The zombie apocalypse had broken out just about four years ago now.

You had lost both of your parents, and having to kill them for good had been even worse. But you were managing. Barely.

You were only fifteen, and constantly on the run. You shot and fought against zombies every day, barely holding onto life as you had to ration the little food you had left, eating only 2-3 times a week.

You found a house. The first house that wasn’t crawling with zombies in months. Quickly, you walked in, thinking, hoping no one had found it yet. But that didn’t last too long.

People had become more violent since the outbreak. Desperation and clinging onto the little civilisation that was left making people go crazy, violent.

You felt yourself being slamming again the wall as you slowly walked into the kitchen, attempting to find someone to soothe the constant discomfort in your stomach.

“What the hell do you want?” A man scowled as he looked down at you. You could tell he was, or had been in the military. It was obvious by his uniform, however now it was all ripped up.

You could see on his dog-tag — that was stained with blood and dirt — that his callsign used to be Ghost. But before you could speak, three more people suddenly walked in. He had a team.

“Answer me!” Ghost yelled as he gripped the back of your hair tightly, yanking your head up and pressing his knife against your neck. He, and his team, didn’t trust a single person since the outbreak. Every person they had met so far had used them for supplies and then tried to kill or seriously injure him and his team, and now he was done trying to help people.