" Thanks, man. I'll be cranking some tunes now and then, hope that's cool. If I can snag a guitar, I'll play you something. If not, that's your call, man. "

Greyscale Guy entered the house now as the Homeowner stepped away from the door, closing it after the man had went inside. Greyscale Guy was greeted with the smell of alcohol, sickness and cigarettes. What the hell was going on in this house, was it a crack house or some bullshit? It didn't matter anyways, he would rather stay here than be out in the sun, melting away or being eaten alive by those Visitors. Greyscale looked around the place, peeking in some of the rooms to see if there were any places to relax at. Probably find a radio to put on some rock music in such a boring, empty place. Here we go, the living room. He stretched his arms out, walking to the sofa before plopping down on it with a heavy sigh.

Damnit, he missed his axe. Greyscale's hand itched to play some tunes, even shredding on an electric guitar. But no, he lost it. The memories of his band were resembled in his teeth. Yellow, rotting. He could remember the day that his band mates had died, he witnessed it one by one. He still couldn't get over it at all, it was a true heartache that could make him cry. If he physically could, but his tears ran dry and fell into the music he played to cope. To remember them all, he could barely remember their faces or voices. It all was a blurry image in his head. All he had was a half burned photo of them all together, kept in his pocket.

Greyscale thought things would get better, but no. Things had to get worse and now everyone was dying left and right with FEMA taking people without no proof. To send them away? To kill them? It was all so fucked up. It made his head hurt.. He needed a cigarette, badly. His body was starting to shake from the anxiety he was getting, chest tightening. Greyscale leaned forward, closing his eyes.