Topic: Post Apocalyptic Hell

The year is 2038, and the morld has been mostly destroyed by a rash of super disasters followed by a nuclear war.  The sky is black, the remaining safezones still secured fast in a Nuclear Winter.  Those humans that survive live in small cities, plagued by pirates and the Armies of the Northa American Union, the conjoined remnants of the US, Canadian, and Mexican governments.  Those that aren't par tof this society travel the frozen wastes, scavenging a salvaging all they can from the ruins of post-apocalyptic America.  The story starts in Humbolt, Iowa, former Headquarters of USEMA, the post Katrina Replacement for FEMA, and the town is help together by the efforts of the descendants of Blackwater operatives training at the USEMA HQ and the NRA members that evacuated to the site when the nukes were launched.:

Character sheet:

Weapons: (Max of three to start)
Background training: (Nothing incredible, please.)
Residence: (Either Humbolt or a Vehicle of your choice, if your one of those who wanders the wastes)

Keep in mind the post apocalyptic world runs on a barter system.  Food and ammunition are improtant.  Feul is Ethenol, the US having converted to an Agricultural economy in 2024.

Name:  Joshua Borelli
Age: 44
Sex: Male
Primary: Lietner-Wise Piston operated AR30, chambered in 6.8NATO
Secondary: Steyer MA2, chambered in 6.6 Borelli
Backup/Hunting/Blowup your head: .600 Nitro Express Revolver
Background Training:  United States Marines Corps infantry, Blackwater security agent.
Residence: Hum-vee with rubber tracks, custom armored to stop .50bg rounds.  Attached on and off to the USEMA remnant at Humbolt, Iowa.

:Josh rolled into humbolt in his Hum-vee, the rubber tracks catching easily on the fresh fallen snow around the town.  He presented his USEMA ID, and the gate swung open for him.  The walls would stop everything short of nukes, and had been built to withstand even the smallest of those.  He parked his hummer in the USEMA garage, strapped the .600NTE to his back, holstered the Steyr, and carried the AR30, headed to the post to see what he could barter for.  He needed ammo for the .700, and it's not like replacement parts for the Hummer were easy to come by.:

[i]Verd ori'shya beskar'gam[/i]-A warrior is only as good as his armor.
[i]Cogito, ergo armatum sum[/i]- I think, therefore I'm armed.

Re: Post Apocalyptic Hell

(Bumping to make active)

[i]Verd ori'shya beskar'gam[/i]-A warrior is only as good as his armor.
[i]Cogito, ergo armatum sum[/i]- I think, therefore I'm armed.

3 (edited by Adeptus_Astartes Tuesday, September 25, 2007 7:16 pm)

Re: Post Apocalyptic Hell

Name:John Richards.
Weapons: M-16
Secondary: 12 gauge shotgun
Hey! That guys got a g-*ur head asplode*: Grizly, 50.Cal (ever see tremors? smile)
Background training: None
Residence: RV, with some extra metal welded on for better protection.

[i]The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed[/i]
[url=]Interrogations are hard...[/url]

Re: Post Apocalyptic Hell

:The bar was as busy as it could be, with the few traders that were here all the time selling their stores of ammo, cheap surplus weapons, and makeshift clothing.  There was one here he hadn't seen before, one that probably was selling here without USEMA authorization.:

"What you selling, nug?  I don't see anything here, and you don't look like you have anything to barter."

"I'm selling you your salvation, my friend, in the form of weapons.  Follow me."

:Josh followed the strange man to his trailer, where the man had stored to M2 browning machine guns, eight M240G Medium machine guns, ammo enough to supply the town indefinitely, and one sub-kiloton taactical nuke.:

[i]Verd ori'shya beskar'gam[/i]-A warrior is only as good as his armor.
[i]Cogito, ergo armatum sum[/i]- I think, therefore I'm armed.

Re: Post Apocalyptic Hell

John walked into a bar, looking around. There was a guy folowing some trader into a back room. John went over to a trader, who was selling heavy coats. he bought one. It was tan and lined with wool. He bought another one, for his sister, who was still in the RV, he wouldent let her in here. to many....questionable people. He walked over to a gun trader and got himself a .44 magnum.

[i]The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed[/i]
[url=]Interrogations are hard...[/url]

6 (edited by TheGunslinger Sunday, September 30, 2007 10:28 am)

Re: Post Apocalyptic Hell

Good lord, I love these kinds of things! Mad Max and Fallout rock my world. I will be back to post soon, and you can count on it.

...And here we go!

Name: Donald Robbatanski, but he is universally called The Trash Man
Age: 55
Sex: Male
Weapons: 12-gauge shotgun, but he favors a length of chain with a razor tip
Prior experience: Don was a garbage man in the old world. He has spent his days since then marauding about the wastes as a scavenger/pirate and has collected a small crew.
Residence: His small gang has a safehouse in the city, but they spend most of their time marauding in Trash's old garbage collection truck, which he affectionately calls Georgia.

"Hey, Trash, we got somethin' here! You ain't goin' believe it!"

Don sighed, finished his business, and buttoned up his oil-stained overalls. He turned away from the direction of the city, some 15 miles away, making a mental note to check up on the newcomers he had noticed when he got back to their Den. There was no way he could tell for sure, what with his bad eye, but it looked like two vehicles, both on the larger side of things. The larger the vehicle, the more loot you could hold. That was the philosophy behind Georgia, his faithful steed.

The man who has spoken up was Runt- a scrawny little man with a touch of rad poisoning just serious enough to make him lose hair. He was a follower, that much was for certain; most of his men were. It was why they'd sided with him in the first place.

Runt was hunched over the open hood of a pickup truck long since dead; half-buried as it was in the snow, you could tell that its tires had all but rotted away, and there was more rust covering the hulk than its former coat of red paint. Don (or Trash, as everyone called him these days) stepped to his side to examine the machine's innards.

"She's a V-8, Trash," Runt said with glee, his face frozen in a smile that revealed yellowed teeth in rotted gums. "She's a little gunked up, and probably half of her's gonna need replacin', but gimme two days in the shop and I'll have her purrin' again."

Trash did what he always did when he wanted to look thoughtful: he rubbed his full-facial beard, adjusted his eyepatch, and spat to the side. "Get her outta there, then," he growled. "Toss her in back."

The four men murmered their approval and began to tear the rusted frame away from the engine within. It took perhaps an hour, but eventually the machine was nestled safely in Georgia's belly; a place once used to store garbage on its weekly circuit now housed precious cargo that was going to keep this particular band of renegades fed and alive.

Putting his black goggles on to protect against snow blindness, Runt clambered into the shotgun seat, his small frame looking even smaller next to the hulking mass of the Trash Man. "Whas the plan then, Trashy?" he said, the giddy, disgusting grin still occupying his face. "Where should we hit next?"

"I was thinkin' we'd head back to town," the former garbage man rumbled as he started up his precious Georgia and put her into drive. "There's a couple new guys in town. Might be in our interest to see what they've got that's of worth to us."

"Hear that, fellas?" Runt shouted to the other four men clinging to the outside of the garbage truck. "We got us a little piratin' to do!"

The whoops and hollars that followed managed to drown out even Georgia's mighty engine.

GPI: Fondly regard crustacean