Deathly, grim silence.

Blaine Okoma rose up from his bed, eyes still half-asleep as something groaned from inside of his bathroom. Great...just great. Did he somehow have sex with a female before he went to sleep? He couldn't have; he hadn't drank anything that would have made him stupid enough to risk an STD or pregnancy, and drinking was a no-go for a football player, anyways. The muscular young man stumbled onto the floor, instincts automatically making him steady on his feet. The groaning got louder, and there was...a clawing noise, and then splashing, and then a louder, more inhumane groan. Okoma, now alert and cautious, snuck closer to the bathroom door, quietly trying the door-knob. Whatever was behind it got quiet, and then a low moan sounded out, and a body slammed against the wooden door, cracking it. Instinictively, with a grunt of surprise, Okoma leaped back, before narrowing his eyes and squaring his shoulders, as if he was getting ready for a game-winning tackle. Another claw, and the wood peeled back at face-level, revealing a horribly decomposed, graying face of a cleaning lady.

He charged.

His powerful tackle sent him through the wooden door in a hail of splinters and splaying body limbs. Instincts kicked in, as he locked powerful, tan arms around the thing's torso and slammed it head-first onto the toilet. Bringing back a fist, he abruptly sent if flying forward, a shower of gore coming from it's rotten head as he repeatedly slammed it's brains in with his fist. Once it stopped groaning, Okoma panted, crawling backwards and falling onto his butt. Now that he could see clearer..."Holy shit..." The normally cool football player gasped. A zombie. A motherfucking zombie. And he had just killed it.

Standing on slightly shaky legs, Okoma glanced around once. He needed to get out of here. The room was stinking unbearably, and the darkness didn't ease his caution. Looking around for practically anything, Okoma grabbed what appeared to be a medpack off of the table, along with one of those compact, heavy-duty wrenches that was used for multiple things. He strapped it to his belt-loop, before narrowing his eyes and turning around. Just as he was about to dash into the hallway, he saw his figure in the mirror. Tall, muscular, tan - obviously of Native American descent. Short hair, handsome visage, wearing nothing but a bloodied white wife-beater and jeans/sneakers. Not the most durable of outfits, but it would work for now.

Grabbing his NFL backpack as he ran out the door, Okoma strapped it to his back and began heading down the hallway at a decent speed, on the look-out for any rotten douchebags. He was seen as a cool, collected, and rather badass player in football and other sports such as MMA and Wrestling, but this...this was crazy.


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