[boomin']

[Zib]

The door flung open wide, and from the lobby of Boston's Seaport Hotel slid Dorian Zibowsky. He was dressed in pinstripes and a suit slightly too large for his frame, and his fedora rested brilliantly upon his head. One hand gripped the hat lightly while the other pushed away air as he struck a perfect jazzy pose.

Today, the city was his.

He strutted down the empty street in rhythm with the music that blasted out of ridiculously enormous speakers located atop the hotel.

I've been around the way,
I've been around the block.
I've got the keys to the city
if the gates are locked,

His black shoes glided smoothly across the pavement as he danced along the street. At times, he seemed to be sliding over the asphalt as though it were frictionless. Amusingly, this was quite the case.

An' a freak like me ain't got to stop
I got a hand full o' dreams
an' a heart full o' God.

Zib flipped off his hat and faced the camera. He danced almost as fluidly as Tobias Mead for the next verse, somehow managing to maintain his momentum from before -- he continued to slide down the street.

Everywhere we go, they wonder where we're from
Well, it's Diverse City
You're welcome to come.
It sits high in the hills,
You can see it for days,
An' even if you can't,
you can hear our praise.
It goes...

The camera followed him down the street and stopped when he did.
Zib replaced his hat as he launched into a spin, which ended perfectly, just in time for him spread his hands to either side of him.

'Cause we're--

The explosions were timed perfectly with the beginning of the chorus.

--Boomin'!

Buildings collapsed on either side of Zib, and he continued on down the road, stopping only to set off another pair of explosions each time the word boomin' blasted through the speakers.

Out the stereo system
This goes out to anyone listenin'
Boomin'!
Out the stereo system
Here to rep the Most High with this one

Zib swung his arms down in a way only a dancer could, glancing at the camera resting on the asphalt in front of him, just as the next two bombs detonated above.

Boomin'!
Out the stereo system

Glass rained down from above.

This goes out to anyone listenin'
Boomin'!
Out the stereo system

Zib executed an excellent dance move as the chorus ended.

'Cause we rock the show in stere-- ereo

Forty seconds of this later, Zib was snapping in a jazzy fashion as he walked down a dark alley covered by a ridiculously large, black tarp and lit by a pair of almost green-ish lamp that hung on the walls. It looked as though it were nighttime from the cameras' perspective.

Zib came out into daylight and snapped his fingers sharply.

Portable sounds to lift us up.
Ha!

With a flick of the wrist, a parked car was tossed through the air, flipping rapidly as it traveled.

Portable sounds to take us higher
Portable sounds to lift us up
Ha!

The car flipping and such continued with each stanza. It was really rather spectacular.

The Has ended, and Shon Lock began his verse. Broken cars, fire hydrants, discarded newspapers, and even some street lamps began to rise from the ground in rhythm as the music built. Some objects started to rotate. As the siren-like noise blared in the background, Zib jumped in slow motion as the entire scene began to tilt. When the siren reached it's peak, the entire city seemed to be turned completely upside-down. The city stopped rotating, but Zib didn't.

Then everything froze, except Zib, who turned sideways, head toward the camera.

Boomin' out the stereo,

Everything spun, including the camera -- this time faster. It was disorienting but exciting.

S t e r e o

Somehow, Zib found himself upright, fist on the ground. It was a cool pose, but it was nothing compared to the next thirty seconds, which consisted of increasingly spectacular effects. The amazing part was that every bit of it was real.

Finally, the performance slid to a halt, and Zib decided that he had just created the coolest music video ever. If only there were anyone left to watch it. . .

He glanced up at the trails of smoke left in the sky from the fireworks, flares, and other flashy things he'd included in the video. Anyone even remotely close to Boston should have noticed something like that. Returning his gaze to ground level, he turned to look at the rubble behind him and nodded satisfactorily.

"If you're gonna try to send a signal," he mumbled to himself, "y'gotta do it right. . ."

((Important note: Zib did not actually turn the entire city upside down. He actually just separated a section of it (cube section) so that he could move it. Most of the cars were actually replicas, or just frames of cars made to look real. Same for the lampposts and hydrants. I just forgot to mention it. ))

[Griffin]

Somewhere, just outside of Seattle, Washington, a man sit motionless, with a rifle in his hands. He was about a mile into a small patch of forest not too far from where he lived. He sat there in a thick black coat, for it was a chilly Seattle day. He sat in a steel chair, up against a tree, where he thought the deer would pass. Slowly the man reached into his pocket and brought out a Snickers. He unwrapped it, trying to make as little noise as possible, then he began to eat. He was started to get hungry after sitting in that chair for hours.

When the man was half way through his candy bar, and had set his rifle on the ground, a sudden noise came from some bushes to his left. The man stopped eating, and listened. The noise was getting closer. Ever so carefully, the man set his candy bar on the ground, and picked up his rifle. With the noise getting even closer, he cocked his rifle, and aimed it at the noise. There was nothing in the scope. The noise stopped. He waited a few seconds. Nothing. He lowered his rifle and sat back in his seat. Suddenly, a large, white tailed deer jumped out from behind the bushes and started running past the man. Startled, the man jumped up from the seat and tried to find the animal in his scope.

Gently, Johnathon MacTavish pulled the trigger to his rifle, sending a projectile into the animal, killing it. He lowered his weapon, feeling accomplished. He shouldered his rifle, and bent over to pick up his Snickers. He finished the candy, then walked over to his kill. John pulled out a rather large, combat knife he found at a military surplus store, and started to clean the animal.

After about an hour, John emerged from the forest into his back yard. He was dragging the large deer up to the back of his house. He set it down next to a sliding glass door. John went inside and set his rifle down on the kitchen table and went outside, on the front porch, and pressed a button on his truck's key-less start.

He was letting the heat run for a bit, because it was quite a cold day. Then he noticed the truck was making an odd sound. John walked over to it.

"Sounds like you need a new spark plug," John said to himself, "maybe I'll pick one up for you after I get the seasoning." John was going to go into town to get seasoning for the deer he just shot. If he was going to enjoy it, it needed the right flavoring.

After letting his black, Ford F-350 warm up, John got in and backed out of the drive way. He then started making his way to downtown Seattle. John started fiddling around with his radio, even though he knew he wouldn't pick up any stations. He'd been thinking about finding a radio station in Seattle and start playing music on it, so head have something to listen to while he was driving or cooking. The problem was that he had no idea as how to get any of that sort of stuff hooked up correctly.

Feeling unusually relaxed today, John took the long way into town. He'd only been this way one other time, when he first moved here. He really didn't remember anything about this route, except for a really long and boring cornfield that made the drive very uninteresting.

John was coming up on the turn that lead to the road that went next to the cornfield when he noticed something odd. The turn going into the cornfield looked much newer than the road he was on did. If he remembered correctly, the roads had been the same last time he'd been down here. And if they were redoing the roads, why hadn't they done them at the same time?

He turned down the road that led to the cornfield and was surprised. The cornfield wasn't a cornfield at all, it was a small airport. John stopped at the front gate to the fence around the airport. If he wanted to take a fly in a plane today, he wouldn't have enough time to cook his deer. And if he waited till tomorrow to cook it, it would have already turned bad, and all that work would have been for nothing. Oh well, he thought. He could always go hunting again. And he hadn't piloted anything in so long, and it was his all time favorite thing to do.

John got out of his truck and walked over to the front gate. He noticed it was padlocked. He fiddled with the padlock for a second, as if he thought he could figure out the combination, then he went to the back of his truck. There he kept a large crate with food and weapons, had he decided to go on a long trip, and be too lazy to return home. He didn't need to go lock his doors, because who would there be to break in?

John pulled out a 9mm pistol from the crate and walked back over to the padlock. He cocked it back, and shot the lock. He was at such a close range that the lock split in two. He slipped the chain away from the gate and pushed it open wide enough to fit his truck. Then, John walked back over to his truck and pulled into the airport.

He continued to drive in front of all the hangers to see which plane he wanted to take up. He decided on a small training aircraft, not unlike the one he was taught to fly in. He pulled his truck into the hanger, and lifted the large crate from his truck, onto the plane.

John got into the pilot's seat, and started searching for the key to start the plane. He managed to find it in a small glove compartment under the dashboard. He inserted the key and started the aircraft.

John took a deep breath. "Here we go."

[Zib]

Zib sat alone amidst the rubble, eyes closed. One might think him asleep at a glance, but in reality, he was listening. He was waiting for a sound made by a human. Anyone who had seen his show should arrive soon. He had remained like this for what felt like far too long.

Finally, Zib's eyes snapped open, and he glanced up at the sky. Nothing. He glanced down the streets, nothing more. Grunting, he lifted himself from the lawn chair he had been sitting upon. Night would fall any moment now. Zib began to walk back to the hotel, where a suite awaited him, but glanced back at the rubble. He should probably clean all that mess up. . . No, that could wait until tomorrow.

Zib slid the key, turned the handle, and opened the door to his room. Yet another failed signal. How long had it been? Four months? That was one-hundred and twenty days or so of the same daily routine of setting off flares and fireworks to draw attention. There were fewer people in the world than he'd thought.

Zib entered the room.

You are nobody...

He ambled to the refrigerator, listening to the Michael Buble CD that played constantly in the suite.

Until somebody loves you...

Zib plopped down onto the couch. The television continued to air nothing but the dancing white specks. Zib made sure not to stare at the screen too long, lest he begin hallucinating. Television static had always had that sort of effect on him.

You're nobody 'til somebody cares...

Zib made his way to the window. Through it could be seen much of Boston, Massachusetts. It was all his playground, most of the time, but today...

Now, you may be king
You may possess the world
And it's gold...

Today, it was just an empty prison.

Gold'll never buy you happiness
When you're growin' old...

Zib placed a closed hand on the glass, followed not long afterward by his forehead.

You know the world
Is the same
You'll never change...

Zib shook his head. Now was a good time to waste time. He picked up a Nintendo 3DS. He was never really one to play video games, but seeing as it was one of the only things left to do, and because it occupied the brain just enough to keep him from going mad, Zib chose to play for at least an hour each day.

Now, Zib spent most of his time building. His ability to manipulate inanimate objects made it easier, but working with mechanics was simply not as easy as baking cakes. He wasn't exactly mechanically inclined. Nevertheless, he had learned quite a bit over the past four years.

Zib glanced at the clock, and then returned to the window. On cue, the streets lit up with colored panels. It was pretty, no doubt, but it had not yet paid off. The panels led to the entrance of the hotel. Each one was square, flat, large enough to cover the width of the street, and could support about two hundred pounds. Not much, but hey, if need be, visitors could walk on the untouched sidewalk.

He fell back on possibly the softest bed ever known to mankind, and picked up his video game. He had chosen to play the newest remake of the classic, Starfox 64. What impressed him was the fact that the video was three-dimensional without the need for glasses. People had really progressed in technology. That is, for as long as they had been around.

An hour later, Zib was asleep. On the video game, which still lay in his hand, the Arwing was being shot down for at least the eleventh time. Then there came a sound from outside. Zib awoke, and, still quite startled, fell out of bed. He picked up his shotgun, and made his way carefully to the door.

Inside, he argued with himself. Certainly he hadn't told a ghost his address yet? No, it had to be the performance he gave that attracted attention. But they'd never followed him home before. Then it must have been the colorful path of lights! No, he had installed those a year ago! If it were to attract ghosts, it would have done so by now. Then, what if it's a survivor? Maybe, but there's only one way to know...

"They better not knock," Zib mumbled to himself as he aimed the firearm at the door.

[Griffin]

John was sitting in a plane on a runway fumbling in a trunk in the back of the aircraft. After looking around in the trunk for a good five minutes, he emerged with a unopened pack of gum.

"Aha!" John said to himself as he opened the pack of gum and took out a piece. He stuck the gum in his mouth as he pushed the throttle forward on the plane. This sent him hurdling down the runway until he finally lifted from the ground. As soon as he was at a decent flying height he pulled out the headset that came with the plane and put it on. Static. But of course that's all he knew it would be, but it doesn't hurt to try. After he had heard all the static that he needed too, John took off the headset and reclined the pilots seat to take a nap. After he put the plane into auto pilot of course.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

John woke to a sharp beeping sound coming from the plane's dashboard. He reclined the seat back up and examined the dash to see the problem. The plane was almost out of fuel. After he turned off the alarm, he noticed it was dark outside. How long had he been asleep? He took off in the plane around morning.

John leaned forward to get a better look out the windshield. Nothing but black. He wondered how he would land this thing, considering there were no airports for people to light the runways. He had never been away from his house in Seattle at night since everyone had disappeared. He figured there was no reason he'd be in any hurry, so why would he ever need to travel at night.

The plane had started leaning down, but John pulled up and tried to keep it in the air. The plane was losing too much speed. Now the plane was making a beeping sound the John new was the "WE'RE GOING DOWN!" sound.

John looked desperately around for any light source at all, and then he saw it. A very large city that was completely lit. One street in particular caught John's eye, for it was lit with many colored lights. Over to the left he say little white lights that were obviously an airport runway. John veered his plane to the left and began to land.

Shortly after landing, John made his way to the street that had caught his eye before. With the many lights, he now noticed many buildings were crumbled and still smoking. John thought this was weird, but was distracted by the lights in the middle of the street. They seemed to be leading somewhere. So he, as normal, investigated and followed.

John followed to the end of the lights and saw that they led into a large hotel. John went up to the door and opened it, to see an empty lobby.

"Figures." John said as he went behind the counter to grab keys to all the rooms when he noticed one of the room keys was missing. He quickly took note of that room number and ran to the steps. He would much rather take the steps, for no one is around to maintain the elevators. After climbing many flights of stairs he finally was coming up on the room's floor. He flung the steps door opened and started running down the hallway. Being as graceful as he was, he tripped and slammed his head into a janitors trash can cart thing.

He proceeded to cuss himself repeatedly until he noticed that the room with the missing key was two doors down from his exact spot. He got up and slowly approached it. He stood in front of the door for a moment listening until finally, he knocked.

[Zib]

John was met with what was likely the most interesting greeting he had ever experienced -- three bullet holes in the door. Zib was once again grateful to have kept his shotgun loaded at all times. Of course, this time was different. There wasn't the usual silence of ghosts when he rejected their knocking. . . violently.

No, this time, there was an actual thud. Something material had fallen on the other side of the door. Certainly it wasn't--? No, Zib couldn't be that lucky. It had to be a person. A normal person. It was probably a survivor. . . Well, that is, until about three seconds ago. Now, hopefully, it was someone lucky.

Michael Buble taunted Zib from the corner of the room.

Somebody's gonna hurt someone
Before the night is thr--

He shot the stereo. Returning his aim to the door, Zib growled. "You are not invited. Who are you, where'd you come from, and what's your favorite color of the alphabet?" Zib still did not know if it was a ghost or a human that existed behind the door, and one could never be too careful.

[Griffin]

The pain was enormous. He could barely think. John had no idea what had happened. One second he was knocking on a hotel door, the next he had buck shot and door shards in his body. From where the pain was coming from it felt like the buck shot went in once in the shin of his right leg, once in his left thigh, once in his right shoulder, and once on the right side of his ribcage. He was still alive, but bleeding furiously. He made no attempt to get up. The pain was far to bad to even move. Laying on the floor in front of a wooden door with a big hole in it he heard someone on the other side.

"You are not invited. Who are you, where'd you come from, and what's your favorite color of the alphabet?" the voice growled. He assumed this is the person who shot him. But a person, non the less.

With his good arm, John slowly reached behind his back and pulled out a loaded M9 pistol. The pain was going to make him black out, but he would fight for his survival if this person tented to kill him. He decided to answer his questions the best he could, for he started coughing up blood. He leaned up a bit, supporting his weight on his bad arm, which hurt tremendously.

"My name is-" he coughed and spit blood to the floor, "my name is John. I came from Seattle, Washing-" again another cough, "Washington. And I don't understand the last ques-" At this moment, he blacked out and hit the floor with another thud.

[Zib]

Zib threw down his gun and cursed aloud. It just had to be a survivor. He opened the door to confirm his suspicions, cursed again, and proceeded to drag the unconscious person into his room by the feet. The door closed.

"So. . ." Zib thought aloud to himself as he knelt over the newcomer. "Yore name's Washington?" He discharged his shotgun again, this time at the floor. "Doubt it," he grunted, dropping the firearm. Zib picked up and closely examined the bullet, which had obediently buried itself in the floorboards. Hardwood paneling. Great stuff. "My name's Zib, jus' so y'know. . ." He knew that this person couldn't hear him, but it was nice to talk to an actual human -- conscious or otherwise. ". . . I'll be yore doctor t'night. . ."

Zib's hand hovered over one of the wounds. Slowly, he closed his hand until it was a complete fist. He relaxed his hand and raised his arm. The bullet hung, suspended in the air just below his hand. Perfect.

Two bullets later, Zib had successfully performed the cleanest surgery ever. Sure, there was blood on the floor, but at least this guy hadn't been hurt too seriously. The rib cage was the worst, really, though the shot to the shoulder, while mostly harmless, probably hurt. . . a lot. But hey, at least he wasn't dead.

Having effectively stopped the blood from escaping the wounds with what Zib called "fanshy band-aids," Zib sat the stranger up in a recliner, patted his shoulder, and grunted. "Well, yore done. G'night." And with that, he plopped down on the bed and lapsed into a mini-coma.