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The quiet man sits in the corner of the safehouse, looking out the cracks in the barricade and cleaning his shotgun. A long fiery mane of red hair hangs around his head, and his face is covered in a thick beard, the same color as his hair. It easy to see how some survivors have started telling stories of a man who's head was on fire, and who seemed to come out of nowhere, pump several shotgun shells into the attacking zeds, and then dissapeared... or maby they just saw burning zombies.

"Yeah, i'm a member of The Re-Killers, you've heard of us? hm, you must pay attention. Thats good, it'll keep you alive kid. My name? *scoff* names ain't important anymore, all thats important is food, shelter, and ammo. Can't run out of any of it. If you don't mind, i'm fucking tired from saving your ass, so i'mma get some sleep, i suggest you do the same."

With a flick of the wrist the man snaps shut his double barrell twelve gauge. He slips it into the golf bag that sits beside him, then leans against the wall. He cradles a blood spattered cricket bat as he relaxes into sleep.

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