Jan 25, 2016 3:51 pm
As each of you wakes up and gathers some semblance of groggy awareness, the first thing you realize is that your hoods are off and your hands are no longer bound to the slats of the livestock trailer being pulled by the red semi-truck you were originally loaded onto at gunpoint. In fact, the eighteen-wheeler and its trailer lay crumpled on its side nearby, one member of disturbing cargo still dangling by a wrist from the sidewall, naked from the waist down and the carving of muscle from its legs exposing bare white bones and finally putting a face (sort of) to the screaming you’d heard two (?) days back. The two male drivers and three female passengers that had been riding up front in the cab, who had been butchering away at your fellow captive despite the fact that food resources were still aplenty most everywhere you went, and whom many of you had sworn oaths to repay in kind at some point before hope started creeping away from each of you bit by bit, are nowhere to be seen.
Only nine of you remain, sitting at the roadside gathering your senses. As dusk approaches a night carrying a pregnant moon, a chill starts creeping in, made worse by the humidity in the air that freezes on the skin. You were sure there were more, and looking around your assumptions are proved correct as a group of maybe four or five corpses lay sprawled around the road or in the ditches around you. An old woman, who you’d all seen bagged when it was your turn to get loaded into the trailer, sits staring blankly at the ground seeing nothing but probably reliving unspeakable horrors over and over in her head. Her gnarled fingers, the tips black with frostbite, hold a wire cutters; and you all rub at the deep cuts in your wrists remembering the pain as every bump and jar of the highway in the last few days bit deeper and deeper into your skin until warm blood ran down to your elbows and you thought (even hoped sometimes) that the wire would saw your hands off.
It’s dark, and a light snow is falling. The air feels well below freezing. Many of you are underdressed for the weather, something that didn’t seem to be much of a concern to your captors. On the side of the road next to you a sign in rising moonlight reads "Ipswich: Pop. 943". Ahead you facing west you can make out the geometric shapes roof tops and a water tower; a small town by the looks of it. Your backs face a gravel driveway running about 300 feet to the north, with a blue one-story house and a unattached garage at the end. Directly in front of you numerous round bales of hay are scattered in a large empty field.
Supplies: 5
Zombie Clock: 0
Rolls
Starting Supplies Check - (24d6)
(515264616612455643441225) = 90