Desolate. Desolate. Desolate. Desolate. Desolate. Staring out at the cold, shadow wasteland of demolished buildings and the frozen ghosts of our transgressions that linger among them, I knew that there was not a better word in our lost language to better describe the fears of our present. I'm not a linguist, but before the world ended, I studied a little French. "Je suis desolé" means that I am sorry, or that I am full of regrets.

Desolé. Desolate.

Our endless nightmare seems full of our regrets, of the lives that we have lost, of the things we will never become, the sorrow-tainted glory of our past fades in the everlasting night of our present. We are shaped into monsters, born of our regrets.

Je suis desolé.

I am sorry to use metaphors so close to home. To describe ourselves as monsters is to limit our own humanity; to define ourselves by our loss is to live forever in absence. I do not want to live forever. I do not want to live forever in absence.

---

Three weeks ago, I left the city, and took a car and drove as fast as I could to Iowa. The roads were a mess, but I chose one of those new fancy Hummers, taking just a brief moment to hotwire it. I drove fast so the ravaged monstrosities couldn’t chase me. It’s not that I can’t deal with the occasional one or two, but even with all my inhuman strength, I don’t particularly want to take the chance of fighting off a group of them.

I reached Iowa in only two days, even though I often had to skirt the highway collisions and stop at gas stations considering the Hummer soaked up gas like a fat kid with a slurpee. I killed 26 of them on the way, as I couldn’t avoid being ambushed at the gas stations. I didn’t run into any of my kind, or survivors.

I didn’t mean to end up in the farm lands of Iowa, but that’s when I ran out of gas. I hadn’t the foresight to stock an extra gas can. Being ambushed by those creatures did little to help my memory.

When I ran out of gas, I just walked.

I was tired from not having eaten in these three days and the last time I had a meal, it was only a small child, barely slaking my thirst. I didn’t even have the heart to drain it

Walking along the dirt roads gave me a lot of time to think, so I thought about everything. Mostly, I thought what my life was only 6 weeks ago. 6 goddamn weeks. One day I was mostly concerned with my next meal, usually some dainty woman who wouldn’t fight back and tasted the way she smelled. The next, I was fleeing these same women, turned into flesh-eating freaks by the virus.

I had always thought I was the freak, living my life on the outskirts of society, constantly masquerading as something beneath me, someone human. I never thought that I would be freed of my pretensions in such a horrific manner. I never thought that humans could be degraded even farther.

They came at me on the road. The remnants of farmers, lost in the fields, seeking their prey. I slew them with a bat that I picked up at a gas station. It’s not ideal, but firearms are hard to come by and in my condition, I’m not too terrified of close quarters with these awful fellows.

I didn’t get far that evening, so I returned to the car where I had been sleeping, sealing up the windows to hide from the Iowan sun during the days. The nuclear winter that had set in over New York had yet to reach this far into the country.

The next morning, I found what I thought was an abandoned farm house, when I was first accosted by survivors. I expected to find them here at some point. Farmers are tough. There were three of these formidable creatures, brandishing shotguns, grim looks on their bearded faces. I knew they didn’t have many shells left. Fending off the monsters at night required certain dexterity and lots of bullets.

I looked around the farm as they asked me questions.

“How did you get here?”

I ignored them, figuring they wouldn’t shoot me. There were bodies that had been burned in the bathtubs before they could resurrect. Children by the looks of them. These farmers weren’t messing around. Other than that, the farm looked fairly pristine, as if they had people looking after it. It also looked particularly defensible, as it seemed the farmers had taken the time to board up the windows.

I asked if I might be able to buy one of the shotguns and in turn, I was asked,

“Are you alone? Are you infected?”

I held up my hands. No scratches. Nothing. Still they offered me no shotgun. At which point, I figured I could either bite them and move on, or I could just ask to leave. I figured the latter was somewhat more polite. Instead, they cried. Three grown men with heavy set brows broke down and cried.

The first, who I dubbed Amos in my mind, said something about not having seen a fellow man in weeks. The other, who I was sure was a Brad, wept something about burying his wife. Clint was the quietest, only sobbing slowly about his son, who I assumed was the wreckage in the bathtub.

So, I felt bad for them. I stayed the night when they offered me some stew. I declined the soup, staring hungrily at their jugulars instead, but when they looked at me with suspicion, I spooned it into my mouth as if I enjoyed it.

When night fell, I slew a few of the beasts as they came through the door, saving them their precious ammunition. Their looks of wonder quickly turned into savage cries of fear. For a long moment, I considered explaining them my situation, but I just didn’t have the heart for it, to reason with men who have lost the will to comprehend their world. I bowed and vanished into the night. I didn’t belong with these men. I was much more like the monsters out there.

---

Call me Uriel, as I have been named by the Almighty. I am one of the mighty, the great acclaimed Archangels, suffering the plight of man to smite evil. I am God’s flame.

And my job has suddenly gotten much more damn difficult.

---

The next time I saw the farmers, they greeted me with surprise, almost glee. I had found a little survivor’s shelter where I had been secretly feeding upon the inhabitants, most of which were gruff ex-military men. Certainly not my type, but I haven’t able to afford to be choosy.

Amos was the happiest. He grabbed me in a bear hug, shot gun still in hand, threatening to break my immortal bones. Bradley and Clint gave me toothy smiles and asked how I had been.

I said that I was fine, unwilling to tell them that I had starved for the entirety of a week before finding the camp out in the fields of nowhere. I was fortunate to spot the enclave of survivors, for they kept quiet at nights, only daring to be more than ghosts during the day. I spotted their signal fires, hoping attract other survivors. Still, the smoke had the unfortunate side effect of drawing the misshapen horrors.

It was Clint who first asked my name. “Alice,” I answered, in a gruff voice, hoping to instill the feminine name with my masculine demeanor. “It’s short for Alastair.” They smiled, but they didn’t mock me. I smiled back for once, glad to be among friends.

I took a rifle during the night, doing my best among them, fighting the urge to be outside, releasing my rage in the demolition of monster faces. When sun rose, we slept uneasily, a sentry with always an eye on the field. When we woke in the late afternoon, we took to the chores, mending our barbed wire fences, restocking our supplies, mostly fuel. We had corn aplenty in this late autumn. Of course, I now had meals aplenty, taking care not to kill, but merely stun my prey.

For almost half a week, I didn’t make any mistakes, chumming it up with these bastards, and bastards they were. They treated the few women that had made it like slaves, the children like work-beasts. The apocalypse brought out the worst in people, it seemed. Though they took their jobs of defending the establishment very seriously, these were still weak-minded savages, out to only save their own skill.

But that day, I couldn’t contain my own savagery any longer, and when one of the beasts managed to elude the shotguns and the rifles, I took to him with my bare hands, tearing him apart before he even had a chance to think about biting me. Clint trained his gun on me suddenly, a look of terror rising from familiarity in his eyes.

What are you, he demanded. I considered a demonstration, but a showing of my fangs would perhaps have been counterproductive to the crowd. Instead, I just declared that he wasn’t going to be able to kill me with his gun. I had hoped that would be persuasive enough to make him put it down. Instead, I got shot in the back. I turned to face Bradley with a magnum in his hand grinning sheepishly, as if saying, I had to try it.

I looked down, to find that the bullet had zipped clean through my left side. I croaked that he was going to need to improve his shot. By then, I had attracted the attention of the entire town and as I groaned in pain, my wound healed in front of the survivors.

It was Amos who defused the tension, clapping me on the back, calling me a savior. He said it so loud that even I believed it. As he took me through the confused crowd, he told me quietly that he knew what I was, but that it didn’t matter. So long as I was willing to keep saving their lives.

I looked at him in the darkness, his earnest smile somehow grievous and pitiful. I nodded. Of course, I would. Of course, I would.

---

- Uriel

I never thought that I would see such a thing. Civilization brought to its knees. Never have I doubted the Almighty, but this – this fills me with fear. The flood was bad, but the flood was never invested such devilry, nor such blatant abuse of the dead.

Certainly, this is the time of revelations, but new orders haven’t been issued, and as far as I know, I must obey my original instincts, follow in my solemnly-treaded path of righteousness.

I was once ordered to never slay a man, but these undead creatures are not men and I burn them away with a single sweep of my hands. I started in Florida, eliminating the entirety of Miami with a great holy explosion, disintegrating these ghosts with one fell swoop. Certainly there may have been other casualties, but I hadn’t seen a survivor for weeks.

Still, this task drained me, left me tired, so I skirted most of the major cities as I made my way to Atlanta, promising to come back for Orlando, Tallahassee, the Keys. It was in Atlanta that I heard word of survivors making their way to the Great Plains, escaping from the major cities to fend small, fortified establishments, seeking their salvation in this hell. I put my ear to the earth and heard the whispers of men of creatures that had survived the terrors, leading these establishments, bearing a certain brand of might that led these downtrodden creatures of lost civilization to worship them.

False worship! I had to see for myself. I reserved my judgment of Atlanta and moved west, treading lightly on the wind.

---

[GMs Notes]

As per usual, I’m back with a post-apocalyptic thread. Most of this should be obvious, but I’ll summarize for those who prefer to read by bullet point:

A. The world ended with a virus. Zombies galore. Civilization disbanded. I’m actually not too experienced with zombie fiction, so I’m mainly drawing inspiration from the movie 28 Days Later, which in my experience is a really great zombie movie.

B. New York was nuked in a last-ditch effort to contain the virus. It had began in New York, but obviously, the nuke did little contain the disaster.

C. Certain people/creatures are immune, but even then, they’re not immune to being eaten. It’s difficult to tell who is immune and who isn’t. The transformation is nearly instantaneous. Still, the survivors have banded together in remote areas to fend themselves.

D. Vampires are immune. And certain other people, like vampires, have risen within these tiny populations, asserting their control. But everything hinges on survival. Their control hinges upon the likelihood of their survival. And people adapt to circumstances real fast. I’m also drawing upon S. King’s The Stand, a great novel by any standard. Nothing leads to human (and other) change better than the end of the world. There are people with “Heroes” like qualities, and even vampires are quickly adapting.

E. Uriel. Maybe he’s a real archangel. All I know (and therefore all you know) is that he certainly has the abilities of one. But he has the ability to nuke a city all by himself. Miami is but a massive sinkhole. Those who encounter him, I suggest, should preach their piety.

F. Alice. He’s just your typical average vampire in very unaverage circumstances. He’s got a good heart. Vampires that I write about are of the Anne Rice variety. He’s a young vampire, haven’t even lived out the extent of his suggested lifetime. But he’s changing.

---

[GM’s notes, pt II]

What I want from my players:

A. First person viewpoint. We rarely do that here on these boards. Give it a shot. Just try it. It’s not that hard. It’s like writing a diary. It’ll get a little more complex as characters begin to interact, but it’s not impossible. Plus, it’ll be hella exciting.

A1. In a first person narrative three major levels of awareness: what you know as a participant in a large story, what your character knows, and what that character wants to talk about. Make sure you know which is which, when writing.

A2. Don’t describe yourself. This is a major difference between first and third. In third person, you have the time and opportunity to describe how beautiful your character’s hair is, or every article of clothes they’re wearing. In first person writing, you have to realize 99% of people out there aren’t fascinated with these details, and therefore rarely talk about these details, regardless of audience. Similarly, unless your character is the OCD type, with a very acute perception, they’re not going to notice the details of everything.

B. Get into it. That’s really the fun of first person. It’s a lot easier to imagine these things. Get into the head of the character. BE them. Feel something when you’re writing. Have that feeling in the morning where you wake up and you’re not sure if you’re you, or if the nightmare is still going on around you.

C. Your own interesting plot. I have one currently: Angel chases Vampire in post apocalyptic world. It’s a very easy one but it’s certainly not all inclusive. There are an infinite amount of character options out there. I’d prefer NOT to see the usual. Some sort of ex-military type, who just real pissed that the world got shot to ****. I’m going to give you a few ideas to work with:

C1. I have one that I’m reserving for myself: The Senator. He pushed the decision to nuke New York. And when it failed and D.C. got infested with these buggers, he went a little nuts with regret. Lucky enough to survive, he now has to deal with his very, very significant failure.

C2. A man that the zombies don’t even dare to touch. An ability to palaver with the dead. A unwitting necromancer, only now learning his powers.

C3. An old vampiress, pissed that civilization got shot to crap, because damnit, she was pretty damn happy in her luxury hotel, with her billions of dollars. And now what? There’s these violent creatures who keep trying to get up in her business, and nothing to freakin’ eat.

See? Maybe I’m just insane, but the possibilities are endless.

D. Setting. Start anywhere. I have a guy in Florida and another in freakin’ Iowa. Iowa. I’ve never been to Iowa. I hear it’s pretty boring. The United States is just one blank canvas. My only warning is that it is a little difficult to interact if you’re across either ocean, but even then, I’m not saying it’s impossible.

E. No OOC. If you can’t post, don’t post. If you want to discuss something, email me: the lunaticren at gmail dot com. Without the spaces. I have gChat and AIM. Otherwise, you can banter elsewhere. But if you’re worried that something isn’t going to work, just write it first, post it and see for yourself. If you don’t get complaints, then it works.