Perfection was the only way he could describe it, and even that was only barely adequate. Presently, he lay next to a small camp fire, while examining the tight clusters of stars provided by the clear night sky. Clay silently lamented to himself that in a few short days, his trip would be over. He greatly preferred the secluded wilderness over the bustling city. It was unknown by him, that during his peaceful escape, the civilization he had left three weeks ago had become far different than that which he would return to. The world had been overrun by the undead. Leaving the tranquil and serene wilderness, Clay would be returning to the destruction and agony left in the wake of the infected. Luckily, he had been spared from the outbreak and ensuing chaos, being as far removed from the world as he was. Unknowingly, he had become a survivor. With his canoe drying from the day's paddling, and his dependable tomahawk buried into a piece of firewood beside him, Clay began drifting off toward slumber. Clay's luck would have to streak if he had any hope of surviving the outbreak's aftermath. Falsely having assumed that he would live nothing more than a mediocre existence, it would be Clay and those whom he would deliver from the hands of the undead, that would form a fledgling band. An unlikely assembly of civilians turned soldiers, who would become mankind's resistance against the innumerable ranks of the undead. Soon, he would find himself amidst gritty close quarter combat with the infected, improvising weapons, and waging a war against a necrotic army. Clay had no choice but to become a warrior, a tactician, and a leader if he wanted to survive. Herein lies, the earliest record of their resistance, and the beginnings of humanity's restoration of sovereignty.