his brow and that hardness in his eyes from the Dream. He asks Byron, "Are you hurt?" For the moment ignoring his own wound that he's already determined is just a few stitches that he can handle if Bennie's not around.

A look up at the other people who ask if he's bleeding and he manages to restrain himself from berating them. Instead he forces a smile and says, "I really get in to my workouts." before turning and walking for the exit. There's a lot that he could tell Byron and probably should tell him but he instead says simply, "I don't want to talk about it." Before Byron does anything as untoward as offer an apology for any of the things he just witnessed.

The long stretch of road that makes up Bayside leads pass several cottages and much larger homes scattered throughout. The place was familiar enough, even if some of these houses look like they'd seen better days. The Addington mansion looms just ahead of them, looking fully fortified enough and, hopefully, they had enough guns on hand to down the incoming threat that they can hear so close behind them. None of his dreams have ever made him exert this kind of energy, his heart was racing, beating frantically against his chest. At least... in this hurried panic, his mind is taken far away from the fog creatures.

And then he finds himself back in the gym, while the shirt he wears is of moisture wicking material, it's still damp from their race through Bayside's warzone. It takes a long moment to catch his breath. They were no longer being chased. Bullets weren't flying overhead. Lucky for Byron, he's in decent enough shape with normal daily exercise that the urge to puke his guts out is lessened. Nevermind the fact that they were surrounded by zombies. It takes several deep breaths before he addresses Marshall, his eyes first looking at the wound, then at the man's features, studying his expression. What they went through was Hell. It wasn't his Hell, not quite. "I'm.." He starts, taking a hard swallow, "I'm fine." In Byron's eyes, Easton's wound didn't look fine, but the man doesn't seem to want his help.

The two other tenants, the ones on the treadmill get a landlordly smile as Thorne runs his fingers through wet hair. In fact, he is about to approach Easton to ask about his injury and ask about what just happened, but the response he gets is something he had expected from the soldier. It can wait. Which was fine. This wasn't his dream, but for some reason, he had his own demons to deal with.