The infection must’ve peaked 20 years ago, in the initial wave. Nobody is quite sure what the infection is, the scientists didn’t have time to find out and no one left has the means for research. The world has lost 70% of its population, with most survivors being personnel in corrupt private militias, struggling farmers and hunters in strongholds, unorganized groups of bandits, and lone survivors fortunate enough to have stayed alive. The cities are practically untouchable, as the infected have overrun it, and most forests are constantly patrolled by whoever managed to claim it.
Please, tell about your character! They’ll get a mission, go through challenges, and meet very eccentric, strange people along the way. They can be basically anyone, no real restrictions.
Kelly seems a bit put on edge, “How the hell we know there’s even bandits? Saint-Peters said they’d be here ‘in an hour’ hours ago.” He crosses his arms.
Sue glances around the house, “He’s got plenty of supplies, anyhow. Unless he’s going into the city I don’t think he’d have this much after being robbed.”
Theres the sound of metal and the zombie’s groans from the open basement door.
Vincent gets the door open, revealing a zombie that’s clearly been infected a long time. The thing itself is wearing a yellow sundress and half chewed off shoes, aswell as a rusting wedding ring. The second it sees the living room full of living, it lunges forward only to be yanked back and to the floor by a chain connecting to its ankle. Vincent steps away, looking at the guests, “She…she doesn’t like strangers much. I apologize for her…attitude.”
Vincent crouches down next to it, chastely kissing a rotting leatherish hand before holding the thing to the floor. He starts pulling it back down the stairs leading into the basement, managing to go deep enough downstairs to where you can’t see him.
Sue looks at the others in the room. “…he serious?”
Vincent seems to withdrawal into himself even more. It takes a long, drawn-out moment before he finally speaks, “My wife’s gotten home. Can…may I go greet her?” He stands and moves towards the door, not yet touching it.
Vincent sits on the couch, withdrawing into himself quite a bit. “They come in through the front door. There’s not even a point in keeping it locked anymore.”
You all wait in silence for what seems like well past an hour. The muffled groans of that zombie seem to be stuck in one place, unmoving despite how much time has passed. Vincent seems to grow more anxious by the second. “They’ll be here soon. I promise.”
Suddenly, there’s a loud CLANK, and the zombie’s moans seem closer. A door to what you assumed was a bathroom begins to be hit on, with slow, scratchy bangs.
The distant, muffled moan of a zombie rings through everyone’s ears. Vincent hurries to come back to the group, carrying a tray with rotting fruit, not-quite-cooked-enough meat, and crackers. He glances around when he hears the groans too, before smiling a forced, awkward smile. “…don’t worry, those people can’t get in.” Vincent sets the tray down on the coffee table, next to an antique ceramic lamp with little statues of a prince and princess on either side of the lamp’s neck. He hurries to the kitchen again.
In the short time he’s gone, you can squint at the blanket’s logo. It’s a string of peeling white words, ‘Kenning’s Home for the Mentally Unwell’.
Vincent comes back, with an unopened bottle of wine in hand. “Who drinks?”
“Well…” Nicole seems hesitant to speak, glancing at Sue. “Adrian’s wife was my best friend, did you hear about her? And when she died, Talia knew I was unhappy there. I was the only one she told about the coup. She invited me to join the coup when the time came.” She glances into the kitchen, wary of Vincent. “Now that I look at it, she probably just wanted my support so the kids and old folk would see the coup as sensible. I…I hope Adrian wasn’t in too much pain when they killed him. And I hope Talia’s not dead.”
“They come every week. They’ll be here…maybe in an hour or so.” Vincent paces around his living room. “You can sit. Are you hungry?”
Through an open door, you can see his bedroom. There’s no sheet on the twin-size bed, only a single pillow without a case and a heavy, uncomfortable looking grey blanket. There’s a logo on the blanket’s corner, but you can’t quite read it from the couch. Not only is the bed oddly barren, but there’s a toppled bookshelf against one of the walls. When no one immediately answers his question, Vincent retreats to the filthy, fly-buzzing kitchen anyway.
“Sure.” Vincent looks at Jacob, then the strong, armed group behind him. “There’s…a group of about 5, that keep coming here to rob me of my supplies. Could you come in to wait for them?” He fully opens his door. The second he does, however, you’re hit with a nasty smell that’s a mix of rot and cleaning products.
From the view inside his house, it’s very clean. In the living room alone there’s a couch facing a bare wall, an empty bookshelf, and a single table with a model boat on it. Through the kitchen’s doorway, you see a plain white table cloth under a rotting, set meal and a sink full of dishes. Vincent walks deeper into the house to where he’s standing in the living room.
When Jacob knocks on the door, it takes a few minutes for there to be an answer. Finally, Vincent Saint-Peters, or whom you assume to be him, cracks the door open just enough for his bright blue eyes to get a glance at the group. “…” He takes a moment, as if deciding if you’ll kill him on the spot, before he opens the door enough for you to see a tiny bit more of him. He’s wearing an old, cheap-end suit and a tacky cartoon tie.
Vincent Saint-Peters is maybe about 23, with pale, clear skin, neatly combed black hair, and a decently average face. He’s just…some guy, despite the zombies and gangs ravaging humanity itself. He smiles awkwardly, with teeth that have suffered from no dentistry but are decently well-kept. “…can I help you?”
Some members of the group immediately turn around, a young man with a mullet and bow aswell as an older man in a wife-beater and pistol. “Who are ya?” The man with the pistol asks quietly. “This your house?” He points at the house behind him.
The group agrees, standing up and making their way toward the door. “Y’all be careful now. His name’s Vincent Saint-Peters. The little white house an hour or so north.”
With that, the group sets off north. Despite the warnings about Vincent Saint-Peters, most people seem in high spirits. Father Gabriel just seems happy because of the man’s last name, Kelly is happy to get a fight, and Sue and Nicole seem to be almost friends.
After an hour or so of walking, the group sees a small, upkept white house with a perfectly kept lawn. There are no walkers in sight, but the windows have heavy black tarps blocking the view to inside.
Crockett laughs, “City feller. Moved to my great granddaddy’s house after the outbreak. Told me he needed help dealing with a group givin him trouble. Didn’t trust Scotty to go alone, no sir. He’d get himself shot.” He laughs and hits Scott’s back again.
Scott glances at the group, “…guy’s a bit of a weirdo.”
Crockett hits his son on the back again, but this time much harder. Scott shuts his mouth quick. Crockett talks again, “He ain’t that weird. He’s just a bit north. Why don’t y’all go up? Should be time before nightfall.”
Scott draws into himself more, almost defensively, but doesn’t deny you conversation. “Kin, somehow. I think cousins.” He glances up, “He ain’t a man you wanna stay round long.”
With that, Crockett returns with two big jugs of crystal-clear liquid gold. He sets them on the table and pours everyone a more than healthy amount. “That son of a bitch cant cook for shit, but it’s better than me.” Crockett laughs as he hits Scott on the back. In a few minutes, Scott serves everyone’s supper. Kelly and Sue drink and dig in, Nicole just eats, and Father Gabriel refrains from both.
”Yknow,” Crockett starts, “I got a pal who could use a strong group like you. Lives about an hours or so away.”
The teenager’s shoulders tense and he turns to fully face Jacob. He looks him up and down, waits a moment, then speaks, “Scott Hayes.” Scott goes back to working over the stove. His voice is rough and croaky, obviously from bad habits from the smell of smoke on his jacket. “I ‘ont care for much Crockett does.”
Now that the group can get a good look at him, ‘froggy’ is an understatement to his looks. Scott’s not ugly, he just has a uniqueness to his features. He’s got a long oval face with thin, wide lips. The hands that are stirring the pot have rough callouses on the edges of his fingertips, but he doesn’t pay them any mind.
At Jacob’s quiet, he turns back to him. Once he’s had a look, he glances over his shoulder to the rest of the group. “Never seen so many folk before.” Is all he manages.
The second Crockett lays eyes on the fine liquor he jumps from the bed and claps Wood on the shoulder, smiling. “Thank god for ya, son! You’re gettin extra supper, you hear?” He laughs and hits his shoulder once again.
Crockett’s son returns, although he doesn’t acknowledge anyone in the room. It’s clear it’s not from timidness or indifference, but rather from some spite despite how little he knows you. Crockett immediately barks orders for him to cook a dinner of salted venison, canned baked beans, and scratch mashed potatoes, in which his only response is, “Yessir.” You can see a missing front tooth, despite how healthy the rest of his dentistry seems.
While the son cooks, Crockett finally takes the hand from Wood’s shoulder. “I’ll go get some of that rotgut from out back.” He cackles a bit as he leaves the shed. His son stays silently at the woodstove, his posture relaxing when his father leaves.
In a little more than an hour, the door opens and grunting can be heard. A young man backs into the house, bent over as he drags in a deer. Crockett speaks and the man straightens up to face him. “Boy! We got guests! You mind them and don’t give ‘em any of that lip.” When the teenager doesn’t respond immediately, Crockett continues, “And bring that deer out back, boy, you ain’t butcherin it tonight.”
The young man himself is maybe 16 or 17, with brown shaggy hair and a bit of a froggy face. You can see in his eyes a rebellious spirit that he’s had to beat down due to circumstance, aswell as welts on his wrists and palms that show Crockett’s helped to beat that spirit down himself. He looks from Crockett to the group, nods once and gives a quiet grunt in greeting, and goes to drag the deer out back of the house.
When he leaves, Crockett wastes no time talking about that boy. “My son. You pay him no mind, he knows he only speaks when spoken to when he’s in the company of grown people.”
The other introduce themselves, before finally the man does. “Crockett Hayes, Sue here’s second cousin once removed.” Crockett shakes all y’all’s hands, smiling. “And I got a boy that should be comin round soon, he’s off huntin.” He glances behind him to the woods, as if hoping the guy would appear just then. When he doesn’t, he nods towards his house. “Why ‘on’t y’all come in?”
The inside of Crockett’s house is one room, with a woodstove, pantry, and counter acting as the kitchen, a couch in the corner and dining table with two chairs used as a living space, and a rickety old wire-framed bed in the corner. There’s a ladder leading up to the rafters, where a floor has been fastened and the edges of pallet-bed can be seen.
In every single window sill there is the head of a walker or the skull of, presumably, a human, giving the whole shack a disgusting smell. Theres an umbrella rack full of guns next to Crockett’s bed, as well as an American flag nailed to the wall above it.
”Make y’all’selves comfortable, now. When the boy gets back he’ll make us supper.” Crockett sits heavily on the bed, taking off his iron-tipped shoes.
As the group passes a particularly hard stretch of land to walk through, the sound of a dog barking rings through the steep hills and bluffs. From the tone of it, the dog seems big and mean.
In a quarter of an hour you come across a tree line with bright red rings around their trunks and walker heads arranged in spare branches or hanging from barbed wire. Between the trees are crudely made barbed wire barricades, some not quite cleaned of the remains of any unfortunate creature to be caught in them.
Sue whistles, smiling, “Bastard’s set himself up real nice.” Poor Father Gabriel is so grossed out he’s practically green, with Nicole looking increasingly uneasy and Kelly looking increasingly weirded out.
The group steps over the barricades, to continue walking for a long stretch of hill. Finally, nestled deep and hidden, is a stilted cabin in the middle of a pond with a rotting dock leading to the pond’s edge.
There, on the porch, is a man rocking on a chair, Winchester in his lap, with a big ole hounddog laying next to him. The second the dog catches scent of the group she starts barking, practically running with her teeth bared. She’s only stopped when the old man lets out a sharp whistle and stands.
The man himself looks like he’s approaching his 80s, but moves and speaks like he’s just getting to his 60s. He’s got greasy, thinning grey hair to his shoulders and a whipthin body. He cocks his gun, “Now y’all got 30 seconds to leave my sight ‘fore I send ya…Sue Calhoun?” He smiles, moving as fast as he can across the dock to shake the man’s hand. “Where the hell you been, boy? Who you got withcha?” The old man smiles, hitting Sue in the gut and glancing around at the group.