Post by Junkrat on Nov 14, 2016 14:30:12 GMT
It had started with just one, then ten, then one hundred, until all but maybe 30% of the population had become starved for human flesh, single minded in their need to spread, spread and grow, until the entire human race was nothing more than mindless, savage animals.
No one was really sure how it started, though plenty of the remaining survivors had their theories, from government involvement to aliens, or a virus with no cute and no way to halt the spread. It was like a wildfire being lit on the dryest field of wheat, threatening to engulf everything left of the civilized world, and truly it could have, as the epidemic seemed to reach every corner of the globe. But life always finds a way.
The human race for all its flaws is stubborn, and the survivors were a prime example of this, groups and individuals who refused to die, survivalists who could now thrive in this world where survival of the fittest was common law, and only those willing to do anything for it saw tomorrow.
Jamison Fawkes was one of these people, a survivalist and a prepper who'd built and all purpose bunker for whatever disaster happened to hit first. He'd been a spectacle in the times before the event, a laughing stock of the neighborhood as he labored and stocked this perfect panic room for what felt like years, but was really months. It was big enough for him, big enough for maybe a dozen of him, and the supplies had been stocked to last, it was his magnum opus as a builder, a tinkerer, but he was proficient in other things as well.
Exploding things. The neighbors had thought him crazy, dangerous, the community psychopath. And maybe he was, but he was also the man who wasn't dead, who had a safe shelter.
He'd become a bit more animalistic in his time alone, raw survival would do that to a person, he was more inclined to shoot first and ask later, a hair-trigger with a threatening shotgun and a self-made bazooka, his go to for dealing with any problem.
He was armed to the teeth as he picked through what was left of one of the homes nearby, most had been cleaned of anything useful, but he still liked to rummage through dead people's items to find anything that might catch his eye, he collected family photos, wedding rings, anything that seemed personal, it was his own way of reminding himself that at one point, the world was normal.
Some jewelry and resources he would keep for trading, should someone shuffle along who was interested in that, it wasn't often that he came across other survivors, and he tended to cherish those rare situations as the only socialization that he had. He hated admitting it, because he was a misanthrope on a good day, but he was fucking lonely, and the lonely was wearing on him more and more each day.
The barrel of his shotgun was really starting to look like a tasty meal as days went by.
No one was really sure how it started, though plenty of the remaining survivors had their theories, from government involvement to aliens, or a virus with no cute and no way to halt the spread. It was like a wildfire being lit on the dryest field of wheat, threatening to engulf everything left of the civilized world, and truly it could have, as the epidemic seemed to reach every corner of the globe. But life always finds a way.
The human race for all its flaws is stubborn, and the survivors were a prime example of this, groups and individuals who refused to die, survivalists who could now thrive in this world where survival of the fittest was common law, and only those willing to do anything for it saw tomorrow.
Jamison Fawkes was one of these people, a survivalist and a prepper who'd built and all purpose bunker for whatever disaster happened to hit first. He'd been a spectacle in the times before the event, a laughing stock of the neighborhood as he labored and stocked this perfect panic room for what felt like years, but was really months. It was big enough for him, big enough for maybe a dozen of him, and the supplies had been stocked to last, it was his magnum opus as a builder, a tinkerer, but he was proficient in other things as well.
Exploding things. The neighbors had thought him crazy, dangerous, the community psychopath. And maybe he was, but he was also the man who wasn't dead, who had a safe shelter.
He'd become a bit more animalistic in his time alone, raw survival would do that to a person, he was more inclined to shoot first and ask later, a hair-trigger with a threatening shotgun and a self-made bazooka, his go to for dealing with any problem.
He was armed to the teeth as he picked through what was left of one of the homes nearby, most had been cleaned of anything useful, but he still liked to rummage through dead people's items to find anything that might catch his eye, he collected family photos, wedding rings, anything that seemed personal, it was his own way of reminding himself that at one point, the world was normal.
Some jewelry and resources he would keep for trading, should someone shuffle along who was interested in that, it wasn't often that he came across other survivors, and he tended to cherish those rare situations as the only socialization that he had. He hated admitting it, because he was a misanthrope on a good day, but he was fucking lonely, and the lonely was wearing on him more and more each day.
The barrel of his shotgun was really starting to look like a tasty meal as days went by.
