Everything is completely fucked. It’s been 8 months since the initial exposure to the strain of the “meteor fever” that was brought in by a space rock that hit the plains of America. The sickness throws people into enraged frenzies, attacking anything living. In the beginning it seemed like no big deal, it was in the middle of Kansas, and there’s nothing important there, so the government just “accidentally” dropped a nuke on the area. But it only made it much worse. The cloud kicked all that shit up into the air, and it went south. Southern gangs of rednecks working with the police had no luck in keeping the riots down, and were soon overrun. From there it all went north. New England didn’t stand much of a chance, every crazed southerner didn’t stop running until they hit the coasts, and then they’d run along them, in search of more violence. NATO fell, the US stood alone. Michigan thought themselves safe by putting ships patrolling the lakes and armed military and militia forces on the land borders. Not so. The infected just walked right under them, coming up in every lake, pond, and river. They were completely overrun in a matter of hours. The west was taken more slowly however, being given aid by a more compassionate Russia and China who saw us as their economic crutch. Their conventional warfare however didn’t do them much good. Their numbers were cut down by the millions, and the army of infected grew. All across the plains they stumbled in the dead air that blew the scent of rot they made across the world. The entire east was swallowed, with a couple of main outposts in Alabama standing. Their nationalism held them together it seemed. The West Coast was swallowed without problems, and the Screaming Chinese withdrew, but they slipped up, and the sickness came with them. Their ships were now dirty bombs sliding across the water. North America was completely without government or society of any type. The chaos of South America couldn’t handle the disease, and it swallowed that up slowly but surely too. Once back in China, the sickness took everyone by storm, the flooded streets screamed with mixed infected and non-infected. The Russians didn’t make this mistake, but it didn’t matter, their border couldn’t be effectively blocked off, and the infected swarmed Moscow two months later. The powers of Europe were not large and organized enough to know what to do, they painfully bent over and submitted to the hellish forces. The last continent standing with any government at all was Africa, and the weather conditions made the disease flourish. They steamed through it in a couple of weeks.

You were a bit luckier however; you and a group of survivors left the Houghton area together in a cargo van and went into the deep woods. You had only what you grabbed when you first woke up, that may be a coffee mug or a newspaper. You don’t really know one another yet, but when the van stopped at a run-down cabin on a hill, you knew that you’d become good friends fast, if you didn’t kill one another first. Maybe you can find a common enemy.

Your enemy is an overbearing one. They never tire, don’t need to eat, and don’t deteriorate naturally whatsoever. They are the perfect machines. Their sight is not so good however, but has been replaced by smell. They can pick up a human scent from up to five miles away, and will run toward it without hesitation. They can pick up your taste in the air. Their sense of hearing has become different, it seems like they communicate with one another on a very simple level, like wolves. But it’s very possible to sneak around them, so long as you don’t make any smells. Even even the smallest bodily fluid attracts them. A drop of blood, sweat, excrement, or sexual fluid throws them into a tantrum, and they won’t stop until they’re dead or you are.


[I’d like to make this more about survival than just zombie combat, and I want to be damn sure I am accepting you, so after you do the character sheet, make a sample post. Doesn’t have to pertain to this subject, just a sample post so I can make sure you don’t bother the hell out of me. I am gonna be mean on this one, because so many times before people have made RP’s into hell with their annoying way of posting, you know? Anyway, I’ll be making the big decisions too, so you can’t really god-mode. I’m lenient though, and I do not god-mode in the least bit, so we’ll have fun as long as you all stay committed. Also, try to avoid military background characters, they can be fun, but I am dead bored of them. Seems like every time you want to do a zombie rp, everyone is suddenly a badass marine with 15 guns in the back of his flying Lamborghini. Thanks!]

Character Sheets

Name:
Age: [It’d be cool if not everyone was 20 and perfect]
Sex:
Race:
Height:
Weight:
Eye Color:
Blood Type:
Hair Color:
Other Appearance: [Clothing could be important]
Background:
Weapons: [Have ONE subtle weapon, more will come with time]
Other Inventory: [Could be very important, think about what dumb objects like newspapers can accomplish]
Abilities: [Depends on background]
Strengths: [More like personality traits]
Weaknesses: [Same as above]
Anything I possibly forgot: [Represent]







And these are my guys. I'll be making two.


Name: Henry “Guido” Santoro
Age: 37
Sex: Male
Race: Italian
Height: 5’9
Weight: 150 lbs
Eye Color: Blue
Blood Type: AB
Hair Color: Black
Other Appearance: When he left the house in his cargo van, he was dressed in a pair of jeans from TSC, a carhartt hat, A pair of work boots, a thermal undershirt, and a long carhartt coat.
Background: Grew up in the hunting/fishing scene. Knows how to work hard, and how to deal with people rather well, as he spent time as a merchant at the eastern market in Detroit. Didn’t have much of a father, but was raised by his uncle, who died in the first months of the virus, on a buffalo hunt in the plains.
Weapons: A long steel nail puller
Other Inventory: Couple of blankets in the back, nuts and bolts and other stuff is stuck in the wood slats on the side of the van on the inside. The day’s newspaper with the headline “New England falls” on the front. A violin and banjo.
Abilities: Can hunt and fish. Knows how to clean and prepare meats, cook, and also how to treat the skins. Has decent aim. Plays Banjo, Violin, Guitar, Piano, Bagpipes, and Mandolin.
Strengths: Always positive, Persistent, Able to keep his wits even when it seems the dead are walking.
Weaknesses: Has a bad leg, isn’t very observant, and pretends like he cares, but doesn’t carry out his promises all the time. Not on purpose, just somewhat laid-back.

Name: Lawrence J. Scott
Age: Unknown
Sex: Male
Race: White
Height: 6’6
Weight: 324 lbs
Eye Color: Brown
Blood Type: O
Hair Color: Brown and Curly
Other Appearance: Really super fat guy. Smells like sweat hardcore because of a glandular problem.
Background: Grew up out in the woods, but couldn’t hunt or make friends due to his smell. That led him to a life of seclusion and during that seclusion all he did was read up on everything. He had all kinds of knowledge about everything.
Weapons: Nothing
Other Inventory: A messenger bag full of notebooks with notes in them about just about everything.
Abilities: Knows just about every damn thing you can know about.
Strengths: Knowledge and everything logical and intellectual. Becomes an oracle when stuck in his own awful smell for a long time.
Weaknesses: Any physical exertion at all. Still could hold his own if absolutely necessary. Attracts hordes of infected. When put into the environment that he’ll be in eventually. One that is sealed off from everyone else, he’ll grow to be somewhat insane.

Name: Dakota "J" Michaels

Age: 24

Sex: Male

Race: Caucasian

Height: 6'3

Weight: 187lbs.

Eye Color: Ocean Blue

Blood Type: AB+

Hair Color: Strawberry Blonde

Other Appearance: A bloodsplattered, sleevless blue hoodie from Bass Pro and a pair of dirty blue jeans tucked into a pair of faded brown workboots. Fair skinned with hints of tan pigments.

Background: Raised in the swamps of Louisiana, moved around with his father who was Air Force. He knows how to hunt, fish, and mostly to survive most environments. He was one of the rednecks who tried to help keep the riots in control, when that wasn't possible, he split into the wilderness.

Weapons: A six inch buck knife.

Other Inventory: A box of matches and a canteen with enough water for half a day.

Abilities: Can clean most meat, like meat from deer or fish. Has great vision, having hunted most of his life. Knows how to handle himself in hand-to-hand combat due to his father giving him tips of Air Force defense.

Strengths: Very quiet, doesn't like to interact much. He is pessimistic and optimistic in certain situations.

Weaknesses: Twitches a lot due to a nerve problem. Which can cause infected to come, but usually doesn't. He doesn't care much for others, he relies on himself too much.

Name: Billy Morrow

Age: 19

Sex: Male

Race: African American/Hispanic

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 150

Eye Color: Green(/Hazel)

Blood Type: AB

Hair Color: Brown/ wavy

Other Appearance:I have a pic ( http://castersage.deviantart.com/art/Kylan2-112906075 ), Grey V neck short sleeve shirt, Blue straight Pants, Necklack "Taurus", Regular Converse.

Background: brilliant student overall, problem-sloving was probably his only reason hes still alive. Graduated high school at age 16. He attended college, and was a top student in his class he was learning how to use medicines and To become a Doctor only got to his sophmore year but has learned how to take care of wounds and other external things as such; stiching, helping burns, and cuts and how to care for the wounded. In his free time he is on the computer, or walking his now lost dog. he worked at a Pharmacy since graduation of freshman year, it lat him live on his own in an apartment alone without help from his parents. Never smoked, he knows the outcome of smoking and it has a great effect on him. First time he ever drunk was his 18th birthday, it turns out hes is an emotional drinker, pours his heart out...but then ends up throwing up and passing out.

Weapons: Cutting scissors.

Other Inventory: stitching needles, thread, bandages, flu medicine, journal, pencil, book on Medicine and Wounds.

Abilities: Good with problem solving, good with helping wounds, somewhat good with technology.

Strengths: People, reading faster, Memerlization. He is intellegent, and Kind, doesnt hold anything on anyone, He is Humble and will do anything help his friends.

Weaknesses: bad in hand to hand combat, gets weak by the sight of the walking dead, makes him feel weak inside can handle the sight of other peooples blood but not his own, hand shakes when he trys to shot a gun, or in combat, but can manage at a minumum, cant bare watching someone die.

Name:Ian Marvin
Age: 31
Sex: male
Race: Caucasian
Height: 6''2
Weight: 213 lbs
Eye Color: hazel
Blood Type: B
Hair Color: Brown, medium
Other Appearance: wears blue jeans, an 'operation ivy' tee, and a leather jacket
Background: Mechanic in a small time brooklyn garage.
Weapons: Monkey Wrench
Other Inventory: tool kit. wallet.
Abilities: Engine/overall car repair.
Strengths: neutral good, leadership qualities, physically strong.
Weaknesses: not that intelligent outside of cars, can lose his head in a sticky situation.

+ Name: Edmond R. Lancer
+ Age: Nineteen
+ Gender: Male
+ Ethnicity: Caucasian (German Mixed)
+ Height: 6'3''
+ Weight: 147lbs.

+ Eye Color: Green
+ Blood Type: O
+ Hair Color: Black

+ Appearance:


+ Background:
Edmond is a professional music artist; and a vocalist. He was within a band named "The Breakdown" until the 'invasion' happened. Now he assumes that his band memberes are dead. For most of his life, he was a hunter, taught by his father. He didn't hunt for sport or for food, he hunted to survive. He was trained with a Bow and Arrow only, and he despised guns (and despises). When his father passed away, he stopped hunting for a while and began to swim for his High School Team, which one 1st place in three consecutive years. After graduation he and his friends created a band known as "The Breakdown" which slowly made Edmon famous within his community, and soon the entire nation. He has never had any problems with his eyes, but he was diagnosed with perminate pneumonia, which made him forced to sing harder and also made him unable to run as long as he used to, but he is of course, fast.

+ Weapon(s): Super Kodiak Bow and Easton Hunting Arrows
+ Other Inventory:
Portable Microphone, Cell Phone, MP3 Player, Bottle Opener, Keys (to everything belonging to his band), and Wallet

+ Usable Traits: Expert at Archery, 20/20 Vision, Excellent Swimmer, and Singer
+ Strengths: Can Remain Calm under pressure, Brave, Serious, can be an Entertainer at times, passionate.
+ Weaknesses: Diagnosed with Perminate Pneumonia and Likes to do things by himself.[/color]

Name: Jonathan J. Story
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Native American
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 127 Pounds
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Black / buzzed short
Other Appearance: Wears only a light loose white t-shirt, a pair of blue basketball shorts, and a pair of running shoes.
Background: Grew up like most people in today's day and age, sitting in front of a T.V. Jonathan has no useful skills in the outside world other then his computer experience.
Weapons: A standard ball point pen.
Other inventory: a laptop shoulder strap case containing his laptop with all the accessories and a few candy bars.
Ability's: a vast knowledge of most electrical computer equipment.
Weaknesses: his lack of knowledge in the outside world.

Name: Jake Blakeway
Age: 15
Sex: male
Race: European/ english
Height: 6'00" (tall for his age)
Weight: 14.6st
Eye Color: brown
Blood Type: O
Hair Color: dark brown, mostly mistaken for black
Other Appearance: Wears black all over, wears assult top, and assult pants.
Background: When NATO was falling, the NATO sub-division UNIT was also under crisis. Jake dad was one of the Commanders, so jake got to live at an army,base getting trained to become a soilder.When the unnatural things attacked, UNIT evacuated to there Airship,Known as the aircraft carrier valiant.Jake was left behind and fend for himself,he has a lot of army training and equipment,but half of it does not work.
Weapons: SA-80 assult rifle (only has 30 bullets though)
Other Inventory: One CS smoke grenade, and a broken radio transponder.
Abilities: Very smart, has the abilty to scan areas quickly and peform under pressure.
Strengths: Long range gun combat, anything to do with technology
Weaknesses: phyiscally weak, hates close combat.

Jake walked along the UNIT base,it was completly deserted.Everyone had gone to the skies and left him to rot from the monsters from within the ground.To make it worse they had taken all of the guns, leaving him with whatever scraps he could find from clumsy soilders, hastily retreating.

Jake walked into the vecile depot, seeing a old jeep that still worked, he hopped in and hotwired it,he was only 15 but he was allowed to drive thesein the UNIT base.He reversed out, and saw one of the demented creatures infront of the jeep,snarling at him.Jake hit the accerlator, ramming into him, sending parts of his body, hundreds of meters away, unfortunly, the sound of the engine had attracted unwanted attetion as a group now came out from behind some rocks trying to stop him.............

IsaiahReborn wrote:+ Name: Edmond R. Lancer
+ Age: Nineteen
+ Gender: Male
+ Ethnicity: Caucasian (German Mixed)
+ Height: 6'3''
+ Weight: 147lbs.

+ Eye Color: Green
+ Blood Type: O
+ Hair Color: Black

+ Appearance:

+ Background:
Edmond is a professional music artist; and a vocalist. He was within a band named "The Breakdown" until the 'invasion' happened. Now he assumes that his band memberes are dead. For most of his life, he was a hunter, taught by his father. He didn't hunt for sport or for food, he hunted to survive. He was trained with a Bow and Arrow only, and he despised guns (and despises). When his father passed away, he stopped hunting for a while and began to swim for his High School Team, which one 1st place in three consecutive years. After graduation he and his friends created a band known as "The Breakdown" which slowly made Edmon famous within his community, and soon the entire nation. He has never had any problems with his eyes, but he was diagnosed with perminate pneumonia, which made him forced to sing harder and also made him unable to run as long as he used to, but he is of course, fast.

+ Weapon(s): Super Kodiak Bow and Easton Hunting Arrows
+ Other Inventory:
Portable Microphone, Cell Phone, MP3 Player, Bottle Opener, Keys (to everything belonging to his band), and Wallet

+ Usable Traits: Expert at Archery, 20/20 Vision, Excellent Swimmer, and Singer
+ Strengths: Can Remain Calm under pressure, Brave, Serious, can be an Entertainer at times, passionate.
+ Weaknesses: Diagnosed with Perminate Pneumonia and Likes to do things by himself.[/color]

some didn't see the 'please don't be 20 years old and perfect' part.

Ummm... he isn't 20, firstly, and he's not perfect.
He has Perminate Pneumonia. Archers, if you didn't already know, need to run a lot, and with pneumonia, it will most definitely stop him and hurt him a lot. Plus, he'll make the group slow down when he can't breathe.

He isn't perfect.

I thought Mannerheim said he didn't want military backgrounds?

Also, try to avoid military background characters. I think that's what he said. So maybe he attempted to try to attempt to avoid a military background but could escape the grasp it had over him?

But along the lines he at least put.

Weaknesses: physically weak, hates close combat.

So maybe in that aspect he can only lift his gun to shoot off one shot at a incoming zombie horde before his arms will no longer support the weight of the weapon of his choosing?

Name: Dolores 'Dollie' Rengifo
Age: 25
Sex: Female
Race: Afro-columbian
Height: 5'7
Weight: 145lbs
Eye Color: Dark brown
Blood Type: A+
Hair Color: Black
Other Appearance: Cargo shorts that stop just below her knees, two layers of tank tops, and a faded, black hoodie.
Background: Her parents are first generation immigrants from Columbia where they later moved to New York then to Texas to join their American family. She's lived there most of her life until the age of 18 when she decide she wanted to see the world. Or at least the United States.
Weapons: A pistol that her uncle bought her, she's only shot it once in a gun range, and a pocket knife.
Other Inventory: A dead cellphone, a jacket, a bookbag, an unopened can of Full Throttle, full quart of vodka, and a pack of cigarettes.
Abilities: She was once upon a time athletic and has the potential and stamina to be so once again.
Strengths: Strong-willed and watched a lot of horror movies.
Weaknesses: Inexperienced with her current weapons, selfish and self-preserving. Has no problem leaving the others if she feels that it will heighten her chances of survival. Very little sympathy for others.
Anything I possibly forgot: She stuffed the last, and the most treasured of her belongings in her camouflage bookbag that a friend had bought her and slung it on her back. Once inside her car, she'd throw the bag on top of her suitcases and pull out the driveway to head for California. She heard there was good work for a Hispanic girl further west, even though she didn't speak a lick of Spanish. She could understand bits and pieces, and could fake enough to get by but that was it. Most of the time, whoever was the shift manager didn't know the difference between 'rio' and 'río.' The ignorant fuck. Once a few hours out of Small Town, Texas, she stopped to get a pack of cigarettes and an energy drink. Something smooth and flavored to keep her company on the long trip and something else to make the hours feel like minutes. She didn't have any pills so an energy drink would have to suffice.

She looked at the clock as she closed in on California state lines; it had been a day now, 23 hours and 13 minutes to be exact, since she'd left. 'Two more hours until graduation,' she noted. Dollie chuckled at the thought. Every girl and boy she'd known since she'd moved to the dust bowl of Texas would walk across the stage, smile with pearly whites, take pictures with their families and get trashed for the last time; some guy would fuck that chick who wouldn't have gave him the time of day if sober; and the virgin-lunged, straight-A student would smoke her first blunt or two. They'd all remember, or atleast try to remember, the night for the rest of their lives. She couldn't even remember the last exit off the highway. She'd been living her high school years like it was her last since freshman year. Wringing it all out.

She drew in on her cigarette, the last of the pack; holding on to what scientist swore was the fog of death in her lungs. She had family members who had smoked their whole lives and lived to be 104.

"Bullshit if I'll let a fag kill me," she had once said to a friend at lunch as she sat outside McDonalds in her own cloud. "Run me over with a bus. Put that shit on my grave. 'She lived. Died. Got hit by a fuckin' bus!'" Her friend laughed, not sure of what else to say. Dollie laughed, not sure if she cared that her friend even heard her joke. She had a habit of talking at people rather then talking to them. Everyone, for the most part, were just break walls for her to throw glass bottles at.

Name: Ted J Lundstrome
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Scandinavian
Height: 6'
Weight: 200
Eye Color: Blue
Blood Type: AB+

Hair Color: Brown down to his chest

Other Appearance:
When he left his house that day Ted was wearing Black work boots, Black jeans, A black studded belt, a black Municipal Waste band shirt, A black hoodie, and over the black hoodie a sleeveless, black denim vest with a bunch of band patches.

Background: Ted grew up in michigan living a quaint childhood, oppressed by his parents, at the age of 15 Ted became a devout Metalhead, and drinker. At the age of 18 he moved out, went to college to become an audio technician, dropped out, and moved to Houghton, settling for a crappy apartment, and a few shits and gigs along the way. He did however spend a few years in Texas doing some manual labor for a large oil company, untill he decided that the he just wasn't cut out for that kind of life. He spent a total of 3 years there.

Weapons: He has no weapons except a small folding knife that he carries around just because...well it may sound foolish but he thinks its cool. Its not good for anything besides cutting rope, as for stabbing his hand would probably slip right off of it, and he would probably cut himself. Not such a great weapon.
Other Inventory: A wallet, a small 3 foot snippet of audio cable kept in his jacket pocket, his wallet, and a lighter saying "corrupt absolute" that is half full. And 3 cigarettes.

Abilities: He knows the basics of handeling a gun, He is pretty smart when it comes to audio technicality, he knows the nature of sound, has an acute ear.

Strengths: Fair, charismatic, and can be a hub of support at times

Weaknesses: bad under pressure, alcoholic, not to bright.

Anything I possibly forgot: [Represent]

Not Perfect: Dude, your guy is carrying around a bow and arrow with him xD, and if he has permanent pnemonia I don't think he would be an excellent swimmer, that requires much more breathing, think about it, 19, pasionate, singer in a band, archer, athletic, famous, looks like a pop rock star, Come on now, lets see some imperfection, ><

Name: Layla
Age: 17
Sex: Female
Race: White (very pale)
Height: 5'2"
Weight: 100lbs
Eye Color: blueish purple.
Blood Type: AB+
Hair Color: Dark almost black brown. It's long, and wavy. down to my lower back. I try to keep it up and out of the way in case I need to get moving quickly so I can see easily.
Other Appearance: I'm small, slight, and dainty. I'm sporting acid wash jeans, combat boots, a red beater, and a black jacket.
Background: I'm from England, but I came to America for school, and to visit my aunt and uncle. They were both killed while I was out. I came home to see zombies feasting on them. My goal is go to go back to London eventually and find my brother. He looks a lot like me, but is much taller. I carry a picture of him with me at all times.
Weapons: My uncle's hunting knife.
Other Inventory: A lighter, a comb, a tooth brush, the keys to my car, and a picture of my brother. That's all kept in a canvas messenger bag I have.
Abilities: I can handle a knife pretty well, but since I'm small I don't have a whole lot of strength. I rely heavily on my speed. I can run and swim very quickly. I'm also great at climbing, and staying out of site.
Strengths: I'm likable, and sweet. I'm not easily scared, and I think logically in tough situations.
Weaknesses: I'm not here to help others survive, I want to get to London and find my brother. I might help with things, but I'll always have my eye on a way out.

Name: Beer

Age: 28

Sex: F

Race: Brazilian

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 174

Eye Color: Brown

Blood Type: A+ (for alocholic! HA! I kill myself.)

Hair Color: Black and long-ish

Other Appearance: Beer's tied her hair up in a ponytail and had her sunglasses - needlessly oversized aviators - in her pocket from the beginning (possibly of time). She's got on a black tank top, a red checkered flannel shirt with four of its eleven buttons ripped off and a half-dozen pockets in her beige pants, a full three of which that can actually hold things. Aside from her sneakers, which are grey (not originally) and scuffed, she's looking for a new outfit.

Background: Beer spent her early years in Niagara drinking vodka and whiskey until Oktoberfest became her morning brunch. She didn't grow out of it when she got older. Instead, she started using it to live life on a wild side. After four years as a driver for a questionable group of gentlemen, she got blacklisted as a 'threat to operations' when other equally questionable fellows found out about her tendency to talk. Fortunately, they're dead, so all in all, everything worked out. Oh, except for the zombies. And the bomb. And the apocalyptic wasteland.

Weapons: Tire iron (from her old car's trunk)

Other Inventory: Bottle opener ring, key-ring flashlight and miscellaneous keys, Tic-Tacs (half-empty pack of the orange flavour), sunglasses

Abilities: Fantastic driver, fairly well-versed in local shady dealings, can crush a can on her forehead, and can go fourteen hours without needing to pee

Strengths: Strong throwing arm and a decent shot, powerful liver, highly confident fighter while in a group, can take a punch, good eyes, good health, and a good sprinter (short distances only)

Weaknesses: More than willing to jump into a pile of zombies if there's a shot of rum in the middle, loud when excited or scared, petrified when left alone for any length of time and will strongly consider (and attempt to perform) suicide if grossly outnumbered while sober

Anything I possibly forgot: I'm Canadian. I'm gonna be using a lot of 'u's in my words.

[[You wanted the sample posts here, right? I wasn't clear on that.]]

"Y'know, I think this could've gone a little better."

Ol' Jacky's head twitched. Must've been the wind.

"I mean - hey, I'm not complainin'. I'm alive, sure. Took a hell of a fight to get out of my town, I'll tell you that much." Her glass was empty. Lazy fucking bartender. She poured the damn thing herself. "Tooth and nail, y'know? I fought it. I fought it all. I don't even get what the panic was all about. I haven't even seen a zombie yet." That was a lie. "All I saw were screaming people. You ever hear ten thousand people freak out? Not like at a concert or anything. I mean really fuckin' scream. Terror, and all that shit. But pardon my French."

God, this place stank. She really, really needed to go.

"Yeah, but what's the point of that? Go where? Huh?" Ol' Jacky rolled his - "Don't you roll your eyes at me! I'm a paying customer - I want a little damn respect!" Ol' Jacky apologized. "That's right. Asshole. Y'know - it's people like you who're just gonna clog everything up. Always pissin' people off, always thinkin' there should be a standard in place. Look around you, man! There's no standard! Everything's dead and it's supposed to be in the ground. That's the standard for dead guys, not up and prancin' around like they're on crack." Or shamble. Sometimes they shambled. "Yeah, but you've got shit to say now, right?"

Pardon her French.

She could just kill herself. She could find a gun, somewhere. There hadn't been much warning, but there'd been enough. Damn near everyone had to've gotten themselves a gun. She could break in anywhere and find one. But she could break in anywhere and find a zombie, too. In fact, she was kind'f proud of herself for finding the one clear place probably in the country, if not the continent. What were the odds? A bar - free of people-eating cannibals. It was like she was being ordered to survive. Fantastic. She could do that. Maybe.

Where the hell was her glass? She wasn't paying for this service.

"Jacky." The guy flinched. "Jacky, wake up. You awake yet? Get me something."

And then Ol' Jacky's eyes popped open. Suddenly, there was a whole new menu opened up, and Beer was front and centre on the page.

"Ah, shit."

No pardoning on that one. And - by the way? This whole 'half-dead, now I'm dying, now I'm dead and I'm just gonna lean against this counter but you can help yourself to as many drinks as you want and get nice and drunk and don't even worry about paying or anything GUESS WHAT I'M A ZOMBIE' thing was wearing thin. She had to throw her glass at the damn monster's head - Ol' Jacky wasn't getting over that counter 'cause those stupid guys couldn't climb for the first few seconds - before she could think about anything else. There. The cup was gone. No more drinking for a while. Time to get out of here and find someplace safe.

Except this was safe. This was the most safe she'd run into yet.

So what was that about killing herself?