» Gabriel, outlander

GABRIEL
^{Looking at my own reflection
When suddenly it changes
Violently it changes
There is no turning back now
You've woken up the demon in me}



GABRIEL | GABE | IN HIS EARLY THIRTIES
OUTLANDER | HE IS AN ORGANIZATION ONTO HIMSELF

ZOMBIES, good with ketchup.

THE PAWN
^{IN THIS ZOO OF BROKEN FACES}

If you asked Gabe he’d tell you he’s an uncomplicated guy, but I beg to differ. He’s just about as complicated as it gets, and that’s saying a lot when we’re comparing him against the rest of the human population who are now people dealing with a world at its end. People are bound to be a bit screwed up don’t you think?

Anyways, Gabriel is a bit of the dark brooding type (and it’s not like he puts it on to lure in the ladies). His time in the world outside utopia has worn on the man. He’s not used to expressing his feelings because out in the real world emotions don’t matter, they can’t matter. Emotions get you killed. Besides, there’s rarely anyone around to share them with anyways so any emotional escapades would be wasted energy.

He holds no stock in wishing either. Wishing and hoping is no longer a concept in today’s world. Humankind got handed a pile of shit and now they need to deal with it, or at least that’s what Gabe says. Bright eyed people who claim “Oh, don’t worry there’s a balance in life. Things will get better!” piss him off to no end. Some days, when he’s especially cranky he pictures himself wringing their optimistic little necks just for shits and giggles. He really needs to get one of those t-shirts that read “Does not play well with others” don’t you think?

Another thing he has little faith in is Religion (no pun intended). He once met a nice African American pastor in his travels. He was squatting in an abandoned church in a small town, where Gabe had decided to take refuge. The man clutched his Bible like it was threatening to leap from his hands. After a while Gabe couldn’t help but ask the man, “Where’s your God now?” and got a long drawn out answer that was basically the equivalent of “Jesus still loves you.” Gabe laughed in his face. There is no god, not in this wasteland. If there is he’s certainly going to hell for laughing at a pastor and for all those times he indulged himself by giving his hand a little ‘exercise’. Religion to him is a cop out. It’s something people are holding on to in order to stay sane, in order to preserve hope. They simply cannot deal with the fact that at the end of the day we’re all just worm food.

When conversing with others he’s straight and to the point. He’ll give it to you exactly as it is, no embellishment, and no skirting around the issue. Some people think him rude, but he doesn’t have time for them. In his opinion people can think what they damn well please. It won’t change his attitude because he is the way he is. If he wants to tell you “You can’t shot worth shit” or “This soup tastes like ass” then that’s what he’ll say and you can save your speech about how he ‘hurt your feelings’. Cry him a freaking river, ok? Write a letter of complaint to his manager. Oh wait, that’s right there’s no authority in the world anymore! Guess that means everyone will just have to shut the fuck up and deal with him.

Just about the only thing Gabriel really enjoys is hunting. He’ll sit out in the woods for hours, listening to the sounds of nature, enjoying what has become his home. The animals never even notice he’s there, covered in dirt and shrubs, waiting for the opportune moment. It’s peaceful, just him and his gun. The world seems nice, quiet, and so unlike reality it’s unnerving.

I guess that’s where his softer side begins. He has a great appreciation for nature, for life in general. Life has become so precious in these times. It’s the rarest commodity of all. A part of him could see himself one day having a family, but every time he travels down that line of thought he smacks himself in the face. Raising a child in these times, protecting a wife, they’re all things that are easier left undone. Easier, and probably better. What child deserves to breathe smog filled air, to see blood and death around every corner? No, alone is always the better option. Besides there are few women who would likely be interested in a man who can’t hold a conversation, and intimidates (or creeps out) just about everyone he comes in contact with. Most don’t try and get too close.

So, with little hope of every giving in to his desires for social interaction and only a glimmer of a chance at a family, his main ambitions are staying strong and providing for himself. He goes from town to town, hunting and trading, killing off infected when he finds them, and hopes that means he’s doing his debt to society. There’s very little else to do really. There’s no electricity, no cars, no fun. Just him and his gun, or as he likes to call her 'Leila'.


It has been 22 years since the outbreak occurred, meaning poor little ten or eleven year old Gabe was out in this mess right from the beginning. Let’s imagine shall we? You’re ten and you believe monsters are just under your bed or a figment of your imagination. You are comforted by the fact that even when you’re scared, daddy and mommy will be around to protect you. Right? Wrong.

Patricia, Gabe’s mother was one of the many victims of the London attacks in January of 2010. There would be no more peaceful illusions for this young boy. He kissed his mother goodbye that morning before school and would never see her again. The people of England knew what had happened almost immediately, having learned from the troubles in the United States. Gabe’s father acted quickly. He took Gabe to a neighbor’s house and packed up his handgun, heading out in search of his wife. This is the part where, if this were a bad movie you yell violently at the T.V. screen, “what does he think he’s doing!?” Yup, that’s right, humans are rather stupid, emotion driven creatures. But enough about his parents, they’re long dead anyways. Let’s focus on our little Gabie-boy. (Shh, don’t tell him I called him that).

The neighbor he was sent to live with was a bit smarter than his parents and at least moved them out of London. They had no real destination and Gabriel was worried sick about his family but had promised his father he’d listen to their neighbor, Mr. Jacobs. They went to Moscow because Jacobs had family there that would take them in. Every night in their house Gabe would pace, try the cell phone, and eventually go outside and hit something hard and painful. He felt like a caged animal, waiting and waiting for a response that would never come. The cell phones didn’t work, jammed with too much traffic to handle, and the television broadcasters were being allusive. He was young and naive and still believed that if he could only get back to London he’d find his family, safe and uninfected.

He tried to escape on multiple occasions, but was caught every time. The cities had fallen into chaos, so the Jacobs family slept in shifts and kept an alarm system on 24/7. He stayed with them, by force for about three months and it wasn’t until a nuclear bomb detonated in London that he finally gave up his escape plans. The bomb dashed any hope of finding them in that city, and crushed his spirit.

He was once a caring boy, full of life and wonder, but he became what you see today; a cynical, rather blunt, anti-social asshole. A few days after London was whipped out the infection spread to Moscow. Mr. Jacob’s brother’s two sons were taken by the disease and Gabe and Jacobs were forced to flee. Matthew and Margaret, the boy’s parents, refused to leave their children. They took the car and traveled for miles, getting away from the inner cities. Jacobs was distraught and had a hard time keeping it together. He had argued with his brother, urging him to come with them, telling him his sons were lost, but he refused to listen. It ate him up inside, but Gabriel gave him strength.

Jacobs was an ex marine and in their travels he taught Gabriel everything he could to ensure his survival. He learned to siphon gas to keep their car running, to carry a weapon, and how to use it. They gathered books from abandoned libraries in small towns when they could, picking up things like recipes and herb remedies, plant facts and other information. It came in handy. They learned to distinguish what foods they could eat and which were poisonous, and how to cook live game. Gabe would have never pictured himself learning how to cook, but when food becomes nothing more than fuel you have to learn how to prepare it, how to get the most nutrients you can. He and Jacobs made a good team. Jacobs was about forty when the attacks hit, never married. To tell you the truth he had been a bit lonely, the stereotypical sad, dejected neighbor no one really cares about until there’s a crisis. They fell into a rhythm, content with what little they had.

Unfortunately complacency is exactly the kind of thing that gets you killed. One night they decided to raid a local town. It wasn’t that close to the main cities, but it looked like it had potential. They could gather some canned goods, some clothing since their boots were getting old and worn through, and get out; simple, or so they thought. An infected adolescent had been living off of rats and corpses, old food and waste. They didn’t even see him coming. They were in the frozen food isle, gathering some much needed veggies – mom didn’t lie when she said they’re important – when he sprang forth, tackling a sixteen year old Gabriel to the ground. He grunted under the weight, but suddenly he could move again as Jacobs ripped the kid off of him. Gabriel turned and shot the bastard before he could sink his teeth into Jacobs’ neck. However, he’d been too late. A long jagged cut stood out like a scarlet letter against Jacob’s pale, muscular forearm, a death sentence glaring Gabe in the face.

He grimaced and Jacobs looked up into his face knowingly, eyes oddly full of pride. He had protected Gabe, he wound die a happy man. They did not speak because it wasn’t necessary. Gabe simply pulled out his hand gun, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger, hands shaking. He stood there for what seemed like hours, the shot echoing through the store, refusing to open his eyes and survey the dead body of his best friend and only companion. When he finally conceded he almost vomited on the spot. The back of Jacob’s skull had blown clean off and his mouth gaped open. He knew Jacobs wanted it that way, but being the one to do it had been harder than he’d anticipated.

Back in time, late at night, when they had huddled around the fire to stay warm they’d talk about grim things. About how the world would never again be the same, about how much they missed the big mac, and about how they wanted to die. They had agreed that this was how it must be, what had to be done, but Gabriel had secretly prayed he would go first.

After Jacobs’ death Gabriel wandered around rather aimlessly. It wasn’t until about a month later that he met other survivors. The first group of uninfected humans he came across after Jacobs death is not a story I enjoy telling but I’ll try and suffer through the necessary parts. He was walking through a wooded area and it was growing dark. He’d prepared a place to stay the night in a nearby abandoned truck, but wanted to build a fire and was out collecting wood. It should have been safe. He was far out in the country and the infected were nowhere to be seen. Little did he know, the infected weren’t the only ones to worry about. They weren’t the only ones who had lost their humanity.

The survivors were a group of traders, five in all. There were four men and one woman but the woman looked meek, tired, and abused. He was still only sixteen and they started to hassle him, calling him names and picking on him for his oversized ears and bushy eyebrows. Gabriel just looked to the woman who reminded him so much of his departed mother. He wished he could help her, get her away from these cruel men.

That only amused them more, for they mistook his looks as sexual interest and began to harass him about his lust for ‘their woman’. He looked away and kept his mouth shut but that didn’t stop them. They told him to have sex with her and when he refused raped him and left him for dead. He can remember that night now only in his nightmares, for it is repressed during the day. He remembers the cold, hard ground, the slick mixture of blood and tears all across his skin, the stench of semen and the never ending, cold laughter.

When he awoke in the morning he pulled himself together, washed in a nearby river, and returned to the truck. He didn’t have anything to dress his wounds but every muscle hurt. Regardless, he persevered, promising himself that he wouldn’t give in. What possessed him to keep going I’m not entirely sure. There was something inside him that refused to give up.

In the years to come, once in a while he’d come up against another survivor and the encounter usually resulted with a gun to the head, quick words, and perhaps if he was desperate enough a trade. He doesn’t trust people because of what happened with the first group of traders and well… when you’ve been alone as long as he has you learn to depend on yourself. Besides, a part of him, that he refuses to acknowledge, is deathly afraid that if he does trust, if he does stick around too long, he would again care for someone like he cared for Jacobs. And that just cannot happen. It hurt too much the first time, and he’s not going to add another corpse to his record.

Lately, he's been traveling into the cities more often, but he refuses to spend the night, even though he's giving up the opportunity to sleep in a soft bed. He's used to sleeping outside or some rundown shack off the beaten path. Regardless he's made a life for himself, traveling from place to place. He has contacts, and can just about get you anything you need. He's a go to man, a man of great means, and while he has developed a bit of a bad reputation for being both a creeper and a thief, he doesn't go wanting.

THE BRAWN
^{GLOBE SPINNING ON A RUSTY HINGE}

Gabriel doesn’t have many distinguishing marks. He’s built like a truck if your truck is lean, muscled and sexy and eyes are a piercing blue that give you the impression he has seen way too much of death and sorrow. He fits the description of tall dark and handsome pretty well, with chiseled cheek bones and hair that is always falling in short cropped disarray.

As far as tattoos and markings he has none. He finds them interesting but unnecessary. Do they help you survive? No? Then they’re not much use in Gabe’s book. To him real beauty is in ones scars. He has more than he can count and they make a rather hypnotic pattern along his arms and upper back. Mostly they’re from living in the woods where hazards are numerous, getting into fights with fellow survivors he’s come in contact with, and the occasional slip of his knife.

Growing up in a lower class suburb in London he developed a rather thick British accent that has stuck with him over the years no matter where he travels. Many people associate a British accent with scholarly folks and thin frail men sipping cups of tea. I can assure you this is not his type of accent at all. It’s of a rougher variety, more like a deep Scottish drawl, and easy on the ears. When he gets angry its thickness intensifies to the point where you might not catch what he’s saying 90% of the time.

When he’s out on his own, away from other travelers he’s relaxed and in his element. His steps are confident from years of experience and there is a slight swagger to his gait like a tiger stalking his prey.
Something you might not automatically notice about his way of moving is the noise, because well… there is none. He has learned that to survive, to hunt game or to avoid detection, the less noise the better. Out of habit it now applies to all his motions in general.

When he is around people he morphs into an entirely different person. His shoulders tense, his eyes narrow, he begins to watch the room, scanning every movement and calculating in his head. Ten seconds after entering a room he can tell you the number of people, how many of them are armed, how many exits are available, and the likelihood of making it to said exits without being stopped. He’s methodical and cold, seeing social situations as more of a threat than those around him. He has been taken advantage of and stepped on before in the most horrible way you can imagine. He won’t make the mistake of turning his back on anyone.

THE BRAINS
^{TAKE ME TO THE HALL OF FILTHY FACES}

He enjoys many things, the first of which is collecting books. He caresses their covers like a lover and considers them sacred, a small reminder of the past world he once knew. He’ll often trade important things like food for books if it’s something he really wants to read. It’s a bit of an addiction and sometimes he’ll even indulge in comics.

Next is playing poker. He picked it up from another survivor he met and enjoys wiping the floor with anyone who’s willing to play.

Gabriel's not a man to fall into addiction or make attachments, but he does make one exception, and that's cigarettes. Obviously he hasn’t really been able to keep up the habit due to the fact that the nicotine industries are buried beneath about ten feet of rubble, but if he finds cigarettes in the wasteland it’s just about as amazing as finding gold.

He feels the same way about alcohol. He finds it when he can, and either uses it to trade or makes good work of washing away his memories.

Another of his favorite pass times are sex, well... more like thinking about sex... because he has had very few experiences with women. What do you expect? The apocalypse happened before he hit puberty! He’s been very umm… unsatisfied for far too long. Sure he goes into the occasional brothel, but images of that woman in the woods always flash across his mind and he just can't bring himself to do it. If that ever got out about him he'd be ruined, or most likely labeled as a queer, so it's not something he makes known.

Other than those aforementioned things, he does what he needs to to survive. It's become habit. Staying fit, finding his next meal, collecting his own personal arsenal, and enjoying his suffering is all in a days work. He knows what it’s like out there, away from Utopia’s walls. Staying fit is an essential and when he lost Jacobs, working out is what kept him sane. Food isn't as easy to come by as it used to, so when it’s put in front of him it’s a vanishing act. Now you see it, now you don’t! He’s magic. Worship him. He eats like a man fresh out of lock up.

As far as suffering goes, he’s kind of gotten used to it. To him there is no other way of life. If you’re enjoying life and things are easy you must be doing something wrong.

He likes new toys that can make the infected monstrosities crumble. He doesn’t count them as human anymore so he can kill them guilty free! Hunting them is like shopping for fat free goodies at the supermarket, only with guns!

He didn’t really develop those social skills so unless someone goes out of their way to pursue something with him he’s not going to even notice your existence. He’s good on his own. When other people join up they just get hurt. He keeps people at a distance, often giving out death glares at every waking opportunity. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just the natural pose his face falls into… Or at least that’s what I like to believe.

Each town he visits he likes to search for fun things like rare coins, knives, cigarettes, booze, etc. It’s not just about trading either. He has a necklace with a collection of coins and bottle caps from each area he’s traveled to.


Don’t surprise him. It’s a REALLY bad idea. His instinctual reaction to surprises is to point his gun, and if you’re not careful he just might shoot the damn thing. He’s met many other survivors by introducing himself from the other side of a gun barrel. Lets just say manners are NOT a priority. He curses like it's going out of style. After all, he was raised by an ex-marine, what did you expect? This is the end of the world folks, not much time for etiquette classes.

He's a rather jumpy person overall. He’s used to living on his own away from social contact so when he’s around groups of more than one person he gets rather agitated. You'll know this right away because he'll jiggle his right leg and if angered cracking his knuckles. I don’t know how he does it but he can flex his hand really hard and slowly, finger by finger, and his knuckles crack. He can do it completely one handed and it happens most often when he’s angry. Sometimes it’s used to intimidate and other times it’s his tell, informing you that he’s trying really hard not to swing.

THE AUTHOR
^{THANKS FOR THE SURVIVAL RAGS}

COLIN FARRELL | MER | 20| EST | silentearsofhop@gmail.com

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