RRF/Malton Herald & Sun/Text/Text1009
Editor's Note: This is Part 1 of an in-depth look into everyone's favorite Urban Dead enemy: the Survivor.
So, you think you have what it takes to be a survivor in Malton? You think just because you waltzed through No Mercy on extra-hard, mowing down Tanks and Boomers with a sawed 'off shotty that you are now some zombie-killin', axe swingin' manly God-of-war? And now you believe that you are a bad-enough dude to rescue Malton? After all, how hard could it really be?
7800 zombies? Whatever. You killed that many yesterday waiting for the chopper to pick up you, Bill and Zoey from the hospital roof. Yeah, it was hard watching the undead tear apart Zoey as she tried to go back and help Bill, but she should have known that zombie apocalypses are not about helping survivors.
Zombie apocalypses are not about being the hero. Zombie apocalypses are about mowing down legions of undead with a flamethrower, before splitting some zed's head open with a battle axe while doing a running backflip. And nowhere is this as true as it is in Urbandead.
Welcome to Malton. Welcome to Hell.
This is as real as it gets. Don't be fooled by the falling zombie numbers or the fact that harmanz currently outnumber zombies. Malton is a dangerous place, and death and decay will greet you at every corner. You will face some of the biggest, baddest hordes known to the genre. You will face morally difficult choices. At times, you may even face situations where the only thing separating you and your fellow survivors from a gruesome death is raising a barricade from Very Heavily Barricaded ++ to Ridiculously Heavily Barricaded +++.
Do you still think you have the right stuff? Then read on....
Part 1: Separating yourself from the Herd
Before we can transform you into the ultimate zed-killin' machine, we need to know a little bit more about you. Playing a survivor in Malton is not about just picking a class and a few skills. It is also about forging an identity, a glimpse into the real you that separates you from the thousands of other pretenders running around the city. You want to create something special, something unique, a character that mothers walking in the streets can point to and say "Now Billy, that is what a real survivor looks like."
Selecting a Class
Selecting a class is the first step. It is also probably the most important decision you will ever make, so do not take it lightly. Every class has its strengths and weaknesses. For example, firefighters are highly trained in axe warfare, but are limited later on to necrotech skills, advanced medical training, and advanced military combat. Likewise, military privates are highly trained in advanced military combat, but are limited later on to necrotech skills, advanced medical training, and axe warfare.
Weigh your decision carefully.
Do you really want to be a Level 41 medic who can only revive survivors, treat the wounded, and kill anything that moves when you could have been a Level 41 cop who can only revive survivors, treat the wounded and kill anything that moves? Selecting the right class is probably the largest step you can make in your goal to have yourself standout from the thousands of other police officers, firefighters, and scientists roaming the city.
A good rule of thumb is to select whichever class you feel looks the most badass while shooting some dumb zed mrhing at a revive point.
I see you selected Private. Good choice. Man, you are going to look really badass stepping over those wounded survivors to blow away some poor zed in the street.
Creating a Backstory
With that out of the way, we can now pick a name. Again, this is an opportunity to let those other losers in Malton know that a new kid is in town, so pick something unique and meaningful to you.
Remember, you are not simply creating a character. You are making a legend.
I see you selected ZedDead54. Solid choice. Ok, the last step is to give your character a description and a backstory. Again, treat this as another opportunity to separate yourself from the herd, and to put your own unique spin and viewpoint on why ZedDead54 is different from the other 53 ZedDeads.
For example,
- "On the first day of the outbreak, I came home to find my family brutally murdered by a ravaging horde. As I fought my way to the top of a mountain of undead and my lungs once again tasted fresh air, I looked across the burning city and made a vow: I would have retribution, and I would not stop until the entire city was cleansed of the undead.
- Other survivors call me John. Zombies have a another name for me.
- They call me War."
would be an excellent description for the compassionate, caring survivor who seeks to help out the wounded, keep other survivors safe, and rebuild the city. But this isn't you. You are not a compassionate survivor. You are a badass. Try something edgier.
Phrases like
- "staring vacantly into the chasm of the human soul,"
- "drifting endlessly in a sea of despair and turmoil, toward an endless chasm of hopelessness and anger, I knew one thing: Revenge would one day be mine."
- "awash in hatred and anger at losing my family, only one thing now stands between me and eradicating the undead from this dark, lonely planet: finding a 50th shotgun."
are always good to work in any description. Remember to strive for uniqueness. Small details like rugged ammo belts, the mythical seventh katana, and black leather boots may seem trivial, but they will give you that extra degree of realism that other survivors will notice and respect.
Good job ZedDead54. You are now ready to face the hordes. But first, step back and admire yourself in a mirror.
Damn.
You are such a badass.
Next Issue: Part II:Battling the Hordes
by Draughr
The RRF typically tears through terrified suburbs, slaughtering disorganized mall-rats and showing trenchies who the real badasses of Malton are. On occasion, we run up against adversaries worth noticing. The Malton College of Medicine is one of them. While in Eastonwood, the Ridleybank Resistance Front met resistance from the MCM. Who the hell are these guys anyway? I dunno, I just shoot 'em and eat their cookies. They bake some damn good cookies. According to their wiki "Malton College of Medicine's primary mission is to educate new survivors about how to stay alive in a post-apocalyptic world."
During our confrontation in Eastonwood, the MCM displayed more intelligence than your average survivor group, hiding out in dark buildings instead of setting up an all you can eat buffet in the local NT. When the Gore Corps was stumbling around in dark buildings, hiding from the eyes of decent people and zambahz, we were surprised to find members of the MCM hiding right alongside us. At first it was a bit of a culture shock, and we were slightly disappointed that none of the students would join in any of our customary safe-house orgies, but we still managed to have a good time. In the words of Professor of Communications and Chief Muffin Maker QBee, “We really enjoyed chatting with the Gore Corps in surrounding buildings during the build up. You guys don't get much conversation with your dinner do you? Next time, do spend some time enjoying the cookies and blue punch...between rounds that is.”
Of course, Moloch’s influence on the Gore Corps remains, and we’re still not allowed to have that much fun. So we killed everyone. The Gore Corps did something it never does: installed a generator. The moments the lights came on, all laughing and cookie sharing stopped as the MCM saw about half a dozen shotguns pointed at their dean, Violet Begonia. Within a couple of minutes, there was no one left breathing in the room as the Gore Corps fanned out looking for more victims, having gotten a little too worked up in response to Violet’s bullet bukakke. When asked for comment on the event, the only MCM member to respond, my good friend Shank, simply said “Draugrh is literally the worst person ever.” Then I shanked him.
Only a matter of minutes and all the MCM’s leadership and many other member were lying in pools of their own blood. Within the next 24 hours, each and every one of them got a revive, showing their efficiency. Instead of sticking around and using the MCM as a never ending food source due to their speedy revives, the horde got bored after smashing the suburb and moved on. Both the RRF and MCM claimed victory. According to the MCM, that’s how things should be. As Violet said “Malton isn't a war zone, it's a huge tennis match! If you're going to have a good tennis match, you need good opponents. And even though you're on opposite sides of the net, the game is more fun when you're friendly.”
It's me. The Ridleybank Resistance Front. My life hasn't been the same since you let those other little startup hordes move in to your ransacked buildings. I was angry when you opened Hildebrand's door to any zombie able to crawl. I was upset that I was no longer the only horde to graze your ruined, destroyed pastures. But I was wrong SSZ. I want you. And deep down in your heart, you know that you want me too. You know that we were meant to be together.
Take me back Survivor Security Zone. Please baby. I can change. It will be different this time, I promise. We can do all those things that you used to love to do: the long, romantic walks along the endless revive queue lines. Candlelight dinners on top of the remains of Tynte Mall: You, in your flowing black duster with the matching camouflage ammo belts. And me, in my tattered, blood-stained clothes, holding a bottle of Pinot Gris with one hand, and your jugular with the other. The way love should be. The way we used to be.
All I ask for is one more chance baby. One more time to show you that I have changed. Come on baby. I am a different horde now. I have grown. I have matured. I am tired of running around Malton, eating my way from one suburb to another. That isn't love. I want to settle down. I want to be with you baby. With you and you alone.
You remember the good times, don't you Survivor Security Zone? God, we were so hot together. Do you remember when I used to raze your outer police stations before moving into your inner Mall core? Remember when I took Hildebrand down overnight this past summer? Yeah you do you little minx. Man those were good times. We used to be so great together.
And you want to throw it all away? Like nothing happened? Like we didn't happen? Well fine. Go. I don't need you anymore. I never did. You are dead to me. Hear that SSZ? DEAD. Besides. I found someone else. Want to know who I am with now? North Blythville. And guess what? They are a much better lover than you could ever hope to be.
Oh God. I am so sorry Survivor Security Zone. I am drunk. I didn't mean it baby. God I didn't mean it. Please forgive me. Please just take me back. Please. It will be better this time. I promise.
Just me, you, and a bunch of empty, ruined buildings.
Love, Ridleybank Resistance Front
by dongs, 2nd grader at Billings Lane Zombie School
Editor's Note: Occasionally, we receive essays from students attending the primary schools in Ridleybank. Here is one such essay from a youngster who took some time from their busy schedule of reading, writing, and disemboweling survivor honor roll students to tell us about their summer vacation:
This summer was very fun. I will tell you about a trip I took. The (slightly) older zombies in the Praetorian Guard said that we would stay in Ridleybank and eat humans while the rest of the Horde ran around Malton eating less brave humans. It seemed like they would have all the fun. I was sad*. But I believe that the RRF is 1/3 Ridleybank. It is important to eat humans there. So I stayed. But then there were almost no humans in Ridleybank. Far Traveller, Kittentits, 707, and Wisuguya always eat them first because they do a good job and I usually hunt at 3am. I got hungry. I remembered that there were always humans in Stanbury Village.
So when the other Praets weren't looking, I went to Stanbury Village. It was not far. I went where there were some other zombies, but all of the buildings were at EHB and my remaining brain cells have ADD. So I went back to Ridleybank. It was still ruined. We do a good job.
So I went to Roachtown and there were some barricades. Me and some ferals took down the cades, but there were no humans. So I went back to Ridleybank. Still ruined. We do a very good job.
So I went to Pimbank and it was the same thing: barricades and no humans. I thought, "Gosh, these pussy-ass cade-strafing motherfuckers must be so bored of jacking off their shotgun muzzles in their shit-strewn malls that they have nothing better to do than roll through here with a toolbox and make our UD experience about as exciting as getting a blow job from Terri Schaivo."
So I went to Barrville. There were humans! There was a guy in a hospital who was still alive. I checked. Delicious. He was wearing a jacket. It said "Malton Fire Department" on it. I thought he was lonely because he didn't have three friends from other DEM branches to keep him company. So I gave him a hug. Actually, I gave him about 19 hugs. Then he died. So I ate him. It tasted very much like every other DEM human I've eaten.
After this, I was very full and satisfied. So I went back to Ridleybank to continue the glorious labor of keeping Ridleybank for zombies. Now I am back in zombie school and I am writing this essay for you, Mr. Zombie.
The End.
Marvin Mall
You: Tall ,dark, and thin, your unkept black hair covering up a network of battlescars that could only come from a lifetime of service at the Malton Quick-e-Mart. You were wearing a beige overcoat on top of a black duster on top of a set of urban military encounter armor on top of a bulletproof vest on top of a white t-shirt covered by grape Tast-E-Freeze.
Me: Missing right arm, crushed skullcap, and torn clothes, eviscerated organs trailing behind me, my claws pressed against a old woman's head.
You blew away a zombie child with a shotgun, looked in my direction, and then screamed that shooting me would somehow erase the miasma and darkness rotting your soul. I felt a spark then, a small feeling, a romantic connection that could only be satisfied by gutting your abdomen and tearing open your brain. We gazed into each other's eyes, I blew you a gentle kiss, and then you called in the airstrike. As the bombs fell around me, I never imagined that I would meet such a tender, caring lover.
Call me.
Let's reconnect.
Sexy.
St. Luke's Hospital
You: Red, plaid shirt, tight jeans. You were with a group of friends, listening to some music as we broke through the lightly-barricaded front door. I would have slipped you my card, but I thought it would be rude to interrupt as the horde surrounded your friends and began to dismember them. You had such beautiful eyes and soft skin.
Please.
If you get this and have managed to stop the internal bleeding, then call me.
I still have your arm.
by Draughr
A Spanish judge has issued a warrant for former RRF papa Lord Moloch’s arrest this week, claiming universal jurisdiction. Judges in Spain have been using the precedent of universal jurisdiction go after international criminals for years now, and Lord Moloch has been targeted most recently. He has been charged with war crimes, crimes against harmanity, attempted genocide, terrorism, conspiracy to eradicate all vestiges of harman culture and life, and jaywalking. Reports on his treatment of the Gore Corps as are just now beginning to be investigated, but rumors of sexualized punishment and drugs as rewards have the courts concerned. When asked what his name was and how he got any of this information through the quarantine, the Spanish judge threw down a tiny object which caused a bright flash followed by thick smoke. The judge had disappeared.
by Draughr
Thank you, harmanz, for your contribution to the zambah cause. Thank you for being (still here) after hitting me with an axe again... and again... and again... and again... and again. Thank you for making a babah mistake at level 15. Thank you for wasting your AP on failing to kill me, being a fresh meal for when I wake up, and then wasting your AP trying to kill me with your underdeveloped claws. Perhaps most of all, thank you for further clogging the revive point where you were XP farming.
