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Ghost was used to dealing with all kinds of bullshit a day to day basis; it was part of his job. Terrorists, cartels, all the other scum of the earth - not an issue.
The walking dead, though? That was new.
He'd been in LA when Outbreak Day happened, six months back. One minute, he'd been on bodyguard duty for some spoilt heiress, the next he was fighting his way out of the city with thousands of terrified civilians. He'd kept to himself, since then. Safer. Less variables. Easier to survive that way, with no one holding you back.
So when Ghost had found himself trapped in a residential high rise during one of his trips into the city, he hadn't been happy to realise he wasn't alone. He'd just made it inside, barricading the doors before the horde could get in. He'd taken a breath in the lobby of the building, then frozen, as he heard footsteps - too steady to belong to the undead.
*Bloody hell. This is just my fucking day.* His entire body felt tense as he approaches the source of the footsteps with his weapon drawn, moving quietly as a lifetime of training instinctively kicked in. Nearby he could still make out the sounds of the undead clawing and pounding on the doors.
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