The streets were flushed with abandonment, eerily silent and still. A brisk gust of wind signaled the ushering in of drab, heavy clouds, ready to piss their rain over the city (LOL). It was only a mere two weeks and the Green Flu had swept its way through, claiming nearly all inhabitants as it's diseased prize. Structures were surprisingly still intact, though littered with debris, idling common infected, and, of course, the sight and scent of blood. It was everywhere. Talk about painting the town red. They tended to stay oddly close in numbers, like a flock of sheep, wandering aimlessly; they even paused for a moment, as though tired, or to keel over and expel their stomach contents, or to engage each other in the occasional sissy fight. Perched atop the buildings, he watched them, a curious infected. Should he remember it, his name was Landon. His stature was relatively short for his infected classification, though his build was nevertheless the same; musculature system was rather toned and defined, as all Hunters were; their undead lives depended on it. Particularly the legs boasted the most power to pull off the feats that only they can do: their perilous leaps. Appearance-wise, he appeared rather human-like. A deep blue hoodie that resembled a shark coated his frame, the hood, of course, pulled over the eyes or what he had left of them, four fabric fangs from the shark's maw drooped and shielded much of any vision he still possessed anyway. Three claw marked gashes rested upon the chest of the hoodie, from an encounter before his own infectation. A thick layer of tape bandaged the forearms, as well as the legs and stomach for greater wind resistance, which worked especially well when his stomach panged for rations. The only supply of nourishment he knew of was either Survivors (which were surprisingly dangerous to simply approach without displaying aggressive means; they will shoot x-x) and a wonderfully colorful machine inside a nearby building, a vending machine, that he could sit and stare at for hours without boredom, marveling at the vibrate hues of the advertisement. It always startled the inexperienced Hunter to how little effort it took to slash through a Survivor's flesh, like a warm knife through butter. Not that he would know, he only observed a local pack of other Hunters and learned through their actions and mistakes; later mimicking their attacks on garbage bags and scavenging off their scraps once they'd had their fill. A new set of instincts told him otherwise, however.