SilentWriter83 — Roleplayer Guild

I N F E C T E D
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M   A   R   C   H               2   0   2   1

T H E   P A S T

Nobody knew how it happened or where it even started, but that’s how the stories always goes, isn’t it?  Yeah, that’s what everyone thought, too.  It was just so fucking stereotypical like a cliché Hollywood zombie drama.  Hell, some people even thought this was the equivalent of the Orson Welles’ 1938 War of the World’s Broadcast.  No one wanted to believe it was happening.  Except, the only reason the broadcasting stopped was because there was no one left to keep the transmissions going, and as the television screens went blank and the radio waves fell silent, it was evident this wasn’t one of those stupid hoaxes or misconstrued news stories.  This was bloody real.  They even refused to call them ‘Zombies.’  Instead, the media labeled them ‘Lurkers’ to prove how fucking real of a shit show this was because just about every Goddamned person seemed to have been given a backstage pass to join the cast.

No one was safe.

Not everyone was affected equally, though.  The rich and the governing forces had a much easier time than the rest of society.  In fact, it would have been more devastating if everyone had been dealt the same fate.  At least, that’s what the government claimed.  Maybe that claim was just another one of those propaganda pieces being used for control to calm and herd the masses out of the anarchy after the gruesome bloodbath, but not many people cared if it was.  All people wanted was safety, and so that’s what the government gave them.

To say America was doing great before the spread of the Lurkers was an huge overstatement.  For years, the government had been forcing its citizens to dig each other’s graves deeper and deeper every year.  The rich got richer while the poor got poorer.  It was a fucking mess, and there was probably going to be a revolt sooner or later. The economy was crashing from another one of those depressions that was unfortunately more devastating than the 1920’s Great Depression.  Unpayable debt and unemployment had increased beyond America’s holding point, and before anyone could do anything about it, the world’s most powerful nation was crumbling into shambles just like the run-down infrastructure the taxes could no longer fix.

It was poor governing, that was for sure.  There weren’t enough jobs available to make ends meet anywhere.  At the federal level, the government wasn’t making enough money in taxes and neither was the government at the state level.  In a desperate attempt to salvage what they could, social services were cut.  Welfare, Medicare, and Social Security were slashed to focus on the energy crisis and dwindling resources.  The birth rate was hitting an all time high, and people were needing more and more unavailable assistance.  It was horrible.  There just wasn’t enough of anything for anyone, and the inner city grime was pouring into the suburbs like nobody’s business.  The only decent places to live were in the walled off or gated communities that only the few rich people could afford.

People thought it would end there.  They didn’t think that things could possibly get any worse. But, things can always get worse. They always got worse, and so they did.  It all started in Atlanta (or that’s how the rumor goes), three years after the government took its first big hit with slashing social service programs. No one knew what it was, or how it spread.   The media tried to get everyone to believe it was contained and merely just a rare happenstance here and there.  They did a pretty damn good job, but the ‘isolated incidents’ were getting worse and worse, until these ‘isolated incidents’ were no longer secluded.  They were happening all over the place, and the media had done such a good job covering up the damage that no one believed what was actually happening until it was too late.

There was only a matter of time before someone like Jeff Bezos, the second wealthiest man in America, stepped out of his ‘Billionaire Bunker’ acting as some savior to the total chaos and sanguine anarchy ravishing through the nation.   He offered to help with funding the military-run Safety Shelters, communities for those in need, or so the government claimed.  However,  just like everything else: things weren’t the way they seemed.
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J   A   N   U   A   R   Y               2   0   2   9

T H E   P R E S E N T

A little less than a decade after the outbreak, and the world is still recovering.  Things look different; much different.  The Safety Shelters never did look like something that would last a long time, and it was true.  They deteriorated quickly, and the epidemic was far worse than anyone could have ever imagined. Even with all the Hollywood fictional warnings, no one saw this much damage happening.  The United States had been broken up into eight different zones with several Safety Shelters spread throughout those regions.  It wasn’t much by any means.  No, it was just all they had, and it was more than starting to show.  The Safety Shelters looked more and more like those run down African villages that existed before the ‘Apocalypse’ every day.  Rations were getting smaller and served farther apart, and the Lurkers were still out there.  It was still dangerous beyond the compounds of the Safety Shelters, and because of this, there were routine procedures called Lurker Drills that people living in the compounds had to perform once a week in case of a Lurker attack.  

No one felt safe, anymore, and the people, who were old enough to remember the times before the ‘Apocalypse,’ looked back on those days with remorse for not being thankful for what they had at the time.  The government was promising hope every day despite the failing conditions.  Each day survived was a day closer to the end of the ‘Apocalypse.’  Unfortunately, survival inside the Safety Shelters, was becoming a luck of the draw. 

G A M E   P L A Y
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T H E   F U T U R E

SURVIVOR | GREASER  | LONER | GOVVY

Which one will you choose to be?

Survivor - @Briza, @Remipa Awesome
Greaser - @SilentWriter83, @Briza, @Spud, @Catchphrase
Loner - @SilentWriter83, @Remipa Awesome
Govvy - @Briza, @Spud

Zones are military organized and government controlled areas that hold several Safety Shelters throughout its region.  There are a total of eight (8) factions in the remnants of America.  Each faction has two to three Safety Shelters.  Each Safety Shelter has a fifteen foot concrete wall around the compound.  All factions are loosely connected through the means of military personnel and shadow handed government officials who only make their appearances every so often.  In this particular game, your character(s) will be located in the faction known as ‘Zone B,’ which consists of Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida.  Zone B is one of the wealthier of the factions, being near D.C.  It’s fairing pretty well considering the circumstances, but starvation isn’t some thing of the past.   Imports are getting smaller and rarer, and the Greasers aren’t making things easier as they often times ransack transportation vehicles.  The government is currently planning ways to fight the Greasers without wasting too many resources.  Of course, the Greasers aren’t the only problems.  Criminal activity is rampant inside the Safety Shelters.  Survival is the key, and when humans get desperate and pushed to the brink of insanity or death, they’ll choose insanity every time.  Although governing varies by Safety Shelters and Zones, the laws being promoted have begun to crack down on the anarchy spreading through the compounds.  Punishment for criminal activity is being kicked out and left for dead outside the concrete walls; unless you’re a Greaser, then you’re hung as decoration on the wall as a warning.

Life in the Safety Shelter is poor.  Thin walls separate small make shift households. They looked clean and nice once, but the dirt and rust has started tearing them apart.  There’s some sort of running water, as cold as it might be.  There is a strict one (1) childbirth only per woman law heavily being forced due to failing resources.  Abortions are mandatory for women pregnant with their second child..  Rations are handed out a through first-come-first-serve basis.  Although, some of the Survivors have managed to start their own small businesses, fixing torn clothes, helping with ailments, education, et cetera, money isn’t a currency worth much except for maybe historical purposes.  Survivors pay through necessities such as the aforementioned industries,  service, food, and items the seller might find useful.  It’s all trade--haggling and bartering.  It’s also not unusual for thievery, which is heavily punished despite the deed’s rampant popularity.

The life outside of the compounds is pretty fucking desolate. The military had come into American cities and bombed them into pure shit.  The country sides may seem nice, but most of them are patrolled by the government or still infested with Lurkers.  That’s not to say there’s a whole lot of crop to go around, but it is something worth noting. Despite the shit storm from the government, Greasers have managed pretty fucking well.

This game shall begin in North Carolina.

A person who chose to live inside 'Zone B,'  which is one of the military factions encompassing several Safety Shelters.

Survivors are the few citizens who made it past the clearance and security check just in time before the military began showering America’s cities will silver bullets and flashy bombs.  Most Survivors are from the upper part of the infamous Top One Percent.  They had priority when it came to screenings, but that didn’t mean the lower class was completely shut-out.  There’s a hierarchy amongst the Survivors, and unless a Survivor was in good favor with a government official, he might as well have been swept under the rug as the rougher, lower class with more street smarts started getting rights. The government is tightening its reigns on criminal activity, though.  As rations get smaller, population control is becoming the go-to option.

A person who is part of a gang of individuals who chose not to live in a Safety Shelter under the rule of the government. 'Greaser' is the term used by the people living in the military factions, and therefore, each Greaser Gang has their own name and way of governing themselves.

Greasers are the enemy of the government.  At least, that’s what the Survivors are told, and the stories of transportation vehicles getting robbed only adds to the narrative.  The people who were tired of ‘Big Brother’ watching them and having the hawk’s eyes shining down on everything they did, the people who became known as the slang term ‘Greasers’ were the ones who collectively refused to join the Safety Shelters instead of letting the remnants of the old world’s government try to save them.  If they managed to live through the military war zones then they are now their own governing source of scavengers, looters, and fighters.  Greaser Gangs run far, wide, and in-between.  Their own powering systems vary by Gang but one thing most of them have in common is they’ve hunkered down in the old military forts that are littered around the south from the Civil War.  They aren’t the best, but the Greasers can’t say they haven’t made a life for themselves more comfortable than the prisoners still slaving for ‘Big Brother’ in those damn Safety Shelters, and it’s true that Greasers face the brunt of the Lurkers who roam the streets unabated.  They also find stray people and offer to take them in.  Greaser allies, rivalries, quarrels, and wars have also been known to take place.  When resources are thin, so are the lines between right and wrong.

A common hierarchy for the Greaser Gangs consist of a Leader, a General, a Captain, a Lieutenant, and a Colonel.  Some of the Gangs follow less structure and some follow more or different styles of leadership.

There are only a total five (5) Greaser Gangs in the remnants of North Carolina.

A person who chose to neither live in a Safety Shelter nor join a Greaser Gang and therefore, lives on his own.

Loners are the rare few that toughed it out alone. Some tried it; many died; most didn’t make it. It was hard enough surviving in gangs, which were sometimes low educated on politics and brute force had become the ruler. But damn, it was hellah near impossible to make it as a Loner. Those fucking monsters, the Lurkers, God, they roam--they hunt--they devour. A single person is like a suicide mission. Even though most Greasers have been roughing it since the beginning, the bravest of them don’t dare going out on a run alone.  All it takes is one mistake when no one else is around to help. If you think you’re up for the challenge...think again.

A person who is part of the ruling authorities or government that oversees the operations of 'Zone B.'

Govvies are the government officials who now have power over the eight (8) factions.  Govvies are made up of two different groups from the Pre-Apocalyptic America: the Federal Government and the Billionaire Big Wigs.  There are different levels of government: the Federal Level, the Militant Level, and the Faction Level, and yes, Washington D.C. is still up and running--or maybe, crawling. Semantics are semantics.  What is important is the government still has it’s nest, no matter how ugly it may look.  It’s got its fucking engine grinding.

 Each individual Safety Shelter has:
Head - One Person
Council - Five to Ten Persons
Enforcement - Twenty to Forty Persons
Distributors (food, water, medical) - Fifty to Seventy Persons
Citizens - No more than Five Hundred Persons (most Shelters have less due to mortality rates)

B A C K D R O P
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N O R T H   C A R O L I N A

It’s fucking bleak out there, like someone mixed all the colors together and left the backdrop with a charcoal smoke and sunless sky.  Fuck though, it wasn’t a backdrop.  It was reality, and damn, even during the days when the clouds moved just enough to let some sunlight through, it was humid and murky, and the shit frowns on everyone’s faces might as well have drowned out any attempts at lightening up the mood.  Sure, there were people with positive outlooks, seeing through the dismal void of hopelessness, but all in all, asphyxiating on dry mouths or malnourishment was seeming like the only option outside of losing a self-induced battle with the open end of a loaded gun barrel. God though, getting a gun was hard in itself.  Surprisingly, most people had them, but that was the fucking problem.  Crime was increasing on the compounds, and enforcement was limited.  There were rumors that some of the West factions had resorted to some sort of Darwinist Cannibalism.  There wasn’t much fact or information on the scenario--communication was shit, but the rumors spread like wildfires, anyways.  

‘Movies don’t cause psychos, movies make psychos more creative,’ or so the saying goes.  That’s exactly how it was.  Rumors spread; people got ideas; shit happened; and fear continued being the national anthem.  To say everyone was scared was utter bullshit, though. There were the psychos, for one--they weren’t bloody scared.  Not that the government didn’t want them to be.  There were also the people who knew shit was going to get better.  Yeah, things could always get worse, but that didn’t mean things couldn’t get better, too.  Sure, crops were low yielding--bugs, disease, drought.  The food was scarce, consequently, and so, the mortality rate wasn’t promising--fuck all, survival was more important of an education than history and complex reading.  Crime was at it’s all time high, and that’s without even touching the big stuff.  It was fucking grim.  So grim, a lot of the people who thought this was just a bad storm--a storm that would eventually blow over--were looked at as village idiots.  There was a level of cynicism every one had to play in order to be taken seriously.  That was life.  It wasn’t edgy.  It wasn’t negative.  It was fucking reality. People either got it; or they didn’t; and most people did.

Cynicism wasn’t just for the Survivors, though.  The Greasers and Loners caught it, too.  No one was safe.  Not everyone was affected equally, though.  It was a different type of cynicism, but it was there.  Denying the shit storm was stupid, but they, at least, had more free roam.  Some Survivors hadn’t left the compounds since they first stepped foot in one, and unbeknownst to the Greasers, the Loners, and the Survivors, the Greasers and Loners were faring better than the Survivors.  No one was faring better than the Govvies, though; those fat cats may not be so fat, now, but they got top priority--the best of the best, which wasn’t much, but it was better than whatever the rest were having.  Some Survivors questioned; some did not.  It was a mixed bag, but one thing was for certain, the Survivors were breaking.  The Govvies even had a joke, “Who are the real monsters, now, the Survivors or the Lurkers?”  The Survivors were getting desperate to survive; and to think they had been desperate from the very beginning.  Cannibalism was actually an option, now.  Oh, and Greasers were getting desperate, too, but not like the Survivors.  Some Greaser Gangs in Louisiana actually teamed up together (imagine that) and went to war with one of the Safety Shelters.  It was bloody fucking awful.  The most prized possession thing the Govvies took from the scenario was how ruthless the Survivors fought.  Insanity seemed to have its perks. The human psyche never ceased to amaze just as it never ceased to circle back to the same old stupid question --

W H O  W O U L D   Y O U   K I L L   T O   S U R V I V E ?

Whether a man was a Govvy, a Survivor, a Greaser, or a Loner, he had blood on his hands, one way or another.   No one could say he was innocent.  Life was fucked up like that, but innocence didn’t matter anymore.  Sure, there were some religions still holding onto the loose ends of soul-cleansing, but all-in-all, it was survival and the growing occasional suicide.  The younger generations were doing better than the older generations, but that was expected, right?  If only the reasons for survival weren’t attributed to the bleak mindset of the younger ones.  It was like watching the human race willfully accept their place as rotting shit or monsters with no ethics.  It was a terrifying thing to watch, and conforming or turning a blind eye was the best way for the older ones to cope.  Suicide, too, but that never really solved anything, right?

Right, that’s why there had to be hope.  The Govvy offered hope to the Survivors, and the Greaser Gangs got hope through each other  The Loners were a completely different animal, though.  No one knew what gave them hope or how they even survived.  It wasn’t as much a mystery as much as it was the inability to even get close to one.  Trust was hard earned everywhere, and with hostilities rising, it was fucking obvious, things needed to change. This whole situation needed to change.  Not only were resources failing, but humanity was failing. Maybe it was time for Earth to be just as uninhabitable as the rest of the planets in the Solar System, but God knew there were some fighters out there--whether they were in the Govvy, the Safety Shelters, a Greaser Gang, or living all by themselves.

It’s easier than it sounds.  The Lurkers are still out there.  Maybe not as many as before, but danger is danger.  Lurkers are not to be underestimated.  As the ‘infection’ spread and evolved, the Lurkers became more and more dangerous.  Sure, there were less of them, but damn they could be terrifying.  Resources are low, and trying to kill a Lurker going berserk isn’t the most efficient way to handle scarcity. Sure, all it takes is a bullet to the head (nothing else really kills the bitches unless the head’s fucked), but making the shot one hundred percent of the time is some fake Hollywood horseshit.  This isn’t some computer generated imagery or a premeditated script with one-liner action dialogue.  This is real fucking life.  Real people dying.  Real blood. Real time. Kill or get killed.  And yeah, there aren’t any room for mistakes, but fuck all if more aren’t about to be made.

A R E   Y O U   R E A D Y  ?

. . .
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