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A few recent zombie apocalypse games, courtesy of my local gaming group's homebrew rules (click the links for the full AARs). The Area 52 game (last link) was especially fun.
The ragged band of survivors had been arguing for days over whether to mount another trip into town. The bitter memory of the last trip, of course, hung over them: several had been lost on that scavenging expedition, and the rest had only narrowly escaped the ravenous zombie horde. On the other hand, the group was desperately short of supplies.
In the end, the debate was settled by something altogether unexpected—the sound of a helicopter clattering in the distance, followed by an explosion and cloud of smoke in the center of town, somewhere near the abandoned town hall. It was the first sign of civilization that any of them had seen in over six weeks.
When the zombie plague spread out of Canada and swept across the world, a small and unlikely group of survivors banded together in central Alabama. Some were locals, others were strangers brought there by circumstance. But in the face of reanimated death, all that mattered was their ability to stay alive.
For months they foraged near Montgomery, but eventually supplies ran low while the number of zombies seemed undiminished. And so a fateful decision was taken: to leave this place, and try to find somewhere safer. Some suggested Newfoundland, others the Maldives. But both seemed so very far away.
As a first step, it was agreed to travel to the coast and try to find a small boat in working order. Moving by sea along the Gulf coast seemed much less risky than going anywhere by foot or vehicle–and, besides, most of the group were dimly aware that both the Maldives and Newfoundland were islands. Rather than try to find a vessel in Mobile (a major port, but also a city overrun by many thousands of walking dead), they chose instead to travel to the sleepy Gulf town of Phirul, Alabama. There they would need to scavenge supplies and gasoline, find a boat, and–if they could stay alive that long–set off on the next, nautical stage of their struggle for survival....
Having escaped Phirul aboard a rusty boat –now dubbed the “Jailbird” in honour of Vinnie’s recent heroics–the surviving survivors (and a few more of their band who had met up with them later) prepared to set off for Florida… or Newfoundland… or possibly the Maldives. Before they could do so, however, Dirk discovered something that none of them had expected: Myles, it seemed, might still be alive!
The hard-bitten ex-PI had been trying the CB radio in the wheelhouse when he stumbled upon part of a faint conversation. Someone, it seemed, had found a survivor in a ransacked house in Phirul. They didn’t give him a name, but he was wounded, nervous, and apparently wheezing. Amid the static, the voice on the radio had also said they would bring him back to “the fort.”
Dirk’s attempts to communicate with the unknown survivors had proven fruitless: either the signal wasn’t reaching them, or they were choosing not to reply. Still, the fragments of conversation he heard before all went silent suggested that “the fort” might be the former Fort Gingrich, a National Guard base some 40 miles or so east of Phirul....
For months, a dwindling band of survivors had struggled to stay alive on the edges of a Norbertville, a small Tennessee industrial town on the banks of the Suskannawatchee River. At the best of times, the town had been fighting a slowly losing battle against rusty oblivion. After the 2008 recession, its collapse had been further hastened by the onset of apocalypse and the murderous consumption of most of its citizens by hordes of voracious undead —a process described by Norbertville’s staunchly Republican mayor as “Obama post-colonial socialism taken to its logical extreme.” (Shortly thereafter, the mayor was disembowelled by his 11-year-old niece.)...
On the face of it, Fort Gingrich was like any other former military base in the southern United States. It had been closed in the mid-1990s when the Cold War came to an end, although a small National Guard armoury and training facility had remained in place for several years thereafter. Most of the site had been leased to the private sector—in this case to Walmart, which had shown a particular interest in its high concrete walls and deep military bunkers. Over the next several years, the company invested millions to upgrade the site, with Korean contractors constructing a small geothermal power plant, installing lab equipment of unusual design, and renovating the barracks to serve as quarters for the Walmart Corporate Security Division.
Despite hopes that such investment would be an economic boon to the local community, however, very few locals were employed in what residents soon dubbed “Area 52.”
Following the zombie apocalypse, Area 52 continued to function. Its defences were reinforced with barbed wire, floodlights, and intrusion detectors, and the Corporate Security Division personnel were quickly outfitted with new body armour and submachine guns. Terrified citizens who sought safety at the facility were turned away at gunpoint. Even more strangely, survivors began to disappear, leading to rumours that they were being held at Area 52—although whether for slave labour, outlandish experiments, or consumer focus groups no one really knew.
It was here that the brilliant but absent-minded research scientist Dr. Myles Boffin was imprisoned after his capture in Phirul. It was here too that young Bobby Bayou —the youngest member of Herd #704 of the Mooseketeers of America—was taken.
Ironically, this would prove a vulnerability that the planners of Area 52 had never anticipated. The Mooseketeers, you see, never, ever, EVER leave a moose behind....