Home › Forums › Introductions › Hanna Heller comes to Arkley Island
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Hanna is 23 and was a law student at university and also a high class callgirl. The day of the outbreak she’d been “keeping company” her best client, an excutive officer of that tech corporation. He leaves in a hurry after receiving an urgent text message. That was the last she saw of him. He or her life would soon never again will be her reality. It was Friday night and she was dressing for a date. She did her hair and makeup, slip into matching underwear and put on a classic black dress. She hadn’t seen him for a week and she’s looking forward to it. He arrives on time, and we pour a glass of wine, take a seat on the couch together, and talk about the day. He kisses her passionately and the strap of her dress falls. One thing leads to another and they move to the bed and have incredible sex. She orgasms twice, and they lie exhausted on the duvet and talk for hours. And then he receives a text message, becomes frazzled, he gets up, kisses her goodbye and slips a wad of cash into her hand. As a twenty-three year old single girl the dating scene was pretty dire. For most young men of her age, a date consists of a drunken fumble in a night club, a pretty much uneventful sexual experience back at the flat, and no invitation for breakfast the next day. In fact one was lucky if they even got a grunt as a good morning. A coffee date consists of her buying him the coffee and the idea of romance is a quicky in the toilet at his mate’s house party. As a high class escort she was showered with affection, adored beyond measure, ravished, celebrated for her femininity, and paid for her time. Oh, and dinner, hotels, and any gifts were on him. Put like that it sounds a hell of a lot more romantic than dating a fellow student doesn’t it? That’s because it was. She lived in a beautiful apartment with a wardrobe full of designer labels, Hanna was swiftly paying off my student loan, and in a couple of months she’d have saved enough for a deposit on a house – something she thought she’d never be able to do for another ten years. Fast forward to yesterday. Hanna is covered in her own blood. She is clutching her stomach, wailing and cletching her teeth, breathing heavily, panicking (possibly in shock) and painfully crawls into standing. The woods scenery is a crisp beautiful day with a slight crisp breeze blows through. She doesn’t notice the breeze or the bald eagle diving down and catches a fish. She would’ve noticed from 20 feet above where she stood, where the zombie scared her off the edge. The tomahawk was thrown out of her hand down another 8 foot down from the small edge that broke her fall. She painfully, slowly slides down, staying aware of any approaching attacker and retrieves the weapon. She only has one outfit left, all the others are toast. Now this one is bloody. She crutches into a ball, cradling her wound and cradling the tomahawk in the other, and auscultate for any nearby movement. The running low on clothes weighs on her growing list of much needed supplies. Her dad was a boyscout, back when that really meant something, and he hoarded survival supplies and even loaded this cabin with supplies and tools. He bought this very secluded place in the woods of Northern California not long before the outbreak. For him is was like he needed to buy the cabin with a fierce urgency. She didn’t understand it but now she was thankful for it. He also taught her everything she knows, but that was not a topic she would bring up during work hours. The skills her dad taught her is the only reason she is alive and stayed out of most of the attacks she hears about on the radio. Her dad was an excellent survivalist, his skills on first aid were limited. She needs a doctor, a nurse, any medical professional. She has antisceptics and stitches but out here- alone? She needs more, much more and she needs it now. She hears faint grumbling behind and above her. She looks up and see the zombie peering down on her like she’s a delicious thanksgiving meal. She could throw her tomahawk right at it, if human that would do the trick, but the head is the name of the game. She throws some dirt at its digusting half gone face, a lot of dirt. The zombie easily looses footing and falls to the bottom, immediately stands up, and instantly looking for the best path to its food. This time Hanna has the advantage. She pauses as her mind slips for a half a second, she peers at the corporate logo pin on the right side of the tux. It’s the logo of that tech company. The zombie gets high enough she can closely see the face. It’s not him. She wacks off the head, watching it, violently, tumble down the cliff, the body following close behind. She falls back in big emotional and painful gasp. Today she is close to Arkley island. She gathered gear and helplessly found her way out of the thick woods. She searching for help without getting killed in the meantime. Some runners found her and gave her an emergency meal pack to take with her and told her about Arkley Island. It’s her best shot. They also said to hide her gun and her 2 boxes of ammo (it’s all she has left). She won’t need it at Arkley Island like she would everywhere else and probably attract the wrong crowd hoping to steal it. Hanna’s Backpack & Gear: In or strapped onto backpack: Painkillers Travel size first aid kit, include Triple A, antiseptics and bandages Magnesium starter Solar powered flashlight Life straw (premium water filter) Tubetent Extremely lightweight sleeping bag 30 feet of rope Trifold shovel Raw potatoes 1 16oz can of coffee grounds 3 pack of smokes Ripped up clear poncho Dead phone and charger Carabiners Stainless steel spork (includes spoon, fork, bottle opener, screwdriver and 3 size hex wrenches on a carabiner) 1 emergency meal Travel irish spring soap and shampoo Travel toothbrush
On person and belt: Jacket Laminated picture of family Cracked gold watch Stainless steel canteen Multifunction pocket tool, knife Tomahawk
A buried in a box off the island of Arkley: 1 pistol and 2 boxes of ammo
Shut up. I wear heels bigger than your dick. |
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