run low on food, they packed up into their Suburban and tried to leave the city when they came across the Airport and soldiers. They were allowed in, and they made their new survival home at the airport with around three hundred people at first. The number swelled quickly to about a thousand, with military raids going out daily to bring back in food. At some point, flights with important people were routed there; Senators and Congressmen from who knows where, as well as some supposedly high ranking military figures and scientist people. For the first two months, there were flights in daily, bringing in supplies and weapons, but after those first two months, the flights began to die down, until six months after the zombies had risen, the last flight came in and the word was that they were essentially on their own.
They had been part of a larger group that volunteered to go out way past the city limits to find survivors and supplies to bring them back to the airport. They had been tasked to head up to Asheville , while other groups had been sent east to Raleigh and Wilmington, and some south into South Carolina and Georgia. (Something to note for in the future.)
Evan
Evan’s hometown is a small town south of Raleigh called Angier. On the outside, he is what you call a southern redneck, and is proud of the title. He’s the kind of guy who is comfortable in coveralls, riding four wheelers and getting up way too early on a freezing morning to sit in a blind and hunt. The funny thing is that he actually has three college degrees. His father owns a few restaurants up and down the Interstate 95 corridor and his family is well off. He went to school at Duke and majored in Business Management, among other degrees, in part to help and eventually take over the family businesses. He’s the epitome of two different worlds; a thick southern drawl, with a higher educated brain. When he speaks, you hear Larry the Cable Guy, but understand Stephen Hawking.
He had been with his family on the day the comet was supposed to hit, and when it was destroyed, he celebrated by getting, in his words, “fucked up”. A few days later he was up in Rocky Mount working at one of his father’s restaurants, when a pair of what would turn out to be zombies came barging into the restaurant, and managed to kill a score of people before they were themselves taken out. He stayed behind to clean up the mess of that supposed crime when the restaurant was attacked a second time, by a far larger group of zombies. This time he was one of two people left cleaning the mess from the first attack, and he wasn’t about to fight off a mob of crazy people. He managed to make it out of the back of the restaurant, get in his car, and head for Interstate 95 and try to get home. He was one of possible millions who realized that the wider the road or highway, the more possible accidents, people, and worst of all, zombies, there were. He remembered taking over two hours to drive only twenty five miles south, before he took an exit and tried to find other roads home. When he finally reached his home the next morning, having dodged masses of zombies as well as chaotic drivers, fires and people shooting at him, he found no trace of his family, except for the body of his father, blood in his mouth and clothes, walking menacingly towards him. He had to take a breath for a moment before telling me that he had shot his father six times, before a hit to the head took him out.
He told me how for the next few months he lived out of barns and abandoned houses, scavenging where he could. He took to riding a bike, the mechanical motorized type, mostly because it was easier to get by wrecks or to go off-road. He grouped up with some survivors in Albemarle, who had heard of the airport in Charlotte from radio broadcasts, and made their way there. It was a disastrous caravan full of injured, sick and tired men, women, children, and elderly, all a recipe for disaster. Of the seventy
They had been part of a larger group that volunteered to go out way past the city limits to find survivors and supplies to bring them back to the airport. They had been tasked to head up to Asheville , while other groups had been sent east to Raleigh and Wilmington, and some south into South Carolina and Georgia. (Something to note for in the future.)
Evan
Evan’s hometown is a small town south of Raleigh called Angier. On the outside, he is what you call a southern redneck, and is proud of the title. He’s the kind of guy who is comfortable in coveralls, riding four wheelers and getting up way too early on a freezing morning to sit in a blind and hunt. The funny thing is that he actually has three college degrees. His father owns a few restaurants up and down the Interstate 95 corridor and his family is well off. He went to school at Duke and majored in Business Management, among other degrees, in part to help and eventually take over the family businesses. He’s the epitome of two different worlds; a thick southern drawl, with a higher educated brain. When he speaks, you hear Larry the Cable Guy, but understand Stephen Hawking.
He had been with his family on the day the comet was supposed to hit, and when it was destroyed, he celebrated by getting, in his words, “fucked up”. A few days later he was up in Rocky Mount working at one of his father’s restaurants, when a pair of what would turn out to be zombies came barging into the restaurant, and managed to kill a score of people before they were themselves taken out. He stayed behind to clean up the mess of that supposed crime when the restaurant was attacked a second time, by a far larger group of zombies. This time he was one of two people left cleaning the mess from the first attack, and he wasn’t about to fight off a mob of crazy people. He managed to make it out of the back of the restaurant, get in his car, and head for Interstate 95 and try to get home. He was one of possible millions who realized that the wider the road or highway, the more possible accidents, people, and worst of all, zombies, there were. He remembered taking over two hours to drive only twenty five miles south, before he took an exit and tried to find other roads home. When he finally reached his home the next morning, having dodged masses of zombies as well as chaotic drivers, fires and people shooting at him, he found no trace of his family, except for the body of his father, blood in his mouth and clothes, walking menacingly towards him. He had to take a breath for a moment before telling me that he had shot his father six times, before a hit to the head took him out.
He told me how for the next few months he lived out of barns and abandoned houses, scavenging where he could. He took to riding a bike, the mechanical motorized type, mostly because it was easier to get by wrecks or to go off-road. He grouped up with some survivors in Albemarle, who had heard of the airport in Charlotte from radio broadcasts, and made their way there. It was a disastrous caravan full of injured, sick and tired men, women, children, and elderly, all a recipe for disaster. Of the seventy
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