[DragonDrifter]

This is basically my official zombie survival thread. If you like zombies, and you like RP, this is for you!

The man was sleeping with his knees out in a teared up white sheet, stains covering almost all of it. In a tightly enclosed room, made entirely out of cement, he slept on the dirty ground, where creatures of all kind had crawled, and dust settled widely across. He slowly turned and reached his hand out to the side. Blindly feeling around for his pistol, he finally grabbed the back of the handle. He pulled it under the covers, and proceeded to stand up, shrugging the sheet off of his shoulders. He had light green eyes, brown short hair, and was fairly muscular. He obviously hadn't shaved in a long time, reason being he had nothing to do it with but a scratched up stiletto. He wore an oversized shirt with a Quiksilver logo on it, and a navy blue pair of jeans with rips all over. He dizzily walked out through the narrow door and stared outside. There was a hole in the wall, and twisted pipes of metal stick out of it. The morning was dark, with an eerie fog covering the ground. The moon was still up and it was especially bright for it being 6 o clock, 6:30, 7? No way of telling. He turned around, almost tripping over his own feet, and walked over to a weapons cache directly to the right of the entrance to his room. He grabbed a SPAS 12 with one arm, and went to grab an open bag of shells. He clumsily went for the bag, but pushed it off the table, spilling shells all over the disgusting floor. He knelt down, mumbling some words of anger, and scooped the shells back in the bag. He threw it around his waist, this time carefully picking out 8 shells, and placing them inside his gun, one by one. He cocked it forward and grabbed it from the front. He made a long, exasperated sigh, and walked out of the wall. Making his way unknowingly through the dark, desert like area, he talked to himself. He sung songs, recited poetry, and what he could remember of lines he like from old movies. He had been lonely since the last batch of partners perished. (hint hint, he needs partners X3) I think his name was Jarrod. People just called him Dragon. As the morning had finally brightened, and after a long journey, there was a new landscape on the horizon. Partly destroyed business buildings, fast food places, and even skyscrapers could be seen through the blurred version of the brilliant sun. He walked down the road and entered the broken down city. He saw packs of people eyeing him, while looking through dumpsters or garbage cans. He raised his arm high withholding his mighty shotgun. They scurried into the alleys like rats. Looking up at the sign on the traffic lights, he gulped down a ball of nervousness. "This is it, Drag", he said to himself. "Whiplash City".