On August 23, 2012, a scientist at the United States Chemical Research Institute did not wash his hands. He went home, played with his two children, ate his dinner, and went to bed with his wife. The next day, he died. Four days after that, his children died. Finally, his wife died a day later. The day after the wife of the scientist died, on August 29, the scientist came back to life.

The USCRI kept the deaths on the down-low, telling the tabloids that there had been a gas leak at the Rantes home, and hired their own special embalming team to take care of the bodies. Then the bodies were sent to a local funeral parlor that began preparing for the burial of the entire family that was to be held the next day. Mortuary assistants were applying a light blush to the cheeks of the youngest daughter, when suddenly the eyes of Dr. Jeremy Rantes opened as he sat up on his gurney; they were still just as blue as they had been before death had claimed him. Then the entire family followed his example and sat up on their individual gurneys. The mortuary assistants stood frozen in their work, only staring at the movement around them.

Then the entire Rantes family leaned in to attack, each member grabbing a random worker inside and ripping their teeth through their necks. Tongues lapped at flowing blood and throats were taking down thick chunks of muscle and meat. Once the feast was over, the zombies smashed through windows to make their escape. The Rantes family moved on while the dead left in the building regained consciousness and moved to look for meals of their own.

This is where the outbreak begins. The Rantes family made their way to a town, causing mass chaos and bloodshed. It started a cycle: People die, zombies form, people die, zombies form. Until hardly anyone originally of the city was left. This spread quickly all across the United States to Canada. The unaware-but-infected minor bitees travelled away from the chaos, but brought it somewhere else. In comes Japan, Europe, Africa. The disease takes over everywhere until the populations deplete. By December 21, the disease had claimed more than 98% of the world's population. That left only a quickly diminishing 2% of humans left.

The alleys were silent and empty as the lone man crept through them. His white shirt was worn down to barely a thin cloth, his jeans were torn mainly at the knees but fraying abundantly in other areas, his black boots were skillfully silent. Three swords -one black, one red, and one white- clunked quietly against his leg. He crept around a corner and glanced into the intersecting alleyway of four buildings, one of which he was leaning against. Dark eyes watched as one of the undead gnawed aimlessly on the ribcage of an already deceased woman. The zombie was only a child, with one eye and nothing where the skin that covers the jaw and teeth would be.

The man's hands went immediately to the swords at his hip. The white beauty was left alone while her comrades were stealthily drawn. Quick as lightening, the man launched himself into the alleyway and swung at the child zombie. Before the thing could even gasp out a snarl, metal sliced through its rotten flesh with a quick "ssschick" sound. The head fell from the body to land with a thud next to the woman's rotting corpse. The body slumped down beside the others. Another slice and the head of the dead woman rolled off. She would have become one of the undead herself soon. The blood around her body was still tacky and even her stump of a neck was letting out a small trickle of the red water.

The man re-sheathed one of his swords, but kept the other gripped firmly in his left hand, and truly glanced around the alleyway. He spied a door and quickly went to it, pushing inside quietly.

Inside the building it was cold and damp; A steady drip could be heard echoing around the room. A hand fished in a pocket to pull out a lighter. He flicked the small wheel that went on to light the flame and illuminate the room in a soft glow. The building must have been have been a warehouse, because all that was left inside were boxes and pile after pile of trash.

Listening carefully, the man's eyes darted around the room, searching for any form of danger. The sound of a can clonking to the ground and rolling across the floor broke the silence; the man's head darted in that direction. He began to step quietly to the sound, sword bared and lighter out. More trash rustling in the same general area, then a fuzzy gray head appeared. The head had pointed ears that flopped forward and a long snout. Then the head let out a happy bark and rushed to the man through the trash, revealing the strong-built body of a gray German Shepard.

Smiling, the man sheathed his sword and put away the lighter before leaning back against a cool brick wall and sliding down to sit. "C'mere, dog. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The steady click-click-click of clawed paws as the canine walked towards the man. A fuzzy body laid down next to him and an equally fuzzy head laid in his lap. The man adjusted his body so that he was laying with the dog sprawled halfway on his torso while he crossed his arms behind his head and used them as a pillow against the wall his head was leaning on.

"Good boy. I guess me and you are loners, eh? We could band up. What do you think?"

A happy bark and then a lick at his bicep. The man knew that this was going to go well. Dogs were valued immensely in these times. They were protection and companionship.

"Well, good. I guess you need a name. How about... Moki?" Another bark. "Alright, Moki. My name is Zoro. Nice to meet you."