Used to work as a news anchor, on a mediocre television channel.
Non combat skills: Zoey knows her way around several roads and places due to the nature of her former job.After war bio:
When the Angels started striking, Zoey was among the first to seek refuge. Caring more about her own flesh than her own job. She managed to get her hands on the keys to a news van and stomped on the gas pedal, cold to the fact that the screams of her deserted colleagues in their final death throes could be heard; Zoey clenched her hand around the glock her husband made her carry in her purse, for self defence; until her knuckles turned white and kept on driving.
Within a week, Zoey had abandoned her fancy civilian clothing for a more survivalistic attire. She didn't want to attract attention to her already familiar face. The news van ended up getting dumped in a ravine and she joined the first group of survivors she found, using her foxy lady methods as well as popularity to get them to trust her. Soon after, Zoey found herself stealing the group's supplies and deserting them, taking as much as she could possibly fit into a hummer and driving off in the cover of the night.
This habit continued and started getting progressively addictive. Zoey started wearing more revealing clothing and playing the part of the defenceless and vulnerable lady so she could repeat this plan of hers. Anyone wise enough would have his doubts about someone so frail could survive in such a harsh world, however every human had his own twisted ways of coping.
Zoey kept moving from state to state to avoid the hostile people she had already used, however she knew that somewhere out there people were on her tail, and she couldn't face them on her own. She had to find someone who was willing to help her, even if she had to use her persuasive methods into making him or her do so.
Present day: Zoey held her breath, mulling over what she was to do. She was out of food, drink and ammunition for her trusty silenced sniper rifle, however she couldn't afford to make any stops. They were gaining up on her; she could feel it in her bones. She chewed on her lower lip as she kept on driving, however not long after the engine of the battered motorcycle she was using died. With a sigh of annoyance she hid her motorcycle in a bush and walked slowly to a decently sized building with a sign saying "Black Hall". She hoped to find assistance or at least someone who could hide her. This is where Zoey's real journey starts.