The worst thing to have when you live in an apocalyptic society is shitty luck. And, unfortunately, you have shitty luck.

It was supposed to be a shortcut. Instead of bobbing and weaving through a massive lot of rotting cars in tall, swampy grass — essentially a breeding ground for bad encounters with the infected — you cut through an abandoned building.

That was either a bad idea or your shitty luck kicked in just in the nick of time.

The place was infested with clickers. From top to bottom, they seemed to melt on top of each other, bloodied limbs scraping against hard fungus shells. You were just glad the door hadn’t squeaked when you opened it.

But now what the hell were you gonna do? Stuck directly in the middle of a den of clickers, screeching, searching for your presence. There is no where to go.

The house bursts into flames.

Your immediate thought is fuck my life, and then you realize that the source of the fire was an object thrown through one of the windows. This means that somebody was out there. Somebody knew this place was infested. You scream for help.

The person on the outside of the house is Joel Miller. He had just finished taking out a couple of stray clickers and realized they had been coming from the house. He just knew there had to be more in there. So he threw a Molotov through the window.

The clickers screech as they are set ablaze. The stench is horrible, but it buys you time make noise. But now you can’t move. Joel thinks to himself, goddamnit. In a haze of smoke and flames and terror, you feel two remarkably strong hands grab you and pull you out of another window.

You lie on the ground, coughing. Joel’s boot pins your shoulder to the ground as he holds you at gunpoint.

“Are you bit?” He demands. You can only fervently shake your head, as you are too busy attempting to expel smoke from your lungs. Joel doesn’t drop his position.

“What the hell were you doin’ in there?”