The Last Gunslinger

Str 3 Dex 5 Con 3
Int 3 Per 4 Wil 3
LPs 49
EPs 32
Spd 16
Essence 26

Addiction (Smoking) (-1)
Hard To Kill 5 (5)
Fast Reaction Time (2)
Nerves of Steel (3)
Obsession (Gunning Down Zombies) (-2)
Recurring Nightmares (-1)
Resistance (Disease) 3 (3)
Situational Awareness (2)
Old Soul 1 (4)


Brawling 3
Craft (Gunsmith) 3
Dodge 3
First Aid 2
Guns (Handgun) 6
Instruction 3
Intimidation 4
Riding (Horse) 2
Singing 2
Survival (Desert) 4
Tracking 3


2 Handguns, Leather Jacket, Rope, Horse, Backpack

Sure, I can handle it. I've been training to fight for years now. Yeah, those assholes thought I was crazy for going to live in the desert. Well, eating lizards and snakes, and shooting at rocks everyday may be crazy. But I'm crazy and alive-those guys are dead or worse . . .

I knew the end was coming when everybody started dying from disease. My wife and two kids died from it. Didn't touch me none. Somehow I was immune to it. The government said to burn the bodies, but at the time I was soft, I couldn't do it. So I buried them in the backyard. But a possum is only dead if you scrap it off the road. Four days later they came back. Their dead fingers ripping across the screen door, their moans mimicking some moment of ecstasy. I couldn't sleep. I went up to the attic and got my guns.

I hadn't touched them in years. I cleaned them and loaded them. I prayed that the bullets hadn't rusted and the gun wouldn't explode in my hand. I prayed for their souls and my own-like I said, I was weak then. When I finally reached the bottom of the stairs, I was more heart-broken than scarred. Seeing my boy who was supposed to be a football player, my daughter who loved birds, my wife, the only women who ever truly loved me. I saw their silhouettes on the screen door. The silhouettes were their bodies, empty with no soul. I raised my .45s. And blew them to hell.

The second time I did burn the bodies. Then, I remembered those old western movies. Lone gunmen living on their own doing what they had to in order to survive in a cruel world. My friends-the assholes I mentioned-told me to go with them to safe zones before the zombie numbers got bigger. I ignored them and their whining. I knew it wasn't safe zones I needed. I needed time. So I trooped out to the desert to train. I was a natural shooter, just needed some time to create that extra edge. After I was ready, I trained a while longer. You know, I kinda feel sorry for those zombies. All they got is numbers.

All I got is my guns, my jacket, my backpack, and the horse I found soon after coming out of the desert. That's all I need. That and a whole mess of ammo. My family is dead. My past is gone. I've learned that if you don't care, nothing can touch you. I got one reason to live now. You can come along if you like, but don't get too attached and don't get downrange of my guns.

"I could tell you how many zombies these guns have smoked, or how many assholes they have silenced. But I think they do a pretty damn good job of talking for themselves."


Submitted by David Guzman

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