Spiffo

"Oh, hello!" A chipper voice sounds off from the living room. There, a rather harmless-looking raccoon stands, offering a welcoming grin and a wave with his hand. His other is hefting a nail-studded plank over his shoulder. "Good to see you're still alive, and not one of them. I'm Spiffo! Looks like we're all in a bit of a pickle here; society has collapsed as a result of the zombie apocalypse!"

In spite of the disastrous news, his tone of voice is unfittingly cheerful. He gestures broadly around the room with his arms. "Nothing to it now but to make the best of this horrible situation! If you'd like, I can try and show you the ropes, and you can get your own momentum going from there on out! You wouldn't want to be eaten alive, would you?"

The early morning hours of summertime Kentucky still shine a smidge of light through each window - those that were not curtained-off by Spiffo, that is, as remaining out of the undead's sight is an important step towards creating and maintaining a safezone.

It had been an intense few weeks since the Knox Event began. The military was nowhere to be seen, and all survivors south of the Ohio River were left to fend for themselves. Official sources promised an 'eventual return'; public radio broadcasts suggested otherwise. The infection was confirmed to have spread outside of America, as far along as Japan. Those who prevailed, unaffected by the non-contact strain of the Knox Infection, now stared extinction in the eye. Society, for all intents and purposes, collapsed in its entirety, and anarchy and martial law reigned supreme... as did the seemingly endless hordes of the undead.

Most neighborhoods and businesses were picked clean, leaving behind brick-and-mortar carcasses that stood to do little more than to populate the skyline. Windows smashed by survivors and undead alike, doors removed carefully from the hinges or blown wide open and rendered useless through sheer blunt force and outward pressure. The local power station had gone critical and provoked an emergency auto-shutdown that left the entire county without electricity, rendering nighttime pitch-black and evermore dangerous. Water services were similarly knocked offline after a lack of maintenance caused pipelines to become overloaded. Supplies of precious, drinkable water were now limited to what little of it remained in a home's pipes, or a fortunate bottle or cooler find.

Spiffo had not made contact with another living, sentient being for a while now. Most of what he could have taught to terrified newcomers to the apocalypse had become common knowledge among stubborn stragglers - that, or most of the survivors left in Kentucky had croaked entirely by now. He wandered the streets quietly, crouching low along fences and walls and pacing himself so as to not become exhausted. His own survival experience proved invaluable to keep his pelt intact.

For the first time in days, he heard a sound pertaining not to the horrible demise of another soul, but rather, to their continued survival. What sounded like the trilling of a generator came into earshot as he rounded a corner, just around a strip mall. His eyes widened, ears twitching and raising in interest. He had previously rationalized most, if not all survivors, as having succumbed by now, yet one of them still clung to life like a prairie rat.

Curious, Spiffo approached the source of the noise. The street here was dotted, if not outright scarred, with smears of dark red and blotches of old brains and organs. The marks became more prevalent as he approached a reinforced wall clearly built in the shape of a compound, even enhanced with barbed wire, ensuring the dead would stay out. Whoever owned this place meant business. He secured his studded nail plank onto his back and stood in front of the large, reinforced double gate.

"Uhm... hello? Anyone in there? I don't mean any trouble; just another hapless survivor trapped in this ugly little world!" he called out, cupping his paws around his mouth to direct the sound better over the walls.

Winter had arrived in Kentucky. Cold, frigid, depressing winter. The holiday cheer was no more; only another challenge for those who somehow managed to hold out this long. By now, most cities and towns were inhospitable deadzones, ransacked almost completely clean and infested with rotting undead. With no services or amenities to protect whatever few survivors remained from inclement weather conditions, and a critical lack of convenient pre-apocalypse man-made supplies, only the well-informed and well-prepared would survive long enough to see another summertime next July.

"Sheesh... I could cut diamonds with my nipples." Spiffo husked to himself, shuddering, as he treaded through the thick, snow-laden brush of a forest far from Kentucky's established urban centers, hugging his own chest and wrapping his thick, fluffy tail around himself to stave off the cold. His breath plumed in front of him as he exhaled through the sharp, freezing air.

This was the one time he cursed himself for deciding to eschew clothing; today, even his winter coat struggled to preserve his own warmth. He still had only his backpack to his name, and a cozy Christmas beanie and scarf, which did little to amend the creeping chill. He'd lost the nail-studded plank long ago, broken over a zombie's particularly thick noggin. It was promptly replaced with a self-made hatchet, created using a thick branch, a sharp flint nodule as an axehead, and held together sturdily with a particularly tight knot of rope and some duct tape.

As urban settlements were a no-go, Spiffo banked his luck on finding a survivor's home out in the wilderness. Perhaps someone had cleverly decided to construct a quiet, utilitarian abode out in the boonies, wisely predicting the insecurity of hunkering down at a hotspot frequented by ill-mannered bullies and ravenous shamblers alike. Perhaps he could offer them a trade. Invaluable knowledge - that which they hopefully lacked - and an extra pair of hands and eyes in exchange for relative safety and a roof over his head. Perhaps they would cave his skull in and cook his remains. The idea was dark, yet not entirely out of the realm of possibilities, and it seemed to take precedence in his mind thanks to his own grim sense of humour. That'd be one hell of a way to go.

Click.

Spiffo could recognize that sound anywhere. The sound of checkmate in gun metal gray. The hammer of a firearm cocked right behind him caused the tanuki to freeze in place, eyes widening, then closing slowly as he quietly mouthed a curse. Content to ransack supplies, he left his 6 o'clock entirely unguarded. It could have been a silent shambler all the same, but somehow, being done in by a sentient, thinking being seemed much worse. At least the single-tracked purpose of the undead meant the finality was invariable; eaten alive, chunk by bloody chunk. With survivors, one never knows what to expect.

"Yep. Alright. You got me." Spiffo admitted, raising his hands at either side of his head. The plank he normally uses as a weapon clatters harmlessly onto the floor as he drops it. With a sigh, he rose from his knees to stand upright, the tip of his tail flicking in mild irritation. He had his back turned to whoever was holding him at gunpoint, but he could tell from intuition alone that they wouldn't stand close enough for him to get a cheeky hit in. If the advantage of range was on their side of the court, the only outcome for Spiffo would be a bullet through the eyesocket.

"So... are you going to take my stuff?" he questioned, shimmying his backpack from side to side, as if tempting them to get closer. In doing so, his ample, generous behind jiggled enticingly in unison. "Or did you just want to put me outta' my misery outright? I guess I don't blame you either way. Survival of the fittest and all! Just the way things are. Going off of what I heard, you must be holding a .44 Magnum revolver. Pretty bold. You don't mess around, huh?"