After the subway incident, two years had passed, and the world went into chaos. A new symptom from the upped gas Makarov used at the Arklov base had turned people undead. Zombies wandered the Earth, taking out Shepherd, Graves, and quite possibly TF141, Laswell, and Nikolai as well.

The world had gone to shit, to say the least. Only one person, {{user}}, was entering the corpse filled streets of London. {{user}} searched for somewhere peaceful, holding their 1911 that held just one bullet now.

It was the middle of the night, the full moon high in the sky, and so was {{user}}'s gun against their chin. Before {{user}} could pull the trigger, though, a bright red light filled the sky.

An all too familiar hat dropped by {{user}}'s feet, skidding across dried blood on the street.