I was born in America in a small town called Mobile. My parents owned a farm where I was raised along side my dog Crackers. On my 28th birthday, I moved to Chernaurus with my beautiful wife Bertha and left my family behind at the farm. We had a beautiful son a few years later and named him Timothi. On the day the riots began, I was doing my rounds as a truck driver for the Cherno lumber mills when I saw the wave of panic hit the city. Fires, broken windows, and crashed cars in the streets only made it worse. I turned around as fast as I could to get back to my family in Kamyshovo, but I was too late. Our small house that I had worked so hard to buy was ingited in flames, and my family had perished inside. That was a long time ago now, or atleast it feels that way. I have lost count of the days and the months. My only will to live is the memories I hold of my precious family, for if I die, so will the last remnants of them. I have become angry with the world, as it took the only thing I cared about away from me. I spend my time trying to kill off as many of the infected as I can now, hoping someday the world will be cured of this horrible disease. My bones hurt, and my hair is slowly graying, but the fight in me still burns greater than the fires of the apocalypse. I am a survivor, and I will do whatever I can to keep it that way. Aslong as you don't stick a gun in my face, and threaten to take away my families memories, we can get along just fine.