The Republic of Foxtonland

[Johnny Carcer-Spectro]

i check myself for wounds. (whats the status of the crew, the ship, and more inportantly the military base below

[Jack Hyter]

Your wounds are less than earlier (Whoohoo for Werewolf Regen...).
There are groans of pain arround you.
The ship is englulfed in flames.
You landed about a quarter mile from the base - Thank fuck, the weight of this ship may have destoryed one of the walls. Or at least reduced the integraty of it.

[Johnny Carcer-Spectro]

then I gather those who are able and we get armed and search the ship to gain a better understanding of our current situation, I attempt to use a intercom to tell the medics to do their jobs, and I call for the D. O. G units on board to gather where the prisoners were, and to go armed.

[Jack Hyter]

One of the fighter pilots is gripping is in- I mean, now- external organs, at a guess, he died shortly after the first impact. Another man claws his way up the side of the cockpit and stands slowly. D. O. G. Squad come rushing in, their clothes partially destoryed, but they're in remarkable shape, as is their equipment. (Oh, I wonder why.) One of them is supporting a medical officer. You hear a distant groaning. Both of pain and of the undead. A search of the ship shows a zombie trapped in a door, still trying to claw at you. A couple of misc. Other people are alive. You and your (ten man?) squad start giving aid. You walk out of the ship's cockpit. You're dug in a giant fricking crater, easy enough to get out of with the injured, but still, a lasting scar in your country's lands scape. The sun is setting, a vibrant red over the landscape. The moaning is increasing in quantity, frequency and reducing in distance. You step out, snow lands off a piece of sparking, swinging steel plate. You take a step in to the cold, frosty air. A body falls with a crunch in to the mud before you. Behind you you hear a whir of the speaker system flick on.
The synthesised woman's voice comes on.
"Cauti-iiion... E-evacuate... N-nucle--rol-ethan---ane- on fire warnin-n-ng."
"Pilots, return to cockpit."
"Self r-r-righting me-mechanisms malfunction. F-f-ires on decks... Twelve, four, six three, one, and... F-fuel storage."
And so on, so forth.

[Jack Hyter]

Come On, bitch you'be been standing here for yonks! Do sommit!