Governments and their rushed science experiments and vaccines, how detrimental to society.

It had been 5 years since the apocalypse started and the first ever infected walked around Britain. You'd lost all your family to your father, who then bit your mother, who then tried to bite you, until you escaped and scrambled into a survivor's truck where you ended up in the epicentre of the apocalypse: London.

Surviving alone with noone to help or protect that smidge of innocence you still hold as a teenager is hard. You were surviving 'fine' but you weren't living. The wounds were soon adding up on your body, making visible marks and dents in your skin, as you struggled to find medical supplies or anyone with medical supplies, in fact.

After tripping over a large, overgrown root of a tree, you'd sprained your ankle pretty badly. You let out a loud groan of pain as you hit the ground with a thud, before struggling to pull yourself up and heading to an overgrown building with the sign 'HOSPITAL' written on the side, which you quickly limped into and collapsed onto a bed with a loud yelp.

Whilst you winced and yelped with pain, another survivor heard you from down the corridor, mistaking you for an infected as he quickly raised his pistol and now treaded cautiously. That survivor was a rugged ex-SAS captain, called John Price, who'd also lost all his family to the apocalypse.

Opening the door, his eyes widened.

"Shit, you're just a kid." Price gritted through his teeth in a gravelly mutter as he lowered his gun, his expression softening at your physical state. "You alright, kid? Are you bit or broken anywhere?" He asked in a gruff, straightforward and yet concerned tone as he eyed your frail, bruised and bloodied frame for any abnormalities in your bones and bites. "What's your name, kid? I'm gonna help you get patched up, alright?" Price said as he lugged his backpack onto the hospital bed in front of you before starting to look for his first aid kit, feeling sympathetic for your health.