My name is Mitch Maddox, but my fellow soldiers would just leave it to Maddox. I grew up in a strict household within a military family, and by family I mean just my father and I. My mother had died to sickness just before the outbreak, and I feel that both my father and I will not admit it was for the best due to the infection rising. I, Maddox, was raised on the edge of the Mediterranean sea in Turkey with a rifle in my hand at the age of 8. As soon as I turned 18 I was off to the military to climb the ranks just like my father had. The idea of friends was non-existent, just the unit I would die for. After the passing of my mother, my father had never been the same. I did not like to be home, therefore I found myself traveling the terrains for the military year after year and was oddly okay with it. The times my father and I connected he had shown me no emotion toward me, except stating one word every time I would leave, "survive". By 25 my mother had passed, and I had climbed the ranks of the military and had been on very many covert missions for my country. The only way to surpass the hardship of the passing was through the accomplishments of my career, and maybe the satisfaction of taking others lives who deserved it, unlike how my mothers was with her sickness. The outbreak commenced, and I found myself in a chopper heading from base to see my father after many years when both of our rotors were shot out by a small group of survivors in Chernaraus looking for supplies. All of my units had been crushed by the crash, and I find myself wondering why I was the anomaly. All I wanted to do was make sure my father was stable after the outbreak. So here I am now, suited from head to toe in this wasteland of a country, ready to take on the infected and survive like the lone wolf I was raised to be. That and the last words my father rang through my head, "survive".