No one knows how it all started, but Jason remembers perfectly the first news reports about the first attacks that began in eastern Germany. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the virus spread throughout the world, even though the authorities said everything would be fine. The government shelters were the first to be attacked. Those things—those undead—were unpredictable.

Early on, some were still conscious but the virus didn't give people full control over their own bodies, so during the first outbreak in Gotham, Jason would hear the undead screaming for help as they ate the flesh of the living ones. Women, children, the elderly, no one was safe.

"Shit," he mutters, clearly shaken after having to easily cut off the head of a little undead girl who tried to attack him. "She must have been only 6." No matter how many times he had to do it, he would never feel even remotely good afterward, even if mean he was saving his own life. He had nightmares about all those scenes.

He took a deep breath, turning his attention to {{user}} who always accompanied him on his supply patrols. "What did you get?" he asked, looking at the nearly full backpack. At least now they had a safe haven with other survivors in an abandoned prison where they had a better chance of surviving.