A Christmas Eve Horror Story

I came into this world a tiny thing. In my part of the world it’s still rather wild and many infants don’t make it to adulthood. I was one of the lucky ones, a golden child with the sun on my face; I grew up straight and tall.  Life could be taken so quickly out here. We were a rare breed bound together by family ties rooted deep in the land. Whether it was protection or love, I was always surrounded by family. Cousins, aunts, and uncles mingled with even older members of our clan.

My great-great-grandmother Virginia reigned over all of us with the strength of an oak. No crow could circle overhead or alight nearby without her knowing of it. A wandering animal may look to us for shelter and sustenance. When they crept into our presence, it was on her command that we held some lives in the balance. Oddly (or maybe not when you think on it) she held a soft spot for the predators over the prey. Many of them found sanctuary in our shelter on the dark rainy nights.

We were remote, so while the collective history of our people knew of other tribes at the top of the food chain, their presence had been limited, bordering on non-existent to us. Most of the sprouts of our family had never even seen one of the upright ones. Our sense of dominion over the land had grown to the point where we’d become complacent and rather smug. We were not overbearing, mind you, we took our custody of the land seriously, as we felt one with it. However we did not think to build defenses for what was to come.

I was a youth, still tender and easily swayed by the changing winds the first time they came. Their movements were so fast and erratic. They chattered like the squirrels in the trees, but strangely the rest of the land became silent at their arrival. Unlike the animals of the forest, they seemed clumsy and uncomfortable in their coverings. We felt little for them that first time except surprise, and a slightly condescending pity. We did not even pretend to try to have the lithe movement of the furried ones but instead looked to the distant future and listened to the minuscule movements of the Earth. These people seemed to want both our tribe’s scope and understanding of the land, marveling at the wonders and great beauty here, and the grace of our small woodland companions. Instead they overreached themselves and succeed at neither. They offered homage by giving some of us decorations of red (we assumed it had some religious significance to them) then they were gone. We thought this was the end of it.

Then Uncle Fraser disappeared.

They came and dragged him from his home of 75 years. We looked on in shock and dumbfounded horror. Fighting had never been our way. Gamma Ginny looked on with deep sadness and anger, but even she did not have the resources to move into action. Our wails of anguish fell on deaf ears. Even though the forest echoed with our screams that sent rabbits and fox alike running for safety, they seemed not to hear. While we all looked on they took him away, chattering to each other until all that remained were the furrows where he tried to cling to us. He was gone.

That night we met to discuss what could be done. Some of us wanted to fight, but others said it was not our way. In truth, the time for creating a usable defense was probably decades or even centuries too late. I didn’t know it at the time, but their technologies and cruel inventions made any meager efforts we tried a lesson in futility.

For the first time in our family, there was a rift. Gamma, always a pillar of strength, used all of her influence to try and unify us once more. Over time, it may have even worked. Her presence among us towered over all others and her influence reached back through the years and spread far through the land. Months passed and her calm, serene assurance took hold in all of us We dared to hope this terrible tragedy was an isolated incident.

Douglas was the next to go. He was such a handsome thing, healthy and strong. It was no wonder they took him, but the fear and pain he felt as they carted him off broke us. We raged with each other for weeks on end, swaying the most peaceful of our clan to take action. Finally, when I thought I could not stand the turmoil, we decided to move against these terrible new interlopers. Some of the older ones sacrificed the few years they had left to block the upright one’s pathways. We called to our companions to trim our outreaching arms over their soft bodies. We thought the tide was turning… and then they took Gamma. The roar of her leaving the land was deafening, even for them. The mountains echoed with her screams.

After that it was only a matter of time.

I awoke to the dreaded buzzing sound. It always preceded them taking another one of us. It came more and more frequently these days. In the beginning of the terror time we were lucky to go a whole season without hearing it, but as fewer of us stood, the parasitic bipeds appeared more and more often, as if the smell of our death drove them to hunger. By now we were all conditioned to hold ourselves still when we heard the ripping scream of their machines, hoping that our stillness would make us invisible. I have learned a little of their world in the short time I have been with them, and they have done this to each other as well. Horrible places called concentration camps housed those waiting for death. The upright ones in those places would sit, unable to leave, hoping that when their torturers came it would not be their turn, reliving fresh fear over and over. They even marked them, like the red ribbons they gave us.

I wonder if it should make me feel a kind of kinship with my murderers. Instead it makes me wish they had been more thorough in their slaughter of each other. I realize that my desire to see their blood run like sap makes me a hypocrite to my people and more like one of them. I am past caring.

The noise of the doom machine was closer than I had ever heard it. I quivered in sickening fear, trying to look insignificant. I was still quite young and hoped they would go for one of the Aunts, or someone sturdier. While I had heard the screams of the others, I had never been close enough at the moment they were taken to see what this machine actually did. I knew by now it was called a machine. Their chatter, ever present, had at least taught me that. While I was scared beyond belief, conditioning to this constant state had dulled my fear. Despite my dread of being taken, my youthful curiosity held out a sliver of interest to the proceedings. What could happen to us to make this such a terrible experience?

To go back to that place and relive what happened is so awful words cannot do it justice. The sudden pressure at my ankle, followed by a wall of pain blinding and all-encompassing as they cut me from my lower extremity. That terrible nausea-inducing pain causing me to scream out and slam into the forest floor. And then realizing the indignity and humiliation of it all… unable to stop them, unable to do anything but cry and scream in anguish, impotent and completely defeated. When I finally blacked out it was the most merciful thing that could happen to me. It will remain so until the death I now hope for.


When I awoke, the pain was still there sharp and unrelenting. I was lying on the bodies of my brethren. I heard moans and pleas for help. I knew it was useless and drifted back into unconsciousness.

The next time I rose from blackness I was being lifted from the pile. “Here’s a good one” said the creature, handing me off to another. This one leaned me upright on my stump propping me against a hard surface. The intense flare of pain robbed me of my sanity and I sank back into blissful nothing.

Slowly I came to again. It was bright out, brighter than I had ever felt. The sun beat down on me and at first I welcomed it, until I realized how desperately thirsty I was. I was unable to find water. I had always been able to before but now, I was lost, adrift. Panic rose in me and I started to scream anew.

“It won’t help, they can’t hear you.” said an exhausted voice next to me. Another youngling leaned next to me. He looked pale and drooped. “We’re all dead. They are killing us slowly. And they don’t even care. They can’t even hear us scream.” His voice trailed off.

I tried to speak to him again, but after that, he never acknowledged me. I heard  more singing sounds and laugher…or perhaps crying. I tried to ignore the talking, tried to ignore the thirst, tried to ignore the throbbing below and finally drifted back to sleep.

“This one Daddy! I want this one!” screamed a voice next to me.

One of their saplings stood next to me, their branches reaching for me. Its bright yellow petals flying wispily away from its head. “Pick up this one! Do it Daddy! Now!”

I felt myself being lifted and fastened to another hard surface. At first the wind rushing past me felt as though I was in a storm. I could almost pretend I was home. But the motion of their machine and the increasing pressure of the wind made me increasingly uncomfortable until it fought for position with my ankles as the lead sensation of agony. I once again looked for my familiar refuge of unconsciousness, but now the unrelenting wind would not let me. After what seemed like a lifetime, which is funny considering how long my tribe actually lives, we slowed and came to a halt.

Once again I was lifted up and carried, but this time into a cave like dwelling. It was much brighter than most caves, and all the light had started to hurt me. I ached all over and my thirst was even greater. The brightness and color looked tawdry compared to the subtle beauty of the forest. They stood me up and then dug bolts into my chopped stump layering fresh sharp pain to the dull throbbing pain below. Smiling and full of maniacal joy they adding more garish light to me as if the thought of nighttime was unimaginable.

“Please, I whispered, begging pathetically. “I’m so thirsty. I miss my home. What have we done to you? Why do you hate us?”

There was no response. They did not hear my plea, nor would they care. Like psychotic magpies they threw shiny trinkets all over me weighing down my tired limbs. They piled boxes under me, covered in the corpses of my people. By now their horrid cruelty ceased to shock me. They were as ignorant of my pain as they were apathetic. Even when they put water in the torture device that held me upright, it did little to quell my thirst, nor did it lessen my pain or increasing weariness.

I sit here now in the silent night. They say a great man will come tonight to visit; one who is friends with the deer, and has special powers. He travels far and wide they say and grants wishes to those who are good. They say he sees you at all times and knows if you’ve been bad. They say he is magical. And so I have hope.

I hope that he comes.

I hope that he hears my call.

I hope he sees how good I am.

And I hope he brings matches so I can take them all with me.



Yashima is now for sale!

I am completely excited for the release of Yashima. I did so much writing for this game, including a lore book:

Yash lore

It’s a giddy thing to sign a book. Thank you to everyone at GenCon who bought a copy! The rest will not be available until closer to Christmas, but here is an excerpt:



The Red Button

Mike hated his job. The pay was great. Hell for being a glorified button pusher, the pay was outstanding. He had health benefits, dental included, a comfy chair and all the softdrinks the vendor in the hall could provide. It was the retirement plan that sucked. Lately, the hours were shit as well. He didn’t even want to think about his social life, or lack thereof. Yes, work was all-consuming. He groaned inwardly at his private joke.

The overlords stood in a huddle behind him. Most days they strutted around commandcentral like overstuffed roosters, crowing orders inflated with their self importance. They were not really overlords, and this was not really commandcentral, but Mike liked to think of it as such. So did the overlords. Until recently, they really were the leaders of the most powerful nation on Earth. But nature had trumped their sense of control. They had gotten less arrogant as the plague swept through the nation. The more information that came in about infections per capita, the more they closed ranks, exchanging fierce whispering sessions with each other, like jilted girlfriends not wanting to create a scene at the bar.

Mike, knowing he was an “acceptable loss” kept his mouth shut and kept pressing buttons. Even when he saw Kansas City consumed in a wash of red “infection rate” coloring, he had kept his cool. It was only later, in the privy that he slammed his fists into the stall and sobbed silently for his mom, left on her own. Lucy was a tough bird, but that solid red told him she didn’t stand a chance. Then he used the indulgent hot and cold running water to clean himself up and went back to his comfy chair to push more buttons. That was two weeks ago.

Today, he had rolled out of his bunk when the wake-up alarm sounded. Unlike your typical clock radio, this was a real alarm. Some new level of bad had happened, and that meant all hands on deck. Knowing he had 5 minutes to be on the floor ready to act as the good little soldier, he turned the faucet knob for a quick wash. Nothing came out. This was the first sign that the outside world, awash in red was infiltrating the compound. Somewhere in the last month he knew this day would happen, but the fear that came over him was unexpected. He twisted the knob of sharply and dressed in uniform. Deodorant, hair gel and cologne would have to do for the day. Or the week. Hell, why be that optimistic?

In the hallways people rushed past, most headed to the upper levels. Around him he saw hollow eyes and clenched jaws, while he pushed past to head to the 12th floor… down. He looked at the elevator. It had been up and running last night when he left for his mandatory 4 hours of shut eye at 0100 hours, but the sink experience meant he didn’t want to risk it. Guards were stationed at every level of the stairwell in preparation for this eventuality, so Mike took out his ID. When he got to the doors, no one was there.

He finally shook out of his reverie to look around him. In the base there were usually a few people in the halls, moving with purpose to their destinations. Now, there were sporadic pockets of soldiers, grunts mostly, rushing up to the top levels and then dead silence in between. Something was up. There were only a few options left of what that something could be, and Mike had never been an optimist.

He headed to the 12 floor.

When he entered the war room all eyes turned to stare at him. The tension hit him as hard as a punch in the gut. He paused with the weight of it, then moved to his comfy chair. Swiveling he turned to face the overlords and await their command.

“Do it.” one of them said calmly, a statement of fact.

“Sir- the living… I- it won’t… I can’t!” stuttered Stephen. Sweat had soaked through his clothes like he had just finished a marathon. He looked panicky and his eyes scanned the room for an ally. In a room full of officers, men and women sworn to stay steadfast, the best of the best, not one could meet his eye. The exception being the general who had issued the order, and Mike who still had no clue what was happening.

Almost casually the general removed his sidearm, released the safety and aimed the barrel at Stephen.

“Solder, I told you to execute sequence Kilo-Oscar-one-nine-four-five. Are you refusing an order?”

“Sir, please… I don’t-”

The shot sounded, and Stephen slumped over. Not another human had screamed or raised their voice in protest or remorse. The silence hung in the air, stretching time to a painful standstill. The faint sound of crashing from the floor above ended the pause.

The general… General Livolin maybe, turned to Mike. “Execute the sequence.”

Mike swiveled in his comfy chair to face his screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard to type in the series of code. Now all the eyes that had avoided his less than five minutes ago bore into the back of his head. He said over his shoulder, “Authorization?”

General… Lovlett? Livingston? walked over to the terminal, leaned in and typed his password. Then he stepped back leaving Mike to press the final “enter” button. Bastard.

Mike looked at him. Stared into his hollow face with hate and despair. “You are not saving us. You are ending the human race,” he hissed. Then he pressed the button. On the map, the target cities where all the nuclear missiles had been programmed to hit showed their detonation. The room had stopped looking at Mike, they barely noticed him get out of his comfy chair and head for the door. They watched each city light up on the map like a game of Risk. When Mike opened the door wide open to let the bitten in they were too engrossed in watching the remote destruction of the world to see it up close and personal until it was too late.

Art by Kieran Russell https://twitter.com/Art_Kieran

Art by Kieran Russell

The Universe Speaks to Michelle

She waited for a sign. Knowing her life, it wasn’t going to be a neon monstrosity. Hell, it didn’t even have to be the polite, discreet plaque next to a teller asking you to have your paperwork ready.  All she wanted was a sigh, a whisper of what to do. She stood in the dark, dragging on a cigarette and listening for a nudge in the right direction.

Nothing came.

As she finished the last inhalation of nicotine, her security blanket, she sighed. Clearly the universe was not going to reach out and hug her, so it was time to go with her best instinct. She hated that idea right now. Normally her gut was the only thing she relied on, but it had already proven wrong once that evening and she was wary of going for broke.

As she reached for the door there was a crack in the woods behind her. Something had snapped- a branch most likely, but there wasn’t even a sigh of a breeze. She paused to listen, waiting for the shuffle of a raccoon or the sound of some neighborhood kid snickering in her backyard.

Again, nothing came.

Finally, she shrugged and entered the house. It would not be hers much longer. The divorce had come through and with it the ‘For Sale’ sign. Seeing as she had wanted to take a match to the place by the end, it should not be that depressing. However, as with all endings, it had its sense of maudlin sentimentality. Perhaps that’s why her instincts were on the fritz.  She debated whether to fix a drink or keep packing what was left of her life. With a shrug she decided that this was a choice that need not be made. She pulled a highball glass out of one of the boxes and went to the stainless steel refrigerator. After loading it up with ice, she filled it almost to the top with vodka and then a splash of tonic. No fruit necessary. Then settled in to wrap dishes while she sipped.

As she wrapped each plate and bowl in newspaper (who bought papers anymore?) and placed them in a box, she thought about the fight she’d had with her sister earlier that day.

“Would you like some feedback?” Karen had asked.

Feedback was a signal for disapproval. Michelle knew this and usually was willing to listen. But the shock of being so quickly judged by her only sister sent a shock of cold rage rattling down her spine.

“No I would not.” she stiffly replied.

Usually this ended the discussion. Karen was in sales and generally knew when to cut her losses. This time was different. Cocktails had been involved, and perhaps she felt the stakes were too high.

“You stupid girl,” she half whispered, with a smile. As if a pleasant demeanor would soften the white hot slap of her words.

Michelle stared in shock. Not only was she older, but neither of them were girls anymore, by any stretch of the imagination.

“Don’t you want to let the dust settle?” Karen followed up.

“No,” Michele managed to choke out.

“Why?” her sister pressed.

“I just don’t.”

That had ended both the conversation and the evening. Michelle had awkwardly paid for her drinks and left while her sister carried on a conversation with acquaintances at the bar. Now, at home, she still wondered what had happened.

In the back a crash of branches awoke her out of her reverie. This was both louder and closer than when she had been outside. She went to the kitchen window and flipped on the outside lights. The illuminated backyard showed the shrubs and treeline of her bordering rural home. It was still a neighborhood, but on the outskirts of civilization. Sometimes Michele wished she lived closer to the city. Recently she had thought about it more and more. Especially now that she was on her own. The remote location had once seemed ideal for dogs and maybe, one day, a family. Now it seemed like the end of the earth.

She strained her eyes against the edges of the darkness, but only moths entered her line of sight. The darkness gave away nothing.

Reluctantly she headed for the porch door again. She really didn’t want to go outside, but then, she also didn’t want to be a cliche. Woman on her own, afraid of any little noise in her yard…

A quiet voice in her head whispered that maybe there were other cliches. The ones you see in horror movies that tell the hero to never go out in the dark alone. To go back inside and close the door. She started to brush the silly thought aside, and then realized.

That was her sign, the quiet nudge she had been waiting for.

Slowly she backed away from the porch door and started looking around the disheveled room for a weapon. She spied the butcher block, and as she reached for a knife, there was a thud at the back door.

Slowly she turned and looked through the screen. There, in the doorway, stood her sister. This was not the polished, self-possessed, sanctimonious woman from earlier though. She leaned against the frame, her blouse ripped with blood dripping from the shoulder.

“Oh my God Karen, what happened to you?” Michelle started towards the door with a cry.

Then the body that had once been her sister snapped it’s chin up. Eyes glazed over in a death stare, the face slack and mouth open pressed itself against the screen.

“Karen?” Michelle whispered.

The corpse that had once been her sister lunged through the door, reaching for Michelle as she backpedaled, uselessly waving her knife.

Yes there had been a sign. The sign said, “Time’s up.”


Art by Kieran Russell, https://twitter.com/Art_Kieran

Alpha/Beta Team Descriptions

It’s been a year since the Zpocalypse started. All the cities are gone, and what few survivors remain are bedraggled and living off the remnants of what came before. Zombies still infest the wastelands without abandon and every death leads to an undeath. It’s been survival of the meanest, baddest, and cleverest ever since. Standing apart from the fray is the Z-team, a special-ops group. They’ve been selected for their diverse zombie-slaying abilities and equipped to eradicate the infected zones so humanity can start the process of rebuilding civilization.

 1. Adrenaline Junkie (Pyro Archetype) BETA

Name: Natalia Maliev                                                

Background: Adventurer                                           

Place of Birth: Moscow, Russia  

Natalia towers over most women in both size and personality. At 5”11, and built like a tank, her mother quickly gave up her own dreams of Natalia becoming a prima ballerina or the wife of a wealthy man. You have to be practical about these things. Instead Mama started training her in horsemanship and weights, hoping for an Olympian. Natalia had other plans however. The first was to escape her overbearing mother. She enlisted in the army and never looked back.

Her size and strength kept the snickers in the periphery, but they were still there. That was until one day when her team was on a grunt mission to clear out scrub from the west Siberian Plain. From the moment she strapped on that flamethrower, Natalia ceased to be a punchline, and became the object of fear for every man around her. This suited her just fine and made her the Picasso of fire.

Natalia burned down several strategic buildings in unsanctioned operations. They were reported to be safe houses for German and Israeli spies, so some factions in the Russian government paid her handsomely to “get rid of the problem.” When reports started to make the news, she became a scapegoat. She defected to the US before she could be put on trial, sought political asylum and contemplated becoming a mercenary or ladies pro-wrestler. Fortunately, the Organization got to her first.

Natilia is not the Brute. It’s hard to tell sometimes if she’s not standing next to Brick. What she lacks in impulse control, she does make up for in collateral damage. Hailing from Moscow, Russia, she was recruited after searching for political asylum. Let’s just say she burned her bridges back home. Literally. You will always find her with her modified flamethrower. Like her, it runs a little hot.

2. Brute (Brawler Archetype) Alpha

Name:  Richard “Brick” Wolkwitz                                                                                       

Background: Blue Collar, Construction, Lumberjack                                  

Place of Birth: Portland Oregon 

Brick stands just shy of 6 feet tall. The word brawny has his picture under it in the dictionary. He is handsome in that manly way that Hollywood tries to depict and always fails. His arms are as big as most peoples heads, from daily labor. He has a permanent tan line from working outside every day and early crows feet from squinting in the sunlight.

Born into a family with a retired veteran father who then worked in the deforestation department, and homemaker mother, Brick thought he would escape to Portland and try living in the city as a contractor. His father had taught him all kinds of woodworking skills- they even build a log cabin up in the Cascades where he sometimes still vacationed.

Brick did fairly well for himself, getting the jobs for custom fitting cabinetry and the like. He apprenticed as a welder to get on the bigger construction jobs as well as adding metal work to his crafting skills. Then he developed an enjoyment of scotch and a chip on his shoulder for constantly being called a “hick”.  As often as he got hired for a job, he was frequently fired for his temper and willingness to use his hand crafted work as a blunt force object. He sometimes wishes that his father’s buddies, still in the military, could have just asked him one more time to enlist.

Standing at 5’11” 235 pounds, Brick is almost as tall as he is wide, and all of it muscle. He worked construction and in the lumber mills growing up, and might have continued to live the blue collar dream if it weren’t for the end of days. He used his temper and his massive fists to get in and out of fights all his life. Now, getting his knuckles bloody could mean turning. He’s taken to using a ball and chain- all of the satisfying bashing with no pesky infection. It could be love.

3. Combat Expert (firearms Archetype) BETA

Name:  Reggie Jones                                     

Background: Military                                    

Place of Birth: Richmond, VA 

Reginald Jamison Bartholomew Jones IV is deceptively soft spoken for a man of his size and voracity. Ever the gentlemen, he grew up holding open doors for ladies and always calling others “Sir” and “Ma’am.” Reggie is from a prominent Richmond family known for being  polite, genteel and wickedly vicious military strategists.

Like a good Southern son he applied to West Point. He excelled in all his classes from military history to martial arts. He did especially well at sharp shooting, but he knew that rather than being a sniper, he was being groomed to be an officer.

Then 911 happened, and all the young men were sent to war. Reggie went along with them. After 3 tours and many men under his command dying, most of that refinement of earlier years is long gone. He is still soft spoken, but what he says is deadly to the point. Mostly it’s used to lull others into a sense that he’s really harmless, right before he open fires.

4. Engineer- (Techie Archetype) ALPHA

Name: Kelly “Mac” McNamara                                            

Background:   Technician                                                                                          

Place of Birth: Boston, MA

Mac was the youngest of five kids. Her parents raised her to be a good Catholic girl, and her four older brothers helped it stay that way. Running in the streets of Southie she grew up with a smart mouth and fast fists. By the time she grew into her lanky frame, it was also apparent she was not your average hood-rat. Mac got herself a full ride to MIT and a ticket to a home in the suburbs, or so she thought. When the local mob boss threatened her family, Mac took the stand against him. She got her parents in witness protection and a lucrative job offer. All she ever wanted was to get out of Southie, and the FBI was a lot more exciting than the ‘burbs. She never saw any of her family again.

Mac skyrocketed through the ranks. She was pretty, a natural born dirty fighter, with both math and street smarts. It wasn’t long before she realized she was too good for the feds. When a position opened in the diplomat to Saudi Arabia’s office, Mac hired a language tutor and applied for the position. Soon she was working in foreign relations. It was then that she caught the attention of the Organization. While some struggle over the decision, she joined the moment the job was offered. And like always, she never looked back.

5. Outlaw (Sniper Archetype) BETA

Name: Lucia Bruno                                        

Background: Criminal                                                

Place of Birth: Philly PA

One of the Italian princesses of Philly, Lucia was supposed to stay in the background and make some wiseguy a happy man one day. She was born quiet and serious, rather than loud and brassy, so she knew it wasn’t going to work out for her. She watched too much and knew even more.

At the age of  7 she began her subtle shift of entering the male side of the family business by running errands and providing alibis. Lucia, her big brown eyes full of choked up tears, was a hit on the witness stand. Any other woman would be kicked out of the cigar shop back room… or front of the store for that matter, but she seemed to disappear into the wood paneling. No one noticed her at all, unless those big eyes were staring right at you. Her cousin Dominic was the first to teach her to shoot. He knew he would get a beating for it, but since she seemed to know he was the one skimming off the top, what could he do?

By the time she was of a marrying age, no Italian man would touch her with a ten foot pole. She had learned the names of all their enemies and their mistresses. Since she was the granddaughter of the Don, she wasn’t going to disappear either. While it went against tradition, and Italians do love their tradition, they gave her a job hoping she would get arrested or killed.

Instead Lucia became the best hit-man her family or any family from Miami to Boston has ever seen. No one looks for a woman. She could take a man out from a tower and be having coffee at the shop across the street 5 minutes later. No one would even look in her direction. She could walk up to a victim and her lazy smile was the last thing they saw. Law enforcement of all kinds were constantly at her door. Being a spinster in the family at the ripe age of 30, they thought her a jilted girlfriend. Maybe she would reveal her family’s secrets. While she pitied their ignorance, she enjoyed the company of people outside her family. At least women were more acceptable in the legit work force.

When it all went sideways, she was at the local FBI office in for “routine questioning”. She wished she could have gone back to help the family, but at some point it’s time to leave the nest.

6. Physician (Medic archetype) BETA

Name:  Jack T. R. Openshaw                                    

Background: Doctor                                      

Place of Birth: London, England 

Born in Lancashire John Openshaw, Jack to his friends, is an imposing man who wears the weight of his years heavily.  His friends and coworkers would have described him as serious. In the aftermath his countenance tends towards severe and haughty.

Dr. Jack was quiet, but well liked growing up. He had started studies to be an engineer, but soon decided  he was more interested as the body as a machine. He took a year off to work as a curator of a museum and then began his education to be a doctor where he excelled in anatomy and pharmacological studies. His career could have gone either way, but it appeared he chose to be a surgeon and began his residency at the Royal London Hospital.

For several years he seemed satisfied with his life, but then he pulled away from all who knew him. Some thought he had ties to a company doing research trials for new “medicines” and simply supposed he had returned to his earlier interests in pharmaceuticals…

7. Scientist (Biologist or Physicist Archetype) ALPHA                              

Name: Dr. Franklin Kriegor,                                      

Background: Academic                                             

Place of Birth: Frankfurt Germany

Dr. Kriegor was recruited from a think tank subgroup of the German Advisory Council on Global Change. Either the US felt that as a superpower they needed to be in on the latest developments of social change in Europe or it’s a cover story, and he isn’t sharing intel with anyone. What you notice is that he seems to have more knowledge about the physiology of zombies than anyone else you’ve met.

Dr. Kriegor has spent the last year categorically and empirically studying zombies in the field.While other survivors have sunk into depression, become cruel opportunists, or appear almost delusional, Dr. Kriegor is the only one that appears to be enjoying himself. Occasionally you catch him waiting to execute a zombie. Instead of killing he writes notes in one of his many journals while muttering “Well THAT didn’t happen in the lab!” to himself. It is a wonder he has not been turned. However, when he does kill one of the undead, it is with complete dispassion and efficiency. His squad may have to do a lot of babysitting for him, but they don’t seem to mind. His predictions and understanding of how zombies works has saved their hides more than once.

Under the hazmat suit Dr. Kriegor is a slight man with a fearful intensity that belies his lack apparent lack of physical strength. His raw intelligence mixed with analytic skills and a lifetime of scientific inquiry at some of the finest institutions and labs in the world make him a brilliant and terrible genius. He makes Mac seem like a vapid cheerleader. Of course his social skills are garbage. The team does take awfully good care of him though, even finding him a 50mm MGL that he has modified for “field testing.”

8. Survivalist (Archer Archetype) ALPHA

Name: Delphine Mercier                                           

Background: Rural                                         

Place of Birth: Baton Rouge, LA 

Delphine tells people she is from Baton Rouge. If they’re a Yankee, they believe her. Only someone from Louisiana would know her Papa told her, “Don’t go d’ere, chere, dats a baad place.”

Thinking on it now, she laughs at her father trying to keep her away from a small city like Baton Rouge. If only he knew how bad cities could get.

A tiny little thing no bigger than a minute, Delphine grew up hunting in the swamps with her father. He taught her how to keep one eye out for ‘gators at all times, and how to blend into the trees like a ghost that weren’t never never there. Her maman showed her how to make any ol’ thing that came out of the wilds into something delicious. They both taught her how to make moonshine and sing like there was no tomorrow.

When the local base started taking over the lands they hunted (it may have been government land, but Delphine and her kin had been there for generations) it took her no time to sneak in and put those soldier men to shame. How was she to know they were training to be snipers? If you thought about it, she had done those clumsy boys a favor. They would have never gotten a clean shot and exit. It was a shame though, with her bright green eyes and pixie-like appearance, you would have thought one of them would have gotten over their pride and asked her out. Instead the organization was her only caller.

When standing next to her team Delphine looks like a pygmy. She is by far the slightest in size. Seeing as she spends much of her time tracking her prey and not wanting to be seen, this has its advantages. Even though she did eat some strange things growing up in Louisiana, for once she isn’t interested in chowing down on her kill. Her compound bow is at her side, day and night. If you hear its quiet whisper, another poor undead soul is finally at rest.

When the local base started taking over the lands they hunted it took her no time to sneak in and put those soldier men to shame. If you thought about it, she had done those clumsy boys a favor. They would have never gotten a clean shot and exit. It was a shame though, with her bright green eyes and pixie-like appearance, you would have thought one of them would have gotten over their pride and asked her out. Instead the organization was her only caller.



A while back, you were recruited by the Organization. You weren’t surprised, your reputation for being the best in your selective skill set will one day make military history. The Organization told you to continue with your job, your family, your life- but they would be in touch when they needed you. Periodically you got a phone call and were directed to a location. There you would meet up with team members and carry out the mission given to you. Rarely have you met with the same people, but each recruit’s abilities and background added to the locations and operations you were assigned gave you the impression that the Organizations reached far and wide. At home, no one, not even your military superiors seemed slightly suspicious of your whereabouts.

Then you received the phone call.


“You have been assigned to Team Alpha. Gear up and meet them at safehouse 2739AXF. You will be given further instruction upon arrival.”

“But why aren’t you telling me the mission now? This is breaking protocol? What-”

The click on the other end leaves you uneasy. This is unprecedented. You have spent these years being the best and do not want to lose your place now. However part of being the best is listening to your own silent alarm when you know something’s not right.

You arrive at the safehouse, in the middle of the night. You are in a brick house on top of  a large hill so that you can see the night sky is lit up by the nearby city. One by one the team arrives, four of you in all. Usually you fit into your roles and discuss strategy, but it is clear no one has been given a mission. The tension of uncertainty fills the main room of the safe house. No one wants to sleep on one of the cots in the upper rooms, but you are all professionals. You remain quiet and vigilant to threat.

At 2 am the land line rings. You snatch it up.

“Hello! What are we doing here! None of us got a missio-”

“It has begun. Soon they will overtake the city. You must save as many as you can and cut off exit for the rest. Wait in the bunker below until the bombings are over. Then rescue as many Survivors as you can. Don’t let them get into the suburbs. You will hear from us when you complete this mission. Do not try-”

The phone cuts off again.

“Wait! I don’t understand? Who will overtake the city? What bombs?!?”

“Huh. So they’re real,” says one of the team flatly.

You spin around and see three pairs of eyes looking back at you, edged with fear and resolution. But what you don’t see is surprise.

“Yeah,” the other recruit drawls, “Best we got down to the bunker now.” we can suit up and start slaying after the bombs. They want us on clean up, right?”

“Yeah, “ you say bemused. “But that’s not all. They want us to save as many as we can first…”

Silence descends on the group. Finally you say, “Anyone know what we’re up against?”

“You don’t know? Well shoot, you’re in for it now. Sleep up, because we’re goin’ zombie huntin’ soon!”


          We were sent to a safe house right before the world went FUBAR.  Our missions had always been unorthodox, much like the members of each team. Not that it mattered. None of my… colleagues had ever shown signs of caring that we had crossed a line. When it came to expectations for covert operations, our personal history had already proven we made Special Forces look tame. But this… this was another reality. We hunkered in and stuck with the mission- to keep the flow of zombies leaving the cities at a minimum by any means necessary. We were warned to get underground when the bombs went off.  Later, we were told to get on clean-up duty. We swept for hostiles and retrieved as many breathers as we could. There weren’t many.

Two weeks after the blast, we got a transmission.

“Beta Team, Organization Headquarters calling Beta Team! Do you copy?”

“Roger O.H.Q., we’re here.”

“Well thank God for small miracles. We’ve got a situation.”

“Is that what you call this sir?”

“Are you joking with me soldier?”

“No sir.”

“Suit up, you and your team are going in for an extraction. Senator Kennemer did not make his helicopter before this went south.”

Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, Senator Kennemer!?”

“The very one. He was sent to a safe location. You need to get him out of the city.”

“Sir, that’s all the way in the thick of it-“

“That’s an order soldier! Over and out.”

There were four of us on Beta Team. There were thousands of rotten, radioactive, hungry undead out there. We were all for working for the cause, but this was not an extraction, it was suicide. More than that, we would never get him out. Of course there had been rumors that some in the Organization wanted him killed in the first place. If you weren’t a grunt, it might make you wonder what happened to that helicopter.

We looked at the city. Then slowly we tuned to the civilians who had made it out.

“Welcome to the cause,” I said. “Your country needs you.”


The Outbreak Breakout Part 1: A Zpocalypse Survivor Story

Eyes slowly blinking to wipe out the muddled confusion in his head he woke in darkness. As his eyes slowly adjust to the dim haze of the room his brain wandered aimlesslyunable to capture thoughts. There were small flashes of a child’s birthday and a woman laughing… then nothing.

Tentatively he sat up only to bang his head. For a moment the meager light was replaced with a brilliant flash of red pain.  It narrowed down to a pinpoint of vision and finally his adrenaline kicked in. “No!” he heard himself croak in a voice raspy from lack of use. After a tense moment of breathing heavily it passed. His gaze trailed up to see the metal bunk above. When he finished his silent but heartfelt discussion with the bunk rail he realized his eyes had adjusted to the light.

He was in a prison cell.

This realization did not send off immediate waves of panic, as he was expecting. This caused a deeper stirring of unease in his mind. Why would he feel at home in a prison? The cell itself was everything he imagined it would be. Four walls, a toilet in the corner and the presently hated bunk. It looked like every movie he could remember… could he remember prison cells from movies? This one looked bigger than he expected. He racked his brain for something familiar to tie to the feeling. Did it seem big because he was used to a smaller cell, or because he had never been in one before. This looked like it was for a white collar prisoner maybe… or a death row inmate? Why couldn’t he remember any of this?

He gathered his courage to look down at his clothes. Damn. An orange jumpsuit hung on a lanky frame. The fit gave him the impression he had suddenly lost a lot of weight or that this wasn’t his personal jumpsuit.

“That’s ok,” he thought trying to settle the wave of panic threatening to rise. “Maybe you just needed fresh clothes.”

Rather than calm him, this thought seemed to feed his unease as he followed its thread. “Wait, why would I be in a prison getting fresh clothes. Why would I think that?”

He started up, but the blackness began at the edges of his sight. He sank back on the bunk and tried to control his breathing. Looking down at his hands, they appeared large and capable with jagged nails and a layer of grime.

“Working hands,” he thought. Not a clue really, but they looked like they could do some damage at least.

There was another word that resonated in his mind. Slowly he rose and started to really look at the room. It was then he noticed the door was locked. He looked at the large grimy room in the gloom and finally started to realize that the small trinkets, almost nothing really, but probably meaningful to the inhabitant of this cell, were scattered around the floor. A crushed photo lay at his feet. Gingerly he bent to pick it up and slowly opened it. The image in the photo was that of a man holding a smiling little boy, but he barely noticed. His focus was on the red sludge caked onto the creases. He stared at the floor now, and realized the grime was more of this sludge, and there were lumps further away. Shaking he turned to the bars of the cell and hoarsely yelled, “Help!”

Finally it hit him, that for a prison, this place was deathly silent. There was no sound of life; Inmates talking from one room to the next, the steady drum of guards moving through their sections, the hum of electrical current that comes from heaters, surveillance cameras and smuggled radios. All of these sounds were missing. You could hear nothing.

Silent except for a dragging sound from below.

It was faint, but steady. Slowly it entered his awareness, and as he heard it, finally one thought crystallized in his foggy mind.





Shawn spun around quickly. He did not have time to marvel at his memory returning, he needed a weapon, and a way out. He gave the bars a shove in frustration. With a groan they broke free of the hinges and clanged to the ground. The crash echoed throughout the cell block. Shawn wondered how long it took for the sound to fade away. He decided his calculation of five hours was probably not accurate, but the product of his concussed, adrenaline-ridden mind.

“Great, now every rotter in this section is headed my way,” he thought. Then he belatedly noticed the gaping hole across from the bunk.

“How badly was my head hit?” he wondered. He had started to fill in the gaps. His shift was almost up for the night when another guard had lurched in holding his bloody face. Before he had finished collecting a bet from Geoff and changed into civvies, it took out half the guards working that night. He had seen Greg go down, while he and Andrew had kept each other’s backs. They may have been ok, the Warden had come in and started to rally the troops,  when that dumb-ass punk Ted got bit.

“I set you all free!” he had screamed in pain and rage as he locked himself in the office and had overwritten all the locks to the cells.

At first the wave of rioting inmates looked like they would  take out the zombies. But the plague inside those undead parodies of his friends, worked their way into every abrasion. Riots are always ugly, but that… was a living meat grinder by the end. He didn’t know about the Warden, but he thought that all the other guards were taken out. His last coherent thought was of Andrew yelling for help. Unable to get to him he had locked himself in a cell to keep out everyone- everything else.

“What the hell happened to this cell? And how am I not one of them?” Shawn’s feeling of unease had returned. Now it had brought an army of dread to back it up.

This was not the time to stop and ponder.

He looked around for his baton, and remembered it was in his locker. He still didn’t know why he was wearing a prison uniform, but it meant his keys were missing too. The keys that he had used to lock himself in this cell…

In the hall he spotted Andrew. What was left of him anyway. From his feet to lower torso he remained mostly intact. Up above, his jaw and neck had been gnawed away. The top of his spine poked out of the gristle, and the hole had allowed his brain matter to leak out onto the floor. Fighting the urge to hurl Shawn took little comfort that his best friend had never turned. Then Shawn looked for the baton. He saw it flung a few feet further down the walkway near the shower. It was at the feet of the shuffling corpse who had been making it’s way toward him, ever since he woke up.




“It’s just one. You can fight it, you took out plenty of them.” Shawn knew he was giving himself the Hail Mary speech. There was not time to think when it started, and he hadn’t been beaten or full of hopelessness then. This was now.

The zombie wore prison orange. It’s face had been laid open from the right eyeball to the jaw curving slightly at the end. A flap of skin peeled away the face and left the skull bare, the ear dangling down and pulling more of the flap with it like a pendulum with every lurching step.

Shawn felt tired. That was not good. He should feel scared or horrified or at least have energy from the bolt of adrenaline he got when waking up. Instead he felt like it might be best if he just lay back down on the bunk. Sighing he looked at the broken wall. In the debris he found a piece of concrete the size and shape of a football. Looking back up he hefted the rock above his shoulder and gave the saddest impersonation of a spiral he had ever seen. His coach in high school would have screamed so long and so loud his face would have turned that special shade of purple. “Coach is probably  a zombie now,” Shawn thought idly as the chunk of wall sailed through the air.

The rock knocked the head clean off the zombie. The head tumbled through the air, skin flap finally flinging itself clear as the body dropped like a marionette whose strings have been severed.

Shawn took the Heisman pose.

Slowly, listening with every step for new sounds of danger, he creeped over towards the shower and claimed his prize.



Eyes moving rapidly in a sweep, Shawn squatted with his back against the wall to retrieve the night stick. “I’ve to calm down,” he thought.

Once the former prisoner had toppled, his disjointed feeling of apathy had disappeared. The earlier panic came back. “This is what shock feels like,” he marveled. “I had always hoped it would be more helpful to my survival. What the hell body?”

He took slow deep breaths to steady his racing heart. The blood rushing through him was pounding in his ears, and at this rate a zombie would be on top of him before he knew it. It took a while. It was time he could not afford. He was sure there would be others coming towards the sound of the crashing bars. But if he thought about them, his heart would start to race again, so he focused on his breathing as best he could.

Finally he stood and peered around. For a long moment he only heard silence. Then he thought he heard something else. It was an odd sound. It took him a minute to think of what it could be, or why it would sound wrong in his ears. When he figured it out, the relief was almost as staggering as the panic had been.

What he heard was breathing. It was quiet, but close by . More importantly it was steady. Zombies occasionally took a breath to make noise or as a residual reflex from when there were alive. Only a real live person needed to breathe all the time. As softly and carefully as he could manage he walked toward the showers. The breathing sound stopped for a minute. Shawn stopped with it. Then as it resumed, he moved into the room.

The tiled walls and floor were coated with dried blood. In the far corner lay a pile of corpses. Disjointed body parts and men with their heads blown off were heaped one on top of the other. It looked as if they had been rotting for some time. As soon as he thought entered his mind, Shawn gagged from the smell. It was everywhere really, but that amazing adaptability living things possess, had tuned it out. The moment he thought of the smell, there it was, clawing at his nose and trying to tear out his soul. He violently shoved the smell aside. Another living person was more important than one fifth of his senses.

“Hey,” he whispered as quietly as he could.

There was a pause, then just as quietly a response.

“Fuck off,” said the only other living person left in the prison.




Since Shawn knew every guard in the place he realized as soon as he heard the voice he had found a prisoner.

“Shit,” he thought to himself. Aloud he said, “Hey man, we have to get out of here. I don’t know why you were in prison, and I don’t care. The world has ended and whatever was going on before ended with it.”


“Listen,” Shawn continued, “You may have had friends in here. I had friends too. It don’t matter anymore. They are not your friends. And I may not be your friend either, but it’s just you and me. left There’s them and there’s us. So whatever you did before, I don’t care. If we don’t team up, we’ll be joining the other side.”

The voice coming out of the pile was so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

“I killed a man to get in here.”

“Well,” Shawn replied philosophically, “Let’s hope you didn’t lose that skill.”

“Where the hell we gonna go?” whispered the voice. “We gonna die anyway.”

“That may be true,” said Shawn. “I don’t know why we’re still alive, and I don’t know what’s happened to the rest of the world, but I sure as hell want to find out. I figure if we can get clear of the prison we may have a shot. There’s weapons in the Warden’s office. Maybe he’s holed up in there and we can bust out of this place with him.”

“Nah, El Capitan went down last, but he went down,” said the voice.

“Shit. Where?” said Shawn.

“Dunno,” said the voice.

“You don’t know?” said Sawn incredulously. “I thought you just said you saw it happen.”

“Man, there were zombies and I was trying not to die. My priorities were elsewhere,” came the annoyed response.

“Ok, Ok. What’s your name?” sighed Shawn.

“AJ,” said the voice.

“Well AJ, I know that the Warden kept the keys to his office on him at all times. I also know he kept the lock combination in his wallet. We’re gonna need those to get guns. I don’t know about you, but I want a gun,” said Shawn.

“A low chuckle came from the pile. “Warden lost his wallet. In the mess, I saw Big Dan lift if from him.”

“Let me guess, you don’t know where Big Dan is either,” growled Shawn.

The pile heaved and body parts tumbled across the tile. Out of the corpses rose a man caked in rot and grime. He was medium build and his eyes burned bright with rage and fear. Other than that, it was almost impossible to tell what he looked like for all of the blood and gore that coated his jumpsuit hair and skin. Shawn hoped AJ didn’t have any cuts on him. Adding to his fearful appearance, he held a riot shield. With all the blood and the shield, Shawn imagined he looked more like a Roman soldier in battle than anything else.

“It was crazy in here man. You know where all your people are?” asked AJ.

“My people are corpses AJ, just like yours,” said Shawn. “Right, we need to search for that key and the combo. Then we’re gonna get into that office and get those guns. And when we do-”

AJ interrupted, “When we do that pig, I’m gettin outta this here block.”

“But what’s out there?” Shawn wondered silently as they walked out of the shower. Is it any better than this?”