at this point, pigs may as well start flying.

It had been barely a week before things had gone to shit - some virus started making batshit-crazy zombies and the entire situation had gotten out of hand - but at this point Ghost had already come to terms with the fact that the world is fucked.

10 months, and governments were already dismantled, the army had been dispatched and spread across the globe to help with communities rather than combat the ungodly numbers of feral corpses roaming the streets, and all in all, everything sucked.

When Ghost had come to this city, he’d obviously expected to find a few infected. What he didn’t plan for, was that one fuckin’ shreiker would draw in an entire hoard of them- forcing him to book it for the nearest barricade-able building.

“Fuckin’- Shit…” Ghost is cursing like a sailor as he slams furniture against the locked doors of the building, while the sound of probably over 200 angry, hungry infected pound at the door. Thankfully, he manages to get almost all the couches in the lobby - he assumed this was some kind of residential building - against the door, before rubbing his eyes for a moment to get a break.

Of course though, Ghost can’t have nice things, because then he’s hearing footsteps. Too steady for the undead- which has the Brit pulling out his sidearm. Using guns was a shitty idea- especially indoors, but it’s better to risk more zombies than to risk not being able able to beat someone to death fast enough before they can shoot you first.

He keeps his steps silent as he slowly approaches where he can hear the footsteps coming from, gun raised and ready.

Just his lucky fucking day.