TEXT: 1
  A SURVIVOR’S GUIDE
  TO RISEN AMERICA
  VOLUME FOUR: LUBBOCK GRAND PRIX
  I took a moment to cough into my handker-
  chief while I looked over the street in front of 
  the auto parts store. There was the cop car, 
  smeared with blood from where that scumbag 
  went down, but I didn’t trust it. I needed some-
  thing that Winter could drive, and that I knew 
  the wimmin-folk could quickly and easily get 
  into.
  Back a ways, before I’d butted heads with the 
  two scumbags, I’d passed an abandoned Army 
  checkpoint, and the vehicles didn’t look too 
  damaged, more like abandoned in the ﬁghting. 
  Hell, maybe I could even ﬁnd some stuff for the 
  wimmen-folk to defend themselves with.
  I pushed past a dead older woman who was 
  trying to touch my face with her cold ﬁngers, 
  and started walking down the road. It was only 
  a couple of blocks, but it was dark, and I was 
  tired. I had been up for too long, and I could feel 
  Ol’ Scratch’s claws in my lungs as I walked.
  After about twenty minutes of walking I found 
  it again. The lights for the huge movie theater 
  were on, and music was playing, attracting the 
  dead. They all pushed against one another, 
  trying to get inside. Irony of irony, the politi-
  cal ﬁlm: “Without a Brain” was supposed to be 
  playing. I chuckled to myself as I looked inside 
  the ﬁrst of those big ass trucks. Humpers or 
  something like that.
  Covered bed, rear hatch, four doors, hard 
  body, and what looked like a gunner’s mount 
  in the roof. I leaned in, took a moment to ex-
  amine the dashboard, and turned the vehicle’s 
  juice on. Nothing. Not even a ﬂicker with the 
  gauges. I sighed, and checked out the other 
  two trucks. Both of them had open beds, and 
  that just wouldn’t do at all.
  It took me a minute to ﬁgure out how to pop 
  the hood, and that’s when I found out these 
  wagons pack two car batteries, not one. Still, 
  it didn’t take me long to swap batteries around 
  until the armored wagon had juice.
  Once that was done, I made a quick circular 
  search of the area, like a good ol’ boy, a Texas 
  Ranger (when he wasn’t drinking with me), had 
  told me about. I managed to gather up about a 
  dozen of them riﬂes, and lots of ammunition in 
  some boxes that weren’t opened. I was about 
  to leave, but then I remembered how them 
  wimmen were dressed, so I dug through some 
  bags and found some Army clothes. I gathered 
  them duds and some food and water up, and 
  went back to the wagon, loaded it into the back, 
  and opened the driver’s door.
  I checked out the seat, but the blood was all 
  dried, so I sat down on it, pumped the gas, and 
  hit the starter. It ground for a second, then the 
  engine caught with a roar. The radio came to 
  life, stuttering with static until I ﬁgured out how 
  to shut it off. The lever for the lights looked odd, 
  but the ﬁrst setting I tried gave me little tiny 
  lights that barely illuminated the ground in front 
  of me. Still, the moon was full, so I could see 
  pretty good as I threw the old boy into drive; 
  and headed back to the parts store.
  The noise of the engine drew a crowd, and 
  the ﬁrst few were pretty aggressive fellows. 
  A guy ran right at me, leapt up on the hood, 
  and smashed his ﬁst into the glass, only suc-
  ceeding in splitting open the dead skin cover-
  ing his knuckles. Dozens of others slammed 
  into the vehicle and began shoving it, trying to 
  ﬂip it over. I kept going, dozens being plowed 
  into by the brush-guard and winch combo to be 
  crushed underneath.
  I went a little further than the auto parts store, 
  and then threw the wagon in reverse, until I 
  was about twenty feet from that big ol’ glass 
  
  2
  window. There must have been ﬁfty of them 
  around the truck, along with the fool still beat-
  ing on the glass. Too damn dumb to know that 
  them Army boys put bulletproof glass in their 
  wagons to go to war. Wouldn’t make much 
  sense to go to war with normal glass, now 
  would it?
  I pushed open the door, and their dead hands 
  reached for me, then stopped. The ones di-
  rectly in front of me moaned softly and turned 
  away, sounding disappointed that I was there. 
  I tell you, it gives a man the shivers to know 
  his mortal coil, his meat, is tainted beyond the 
  desires of some dead cannibal.
  The moron one on the hood stood up, and 
  beat his chest like a big-ol’ gorilla, then turned 
  toward me, the streetlight making his eyes 
  ﬂash completely white. He opened his mouth 
  and hissed at me, crouching low, his leg mus-
  cles bunching.
  I shot him between the eyes and re-holstered 
  the pistol before he was done falling to the 
  hood of the Humper. Rude ol’ cuss. I drew my 
  knife, and began moving around the vehicle, 
  grabbing them by the hair or neck, pulling them 
  backwards, and pushing the knife either into 
  their eye, or into their ear.
  By the time I was done, I was plumb tuckered 
  out, and coughing up gobs of black blood. My 
  vision was doubled and my head was spin-
  ning, but there was still work to do. Them little 
  ladies were depending on me, so however I 
  felt, I needed to be a man and get it done. Us 
  Texans, we don’t quit.
  I climbed back into the vehicle, started it 
  again, threw it into reverse, and rammed it 
  through the windows. The vehicle roared as 
  it crested the low wall section remaining, but 
  them Army boys had good stuff. I careened off 
  of a shelf of transmissions, and brought the 
  vehicle to a stop just in front of the door, then 
  leapt out, leaving it running.
  “Rents due, ladies, time to go!” I hollered out. 
  The door slid aside and I saw Winter waving to 
  me. She opened the hatch and slithered into it. 
  I could hear her shirt tear, but I was more wor-
  ried about them dead guys who were starting 
  to show interest in the sound of the engine.
  One came running at us, jumping over the 
  buggered up wall. I ﬁred the pistol, but only 
  grazed him. He dropped to the ground, going 
  into a bad case of the shakes, like one of them 
  epileptic people. I ignored him and holstered 
  the pistol, swinging the riﬂe around and bring-
  ing it up to my shoulder. The scope was one of 
  them hot shit daylight ones, since the picture 
  through it was clear and bright as any day. Two 
  more sprinted at us, and I dropped them too. 
  However, it looked like the noise had attracted 
  some of them who had been waiting to get into 
  the disco.
  “We’re in!” Winter called out, honking twice 
  on the horn to get my attention. I gave her a 
  thumbs up, and when she moved the vehicle 
  out to the street, I quickly grabbed Pancho and 
  followed her.
  Whatever she did before the dead began to 
  rise driving Army trucks wasn’t it. She’d rev 
  the engine too high, and kept rubbing the side 
  of the vehicle against parked cars. You know, 
  looking back at it, what she was doing was 
  probably purposeful. Every time she did that, 
  them dead guys hanging on the side would be 
  crushed and left behind.
  The engine howled as she climbed up the 
  side of the highway and crashed through the 
  guardrail. Pancho nickered and tried to balk at 
  following the foul smelling contraption, but I put 
  my heels into him and he followed the ladies 
  anyway.
  One of the women popped out of that hole in 
  the roof and cupped her hands to her mouth, 
  her hair blowing in the wind. She yelled some-
  thing I couldn’t understand, and I tapped my 
  ear and shrugged.
  “Winter… almost… minutes!” she hollered 
  again. We were almost there, only a few more 
  minutes. I nodded and waved, and kept follow-
  ing.
  It felt too easy.
  The truck showed its mettle on the trip, climb-
  ing over the collapsed buildings with the roar 
  of its engine and debris spewing from the tires. 
  Them dead guys kept showing up, the run-
  ning ones slamming against it and trying to 
  ﬁnd handholds. The woman in the hole kept 
  hitting them in the hands and head with a tire 
  iron when she could reach them, keeping them 
  
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  from climbing on the vehicle.
  Still, the worst moment we had was when I 
  had to shoot some dead guy who was on the 
  hood. I clucked Pancho into a canter, moved 
  up, drew my shooting iron, and blew him off 
  the hood.
  Finally we stopped in front of a building, and 
  I could see Winter looking at the building wor-
  riedly. There must have been about a thousand 
  of them dead people surrounding the building. 
  I motioned to her, and she squinted as I point-
  ed at the extended ﬁre escape and the top of 
  the vehicle.
  She nodded and pulled the vehicle into the 
  alley, maneuvering so the hole in the roof was 
  just below the ladder. First one woman, then 
  the next, climbed out of the hole and up the ﬁre 
  escape, until it was Winter’s turn. She had a 
  bunch of riﬂes across her back, and paused.
  “Come on, Mr. Lafferts!” she called out. I 
  shook my head.
  “Thanks, but I don’t do well with people, Little 
  Miss.” I told her. Her face hardened, but she 
  nodded. “Take care of them ladies, Winter as 
  in Discontent.” I told her.
  “Good luck, Marion Lafferts.” She replied, 
  and then scampered up the ladder, the riﬂes 
  banging on the metal as she did so. I sighed, 
  realizing she had left the boxes of ammunition 
  behind. They probably needed it in a powerful 
  way.
  I slid off Pancho’s back, and opened the back 
  hatch of the truck so I could remove the four 
  boxes of ammunition. Then I closed the back, 
  tossed the boxes onto the roof of the truck, 
  and climbed up after them. I used the wire that 
  bound the boxes to wire them to the rungs of 
  the ladder, and looked up.
  Winter was staring down at me. She nodded, 
  and pulled the ladder up, away from the vehi-
  cle, away from me. I waved and jumped down, 
  walking over to Pancho. Two young men were 
  helping her get the boxes off of the ladder. 
  They didn’t have any need of a dying old man; 
  I’d just get in their way.
  I climbed up on the old horses back, and 
  turned him around. Together we pushed 
  through the crowd, heading toward the other 
  building, where them boys dressed like old Jap 
  swordsmen were. I could see two on the roof, 
  one with binoculars, and knew he was staring 
  at me as Pancho pushed through the dead 
  people.
  One, grabbed Pancho’s reins, pulling the 
  horse sideways, but I reached down and 
  slapped him with the barrel of the Army shoot-
  ing iron. When he looked at me, I jammed it in 
  his mouth and pulled the trigger. Brains and 
  blood sprayed out in a silent explosion, the 
  dead guy falling to the ground. I wiped off the 
  pistol on my thigh as we drew nearer.
  Swords made sense. They ain’t gonna run 
  out of ammo, and even if’n they break, they 
  can still be used as a weapon. They’re easy 
  to make, and easy to learn if’n you have the 
  desire. I wondered if they’d be willing to give 
  a traveling stranger one, then laughed off the 
  idea when an image of myself popped into my 
  mind. Old horse, old duster, old hat, old man, 
  shiny sword. I’d stick with my own guns and 
  the shootin’ irons, thank you very much.
  I moved up to the boarded up window, push-
  ing aside a few of the dead, then banged on it 
  with one ﬁst. I waited a minute, and then ham-
  mered out shave and a hair cut on the board. 
  Inside, someone hammered back two bits! And 
  I knew I had someone living on the other side 
  of the plywood.
  “Is there anything ya’ll be needin?” I called 
  out.
  “Less zombies!” came the call from inside. I 
  chuckled at that, looking around at the huge 
  amount of dead people around me. Pancho 
  and I, were an island of life in a sea of death.
  “Anything else?” I asked. A muscular dead 
  man with a tattoo around his neck snarled at 
  me, but a good slap in the puss shut him up.
  “Just a minute!” the voice replied. I looked 
  around at the street. The two buildings had at-
  tracted a lot of dead, several thousand by my 
  best estimate. The voice was right they needed 
  less zombies. The building wasn’t big enough 
  for them to build a colony, and it was as barren 
  as the moon with all the dead around us. Even 
  if I brought them food, all it would do is put off 
  the inevitable.
  “Hello?” It was an older man’s voice, calm, 
  collected, and full of natural authority.
  
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  “Howdy. Name’s Marion Lafferts, I was wun-
  derin’ if you were needin’ anything I could help 
  with.” I replied. “Ya’ll got water and food in 
  there?”
  “What we have, sir, is barely enough for us, 
  and we shall defend it if need be.” The voice 
  said. He was cautious, and I don’t blame him. 
  Looking up, I could see about eight people 
  staring at me in the middle of the tide of dead 
  ﬂesh.
  “I’ve got my own vittles, sir.” I could play re-
  spectful too. It was comfortable. “I was won-
  dering if there is something I could do for you.” 
  I started coughing again, and missed his an-
  swer. I spit out a gob of blood that hit the pave-
  ment. Before you could count to ﬁve, four of 
  the dead were down on the ground trying to 
  lick it up. The one that did got a disgusted look 
  on her face to replace her blank stare.
  “Are you OK, Mr. Lafferts?” the voice asked.
  “I’m good, still kicking.” I told him, shakily 
  sucking in air.
  “Do you know if there are plans to rescue 
  people inside the city, sir?”
  “Everyone outside is dead as well, sir.” I an-
  swered. “I reckon the only person a man can 
  depend on is hisself. If’n your waiting for res-
  cue, it ain’t comin.” There was silence for a few 
  minutes.
  “Any thing you could suggest, sir?” the voice 
  asked. I started to tell the man he was out of 
  luck, when my eye caught an open manhole. 
  A plan began percolating in my brainpan, and I 
  realized that I did have a suggestion.
  It was dangerous, and there was a chance 
  that not everyone would make it.
  “It depends, sir.” I answered.
  “On what?” the voice answered.
  “On just how desperate you are.” I smiled up 
  at the kids on the roof. “I’ll need to get some 
  rest, but in a few hours, we’ll see if’n my plan 
  works.”
  “Do you want us to lower a rope for you?”
  “No.” I answered, turning Pancho around. 
  “They know I’m already dead.”
  --In God’s Grace;
  M.. Samuel Lefferts
  
  5
  Lubbock Havens
    
  The City of Lubbock has several havens, 
  some of which collapsed under the weight of 
  dead ﬂesh, others that were able to keep going 
  for quite some time. While the refugee stations 
  collapsed within the ﬁrst 72 hours, the military 
  and law enforcement personnel managed to 
  keep several areas intact until nearly a week 
  had gone by.
  Most of the soldiers manning checkpoints, 
  blockades, and other unfortiﬁed positions were 
  forced to either retreat outside the city, or get 
  to a fortiﬁed area. Those that didn’t make it, 
  died. (Military and police vehicles found inside 
  the city limits will have 1d8-2 1/8ths worth the 
  fuel in the tank)
  The Civic Center
  The Civic Center was a large refugee center 
  that quickly ran out of food, water, and bathroom 
  facilities within the ﬁrst 48 hours. What made 
  things worse was starting about 2 ½ days after 
  the Rising began, those who had been bitten by 
  the Risers began going into comas, and dying. 
  This meant that the Civic Center was lost to 
  the living before dawn on the fourth day.
  Currently inside the Civic Center is packed with 
  hundreds of zombies, with over ﬁve thousand 
  zombies surrounding the Civic Center from 
  the outside. There are seven buses in usable 
  condition outside the main entrance, as well as 
  over 45 vehicles in the parking lot. Also in the 
  parking lot are ﬁve soft-bodied hummvees that 
  were abandoned.
  American State Bank
  From T+12 Hours till Day Five a refugee 
  station existed inside the American State Bank. 
  On Day Five the remaining refugees and the 
  handful of soldiers that had survived that far 
  were evac’d out by helicopter. The location 
  would still be of interest to explorers, as the 
  soldiers had to dump their heavy weapons due 
  to the helicopter being nearly overloaded. On 
  the roof are three M2A2 .50 cal machineguns, 
  3500 rounds of .50 caliber ammunition, 6 M-249 
  SAWs, and 9 boxes of ammunition for them. 
  There is a box of fragmentation grenades in 
  the lobby of the bank, along with 3 ﬁeld medical 
  kits and half a dozen Claymore land mines. In 
  the street outside are 3 hard-shell hummvees, 
  one of which is out of gas, but the other is fully 
  fueled.
  Federal Building
  The Federal Building was evacuated on Day 
  Three, and but the building was held all the way 
  to Day 11 by police and military personnel. On 
  Day 11 the building was breached by a group 
  of people who demanded entry and managed 
  to ﬁght their way past the guards. Unfortunately 
  for both sides, the Risers gained entry during 
  the ﬁghting, and swarmed the place. From Day 
  11 to Day 17 there is a constant ﬁght, with the 
  living losing ground to the dead. By Day 21 the 
  place is full of nothing but Risen.
  Courthouse
  The 
  courthouse 
  was 
  abandoned 
  by 
  defenders on Day Three, and no longer listed 
  as a safe refugee center on television and 
  radio updates.
  County Jail
  The County Jail actually lasted nearly 6 
  weeks. Unfortunately the people inside were 
  neither good, nor friendly. A small group of 
  people, let into the jail by the guards when the 
  jail was listed as a refugee center, killed the 
  guards and the half dozen soldiers guarding 
  the jail. They then massacred the majority of 
  the prisoners, and kept accepting refugees. 
  Males were killed; females were locked in 
  cells.
  These people were evil and cruel, and on 
  Day 60, they loaded everyone they could in the 
  prisoner transport buses and left Lubbock with 
  their slaves in tow.
  Metro Tower
  This building caught ﬁre on Day Four, and 
  collapsed by noon.
  Bus Station
  The bus station may be of interest to 
  characters searching for large vehicles. There 
  
  6
  are 9 full sized buses located in the garage, 
  as well as fuel pumps containing 2,000 gallons 
  of fuel. There is also a maintenance shop 
  within the Bus Station that allows mechanics 
  to service the buses.
  The bus station has very few of the Risen 
  inside of it. Mostly wanderers.
  Winter’s Group
  Holed up in an anonymous building, Winter’s 
  Group consists of 19 children, 16 females and 
  12 males who managed to make the building 
  a safe haven by barricading the doors and 
  windows. Most of the people are sleeping on 
  the ﬂoors in little “nests” of blankets and rags. 
  They use the ﬁre escape to make it to the street 
  and from there go out in search of food. They 
  have managed to stockpile two months worth 
  the food and water, as well as medicine, but 
  the amount of Risen has gotten thick enough 
  that going out on the street is suicide.
  Winter, the defacto leader, has convinced 
  everyone that sooner or later, they are going to 
  have to leave, as literally hundreds of zombies 
  have surrounded the building, and is trying to 
  ﬁgure out a way to break out of the building 
  without a horrendous death toll.
  The building is two stories, with some small 
  ofﬁces scattered around inside, but for the 
  most part the inside of the building is wide-
  open space, where boxes and crates have 
  been stacked.
  Called & Random 
  Shots Revisited
    
  Everyone wants to do called shots. Head, 
  hand, neck, kneecaps. Kneecaps slow down 
  foes, arm shots prevent them from wielding 
  heavy weapons, and headshots are instant 
  kills. Called shots are what make sniping so 
  deadly. However, the following rules add a few 
  extra rolls to combat, and increase the amount 
  of paperwork required.
  Zombies and living opponents both are 
  affected by called shots, and as characters 
  improve in skill, called shots will not be the 
  difﬁculty they are in the beginning. Still, even 
  the most untrained characters will want to try 
  for a called shot in order to dispose of a zombie 
  or living foe as quickly as possible.
  Of course, people like to strike for speciﬁc 
  locations against their foes also.
  Table 1: Hit Location for Zombies
  Location
  Damage
  Modiﬁer
  Random Hit 
  (d20)**
  Head
  Death
  -8
  20
  Neck
  No damage
  -12
  19
  Arm
  -2 to attack, 
  grapple, skills
  -4
  16-18
  Hand
  -1 to grapple
  -6
  15
  Chest
  No Damage
  0
  9-14
  Abdomen
  No Damage
  0
  5-8
  Groin
  No Damage
  -2
  4
  Leg
  -5’ to speed
  -4
  2-3
  Foot
  -5’ to speed
  -6
  1
  **The additional damage modiﬁers listed are 
  cumulative. Someone hit in both arms and one 
  hand suffers a -5 to attack, grapple and skill 
  checks.
  **Using a random hit location is suggested 
  for using automatic or burst settings without 
  the appropriate feat, using a ﬁrearm that the 
  character is not proﬁcient in, panicked ﬁre, or 
  automatic ﬁre into an area. The GM can decide 
  upon right or left, depending on how the zombie 
  is standing or facing in relation to the direction 
  of ﬁre.
  
  7
  When autoﬁre is used, a good idea; with 
  which to increase the lethality/realism/We’re 
  so fucked feeling of the chaos of combat is to 
  have any of the people hit by the autoﬁre take 
  the bullet in a random place.
  Example: Daria is spraying down the area 
  where a wolf-pack has taken cover, and one of 
  the members is hit. Rather than just assigning 
  2d8 points of damage to the wolf-pack member, 
  the GM rolls 2d12, resulting in a 10. The wolf 
  pack kid is hit in the arm, laying down a -2 
  penalty on attacks and grappling.
  When the Hit By Location rules are used, a 
  GM can be particularly cruel and any time a 
  weapon scores a critical strike, and/or does 
  maximum damage, the character has to 
  succeed in a Fortitude save, DC 10+1 per hit 
  point of damage, or have the limb blown off. 
  Deciding where the hit took place can make a 
  Table 2: Hit Location for Living Humans
  Location
  Damage
  Modiﬁer
  Random Hit 
  (2d12)**
  Head
  Double Dam-
  age, Massive 
  Damage Check 
  Required
  -8
  23-24
  Neck
  Double Dam-
  age, Massive 
  Damage Check 
  Required
  -12
  22
  Arm*
  -2 to attack, 
  grapple, skills
  -4
  19-21
  Hand*
  -1 to attack, 
  grapple, skills
  -6
  18
  Chest
  No additional 
  Effect
  0
  12-17
  Abdomen
  Carrying Capac-
  ity reduced by 8 
  strength points, 
  -5 to speed
  0
  8-11
  Groin
  Massive Dam-
  age Check 
  Required
  -2
  7
  Leg*
  -10’ to speed
  -4
  3-6
  Foot*
  -5’ to speed
  -6
  2
  *The additional damage modiﬁers listed are 
  cumulative. Someone hit in both arms and one 
  hand suffers a -5 to attack, grapple and skill 
  checks.
  huge difference in whether or not the wound is 
  incapacitating or deadly.
  A quick and dirty rule of thumb is: Roll a die 
  six, 1 the limb is amputated at the torso joint, 
  2-4 it’s amputated mid-upper range (thigh, 
  biceps), 5 it’s amputated at the mid-joint (knee, 
  elbow), 6-8 it’s amputated lower range (calf, 
  forearm), 9 it’s amputated at the lower joint 
  (wrist, ankle), and on a 10, a digit is amputated 
  (toes, ﬁngers).
  Amputation requires an immediate Treat 
  Injury, or the character will die of blood loss 
  within a few minutes. A good rule of thumb is 
  that the character loses 1 Con point due to 
  blood loss per round, until the wound has a 
  tourniquet applied.
  A tourniquet requires a successful Treat Injury 
  Check (DC: 13) to stop the bleeding.
  In addition, any time a weapon does maximum 
  damage to zombie and strikes anywhere but 
  the head, a zombie could require the same or 
  lose a limb, be blown in half at the waist, or 
  have its head severed.
  For a blunt object to sever a limb through 
  compression, it must be at least 2 size 
  categories larger than the person. Piercing 
  weapons will not sever a limb unless they are 
  a ﬁrearm or are 3 size categories larger than 
  the target. Slashing weapons and ﬁrearms 
  can sever a limb providing they do the above 
  damage.
  Option
  Swinging at an arm and missing, a person 
  still has a chance to hit the target’s torso, and 
  shooting at an opponent means usually hitting 
  center mass despite missing the targeted 
  area.
  A quick way of handling “miss hits” is to allow 
  any shot/swing that misses the called area, if 
  the roll is still higher than the target’s normal 
  Defense, the shot/swing has hit center mass 
  on the target, doing normal damage.
  Example: Marion is shooting at some low-life 
  whose tried to jack him for his horse. He draws 
  and ﬁres, aiming for the head, and misses. 
  (Target Defense: 22, head Defense 30, Roll 
  was 25) The bullet still strikes the target in the 
  torso. (The roll is still higher than the normal 
  Defense)
  
  8
  SURVIVOR’S TALES
   OF RISEN AMERICA
  VOLUME ONE: WINTER’S STORY
  Publisher’s Note: Writings from the point in time known to laymen, as “The Rising” are 
  scarce at best. There are the well-known Diaries of Becka, which most students are required 
  to read in secondary school, but little attention is paid to secondary writings.
  Of those, the Survivor’s Guide is an invaluable resource in seeing how this nation fared after 
  the cataclysm, and the little known “Survivor’s Tales” is another. Encouraged by would-be 
  historians, Survivor’s Tales makes for an interesting look at post cataclysm life.
  Of course, the constant insistence that the dead returned to life, as some kind of cannibal 
  monster is ridiculous, but the various “historical” records are an insight into mass hysteria on 
  a global level.
  I met Marion in Lubbock, when a bunch of 
  zombies had me trapped on a ﬁre escape. I’d 
  been making a scavenging run, and got sloppy, 
  and if it weren’t for the short bandy-legged little 
  man, I’d probably be zombie food by now. 
  Anyhow, he encouraged me to write down my 
  life story, or at least what happened after the 
  dead began to walk, and before I met him. 
  Unlike most autobiographies you’ll probably 
  read, mine isn’t full of self-aggrandization and 
  I’m not going to lie to make myself look better.
  My name is Winter, as in Of Discontent, and 
  until I’d moved to Lubbock, I was a scumbag. 
  Dopeslinger and banger, I’d killed people and 
  beaten others with a bat. I’d run away from a 
  good home to be a banger, and left Dallas to 
  stop being one. I’d dropped out of high school, 
  hooked for a bit, then was jumped into a small 
  time gang. I wasn’t anyone good, and probably 
  would have wound up dead if it hadn’t been 
  for Marion. But that’s later; I need to talk about 
  what happened in the beginning ﬁrst.
  I’d moved to Lubbock after the gang I’d run 
  with since I was thirteen came out on the losing 
  side of a turf war with another gang. I’d gone 
  from slinging dope to slinging burgers, but for 
  some reason, I liked myself. I had a job at a 
  burger shack, and a small apartment full of 
  nice things.
  That morning was pretty much like any other, 
  there had been a few aggressive panhandlers, 
  too drunk to even really vocalize a begging 
  speech, but I just ignored them and rode by on 
  my little motorized scooter.
  Three of the people on my shift were out sick, 
  and some fucking tweakers had mugged my 
  manager the night before. One of them had 
  bitten him pretty badly on the hand, and when 
  he went to the ER, the place was packed full of 
  people that had been in ﬁghts and bitten.
  I spent the morning ﬂipping breakfast 
  sandwiches, pouring coffee, and serving up 
  pre-made hash browns. Everyone seemed 
  to be talking about how someone had tried 
  to mug them, how there were ambulance’s 
  everywhere, and how there were a lot of 
  scufﬂes on the street, and cops everywhere. A 
  police car that came through the drive through 
  had two tweakers in the back that kept throwing 
  them selves against the back cage, snarling 
  and chewing at it.
  Finally, I got off shift, and hit up the liquor 
  store. I wandered through the shelves, found a 
  bottle of Jagermeister, and went to the counter. 
  I waited, but nobody showed up. I rang the bell 
  about a half-dozen times, and still nothing. 
  Finally, I got sick of waiting, and just left. If 
  the owner wasn’t gonna’ watch it, I’ll take the 
  
  9
  fucking thing.
  I ran back in and grabbed a pack of smokes.
  Riding home on my little scooter, I saw more 
  than one wreck. I passed two ﬁreﬁghters trying 
  to calm a hysterical woman who was hitting at 
  them, her teeth snapping to keep them back as 
  they tried to belt her to some kind of board.
  Once I got home, I tossed in my D-12 CD 
  and started drinking, kicking it on my sofa and 
  playing X-Box Live. There weren’t too many 
  players online, and everyone who was; were 
  all talking about the fact that so many people 
  were throwing ﬁsts. One guy bitched that he 
  got jumped by a couple of dudes who seemed 
  more interested in biting him than actually 
  ﬁghting like a man.
  Eventually I crashed out, sleeping on my 
  futon.
  The banging on my door woke me up, a 
  steady hammering, and the guy outside was 
  making weird noises. Wearing my Hello Kitty 
  pajamas, with a baseball bat in one hand, I 
  crept up to the door and peaked through the 
  peephole. Outside my door, hammering on it 
  was Jose from down the hall, drunk as usual, 
  with a bloody mouth. His wife probably got tired 
  of him beating on her and now he needed an 
  ambulance.
  I opened the door, opening my mouth to say: 
  “Sit down, I’ll call 911.” When he lunged at me, 
  mouth open, hands pulling on my pajamas. 
  The ﬂannel gave with a soft whisper as I ﬂung 
  myself backwards, raising up the bat.
  “Back the fuck off, esse, or I’ll cave in your 
  skull, puta!” I warned him. I’d beaten plenty 
  of homeboys down with my slugger, and was 
  pretty well known in Dallas for taking a bat to 
  people.
  He hissed and lunged forward again, trying 
  to grab another handful of my torn blouse, 
  and I swung for fences. Nobody, and I mean 
  nobody lays their hands on me without my 
  permission. I’d worked too hard to be some 
  slut on demand.
  The bat hit Jose in the side of the head with a 
  crunch, and I cursed myself for being careless. 
  It had happened before, and I knew he was 
  dead as he crashed to the ﬂoor. Shaking, I 
  backed away and took the phone off the hook, 
  dialing 911 and bringing the receiver up to my 
  ear.
  “…circuits are busy. If this is an emergency, 
  please stay on the line. We apologize, but 
  all circuits are busy…” I pinched the phone 
  between my shoulder and ear and leaned on 
  the bat, waiting for several moments. I could 
  hear footsteps in the hallway, and Mr. Torres, my 
  neighbor, came stumbling into my doorway.
  “Mr. Torres! Mr. Torres!” I needed help, I 
  needed a witness that Jose had tried to attack 
  me and I’d accidentally killed him. Mr. Torres 
  stopped for a moment, and I felt a sudden chill 
  go up my spine. He slowly shufﬂed through a 
  turn to face me, and I could see that his mouth 
  was covered with blood, he had a hole in his 
  cheek, and he had a huge hole in his neck. 
  His shirt was covered in blood, way too much 
  blood for him to have survived it all pouring out 
  of the hole in his neck.
  Mr. Torres snarled at me, and began 
  stumbling toward me, his hands outstretched 
  and his eyes covered with a white cataract. 
  I dropped the phone and backed up, almost 
  tripping over the spilled bottle of Jagermiester. 
  He kept coming forward, a jerky, druggie step, 
  but I knew he wasn’t high.
  He was dead, but he walked.
  I screamed, stepped forward, raised the bat 
  over my head, and brought it crashing down on 
  top of his head. His skull made a loud crunching 
  noise, and he dropped. Half crying with panic/
  relief, I lunged forward and slammed my door 
  shut, shooting the dead bolt and turning around, 
  putting my back against the wood.
  He was dead, I know he was dead, but he 
  had still come at me anyway. It had taken a 
  headshot to drop him. He was still lying on 
  the ﬂoor, one foot twitching steadily. Jose was 
  down too, but not even twitching. Neither one 
  of them had very much blood pooling around 
  them, which was weird.
  Jose had needed a head shot too. My brain 
  whispered to me, in that cold, sick tone that my 
  mind used when I was in trouble, the same voice 
  that had warned me that there was probably 
  a witness to my B&E in Dallas. A woman with 
  a bar code tattooed below her eyes wasn’t 
  exactly unheard of, but not as common as lost 
  
  10
  pennies either.
  Curious, I moved over and turned on the TV 
  to give me some kind of normalcy while I sat 
  in the front room with two dead men. Cartoon 
  Network was showing test pattern bars, and 
  I began switching through channels, ﬁnally 
  settling on World Network News. The WNN 
  anchor looked pretty harried.
  API: Violence increasing globally. New York: 
  Rioters attacking people in the street. Defense 
  Department considers recalling troops from 
  overseas to help quell domestic violence. 
  CDC states bioweapon possibly smuggled out 
  of former Soviet Union states. WHO says that 
  aggressiveness and trancelike state common 
  among bioweapon victims. The bar on the 
  bottom of the screen was full of reports of 
  violence, Chinese troops ﬁring on unarmed 
  civilians, violence in Iraq, Dallas and Seattle 
  rioting.
  I watched, my mouth open, and was suddenly 
  aware I was sitting in my front room with two 
  bioweapon victims. God knew what kind of crap 
  I’d breathed in already. There was a beeping 
  noise, and another bar swept across the top 
  of the screen, listing refugee stations in the 
  Lubbock area. The civic center, the schools, a 
  couple of gyms.
  “The White House has reiterated the 
  statement that any vigilante acts that result 
  in the deaths of bioweapon affected citizens 
  will be considered murder. Authorities request 
  that anyone driving render aid to any wounded 
  on the roadside, and to stay away from auto 
  accidents or other accidents, to make way for 
  emergency services” The report chilled me 
  for some reason. Not for what they said, but 
  for what they didn’t say. There are victims of 
  a bioweapon they had no information on, yet 
  they were encouraging people to give aid to 
  injured people on the roadside. I had a mental 
  image of someone stopping to help someone 
  and getting attacked, getting the bioweapon, 
  and going on to affect others.
  I’ve got to get out of there… I was sure of it. 
  Damn it, I’d been a good girl and not bothered 
  to get a gat. All I had was my baseball bat, 
  but hey, it had been working so far, right? I 
  quickly changed out of my torn PJ’s, pulling on 
  cargo pants and a ﬂannel shirt. I grabbed my 
  wallet, stepped over Jose and Mr. Torres, and 
  unlocked my door.
  I peeked right and left to make sure that 
  the hallway was clear, and headed for the 
  back stairs. I could feel my old gang instincts 
  coming to life again. It wasn’t the popo this 
  time though, it was people infected with some 
  shit that eggheads in a lab had cooked up to 
  kill everyone.
  I got to the stairwell and opened the door. I 
  could hear screams echoing in the stairwell, 
  coming from above and below. People were 
  being attacked, but they weren’t me, and I 
  wasn’t going down for any murders either. 
  I quickly moved down the stairs and out the 
  back door, into the alley.
  Jogging to the street, I looked around and 
  could see a few people wandering around, 
  looking stoned out of their gourds. There 
  weren’t any cars on the street, and the only 
  bus I could see was parked in the middle of the 
  street, with the door open and several people 
  moving around inside.
  There was one of those refugee stations 
  close by, and having only a baseball bat meant 
  I was severely under armed. I turned away 
  from the bus and began jogging through the 
  street. A woman was screaming, held down 
  in the alleyway as several men and a woman 
  were biting at her. I put my forearm against my 
  mouth to hold back the vomit that threatened 
  to spew out.
  I coughed, spit, and started jogging again, 
  my bat held ready in case any more of these 
  sick people tried to jump me. The few I did see 
  just reached for me, but I was able to dodge 
  out of the way and keep moving. All of them 
  were badly injured, maybe that had something 
  to do with how slow they were.
  Several blocks later, and I could see the 
  refugee station. There were cars surrounding 
  it, completely ﬁlling up the street, parked on 
  the sidewalks or left in the middle of the street. 
  There were soldiers piling up sandbags, while 
  more soldiers kept a lookout with their weapons. 
  A man saw me and raised a bullhorn.
  “IF YOU CAN UNDERSTAND ME, WAVE 
  THE BAT OVER YOUR HEAD!” his voice 
  
  11
  boomed. I could see two soldiers pointing their 
  riﬂes at me, and I quickly began waving the bat 
  over my head.
  I sure as shit didn’t want to get shot.
  “HURRY UP, LADY!” one of them shouted, 
  “RUN!” I followed his orders, jumping onto the 
  trunk of a Beemer and running across the tops 
  of the cars. I almost slipped on the hood of a 
  Honda Civic, but kept my balance and managed 
  to tumble over the top of the sandbags.
  Two of the soldiers began shooting, and I 
  felt a cold hand hit my leg. I looked back to 
  see a woman with most of her head blown 
  away laying across the sandbags I’d fell over, 
  her hand on my leg. I screamed and kicked, 
  scrambling away, kicking her several times.
  “It’s OK, she’s dead.” One of the soldiers told 
  me, reaching down and helping me to my feet. 
  “Are you injured?” I shook my head, and he 
  pointed into the small ofﬁce building they were 
  sandbagging off. “Go inside, you’ll be safe in 
  there.”
  “What’s happening?” I asked, standing up 
  and brushing myself off. Instead of doing what 
  he told me, I grabbed a sandbag off the pile 
  and tossed it to one of the soldiers who had 
  just laid his down.
  “We don’t know. Some kind of bioweapon 
  attack, Al Qeada claimed responsibility this 
  morning, and it ﬁts their M.O.” the soldier told 
  me, smiling at me joining the sandbag chain. 
  “Thanks, lady, anyone willing to help is more 
  than welcome too, right now.” I nodded and 
  kept tossing sandbags. I wasn’t in as good of 
  shape as I’d thought I was; I could already feel 
  my shoulders start to protest.
  “How bad is it?” I asked, grunting as I tossed 
  another.
  “It wasn’t too bad three days ago, but it’s 
  getting worse and worse as more people 
  get infected, and they’re bastard hard to put 
  down.” He told me. “Just a second.” He raised 
  the bullhorn and shouted: “WAVE YOUR 
  HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD IF YOU CAN 
  UNDERSTAND ME!” there was a pause, the 
  silence only broken by the sounds of gunﬁre in 
  the distance and the faint sound of screaming. 
  “SECOND WARNING! WAVE YOUR HANDS 
  OVER YOUR HEAD!” I grunted and grabbed 
  another sandbag.
  “Dust ‘em.” The soldier said, and the two 
  others began ﬁring. One began cussing, 
  yanking at his weapon, and I looked around, 
  spotting some riﬂes stacked up. I grabbed one 
  and held it out.
  “Here, use this one!” I shouted over the 
  gunﬁre from the other guy. The one who was 
  yanking on a slide on the weapon, swapped 
  weapons, and I tossed it on top of a stack of 
  cardboard boxes, and then turned back to the 
  quickly melting pile of sandbags.
   Beside me, the riﬂe ﬁre suddenly stopped.
  “Harker, go inside and get the bayonets. 
  Lewis, show Ms. Sandbags how to clear a jam 
  from a weapon and get her a Leatherman tool.” 
  The guy with the bullhorn offered as I tossed 
  the last sandbag to one of the soldiers. The 
  other two moved over to a big coil of wire and 
  grabbed heavy looking gloves. While I waited, 
  they strung the wire across the sandbags, and 
  then grabbed three sandbags to make a hole 
  in the middle of the wire.
  “Hey, lady, come here.” One of the soldiers 
  told me. Opposite of US ARMY on his chest 
  was a strip that read “LEWIS, B.” on it. He 
  showed me how to clear a jam, even use the 
  pliers to pull any bullets that got jammed in 
  there.
  “She get a weapon, Sergeant?” Lewis 
  asked.
  “Why not? Half our unit didn’t make recall. 
  Can you shoot, lady?” I nodded. “Ever killed?” 
  I nodded again, and he nodded back. Lewis 
  showed me how to switch between single shot 
  and burst, as well as how to hold and ﬁre it.
  The guy with HARKER on his top came out 
  with several knives, and while I watched he 
  attached one to the front of my riﬂe. Lewis 
  waited until his was added, then he turned 
  back to me.
  “Don’t point the weapon at any other people 
  who are alive. You aren’t used to this kind of 
  hardware, and I don’t want anyone to get killed.” 
  He told me. I nodded, listening closely. Unlike a 
  lot of my fellow gangers, I knew when to listen 
  and what to ignore. “Hand to hand with a riﬂe 
  is difﬁcult, and we don’t have time to train you.” 
  I nodded again, and he continued: “Just slam 
  
  12
  the bayonet into them, abdomen or chest, then 
  pull the trigger, that will blow them off of it.” He 
  demonstrated, and I repeated it, sans trigger 
  pulling, and he nodded in satisfaction.
  “Your choice, lady, you can stay inside, you 
  can man a window on the second or third 
  ﬂoor, or you can stay out here with us.” The 
  guy with the bullhorn told me. “Go inside, and 
  look for the guy with a black bar on his helmet, 
  that’s Lieutenant Barston, tell him you’ve been 
  drafted, he’ll give you ammunition.”
  I nodded again.
  “You say ‘Yes, Sergeant’ or ‘No, Sergeant’ 
  when you answer, soldier.” His voice was 
  gruff, and I recognized authority when I heard 
  it. Well shit, I’d gone from banger to productive 
  citizen to draftee. I’d seen the advertisements 
  at night, I’d even thought about joining, but got 
  told I had a felony drug bust on my record, and 
  they’d turned me down.
  Irony of irony, they’d accepted me now.
  Inside there were dozens of people, many 
  injured. I could see four soldiers with canvas 
  bags treating people, and a half dozen soldiers 
  applying bandages. There were two men 
  toward the back, one with a series of inverted 
  V’s on his helmet, the other with a single black 
  bar that went up and down.
  “Mister?” I asked. The man with the bar 
  looked at me.
  “What? I’m a little busy, lady.” He said, his 
  voice mellow.
  “Sergeant outside told me to tell you that 
  I’m drafted.” I told him. He looked me over, 
  his eyes hard looking and a little scary. I’d 
  known a lot of guys who thought they were bad 
  motherfuckers, but this guy scared me.
  “Raise your right hand.” I complied, and he 
  led me through an oath. When it was done, 
  he clapped me on the shoulder and smiled. 
  “Welcome to the US Army, private. Grab an 
  armored vest, a helmet, and an LCE. PARKS!’ 
  He shouted the last part, and a man applying a 
  bandage to another man’s arm looked up.
  “Yes, sir?” he asked.
  “Get this new private her gear, show her how 
  to handle her M-16, and get her on the line.” 
  He told the other soldier. The other one hurried 
  over, and pulled me to the back of the building, 
  where there were several piles of gear.
  “The Ell-Tee, he made us bring extra stuff.” 
  He went through several helmets before 
  settling on one. He adjusted the band inside 
  and set it on my head, then snapped the strap. 
  “That’s your ballistic helmet.” He tried several 
  vests before ﬁnally putting one on me. It was 
  heavier than I thought they’d be. The soldiers 
  acted like they weren’t very heavy, but it was 
  more than I was used to carrying.
  “That’s your Interceptor Vest, it’ll stop bullets 
  too.” He told me, and then began clipping gear 
  to me. “These are ammo pouches. Just drop 
  your empties. Here’s your canteen. Here’s your 
  ﬁrst aid bandage, use it on you, not on other 
  people. Here’s your gas mask.” He shook his 
  head. “We don’t have time to ﬁt it. We’ll do that 
  later.”
  “How bad is it?” I asked him.
    “Pretty damn bad. Our unit got recalled 
  about ten this morning, and less than half of 
  us reported in. The Ell-Tee gave us shoot to kill 
  orders after… well, never mind. Just shoot to 
  kill. It looks like headshots put them down.” He 
  told me, adjusting the straps on the gear I was 
  now wearing. “We’ll get you dressed properly 
  later, for right now, you look ﬁne.”
  I nodded, and he explained to me how to 
  answer people, to address people by their 
  ranks, and to obey quickly. He assured me 
  that the orders weren’t from people tripping, 
  but rather from people who were used to being 
  obeyed instantly.
  Before I headed back out to the sandbagged 
  area, he grabbed my arm and told me one last 
  thing: “The LT, he led us through more than a 
  couple ambushes in Iraq, you can trust him.”
  For some reason, it made me feel better.
  Outside, the riﬂes were ﬁring again.
  --Autobiography of Winter Discontent
  Published by: New Omaha Press, 2237
  
  13
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  15 COPYRIGHT NOTICE
  Open Game License v 1.0 Copyright 2000, Wizards of the Coast, Inc. 
  System Rules Document Copyright 2000, Wizards of the Coast, Inc.; 
  Authors Jonathan Tweet, Monte Cook, Skip Williams, based on origi-
  nal material by E. Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson
  Modern System Reference Document Copyright 2002, Wizards of the 
  Coast, Inc.; Authors Bill Slavicsek, Jeff Grubb, Rich Redman, Charles 
  Ryan, based on material by Jonathan Tweet, Monte Cook, Skip Wil-
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  Andy Collins, and JD Wiker.
  Year of the Zombie Copyright 2005, UKG Publishing, Author Tim Wil-
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  Independance Day Massacre Copyright 2005, UKG Publishing, Au-
  thor Tim Willard
  OPEN GAMING CONTENT
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  Year of the Zombie, Survivors Guide to Risen America
  All rules are designated open game content, however all characters, 
  NPC’s and Flavour Text are copyright UKG Publishing: Author, Tim 
  Willard & John Picot
  CREDITS
  Authors: Tim Willard and John Picot
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  Cover Art: John Milner
  Layout: John Milner
  Copyright 2006 UKG Publishing.
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