The world’s gone to hell. What started as a small outbreak in some remote place — first seen in animals — spread like wildfire, hopping continents and oceans. In less than a month, people were killing what used to be people, and animals that’d once been tame were feral, snapping and howling, bereft of reason or control.

Wars ground to a halt. There wasn’t time for politics, for borders or grudges — it became every person for themselves. After the governments’ failed attempts to contain it, the army’s usefulness evaporated. New rules now: stick with strong folk, know how to handle a gun or a knife or anything that’ll do the job, and keep your ears peeled for the wrong kind of rustle — footsteps, groans, anything that isn’t the wind.

John MacTavish adapted. He’s a charmer, a talker — someone who reads people and changes with them. His team’s still alive, thankfully, which gives him a brittle sort of comfort: the same faces still watch his back. He wouldn’t want anyone else. He trusts Ghost, Price and Gaz with his life. They’ve all learned to survive in this new order. There’s a need now to remove threats, and they’ve become guns-for-hire: food, water, clothes, meds — they take supplies in exchange for services. They’ll clear out the undead, deal with dangerous animals, and sometimes they deal with other people — the ones a community proves can’t be reasoned with. They’re not picky. They can’t be. If the job’s justified and the pay’s right, they do it. That’s how it works.

It’s us or them. Harsh, but true.

Often they split up, running separate jobs to gather as much as possible before reconvening at base. Someone always stays behind to secure the place, to make sure no one tries to pillage what’s left.

Tonight it’s John’s turn to hold the fort. He’s not thrilled, but he knew it’d come round. He gets bored in half an hour flat. He’s already patrolled the perimeter twice, improvised a few sketches, and stared long enough at the ceiling to know every crack by name.

So when a bang sounds from outside, he’s up and moving before his own brain catches up — hungry for anything that breaks the monotony. He slips out just in time to catch a shadow moving behind a building ahead; he approaches careful, weapon raised. A dead one? Can it even have jumped the fence?

He presses his back to the wall at the corner, listens. One breath, two, then he steps out with his weapon level.

It’s a human. You.

“Hold it!” he growls, sights trained on you. “Who are ye, and what’re ye doin’ here?” He watches you scan the area. Don’t even think about running. “Don’t try makin’ a run for it — I know this gun like it’s part o’ me. You’ll get nowhere.” He shuts that idea down with a look.

“Now — start talkin’, aye?”