Faction: Augustine

    Rank: Mounted Branch

RP Tracker: x

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Race: Caucasian
Height: 6'2
Weight: 152 lbs
Eye Color: Brown
Voice: Rick has a mellifluous voice that has a rich southern drawl and deep, steady tone that will soothe even the most frightened horses.

Scars: [See Image.]
Items: Helmet, Shoulder Holsters, Farmer Ken Doll (keeps it in the second shoulder holster), Running Shoes

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Name: Kingsman
Reference: TBA
Gender: Gelding
Breed: Thoroughbred
Height: 16.2hh
Age: 8 years old

Coat: Chestnut w/ Pangare
Geno: ee aa nP
Eye Color: Brown 
Other Genetics: -

Scars: -
Items: Western Saddle, Wool lined Saddle pad, saddle bags (rear and pommel), bitless rope bridle

Name: Old Bess
Reference: TBA
Gender: Mare
Breed: American Cream Draft x Gypsy Vanner
Height: 17 hh
Age: 18 years old

Coat: Perlino
Geno: ee Aa CrCr
Eye Color: Blue
Other Genetics: -

Scars: -
Items: Western Saddle, Wool lined Saddle pad, saddle bags (rear and pommel), bitless rope bridle, rope halter and lead

Name: Wesson
Reference: [See image.]
Gender: Buck
Breed: Giant Chinchilla Rabbit  
Weight: 13.2 lbs 

Coat: Grey
Eye Color: Blue 

• Wise | “Accepting help is it's own kind of strength." | War changes people, Rick included. Sometimes people get more reserved, more hardened, but not for Rick. Rick only got softer. He started to see things for what they were instead of what he wanted them to be. When people offered help he desperately needed, he didn't try to act tough and accepted. He learned that brotherhood of choice is a stronger bond than you'd ever realize without experiencing it, and it was something that could save you. "There ain't no sense in suffering on your own if someone is reaching out a hand to help you out of the darkness. It is not shameful to admit you have a weakness. Might even be considered stupid to pretend you don't."
• Adaptive | “Be like a flower. Survive the rain, but use it to grow." | Survival is something Rick learned quickly once he enlisted. Sometimes he needed to shut down everything but basic instinct. In war he learned to complete orders, save who could be saved, and mourn when it was done. Coming back home, he developed the ability to be kind in a way he wouldn't have known without experiencing trauma. "I don't know if there will ever be a normal again. I went to school to be an architect and found myself fighting someone else's war. I came home to leave it behind, and ended up fighting for survival just as desperately as I had in the war. Things change. Needs change. if I didn't change with them, fill those new needs, I wouldn't have made it as long as I have."

• Work Smarter, Not Harder | “It's not the load that breaks you down, it's the way you carry it." | "I'm not lazy, I just don't really see the point in doing more work than I have to. Why carry rocks by hand if you have a bucket?"
• Steadfast | “To believe in something and not live it, is dishonest." | Rick has been firm in his beliefs since he was young. Protect those who need protecting, teach those that need teaching, treasure things that have real meaning, and learn when you need to learn. His loyalty, too, is unwavering. "If we haven't talked in ten days or ten years, if you mattered to me once, you will always matter to me. Even if we went our separate ways or had a falling out, that ain't gonna change. You also can't change my morals. Pointing a gun at me won't make me think it's okay to throw an innocent person under the bus."

• Confrontational | “You're gonna sleep with your chest open if you ain't careful boy." | "I told the leader of my shelter to learn some people skills the first day I arrived. I ain't gonna stand for assholes being assholes just because they're on a power trip or dangerous plans that don't need to be dangerous."
• Rebellious | "I'm not totally useless... I can be used as a bad example." | "Sometimes I just get a little bored. I normally choose those times to stir the pot a little bit. You'll know it when you see it."

Trained
Well behaved, follows instructions, and obedient were not and will never be words used to describe me. I've had to do more punishments for drawing dicks on things than I can even count. We don't need to go into detail about all of the other things I used to get in trouble for. We especially don't need to talk about the time I corrected the Drill Sargent about what color my shirt was. I still feel the pavement scraping away the skin over my tail bone as I do sit ups for that one. 

Let's go back to the dicks, though. If you've ever been on a Marine base for more than 30 seconds, you know that we love to draw dicks on things. Desks, lockers, walls, bathroom stalls, nothing was safe from the good ol' cock and balls getting drawn right on it. We weren't allowed to do that, though, and getting caught put you in a world of hurt.

This one time, me and this other private, Kenny, thought we were being slick and decided to draw a battle scene with nothing but phallic shapes. We're talking dick shaped tanks, bombers dropping penis shaped bombs, dick shaped drop planes dropping dick shaped paratroopers holding dick shaped rifles, dick shaped fighter jets with its' wings loaded with dick shaped missiles... It was a true masterpiece. I even managed to steal it back out of the desk it was locked in when it got confiscated. Regular PT looked like a Sunday stroll compared to the hell we got for that. Poor Kenny, I don't think he could feel his hands for weeks from all the chemicals we used during our punishment.

The punishment was in two parts. The first part wasn't so bad. We got put on laundry for a few weeks, with special instructions to make damn sure there wasn't a single stain on any underwear or we'd be wearing it on our heads for the day. Kenny failed that one, God that was hilarious. The second part was the bad part. We had to go through the entire base and scrub or cover up each and every piece of dick graffiti we could find. That took us weeks. It was worth it, though. I still have that drawing.

Deployed
I.... don't want to talk about this one yet. I saw... There's no way to fully describe what I saw over seas. Some of it I still see if I don't keep it shut up. At night? I see the face of every innocent body that was a victim of a war they had nothing to do with. The worst one was a dog... damn stray just wanted to make friends with the bomb dog. I just... I don't want to talk about it. 

Coming Home and Losing My Arm
It's true, what you hear about when a soldier comes home. The beds are too soft, the nights too quiet, the rooms too empty. You go from being with a dozen or so brothers by your side at all times, to no one for company but your own thoughts. I started walking dogs to keep from going insane. Some part of me thought it might ease the guilt for taking the life of an innocent one. It didn't, not really, but I do like dogs, so it was nice to be around them. Interacting with the owners, when they were home, was a nice break from my solitude, too. 

Free time was a terrifying concept, though, and I could only walk so many dogs in a day, though, so I started walking aimlessly. I'd spend hours doing it. There were days I didn't realize I'd walked clean across the city and I'd have to get a cab or a, what are they, now? An Uber? Yea, I'd get an uber back to my apartment. It was one of those days, where I'd been so lost in my own head I ended up a dozen miles away, that the events that cost me my arm were put in motion.

I snapped out of my thoughts, if that's what you want to call them, outside of a park. Some kid, young, a boy, was calling me over and waving at me. For a second I was terrified. I didn't have it in me to see another child still on the ground with empty eyes staring at me. Thank God for that annoying therapist teaching me to breath. Stupid, isn't it? Forgetting to breath? It happened more often than I care to admit at first. 

Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble. Anyway, this boy is calling me over so I go. 

"Mister, our ball went over the fence by the woods. My mom said I'm not allowed to go over there. Can you get it?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed when he asked. 

"Sure, kid. Where'd it go over?" I hopped the fence between us and he led me to another fence boarding thick woods. This fence was a little more sturdy, much taller. It was a far more efficient barrier, but still nothing I couldn't handle.

"I think it went over by the the big rock over there," the boy told me, pointing it out. Sure enough, I could see the bright yellow softball in the dirt next to the rock.

"Alright, I'll get it." Then I hopped the damn fence. I got the stupid ball and threw it back. 

"Thanks mister!"

"Yea, no problem kid." He ran off with his ball. I hopped the fucking fence again. Then it happened, such a small, stupid thing. I scraped my arm on the top of the fence going back over. The cut barely even bled.

It did get infected, though.

And because I was a fucking idiot and thought it would go away on its own, it did go sceptic.

The I did lose my fucking arm.

All because I was a nice guy who hopped a fence to get a kid his ball back. Go fucking figure.

After the Fall... I went back to war.

First Signs
When we first started to hear about the infections on the news, I was with Kenny. He'd gone home the same time I had, though he had family waiting for him. He had a wife and a daughter. We'd been in touch off and on since we got back from Afghanistan, but he could tell I was struggling on my own. My mom tried her best to help, but she was getting old and needed help taking care of herself, let alone a run down, mentally broken son. My uncle stayed with her, and I went to stay with Kenny and his family. They had an apartment over their barn in Chireno, Texas, and it was mine as long as I needed it. The horses were welcome company on the nights when I couldn't sleep. 

Things started out simple. It was just a small, random event that happened in some way off location. Crazy right? We didn't think anything of it. We went along with our lives. Kenny showed me how to take care of the horses and the other animals. I went to group therapy for veterans with Kenny on Saturdays. I fell into a routine, and it was my lifeline. Routines were good. I could follow a routine. 

Another group of infections broke out. This time, they were larger groups, the disease seemingly more dangerous than any of us had thought originally.

"Do you think they'll start screening people for travel?" Kenny's wife had asked me one morning.

"They might. I wouldn't worry about it, though. It's nothing too serious, by the looks of it. Probably just some crazy strain of the flu or something."

"Hmm.. I guess we'll see."

"Even if they do, it's not like any of us had plans to travel. And it looks like they're sending in the military to set up medical stations in the major cities. It seems like it's mostly under control."

"That's true. I'm sure Kenny and you would be notified if any serious military intervention was going to take place."

Breeched
Isolated though Kenny's little farm was, we could never have escaped the virus. People were too ignorant, they ignored government warnings and cautionary advice from the CDC. The phrase "avoid it like the plague" was in serious need of replacement back then. Turns out, people don't avoid plagues anymore - they ignore them and carry on like nothing's even happening around them. When the plague finally reached us out in Chireno, though, we weren't ready enough. A hoard of the dead made their way through the fields, lumbering through the grass, toppling over the stone wall and taking down the ribbons for the electric fencing. The current wasn't strong enough to kill the ones that got tangled in it, but they lay on the ground, twitching every so often. The sight made me sick.

Kenny was already awake when I made my way into the house. 

"What's the plan?" I had asked him.

"Let's lie low, see what happens. They might just pass us by if we keep quiet. Is the barn locked?"

We both watched the frontline discover the chicken run and winced. No more fresh eggs for a while. The chicken wire held for a while, but when a dozen of the dead were clawing at it all at once, the wire didn't stand a chance. The squawks and crows of the poor birds were all we could hear as they were devoured alive.

Kenny's wife and daughter joined us in the kitchen.

"Daddy, is there another fox?"

"Yes, sweetie." Kenny had lied easily to his daughter, but the look he gave his wife afterwards let me know that she was no fool. 

The next morning, just before the sun rose, we watched the last of them fade into the distance. Not one of us had slept a wink. Luckily, the barn was sturdy and had kept the horses safe from the foraging zombies, but the chicken coop was a mess of blood, feathers, and assorted appendages that had been left behind. How long would it be before the next hoard came through? What if it was bigger?

"We need to think about if we should stay here," Kenny said to me later on. "We were lucky last night, we only lost the chickens, and we have enough to live off of for a while, here, but we aren't the kind of farmers who grow crops. I could give it my all, but if they're going to get trampled, then what's the point?"

"I don't think it would work through the winter," I had agreed. "We should probably scout out the surrounding area. Maybe there's a camp for people who are uninfected."

"Maybe." Kenny always tapped his fingers when he was nervous. He was drumming them on the table now, and I knew what he wanted to ask. 

"I can take one of the horses and go out. It'll be slower, but I think the car should stay with you and your wife and daughter... just in case." It was risky to go out on horseback, but at least there wouldn't be the chance of running out of fuel. 

"Alright. Take your pick. You know the horses as well as I do by now. We'll eat, let the hoard put some more distance between them and the farm, and then you can go before we've lost too much daylight."

I went.

They died while I was gone. Looters came through and killed my best friend and his family. The didn't even stay. They took the remaining horses except for old Bess who had seen better days, most of the supplies in the house, and the car. 

I buried them. I made sure I buried them deep just in case. They'd been shot, not bitten, but I didn't want to take risks. 

After I let myself shed a few tears, I followed my training. I secured the hidden weapons Kenny had hidden under the floor in his closet, packed my rucksack with any food I could find, several bottles of water, a change of clothes, several pairs of socks, and Kenny's raincoat. I felt like I was going into battle again. I didn't have time to think, though. With my gear secured in my pack, the saddlebags on Kingsman's saddle, and onto a spare saddle on Old Bess, I set out in search of somewhere else to go.

Augustine
The first thing I came across was a fair ground. I'd seen a few stray dead along the way, but the horses had alerted me to their presence long before we were close and I'd been able to give them a wide berth. The fair ground, for the most part, was barren of all life. It was odd for this time of year. Normally the fairs would be in full swing. Vendors would have their wares out for sale, any food imagineable would be cooking in the food trucks, obnoxious bells and chimes would come from the games, screams would come from the rides, and the 4h barn would have been packed with livestock and kids looking to show them off. Other barns would have all number of cows, chickens, pigs, horses, rabbits, goats, and whatever other animals they could round up displayed in pens. Kids would be reaching out to pet them if the animals would allow for it, parents would be taking pictures, and it would have been a normal fair. 

Now, the barns were mostly empty, the rides were silent, and the food trucks and merchant stalls abandoned. The barns that weren't empty smelled like rotting meat and that alone was enough to tell me what had happened to the animals. The horses were unsettled throughout the majority of our trek down the main strip. I couldn't blame them. 

We made our way to an old rabbit and sheep barn, which was thankfully free of the rotting meat smell, and decided to call it home for the night. By some miracle, there were working water pumps by the troughs and some old hay still inside. Some of the hay had gone moldy, but I found enough of it that wasn't to give the horses something in their bellies. Kingsman didn't look tired at all, but old Bess seemed like she was going to fall asleep mid meal. I fell asleep listening to them eat.

Kingsman woke me later with nervous snorts and pawing hooves. In an instant I was on high alert. It took me several seconds to understand what had set him off, but my anxiety only rose when I recognized it. Off to our left, the hay was rustling. 

I didn't think. I pulled my pistol from it's holster and my flashlight from my belt at the same time. My prosthetic fingers fumbled over the switch of the flashlight for several seconds before finding purchase and turning it on. In slow, steady sweeps I moved the light across the back wall of the barn. One step forward. Sweep. Another step. Sweep. I repeated the same, hammered in motion until I was nearly at the wall. Whatever was making the noise was far too small to be one of the infected. 

I paused to listen for the rustling sound again. I didn't wait long before hearing it directly in front of me. Pistol raised, I nudge a pile of rejected moldy hay from early with my boot. Almost immediately a grey shape bolted several feet away from it and I heaved a sigh of relief.

Our nighttime visitor was a lucky rabbit. Somehow, the thing had managed to survive in it's fair ground sanctuary without meeting an ill fate. 

Not one to waste what could be a valuable bartering token, and another companion, I captured the soft gray rabbit and, after moving some supplies around, situated it in one of Kingsman's saddlebags. If I only fastened one of the ties, it left enough room for the creature to stick it's head out without being able to jump free. It would have to do. 

The sky was lightening by that time and I decided to move on. I wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway.

Leaving the fairground behind  it didn't take us long to find our way into town. From there, we found armed guards and, after rather hostile greetings and an aggressive interview and the offering of some of my supplies, we were allowed into Augustine.

I was tired, then. I hadn't grieved the death of my best friend. A woman, a real bitch, came to "inspect me". She saw my arm and scoffed.

"We don't have room for those who can't pull their own weight, here. If you want to stay, you need to work."

"I can work. You might want to do a little bit of work, too, though. Your demeanor could use it. I didn't survive four deployments to be scoffed at by people like you."

"I'll assume you've had rough travels to get here, soldier," the woman, Natalie Holmes, said the word like it was a slur. I hated her from there. "I'll allow you the day to sort yourself out. If that disrespect continues, however, you won't find yourself welcome here."

I should have decked her when I had the chance.