The warm air mix with the humidity of the region, while the door is slowly push. The young man expels a victorious scream, smiling at the success. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and tilts his head on the side, trying to pierce the darkness of the abandon shelter, wondering if he was alone this time. He reaches for his knife and clenches his fingers around the leather hilt of his new favorite friend, smiling at the situation. The last owner of the blade tried to screw the young cop over, and a quick discussion ends up into a bullet in the head for the poor fellow. It was ate or be eaten around here and Mathieu had no plan of being found dead in the middle of nowhere, alone. It's been six months since the first case of this strange phenomena appears. At first, people around him thought it was the new publicity for the Walking Dead season, a person being hospitalize for a strange case of rabies, but soon, one became two and two became four, before the authority could even understand and mobilize in the different region to secure the people, the plague had spread to the south of the country. After two months, chaos and disorder were the real owner of the land and people are trying to survive in this world. Mathieu is a poor fellow in vacation in the USA, stuck now in the middle of nowhere in a state without a name anymore. He wishes to go back north, to travel the border and hopes to see the light of his town, Montreal. Now, the young man grunts when he tries to make the door moves an inch, hoping to pass between it and the wall to enter this old shelter. He learns rapidly to salvage, kill and recycle everything. Sure, some people could find him strange or even dangerous, but he had survive six months in this hostile world now. He had no plan dying for nothing. He squeezes himself through the door and grins, seeing that the place seems to have been abandoned before the plague. Maybe he had stumble on one of those nuclear bunker that so many American build in the the year 60 in the fear of the cold war. He glances through the entry, seeing no sign of body or fight, a good sign most of the time. His blue eyes adapt to the dim light while he puts the blade in his sheath being his back, pulling his pistol from its holster. “Criss de baraque de mongole” He express in his native language, seeing the strange shelter, time seems to have taken its toll on the building, but the man thinks he can uses it for a few days, making sure to heal his sprained ankle. He stumbles bit toward the living room or the bedroom, unsure what he will find in this.