Young Writers Society

Y'all may or may not know me. I used to do a bit of storybooking in my day, and decided it's past time I get back into the game. If I haven't spoken to you about this beforehand, feel free to apply. However, know that I am both a demanding leader and a relentless slave-driver. If you haven't posted in a while, expect to be bothered frequently. I require a fair amount of dedication to my storybooks, so if you only have a casual, passing interest, please don't bother applying.


Z-1412

The Setting: Ashville, a small US city (about 80,000 people) in 2007.

The Concept: The city of Ashville has been overrun by the undead. For nearly a week, the streets have not been safe and the roads out of town have been blocked. 50% of the population has been turned, 49% dead, and a mere 1% still breathing. You are part of that 1%. The cause of the outbreak is unknown, and the United States Government has failed to respond accordingly beyond containing the virus. No help is in sight. Escape it not an option. Your only goal is this; survive.

NOTE: The origin of the virus, the goal of the characters, and the entirety of the plot will be up to you guys, the writers. I am a sort of default plot driver, acting as both character and GM. If you want further reading about this particular outbreak, feel free to read through Necropolis. It details the first day of the outbreak, and unfortunately remained unfinished.

The Now: One week after the outbreak. You need to figure out what your character has been doing since the outbreak, and here they've been staying. This may involve knowing other characters or being alone, or with NPCs. Figure it out in the Discussion Thread.

The Cast: That's up to you to decide. There are a few limitations:

1) You cannot be part of the Sweeper Teams that will inhabit the city. You may be a cop, or ex-military, but not currently part of the military force inhabiting the city.

2) There is a limit of one person per profession (IE, no more than one doctor, cop, tekkie, etc) to prevent overcrowding of skills.)

3) No special powers; everyone is a regular Joe or Jane. I am unflinching on this one, so don't even bother asking.

4) All characters are to be approved by the GM (me) before posting begins. Unless I say otherwise, assume you've been approved.

5) One primary character per person, ONLY. Anything else you create is secondary, and therefore an NPC, and can be publicly controlled.


The Rules:

1)No team-killing: If an active character is going to die, make sure it is thoroughly discussed between both parties involved.

2)On Writing Style: This is a Storybook RPG, so players may write in any style they please. First person, third person omniscient, it's all dependent on your personal preference.

3)On God-Moding:

God Moding is vague. Here are the rules for it.

-- Other authors may control another author's character as long as it keeps the character IN CHARACTER. For extra help, communicate with the author of the character being god-moded first.

-- Authors have every right to determine what is in or out of character for their character. As such, any action they feel is wrong for the character can be vetoed within a few days of the post.

-- This isn't a turn-based RPG, it is a real-time RPG. That means that you aren't obligated to stop and wait for the author to reply to your character. This way, we don't wait three days for a response.

4) Inactive Characters: If a character hasn't been posted for in a long time (a month) then it will go into the NPC pile. Another writer may choose to write for that character until the original author returns. If the original author returns, the character once again returns to his or her possession. If the situation calls for it, the character may also be killed off.

5) Out of character discussion is to be carried out in the Discussion Thread for this Storybook, titled "Necropolis Discussion Thread"

6) Enjoy. 

*7) I reserve the right to edit any post to add a timestamp or modify content as needed in order to retain the continuity of characters and plot.

This is perhaps the most important rule of them all. I fully intend for this to be a QUALITY storybook. If your posts are not quality posts (quality, not quantity), you will be kicked out of the storybook.[/b]

Name: Vincent Williams
Age: 30
Height: 6'6"
Weight: 160lbs.
Race African-American
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black, buzzed.
Physique: Lean. Long, sinewy limbs and a frame that carries very little fat.
Education: College graduate.
Profession: Teacher.
Pros: Quietly intelligent but fiercely competitive man. Athletic and street wise. Has rudimentary knowledge of firearms and is handy in a fight.
Cons: Very few technical or medical skills. Intimidating appearance leads to typically poor first impressions, and his rough childhood tends to hinder him in emotional connections. He is often rough and abrasive when he is on the defensive.
Background: Born on the streets of Chicago, his family moved to California when he was 16 due to problems at school and with the gang scene. After the move he made a complete turnaround, becoming active in basketball and finding focus in his high school career. He graduated with a 2.1gpa after barely skating by his first year, and attended UCLA on a basketball scholarship. He was nationally ranked his four years there, but in his senior year he gunned down in a drive-by shooting that, although he survived and made a full recovery, ended his basketball career before he could be drafted professionally. After he graduated from UCLA (with a 3.8gpa), he moved back to central California to be with his family. He now teaches English at the local community college and coaches basketball at the local parks and recreation.

Yay!!

Name: Lucy Elizabeth Martin

Gender: Female

Age: 21

Height: 5'2

Weight: 130

Eyes: blue-green

Hair: brown

Physique: not think but not thick, rather average, really.

Education: High School grad, currently enrolled in Corvelle Institute of Fine Cuisine

Profession: Currently a Dishwasher/Fry cook

Personality: The eternal optimist/humanitarian, she believes in the good of people. Sometimes leading her to defend others, often blindly. She will always try to do the right thing, even if sometimes that puts her own life or morals on the line. Often called naive based on her almost childish faith in humanity. She is a lover not a fighter, though she has a smart mouth that often gets her into more trouble than she can handle. She has a deep love of animals, and probably connects with her pets more than most people.

Pros: Makes a mean plate of spaghetti, and can hold her own in just about any conversation. She has minor medical training (can sew up a wound and perform CPR if necessary). Knows how to handle most guns, and has her trusty Melvin (Winchester 1887 rifle, a gift from her father for her 13th birthday) under her bed at all times.

Cons: naive, trusting, and always trying to do what's “right” no matter what the consequences. Not particularly hefty and can't do much by the way of physical labor.

Background: Raised on a ranch with her father and older brother, and was home schooled until the age of 18, leaving her a bit sheltered from the real world. Lucy is comfortable with using most styles of gun, however she is most comfortable with a Winchester Rifle. She left her childhood home at the age of 18 to pursue her dream of becoming a chef, and works two minimum wage jobs (a fry cook and a dish washer) in order to pay for her education. Lucy was raised to work hard for what she earns, and has no issues rolling up her sleeves and doing what must be done.

Name: K.J. Chance
Age: 18 yrs. old
Height: 6'8"
Weight: 151lbs.
Race: Multi--Italian, Native American (Cherokee), African-American, and English.
Eyes: Gray.
Hair: Black, shaggy but not long; sticks up crazily in the back, somewhat curly.
Physique: Tall with muscle stretched accordingly; wiry and cat-like (unless you count the bum leg). Facial shape is mostly square, but his jaw comes to an almost triangle. He has a slight limp (his right leg) and a scar on his face by his right eye from a stray dog attacking him on his way home from school one day. He's vaguely amazed he has managed to survive without being able to get up to more than a fast jog.
Education: Post-High School, was about to attempt to get into a college with the help of the slightly-rich vet he was hired by.
Profession: Veterinary volunteer.
Cons; Normally independent and dislikes charity, tends to be harsh and may push people to far, trying to get them to do what he thinks is right. He's absolutely terrified of dogs, which caused problems with his previous job), and, well, it still causes problems (choosing to run past a zombie rather than a golden retriever is bad).
Pros: He is fairly good with medical stuff, from helping with the vet. From living downtown he claims to have learned a few tricks of the "trade", which is more talk to save his skin than anything. His Dad taught him how to throw darts at a young age so, well, he might have a good aim.
Background: He grew up n Alabama where he helped his Dad, a former military man, get around the house. He did most of the housework, as well. They didn't exactly have much, but they made do. The neighborhood was awful, though. I.e. he found a few bullets in the roof from people shooting guns at the highway (where they lived by). He moved to Ashville just to get away, start his own life. He's pretty sure his Dad is flipping mad, though, about now. He hadn't made contact with him since he moved and now he can't. He's quite guilty about the whole thing. He was employed by an elderly vet who wanted someone he trained to take over after he retired, so he picked K.J. And K.J. is still not sure why he was picked, since he got average grades in high school and isn't too amazing, but he figures he was just picked because the vet liked him and felt sorry for him (which is quite true and the vet, if you asked, would agree after a bit of pushing).
He didn't like the arrangement for that reason, but they let him sleep in the back room. Or, they did. He's not sure if anyone who worked there is a. alive or b. okay anymore.

May I?

Name: Dana Morris

Age: 20

Height: 5'4"

Weight: 110

Race: american

Eyes: Blue-green

Hair: dark brown, cut choppily at her shoulders

Physique: Thin, but a healthy weight (though could probably stand to gain a few pounds)

Education: High school graduate, currently enrolled in a community college studying sign language (wants to be an interpreter)

Profession: Part-time librarian

Pros: Well read, has a basic knowledge of a diverse spread of topics and is quick to learn something new. She has excellent communication skills, and is very personable. She connects well with most people and is a natural leader.

Cons: Likes to be a part of the background. Though she is a natural and effective leader, she prefers to let others take the lead. She is passive and flexible, and will often allow someone to lead her down the wrong path unknowingly. She hardly feels the need to share her opinions or emotions with others.

Background: Dana grew up as one of seven. She was the fifth born, so was easily put aside for the needs of others. She adapted easily to her overlooked role in the family. Her youngest sibling was born deaf, and once he started learning sign language in order to communicate Dana was the only family member who really took a passion for the language. She learned more than the basic phrases most of her family did when her brother was young and learned more advanced skills at a quick pace.

Name: Hannah Leigh Walker
Age: 19
Height: 5'2
Weight: 120 lbs.
Race: Caucasian
Eyes: Gray
Hair: Chin-Length, Straight, Light Brown
Physique: Thin and petite with an hourglass frame.
Education: High School Graduate, In First Year of College
Profession: Waitress

Pros: She is sweet, caring, energetic, and likes doing favors for people in whatever ways she can. She's smart, and a quick thinker. She is swift and can be hard to catch in a fight.
Cons: She has somewhat of a sharp temper, and is not skilled with firearms and weapons, as much as she'd like to think she is. She is physically weak and a slow learner at times.

Background: Hannah lived in California all of her life. She grew up in an average, middle class family, the daughter of a Receptionist and a Medical Surgeon. Throughout school, she loved history and had dreams of becoming a historian and writing books about history. Her father wanted her to follow in his footsteps and study medicine in college, so he taught her various things about it, and although she elected to study history, she retain strong skill in medicine and healing. After she graduated High School, she moved to Ashville to attend college, and took a job as a waitress to make money.

Name: Kisa Vandaguard

Age: 11

Height: 4'8"

Weight: 90

Race: Caucasian

Eyes: Blue

Hair: Strawberry blonde, short and straight.

Physique: Tall, skinny, no curves.

Education: 6th grade completed

Profession: Student

Pros: She is really good at making fires, because she has been a girl scout ever since she was 5. She can also run extremely fast, because she has played soccer for as long as she could remember. She can also climb quickly.

Cons: Kisa is quiet. She has always been extremely reserved, and doesn't talk much... at all. Her age, is also a con, and the fact that she has no way of defending herself.

Background: Kisa was raised - actually she hasn't fully been raised yet - with a perfect mother and father, and two sets of grandparents, who loved her very much. She was spoiled, and now that she's in the world on her own, all she can do is cry.

Lucy Elizabeth:

My heart thudded in my chest as I peeked cautiously through the cracks in the boarded up window. I ran my fingers along the nails that I myself had pounded in furiously only three days earlier. My hands still bore the bloody wounds of labor that I was no longer used to, but they would heal.

I was alive, and that was more than I could say for most.

The outside seemed to be taunting me, holding only the promise of sunlight and open air. I was never much for staying inside; being raised in a ranch will do that to a girl. I did not see any of them wondering around out there. It seemed quiet—even safe. I did not believe it for a moment, but with a shudder I knew I must venture out for food, and soon.

In my rush to find safety, I had not paid attention to something that seemed so trivial. I had stupidly assumed that the family that previously lived here would have left without their food, as most of us had. The family that lived here had not left much behind. The fridge was empty when I got here, and all of the dry products from the pantry were gone save a few cans of expired vegetables. All of the photos had been stripped from the walls, all of the clothes taken from their closets and dressers. Nothing but a few mismatched socks lay in one drawer.

From the looks of things, they had been the quintessential American family. Two boys and a girl, mother father, and a dog. Didn't need photos to figure that much out; these were white picket fence kind of people.

I pressed my face to the window, wondering if any of them were wandering the streets in that maddening way that they do. I still could not call them what they were, undead seemed to callous and zombie too comical. In my heart I had to believe that they were no longer people, just animated shells wearing their sad decomposing faces. But they weren't people, not anymore.

I patted Melvin, my trusty Winchester lever action rifle that my father had given me for my 13th birthday. Had it not been for him, I wouldn't be alive today.

My stomach rolled uncomfortably, reminding me once more of what I must do. Old cans of vegetables only got you by for so long before your body started crying for real food. Especially seeing as I had gotten far too used to eating so much at school. The beauty of training to be a chef.

With a sigh of resignation I emptied my backpack onto the ground, a few shirts and a ratty old pair of jeans fell out. When I had left my home, I was in such a hurry that I had not paid much attention to what I was grabbing, and I certainly didn't think I wasn't coming back. Patches, my kitten, must be starving by this point. The thought of it made my heart sink.

My apartment was not far from here, maybe a mile at most. I could walk there and back in an hour or more, if I hurried. The thought of this had occurred to me more than once. I zipped the empty backpack up, grabbed Melvin, and felt my stomach rumble once more.

I was headed out anyways--might as well risk my life that much more to save another. Patches wouldn't be left alone to die, it wasn't in me to let it happen.

I slipped down into the basement and pulled myself through an old and dusty window into the crawl space. I crawled on my hands and knees until I reached the window at the end where I shoved with my shoulder, but it wouldn't budge. I grit my teeth, repositioned myself and rammed into it, using my shoulder as my own personal battering ram. Finally, after a few more slams, the window creaked open. I checked it, opening and closing it a few more times to make sure that I would be able to get back in, and then I crawled out into the too inviting sunlight. I took a deep breath, but the air did not smell sweet. It smelled of them, acrid like rotted meat. I shuttered and clutched Melvin tightly.

I heard a rustle behind me and felt my entire being tighten, I raised Melvin and turned around slowly. It felt like time itself had slowed as I faced the intruder. The acrid smell wasn't the air, it wasn't the world now... it was one of them. He stood at probably six feet or so, with nothing but some bits of torn clothing to cover is rotting frame. His right arm had been devoured at some point, and now it oozed something that looked a bit like black ink.

I stood dumbfounded, Melvin aimed and ready, while the sad creature sputtered and staggered towards me. I felt myself step back, giving myself some distance from the unfortunate thing.

I closed my eyes, said a quiet prayer, and fired.

AWW captain!!! You took my idea!!! I was going to be my 8th friend... *puppy eyes* PLEASE!!! XD

Name: Skyler Aleman

Age: 13

Race: American and Italian.

Weight: 'bout 100 lb

Eyes: Black, pure black. Some think she's haunted. She's bot; her eyes are just black.

Physique: Tall and a bit too skinny in her opinion. About 5'10; tall for her age.

Education: 8th grade honors student

Profession: Student.

Pros: Listens to others arguments before making assumptions. Likes to argue. Can tell if she needs to shut up.

Cons: Likes to argue. Can never settle with 'good enough'. Has to outdo everyone. Doesn't see herself a pretty.

Background: She's the older sister. She's from a nice family and is the star volleyball player at her school.Her dad is a famous doctor. She's an honor student, the 'teacher's pet' kind of gal. People tend to come to her if they need help, because She listens to their problems and honestly tries to help. Her father was killed years before by poison, her mother killed by protecting her.



*I'm really sorry! I forgot! and..I don't know how to run spell check*

Hannah

Hannah clutched her pink fleece blanket and took a sip of coffee from her thermos which was left over from dinner. It was lukewarm, but Hannah didn't care--it still made her feel somewhat better, and she didn't feel like bothering anyone and asking them to make more. Even though it was still early--only eight-thirty in the evening--many were settling down for the evening. Some were trying to sleep, others were chatting quietly, and a few were huddled in the center of the room, trying to watch TV and see if they could find any news or information regarding the outbreak. It was an old, grainy TV that Hannah guessed had probably been in the basement for quite some time.

For a week now, she'd been living down in the basement of her apartment with thirty-six other survivors, living off of frozen dinners and packets of coffee mix. All she had down with her was her blanket, thermos, and laptop computer. Although there was no internet signal, Hannah occasionally found herself mindlessly surfing away through various games, like Solitaire, which she'd probably beaten well over one hundred times. Occasionally, she would search through various pictures from throughout the years, only to quickly shut the albums, reminding herself that the people she was looking at were now dead.

In one week, no one had emerged from the basement. It was deemed to be too dangerous, with zombies and what not and all sorts of things that could kill you crawling around the streets. However, there were five men with guns that always stood on guard in case anyone tried to come into the basement--and they occasionally did. They were always killed off quickly -- one had gotten to injuring a little boy once, but it had been shot before the boy could be turned.

Living in the basement had been a desolate experience. Just getting to sleep was a nightmare. All Hannah had was a blanket, no pillow. The floors were made of cement, which was hard and always cold. The ventilation was poor, so sometimes it was hot and other times it cold. There was no middle ground; the temperature was always an extreme. Because of the little warning that the apartment residents had been given when evacuating to the basement, they had not gotten the opportunity to take a change of clothes. Hannah had been wearing the same clothes, throughout day and sleep, for a week. There was only one one-person bathroom for both males and females, so things got a bit hectic in the night.

In addition, Hannah had been very lonely. She had connected to no one. A few of the survivors, especially those who had been living on their own, started hanging out with other people, talking, chatting, trying to remain as optimistic as possible. This had never happened to Hannah, as there was barely anyone there that was her own age. Occasionally, she was called on to help people if they had somehow gotten hurt, and she would talk to them then, but that was it.

Hannah finished the rest of her coffee. Her computer was already off, so she did not feel like turning it on again. She didn't really want to go by the TV, either, as it would probably just end in frustration. Although she was tired, she had the feeling that tonight would be a sleepless night.

Kisa

Nightmares were all Kisa could think about.

She had been sitting in her small living room, watching Spongebob on the small television. She had her blanket - a small teal crotched fluffy sheet of love - and a ratty old dog stuffed animal that her mother had passed down from her childhood. His name was Barkley.

Her mother had just walked in from the kitchen with a bowl of vegetable soup for her and Kisa. Kisa took it with a grin on her face, and her mother smiled at her pretty baby with the beautiful straight copper hair, and big round eyes.

"Kisa, I lo-"

And then they hurt a large crash from down the hall. Mother sat up and opened the door steadily, and Kisa's father walked in from the office room.

"Was that you?" he asked. Mother shook her head and peaked out the door.

She threw back her body for a moment and quickly shut the door, but it didn't close in time. A large bleeding hand with peeling flesh was in their home, spilling liquids on their off-white carpet. Mother screamed and father ran to grab Kisa, who was crying and running towards the back of the house.

He picked his daughter up and ran her into the bathroom. He shoved her in and told her to shut and lock the door, only after he handed her his pocket knife.

"Daddy-"

He stroked his daughters hair. "I'll be back. It's me when I knock three times."

He shut the door, leaving Kisa on the pink fuzzy carpet that lined the floor in front of the toilet and the toilet seat.

Three hours passed and her father never came. She had heard their noises, passing the bathroom door, looking for her. They tried once to break down the door, but it wouldn't budge.

And the nighmares had ended with one of the flesh-eaters taking a saw to her door and cutting the letter 'K' into it, so Kisa could see. She took this two ways: her name, Kisa, and 'Kill'. Neither choice left her with comfort or serenity.

But Kisa would always wake up and see the smiling face of the girl who had rescued her. The nameless girl who she called ma'am. The girl with the light brown hair and smiling eyes.

The girl had brought a warm towel to Kisa and started scrubbing her face.

"You feeling ok?" the nameless girl asked. Kisa nodded, not wanting to open her mouth, which was sealed shut from her chapped lips that had formed from not speaking for about a week. "What's your name, youngin'?"

Kisa loved it when ma'am called her this. Her grandparents used to call her youngin'.

She printed her name - quite sloppily - into the dirt of the basement floor.

"Kisa, huh?" She nodded. "That's a pretty name. Mine's Hannah. Hannah Leigh Walker. But you can still call me ma'am if you want."

Kisa smiled. "It's nice to see a smile on those pretty little cheeks." Hannah pinched her cheeks, then went off to check on a man that was laying to their right.

"Ma'am!" Kisa squeaked before she was out of earshot.

Her brown hair spun around, revealing her dirty face. "Yeah?"

"Can you look out for daddy? You'll know it's him when he knocks three times."

Hannah's eyebrows raised, a little confused of what to say. She smiled and nodded.

Kisa sighed happily and laid back down to rest, cradling the pocket knife that was wrapped in her blanket, ready to give it back to father when he came.

Dana Morris

Dana paced the old living room of her parents house that she knew too well by now. A little girl, she had to be somewhere around five years old, slept in the lap of her seventeen year old brother. The young man watched Dana as she paced.

"Aunt Dana, I don't think pacing is going to help," he said.

They were her eldest brother's children. Dana didn't know them well; hardly at all. The boy's name was Chris, and the girl's Alice, but beyong that she couldn't say anything about them. Her eldest brother lived in Maine, they hardly came to visit anymore. But the whole family had come down two weeks ago in order to have a sort of family reunion. Now, Dana didn't know where they were or if they were even alive.

"Alice is going to wake up soon," Chris said. "When she wakes up she's going to be hungry. We don't have any more food here. We can't stay."

"I know," Dana said. "I know." Her apartment had food. She had been planning a dinner for her co-workers at the library, all university students. They all lived in cosy apartments above the library, thanks to the generosity of the head librarian.

She could take them to her apartment, but it was across town and she had no idea if the building would be safe anymore. The streets looked empty now, but there was no telling what they would come across on their way to the library.

Chris moved Alice from his lap and stood up. He went into the kitchen, where they slept, and came back with a backpack slung over his shoulder. "We're leaving," he insisted. He bent down and pressed lightly on Alice's shoulder. "Come on, Alice," he whispered. "We're going on a trip."

"I'm hungry," she whined. "And it smells bad outside."

"Aunt Dana is going to carry you, okay?" he told her. "When we get there we'll have food. You only have to stand the smell for a little while."

She nodded sleepily and put her arms into the air. Chris stared at Dana until she complied and came over, hoisting the girl onto her back and letting her wrap her arms around her neck.

"Alice," Chris said, holding her chin so she would look him in the eye. "You have to be very quiet, okay? You can't make a sound until we get to Aunt Dana's house. Do you understand me?"

Alice nodded and buried her face in Dana's hair. "Come on," Chris said. He opened the door slowly, leaning out to check the street. All was clear. He took of sprinting from the front porch of Dana's parents house and Dana followed, trying to to gag at the acrid smell the city had developed.

Skyler

It's terrible... this girl is no more then eleven, and her dad is probably dead. Of course, I'm only two years older, but still. my own mother's death was bad enough, and my father was killed long ago. I sat in the dusty old corner, with my volleyball that I threw at the zombie. That, and my sheathed knife I carried with me on my pants. I looked over at the girl who owned the place. She must have seen me looking, and looked back. I quickly dropped my eyes. She kept looking, though, so I strode over.

"Skyker." I mumbled to her. I was never one for introductions.

"My name's Hannah." She said.

"So." I said, looking over at her. She didn't reply. So muck for conversation.

I'll post soon

Name: Arthur Grimes

Age: 21

Height: 5'11''

Weight: 145 lbs.

Race: White

Eyes: Green

Hair: Black, cut short but always messy

Physique: He is in extremely good shape because his job demands it.

Education: High School Drop Out

Profession: Bicycle/ Parkour messenger, part times as a butcher

Pros: Knows how to move in a city, so he can get around quickly even without a car. Is very good at climbing (from the parkour), and is very competent with a knife, which isn't very useful at the moment, but is still nice. He knows how to use a handgun.

Cons: Tends to shun company, as they can't keep up with him. Ever since dropping out of school he hasn't had much time to develop personal friendships, other than the usual connections. Tends to be snide towards people with high amounts of education.

Background: He was born in New York to a relatively poor family. He made very good grades in high school, but because he was bored, he dropped out. He left his absent family and began to support himself by taking a job at a local bicycle delivery company. During this time he also learned Parkour to help, in case his bike got broken, or something else happened. He has been doing the same job for three years, and became one of the best in the business. He has been living in the crawl space above a butcher's shop, and whenever he has time he likes to help out in order to pay some of the rent. Recently he decided to take a tour of the US and ended up in Ashville right as the infection hit.

They came into view just as I slung my pack onto my shoulder after stepping out of the abandoned store. The men with assault rifles were bad men. They had gunned down three of my students in cold blood right as I looked on, and it had ben no mistake. The girl, Amber, had been on her knees begging them to help her, and they shot her in the face with the muzzle against her tear streaked cheek. I resisted the urge to rush them as they rounded the corner, my fingers tightening around the crowbar I'd taken to carrying since my first encounter with the undead. They strode down the street with the casual gait of a grip of Bloods on their home turf, one of them so cheeky as to press the button at the cross walk before crossing at the corner.

Instead, I put away my anger and stepped back into the darkness of what used to be an AM/PM, now nothing more than a shell. I was instantly assaulted by the smell of curdled milk and rancid flesh, the power having gone out sometime in the past week the cause of the former. I stepped over the cause of the latter, its black blood slowly pooling outward on the linoleum floor from the hole in its caved in head. I watched the soldiers through the smashed windows of the convenience store, sitting back on my haunches so that they couldn't easily pick me out of the many shadows. I set my backpack on the ground quietly, not wanting to draw any attention to myself, and laid the crowbar across my thighs; if it came to fight, I would be ready.

This particular AM/PM had never been a particularly bustling place, and as such there were few of the undead nearby. From what I had observed, they tended to roam where they had in life, as though through some sick sense of irony. The soldiers sauntered down the street as though they owned it, their rifles dangled casually from their slings and their hands resting atop them.

They were barely men; more ghosts than tangible, without a hint of their humanity save for the fact that they had two arms, two legs, a head and a (probably) beating heart. Their faces were hidden by soulless gas masks, and every inch of their body was covered with Kevlar reinforced suits better suited for bomb disposal than "search and rescue." Ammunition and gear hung from every conceivable place on their bodies, and every one of them had a minimum of two guns, while one of them appeared to have as many as five; his rifle, a shotgun on his back, a grenade launcher slung over his shoulder, and two pistols. Definitely not search and rescue.

It looked like they would pass by without incident, but as they neared the AM/PM, the lead man dropped into a crouch without warning and raised his rifle. He barked something to the others, who immediately turned their backs on each other and fell back on their heels, forming a human hexagon bristling with weaponry, gun barrels covering every direction. One of the muzzles was pointed my way, and for a moment I thought they'd seen me.

After a tense moment, three of the six men turned back to the corner and started yelling, for they had seen something I hadn't. A man was running their way, followed closely by three others. No, not others, I quickly realized, but others. The undead were hot at his heels, though I had never seen corpses move so quickly before. The three soldiers covering the man immediately opened fire, single shots from controlled stances that instantly dropped all the zombies to the blacktop. These were bad men; dangerous men.

Reporting for duty, sir.

Name: Caspian Robert Braesby
Age: 28
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 142lbs.
Race: Caucasian.
Eyes: Green
Hair: Medium brown, short.
Physique: Average. He used to get a weekly work out from playing tennis and he walked to work when the weather was nice but not much more.
Education: College graduate.
Profession: Psychologist. Caspian worked in a mostly diagnostic capacity.
Pros: He reads people, knows who to pick up and who not to. He also doesn't mind losing those he picks up. He'll do what he can to make sure it doesn't happen but if it happens, it happens. He's got a good strong swing so he's handy with various forms of bat and furniture in close up combat. He's also developing a knowledge of fire-arms though it doesn't go much beyond pointing and shooting right now. He's intelligent and he thinks outside the box, often comes in for the getaway situations or the planning ahead. He's a sprinter. Blood and guts don't bother him, in fact he has a deep fascination with the insides of people, both physically and mentally.
Cons: His medical expertise only stretches to the range of, 'And how does that make you feel?' and fixing traumas of the mind. Might be handy somewhere along the way but not so much when you got a man screaming because he's been shot in the chest. He's a self important man and doesn't like to endanger his own safety. He's also not good at running long distances as he puts all his energy into the first sprint and then quickly tires out. He likes to diagnose people's mental states and lives, a trait which understandably gets on everyone's nerves.
Background: Cass was a disappointment to his father. He failed to be amazing at sports and therefore failed to fill his father's very large basketball playing shoes. His dad had never got over the glory days of being a famous basketball player and as he dwindled into obscurity, all his hopes of having a son to follow him fell apart. Caspian's mother was a sharp, intelligent, irritable woman who disagreed with everyone. Caspian couldn't wait to leave the house and only regretted that his younger sister (by seven years) would have to stay behind.

His college years were easy, fun and just a little bit wild. The more Caspian studied, the more tricks he learned and the easier it got to pick up girls. By his final year, he could talk a girl he'd just met that night into sleeping with him 7/10 times. He got himself a cushy job, he wrote a lot of letters home to his sister and on the whole he lived a sociable and enjoyable life. His parents died about three years ago so his sister came to live with him and enrolled on a college course in his area. When the zombie attacks started, she was bitten very early on and Caspian was forced to put a bullet through her head. He thinks the zombies must retain some of their humanity and has set his mind to diagnosing them as if they simply suffered from a mental disease.