[b]Floyd - Pilot?[/b]

And it continued, along with his worn out knees, the darkness continued. Floyd raced through it though, facing it as if it were eternal. Not even his keen eyes could see through this shaded inferno, it seemed there was truly no end. He had battled against some of natures deformities, like needled branches and sharp rocks, cutting his legs and bare arms as he continued to burst through these woodlands. One couldn't decipher a tree from a walker or vice versa. There is no blooming sight in the pits of hell, but only eternal blindness. That was a quote his one benefactor had shared with him way before the apocalypse began. Since Floyd never argued the verdict of going to hell, the guy never did anything to prevent it. He'd done more bad things in his prime than he'd remember. But everything he did, right or wrong, was in order to ensure his survival. He didn't have regrets, not before, not now. So he continued to run, feeling the anxiety and his alienation by society. These walkers behind him were people before the virus spread. These people were the reason for his way of life, for his resentment and rage, for all his sin and misfortune, for the hatred shown towards him and his family. 

It all started with his mother and her unfortunate decision. Floyd was who knows how old, but young. His mother and father would fight all the damn time, money this, money that. The farm needs upgrading, the farm needs to get burned down. It was like the bickering of an angel and a demon, or maybe, just two demons. One night, Floyd's mother never returned from her 'afternoon duties' as the father would call it. She was in charge of buying the groceries and food for the animals. They lived in a trailer, the farm was owned by Floyd's grandfather, who at the moment was very sick and needed help from his son - Floyd's father. Anyhow, that night, Floyd's mother never came home, not until the next morning where she was missing both the groceries and the money that was given to her in order to purchase them. "Where the fuck is the food woman?!" the father would yell. He looked like a walker at times, spit coming out his mouth like a tempest. And his eyes were always red, like a damn demon. Floyd always thought his father was possessed by Satan and wondered if he was a demon himself. The mother explained that she'd been robbed, that someone took her money and she tried to follow them so he wouldn't get mad at her. The alibi was bogus, it was obvious she had been sleeping with another person, she smelled like fancy cologne, like tidy whitie, self ejaculating, businessman cologne. Floyd didn't understand the situation at the time, but as he grew up, it made perfect sense. After his grandfather passed away, Floyd's dad moved out to the farm, in order to take care of it and work there. Floyd was forced to stay with his whore of a mother, one who didn't even want him around - well, neither of the parents really wanted to deal with him. The two blamed Floyd for their unfortunate divorce, so they beat him from time to time, to take away their own condemnation.

As a teen, he was forced to move in with his father when the mother passed away from a stroke - no one attended her funeral. His father was even worse than the mother, always drunk and reluctant to reality. Of course, he had Floyd help him in the farm, but for no sort of payment or reward. He had to do it, or he didn't eat. "Boy, if you don't get your sorry ass out ther' you ain't gettin' no dinner, ya hear?! SO GET WORKIN!!" the old man would yell, usually using his belt as an intimidation tool. It if wasn't the belt, then it was the horsewhip. Fuck that horsewhip. In addition to farming, the two would go out hunting, well, Floyd would go out hunting while the father would watch and wait from a distance. The food Floyd caught had to be given to his father to cook. Floyd knew how to skin a deer and everything, but he was never in charge of doing so. His father would do it and only give Floyd a portion of what 'he' had hunted down. People resented the entire family because of their human nature. School wasn't even in the picture. All that grammar and reading crap was useless, though Floyd was eventually taught to do it by one of the neighboring girls who ended up dying in a car accident as new roads continued being built. It was ironic because the the mayor at the time pushed for new roads in order to make travel more productive and safer. It obviously didn't work that way. 

Dallas, Texas continued to urbanize, making many farmers convert to factories and selling their land to bigger organizations and companies. Since they were making hardly any profit by selling their crops, Floyd urged his ignorant father to sell the farm. "This is ya granddaddy's farm boy! Don't be stupid!" he would always respond in addition to whipping him. A year or two later, Floyd's father passed away, leaving the farm to him, which didn't make any sense at all, then again, who else did the old man have? But when joy hits, so does despair. Apparently, Floyd's father had been passed due on several bills. He wasn't paying off the farm and continued to push away any sort of notice referring to such situation. Eventually, tax collectors took the farm from Floyd's grasp, who was not given a single dime for it. All that he was left with was cattle, crops, and the old bobber his father had in the garage. They even took the horses, knowing they could make a profit from it. So Floyd made due with what he had, he sold the remaining cattle and crops, keeping the bobber for transportation. He then went from Dallas to New Orleans, ending up buying a small cabin in the nearby woods. 

These woods were just like the present woods of the apocalypse, dark, damp, and frozen with lamenting pain. It was as if one was running forever, nowhere, but forever. It was and endless nightmare where one would wake up after they died. Floyd turned back and saw nothing, just black. He felt as if he had been running for hours, but surely it was merely minutes. Actually, he wasn't even running anymore, it was more of like a quick jog. The further he fell into the jet, the more silent the night became. This was a sign that the walkers had either lost his trail, or were too slow to catch up at this point. But Floyd couldn't risk his luck, so he continued on, until not even he could hear his own steps. 

A mile or so later, his legs could no longer go. He walked up a little until the numbness of his feet made him drop like a potato bag. He gasped for air rapidly like a dog with rabies. He lay there looking at the ground as his hair damped over his entire face. He looked back once again and not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen. It wasn't day yet, but from the horizon, the sun was definitely rising. He didn't even get to rest until now, it had been an overwhelming day. But it wasn't over. 

Suddenly, a flash of light shined directly on Floyd's face, blinding him yet again, this time, literally. When one becomes accustomed to darkness, seeing the light will burn the eyesight. Floyd didn't speak though, he currently didn't have the energy nor the intention. "You alright there stranger?" a voice called out, but whose was it?