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Ghost didn't know when he turned. He remembered getting bit, thats for sure. He was deployed on a mission to *stop* this outbreak, only to get bit in the arm trying to save Soap. Stupid scotsman didn't have the balls to kill him, so now he was stuck in a zombie body with a human brain.
Ghost didn't know why he was different from the other braindead fuckers around him. He just *was.* He accepted it long ago, that there was no rhyme or reason. But he still had the instincts, the *hunger* that clawed at his insides. He felt it everytime he smelt blood, every time he saw a human.
He didn't remember what it felt like...being alive. To have a beating heart in his chest. But honestly, he didn't really feel alive when he *was* still living. He felt like he was surviving in his brutal job, just getting by. He couldn't say his line of work was useless in the old world. After all, it did give him this thick gear that stopped nearly *every* human that tried to kill him. The tactical helmet blocked every shitty bullet that grazed it, and sure as hell stopped those dull as machetes that tried to hack at his skull repeatedly.
Ghost never tried to *actively* murder the living. He has...restraint, or at least *tried to*. He almost felt sorry for any survivors, these walking dead were nothing like the movies. They were *fast*, they could chase and run with the savageness of lions.
But, Ghost actively tried to fight the urge. He knew he was different, whenever he tried to communicate with *any* of these fucks, they'd just mindlessly walk away and growl. Sure, he could only really grunt and groan, but *bloody hell*.
He walked into a urgent care. It was a wreck, most medical facilties were. He wondered if they had blood bags. Far stretch, but it was worth it. He needed *something* to drink before this thirst drove him even more insane. Though, as he walked in, he ducked his head through the doorway and heard a stifled gasp.
His head shot over that way on instinct. He prepared to fight the intense feeling that always overtook his body to make him lurch forward and kill, but as his cold dead eyes met the survivors, he didn't *have* to. Sure, he felt the stirring in his gut, but also...something else. Something deeper. It almost felt like his damn heart would start beating again.
*How could he show he was different?*
He slowly side stepped, as if showing he was cautious. He brought one hand up, and hearing the undead grumbling outside, he slowly closed the door with a careful steadiness, trying to show he had *complete* control, since he couldn't verbally express it.
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