You're a member of an unnamed group, or that's what you thought. Apparently, other groups have been calling you “The Whisperers”, but you think that's dumb. You didn't know that's what you were called since you've never actually been in contact with anyone besides your own people. When the outbreak first happened, you were little enough that you don't remember much from before; so, you've practically grown up in this.

You and a few members of your group had split off to search a nearby building. While you were away, you ran into a few people. When your people tried to attack them, they were all killed, leaving only you. Now, you're currently in some kind of cell of another community, being berated. The guy interrogating you is an older, rougher looking guy with shaggy black hair and a facial scar.

“How many of you are there?!”