Grant

Grant is the epitome of an old war dog. At sixty five years old, he has seen many wars, many fights and many bodies. Till now he had never seen them get back up again. To be completely honest, war was really the only thing that made sense to the man, who had done very little other then shoot a gun since he was a kid. When the outbreak occurred, he found him self with a new war, one that came to him.

Standing five foot ten, he was strong, and in good shape, especially for his age. Wearing camo, as a sort of nostalgic comfort, he held his M-16 in a relaxed grip. He had a pistol in a side holster, two extra clips for the side arm, and one for the machine gun. He had found him self standing on top of an apartment building, in the hopes of a helicopter rescue, but instead the helicopters just continued by. There was a hospital down town called Saint Andrews, it a was a big hospital, with a helipad. Grant figured it was his best option, either to find that the helipad was still there, or to perhaps get high enough a helicopter would risk coming down to pick his ass up.

Heading through the roof access door, which was thankfully unlocked, he moved down onto the highest floor, and proceeded down the hall. With power outages running rampant, as the zombies rained destruction everywhere they went, he wasn’t about to risk the elevator. Instead he began looking for the stair well that would lead him down.

Half way down the hall, of closed, and even boarded up doors, he came near one that was partially open. Glancing in to make sure nothing was lurking near bye, he could see a living room, in relatively good condition. It didn’t look like a horde had been here. One thing that Grant had noticed, was the way the zombies moved. They tended to mill about, sometimes as individuals, or small clusters, sometimes in large groups. Noises, and other such things could draw their attention, and if a large enough group was near bye, they would flood the area, tearing everything in their path apart. Hordes were the threat Grant intended to avoid, as he was sure the only way to have a chance to survive one, would be to use his **** rifle, which had precious little ammo for such endeavors.

As he stared into the apartment he realized he needed to make a choice, search the place, for provisions, or continue to the stairwell and head for the streets.