Description

Name: Lizaveta (Liz) Dolzhikov
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Height: 5’5
Weight: 140
Appearance: Unruly dark brown hair that reaches her shoulders. Gunmetal blue eyes. Very fair skin with the occasional freckle. Overall an average woman.
Clothing: Casual dress. Liz wears jeans and a t-shirt, or a thick dress with dark leggings. She tends toward neutral colors and silver jewelry.
Personality: Liz is very reserved and a bit timid. She doesn’t like conflict. She has basic medical training from her previous job as a nurse aide and can’t say no to a person in need. However, she tends to sweat during emergencies and at times loses her composure under pressure. Liz is a solitary woman but her survival drive is forcing her to reach out. She’s exhausted by current events and unsure of her abilities.
Other: Liz is very, very afraid to die.
Inventory:

small first aid kit (1 roll gauze, 10 bandages, collapsible CPR mouth guard)
flash light
pocket knife
backpack with a change of clothes and a bottle of water. (She keeps most of her other supplies here as well)
medical respiratory mask over a bandanna (it's all she has for the haze)

Biography:
Liz was a nurse aide at a small Moscow clinic. Her mother, the only parent she had, died of a stroke when Liz was eighteen. With no father to speak of and no siblings, Liz has no family burden. She lives in a house where she rents a small attic space. The woman who owns the house was shopping in downtown Moscow when the thickest clouds of Haze rolled in. She never came home. Now, alone on the outskirts of the city, Liz huddles in fear. She keeps to herself inside the house and rarely ventures outside. She hasn’t decided what to do yet. Liz is packed and ready to run when the time feels right.

So begins...

Lizaveta Dolzhikov's Story

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Setting

Suburban Moscow;

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#2014-01-28 03:54:10, as written by missmacabre

Lizaveta kept as many doors between her and the thick Haze as possible. The attic’s tiny circular window was cloaked in a sheath of stapled plastic, and she had towels shoved in the bottom crack of the attic door. She had reduced herself to living out of the small room, not that it was much a change from life before the Haze. In life before the Haze, the only major difference between Lizaveta’s living conditions was the towel under the door.

She still expected the landlady to come home with her paper bags of groceries. When the Haze had rolled in days ago, or at least when the media was finally allowed to acknowledge the threat, Liz’s housemate was out in Moscow. Liz remembered the initial surge of choking fear, and how she had stood at the front window watching for her until the Haze boiled up to a visible fog on the streets. Then she announced her own retreat, plasticing windows and sealing cracks with ragged cloth rags, towels, and shirts. She essentially backed herself into a stuffy, uncomfortable corner.

The urban chaos centered on the city streets and spilled out to more immediate neighborhoods. The first night, Liz listened to the shots, anticipating a boot to the door. Nothing came but an oily, Haze smeared dawn, and by that time she was deeply asleep. She kept a kitchen knife near her cot, just in case, next to her prepared backpack.

The media announced locations for shelters and simultaneously asked citizens to stay in their houses. Lock the doors, bar the windows, bring your pets inside. Don’t breathe the air and don’t drink the water unless you boil it first. Liz had wrapped a bandanna around her mouth then, and when she went downstairs for the toilet or a can of cold soup, she put on an old respirator from the clinic. It wasn’t a chemical mask, but at least she wouldn’t get TB.

The combination of Haze defense mechanisms kept the worst taste out of her mouth, and besides for being hot and a little ripe, her attic air was next to filtered.

It was that time of the day again, and Liz peeled the stiff towel out from underneath the attic door so it would swing open. Cautiously, she took the dim stairs to the first floor. Nothing looked disturbed. Liz walked to the front windows, which offered a view of the dilapidated cul-de-sac, and she peered around the margins of the plastic sheet that kept most of the caustic fog from reaching circulation.

Liz was waiting for civilization to return. If it didn’t, one day soon, she’d have to open that front door. She didn’t know what to expect outside, and she didn’t know what to expect of the human race post-apocalyptic disaster. Liz didn’t like surprises.

Outside, through the murky air and thin window of cheap plastic, something moved.

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