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Randal Fergason

"Things sure have gone downhill."

0 · 166 views · located in Virginia

a character in “The Walking Dead: Survivor Chronicles”, as played by Quantumlegacy

Description

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Age: 34

Personality: Surprisingly laid back for the way the world is. He isn't very materialistic and usually not very aggressive. Randal is an introvert and it definitely shows. He's been living on his own for most of his life cut off from most of civilization. When around other people he tends to be quiet, not really the talkative type. But when he does speak he is direct and to the point.

Behind this though lies a brave and caring man. Once he get's to know and fully trust someone he is likely to endanger himself to protect others. Even still though he is capable of some cold-hearted things and wouldn't think twice about ending someone's life if they were a serious threat to him. Life on the road in a time like this tends to really test a person.

Looks: Randal has blue eyes and light brown hair with blonde streaks. He has a pretty rugged beard going on and hasn't exactly showered in awhile. He's lean and muscular having lived a life on only what he could provide for himself he is no stranger to the void that is hunger.

Clothing: He has a light brown hat, a red flannel overshirt. A white undershirt and tan cargo pants.

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Weapons: A spiked club and a scoped hunting crossbow. (The club is a carved hunk of wood with long nails pounded through it. )

Equipment: Worn Backpack : Canteen of Water, Three Bottles of Water, small metal pot, small metal plate, swiss army knife, Half a box of matches. Bedroll. Two Empty Tuna Cans, Two Empty Baked Bean Cans.

Occupation: None

Hometown: Illinois, USA

History: His early years were pretty good. His mother and father had decent jobs. His father worked at an office and she worked as a nurse. Randal was the second of the three children his parents had. His older brother Lars was four when Randal was born. His sister was born when Randal was 3. But the three of them were close all through their younger years and up through their teenage years. It was when Randal was about 19 almost 20 his parents finally got a divorce. The last five years or so things had been going downhill between his mother and father. Things had begun to get nasty just before they finally split up. The rest of the family began to split apart as a result. After he was about 23 no one in his family even talked to one another anymore and he decided he was fed up with the way things were turning out. So he quit his job as an bank clerk and left for the wilderness.

He had been learning how to survive on his own for years in his past time and taken more then a few camping trips before finally deciding to do so. But none-the-less he had taken to the wilderness of the states. Picking a nice spot somewhere in Montana he hid from civilization living off the land in the cabin he eventually built. He lived like this for years on his own before he first caught wind of the dead. A small band of walkers wandered onto the stretch of land that he considered his own. It wasn't long before he realized something was seriously wrong with them. At first he'd planned on just continuing his life as is. Convincing himself they were just an isolated incident of some kind of crazy sickness. He'd have believed his bullshit if he had not had to spend so long trying to kill them. It wasn't until the fourth one he figured out they only went down with trauma to the head. After putting the incident behind him he managed to last a few more days. But the thought of what could really be going on was to much for him and he gathered what he could and headed towards the nearest town. He'd occasionally make the journey before to gather certain supplies he couldn't get on his own. When he arrived the town was already mostly deserted and ransacked.

It also wasn't long before he came across more of the walkers and slowly began to come to the reality of what was going on. While searching the town he met a few other survivors that filled him in on what he'd missed out on during his time away. Together they planned on finishing scavenging the town and then heading back to his makeshift cabin to wait it out. But they lost two members of the group to pockets of walkers in town. On the way back to the cabin another turned from a wound they were hiding, taking another of the group with them when they attacked. Down to Randal and who he'd come to know as Gerald the two of them lived in the cabin for awhile with the occasional walker showing up. But one night the two of them were awoken by a horde of walkers passing through. Gerald was killed during the attack and Randal barely made it out alive. Since then he has just been wandering from place to place wary of settling down.

Family: Johnathon Fergason (Father) - Deceased, Betsy Fergason (Mother) - Deceased, Lars Fergason (Brother) - Deceased, Cynthia Fergason (Sister) - Deceased
Other: We are The Walking Dead.

So begins...

Randal Fergason's Story

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Randal was standing at the edge of a river staring at the walkers who had managed to stumble after him for miles now. He probably should have killed it awhile back or even taken one of the many paths that had provided themselves as an escape. Instead he had simply walked along the side of this river lazily absorbing the sun on his face.

As the first of the four who'd managed to keep pace with him came at him he ducked under the awkward grapple and to the side, bringing his makeshift mace's head hard into the walker's ribs. It fell unbalanced but before it had a chance to recover Randal swung again splatter a portion of it's head.

Turning quickly he dropped the mace and prepared his crossbow. In a few moments the remaining three walkers were down and he was removing his bolts and smashing heads before searching what was left of their clothing. Finding nothing of value as per usual he shook his head in distaste. He'd exerted himself more then he needed to for nothing. He'd actually half expected to find something in the tattered pack one of them still had attached to it's back.

The sound of a bird took his attention towards the woods, and the sky. The sun was beginning to lower itself in the sky and he could feel his stomach rumble. With a winded sigh he continued alongside the river steadily searching for signs of a shelter or something. He still had a few more hours of daylight and was hoping he didn't have to start a fire.

It wasn't until just before the sun dipped under the treeline that Randal gave up and began collecting materials for a decent fire. As the last few rays of light left he was quick at work stoking his tiny flame. He was exposed at the side of the river but with the fire and the promise of warm food he didn't really care. As long as he kept vigilant he'd be able to wait out the night and move on.

As he sat on the hard ground and watched bits of the tuna sizzle in the pan he came to realize that might be easier said then done. His head was beginning to get heavier and he could feel sleep tugging at his mind. But his stomach was winning and the constant fear of walkers were proving to be acceptable motivation.

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He sat by the fire listening to the crackle of the wood he'd managed to gather. It had been some time since he started it and he hadn't been attacked yet. The night had come quickly and he could only barely see into the tree's some way from the fire's glow. His stomach growled and his entire being screamed at him as he sat there quietly. He was tired and hungry but to exhausted to do anything about it.

For a time he sat there listening to the fire and the sound of the water jumping inwardly at every break in their dance. Before long though his stomach had finally won and he moved to procure the required objects from his pack. As he fiddle with the can of tuna using the can opener on his knife he thought he'd heard the sound of something moving nearby. Stopping he looked into the darkness straining to see anything at all. Seconds crawled by at an agonizing pace as his stomach grumbled furiously at his over-cautiousness. Shaking his head he resumed preparation of what was to be his meager meal of seared shredded tuna.

He picked at it as it sizzled in the bottom of the pot, the scent teasing him. Flipping the crusting patty over he licked his lips impatiently. As soon as it had finished he greedily devoured the morsel closing his eyes and just enjoying the minute of flavor. He wasn't anywhere near to being full but at least it'd hold him over. Standing he stretched out his arms to the sky groaning. He wasn't just tired and hungry he was also pretty sore. He hadn't stopped to set up a serious camp in days and his last few meals weren't much to talk about.

It wasn't long before he had resumed scanning the area steadily getting tired.

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-Marked for Deletion-

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He hadn't smelled a cooked meal since the night Fr Joseph had been killed. He had eaten cold from tins since. So when the smell of cooking fish wafted down the river, Fr Pat sat bolt upright, setting his little boat rocking from side to side. Setting his club by his side, he waited til the boat settled, then knelt up, looking upriver to the source of the smell.

Squinting, he looked up river. At first, the unaccustomed darkness of the post-outbreak world was all he saw. Then, a flash, which died, then grew into a flickering glow. Someone had lit a fire. Fr Pat sat back into his boat and pondered the development. Was the firestarter reckless in setting up such a beacon, or confident of their safety, with the river on one side, perhaps protected on the other side by one of the thickets of trees that dotted the river bank? Most likely, anyone who could light a fire knew what they were doing. You had to, to survive this long. Secondly, was the fire-starter hostile or friendly?

Instinctively, Fr Pat crossed himself, drew his motorcycle helmet over his head, and unshipped his oars. If he kept his distance and kept his head down, perhaps he could figure out who had made camp so close to his own resting place. He lowered the oars and slowly drew closer to the fire.

From 30 feet, Fr Pat could make out a man of average height and build moving around the fire, occasionally tending to a pot in its midst, occasionally looking around his surroundings, presumably for wandering Dead. He wondered how desperate the man must have been to light a fire out in the wilderness, tree cover or no, especially when he was alone. It could draw the Dead from miles around, if any had avoided being drawn to Fort AP Hill.

Fr Pat's knew his faith hung by a thread, but it would take a lot more to drive out his Christian compassion. Lying in the bottom of the boat, just his helmet poking above the side, he croaked out a shouted whisper: 'On the bank, you there.' He hadn't spoken in days. He scooped a handful of water from the river, drank, and cleared his throat. 'On the bank. Hello? Are ye alright over there?'

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As he sat lazily staring into the darkness he sighed heavily. On the verge of passing out he could barely keep his eyes open when he heard something. He tried to make it out but he couldn't even think straight. He'd probably have let it go if he hadn't heard it again. The words came to him muffled through the fog that was his thoughts. Words. The single thought broke through and he snapped awake.

Stumbling to his feet he could feel the adrenaline already beginning to well within him. It had been weeks since he'd seen another living human. Gripping his weapon, he licked his suddenly dry lips as he squinted into the darkness scanning the land. Seeing nothing he was puzzled for a moment before he turned towards the water. There a shadowy figure stood from what he could only assume was a small boat. He reached up with his free hand and rubbed his eyes to be sure there was really something there as he took a few steps towards it. As his eyes adjusted further he could tell there wasn't anyone standing in the boat but something was indeed there. Words, he thought again.

"Hel- Hello!?" He half shouted into the darkness before saying in a much lower tone, "Am I going crazy?" He stood there silently afterword staring towards the boat. Had he really heard something? Maybe he'd been awake to long. These sort of thoughts ran through his head a mile a minutes as the seconds passed.

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The man on the bank called back hesitantly, and Fr Pat made up his mind. The man sounded surprised and cautious, and was definitely alone. He didn't appear aggressive, and a quick chinwag on the bank with him couldn't hurt. The idea of another travelling companion, or even just five minutes in the presence of anything but his own thoughts, was deeply attractive. He could always leave again if things turned sour, Fr Pat reasoned. He would stay close to his boat. He patted his little pistol in his pocket for the first time in days, just to be sure.

'I'm coming in,' he called to the man on the bank. 'Okay with you?' He sat up and poled his boat through the current slowly, rather than turning his back on the man to row. Better safe than sorry. As his boat bumped the bank, he got a better view of the man; hat and beard, a red shirt, about his own height. He seemed dazed, as if he'd just woken up. Fr Pat pulled off his motorcycle helmet and held his palms out to the man as he sat in his boat. 'See? No guns. Can you put your weapon down?'

Fr Pat pulled himself out of the boat and the two eyed each other warily. 'I'm Pat,' he said. 'I saw your fire from the other bank. What you cooking there?'

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His heart jumped as he heard the man speak again. He situated his grip on his weapon suddenly having second thoughts about the whole situation. What if the man was a murderer and tried to fight him. In his current state Randal didn't think he could do more then a few swings and they sure wouldn't be very coordinated. But he silently watched as the man slowly came forward in the boat until it had hit the shore. The man would then show his hands and claim to have no weapons. Randal sure didn't trust him but he didn't have a choice the decision had been made when he first spoke.

After slowly lowering his weapon and loosening his grip he eyed the man taking in his features now that he was clearly illuminated by the glow of the fire. He noticed the Jacket first and then realized the man was wearing all black but you could tell he'd been traveling for a time. He was definitely older then Randal but he wasn't really sure how much. Most of the very few people he had met since this started looked rather ragged to begin with. After the man introduced himself as Pat and explained why he'd happened upon him the two of them were just left silently staring at one another.

"Tuna. I have another can." Randal had decided to trust the man for at least the night. He knew it was much safer for him in this condition just having another person nearby. "Name's Randal. Do you have anything to contribute?" His eyes darted to the boat for a second before back to the man. This was going to be a very interesting time if anything.

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'Contribute?' Fr Pat repeated. For so long, he'd thought he'd spent his life contributing, to his parishoners' spiritual and emotional well-being. Their physical well-being too, when St Jenny's held soup kitchens and charity drives. The idea that he helped and healed had been core to his identity for as long as he could remember, and now the very foundations of his way of life had been torn asunder. And not by the rise of the Dead.

'Contribute. Yes, contribute,' he replied, snapping out of his reverie. He yanked up his pack from where it lay next to his club in the boat and pulled a tin of beans from it. 'We could cook these up along your tuna?' He paused momentarily, then reached back into his back. 'And then, how bout some of this?' He waved a 100g bar of chocolate. 'Been saving it for a special occasion. Finding a fire and a friend is as special as it gets these days, I guess.'

Fr Pat hunkered down next to the fire, on the side closest to the riverbank, and nestled the now open tin of beans into the fire. There was no feeling of danger from Randal - in fact the bearded man appeared as glad to see Fr Pat as Fr Pat was to see him. Although he seemed in general good shape and was uninjured as far as Fr Pat could see, Randal seemed exhausted. Perhaps the richness of chocolate and a good night's sleep would set him straight.

'So have you come far at all, Randal?' Fr Pat asked. 'Did you see that herd up at Fort AP Hill? Terrible business, terrible business altogether. I think the army's losing this fight all over. Man and his machines, hah?' He shook his head. 'I've come down from New York myself. I was a priest there. Lost two friends along the way.

He fell silent again and watched the food cook, leaving it to Randal. It was his fire after all. A branch shifted in the flames spitting up embers and Fr Pat leant back. He realised he'd been dozing. 'Sorry,' she grinned sheepishly at his new companion. 'Old man falling asleep by the fire, just like the good old days. I was going to sleep out on my boat, but it's good to have a fire, isn't it? And I haven't seen any of the Dead down here, they're all up at AP Hill. Will I take the first watch?'

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He watched the man as he seemed to space out some before replying and pulling forth a can of beans. Then he also produced a bar of chocolate and Randal couldn't help but grin. It had been a very long time since he'd had chocolate. \

"Yeah, these days seems like just opening your eyes is as much a curse as a blessing." Randal began the process of creating something delicious for them as he listened to Pat.

"A priest from New York? I was living in Montana when I first found out what was going on." He stopped his train of thought instead deciding to respond to his second question. "I heard a lot of gunfire but for the most part was avoiding it. They are attracted to sound so, it's inevitable that I would get into trouble going towards it."

He paused for a moment tending to the food he was concentrating on. The smell of tuna and baked beans slowly began to permeate the air. His stomach growled intensely again and he spoke to take his mind off of it. "I'm not sure what is going on with the military. I assume many are dead and just as many went home to be with family. Whomever are left probably don't have any serious chain of command outside the base and whatever orders they had last. I'm no expert but it doesn't look like there have been too many organized efforts lately."

He grinned at the thought of them sitting around the fire and all of a sudden helicopters with search lights and men in full uniform coming from all directions to save them from this reality. They'd have to fight off a horde or two just from the noise they made to save them. But they'd do it because it would be awesome. His mind was definitely beginning to wander.

The food finished and he offered the Priest half of everything before saying, "When we are done, you are first watch. At this point, I'm so out of it I would probably fall asleep fighting." And with that he began to eat awaiting his answer and then deciding whether or not to literally curl up and pass out.

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His back was warm. His stomach was full. He'd had a conversation for the first time in days. Fr Pat felt pretty good as he settled down to take the first watch. The chocolate tasted better than he could have imagined it. He nibbled it like a child to make it last.

Behind him, Randal appeared to be settling down to sleep. He'd seemed on the verge of nodding off even as they'd eaten. Now, as Fr Pat sat with his back to the fire so he could watch the approaches on land, he weighed up his new companion. Apart from the tiredness, he appeared to be holding up well - nothing a good night's sleep wouldn't cure. He had adequete supplies, the resourcefulness to light a fire, he appeared in good health, and he'd come all the way from Montana! Anyone who could make that 2,000-mile journey must be a hardy soul indeed. He wondered whether Randal had come all that way by himself, or if he'd made friends along the way. And why hadn't he found anywhere to hole up along the way? He'd paused for thought when he'd mentioned Montana. Some family tragedy, perhaps? Fr Pat resolved to ask him about it tomorrow.

He shifted his weight from one numb buttock to the other. He'd have to let the fire burn down. It was warming, life-affirming, it blocked out the dark, and not just physically, but it was too much of a risk to keep alight all night. Randall's watch would be cold. If every one of the Dead in the area had been drawn to Fort AP Hill, that meant that every one of them would soon start wandering away from Fort AP Hill. That meant the area wasn't safe. Fr Pat shuddered as he recalled the mound of moaning creatures piling up against the fences, then toppling them. Nowhere was safe for very long.

Getting up to stretch his legs, Fr Pat tried to recall Fr Joseph's map. He had been keeping an eye out for a replacement but the only one he'd seen had been in a car just before the Harry Nice bridge, and that car had been home to one of the Dead, forever trapped by its seatbelt, growling as it wore a deep sore across its chest as it struggled to escape. Richmond was the next big urban area due south, he remembered. Then Newport and Norfolk along the coast. No, these cities would all have suffered the same savagry that befell New York and Washington. Perhaps it would be better to head inland, away from cities and roads. Randal would know about this kind of living. Fr Pat resolved to ask him about it tomorrow.

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He was deeply asleep when the priest tried to wake him. At first he didn't respond but soon he roused enough to groggily stare at the thing which had just quickly aroused a deep anger within him. 'Randal, Randal. Sorry, it's almost a sin to wake you, but it's your watch. You okay there? I let the fire burn down, sorry, but better safe than sorry.' The words came slow but he had heard them none the less. Shifting from his sprawled out position he slowly began to raise himself to his feet.

"Understood." He spat them out with a bit of malice but he hoped it wasn't noticed. He didn't mean to be angry it was merely the sheer lack of sleep and seemingly sudden awakening of him after having just fallen asleep. As he stood he surveyed his surroundings looking to the fire he could tell there was definitely going to be some coals he could use. He gazed up at the night's sky and from what he could quickly tell it was close to dawn. He then looked to the tree-line scanning it for movement in the still darkness. During this time his companion was preparing himself for sleep. Randal wouldn't go far as the man had lived up to the trust he'd placed in him and would return the favor.

Stepping a bit of a way from where his pack lay he proceed to do a few stretches to partially prepare himself for the day but to mostly wake himself up. After his morning stretches he moved back to the pack and procured his canteen and took a few sips from it. Setting it down he got out his pot and poured the rest of it into the pot. Moving to the coals he set the pot down beside him and began messing with the coals with one of the partially burned sticks. After preparing it he set the pot on top of them before standing up again.

Moving back to the river he refilled his canteen with the water before moving about the general area of their campsite looking for pretty much anything of use. Twigs, greenery, useful items that may have been coincidentally discard without care and gone unfound and unloved by all until Randal himself mysteriously finds them. But of course he doesn't find anything of the sort and eventually the daylight breaks and he resides himself to whittling away at a few of the nicer sticks he'd found turning most of them into makeshift spears.

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The rising sun woke Fr Pat gently; he flicked open his eyes and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. Perhaps it was a result of sleeping while someone was on watch, but he hadn't had a better night's rest in what felt like years. Someone used watch over you every night, Pat, he mused to himself.

He levered himself upright and stretched, trying to drive the cramps and knots of the night on hard ground from his muscles. Randal had got the fire going again. Fr Pat took up the pot they'd cooked in last night and stomped down to the river's edge. After splashing his face, he filled the pot, and set it over the fire to boil. He took out a couple of strips of jerky from his pack; it wasn't much but, rehydrated and heated, it would make a passable breakfast. He stretched again, looking up at the rising sun and taking in the sounds of river wildlife waking for another day. No matter what happened to humans, Fr Pat mused, there would still be this kind of tranquil beauty. Perhaps there would be more of it in the world now.

He went back to his pack, took out a small item from the bottom, and returned to camp. 'Will you pray with me, Randal?' he asked, hesitantly, holding out his crucifix in two hands to hide the shaking. He hadn't prayed with someone for months. When he, Fr Joeseph and Fr Arnold had been barricaded in St Jenny's, he would stand watch seething as the two younger men communed with God. Out on the road, when it had just been the two of them, he would pretend to be asleep as Fr Joeseph prayed every morning and evening. Why had the impulse come upon him now?

Fr Pat sank to his creaking knees, holding the crucifix in his joined hands. Resisting the temptation to add 'if you're there', he began: 'Lord, thank you for this food we are about to consume.' He had begun simply. Every child in Ireland learned the prayer before meals at the earliest age. 'Thank you for this moment of peace, and help us apperciate the beauty of Your creation. Lord, bless this man Randal, and bless his dear ones. Fr Pat glanced over at Randal, unsure of the man's reaction. It had angered Fr Pat when Fr Joseph and Fr Arnold had prayed for him. Heavenly Father, Bless my friends and Your humble servants, Father Joseph and Father Arnold, and bring them eternal rest by your side. And ... His voice cracked and fell to an almost-whisper. And bless me, Lord, help me with the burdens you have seen fit to place before me. He paused in case Randal wanted to add anything, then lifted the crucifix to his lips. Amen.

He blinked to clear his eyes, and looked around him. The sun was a little higher. Birds twittered nearby and the river flowed slowly. He felt no different to before, except glad that he'd been able to conduct this small act of faith without halting in cynical revulsion. Perhaps that was all that was left. Perhaps it was the start of something new. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then fished the softened jerky out of the pot. 'Well, I suppose after breakfast, we'd better make a start,' he said. 'Where should we be going?'

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As the man awoke Randal was working on carving something that didn't resemble a spear. He was intent on his project as Fr Pat moved about going through the motions of his "morning" until he asked him to pray. A smile came to his face as he gave a soft laugh before he stopped what he was doing turning to the man.

"It's been a long time since anyone asked my that."

He nodded to him to begin and watched silently until he mentioned him. His smile faded slowly as he thought about his "loved ones" for the first time in awhile. He'd actually thought about them a few times before since this happened but merely in passing moments. He had no idea if anyone was still alive or if they all were dead. If he had to say he'd guess them for dead.

He wasn't really sad though and this fact he struggled with more then anything. The fact that he didn't really care what had become of them. He'd always considered himself a good man and had tried to help people since coming out of solitude into this.

Noticing that the man had stopped speaking he looked to him before sort of muttering, "Let them not be forgotten." Even though he meant it, it came out almost robotically. Feeling sort of uncomfortable now he stood up and moved about a bit.

"I am on the way to Richmond but I think we should stop at a few of the local homes around here. The two I seen looked pretty lavish and might still have things they couldn't take with them. One of them isn't far from here and we'd be able to get there before dark I'd venture to guess."

With that he fell silent again as he moved to sit where he was before and began whittling at his project again.