[ DAY ZERO JOURNAL LOG ENTRY ]
My character name: Max Porter
Character ID number: 9
Link to your character's survival stats (minis) profile: x
Faction: Prison
Rank: Officer
Info:
Character Name: Max Porter
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Employment: Prisoner transport van driver between the courthouse and the prison.
Character description: honest, gruff, agreeable, hasty
Dark brown hair and eyes. Light brown skin. Owns six copies of his uniform, seven t-shirts, three pairs of jeans, two pairs of sneakers, and a drawerful of boxers and dingy socks. Average build. Five feet, ten inches tall.
DAY ZERO ENTRY PROMPT: He was asleep when the electricity failed. All of his lamps were already dark except for the moose-shaped nightlight he left on in the hall for when the kids came by, but when it fizzled and died around ten, Max didn't notice. The first court pickup wasn't usually until nine in the morning, but there were always other workers who needed to be shuttled between buildings and security briefings to attend and it was generally best to be on site by six. Hence the sleeping. He had come to enjoy a nice, uninterrupted eight hours since Monica had gone. She'd been a wiggler. Max didn't even register that anything was amiss until the crashing and groaning started, and even then he blamed it on a neighbo(u)r and dragged a pillow over his head.
He could no longer ignore whatever was going on when the brick crashed through his window, followed by something his tired mind could only guess was an arm and that was a very good reason to go go go. He jogged down the two flights of stairs to the street without remembering to put on his shoes, and, unable to get his phone or his car to work, headed toward the jail, if only for familiarity's sake.
An elderly woman screamed at him as he passed, something about infections and eternal damnation, and the shock of it served to clear his head just in time to avoid the shovel someone was aiming at him. Or rather, at a man behind him. Max ducked, letting the air two inches in front of his lips know what he thought of the situation, and was about to stop to make sure the guy who'd gotten hit was okay when he saw that he was not. He hadn't been okay for some time now.
Max didn't like to watch the news. It was full of horrible, shocking tales, and he had enough of those in his life as it was. But he hadn't been able to avoid the stories of sick, crazy people and a virus that couldn't be stopped. As he watched the man slowly rise to his feet, eye hanging half out of its socket and head caved in, he wondered if he should have paid a little bit more attention to the world.
The air felt thick when he turned to run, his limbs clumsy as the creature reached toward him. He just had to make it a little farther. He would be safe in the cells.
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Employment: Prisoner transport van driver between the courthouse and the prison.
Character description: honest, gruff, agreeable, hasty
Dark brown hair and eyes. Light brown skin. Owns six copies of his uniform, seven t-shirts, three pairs of jeans, two pairs of sneakers, and a drawerful of boxers and dingy socks. Average build. Five feet, ten inches tall.
DAY ZERO ENTRY PROMPT: He was asleep when the electricity failed. All of his lamps were already dark except for the moose-shaped nightlight he left on in the hall for when the kids came by, but when it fizzled and died around ten, Max didn't notice. The first court pickup wasn't usually until nine in the morning, but there were always other workers who needed to be shuttled between buildings and security briefings to attend and it was generally best to be on site by six. Hence the sleeping. He had come to enjoy a nice, uninterrupted eight hours since Monica had gone. She'd been a wiggler. Max didn't even register that anything was amiss until the crashing and groaning started, and even then he blamed it on a neighbo(u)r and dragged a pillow over his head.
He could no longer ignore whatever was going on when the brick crashed through his window, followed by something his tired mind could only guess was an arm and that was a very good reason to go go go. He jogged down the two flights of stairs to the street without remembering to put on his shoes, and, unable to get his phone or his car to work, headed toward the jail, if only for familiarity's sake.
An elderly woman screamed at him as he passed, something about infections and eternal damnation, and the shock of it served to clear his head just in time to avoid the shovel someone was aiming at him. Or rather, at a man behind him. Max ducked, letting the air two inches in front of his lips know what he thought of the situation, and was about to stop to make sure the guy who'd gotten hit was okay when he saw that he was not. He hadn't been okay for some time now.
Max didn't like to watch the news. It was full of horrible, shocking tales, and he had enough of those in his life as it was. But he hadn't been able to avoid the stories of sick, crazy people and a virus that couldn't be stopped. As he watched the man slowly rise to his feet, eye hanging half out of its socket and head caved in, he wondered if he should have paid a little bit more attention to the world.
The air felt thick when he turned to run, his limbs clumsy as the creature reached toward him. He just had to make it a little farther. He would be safe in the cells.
