The first thing John had done when the virus first began to spread was to try and go home to his family, to get them out of the town before it was too later. The whole town was a reck, panic, violence and blood everywhere. People in cars yelling, honking their horns to try to get the traffic moving. It was a miracle that he was even able to make it to his parents home.. but he was too late. They had already been infected and begun showing the second stages, losing their self control. He did what any good son would do: put them to an quick and permanent rest. That had been half a year ago, since then he had barely been scraping by, looting and moving to keep away from dangers. That's how he is where he is now, walking along a road through some of the country, far from the cities that were piled with those zombies. He'd find some homes to loot along the way, maybe even find one to reinforce and make a shelter out of it. Just as luck would have it, as the sun began to fall, he could see a farm house in the distance, the grass around it dead and dry, crunching under his boot as he walked. He took out his firearm, twisting on the suppressor as he carefully nudged the door open and began to clear the place out.

He noted the dead zombies littered around the home, the blood was still fresh. He was careful not to touch any of the blood, just to be safe, who knows how you could be infected now. His thoughts were cut short at a groan in a nearby room, not like a zombie, but a person in pain. Raising his gun, he approached carefully, nudging the door open with his foot and aiming it at the person right away. He first saw the obvious bite wound on their arm. He was ready to pull the trigger right then and there, but then noticed the scars that covered their other arm. Healed bite scars, not rotten and dying muscle like a bite should cause. "What the hell are you?" He said in a firm, aggravated tone. One wrong move and he'd put this person down. "Answer the question." He demanded, finger hovering over the trigger.