Muskrat had been immersed in an intense training exercise with the Brazilian military deep within the heart of the Amazon rainforest. Due to a complete communication blackout, they were cut off from the outside world, leaving them unaware of the growing global unrest.
In the days leading up to their operation, the unit Muskrat was training watched as sporadic news reports detailed localized rioting and civil discontent in various regions. Although concerning, these disturbances were unsettling yet not entirely unexpected in certain parts of the world. With years of experience dealing with similar issues, the Brazilian troops dismissed the reports as ordinary occurrences.
His first indication that something was wrong came when a seemingly disoriented and frantic group of people burst out of the dense undergrowth. They stumbled over gnarled roots and thick branches, their clothes bloody and torn, and their faces contorted in anger. But what captured Muskrat's attention was their erratic behavior. Upon seeing Muskrat's men, the disoriented mob turned. Their arms reached out, their fingers grasping at the air. They let out growls that raised the hair on the back of his neck.
The first person attacked was the medic assigned to the unit. They had approached the nearest injured person, a woman covered in dark ichor. The medic had reached out when the woman sank her teeth deep into his hand. Muskrat watched as the medic faltered, a distant glaze overtaking his eyes. The transformation happened quickly; the medic became disoriented and aggressive, his body jerking uncontrollably. Within minutes, the medic had succumbed to the virus that coursed through his veins. In a contagious frenzy, he bit his assistant. From there, the virus spread like wildfire.
Muskrat escaped into the jungle, the howls of the infected following him. When he finally came to a tributary of the Amazon, he dove in. The undead sloshed into the water behind him. The cold, dark waters slowed the ghouls enough for Muskrat to make his escape.
Once he had escaped the immediate threat and fought back to civilization, Muskrat found himself in a similar situation to Claymore; all flights were grounded, the Embassy staff and military personnel had been evacuated, and pandemonium was all around. Muskrat decided to retreat into the dense jungle and head north.
By day, he trudged through the steamy jungle, working his way home, while at night, he sought refuge in the canopy of the towering trees. More than once, he watched from his hiding spots as horrid undead creatures ravaged nearby villages, their terrifying shrieks mixing with the panicked sounds of the living.
Eventually, the lush greenery gave way to changing scenery and civilization. The cities of Central America had become death traps, overrun by the undead. He made sure to provide the towns as wide a berth as possible, even if it did add time to his escape.
His journey led him to the harsh expanse of the desert. The sun beat down on him mercilessly during the day, while a bone-chilling cold took hold of him at night. He would not have made it if he had not stumbled upon the rusted pick-up that miraculously started right up. Scavenging fuel became a critical mission, occupying his time, helping him traverse the vast emptiness of the desert, and putting him closer to home.
Crossing into Texas, he had hoped the situation was different in the Land of the Free. However, what he found was the Land of the Undead. Every border town was overrun, and the millions of firearms in Texas had done little to stem the tide of the zombie infection. He headed east, towards Louisiana. Arriving in his hometown, Muskrat was heartbroken to find it overrun and unrecognizable, the populace swallowed by the nightmare creatures.
Turning to his training, Muskrat sought refuge in the swamp. The threat of snakes and gators seemed quaint compared to the horrors of the undead.
