Good ol’ Chris Record just had a hell of a couple of days to cap off his first week in the apocalypse. First, he finds himself in need of a battery for his newly found school bus because he broke rule number one of Cataclysm vehicle ownership (don’t leave your damn dome light on!) and after hauling back three different batteries that all seemed to have their charges mysteriously drain mid-journey, finally gets said bus up and running. He’s only got 2 liters to run on, though, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to get himself, his partner, and the little bit of stash he’s piled on the bus for the maiden voyage to the new base (a lovely little three-story about a quarter mile from a tiny town, with a basement even!), but even if he breaks down half way, it’ll be worth the little bit of ground he no longer has to run between.
He makes it to the new base with barely any diesel to spare, and in prep for the ferry of goods from the old apartment towers he’d been living in to the new base, he decides to make a journey to the edge of town where he knows there’s a gas station. Long and short of that journey, he finds himself being chased into city limits by a bear, with about half a dozen zombies ahead of him. ‘No sweat, juke the bear and leave the zoms to clean up,’ He thinks. Lo and behold, as he gets closer, and he successfully jukes the bear, the zombies start tripling. He breaks around a garage, zombies start piling out of that. Past the gas station (oh look! they do have diesel! journey not for naught!) and he starts tearing down the road back towards his house. At least 20 zombies in tow. He’s starting to lose his breath. They’re gaining. He lets them get in close, then empties a full magazine of 9mm into the bastards. 10 or so down, but they’re still gaining.
He pulls out his rifle, lets them get in close, fires off all four shots. Gets some distance, catches his breath, reloads, and does it again. Tosses that aside. There’s still four zombies left. He doesn’t know shit about melee. But he’s about to find out as he whips out his makeshift crowbar. Goes to town on the damn bastards. They’re tearing at him, he’s beating them back, it’s all hell breaks loose, and somehow, somehow, that damn Record boy walks away with two infections, a broken right arm, two 9mm rounds in his pocket (didn’t have time to reload them), but somehow still alive.
This son of a bitch is either going to go places, or he’s going to crash and burn spectacularly.