Il y a 12 heures...
Mort à l'intérieur, mort à l'extérieur. Les cieux au-dessus de l'Église de l'Avent étaient une nuance uniforme de gris d'ardoise. Le tonnerre correspond au tonnerre; les sons d'une tempête brassent, bien que personne ne le sache. C'était tout ouï-dire passé autour de l'église par ceux qui étaient assez courageux (ou assez réalistes) pour regarder à l'extérieur des vitraux pour un bon regard. Aucun d'entre eux n'était météorologue. Ils étaient probablement tous partis, aussi.
Le révérend – une femme robuste avec une mâchoire sévère et des sourcils et un nom approprié: Audrey – a quitté sa place par les lits malades où elle a livré les derniers rites pour reposer sa tête contre un mur de pierre froide. Habituellement, on entendait de la musique d'orgue se réverber à travers eux à ce moment de la journée, alors que les choses étaient normales et que l'Enfer ne régnait pas sur Terre. Maintenant, même avec la distance créée par une grande clôture et l'ancien bâtiment lui-même, il n'y avait pas d'échappatoire aux gémissements et aux gémissements des morts amassés à l'extérieur.
Sueur perlée sur son front alors qu'elle marchait vers les pièces arrière de l'église, et pas moins de trois personnes lui ont demandé en chemin sont vous vous sentez bien et mon fils se sentant mal; pouvez-vous aider et n'importe quelle chance d'avoir plus de rations. L'armée s'était emparée d'elle, puis elle s'était retirée complètement à l'écart des rares individus qu'elle avait laissés derrière elle en tant que défense, et elle avait été laissée pour reprendre la charge.
Un check-in rapide avec la plupart des quarante-quatre personnes résidant dans l'église était révélateur. Le monde a été condamné, le révérend a décidé. Quinze d'entre eux se trouvaient à divers stades de l'infection; les survivants les plus récents cherchaient refuge. Elle regarda son propre bras, à la démangeaison qui était couverte de vêtements noirs. Seize ans.
Elle garderait son esprit assez longtemps pour s'assurer que ces gens seraient en sécurité.
Il y a six heures...
On aurait dit qu'il y avait plus de morts à l'intérieur qu'à l'extérieur maintenant. Les corps couverts de tissu blanc, tous avec une blessure par balle soignée à travers le front, se sont empilés dans une pièce latérale et ils n'avaient pas encore commencé à sentir, mais ils le feraient bientôt.
Quarante-quatre seraient devenus trente-huit, mais un autre groupe s'est joint.
Audrey a pris un souffle, et a regardé la croix. Il restait très peu de boîtes de nourriture dans l'église. Ce qu'ils avaient utilisé pendant la semaine dernière, c'était quelques vieilles boîtes de conserve de la dernière entreprise pour nourrir les sans-abri de la ville, et maintenant même cela avait été utilisé par plusieurs familles. Des enfants affamés. Elle ne supportait pas la vue d'un enfant affamé.
Son estomac lui ronflait, mais elle n'avait pas d'appétit. Probablement, elle a pensé assez morbidement, parce que je veux de la chair humaine savoureuse au lieu d'une barre de chocolat. Avec un dernier regard aspirant sur l'église depuis le front même où elle avait récité d'innombrables anecdotes et histoires, Audrey a reconnu que c'était son temps.
Mais la mettre fin à ses propres conditions était contraire à ses croyances. Le mieux qu'elle pourrait faire serait de s'enfermer dans une des chambres latérales – peut-être même dans le bureau qu'elle a transformé en un centre de commandement-chambre-slash – avec une Bible et une fiole de gin.


Jude s'embrasa; il regarda de gauche à droite et de nouveau à gauche, scrutant l'église pour le visage familier du révérend en charge. Le révérend Audrey était le seul à avoir une idée de leur situation actuelle et à pouvoir répondre à des questions à ce sujet. Sans elle, il n'y avait plus de leadership.
Et il apportait un message du tireur d'élite qui gardait le toit. Presque hors des munitions. Leur pronostic était sombre, surtout au sujet des hordes s'accumulant par la porte d'entrée. Des horreurs scandalisantes. Il suffisait de faire trembler Jude à la simple pensée qu'ils ont brisé la porte et inondé d'un coup à l'autre.
Quelqu'un a-t-il vu le révérend? La porte de son bureau était verrouillée, ce qui était inhabituel, mais elle gardait les armes de rechange là-dedans juste au cas où n'importe quel cinglé devenait fou pendant qu'ils ne regardaient pas. J'ai besoin de lui parler d'urgence. Nous allons être dépassés, comme, maintenant.
F U L L N A M E
Jude John Valentine
"Val"
D A T E O F B I R T H
December 10th, 1988. Twenty-Seven.
A P P E A R A N C E
Jude is tall, spindly and just a bit too thin – something that has marked him his whole life. He stands at 6'1" (or thereabouts) and has a meek, nonthreatening air about him despite his intimidating height. Of course, the black clergy shirt with its iconic collar only adds to this impression, and he is often wearing it. He keeps his light brown hair short and neat (though after the last four weeks it is beginning to grow scruffy) and is generally clean shaven even in the End Times.
S K I L L S
 Counselor – As a part of his training, Jude learned what the "right things to say" are in a situation where he needs to console or support someone. Often it is silence, otherwise a relevant phrase while avoiding platitudes like the plague. He is a sympathetic figure and always open to talk.
 Light-Footed – "Jesus Christ, he's like a ninja!" Something his frat brothers said to him during his freshman years. He has the unintentional habit of making very little noise when he's moving and popping up behind people with no warning. It's a learned trait from childhood.
 Intelligent – Jude was Valedictorian of his high school class and is college educated (in Religious Studies). Most of his 'smarts' is to do with general knowledge – who competed in the Olympics for Swimming in 2000; what is the capital of Armenia; and so on – but he also has an encyclopedic knowledge of Bible verses and the contents of a well-stocked liquor cupboard. He can recite the alphabet backwards.
W E A K N E S S E S
 Compulsive Liar – while sometimes these 'white lies' can help people, most of the time it just ends up with Jude tangled up in a web of them and struggling to get out. He wants people to like him and does his best to keep every falsehood straight in his head. He likes to tell stories that haven't happened to him personally and twist them, even if it doesn't make sense.
 Pacifistic – He's never swung a bat or an axe or shot a gun – never even thought about it – and so this new world is very dangerous to him in particular. Furthermore his mindset isn't really conductive to violence, thanks. If other people could... crack the skull of that... person over there, that would be great.
Trusting – One problem with being a compulsive liar (and self-aware) is that Jude thinks he's the only one who ever lies. He tends to take people at face-value and trusts them, even when stories don't quite add up. A do-gooder who likes to believe the best in people.
P O S S E S I O N S
 Pocket Knife (of the camping variety). Never used, and still has a plastic tag on it.
 Unused can of pepper spray courtesy of his paranoid next door neighbor.
 An old travelling backpack he took overseas with him after college. Sewn up at the side.
 Spare set of clothes.
 Army jacket inherited from his older sister – slightly dusty, but tough and durable.
 The Bible – except Jude's has a nice compartment for a flask.
 Wallet: family picture, $20 and I.D.
H I S T O R Y
Jude John Valentine was born in Boston to teenage parents who weren't especially enthusiastic about having a child. There is a reason why in the present day, when things are looking down, Jude can look back and say, "Well, at least I didn't have a kid at fifteen." While an attempt was made to keep him, his home life was atrocious, and a concerned neighbor called CPS on them. Evidence of drug use and neglect in the household resulted in him being taken into the system at eight years old.
He improved as a person even in the uncertainty of foster care, his entire life packed up in one or two bags at most, and after two years a family he stayed with was willing to adopt him as they had several other children. They were wealthier than most: his adopted parents were a retired reverend and a successful country musician (in Boston of all places) respectively. In his new home, Jude didn't have to fight to be noticed, as they had been raising kids since their early thirties – well over two decades. He would come to realise that he had 'lucked out', especially with tales from his five siblings, all adopted themselves.
There were bits he didn't like. The church-going, the Bible camps and the camping holidays; the "no alcohol in the house" rule when he was sixteen and ready to rebel against his authority figures; the loneliness as the older kids moved out one by one to lead their successful lives and new ones taken in to replace them like some sort of do-gooding conveyer belt. None of it was enough for him to dislike his parents, or his family. He moved out at eighteen for college, an undeclared major for longer than what was probably good for his future, before he had a change of heart.
Just because he had an interest in his dad's career didn't mean he had to stop boozing and binging his way through the semesters. His addictive personality is hereditary. After graduating, and with his dad's blessing (and enthusiasm) he went travelling and backpacked in several countries, and helped to teach English in schools in Africa with funding from a charity his father's church had ties with. When he returned after a long two years of 'living free', his future was clear.
Sort-of. He didn't expect everything he knew about the dead to turn upside-down. They never taught him what to do with this when he was doing funeral rites.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S


(Adoptive) Mother
Jude's mother is a wily woman, and he himself is an eternal optimist, so he likes to pretend she survived; however, there is that niggling feeling of doubt that he'll never see her again, or his father, because even before the supposed "flu outbreak" started, she was complaining of ill-health. Arthritis and a heart condition would have left her unable to move very quickly away from the hordes of undead in Boston.
Jude likes to pretend.


(Adoptive) Father
Don't even think about it, Jude. Jude is well-aware that by now, a week since he last heard from him, his dearly-beloved dad is probably gone just like the rest of them. A phone call while service was still available led to Jude being told to go to the Church of the Advent, and that Andrew was going to bring his sister there. Given that both of them are present and accounted for but their dad is missing, Jude assumes the worst.


(Adoptive) Sister
Jude's sister Maria, two years his junior, used to beat him up as a kid. He never forgot, but he also never snitched, and she respected that. Since then, as one of the three Valentine kids still living in Boston, the self-proclaimed "heathen bitch" has been dropping by for coffee every Saturday. She works as a mechanic (which isn't surprising given that she is a total grease-monkey) and has been working on her damaged bike ever since she showed up for shelter in the church. She's also the last one to have seen their dad.