<span style="font-weight: bold">Name:</span>Jacko. Le's leave it a' that.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Age:</span>19<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Profession:</span>Before it hit the fan she took english, art and history-- when I gwow up I wanna be a poet-- these days she's a scavenger, a wastrel, a wanderer. Figures you can get around better by yourself, smother your clothes in zombie guts 'n shit and hit the streets running, take only what you need and hide yourself out o' sight an' out'o mind.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Backstory:</span>Swept into the town when the floodgates opened, hoping to find new materials and goods to take, not expecting to find life.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Weapon of choice:</span>Anything hitty-smashy or they'd-be-washing-your-skull-from-the-walls-for-weeks powerful. Shotguns and iron poles. At least with them you feel like you've killed them dead. No sunrise for you, no sir! Although... preferably no weapons... or at least no need to use them. If you go looking for trouble it usually finds you. Close combat carries too many risks of infections, arming yourself to the teeth carries too many risks of close combat. You get brave. And stupid. And cocky. Best to pretend like you're an eight year old kid with sponge cake for muscle and no defense.<br/><br/>__________<br/><br/><br/>She adjusted her goggles, the short sharp movements like a jack-rabbit on an open plain, more nerves, short breaths and jumpy wiring than human. The cold, uneven surface of the wall bit at her shoulder blades and sent a chill through the even through the thick material of her jacket that tapped into her spine. Damp soaked through her shirt sending small armies of shivers through her skin. In her head she could hear her own booming pulse and the rustling scrape of icy air against trachea flesh. It almost seemed louder than the hum of their combined moan.<br/><br/>She was perched, hunkered down on the ground floor window sill of what used to be a bank at the end of Havelock Road (according to the map after she'd freed it from a good foot of snow), deep window set back a good arms length from the street. She was covered in all kinds of dark coloured crap, some of it still dripping down the length of her figure, other bits sticking to the crook of her neck or the small of her back in thick, gelatin lumps. Parts could almost resemble internal organs still, trying real hard to look humanoid.<br/><br/>There was a small click as night vision locked in and the brunette frowned. Bastard thing had been getting dodgy, playing up every time she turned it on. That was either Gods way of telling her to get looting again or a very good excuse to stay at home and tinker with it until something worked. The million dollar question was; could she really afford to? It meant a lot of time wasted and one more evenings rationed guzzled up. How much did she have back at House Moggy?<br/>--- Shit, not all that much if memory served her right...<br/><br/>With a grim sigh she tested the goggles out, warily peering through the window into the once shiny expanse of the main lobby. there was little movement within, just the usual clutter, ticket systems bust in, waiting ropes curling about the marble floor like great vines or snakes or something. Everything was freezing over as nature reclaimed it's territory.<br/><br/>These days the crooked structure served as little more then another potential hiding place and a stark, cruel reminder of what once was. All the power in the world that these tiny little slips of paper, paving the streets like surreal, curling white slabs, all the power they had ever held, all the blood they had ever seen shed, all the masses of environment that had shifted at their might was obsolete. These symbols of a past wealth and might found only solace at the bottom of blood stained boots and rotted soles these days, the warmth of a back pocket in a pretty gals jeans or the caring hold of supple stitching of a rich mans leather wallet were a long gone day dream these coming years. As were the figures of the young woman and the business man themselves.<br/><br/>Well.<br/><br/>Mostly.<br/><br/>Jacko's dark eyes swiveled up from her own grotty hands to the shambling masses cluttering the road ahead. Yes, there were the business men and the pretty gals. It's them captain, but not as we know 'em.  Twisted dopplegangers shambled about the crossings and curbs with seemingly incomplete knowledge of their own limbs-- stinking bastards.<br/><br/>The sickly sweet taste of rot was already gumming up the roof of her mouth, if anything she wanted to be locked back up in The Moggy House, stiff drink and a cigarette waiting for her like old companions. Or at least spit. that'd be great, spitting without being clocked by one of the groaning fuckers.<br/><br/>Jacko groaned-- strangely in place in her bizarre settings-- and scanned the place for a possible route to somewhere empty and new--<br/>-- suddenly the crack of gunshots split the air. She froze and the masses of rotting, breathing flesh moved. Natural instinct for them, to follow the sound up ahead.<br/><br/>'Poor bastards,' she found herself thinking, crooked jaw jut as she watched the scrapyard figures edge off, 'They don't know what they've jut called in...'<br/><br/>Still... something of a conscience squirmed under her scalp at the idea of leaving it be, fucking parasite.<br/><br/>With a scowl she crept down from her perch and edged into the building, scanning it carefully, treading gingerly.<br/>Empty.<br/>So far anyhow.<br/>That was good as far as these things went.<br/><br/>Amongst all of the rules she'd set herself this was one of her favourites; Don't enter new buildings willy nilly. Amongst all of her rules it was probably the one she'd broken most, but alongside other classic favourites like 'think before you shoot' and 'Don't eat the green meat', it didn't honestly look that vital.<br/><br/>She crossed the expanse of the hall smoothly, checking the doors around her, locking any she could and barricading any, spare chair and door handle style that hadn't already been barred by some past poor mug with enough brains to stay static. She'd be more nervous were the brain-eaters not already distracted. Like in life crowd mentality didn't vanish beyond the grave. From a window in the first year of outbreak in her town she'd observed the snowball effect happening live on her street. One decided to go somewhere, another would follow. No real reason other than old fashioned animal curiosity. Of course five seconds later another would tag along for the ride. The more shamblers/ the bigger the total mass the more of the others would seem to gravitate towards it. Crowd mentality 101. Zombie style.<br/><br/>She threw herself under the main desk after her spot check of safety, sliding a modified Frankensteins monster of a hand held radio from her pack. She turned the little red knob until something burst through the fields of static. A voice. A mans voice.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"--e bunkers, not safe houses! Seal all rooms if you see them! We don't want no zombie lurking in the sleeping quarters!"</span><br/><br/>Jacko leaped out of her skin, knocking on the reply with a shaking thumb before her mind could catch up with what she was doing, "A survivor! Fuck me Dorothy! A real goddamn living, talking survivor! Jacko to Survivor! Come in survivor-- speak to me son,"