Belowthebelt

I feel compelled to make this entry for his/her sake. This just shows that even though 99% of the community would like nothing more to put a bullet though you're head for "Shits 'n' Giggles". A mix of blood and sweat poured down my forehead. Lying there, in the shadow of the green tent, trying to remain unseen by people and infected alike. My hands shook violently, leveling the blood stained M1911 on the entrance. My firearm was prone to jamming, days of unsettled nights without any form of maintenance, letting grit and blood stains alike jamming the grooves on the slide. Rolling my right shoulder became more effort each day, the weight of the empty rifle on back becoming heavier with each passing day. An assortment of chem lights and empty tin cans lay on the floor, wrappers of bandages as well. Dawn broke though the military instillation, creating a looming shadow in front of the green tent. Footsteps could be hear, my head snapping left-to-right though the small, fabric windows. A lone figure stood but a few meters from mine, searching though one of biggest yet exposed tents inside Stary Sober. I knew my time had come. Soon he would search though the other tents and inevitably come and look inside. I had to act. Before my brain recognized my motive, I sprinted out of the tent and tried to take cover against the side of the tent, allowing me full view of the large tent and the occupant within. The figure appeared to be a man, equipped with military grade Kevlar and an automatic rifle similar to mine. Trying to remain out of view while retaining a sense of awareness in-case of a buddy, I stated, "Hey?! You had better be friendly. I'll shoot if bear needed!" The man turned around, showing the same motive as me and stated that he was friendly and just looking for some supplies. My eyes flickered, shaking violently behind the tent. I had nothing to loose. I emerged from behind the tent, mocking a half salute with my firearm drawn beside me. The figure crouch walked out of the large tent, his rifle pinned on my upper chest. That was it I thought. Lights down, curtains closed. He saluted back. Momentarily bracing the stock of his rifle against his chest. We talked quickly in the middle of the tent, trading some quick tips and enemy movement in the area. I asked for a blood transfusion. I had carried the blood back for a couple of days now, never finding someone I could trust to carry out the procedure. Minutes passed, the man now known as 'Cal' gently pricking the needle into my thin arm, letting the blood ooze down the thin tube into my bloodstream. My vision increased and the shakes began to stop. I hadn't felt better then this in days. Pressing a cotton patch over my vein, we shared a quick glance and smile. We was about to part when I remembered my empty rifle slung over my shoulder, noting his rifle looked somewhat similar. I began to enquire, asking for a spare magazine to keep myself going. To my suprise, he reached into his pack and passed me two STAGNA magazines. That's when it happened. He must have been sitting behind the hill, centering the reticle onto my friend just as he tried to pass me the magazines. Cal fell to the floor, the high caliber round piercing straight though the Kevlar, sending him sprawling to the floor. I remained still for a moment, frozen like a stone statue, watching as he lay still on the floor. Another shot rang out, directed directly towards me. The Chernarus God's must have been with me, the shot missing me by a few inches. Breaking into a sprint, I dived into the tent in-front of me, predicting where the sniper must have been. I begin to hear the growling of the infected grow close and the telltale tip-tap of a hoard of infected running over the loose concrete floor. Looking forward once more, seeing my died friend lying apparently died on the floor. I remained still, listening to the crack of the high caliber rifle fire off a couple more shots into Cal, directly in-front of me. I wanted to avenge him, run out guns blazing and get revenge on this bastard. But I didn't. I lied there. Completely still. A few minutes passed. A few more shots cracking from the sniper. I edged from the green tent, peeking around the corner and chuckled. The sniper had attracted a large horde of infected. The sniper weaved in-between the fifty of so zombies. Taking aim, I fired. I wanted him to suffer. He fell, the bullet striking directly into his kneecap, the infected roaring in glee as they surround the sniper. No more shots where fired. Checking my surroundings, I quickly checked on my dead friend. He was, of course, completely dead. Eyeing his equipment, I couldn't help but feel a sense of glee taking his equipment. Saluting my dead comrade and stating "o7 Friend. I avenged you, Son." Such is the life in Chernarus.

Survivalist: Once spawned, heading straight up North or possibly checking key locations of interest like Cherno Apts before they leave. Constantly searching for food and water in small towns way up north. Equipping them self with high tier weaponry like M24s and M15 ACOG. Then, setting up a base of operation and Hunting way up North.