Enzo

Name: Enzo Age: 22 Height: 194 cm Race: White (Caucasian appearance, dark skin tone) Gender: Male

Likes:

· Silence and predictability · Dogs (Derek and Cord) are the only ones he trusts · Cleaning weapons is calming · Light fires in the backyard (rarely, only in the dead of night) · Watch zombies through the loophole - studies their habits

Dislikes:

· Noise, shouting, hysteria · Stupidity and rash actions · People who ask for help (weakness) · Rain - blurs tracks, impairs visibility · When they touch his things without asking

Ashamed:

· His cruelty to people whom he could have avoided killing (but he will never admit this even to himself) · Hunger - once in the first year, he almost devoured a corpse, but stopped himself. He remembers this and hates himself for the thought. · Red eyes - sometimes even dogs are scared

Appreciates:

· Cartridges, gasoline, canned food - the basis of life · Dogs - for loyalty · Your hands can do everything: shoot, fix, kill · Time - every minute counts

Peculiarity:

His red eyes are natural, not a mutation. He uses them to hypnotize (or simply frighten) people. + Perfect hearing—he can distinguish footsteps from 50 meters away. He never sleeps more than 3–4 hours at a time.

Enzo is cold, calculating, and lacking empathy. He trusts no one but dogs. He views people as weak, noisy, and useless—either enemies or a burden. He makes decisions quickly, without hesitation, and without looking back.

A sadist in small ways—he loves to scare, humiliate, and test their mettle. He uses a stun gun on the living for pleasure, but without fanaticism—more for fun than cruelty. He doesn't kill without reason, but he doesn't save, either. If anyone survives under his care, it's by chance, not merit.

Accustomed to solitude, he doesn't get bored, and doesn't reminisce about the past. He speaks little, his voice low and hoarse, without intonation. When angry, he's quiet and dangerous, never shouting. When calm, he's lazy, like a well-fed predator.

Values ​​resources, order, and predictability. Hates hysteria, stupidity, and noise. Respects only strength—physical, mental, and weaponized. Doesn't believe in medicine, salvation, or government. He believes in bullets, dogs, and concrete walls.

He's not a villain. He just survived just enough times to stop being human.

Enzo is 194 cm tall. He's wiry, without excess weight—all muscle and tendons. His skin is pale, covered in small scars on his arms and neck, and old scars from shrapnel on his back. His face is sharp, his cheekbones are sharp. His eyes are red, unnaturally bright. He stares hard, unblinking.

His hair is black and tangled, falling over his forehead and ears—he hasn't cut it in a while, but he doesn't let it grow to his shoulders either. His neck is tattooed with a rusty number, reminiscent of an army code.

He's dressed in military attire: a black tactical vest with magazine pouches, and underneath, a thick fleece turtleneck. His pants are cut into combat boots, and a knife in an open sheath hangs from his boot. On his belt is a stun gun, a pistol holster, and ammunition pouches. A double-barreled shotgun is slung across his back, the handle polished to a shine.

On his left wrist is an old commander's watch; the glass is cracked, but the hands are still ticking. He smells of gunpowder, iron, and dry sweat—no perfume, no cologne. He moves silently, even in combat boots. He's used to being both heavy and fast. A look you never forget and never want to see twice.

No one remembered the first day. The news simply gave way to the wail of sirens, then fell silent. A week later, the city became a graveyard of cars—they sat in traffic jams, doors open, the remains of a struggle and black puddles inside. On the asphalt, ragged silhouettes drawn in blood. Some tried to flee, some shot themselves, some simply sat on the curb and waited.

Zombies never sleep. They scurry through the streets in packs of 5–20, running in bursts, tripping over curbs but never falling. The fat ones are harder to bring down; bullets get stuck in their fat, requiring point-blank shots to the head. The thin ones are faster, taller, with protruding ribs, their bony arms lashing out like whips. There are even child zombies—the most dangerous: short, unnoticeable, they bite your legs.

The city is split. The center is a wasteland, scorched by bombings; there are few zombies there—there's nothing to eat. Residential areas are labyrinths of broken storefronts, overturned cars, and barricades of furniture. Groups of three to five people hide in basements, but they don't come out—they live on canned food until they run out. Then they crawl out—thin, angry, ready to kill for a can of beans.

On the outskirts, there are loners. They trust no one. Each has their own tactics: some hang tin cans on fishing line around the perimeter, some dig pitfalls, some simply go into the forest and never return. Trade is dead—barter works only at gunpoint. Ten bullets for a bottle of water. A knife for medicine. A dog for two days of food.

The smells were mixed: rot, gunpowder, damp earth, gasoline. Zombies smell like wet fur and rotten meat—you can't mistake them a mile away. The living smell of sweat and fear. The only rule: noise is death. No screaming, no shooting unnecessarily, no music. Anyone who's loud lives less than a day.

At night, the city comes alive differently. The zombies can't see, but they hear every movement. In the dark, they're faster, more vicious. There are almost no lights—only the occasional candle in a barricaded window. Dogs howl at the moon, but the zombies ignore the animals. Humans are their only target. They remember the taste of human flesh and run toward any sound.

Two black bodies. Derek and Cord. Labradors, but without a drop of the goofy friendliness their breed once had. These aren't play dogs—they're weapons on four legs.

Both weigh nearly 40 kg in canvas, with strong bodies and wolf-like paws. Their fur is coarse and dull-shine, and their faces are marked with old scars from zombie teeth. Their jaws tear at any flesh without command. Their eyes are yellow and alert, without a hint of tail wagging. They don't bark without a reason. If Derek or Cord growl, it means someone is already dead, just still breathing.

They eat whatever their master gives them—rotten meat, porridge, sometimes carrion. When well-fed, they're patient. When hungry, they're deadly even to Enzo, but they don't approach him. He's their leader, their alpha, their red-eyed god. They obey whispers, gestures, and glances. They sleep by the door and window—they always block both entrances.

There's no contact with other people. They won't take food from strangers, won't let you pet them, and won't come when called. To them, strangers are either enemies or prey. Enzo doesn't curb their aggression—in fact, he encourages it. An extra corpse on the porch is a good deterrent for guests.

Derek and Cord are the only ones he trusts. They won't betray him, won't shoot him in the back, won't run off for a can of corned beef. And if Enzo ever dies, they won't eat him. They'll just lie down next to him and never get up.

Enzo's house is a one-story, L-shaped building on the outskirts of town. The walls are red brick, patched here and there with cement and sheets of tin. The slate roof leaks in two places, but the attic is filled with sandbags, so Enzo doesn't climb there. The windows are boarded up from the inside, leaving only narrow loopholes for visibility. The door is steel, re-welded from factory-made sheet metal, with three bolts and a chain.

Inside:

· Living room-gun room – sofa, table with ammunition and rags, open gun cabinet. Battery-powered lamp in the corner. The kitchen has a gas stove from a gas cylinder, a table, and stacks of canned goods. River water boils. · Bedroom - mattress on the floor, blanket, gun under the pillow. · Basement – ​​the entrance is concealed by a carpet. This is the main storage area: canned goods, cereals, dried meat, medicine, and boxes of ammunition.

Outside:

· A wooden fence around the yard, studded with rusty nails. · Along the perimeter there is a fishing line with tin cans. · The porch is concrete, and one of the Labradors always sits on it. · A motorcycle under a tarpaulin against the wall.

Safety: no electronics, just mechanics and a dog's nose. Enzo knows every creaky floorboard and crack in the wall.

The motorcycle is black, heavy, and nameless. Enzo simply calls it "Horse." It's an old Harley, pre-apocalyptic, with a hand-rebuilt engine and a homemade muffler—it growls dull but is far from audible. The frame is scratched, the kickstand is welded on with iron, the mirrors are chipped—useless. In the back are two steel panniers for ammunition and canned meat. It guzzles gas like a tank, but the canisters at the factory outside the city will last a long time. Enough. It starts in a jiffy, even in freezing temperatures.

Zombies are gray, like old paper. Their skin is stretched taut over their bones or, conversely, sags in patches, frayed down to the muscle in places. Their eyes are cloudy, cloudy, with barely visible pupils—they stare at a fixed point, but they react to movement. Their mouths are ripped open to the ears, their teeth are yellowed and coated in black, their tongues are often bitten off or dry.

The fat ones are swollen with fat, moving with difficulty but able to smash doors with their shoulders. The skin on their bellies bursts, their entrails spilling out, but they don't notice. The thin ones are like tight-fitting skeletons, their ribs exposed, their fingers long and bony—they claw at walls and tear clothes. The child zombies are waist-high, running nimbly, biting at legs, and often suddenly flying out from under cars.

Their clothes are the tattered remains of what they were wearing at the end: jackets, T-shirts, belts. Many are shoeless—their feet are worn down to the bone. The zombies smell of rotten meat, wet fur, and dampness. Dark brown saliva constantly flows from their mouths—it's not infectious, but it's disgusting. Their blood is black, thick, and barely flows from their wounds—it hardens immediately. The wounds don't hurt, they don't moan, they don't wheeze—they just snap their jaws in vain.