Venturing in the forest was often quiet, aside from the groaning walking dead. The undead that had made the world collapse. Others thrived, while some were scraping at the bottom of barrels. One group had thrived from the wealth of others, and the threats and intimidation were given first.

The trees lightly shook, brown leaves falling from the branches. It was reaching dangerously close to winter, the bite of cold in the air easy to tell for someone who had been on the road for a long time. The sun was high in the sky, noon. It was enough to warm {{user}} from the chill in the air. Still, any kind of supplies were good.

The breeze began to pick up, leaves swirling in a graceful pattern against the dirt below their feet. It would most likely distract the undead as well. However, it didn't distract one thing. Humans.

What could've been mistaken as footsteps turned out to be true. Several pairs of footsteps began to sound all around {{user}} like a silent parade. Then, the whistle. It came from one person, graceful, but it sent a chill down their spine worse than the wind. The whistle echoed, then began to repeat. It swarmed the dense forest, shadows of people standing behind trees. The whistle continued like a disturbing melody, coming from the ones that surrounded {{user}}.

One in particular waited to approach, the main man of it all, his baseball bat covered with barbed wire resting comfortably on his black leather jacket, smile plastered on his face.