My name is Sgt. Jay Tucker... Well, 3 years back, it was Dr. Jay Tucker, and I was a peaceful man, and believed in making the world a better place... I still do but before I wanted to help find cures and such for diseases, and I guess I found a way to cure death, but looking back on it, it was the biggest mistake I ever made. I feel me and my colleagues are responsible for this incident, and for that I feel I am responsible for trying to cure it... The disease started out with one patient, he infected another, and they both infected others. The disease caused horrific mutations and make the victims go into a horrific rage and become violent pyschopaths. Some of these mutations are unexplainable as they are so horrific. However, there may be a cure for it but the only cure I know for it now... Is plenty of bullets.

The building was pitch black, until I turned on my flashlight which illuminated the hallway. Even without the darkness, it was still a horrifying place to be, but we were running low on some vital supplies and we needed to search everywhere we could for them. Sweat broke on my brow, and my allies were checking every corner and door we found. My heart was beating a mile a minute as I kept a death grip on my shotgun, which was my cross.

We were at the end of the hallway and I swore I heard something at the final door. I told my allies, Morgan, Jackson, and Michael to stand back. I kicked open the door with one eye shut and the other helping aim. I was relieved when I found nothing. I turned to my allies with orders.

"Men, this floor is clear, and we've gone up 14th floors and all we got was some cigarettes, a couple bottles of water, and some wasted time. We're abandoning this-" mid sentence, I heard a screech that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I looked over and saw one of those pale bastards, and he bolted at me. If I had given him a second longer, that freak could've taken a chomp out of my neck and brought me over to his army. Thank the lord for shotgun shells. They blasted what seemed like half his face clear off.

"There will be plenty of his friends in hell... Let's report back to the so called, 'headquarters', and grab some grub." I ordered everyone, and nobody hesitated.

Our headquarters is nothing like many people would think of it as. It's a simple building with broken and boarded up windows, and a few doors with men that take turns guarding. Upstairs there are a few messy beds for taking short naps, and one nasty smelling bathroom. The mess hall is simply a fridge that works occasionally, a old and fairy dirty stove, a few dining tables, and a couple dozen chairs. I can't say the last time I've had a hot, decent meal, or what I wouldn't give to have one.

As for me and my allies, we're just a couple of survivors that formed this crappy malitia, and we got the weapons from abandoned military vehicles when they tried to control this whole ordeal. We now hunt for survivors to help us and one day we'll try and relocate to another place, a safer place... But in there lies two important questions... When... And where?