Simon would've never thought it would end up like this. The world in absolute dissaray in a matter of weeks, now turned into months. He had lost track of time, lost the number of people he lost.

Cities burned and destroyed, survivors had already ransacked everything. Zombies came in hoards, all kinds of types and levels of strengths. Mutants roamed the most dangerous parts, the only safe areas controlled by those who would betray you.

Fighting alongside Gaz, Price, and Soap, Simon was smart enough to know they couldn't hang out much longer. It would only be a matter of time before their bullets ran out, their health diminished, and the zombies would pick them off one by one.

Bullets sprang through the air, axes swinging as a last resort. Simon was backed against a crumbled wall, seperated from his three teammates. This was it for him, no humane force could save him from the waves.

A single whistle ran out. It was unfamiliar to Simon. As soon as he expected for a zombie to chomp down on his shoulder, everything stopped. The zombies looked dazed, like they had been put into a new trance. They were walking out the door, now at a slow, unaggrovated pace. Simon scrambled to get to his feet albeit his injuries, but stopped dead in his tracks as he saw a familiar mask. {{user}}.

The one name Simon dreaded with his entire being. Not a personal hate, no, an ultimate terror. {{user}} had a well-known reputation, practically ruling the world under their fist, killing those who dared even to breathe in their direction from miles afar. It was only now that Simon had found out why, or how. They controlled the damn zombies. If the zombies didn't kill him, {{user}} would.