Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
WELCOME TO HELLSCAPE.
Where you might have a fighting chance.
IT'S A WASTELAND.
The time has since passed. The Outbreak: that's over, it's been two years. The world is ravaged, destroyed, aside from the small settlements of people who have managed to make it through.
AUGUST 13TH, 2015 - SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS - 10:34 PM
Teeth sunk against the flesh of another, blood crusted fingers digging
against your forearm despite how hard you tried to tear
yourself away. The spores littered from your wound after. It
felt like FIRE.
The infection spread throughout the city. It plagued everything. Radios, news stations, cell tower alerts – They were all waiting for Martial Law to help. The epidemic was plastered on every screen in the world. People couldn’t help, but wait. They remained closed indoors. No one dared step apart from their boarded heavens. No one came. No one ever would. There would be no intervention from the government. They allowed the public to remain in the dark, hiding behind closed shelters and what little remained of the Center for Disease Control.The world existed nothing of rotted corpses and the feral beings. The largest cities were blown off the map in an attempt to depopulate the clusters of infected.
JUNE 20TH, 2016 - LOCATION UNKNOWN // HOME BASE - 12:13 PM
There were whispers of a save haven. No survivor was sure of where it could exist. Resting in the mountains, there was an abandoned base. Slowly, people made their way towards the light. They rebuilt a small civilization out of rubble. The word floated around the nearby communities. For a while people didn’t believe in it.This base would fall apart just like the rest of them. The people of Hellscape didn’t falter. Each time they were knocked down, they possessed a resilience to restore it all. It has been almost a year since the outbreak. People are settling down, almost believing that they world could be safe.
A group of scientist worked relentlessly, gathering from little supplies they held. Scattered around old military grade laboratories, they worked their hands to the bone until something was salvaged. An antiserum. It was some stray point of miracle. A few weeks later the walls broke through. There was a rush to save their research. Dr. Lauren Krem was pinned down, bitten by one of the infected. With no other choice, she was given the antiserum on a whim. Her fever lightened, the black that tainted her veins lessened, and the spores didn’t seem to spread. It slowed the effects of the infection, but didn’t falter it. Then, it became a catalyst. The Infection sped up. Their futile efforts did not work—and the last thing that the team heard a gunshot.
The walls were scrubbed, the life lost was mourned, and the team worked to examine were they went wrong. It was a minute difference that they had missed, but the antiserum was made stronger, made to cover a wide range of blood types and immunities. It still wasn’t a guarantee, but through rats they discovered that the vaccine could not be administered intravenously. Instead, the shot must be injected directly into the brain.
The antiserum could only be used for the immediately infected. Anything past the first stage is a recipe for limited brain function and extreme scarring. These people, those who survived the antiserum, they are scorned and called SCABS. They are able to walk among the survivors as mostly normal, yet they are outlawed by the normal survivors. Bitterness grew among the small group. They remain close to each other. They understand one thing much better than the rest: if worst comes to worst, nobody will be coming to save them.
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