Chris enlisted in the British Armed Forces at the age of sixteen due to strong patriotism for his country and shooting guns at shooting ranges with his father which was a dominant part of his childhood. He excelled in the military like his father before him as he grew up in a very disciplined, routine household, slowly nurturing him into the mentality and lifestyle of military men. Naturally built strong, Chris bulked up during his training and took a particular interest in working out during his downtime, allowing him to do the training without allowing it to affect his mental health.. His aim earnt him a spot in sniper school where the drill instructors taught him how to be a master of destruction with rifles and long range rifles. After four years of service touring numerous fields of battle, Chris was selected to undergo special forces training which broke him...and built him tougher and more deadlier than he ever was before. He never liked schools, always got bullied too. I think that's why he fitted in with the military life better than most, everyone had matured and was there for one thing - to become better. He reminisced about the high school/college times where he used to play drums in a band and entertain folks of a weekend at local bars and pubs. He was made a man at twenty despite his military devotion when he became a father to two beautiful children, and he lived almost peacefully in military housing with his wife in a nice house. The year was [XXXX], Chris and his peers was called to a briefing being held by their regiment's commander, Field Marshal Jones. An undisclosed humanitarian issue had arisen on Russian soil; special forces from all around the world were being placed on stand-by, but it was only "undisclosed" because the Russian government had not released an official statement - all they were told was "shit has hit the fan and that shit is landing on our desks", whatever that meant. They knew that a specialist Navy Seals bunch from the US were there and they'd be flying out with them. They were given two hours to prepare from their 0000 wakeup call, and let's just say shit really was hitting their desks. The time was 0600, twelve specialists sat anxiously aboard the chinook - already four hours into flight and nearing touchdown, very little was said to break the ice. Operation "Ghost Ops" was in effect, rifles loaded but on safety, supplies and ammunition set for the F.O.B (or Forward Operating Base) which had been temporarily established at the airport - limited traffic to and from, mainly military vehicles. The S.A.S and the Seals sat opposite eachother almost as though an intense game of dodgeball was going to kick off any minute, but the situation was anything but funny. They had reached the coast of an island called Chernarus, most didn't know it was even on the map. Chris looked out the window and oddly, there was very little lights coming from the mainland other than what was quite clearly fires blistering through the landscape - something was very wrong here...and for the Russians to not have made a public international call for aid? What was this, wildfire season in Cherno-Russian lands? Only God knew. The pilot cautiously brought the chinook down just close enough for us to rope out of. The team had passed the airport a few miles back so this clearly wasn't a meet and greet; their radios crackled to life with the voice of a nervous UN representative on the other end, "Hi...err...NATO special forces...is that right? - yes well, this isn't what we anticipated but it will have to do. The airport which we have established as an F.O.B for now is three miles north-west of your current drop point. We are dropping you in hot but I've been told you're the best so we're running with that for now - a cargo ship has beached on the shore and we need you to secure the supplies and prep them for recovery. Good luck, and remain vigilant". Odd, very odd. Not that they hadn't received bullshit like that before but...something just didn't feel right. Why a change of direction so suddenly? The rest well, the rest isn't easy to digest. The team descended the ropes, activated night vision and made their way to the cargo ship. A plethora of containers littered all along the immediate shore line...the ship definitely made no attempt to stop based on how much land it had disrupted before stopping, leaving a series of large holes in the port of the ship, now covered in sand and water, unenterable at this time. The team got closer and nobody was around, a knife could cut the silence in half. They entered the ship and cleared it, nothing or nobody in sight. Then, out of nowhere, the knife to cut the silence emerged. A loud thud sounded from one of the lower decks, adjacent to the side which was holed but now concealed. Half the team veered closer as twelve soldiers in such a tight space would not spell efficiency - half the team remained on the upper decks where they entered and the other half investigated. Again, no lights, no sign of life, just this loud thud coming from behind a locked door. The team set up a perimeter, and slowly opened the door. The thudding stopped...AND the door swung open knocking two of the soldiers to the ground, Chris jumped backwards and readied his rifle as three rotting corpses sprung to life, arms flailing, teeth chattering. Chris issued an abrupt warning but it fell on deaf ears as the three unknown men fell to he floor and started biting the two soldiers who were knocked to the ground. Chris immediately opened fire to no avail, the soldiers were screaming in pain whilst using their handguns to try and quell the opposition. The remainder of the squad helped get the two soldiers to their feet, now bleeding worrying at this point...distant groans could be heard echoing within this lower deck...and the sound of heavy running. Fuck, this humanitarian mission just turned itself into fight or flight mode real quick, and the soldiers chose the latter. They ran, and they fired, and they ran and they fired all the way to the top where the other six had also began engaging external threats...the gunfire from the lower deck had attracted more of these flesh-eating weirdos and, well... That's how I ended up here; you see that was my story, and I lost some close friends that night. We still aren't sure what these "things" are but for now we refer to them as 'zombies' or 'freaks'. The F.O.B was overrun a few days ago, and we have no idea how the rest of the world is fairing or whether they're just as fucked as we are...hell, we're not even sure if whatever this is has gone international. Operation "Ghost Ops" was a fallacy, but it's what spawned the group Ghost Ops...soldiers just trying to do right by humanity, or what's left. That's my story anyway, who are you?