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      Gunshots. The boy woke up with a start, mere inches away from a drooling torso intent on eating his 12-year-old flesh. He got up with a start, looking around. [color=8B4513][i]Damnit, I must've fallen asleep.[/i][/color] He traced the source of the noise to an apartment building just up the street. On instinct, he grabbed his bag, securing his knife in its holster, and ran towards it. [i]Towards it.[/i] He had no idea why, but his gut led him there. If there were survivors with guns, then they might help him. Then again, they might put a bullet in him, but it was worth the try. After all, he'd ran out of food. The boy kept his legs going, running and running for what seemed like forever, dogdging shuffling corpses as they tried to grab his yellowish skin.

      He made it to the apartment block, and saw zombies slowly shuffling their way in. [color=8B4513][i]Ugh, what now?[/i][/color] With a sigh, the boy cupped his hands around the grey balaclava on his mouth.

      "[color=8B4513]Hey! You gotta help me! I'm down here! Are you survivors too?[/color]" He shouted through the thick gray material. Would they even be able to hear him over the sound of the gunshots? He saw a parked up motorcycle, so that meant someone must be there, right? All he could do was dodge zomb- nah, not zombies. That's too basic. What did they remind him of? Oh, yeah - druggies. So all he could do was dodge druggies and hope to god there were some friendlies inside of that building.