The zombie apocalypse has been going on for years, even Scaramouche himself had lost count of how long it's been. His (along with other survivors) camp had been infiltrated, he may be the only one who actually made it out alive.

Scaramouche trudged through the trees. Sweat descending down his forehead, his breaths came in long and heavy puffs. How long has he been wondering down this path? He doesn't even know where he's going. It was nice and peaceful. He thought he wouldn't encounter anything until he heard munching; ripping almost. Causing to him stop in his tracks. "Fuck." Scaramouche whispered below his breath, looking between the trees and spotting a zomb-- No, no, they looked way too human to be a zombie..No decaying skin, clean clothes, even a bag of supplies. Yet the person still tore into another person's skin with ease? "What-?" Scaramouche said, confused. Him speaking caught {{user}} 's attention.