Permanent Exhaustion
Junior Member
This is how the world ends. No biblical plagues or world-ending floods. A virus, transmitted through transmission of fluids. Those infected die within a day, most sooner. That's not the worst part, though. Shortly after they die, they come back. They come back looking to eradicate every trace of what they once were, killing everyone they find. It had only been two weeks since the first outbreak, but in that time, most of the world's population had died, either from the virus or from the ensuing chaos. We're what's left.
Harding Malin
Harding's eyes were peeled, glued on the treeline. He'd volunteered for night watch, he always made sure someone was awake and keeping an eye out. The dead, they were easy to detect, they made so much noise crashing through the woods that one had to be deaf to not hear them. But in just two weeks, people had become as big a threat as the walkers. Those that were still alive had a tendency to rob, attack, or even kill other survivors they found. People's morals got shot to hell as soon as things got rough. He wasn't that surprised.
He'd had a normal life, before. He'd joined the military at 17, dropped out of high school to do it. Saved every penny he got while enlisted, gave ten years of his life to the Army. He'd gotten honorably discharged after a bad injury permanently screwed up his left arm, he couldn't carry more than a few pounds with it without extreme pain. As soon as he was back home, he'd opened a small gun store with his best friend. He figured now that that decision had saved his life. When things went down, the first sign of bad news, he was ready. He'd never liked civilian life much anyways, he'd taken about an hour to clear out everything he could carry from the store and took off in his truck. He had more supplies than the average survivor, even walked around with a bulletproof vest when he was away from camp. That wasn't from the store, though, that was from a dead cop that had almost killed him a few days before. It had been a rough couple of weeks like that.
Things were improving, though. It made sense, that after the initial aftershock of getting attacked by dead people, people adapted. It was almost funny how quickly even the most stubborn person adapted when their life was on the line. Harding figured he'd seen some screwed up stuff already, though this definitely topped the list. He'd learned some tips quickly, some from bad TV shows, some from basic knowledge of the walkers. They weren't smart, and most of them were slow. Occasionally you ran across one that could out-sprint an Olympian. In those situations, running wasn't an option, they didn't get tired, they could run forever. They didn't seem to see too well, though they detected movement fairly well. They mostly seemed to rely on hearing and smell. Like sharks, the slightest scent of blood put them in a frenzy looking for the source. They usually didn't get distracted from their prey unless they found something more tempted or there was no sign of movement after a while.
It wasn't much. But it was enough. It meant he knew to keep any fires low, to stay quiet as much as possible, to cover wounds immediately. Harding had his own fair share of injuries he'd amassed in the past couple weeks, there wasn't a limb on his body without some kind of bandage or gauze. A scrape on his jaw, cuts all over his arms, he'd hurt his leg badly when running from a group of walkers in the beginning. It was hard, surviving, staying constantly on the move. But then something changed. He met other survivors, ones that weren't trying to kill every person they encountered. They stuck together, worked together to stay alive. Andrea, Andy, was the first, a former scientist. He never remembered what kind, he was a high school drop-out. A real smart type, he'd found her hiding out in a hospital trying to grab supplies. Medicine but also lab equipment. She'd told him that she wanted to try to learn more about the virus at a molecular level, whatever that meant. He took it as hopefully finding a cure, he did whatever he could to get her what she needed. Including a couple live samples, which had been a weird day. Others slowly trickled in, a couple left, a couple weren't made for that type of life and didn't make it, but the rest were there, working with him to live. He wanted to do more than roam and struggle to survive. He was no architect, but if they could find a farm or something, they could fortify it, survive for real without needing to be scared to fall asleep.
With his eyes on the horizon, watching the rising sun, that was all he could think of. Their sanctuary, when they found it. He had plans to go out that day, to look for more people and supplies, to take whoever with him wanted to go. They couldn't stay idle for a moment. As soon as it was fairly light out, he got to his feet, limbs aching from sitting still for so long, and looked around. A couple sleeping figures. "Time to go." He said, as loud as he dared to speak. Loud enough to wake up most of the people in the area. "Anyone coming with me?" He asked, grabbing his bag and waiting for an answer.
Andrea Stevenson
Andrea was going to kill the next person to wake her up at dawn. She had to stifle a groan as Harding's loud voice penetrated the heavenly silence that had once filled the little campsite. She had always been a person who was a little too attached to her eight hours of sleep, though that had gone out the window when the world effectively ended. She was only conscious for about four seconds before her thoughts returned to the disaster-zone that was the world around them. She'd received more news than most people, she'd been on the front lines for the CDC briefly when they thought there was still a chance at figuring out what was happening and finding a solution. A cure. They'd only had a day or two to work before things devolved into chaos, she'd barely made it out alive. Colorado was an odd destination for most people in the face of death, but her brother lived there, and she wanted to find him.
His house had been empty when she got there. Pictures of him, his wife, his kids, they still lined the walls. Bags were half-packed, the living room a mess. She didn't know if it was looters or the Specs that got to them. Specs. When she'd worked with the CDC, they'd only been able to refer to those that... came back as specimens, it kind of stuck for her. It felt better than thinking of them as monsters or people, they really weren't either. Just specimens. Things to be studied, analyzed. Things to be cured. Perhaps it was her ambition or her hubris, but part of her was firm in that she would be the one, the one to fix things, the hero. A cure would be ideal, but even some kind of antivenom, some kind of solution to prevent someone from turning after getting bit other than chopping off the affected limb. It was a crude solution at best, they needed to do better.
"I'll go." She grunted, still barely awake. She hated going out into the city, but she needed more supplies, and she took any opportunity she could get to observe the Specs. She pushed herself into an upright position and rubbed her eyes for a moment, finding her glasses and putting them on blearily. She missed contacts. She missed hot showers. She missed Instagram. Harding handed her a pistol once she was up and moving, and she eyed it distastefully before taking it, holding it like one might pick up a dead animal. She missed not having to bring a gun with her wherever she went. She missed that most of all. Harding kept track of most of the guns, which made sense since most of them were his. He usually only let people carry when they were out and about, he kept them with him otherwise. She remembered him explaining it as anyone was welcome to leave whenever they wanted, but they weren't taking his guns with them.
She gave herself a minute to wake up completely before slinging her backpack over her shoulder, packed with two water bottles, a few granola bars, some super basic first-aid supplies, mostly to stop active bleeding, and a hunting knife. Almost like she was going for a hike, which was a lot better than the reality. Nonetheless, she was ready to go wherever Harding decided they were going.
Harding Malin
Harding's eyes were peeled, glued on the treeline. He'd volunteered for night watch, he always made sure someone was awake and keeping an eye out. The dead, they were easy to detect, they made so much noise crashing through the woods that one had to be deaf to not hear them. But in just two weeks, people had become as big a threat as the walkers. Those that were still alive had a tendency to rob, attack, or even kill other survivors they found. People's morals got shot to hell as soon as things got rough. He wasn't that surprised.
He'd had a normal life, before. He'd joined the military at 17, dropped out of high school to do it. Saved every penny he got while enlisted, gave ten years of his life to the Army. He'd gotten honorably discharged after a bad injury permanently screwed up his left arm, he couldn't carry more than a few pounds with it without extreme pain. As soon as he was back home, he'd opened a small gun store with his best friend. He figured now that that decision had saved his life. When things went down, the first sign of bad news, he was ready. He'd never liked civilian life much anyways, he'd taken about an hour to clear out everything he could carry from the store and took off in his truck. He had more supplies than the average survivor, even walked around with a bulletproof vest when he was away from camp. That wasn't from the store, though, that was from a dead cop that had almost killed him a few days before. It had been a rough couple of weeks like that.
Things were improving, though. It made sense, that after the initial aftershock of getting attacked by dead people, people adapted. It was almost funny how quickly even the most stubborn person adapted when their life was on the line. Harding figured he'd seen some screwed up stuff already, though this definitely topped the list. He'd learned some tips quickly, some from bad TV shows, some from basic knowledge of the walkers. They weren't smart, and most of them were slow. Occasionally you ran across one that could out-sprint an Olympian. In those situations, running wasn't an option, they didn't get tired, they could run forever. They didn't seem to see too well, though they detected movement fairly well. They mostly seemed to rely on hearing and smell. Like sharks, the slightest scent of blood put them in a frenzy looking for the source. They usually didn't get distracted from their prey unless they found something more tempted or there was no sign of movement after a while.
It wasn't much. But it was enough. It meant he knew to keep any fires low, to stay quiet as much as possible, to cover wounds immediately. Harding had his own fair share of injuries he'd amassed in the past couple weeks, there wasn't a limb on his body without some kind of bandage or gauze. A scrape on his jaw, cuts all over his arms, he'd hurt his leg badly when running from a group of walkers in the beginning. It was hard, surviving, staying constantly on the move. But then something changed. He met other survivors, ones that weren't trying to kill every person they encountered. They stuck together, worked together to stay alive. Andrea, Andy, was the first, a former scientist. He never remembered what kind, he was a high school drop-out. A real smart type, he'd found her hiding out in a hospital trying to grab supplies. Medicine but also lab equipment. She'd told him that she wanted to try to learn more about the virus at a molecular level, whatever that meant. He took it as hopefully finding a cure, he did whatever he could to get her what she needed. Including a couple live samples, which had been a weird day. Others slowly trickled in, a couple left, a couple weren't made for that type of life and didn't make it, but the rest were there, working with him to live. He wanted to do more than roam and struggle to survive. He was no architect, but if they could find a farm or something, they could fortify it, survive for real without needing to be scared to fall asleep.
With his eyes on the horizon, watching the rising sun, that was all he could think of. Their sanctuary, when they found it. He had plans to go out that day, to look for more people and supplies, to take whoever with him wanted to go. They couldn't stay idle for a moment. As soon as it was fairly light out, he got to his feet, limbs aching from sitting still for so long, and looked around. A couple sleeping figures. "Time to go." He said, as loud as he dared to speak. Loud enough to wake up most of the people in the area. "Anyone coming with me?" He asked, grabbing his bag and waiting for an answer.
Andrea Stevenson
Andrea was going to kill the next person to wake her up at dawn. She had to stifle a groan as Harding's loud voice penetrated the heavenly silence that had once filled the little campsite. She had always been a person who was a little too attached to her eight hours of sleep, though that had gone out the window when the world effectively ended. She was only conscious for about four seconds before her thoughts returned to the disaster-zone that was the world around them. She'd received more news than most people, she'd been on the front lines for the CDC briefly when they thought there was still a chance at figuring out what was happening and finding a solution. A cure. They'd only had a day or two to work before things devolved into chaos, she'd barely made it out alive. Colorado was an odd destination for most people in the face of death, but her brother lived there, and she wanted to find him.
His house had been empty when she got there. Pictures of him, his wife, his kids, they still lined the walls. Bags were half-packed, the living room a mess. She didn't know if it was looters or the Specs that got to them. Specs. When she'd worked with the CDC, they'd only been able to refer to those that... came back as specimens, it kind of stuck for her. It felt better than thinking of them as monsters or people, they really weren't either. Just specimens. Things to be studied, analyzed. Things to be cured. Perhaps it was her ambition or her hubris, but part of her was firm in that she would be the one, the one to fix things, the hero. A cure would be ideal, but even some kind of antivenom, some kind of solution to prevent someone from turning after getting bit other than chopping off the affected limb. It was a crude solution at best, they needed to do better.
"I'll go." She grunted, still barely awake. She hated going out into the city, but she needed more supplies, and she took any opportunity she could get to observe the Specs. She pushed herself into an upright position and rubbed her eyes for a moment, finding her glasses and putting them on blearily. She missed contacts. She missed hot showers. She missed Instagram. Harding handed her a pistol once she was up and moving, and she eyed it distastefully before taking it, holding it like one might pick up a dead animal. She missed not having to bring a gun with her wherever she went. She missed that most of all. Harding kept track of most of the guns, which made sense since most of them were his. He usually only let people carry when they were out and about, he kept them with him otherwise. She remembered him explaining it as anyone was welcome to leave whenever they wanted, but they weren't taking his guns with them.
She gave herself a minute to wake up completely before slinging her backpack over her shoulder, packed with two water bottles, a few granola bars, some super basic first-aid supplies, mostly to stop active bleeding, and a hunting knife. Almost like she was going for a hike, which was a lot better than the reality. Nonetheless, she was ready to go wherever Harding decided they were going.
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