An old man, with a torn brown vest, and bleached blue jeans would stand, shaking from his wounds. His receding hair, gray and white, would barely wave around in the wind. His gray mustache, moist in sweat, would move barely, as the man would give word. "The name's Rogers. Ol' man Rogers. Came meself from a farm, amidst an attack. Mutated zombies or some ol' cr*p. Ya, ya gotta 'elp me..."

The man would look skinny, and underfed. He carries a blue pouch on his left side, with a canteen of water and a loaf of bread. He seems to be alone in this world. Alone and bleeding...