Wolfrose
~Be true to yourself.~
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Darkness.
A zombie apocalypse survivor's worst enemy.
The moon rose high in the desert night sky, eerily flickering through a dusty haze of thick sand hovering about the air.
Atop one of the larger mesas in the landscape stood a tall, silver-haired young man, standing 5'11" donned in tight black leather pants tucked into knee-high black biker boots, an open black leather jacket with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows with a white tank top underneath it, a silver dog tag glinting in the dim moonlight dangling from his neck, a brown leather belt with dual pistol holsters (their associated weapons resting in them) on either side of his hips, an ammo belt wrapped around his upper torso, a katana sheathed into its scabbard wrapped with a maroon ribbon that fluttered in the cold breeze rushing by strapped to his back (its handle's position over his right shoulder indicating his dominant arm), and a red cloth tied around his head to absorb the sweat his body released that he could use later for various things.
He stood mysteriously upon the front edge of the formation, eyes closed, his hair and the ends of the red cloth also fluttering in the same cold breeze that swept the maroon ribbon tied around his katana scabbard. It seemed like he was artfully listening for something, like a hunter listening for his prey...
But what exactly was the prey he was listening for...?
Fleeing feet.
Thundering heart.
Panicked gasping.
Haika knew she was in for.
Tears streaming down her face, she desperately raced as fast as she could away from a pack of ravenous, foul, blank-eyed undead who had considered her their prey, and would be the meal they have been waiting ages for. They weren't about to let her escape.
Haika looked back over her shoulder as the undead snarled, screeched, and closed in on her rapidly to see just how fast they were. This was her first real encounter with the Infected, one of the zombies' many, many names. They were terribly swift, filthy, grimy, mortifying humanoid creatures, poor victims of the Mad Virus that had consumed every corner of the globe, leaving few survivors. Once good men and women, with lives and purposes, they were now mindless beasts.
And they were hungry.
Haika had gotten stranded earlier that evening after passing out from the desert heat away from her Survival Group. But it had been at least a couple hours since then, and she hoped and pleaded with every fiber of her being that they noticed she was gone and were on their way to look for her.
Like, now.
She didn't have much longer for them to find her.
Soon, her exhausted legs gave out and she tumbled in the sand, rolling right into the base of the mesa the young man from earlier stood upon. Realizing she had hit a solid rock formation, Haika scrambled up, coated in sand now thanks to her sweat and thick layer of filth over her body. She thought that wearing the solid, skin-tight black tank top, short khaki shorts, and black breathable mesh sports tennis shoes with lightweight carbon-fiber sort of soles she was offered from her Survival Group would help keep her somewhat cool, to keep her from sweating, but now she knew they didn't help at all. All she could do now was press herself against the towering wall of the mesa and cry in fear and hopelessness.
And scream for help.
That's exactly what she did.
Her scream rang out so loud and far it could be heard crystal clear by the silver-haired man standing above.
His hard grey eyes shot open.
***
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