shivershiver

Surviving: The End (character-centric; modern zombie survival)

Hey guys, sorry for my sudden disappearance, I had one of them "real-life crisis" deals that put me out of commission for a while. Hopefully you don't think ill of me for abandoning ship. I'd imagine that my character was killed off in the time I was absent, but I'd imagine that his death was bloody and glorious. Anyways, I wish you luck in reviving this RP, and if any assistance is needed I'd be more than happy to help!

Mass Effect: Let the Galaxy Burn

Awh man, sorry for my inactivity in this RP, I'll have a post up tomorrow!

Surviving: The End (character-centric; modern zombie survival)

Waynesville, Missouri. The rusted green sign just on the outskirts of town read,“Preserving the Past, Planning for the Future.”

What a shithole.

Even from a mile away, Werner Coetzee could identify the little backwater village as such. Aside from a few grain bins, not a single building stretched higher than two stories, and the few that did were either municipal buildings or decaying farm houses. Undoubtedly, the sole reason for the town’s meager existence was its prime location on Route 66 and the military base 30 miles south of it. Were it not for these two features, the town would be like the ghost towns Werner knew back west, vacant of both life and its homes slowly returning to the dust. Recently, almost all towns qualified as ghost towns, unless the walking dead retained their citizenship.

Werner continued his trek along the snow-covered road winding south. He was grateful for the tall, white hills protecting him from the glacial winds, but the bitter cold still penetrated every crevice in his clothes. Even the grey wool blanket wrapped around his body like a cloak did little to shield him from Mother Nature’s cruel grasp. Before leaving the American Southwest behind him in the mirror of his dirtbike, Werner had never seen snow before, and he was entranced when it first began to fall. His initial fascination with the new climate quickly gave way to hatred as the cold constantly impaired his movement, even now as he forged through the deep sea of snow. His knee was beginning to ache with each step he took, a mild pain shooting up his thigh as his foot hit the snow-padded asphalt. With a look to the sky, Werner estimated that it was roughly 8 am, the dull sun barely punching through the heavy clouds in the east. He’d been on the road for almost a day now, camping in the trunks of abandoned cars during the night and walking when light returned. Finally, he was close to at least some resemblance of civilization, even if it was just the remains. The nomad continued down the snow-covered path, leaving a lonely trail of footprints behind, though another pair followed closely behind.

The town that appeared empty from a mile away seemed the same from within. Crowbar in hand, Werner trudged down the main street, his eyes peeled for any store that might contain something of use to him. Curiously, no corpses wandered the streets, and no humans could be seen darting through the shadows. It was almost as if everyone had vanished at exactly the same time. Werner momentarily humored the possibility that the infamous Rapture event occurred within the small town, but there was a distinct lack of clothing littering the ground. In all likelihood, the town’s citizens were evacuated to the military base to the south when the virus struck, which raised Werner’s spirits, if only for a second. If the town was truly empty, then the long journey was a complete waste of his time. Werner swiftly kicked the snow underfoot into a powdery cloud, only to feel the familiar shooting pain stab at his knee as he did so. He let out a sharp hiss and clutched his wounded knee with a free hand. When the aching subsided, Werner pressed forward, now deep within the town and thoroughly numb from head to foot. His sluggish mind told his body to barge into the nearest home possible and he obliged, shambling towards a single story ranch-style house. It took him mere moments to gain access, the door being unlocked, and once he was within the confines of its walls Werner felt instant relief from the relentless cold.

Shutting the door behind him, Werner proceeded through the house, clearing it one room at a time. He’d swept many homes before, almost always finding something hostile within, so he carried out the actions with methodical precision and caution. The home must have belonged to a working-class family. Four pairs of shoes, including work boots, sat at the door. Vibrant pictures plastered the antiquated refrigerator. Army men littered the living room floor, the yellow soldiers picking off the green from a fortified position on the ottoman. The small house was a museum, archiving life before the fall of civilization. Werner was careful not to disturb any of the items, as if they were holy relics from a bygone era. There was something comforting about the little signs left behind by the family. It evoked a deep nostalgia and longing for his childhood, even though he could barely relate to this normal family. Raised by a single mother, no family, and even fewer friends in a trailer park outside Las Vegas, Werner’s was a far cry from the white-picket household he found here. Werner deeply yearned for what could have been if his father hadn’t vanished, and the humble household here reminded him of the life he missed. He was quick, however, to raid the small pantry of any goods he could find, but failed to find anything aside from a tin of anchovies and sleeve of Ritz crackers. With a disheartened sigh, he pulled his father’s coyote brown shemagh down around his neck and slinked to the master bedroom, where he promptly fell down onto the bare mattress.

As Werner hastily wolfed down the food, he looked around the bedroom, hoping for any other clues to the homeowner’s identity. He noticed a letter on the nightstand from the United Mine Workers of America addressed to Mr. John Hirsch. Werner stood up from the bed and opened the letter, making his way to the attached bathroom as he read it. The contents of the letter failed to captivate his attention and he set it down on the sink as he turned the handle to the faucet in vain, hoping some water would work its way through the rusted pipes to wash down the taste of salty anchovies still lingering in his mouth. He sifted through the medicine cabinet briefly and was delighted to find a half-full bottle of Vicodin, likely belonging to the miner, John, who spent his days hunched over in man-made tunnels. “Thank you, Mr. Hirsch,” Werner said with a grin. He stowed the bottle away in his backpack and started to leave the home, giving one last look to the soldiers on the floor before shutting the door.

Although the food from the house gave him some energy, Werner knew he would need much more before he moved on. After the trek to Waynesville, he was left with only two cans of food and two bottles of water, though water wasn’t his biggest concern with snow covering the ground. He walked down the sidewalk, hugging what few buildings stood along Route 66. The innocence of the small hamlet slowly faded as he felt eyes boring holes into his back. An ominous chattering filled the still air, the gnashing of broken teeth. He quickened his pace, tightly clutching the cold titanium of his crowbar with gloved hands, yet the feeling followed him. Werner was glad he chose to wrap himself in the blanket, for any observers wouldn’t be able to see his free hand clutching the Colt 1911 in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. If they weren’t human, however, it wouldn’t really matter. Just as he passed an alley, Werner felt a pair of hands grasp his shoulders and violently jerk him into the darkness. He heard his crowbar clatter to the floor as his back his the hard concrete, and looked up to see a shadowed figure quickly pin him to the ground. The stench of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, and the feeling of hot breath washed over his face, the figure wheezing in horrific excitement. As his adrenaline kicked in, Werner’s left hand connected with the beast’s right temple, which knocked him off balance and allowed Werner to scramble out from beneath his grasp. The mechanic quickly gained his footing and drew the 1911, already loaded, from its holster, but the weapon was smacked from his hand and discharged a round as it hit the ground. The creature let out a harsh snarl and rushed his foe with primal rage. Werner grabbed one wrist that was heading for his throat and forced it upwards, spinning the undead monster around with one arm behind its back and Werner’s other hand grasping what little hair it had left. His form wasn’t graceful or trained, but the raw power he possessed was enough to overcome the undead. He forced the beast against the wall and repeatedly slammed its face on the coarse brick much to the protest of its free arm, which clawed at Werner’s clothes. The snarling was slowly replaced by the sound of wet meat smacking against a hard surface. The zombie finally went limp, its face replaced by a bloody crater, and fell to the ground.

His heavy breath forming puffs of crystallized air, Werner hastily grabbed his weapons and started running towards the supermarket, the adrenaline pumping through his blood dulling the pain in his knee. Those zombies, the smart ones, rarely hunted alone, and the gunshot would definitely draw more of them out. It was time for Werner to leave Waynesville, but not without some provisions.

Surviving: The End (character-centric; modern zombie survival)

A little late perhaps, but my writing sample is up on my bio!

Mass Effect: Let the Galaxy Burn

I'm here!

Surviving: The End (character-centric; modern zombie survival)

Werner Coetzee

Name: Werner Coetzee

Age:28

Occupation: Mechanic and wheelman

Family: Charlize Coetzee (Mother, deceased), Father (Unknown), Florenda Marino (Ex-girlfriend)

Appearance:

Werner stands at 6’1 weighing in at 185 lbs, with broad shoulders and lean muscle, accentuated further by an almost complete lack of body fat from a poor diet in the last nine months. His hands are rough and strong from a life of working on his vehicles, but still manage more delicate work. Werner’s right pinkie finger is missing from the first knuckle up, leaving a rounded stump. Most of his body is a mess of scars and tattoos accumulated over time, some faded, and others very new. While many might consider scars to be attractive, few would consider those that mar Werner’s skin very appealing. Most are non-uniform splashes of rough flesh from burns or road rash, but a few, like the two that dig into his cheek, have been acquired through other means. Where there are no scars, Werner has filled his skin with large and elegant tattoos, none with any deep meaning, just art.

Werner wears lace-up brown leather boots, slim-fitting jeans, a black thermal shirt beneath his grey leather jacket, mechanix gloves, and a pair of cheap wayfarer sunglasses. Werner also wears a worn coyote brown shemagh around his neck, the only keepsake he owns from his father.

Blood Type: O-

Immune: No

Bio: Werner Coetzee never really had much of a chance at a normal life. His mother, Charlize, was a young woman who left her home to earn her fame as a showgirl in Las Vegas. The naive girl was quickly seduced by a young man with a passion for cars, who later came to be Werner’s father. His father left Charlize, never knowing she was pregnant, forcing her to bear the full burden of an infant son with no means of an income and no family in Vegas. Without any other option, Werner’s mother resorted to prostitution in order to feed her child, often neglecting her own health for his. Much to Charlize’s disappointment, Werner slid through school with few interests, barely passing his classes. He deeply yearned to know his father’s identity, but was only told that his dad’s hobby was working on vehicles.

Seeking a connection to his absent father, Werner took this to the extreme, revolving his whole world around engines. From a young age, he worked in a ratty mechanic’s shop, absorbing everything he could about the rugged vehicles that came into the garage. When he turned 16, his first action was to purchase a dirt bike, which he rode constantly both on road and off with fervent zeal. Werner dropped out of high school his final year when his mother died of AIDs, the virus acting very rapidly on her already weakened body. Seeing no future for him in his hometown, he moved to Los Angeles with nothing but his bike and the clothes on his back, similar to his mother. His goals, however, were a little more realistic. With his vast knowledge of vehicles, Werner found a job in a decent mechanic shop within the city run by an older man named Luke. The aged mechanic, witnessing Werner’s skills as a driver on race tracks, recognized his unique skill set and offered him a different type of employment in addition to working in his shop. Luke suggested that Werner serve as a getaway driver for criminals on occasion, knowing several men within the criminal network. Luke told Werner that in his youth, he did the same, and saw the same abilities in him. Werner reluctantly took the job, for his mother instilled a strong sense of morals in him, but he was desperately hurting for cash. He slowly sank into the criminal world, building a modest reputation for himself, but still retaining his strong morals.

At 24, Werner met a beautiful Italian woman of the same age at the mechanic shop when she took her beat-up car in. Having no vehicle for the night, Werner gave her a ride home and learned her name was Florenda Marino, and, like his mother, she sought fame in Hollywood. The two quickly developed an intimate relationship, with Werner constantly urging Florenda to pursue her dreams, as if to redeem his mother’s failed ones. Despite Werner’s relatively quiet disposition, the couple seemed to be made for each other. Unfortunately, after three years, Florenda broke off their relationship. She always feared he was involved in criminal activity. The apartment, while modest, was much nicer than what a mechanic could afford. Some nights, Werner would be out until the next morning, though he never reeked of booze as one would expect. She realized just how dangerous he was when he burst into their apartment with a gunshot wound to his shoulder and hastily pried the bullet out, asking her to stitch the open hole. Florenda helped him, then promptly packed her bags and left. The last time he saw the woman, her stomach was looking slightly larger than usual, but he thought nothing of it.

Werner continued his life without Florenda, though with less enthusiasm and ambition. He began questioning his life as a criminal, albeit a fairly tame one, and if it was one he could truly be proud of. Luke, however, was practically a father to him, and constantly encouraged his illegal career, so he stuck with his life as a wheelman. In the back of his mind, though, Werner felt he should become something greater than a glorified criminal. One day, a small package was delivered to the mechanic’s apartment filled with his mother’s belongings, sent by the current occupant of his run-down childhood home. He found a photo of his mother with a man whose features were very similar to his, and Werner assumed this man to be his father. He also found an unsent letter with an address in Missouri, and upon opening it discovered it was meant to be sent to his father. With these items in tow, the mechanic took a vacation and headed to Missouri in search of his dad. A few months into his search, the whole world seemed to go to shit. Survival quickly took over as a priority, but he is still searching for his father despite the chaos around him, despite the slim odds of him even being alive.

Personality: Werner doesn't ever really say much. He’s a very reserved and calm man for the most part, only speaking when needed. Werner isn’t shy, he's simply a man of few words. He is much more content to stand and listen during the conversation, absorbing everything like a sponge. Ironically, he hates being alone, and is much more comfortable in the presence of others. Werner is exceptional at reading emotions since he focuses on others so much, but has a difficult time expressing his own feelings. While he speaks with good grammar, his vocabulary is pretty limited, exhibiting his lack of a proper education. His knowledge rarely extends outside of mechanics, but he displays a very deep understanding of the entire subject.

Despite being a criminal, Werner is a reasonably moral man. He doesn't steal, take advantage of women, and keeps his vices in check. Outside of his job as a wheelman, Werner always tries to make good choices, though sometimes he fails in this endeavor. He is quick to recognize mistakes, however, and does his best to learn from them. That being said, there is a much darker side to him that few see. When backed into a corner, he is willing to do whatever is needed to survive, and these actions sometimes disturb him afterwards.

Werner is generally a very trusting and kind man, going out of his way to help others when possible. Those who are very close to him, such as Luke and Florenda, however, have his undying loyalty. He would do anything for those within this circle, even if it meant risking his own life.

Gear:
29” Crowbar
Original Colt M1911 in a shoulder holster, one mag in the pistol and two in each pants pocket
KA-BAR strapped to belt
Black Northface Recon backpack containing:
Light blanket
Spare clothes
Tooth brush, tooth paste, travel-sized shampoo
2 canned chili
2 plastic bottled water
Small tool kit
Zippo lighter
Field cleaning kit
Knife sharpener
Multitool
Duct tape
550 Para Cord
4-Cell LED Maglite
Map of Missouri
Crumpled photo of parents

Strengths:
Work Horse: Years of wrenching away and working out has built up some persistent muscle in Werner’s body.
Wheelman: Werner is an outstanding driver, capable of operating any vehicle put in front of him with ease.
Grease Monkey: With more than a decade of experience working on cars, Werner is able to repair almost anything with a motor in it.

Weaknesses:
Desert Denizen: Werner’s body is accustomed to the Southwest’s warm climate, and suffers in Missouri’s winter. He is more susceptible to illness and general sluggishness from the cold.
Old Injuries: A motorcycle accident years ago shattered Werner’s left knee, and while it has healed, long stints of jogging/running will cause him significant pain.
High School Dropout: Werner dropped out of school at the age of 18 and never was the brightest pupil, so his knowledge is limited to cars and little else.

Writing Sample

Viscous crimson blood slowly fell from the sharpened tip of the rusty screwdriver, landing on the smooth dirt floor before blossoming into the packed soil. The makeshift shank was soon to follow, the thick fingers wrapped around its grip almost prying themselves free. Bits of flesh that clung to the weapon were shaken off as it hit the ground, the small shockwave stirring up a small plume of earth. A veritable dust storm followed as a ragged body fell nearby, rivers of violet gore flowing freely from gaping incisions in his neck. A portrait of both surprise and gruesome pain filled the struggling man’s facial expressions, his wild eyes fixated on the straw ceiling overhead. Feeble hands clutched at his neck, but there was no stopping the torrential flood of blood escaping his body. As darkness slowly invaded his fading vision, he was met with a face. Not one of an enemy, but of a friend, or so he had believed. This traitor’s expression, twisted in guilt and sadness, was the last the dying man saw before his hands, covered in deep, festering bite marks, fell limp at his sides.

Abduwali staggered back away from his friend’s corpse, watching in horror as his life ebbs away. The young African felt what little food he had eaten in the morning work its way out of his convulsing throat, tightening and loosening, before the contents of his stomach spilled onto the ground. He wiped his mouth and briefly looked to the man he once called his brother, Hufan. Abduwali glanced back at the body, his eyes filled with tears, before fleeing the hut.

They were cutting through the dense African jungle, machetes in hand, carving what seemed to be a never-ending road. The sun burned into the men’s naked backs, turned coal black from constant exposure to its rays. Sweat ran down their faces in rivers, the massive canopy capsulating the morning heat. Abduwali turned to his brother, who was slicing through the dense grass and vines with ease, a harsh grunt accompanying each swing. The two brothers, along with the 18 others who accompanied them, were part of the Uganda People’s Defence Force, currently occupied with blazing a trail which would link two tribal villages so the communities could trade commodities, and later a trade route would be built to a larger city. In theory, the plan was brilliant, but as the dangers of the all-consuming African wildness dwindled the men’s numbers, many started having second thoughts. Just as the sun was setting and darkness set over the green forest, the trees began to thin out, revealing a small cluster of huts positioned near a muddy river. The tired soldiers let out a cheer and despite their exhaustion, ran to the tribe, where they were met with much hospitality.

Abduwali, Hufan, and the other men settled down around a roaring fire and feasted on fish stew while the villagers entertained them with the story of their tribe. Abduwali was particularly intrigued by the village’s deities, having studied tribal religions in his school. He knew that despite the ludicrousy of the stories, many of them had a true parallel. Hufan, on the other hand, simply feigned interest while he buried his face into the food like a rabid dog. The women and children eventually returned to their huts as the lubisi, a type of strong fermented drink, was passed around amongst men. Suddenly, the tribe’s chief, an intimidating man with corded muscle and a great beard, stood up and spoke. “Have you men ever seen Death before?” His voice was low and serious, his heavy brow lying low on his angular features.

The slightly intoxicated soldiers exchanged glances, a strange fear taking over them. Abduwali replied,”All of us have. We’re soldiers, even if we build roads now.”

The chieftain shook his head. “No, I speak of Ogbunabali, God of Death. He is here, in this very village. Come, let me show you.”

The soldiers were hesitant to follow, but fearing that they might offend their host, the group obliged. The chief, along with three other tribals armed with long spears and torches, led the soldiers away from the village and to the mouth of a small cave in the side of a cliff. “Come, come,” the chief urged as he ducked into the dark cave. Abduwali was the first soldier to enter, followed by his brother, though they both soon regretted this. A ghoulish moaning echoed through the walls, the exact source not detectable. It was human, but the voice undoubtedly belonged to a tortured soul. The smell that accompanied it, the sweet stench of rotting flesh, filled the air just as much as the pained groans. Panic gripped a few of the soldiers, who fled the cave entirely. The two men carrying torches entered, illuminating the nightmarish contents of the small cavern. Tucked away in the corner was a small wooden cage containing what was left of a man after years of decomposition in a humid environment. In life, the man might have been 25 years old, with voluminous black hair, lean muscle, and a rounded face. Now, that muscle was exposed to open air as his skin seemed to rot off in hunks which sat at the bottom of the cage. The skin he did have was slate grey, and hung loosely on his frame. Where his eyes once would have been were empty orbits that still seemed to fixate themselves on the visitors. The caged man’s jaw moved in a grinding motion as he moaned, revealing jagged black teeth. His slender fingers grasped the wood around him and weakly rattled as he heard the group grow nearer. “This, my friends, is Ogbunabali. This is Death,” The chieftain said in reverence. “In life, he was named Busingye, but that was long ago. Once he was bitten by another possessed by Ogbunabali, his spirit was casted from his body, replaced with the essence of Death. Any whom he feasts on share this fate as well,” the chieftain continued. “Though he takes the shape of man, do not be fooled. Ogbunabali feels no pain, and does not fear death like you or me.”

As if on command, one of the tribe members thrusted his spear into the man’s stomach much to the horror of the soldiers. The spear was retracted, and no response was present in the man even as his intestines were partially pulled from his body. “There is one way the afflicted can escape this tortured life. One hour after being bitten, they must be killed, else they will walk the world eternally in the form of Ogbunabali,” the chieftain finished.

Neither Abduwali nor Hufan slept well in their hut that night. “Abduwali, how can they do that to a man?” Hufan whispered harshly from his bed. “Something must be done.” Even growing up, Hufan had been the one controlled by his emotions, rather than thinking rationally like his brother.

“Do you want us all to be killed?” Abduwali replied cooly. “We can help the man later, but for now, just go with what the tribe believes.” Hufan did not reply, and Abduwali fell into an uneasy slumber.

Abduwali awoke a few hours later as he heard blood curdling screams outside his hut. He quickly grabbed the nearest object to him, a rusted screwdriver, and instinctively prepared to defend himself. A figure burst through the door, and Abduwali almost attacked him, but he screamed,”Wait Abu! It is me, Hufan!” The use of his childhood nickname verified that it was indeed his brother.

Abduwali let out a sigh of relief, though the adrenaline rushing through his body had not yet left. “Hufan, what’s going on outside?”

“It was an accident Abu… I tried to help that man in the cave, but as soon as I got him out, the bastard bit me on the hand,” Hufan replied, his voice wavering. “Now he’s in town, and the villagers can’t find him. Its almost like he’s hunting us.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long has it been since you were bit?”

Hufan turned around, looking out the door as the villagers dispersed in panic. “Maybe an hour?”

It was not long after that Abduwali drove the screwdriver into his own brother’s throat. He burst out the hut, eyes filled with tears, and sprinted out of the village, his bare callused feet pounding against the soft, wet grass. Even as his breath grew ragged, Abduwali didn’t stop running until he was halfway through the trail from village to village, where the screaming was far behind him. His pace fell to a staggering walk, his lungs on fire and brain deprived of oxygen. The soldier fell to the ground, the intrusive noises of the jungle slowly fading away as his vision did the same.

Abduwali awoke as the sun rose, feeling weak with illness. He looked to his hands, covered in open sores from cutting through the forest and the blood of his brother before making his way to his feet and continuing the long trek to the other village. His pace was uneasy, and putting one foot before the other seemed like an impossible task, but he finally made it to the more civilized village. Abduwali’s mind, now numb with fever, didn’t even think to alert the tribe of the approaching threat from the north. As he shuffled mindlessly through the village center, surrounded by the men and women of the community, he felt a small hand tug at his pants, and looked down to see a young boy, naked from the waist up, holding a crumpled photo. “Is this yours?” The boy said in a small voice, holding the photo up to Abduwali. He took the picture and brought it up to his eyes, where he made out a large family, including two twins sitting at the front. Those two were Abduwali and his brother. The photo must have slipped out of his pocket as he made his way through town. Tears ran down Abduwali’s face as he rubbed his bloodied thumb against the photo. His vision narrowed for one last time, his eyes catching sight of his brother before completely failing.

Y Crisis: decline of the Y chromosome

Etcetera said
Japan should be neutral.

This would make sense. All the historically neutral, aggressive, and defensive countries would predictably remain in the same state, for some male influence would remain even as the population trickled away. That and sheer cultural beliefs would pretty much ensure who would be the aggressors and so forth.

Y Crisis: decline of the Y chromosome

But the good ole US and A has tons of ladies in the military! With guns! Maybe they'll be the antagonist, that cold provide us with a fresh perspective. And Japan... Oh Japan. There's no predicting what they would do. I can't even imagine.

Y Crisis: decline of the Y chromosome

ImportantNobody said
I posted at the same time you did with an explanation to this issue. Saudi Arabia was the first to take advantage of this, and that is all they needed for that all important preemptive strike to take place. By the time schematics cold have been stolen they already had their butts whooped.

Fair, but personally I'd still opt for a more gender-equal country to serve as the antagonist. France, for instance, has a much more educated female population already in various seats of power in politics, and many more are serving as scientists, soldiers, and so on, allowing them to run their country with much more ease than Saudi Arabia. Of course, my knowledge of Arabic culture is pretty much nil, so I'll leave this up to you :D

EDIT:
Sounds good to me! I just like the storyline as simple as possible so my brain doesn't explode. Politics hurt my head.

Y Crisis: decline of the Y chromosome

Etcetera said
They have a huge country, correct? We have evidence that it was once lush, full of trees and plains. Perhaps female engineering managed to restore it to that state,and create an enormous empire through that.

But then so would every other arid country. Remember, even the best kept secrets never last. The atomic bomb was kept away from the rest of the world for only a few years before the schematics were stolen by Russians and distributed worldwide.

I suggest, in order to keep the plot a little more simple, the y chromosome breaks down within the span of 2-4 years, dropping the male to female birth ratio to 1:10 so we only have to rewrite 20 or so years of human history rather than 40.