[hider=Werner Coetzee]
[b]Name: [/b]Werner Coetzee

[b]Age:[/b]28

[b]Occupation:[/b] Mechanic and wheelman

[b]Family: [/b]Charlize Coetzee (Mother, deceased), Father (Unknown), Florenda Marino (Ex-girlfriend)

[b]Appearance:[/b]
[center][img=http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kZgMM0w8S6k/TU02GJx4N5I/AAAAAAAAJ5M/UKBb4CHcWBw/s1600/Tobias%2BSorensen%2B-%2BUnknown%2B01.jpg][/center]
Werner stands at 6’1 weighing in at 185 lbs, with broad shoulders and lean muscle, accentuated further by an almost complete lack of body fat from a poor diet in the last nine months. His hands are rough and strong from a life of working on his vehicles, but still manage more delicate work. Werner’s right pinkie finger is missing from the first knuckle up, leaving a rounded stump. Most of his body is a mess of scars and tattoos accumulated over time, some faded, and others very new. While many might consider scars to be attractive, few would consider those that mar Werner’s skin very appealing. Most are non-uniform splashes of rough flesh from burns or road rash, but a few, like the two that dig into his cheek, have been acquired through other means. Where there are no scars, Werner has filled his skin with large and elegant tattoos, none with any deep meaning, just art.

Werner wears lace-up brown leather boots, slim-fitting jeans, a black thermal shirt beneath his grey leather jacket, [url=https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/shopping?q=tbn:ANd9GcTKArZq6khm6kEzXtJnQskUyAIVuFLnZEpvhmPWp92ptfQoRTSeabI_mfABtmtrG4eWtAzg8kNs&usqp=CAY] mechanix gloves[/url], and a pair of cheap wayfarer sunglasses. Werner also wears a worn coyote brown shemagh around his neck, the only keepsake he owns from his father.

[b]Blood Type:[/b] O-

[b]Immune:[/b] No

[b]Bio:[/b] Werner Coetzee never really had much of a chance at a normal life. His mother, Charlize, was a young woman who left her home to earn her fame as a showgirl in Las Vegas. The naive girl was quickly seduced by a young man with a passion for cars, who later came to be Werner’s father. His father left Charlize, never knowing she was pregnant, forcing her to bear the full burden of an infant son with no means of an income and no family in Vegas. Without any other option, Werner’s mother resorted to prostitution in order to feed her child, often neglecting her own health for his. Much to Charlize’s disappointment, Werner slid through school with few interests, barely passing his classes. He deeply yearned to know his father’s identity, but was only told that his dad’s hobby was working on vehicles. 

Seeking a connection to his absent father, Werner took this to the extreme, revolving his whole world around engines. From a young age, he worked in a ratty mechanic’s shop, absorbing everything he could about the rugged vehicles that came into the garage. When he turned 16, his first action was to purchase a dirt bike, which he rode constantly both on road and off with fervent zeal. Werner dropped out of high school his final year when his mother died of AIDs, the virus acting very rapidly on her already weakened body. Seeing no future for him in his hometown, he moved to Los Angeles with nothing but his bike and the clothes on his back, similar to his mother. His goals, however, were a little more realistic. With his vast knowledge of vehicles, Werner found a job in a decent mechanic shop within the city run by an older man named Luke. The aged mechanic, witnessing Werner’s skills as a driver on race tracks, recognized his unique skill set and offered him a different type of employment in addition to working in his shop. Luke suggested that Werner serve as a getaway driver for criminals on occasion, knowing several men within the criminal network. Luke told Werner that in his youth, he did the same, and saw the same abilities in him. Werner reluctantly took the job, for his mother instilled a strong sense of morals in him, but he was desperately hurting for cash. He slowly sank into the criminal world, building a modest reputation for himself, but still retaining his strong morals. 

At 24, Werner met a beautiful Italian woman of the same age at the mechanic shop when she took her beat-up car in. Having no vehicle for the night, Werner gave her a ride home and learned her name was Florenda Marino, and, like his mother, she sought fame in Hollywood. The two quickly developed an intimate relationship, with Werner constantly urging Florenda to pursue her dreams, as if to redeem his mother’s failed ones. Despite Werner’s relatively quiet disposition, the couple seemed to be made for each other. Unfortunately, after three years, Florenda broke off their relationship. She always feared he was involved in criminal activity. The apartment, while modest, was much nicer than what a mechanic could afford. Some nights, Werner would be out until the next morning, though he never reeked of booze as one would expect. She realized just how dangerous he was when he burst into their apartment with a gunshot wound to his shoulder and hastily pried the bullet out, asking her to stitch the open hole. Florenda helped him, then promptly packed her bags and left. The last time he saw the woman, her stomach was looking slightly larger than usual, but he thought nothing of it.

Werner continued his life without Florenda, though with less enthusiasm and ambition. He began questioning his life as a criminal, albeit a fairly tame one, and if it was one he could truly be proud of. Luke, however, was practically a father to him, and constantly encouraged his illegal career, so he stuck with his life as a wheelman. In the back of his mind, though, Werner felt he should become something greater than a glorified criminal. One day, a small package was delivered to the mechanic’s apartment filled with his mother’s belongings, sent by the current occupant of his run-down childhood home. He found a photo of his mother with a man whose features were very similar to his, and Werner assumed this man to be his father. He also found an unsent letter with an address in Missouri, and upon opening it discovered it was meant to be sent to his father. With these items in tow, the mechanic took a vacation and headed to Missouri in search of his dad. A few months into his search, the whole world seemed to go to shit. Survival quickly took over as a priority, but he is still searching for his father despite the chaos around him, despite the slim odds of him even being alive.

Personality: Werner doesn't ever really say much. He’s a very reserved and calm man for the most part, only speaking when needed. Werner isn’t shy, he's simply a man of few words. He is much more content to stand and listen during the conversation, absorbing everything like a sponge. Ironically, he hates being alone, and is much more comfortable in the presence of others. Werner is exceptional at reading emotions since he focuses on others so much, but has a difficult time expressing his own feelings. While he speaks with good grammar, his vocabulary is pretty limited, exhibiting his lack of a proper education. His knowledge rarely extends outside of mechanics, but he displays a very deep understanding of the entire subject.

Despite being a criminal, Werner is a reasonably moral man. He doesn't steal, take advantage of women, and keeps his vices in check. Outside of his job as a wheelman, Werner always tries to make good choices, though sometimes he fails in this endeavor. He is quick to recognize mistakes, however, and does his best to learn from them. That being said, there is a much darker side to him that few see. When backed into a corner, he is willing to do whatever is needed to survive, and these actions sometimes disturb him afterwards. 

Werner is generally a very trusting and kind man, going out of his way to help others when possible. Those who are very close to him, such as Luke and Florenda, however, have his undying loyalty. He would do anything for those within this circle, even if it meant risking his own life. 

[b]Gear:[/b] 
29” Crowbar
Original Colt M1911 in a shoulder holster, one mag in the pistol and two in each pants pocket
KA-BAR strapped to belt
Black Northface Recon backpack containing:
Light blanket
Spare clothes
Tooth brush, tooth paste, travel-sized shampoo
2 canned chili 
2 plastic bottled water
Small tool kit
Zippo lighter
Field cleaning kit
Knife sharpener
Multitool 
Duct tape
550 Para Cord
4-Cell LED Maglite
Map of Missouri
Crumpled photo of parents

[b]Strengths:[/b]
Work Horse: Years of wrenching away and working out has built up some persistent muscle in Werner’s body.
Wheelman: Werner is an outstanding driver, capable of operating any vehicle put in front of him with ease.
Grease Monkey: With more than a decade of experience working on cars, Werner is able to repair almost anything with a motor in it. 

[b]Weaknesses:[/b]
Desert Denizen: Werner’s body is accustomed to the Southwest’s warm climate, and suffers in Missouri’s winter. He is more susceptible to illness and general sluggishness from the cold. 
Old Injuries: A motorcycle accident years ago shattered Werner’s left knee, and while it has healed, long stints of jogging/running will cause him significant pain.
High School Dropout: Werner dropped out of school at the age of 18 and never was the brightest pupil, so his knowledge is limited to cars and little else.
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[hider=Writing Sample]
Viscous crimson blood slowly fell from the sharpened tip of the rusty screwdriver, landing on the smooth dirt floor before blossoming into the packed soil. The makeshift shank was soon to follow, the thick fingers wrapped around its grip almost prying themselves free. Bits of flesh that clung to the weapon were shaken off as it hit the ground, the small shockwave stirring up a small plume of earth. A veritable dust storm followed as a ragged body fell nearby, rivers of violet gore flowing freely from gaping incisions in his neck. A portrait of both surprise and gruesome pain filled the struggling man’s facial expressions, his wild eyes fixated on the straw ceiling overhead. Feeble hands clutched at his neck, but there was no stopping the torrential flood of blood escaping his body. As darkness slowly invaded his fading vision, he was met with a face. Not one of an enemy, but of a friend, or so he had believed. This traitor’s expression, twisted in guilt and sadness, was the last the dying man saw before his hands, covered in deep, festering bite marks, fell limp at his sides.

 Abduwali staggered back away from his friend’s corpse, watching in horror as his life ebbs away. The young African felt what little food he had eaten in the morning work its way out of his convulsing throat, tightening and loosening, before the contents of his stomach spilled onto the ground. He wiped his mouth and briefly looked to the man he once called his brother, Hufan. Abduwali glanced back at the body, his eyes filled with tears, before fleeing the hut.

They were cutting through the dense African jungle, machetes in hand, carving what seemed to be a never-ending road. The sun burned into the men’s naked backs, turned coal black from constant exposure to its rays. Sweat ran down their faces in rivers, the massive canopy capsulating the morning heat. Abduwali turned to his brother, who was slicing through the dense grass and vines with ease, a harsh grunt accompanying each swing. The two brothers, along with the 18 others who accompanied them, were part of the Uganda People’s Defence Force, currently occupied with blazing a trail which would link two tribal villages so the communities could trade commodities, and later a trade route would be built to a larger city. In theory, the plan was brilliant, but as the dangers of the all-consuming African wildness dwindled the men’s numbers, many started having second thoughts. Just as the sun was setting and darkness set over the green forest, the trees began to thin out, revealing a small cluster of huts positioned near a muddy river. The tired soldiers let out a cheer and despite their exhaustion, ran to the tribe, where they were met with much hospitality. 

Abduwali, Hufan, and the other men settled down around a roaring fire and feasted on fish stew while the villagers entertained them with the story of their tribe. Abduwali was particularly intrigued by the village’s deities, having studied tribal religions in his school. He knew that despite the ludicrousy of the stories, many of them had a true parallel. Hufan, on the other hand, simply feigned interest while he buried his face into the food like a rabid dog. The women and children eventually returned to their huts as the lubisi, a type of strong fermented drink, was passed around amongst men. Suddenly, the tribe’s chief, an intimidating man with corded muscle and a great beard, stood up and spoke. “Have you men ever seen Death before?” His voice was low and serious, his heavy brow lying low on his angular features.

The slightly intoxicated soldiers exchanged glances, a strange fear taking over them. Abduwali replied,”All of us have. We’re soldiers, even if we build roads now.”

The chieftain shook his head. “No, I speak of Ogbunabali, God of Death. He is here, in this very village. Come, let me show you.”

The soldiers were hesitant to follow, but fearing that they might offend their host, the group obliged. The chief, along with three other tribals armed with long spears and torches, led the soldiers away from the village and to the mouth of a small cave in the side of a cliff. “Come, come,” the chief urged as he ducked into the dark cave. Abduwali was the first soldier to enter, followed by his brother, though they both soon regretted this. A ghoulish moaning echoed through the walls, the exact source not detectable. It was human, but the voice undoubtedly belonged to a tortured soul. The smell that accompanied it, the sweet stench of rotting flesh, filled the air just as much as the pained groans. Panic gripped a few of the soldiers, who fled the cave entirely. The two men carrying torches entered, illuminating the nightmarish contents of the small cavern. Tucked away in the corner was a small wooden cage containing what was left of a man after years of decomposition in a humid environment. In life, the man might have been 25 years old, with voluminous black hair, lean muscle, and a rounded face. Now, that muscle was exposed to open air as his skin seemed to rot off in hunks which sat at the bottom of the cage. The skin he did have was slate grey, and hung loosely on his frame. Where his eyes once would have been were empty orbits that still seemed to fixate themselves on the visitors. The caged man’s jaw moved in a grinding motion as he moaned, revealing jagged black teeth. His slender fingers grasped the wood around him and weakly rattled as he heard the group grow nearer. “This, my friends, is Ogbunabali. This is Death,” The chieftain said in reverence. “In life, he was named Busingye, but that was long ago. Once he was bitten by another possessed by Ogbunabali, his spirit was casted from his body, replaced with the essence of Death. Any whom he feasts on share this fate as well,” the chieftain continued. “Though he takes the shape of man, do not be fooled. Ogbunabali feels no pain, and does not fear death like you or me.”

As if on command, one of the tribe members thrusted his spear into the man’s stomach much to the horror of the soldiers. The spear was retracted, and no response was present in the man even as his intestines were partially pulled from his body. “There is one way the afflicted can escape this tortured life. One hour after being bitten, they must be killed, else they will walk the world eternally in the form of Ogbunabali,” the chieftain finished.

Neither Abduwali nor Hufan slept well in their hut that night. “Abduwali, how can they do that to a man?” Hufan whispered harshly from his bed. “Something must be done.” Even growing up, Hufan had been the one controlled by his emotions, rather than thinking rationally like his brother. 

“Do you want us all to be killed?” Abduwali replied cooly. “We can help the man later, but for now, just go with what the tribe believes.” Hufan did not reply, and Abduwali fell into an uneasy slumber.

Abduwali awoke a few hours later as he heard blood curdling screams outside his hut. He quickly grabbed the nearest object to him, a rusted screwdriver, and instinctively prepared to defend himself. A figure burst through the door, and Abduwali almost attacked him, but he screamed,”Wait Abu! It is me, Hufan!” The use of his childhood nickname verified that it was indeed his brother.

Abduwali let out a sigh of relief, though the adrenaline rushing through his body had not yet left. “Hufan, what’s going on outside?”

“It was an accident Abu… I tried to help that man in the cave, but as soon as I got him out, the bastard bit me on the hand,” Hufan replied, his voice wavering. “Now he’s in town, and the villagers can’t find him. Its almost like he’s hunting us.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long has it been since you were bit?”

Hufan turned around, looking out the door as the villagers dispersed in panic. “Maybe an hour?”

It was not long after that Abduwali drove the screwdriver into his own brother’s throat. He burst out the hut, eyes filled with tears, and sprinted out of the village, his bare callused feet pounding against the soft, wet grass. Even as his breath grew ragged, Abduwali didn’t stop running until he was halfway through the trail from village to village, where the screaming was far behind him. His pace fell to a staggering walk, his lungs on fire and brain deprived of oxygen. The soldier fell to the ground, the intrusive noises of the jungle slowly fading away as his vision did the same.

Abduwali awoke as the sun rose, feeling weak with illness. He looked to his hands, covered in open sores from cutting through the forest and the blood of his brother before making his way to his feet and continuing the long trek to the other village. His pace was uneasy, and putting one foot before the other seemed like an impossible task, but he finally made it to the more civilized village. Abduwali’s mind, now numb with fever, didn’t even think to alert the tribe of the approaching threat from the north. As he shuffled mindlessly through the village center, surrounded by the men and women of the community, he felt a small hand tug at his pants, and looked down to see a young boy, naked from the waist up, holding a crumpled photo. “Is this yours?” The boy said in a small voice, holding the photo up to Abduwali. He took the picture and brought it up to his eyes, where he made out a large family, including two twins sitting at the front. Those two were Abduwali and his brother. The photo must have slipped out of his pocket as he made his way through town. Tears ran down Abduwali’s face as he rubbed his bloodied thumb against the photo. His vision narrowed for one last time, his eyes catching sight of his brother before completely failing.
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