William knew that he had a one in twenty chance of being a victim of a serious crime, and a one in eighteen-thousand chance of being murdered. It’s what he did for a living.

Being a risk assessor, he knew that it lay everywhere, and he hated it.

Image what it’d be like to see the world from William’s eyes. Skeptical, paranoid even-about everything. He hated going outside for extended periods of time, knowing that his odds of being struck by lightning were one in ten-thousand four hundred and six. Getting ready in the morning was an even bigger task for him; the odds of fatally injuring yourself while shaving, or slipping in the tub are much higher than you’d expect. Going to work was a completely different story too, his odds of dying in an automobile accident were one in seventy-five. Numbers he didn’t like.

Having an overly analytic mind didn’t do much for Will’s personality either. He’d always been the secluded guy, trying to hide from the world and its potential perils. His anti-social nature didn’t seem to upset him much however. Why try and find a nice woman to settle down with, when the odds of a lasting marriage were barely anything. Wasting time was not an item on William’s agenda.

But being alone perhaps was to William’s advantage. He didn’t have to worry about anyone other than himself; and that was enough stress as it was. He didn’t keep pets, or any friends really. Who knew if-or when, they’d turn on him. He had a one in seven-hundred thousand chance of dying from a dog bite. It was an unnecessary risk that he wasn’t willing to take.

Change was bad for William. Order, precision, and routine were his ways of life. He preferred life his way, his numbers providing some sort of sick, twisted solace. They were real, and they didn’t lie.

But what happened when he couldn’t calculate the chance of the undead rising?

At least he knew his odds for becoming injured while using a chain saw: one in four-thousand four-hundred and sixty four.