(Please see the OOC thread before posting to this thread. It is located here: http://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?t=1103855 )
Added note:
Please make sure to look over the current list of characters in the OOC thread to see where your character would fit in. Group dynamics are important in IC groups as well as OOC when doing an open storyline. Everyone needs to mesh well.
Also, I encourage versatility...not everyone is going to be the kick-ass walking-arsenal soldier type...it'd be a pretty one-dimensional story if everyone was the same. While important, fighting is not the only skill set needed in a successful group of survivors...just sayin'.
Keep in mind, realism is key for a believable story. Put yourself in the character's shoes...would you just be walking around matter-of-factly killing walkers, without any fear? Would you have access to supplies needed to survive? What would YOU do to survive? Answer those questions, and incorporate them into writing your character when roleplaying them. Make the reader fell what THEY would be feeling...it's that connection that makes for a good story.
Let's make this fun!
**********
As its teeth gnashed and its claws tried to gouge at him, the blade of the hatchet slammed down into the skull of the rotting creature, splitting it in a spray of blackened blood. The creature fell, and Nick yanked the bloodstained blade free. He looked down at the creature with rage and disgust, and with a heavy boot, stomped the still twitching creature's head until it was unrecognizable. He stopped, his face flushed, looking down at the corpse and saw that it wore a vest...on one pocket, it read "Pump 'N Go," and pinned to the other, was a name tag that read "Darleen."
Breathing heavily, Nick dropped the hatchet, closing his eyes and placing his hands on his knees, bending over as he felt his belly lurch. The world spun momentarily, and it was only with the greatest of willpower, that was he able to keep his stomach from emptying the contents of his last meal. Not that there would have been much for his stomach to purge...he had come across a small can of sardines yesterday afternoon while scavenging for food, but before this find, it had been two days since he had eaten.
He took two more deep breaths to steady himself...and then picked up the hatchet again, placing it in a makeshift loop on his side for easy access. Food was priority now, and most of the items in the small gas station convenience store he had entered in attempt to find food looked to have already been ransacked...but past experience had taught him that occasionally things were overlooked.
After about twenty minutes of searching, he was rewarded with his prize...a small smashed box of Ritz crackers, and a loose can of Budweiser laying abandoned on the floor. He gathered these up, putting the box of crackers in his pack, and quickly left the store...it smelled of rotten deli meat, rancid blood, and decaying flesh, and the smell was overpowering. Taking a deep breath of fresh air as he stood by the gas pump, he popped open the warm beer, and quickly drained it.
"So, this is what it all comes down to," Nick thought, his mood black with depression and loss, "nothing to live for but crushed crackers and piss warm beer..."
It had been almost a month now, since he had lost his family to the horde of walkers that invaded the cabin. He had been out on a supply run then, too...scrounging for food, afraid to hunt for fear the gunshot from his rifle would draw the walkers. As it turned out, it had not mattered...they were found regardless, and only the fact that he had not been at the cabin had saved him. His wife Laura and his two young daughters had not been so lucky. He had not been there to protect them, and they had paid the price.
His mind often wandered to the Beretta that he kept under his jacket. If he decided to end it, this is what he'd use...
"Well, why haven't you done it then, asshole?" he said aloud. "What stopping you?"
He pulled the pistol out, and looked at it meaningfully...and then placed it against his temple. Thoughts raced through his brain like lightning across and dark sky. Would it be so bad? One quick pull of the trigger, and it'd all be over. Would he see his family again? Would there be nothing after?
His finger tensed on the trigger, his hand shaking...and then he lowered the gun to his side, self preservation winning out again, like it had every day since he'd fled from the horde that feasted on his family.
"Fucking coward," he said softly to himself, shaking his head in disgust at his lack of resolve...and then holstered the pistol.
It wasn't the fear of death or what might be after that stopped him...he had made his peace with that, the night his family died. It was his very nature itself. He had always been a happy optimist before everything went to hell...always looking at the bright side of things, looking for the silver lining. Part of him just could not give up...even though the only lining in the clouds he could see right now were black as pitch. It was against his nature to just check out...but the thoughts still tormented him daily.
He began to walk down the street, noting the sun had dropped low in the sky. The walkers were always more active at night. He would need a safe haven, and soon.
"Gonna be dark soon. Gotta find a place to sleep," he said to himself, the sound of his own raspy voice both comforting him, and somewhat scaring him by how weak it sounded.
He had not spoken to a soul since that fateful night of the slaughter, and the constant silence and lack of human contact disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Still, you never knew if any of the living folks you might run into might just kill you for what you had. The world had truly become dog eat dog...and he did not plan to be anyone's next meal, whether they be living or dead. He was at odds with himself. Avoidance seemed the best course of action, but it was an aimless existence, surviving for no purpose...and the former optimist wanted to believe that there were still good people left. It had been a moot point, however...he had not seen a living soul for two weeks, and that person and warned him away with a crazed laugh and a shotgun pointed at him.
Further down the street, he saw an overturned semi trailer. "As good a spot as any," he thought. He would climb atop the trailer...if walkers came, he'd lay flat above their line of sight. He'd become quite adept at hiding from and avoiding them. His years as a hunter had paid off...it made him an elusive prey.
He was only a few feet from the semi when a figure stepped out from behind it. His hand immediately leapt to his hatchet, readying to kill another walker...but the figure then raised its hand...and spoke...
Added note:
Please make sure to look over the current list of characters in the OOC thread to see where your character would fit in. Group dynamics are important in IC groups as well as OOC when doing an open storyline. Everyone needs to mesh well.
Also, I encourage versatility...not everyone is going to be the kick-ass walking-arsenal soldier type...it'd be a pretty one-dimensional story if everyone was the same. While important, fighting is not the only skill set needed in a successful group of survivors...just sayin'.
Keep in mind, realism is key for a believable story. Put yourself in the character's shoes...would you just be walking around matter-of-factly killing walkers, without any fear? Would you have access to supplies needed to survive? What would YOU do to survive? Answer those questions, and incorporate them into writing your character when roleplaying them. Make the reader fell what THEY would be feeling...it's that connection that makes for a good story.
Let's make this fun!
**********
As its teeth gnashed and its claws tried to gouge at him, the blade of the hatchet slammed down into the skull of the rotting creature, splitting it in a spray of blackened blood. The creature fell, and Nick yanked the bloodstained blade free. He looked down at the creature with rage and disgust, and with a heavy boot, stomped the still twitching creature's head until it was unrecognizable. He stopped, his face flushed, looking down at the corpse and saw that it wore a vest...on one pocket, it read "Pump 'N Go," and pinned to the other, was a name tag that read "Darleen."
Breathing heavily, Nick dropped the hatchet, closing his eyes and placing his hands on his knees, bending over as he felt his belly lurch. The world spun momentarily, and it was only with the greatest of willpower, that was he able to keep his stomach from emptying the contents of his last meal. Not that there would have been much for his stomach to purge...he had come across a small can of sardines yesterday afternoon while scavenging for food, but before this find, it had been two days since he had eaten.
He took two more deep breaths to steady himself...and then picked up the hatchet again, placing it in a makeshift loop on his side for easy access. Food was priority now, and most of the items in the small gas station convenience store he had entered in attempt to find food looked to have already been ransacked...but past experience had taught him that occasionally things were overlooked.
After about twenty minutes of searching, he was rewarded with his prize...a small smashed box of Ritz crackers, and a loose can of Budweiser laying abandoned on the floor. He gathered these up, putting the box of crackers in his pack, and quickly left the store...it smelled of rotten deli meat, rancid blood, and decaying flesh, and the smell was overpowering. Taking a deep breath of fresh air as he stood by the gas pump, he popped open the warm beer, and quickly drained it.
"So, this is what it all comes down to," Nick thought, his mood black with depression and loss, "nothing to live for but crushed crackers and piss warm beer..."
It had been almost a month now, since he had lost his family to the horde of walkers that invaded the cabin. He had been out on a supply run then, too...scrounging for food, afraid to hunt for fear the gunshot from his rifle would draw the walkers. As it turned out, it had not mattered...they were found regardless, and only the fact that he had not been at the cabin had saved him. His wife Laura and his two young daughters had not been so lucky. He had not been there to protect them, and they had paid the price.
His mind often wandered to the Beretta that he kept under his jacket. If he decided to end it, this is what he'd use...
"Well, why haven't you done it then, asshole?" he said aloud. "What stopping you?"
He pulled the pistol out, and looked at it meaningfully...and then placed it against his temple. Thoughts raced through his brain like lightning across and dark sky. Would it be so bad? One quick pull of the trigger, and it'd all be over. Would he see his family again? Would there be nothing after?
His finger tensed on the trigger, his hand shaking...and then he lowered the gun to his side, self preservation winning out again, like it had every day since he'd fled from the horde that feasted on his family.
"Fucking coward," he said softly to himself, shaking his head in disgust at his lack of resolve...and then holstered the pistol.
It wasn't the fear of death or what might be after that stopped him...he had made his peace with that, the night his family died. It was his very nature itself. He had always been a happy optimist before everything went to hell...always looking at the bright side of things, looking for the silver lining. Part of him just could not give up...even though the only lining in the clouds he could see right now were black as pitch. It was against his nature to just check out...but the thoughts still tormented him daily.
He began to walk down the street, noting the sun had dropped low in the sky. The walkers were always more active at night. He would need a safe haven, and soon.
"Gonna be dark soon. Gotta find a place to sleep," he said to himself, the sound of his own raspy voice both comforting him, and somewhat scaring him by how weak it sounded.
He had not spoken to a soul since that fateful night of the slaughter, and the constant silence and lack of human contact disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Still, you never knew if any of the living folks you might run into might just kill you for what you had. The world had truly become dog eat dog...and he did not plan to be anyone's next meal, whether they be living or dead. He was at odds with himself. Avoidance seemed the best course of action, but it was an aimless existence, surviving for no purpose...and the former optimist wanted to believe that there were still good people left. It had been a moot point, however...he had not seen a living soul for two weeks, and that person and warned him away with a crazed laugh and a shotgun pointed at him.
Further down the street, he saw an overturned semi trailer. "As good a spot as any," he thought. He would climb atop the trailer...if walkers came, he'd lay flat above their line of sight. He'd become quite adept at hiding from and avoiding them. His years as a hunter had paid off...it made him an elusive prey.
He was only a few feet from the semi when a figure stepped out from behind it. His hand immediately leapt to his hatchet, readying to kill another walker...but the figure then raised its hand...and spoke...
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