Freya

Freya had been in her room during the first two weeks of the outbreak, and watched through her recently boarded windows as the world went to hell. Two weeks, she was out of food, and it was time to take the fight to theses fuckers.

She was dressed in tight black leather pants, with big steel toed boots, and a large knife strapped to it. She wore a simple leather vest that accentuated her generous bust. She had a pistol in a thigh holster, a shot gun in her gloved hands and her gun belt was lined with 24 shot gun shells. She was ready to bring the fight to these undead scum.

Her muscles rippled as she shoved the desk out of the way, and cautiously opened the door. No one moved in the dim hall way. Moving into the hall with a confident stride, a shell in the barrel, she made her way toward the stairs.

Half way down the hall, she came across a door slightly ajar. She couldn't remember who had lived in this apartment, having kept to her self, but with a hall of closed doors, it was odd, this one was open. She felt her curiosity perk.