The streets were quite besides a low hum of an engine, the engine of a jet black sports bike at that. It shifted in and out slowly through wrecks, before coasting on stretches of free black top. Sometimes the driver would drive over sidewalks, in between cars, even push it around something if he had to. It was light, quick, and smaller than a car. What made it a perfect option for a time like this. The Porsche or the Mustang just wasn't gonna cut it. It felt like days he had been riding. Where, he wasn't sure. Just, away from where he was. Like he was trying to flee from the danger and the wreckage, the horrors. But it seemed endless wherever he drove. The walkers just wouldn't end.
Cole was the driver of this motorcycle, leaning with the fast Japanese sports bike as he drove, his black helmet glinting in the sunlight. The headgear was more for in case of an accident, did him no good against walkers. Good thing they weren't smart enough to put one on, that's for sure. His Northface jacket and fitted jeans protected him from whatever elements, his Nike shoes pressed against the side of the vehicle. His super bowl ring firmly on his right hand as he controlled the speed of the bike with that same hand. His backpack was pressed closely to him, crowbar hitched to his belt loop, knife in his pocket, and handgun shoved in the back of his jeans. Not like he owned a holster, it was the best place for it.
It seemed like he was running low on gas, and he would have to get some from another car. His bike came to a stop alongside what looked to be an apartment complex, by the looks of it. It seemed somewhat calm and peaceful, and Cold decided to kick the stand down and hop off his bike. Maybe it'd be a good idea to camp out here for a while. He'd been traveling for hours. And, maybe he'd have time to figure out what his next move would be.
That was until he heard shots coming from the apartment complex, and he quickly ducked behind a parked car. So maybe it wasn't the most quiet and peaceful place after all. But, what place really was? At least walkers couldn't shoot guns, so that was some positive on maybe there was somebody friendly. Or, not so friendly. But Cole noticed a few walkers shuffling from the streets to the apartment complex, and he knew that they had seen him. It looked like he was going to find out soon if these people were nice.
After ducking into the building he came across a piece of plywood that was across the doorway, but with one swift swing of his crowbar it shattered with ease. Just as he did that, however, he turned around to see a walker right behind him. Cole gave a nice baseball swing with his crowbar, cracking the walker's skull against the doorframe before following up with one across the back of the head. It was dead, but more were behind it as Cole took off up the stairs. Or got to the basin, before a zombie tackled him from behind. He turned around just in time to press the crowbar into it's neck, keeping its snapping teeth at bay. He pulled back his legs, kicking the zombie off his chest as he reached back and pushed himself up and landed on his feet. Cole took the fork like end of the crowbar and jammed it through the eye socket, and that was the end of that one.
But still more were coming and Cole finally made his way up the steps, stopping with his back against one of the apartment doors. He kicked one of the zombies tumbling down the steps, slowing down the other advancing zombies. He got himself cornered, and it didn't look good. He pulled his pistol out of his jeans, holding in his right hand and he swapped the crowbar for the knife, putting the gun hand on top of the knife like he's seen on the call of duty games. He pressed against the door, slightly banging on it. Hopefully he could find a way out, but unless he did, these walkers would be full of hot lead.
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