Description
Full Name: Aaron Samuel Cross
Nickname: Dutch; it was an old nickname he got in highschool, apparently it had something to do with the way he looked.
Age: 18
Gender: Male
Role: Non-Immune
He was a prepper before the apocalypse; and an avid collector of antique military equipment.
http://www.deshow.net/d/file/games/2009 ... -496-2.jpghttp://fc07.deviantart.net/fs27/i/2008/ ... steamw.jpgHe always wears his gas mask, and has a deep-seated, frenzy inducing fear of it being taken off. This makes eating and drinking a chore for him, because he has to find somewhere he thinks is safe enough to take it off. These places are few and far between. His real face is large and broad, and he has a rather large head on his shoulders. He is blonde and large bodied with blue eyes, and stands about six feet, two inches tall. All things included, he has the body of a grown man, but not the mind of one. He always wears his camouflaged parka and clothing, and has not taken his boots off since the initial outbreak of the virus. He keeps his whole body covered, hands, arms, everything. He wears his parka hood constantly to cover his head.
Personality
Personality:
Aaron suffers from post-traumatic-stress disorder, as most people do in the current world. He has night-terrors, flashbacks, and is all around paranoid. The fact that he is a teenager who hasn't even finished dealing with normal-life coming of age stress has done nothing to benefit his condition. He despises being in large groups of people, and though he has worked with other survivors before for mutual benefit, he is a loner who prefers to "do his own thing".
Quiet and introverted but not unfriendly, he is a recon-scout in the classic sense of the word. He is protective of women, especially young girls (those that are left), and will put himself at risk to help one even if he would not do the same for another man. He enjoys company, but only one or two, anything more is a crowd. In a large group, he will become close to one or two people, but from the others he will tend to stay distant. He has been hardened like everyone else from the shock of losing a friend. He won't break down in tears if you die, but he'll sure as hell kill the person (or former person) who did it.
He has a paranoid fear of being infected, and keeps himself completely covered at all times.
Theme Song(s): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHhtO9TSRTQ Kammarheit: The Starwheel (Counter-Crosswise) - Paranoid/Terrifying situations
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhGTsTa8 ... re=related Northhaunt: Night Alone - Normal
Equipment
Weapon: A Mosin Nagant rifle with a classic, cross-hairs scope. Nothing fancy, no red dots or laser sights. Just old fashioned steel, wood, and glass.
He takes the scope off when he gets into closer quarters.
Entrenching tool. A sharpened shovel that doubles as a throwing axe or hatchet.
Bayonet/Fighting Knife. Singular, despite the picture.
A variety of pocket knives.
Inventory: Canned goods, canteen with water, ammunition for his Mosin (loaded in stripper clips), 30$ (for what its worth).
All inside an old Swedish WWII backpack
Skills: He's a scout by nature, and is very good at recon. He has a great memory, and can scout out an area, come back later, and remember its layout very well. Still, this is not a super-power, and he is not a master sniper "I'll pwn all you nub zmbies" kind of person. He has never received weapons training from black-water or gone to the USMC Sniper Academy. Everything he knows, he knows by learning it the hard way.
But, he is really good with his shovel.
History
Aaron is what most people would consider, well, a weirdo. Born in Northern Kentucky, he lived his life on the border of the suburban and rural lifestyles. At the age of 16, he began to collect gear for the "apocalypse" along with his closest friend Phillipe. It was more a joke, really, something to pass the time. Phillipe and Aaron were both weirdo's in that they did not put much stock into the things most teenagers do. Romance, drama, Summer, parties, none of it really interested them. So, instead they were both incredibly interested in antique military gear and weapons. Phillipe, who was two older than Aaron and better off financially, set about finding old weapons and ammunition from under the counter sources. Aaron, on the other hand, did his best to find a variety of maps, clothing, and most importantly of all, knowledge. He has memorized the route of every train-track in the Eastern U.S. While this may seem like quite the feat, for Aaron is was easy. Instead of goofing off with a girlfriend like most other guys his age, he looked at maps. Lots of maps.
Then the virus. To Aaron it seemed as if he had been awakened violently from a dream. In fact, it was. He fell asleep in front of the TV, only to be awoken by the nation-wide alert. Before he understood what was happening, he was grabbing a duffel-bag and throwing everything he had collected into it. Camouflage, boots, knives, and maps, lots of maps. His parents were both at church retreat, and he had convinced them that -now being 17- he could stay alone for a few days. He has never seen his parents since.
For a while, he simply sat on his couch, watching the T.V. in disbelief, his duffel-bag laying across his lap. Then, suddenly, a pair of lights flashed into his house. Headlights. He ran to the window, to see Phillpe's white sedan parked in his driveway. He hesitated for a moment, then ran outside. He closed the front door behind him and practically leaped into the passenger side of the car. He noticed a variety of weapons laying in the backseat. They didn't speak immediately, they just drove. They drove and drove all the way back to Phillipe's large home on the other side of the county line. The first word uttered was spoken by Phillipe, as they ran from the car into the house.
"They say its airborn."
"Yeah."
Phillipe's father was a wealthy businessman, away on a trip as well. He didn't have a mother at home, his father had divorced. They waited in the house for days, until the true terror of the virus became apparent. They duct-taped the windows, the doors, everything. Any crack was covered. But they couldn't get them all. They had thought for sure not shred of the disease could reach them, given their precautions and the house's lonely location in the woods. So when Phillipe became sick, they were both dumbfounded. They tried to blow it off for a few days, wait it out. Maybe it was just a cold? After two days though, it became obvious this was not the case. Phillipe locked himself in his basement, and told Aaron the location of everything he had managed to obtain over the years.
"The gas mask, keep it on, don't ever take it off. As long as you can, don't ever take it off."
These were the last words Aaron heard his closest friend say. Rasped from a hoarse throat down a flight of stairs behind a locked door.
Aaron left the house the next day. And has never gone back. Even though he has heard rumors of the virus not being airborne anymore, he refuses to remove his gas mask. This is partly for a practical reason, as it prevents any gore from getting on his face, mouth or eyes. However, it is also because of his intimate experience with what happened to his friend.
He is currently scavenging for food and trying to stay alive in a dead world. He has managed to, almost miraculously, make it this far without being infected. Hopefully, he can keep it that way.
So begins...
Dutch licked his teeth as he watched Dillon through the scope of his Mosin-Nagant bolt action rifle. It was oppressively hot, the sun beat down on his head and sweat poured down his back, and into his eyes and mouth. He had removed his gasmask because of the heat, and continually wiped his eyes as he watched the only living person he knew glide smoothly through the wreckage of the highway. He felt like he would bake to death in his parka, but being hot was better than being infected. Besides, as long as he staid in the shade, it wasn't so bad.
He was currently sitting quite comfortably beneath the trees on a hill over-looking the highway. He preferred not to walk along the street, he wanted as much distance between himself and the "dead" as possible. Besides, he and Dillon had a system, and it had worked so far. Dutch scouted ahead, through the trees if there were any, the overgrown grass if there were not any trees. If there were walkers, he gunned them down from a distance. Then Dillon would advance through the same area and scavenge for supplies, taking care of any undead that had escaped Dutch's sights.
Together, the two of them had managed to make it from Wisconsin to Northern Florida on foot; an incredible feat in and of itself. What was even more incredible was that the two had taken part rather little actual conversation with each other. Because of the nature of their teamwork, they would often go days or weeks without seeing each other. To be honest, it was more like the two of them just bumped into each other a lot, rather than an actual travelling group.
This time, it had been almost two weeks since Dutch had seen the soldier; it was a long stretch, but the record of a month and two days still held. That had been while crossing the Appalachians, but it hadn't been that bad at all really. There weren't many walkers wandering around in the Smokey's, as long as you stayed away from Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge. He had looked at Gatlinburg through his scope, he didn't really like remembering what he saw there.
Dutch had spent a night up on Clingman's dome, and had been tempted to just hang out up in the mountains for a few months. It would be easy for him to hunt deer and fish and survive. However, he somehow felt responsible towards Dillon, the only living person who still seemed decent in the world. Dillon wanted to make it to Dellwood, so Dutch would help him get there.
So here he was, sitting on a hill, baking to death with a rifle in his hands. He had read the road signs, and knew they were getting close, he only hoped that Dellwood was everything Dillon hoped for. He watched as Dillon approached the young woman. He had watched this play dozens of times know, and he always hated this scene. Either this lady was a psycho and he would have to shoot her before she shot Dillon (because Dillon would never kill her); or she would end up exchanging a few words with him, maybe some ammo or supplies, and then go on her way again.
He took a deep breath and trained the crosshairs of his Mosin over the woman's head as she raised the pistol in her hands and pointed it like a girl. It was a 1911, he could practically read the factory print through his scope. It was a beautiful, unfinished grey, and was obviously an original .45, not one of the nine millimeter conversions. The large, robust military handgun seemed out of place in the young woman's hands though. She seem the type to find guns distasteful, or carry a little pink .22 pee-shooter. Still, a .45 would rip Dillon's head off, so he remained cautious.
The walker came out of nowhere, and had the woman not shot it at the last moment, Dutch was sure Dillon would have been done for. He cursed his lapse in watchfulness, the show had distracted him. He stood up and replaced his old gasmask over his face. He supposed he would hang back for now, and watch the couple. The girl was obviously heading for Dellwood, there was no other reason to be headed South. He would keep watch over their path for now, and continue moving ahead through the forest. He might head down and let Dillon know he was around later on, probably close to dusk.
Dillon nearly hit the dirt when he heard the bullet fire. Everything was a split-second, as if time had been accelerated and he had been slowed, creating a trance-like state of survival. Then he heard a shallow thump next to him. He had heard the screech just a second before the woman had popped the walker through the skull. In instinct, Dillon pulled his shotgun up and began scanning through the mess of vehicles only to find no movement or sound. It wouldn't be that way for long however, any walkers on the highway within noticeable sound distance would be in the area soon.
Dillon lowered weapon and turned around, he instantly held a hand up in a gesture that he meant no harm. "Don't shoot! U.S Army!" He yelled and moved closer slowly, his eyes under the tinted glass circles of his gasmask scanning her body for any visable signs of infection. When he was reassured, he stopped about seven feet from her. "I'm Private Ruso... Whats your name?" He asked in a gentle tone despite the distortion from his mask.
It was simple to see the soldier was nervous and had been through a hellvalot. His hands were shaking as he clutched his gun and his legs were also shaking gently. He was turning his head over and over to check the corners of the area. He was also obviously being affected by the temper, panting gently under his mask still refusing to remove it though and his Kevlar ceramic vest was slowly becoming a hot pit.
"We have to get off this highway... That bullet you fired won't go unnoticed. I have a camp, about a mile off the road. We should be safe there. If your willing to follow?" He asked in a polite manner, falling back to his standard, helpful attitude. He didn't care she was a stranger, she was human and that was enough for him. Besides, maybe she'd join up with him on the trip. And Dutch more or less... Though he rarely saw the sniper. And needed to talk with him on their strategy fo the coming leg of the trip
