I've always been a somewhat temperamental man, with firm convictions that noticeably mark my strong character. I've always been a hard man, the type who doesn't cry, the type who fights to hide his feelings from others. Because of my strong character, I refused to abandon my home when the living dead epidemic came over the village. I thought that I could fortify my house and protect my family... maybe I was mistaken. My life was normal until a few months ago. I was happy in Navarrés, a small village of the providence of Valencia, Spain, whose inhabitants hardly numbered three thousand. I worked on my father-in-law's farm, surrounded by animal feed and pig excrements. I was married to a wonderful woman and the proud father of an adorable little boy. I had an idealistic life in a rural setting; it was peaceful and far from the city smog that had watched me grow up. I used to like to take walks along Playa Monte Lake and to get lost in the Selda Hills. Exchanging the convenience of the asphalted city for the fresh air of the country had been the best decision of my life and –far from consumerism and a cosmopolitan society– I was finally able to grow as a person.
