A loud motorcycle noise could be heard way down the road. It was Mr. Grimm, rising dust with his good ol' bike he had stolen when the apocalypse started. He hadn't helped anyone to that point, he had found at least ten persons on his way to where he was now, and he had either let them die or killed them altogether so they wouldn't bring the attention of the walkers. At one final in a gas station, Grimm hopped off his bike and turned it off, and emptied the remaining gas on the almost depleted tank of his motorcycle. At almost full tank now, he knew it would be a perfect weapon in case he had to blow it off to get the walkers away from him. Before leaving, he entered inside the small store the gas station housed, only to be greeted by a crawler zombie who tried to reach Grimm. He didn't think it twice, he grabbed his sickle and sliced open his face, tearing his skull in two and leaving his brains out. "Hehe...easy..." he muttered slowly before coughing a bit of blood into his hand. He knew he had the virus like everyone else, but he wasn't planning on dying so easily.

Grimm walked outside once again and turned on his bike, then sped off into the devastated streets until he found a line of cars into the horizon. He stopped about three blocks before the line of cars and just made his bike 'roar' by accelerating and forcing the engine. On his back he had his machete, and always holding it on his right hand was his sickle. He waited and looked around...waiting and waiting in case they decided to open fire...