Mr. Gray has been hunting zombies for a long time. Hiding, scavenging, killing-this is surviving now. As Gray moves from town to city, and city to prairie, he leaves a few notes for others in his travels, but who is looking out for him?

In the year 2017 a worldwide calamity befalls the population. Poison clouds cause strange afflictions relegating major portions of the populace as a sort of walking dead. Among them Mr. Gray is not affected and decides to go off hunting. Hiding, scavenging, and killing his way across the States Gray keeps sane by writing in his journal. After food and other supplies run low he moves from town to town before coming across a farmhouse.

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Mr. Gray is asleep in a storage unit. Before giving in to exhaustion, he checked it for rats and roaches. He hates roaches. They have a symbiotic relationship with some kind of worm, like the worm is piloting some biological machine; freaky.

In this day, in this age, traveling is survival. Mr. Gray has been traveling for some time. He abandoned the last town soon as supplies ran out. Supplies always run out quick. It’s a tough decision to leave when zombies are dead and there is clean water. There was no more food, though, and Mr. Gray can’t farm or hunt, but not because he is incapable.

The soil in town looked good, but there were no seeds. Even if there were seeds, they are useless. Today’s seeds are genetically modified. They can’t be replanted for harvest, so the food supply is not sustainable. Hunting is futile, too, unless one hunts zombies. Zombies don’t qualify as food. They make people get sick and die. It’s always time to move.

Many hills line the area between town, and the storage units. It’s been cold lately, and Mr. Gray stumbled across a unit with blankets. The plan was to get some rest and then check each unit for food and other supplies. He has to keep clean or run the risk of illness.

With a quiet groan, he does a full-bodied stretch. He wakes fully, turns on his LED camping lantern, and immediately starts a stretch routine to loosen his tightness. The soft, blue light illuminates the tiny room. Once the stretches are over, he wraps up his blankets and stacks them neatly in the corner. There wasn’t anything useful in the storage unit other than blankets.

With the folding done, he turns to his black backpack. From it, he pulls out extra clothing. Because of the lowering temperature, he knows it is unwise to wear all of his clothes when going to sleep, especially if it’s getting colder. The body acclimates. Sleeping while wearing everything to keep warm keeps the body from warming up by its own accord after waking. It’s best to sleep a little cold and then don the remaining clothing when getting up.

Mr. Gray Pulls out three, additional pairs of long, black socks and puts them on his feet. He pulls out his black beanie with the eye holes. He has a pair of black, leather gloves, too. Instead of slipping them on, he slips a black, wool sweater on over his black, long sleeve tee, and leaves his protective gear lying next to him.

There are a few storage bins in there, the colored plastic ones. He opens one. It’s full of pots and pans. He pees in it and closes it then goes back to his gear, rubber backed rugs sliced and diced to contour his body.

There are a few small pieces for his thighs, calves, forearms, upper arms, and one that slides over his torso. He uses a piece of wetsuit as padding in his trousers. The rubber pieces are cinched with belts through slots he cut with his knife. Like a ritual, he straps on all his gear. Next, he takes out a can of dog food.

Bon apatite. He pulls the lid and scoops the food into his mouth with his fingers and licks them clean. Now, it’s time for the gloves. Gloves are annoying. Every time you put them on you gotta’ rub something out of your eyes.

After more stretches to loosen his knees—a good hunter keeps his body in good shape—he slides on the gloves. One can’t afford injury. Health supplies are hard to find and an injury, no matter how small, can give a zombie the leg up.