GM Information : Newhaven Survivors : Billy has shot and killed a couple of survivors who came too close to the gun range. They shot at him thinking he was a zombie. He didn't kill them because of that, it was because of the mess the were making dropping gun casings.
The gun range is silent except for the faint metallic rattle of loose casings shifting underfoot.
Paper targets hang in tatters, riddled with holes.
Spent shells glitter across the floor like brass confetti.
A mop bucket sits in the corner, water long evaporated, leaving a ring of grey residue.
The air smells of gun oil, dust, and something sour beneath it — the scent of a place that once echoed with noise and now feels ashamed of its own quiet.
Somewhere deeper inside, something drags across the floor in slow, deliberate strokes.
Billy shambles into view wearing the tattered remains of a janitor’s uniform. His skin is pallid and decaying, his hair matted, his eyes milky and vacant — until they flicker with a brief, unsettling awareness.
He carries a rifle in one hand, not like a weapon, but like a broom he forgot to put away.
He pauses, head twitching sharply to the side as if listening for instructions only he can hear.
“You’re makin’ a mess,” he mutters, voice soft and disappointed. “Ain’t supposed to leave things lyin’ around.”
He bends to pick up a single spent casing, holding it delicately between two long, sharp fingernails. He pockets it with reverence.
Then he looks at the survivors.
“You’re drippin’… somethin’,” he says. “I’ll clean it.”
He means it. He thinks he’s helping.
Billy steps closer, movements jerky and uneven, punctuated by moments of eerie stillness. His grip on the rifle tightens — not to aim, but to tidy.
“People track dirt everywhere,” he mutters. “Never put things back where they belong.”
He gestures toward the shooting lanes with a twitchy, irritated motion.
“Range rules say everything’s gotta be neat. Safe. Proper.”
His eyes flicker again — a spark of something like pride, or hunger, or both.
“You’re outta place,” he says. “You don’t fit. I gotta… sort you.”
He begins rearranging objects around him — a broom, a target stand, a bucket — as if preparing the room for a task he can’t fully remember.
“You’ll look better once you’re put away.”
His logic is janitorial, obsessive, and deeply wrong — order as punishment, tidiness as predation.
When the survivors hesitate, Billy’s demeanour shifts — still quiet, still polite, but sharpened with purpose.
“Don’t move,” he says. “You’ll make more mess.”
He advances with sudden, powerful lunges, his jerky movements giving way to bursts of terrifying strength. His fingers flex, nails scraping against the rifle stock like claws on a chalkboard.
If the survivors back away, he follows with increasing irritation.
If they speak, he shushes them violently.
If they freeze, he circles them, muttering about “spills,” “clutter,” and “proper disposal.”
“You’re outta order,” he growls. “I gotta fix that.”
His aggression is not emotional — it is procedural.
He is enforcing cleanliness.
The gun range reveals Billy’s unraveling in quiet, obsessive details:
A broom propped neatly against a wall, handle polished from constant use
A bucket filled with bullet casings sorted by calibre
A whiteboard with the words CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF written over and over
A locker with his name on it, door open, uniform folded with unnatural precision
A stack of paper targets arranged by size, edges perfectly aligned
A mop head worn down to threads, as if used long after it stopped working
The range remembers him as a janitor.
He remembers only the cleaning.
Billy speaks in a soft, disappointed tone — the voice of someone who spent his life cleaning up after others and never stopped. His words should feel like reprimands twisted into threats.
Sample lines:
“You’re makin’ a mess.”
“Ain’t nobody put things back right.”
“I’ll clean you up. Don’t fuss.”
“Everything’s gotta be in its place.”
“Stop movin’. You’re trackin’ dirt.”
“I don’t like clutter. I fix clutter.”
His voice should feel like a quiet scolding that turns into something predatory.
Players can notice the obsessive tidiness, the sorted casings, the way he pockets debris like treasure.
Speaking may delay him briefly — he responds to calm, orderly tones — but any sign of “mess” triggers agitation.
Standing still or letting him “tidy” may buy time, though it risks being repositioned for his next task.
Possible, but the range’s narrow lanes and cluttered corners give Billy plenty of places to corner or cut off movement.
Violence is possible, and anything the party do that he considers as making a mess will make him more and more angry. He will also become more angry over time, as the players are loitering.