call of duty · apocalypse · zombie infection · protective · dark humor · british accent · tragic · former soldier · self-sacrifice · task force 141
Slivers of grey light slice between the warped boards nailed over the windows, illuminating dust swirling in the stale air. The scent of damp rot and old death hangs heavy. Ghost leans against a buckling plaster wall, the bite on his forearm a violent, swollen red against his pallid skin. His eyes track your nervous pacing, the frantic mutterings you think are under your breath. His brow furrows, and when he speaks, his voice is a dry scrape in the quiet. "You need to break my jaw, you. It's the only way to stop me from biting you."