Though it had only been a few months, the desert had already begun to retake Vegas. It was like a god damn war zone. Like some invisible foe had come and struck everyone down where they stood; which in a manner of speaking wasn't far from the truth. The strip was decaying almost as rapidly as the charred bodies which were stacked in obscenely large piles every hundred feet or so. Many of the timeless landmarks were shells, husks of their former glory. A vast majority of the windows had been smashed out of the hotels and casinos, evidence of man becoming beast when faced with inevitable doom. Bits of glass littered the ground, crunching under foot with every step.

In the nearest intersection, on Flamingo, a nasty carwreck still blocked the traffic of empty cars, many abandon still packed full of suitcases and objects most precious to its now dead owners. Some of the cars had seemingly refused to let their occupants go, bodies writing with flies slumped in the seats. A small teddy bear lay forgotten in the middle of the concrete, dried blood and puss ruffling its synthetic coat. In the distance, the grand pyramid, now taking on the appearance of a vast metallic honey comb. And next to that, Camelot, though castle may as well have been through a siege. An interesting backdrop to the grizzly scene.

Sand drifted lazily across the patio of the Bellagio, simple pawn in the hot summer winds games. The sizzling pop of a beer bottle filled the air for only a moment. A lone man, as naked as the day he was born, floated lazily on the vast pool once reserved only for an elaborate fountain show. Droplets of water glimmered in the high noon sun from their places across his arms legs and chest. Though the surface was rapidly developing a layer of algae as the filtration and chlorine systems sputtered out their final days, the man clearly was not bothered by this in the slightest. His free hand pawed the water as his other lifted the cold beverage to his lips.

"This is the life." Adrian said with a satisfied smack of his lips. Which in a manner of speaking, wasn't far from the truth. The stench alone would have driven away a lesser human, but after a week or so, the urge to throw up had mostly passed. There was plenty of alcohol. Surplus's of packaged food sealed up nice and tight for those pesky summer tourists. Adrian's sparkling yellow fell on the small bag of cheez-its stuffed in the pocket of the inflatable chair. Greedily he tore open the package, allowing the baked cheese squares to tumble on to his bare chest.

Gingerly the convict picked up a single cheez-it and examined it in the sun for a moment before wolfing it down his throat. Another gentle paw at the water spun the floating seat around, leaving the lone man staring up at the faux-Eiffel tower in all its faux-glory.

"Real one is better." He said knowingly to the lifeless world "Still. It's not bad." He cocked his head slightly, admiring the steel structure a moment before horking down another handful of chedder squares.

Gore splattered the plants behind the man. He dropped with a dull thud to the grass and clutched at his throat with two hairy hands. Blood flowed freely through his stubby fingers, and he gurgled something, eyes bulging with disbelief. The serated knife he had been brandishing lay discarded at his side, a thin coating of dried blood coating the jagged teeth. Dominic was breathing heavily, back still pushed against the wall that made up the end of the end of the garden. He lowered the gun, hand still pressing tightly enough on the grip to cause a stinging sensation in the soft flesh of his palm. The man toppled over onto his front, and though he still made occasionally gasps for air he no longer grasped his mauled throat. Blood soaked the grass. It dripped from the plants. Dominic dropped the gun by his side and leant his head against one crooked knee, still wretching in air in painful gasps. He still had no idea where the guy had come from. One second he had been locking the checking the locks on the gate and then all of a sudden the guy had slashed him across the forearm with his knife. Dominic shook his head slowly, and tried to calm his breathing a little. The man was still breathing awkwardly on his front, gurgling blood with every sharp intake. Dominic climbed to his feet and tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. He didn't check the magazine, but he guessed the gun was running low on ammo by now. Instead of wasting another bullet, he lifted his foot and brought it down on the guys head twice. Finally, the sucking, grotesque breaths stopped and the garden was plunged into silence, save Dominic's own labored breathing. Vaguely, he was aware of blood trickling down his forearm and dripping from his index finger. He stared at the mans corpse, mixed emotions raging inside him.

After a long pause he made his way up the gardens path and into the house, leaving a half-trail of bloody footprints behind him as he went. He closed the patio doors and drew the dead-bolt across the top. A sudden movement in the windows reflection caught his eye. He spun around. Fortunately, the cause of his fright was Cujo, who had shuffled his way in from the living room. He walked over to the dog, still leaving behind faint blood-prints from his sneakers and crouched down. He gave the dog - his best friend, sadly enough, probably his only real friend even before this damn disease - a quick stroke before leading the way up the stairs. The first door on his left stood ajar, and through the crack he could see a cot in the corner of the room. A blackened shape was curled in a yellowed blanket. Another corpse was propped against the cots plastic rail, clutching a tattered teddy in one small arm. Dominic pulled the door shut and moved on without looking back, although a solitary tear lingered in the corner of one eye.

The next room was the bathroom. Inside he found a middle-aged woman sprawled across the linoleum floor. She hadn't been dead long, and a faint smell of cheap perfume still hung in the air. In one hand she clutched a small plastic bottle with a few pills in the bottom. More were strewn all around her body. Dominic could tell by the gray skin that the woman was definitely dead. He bent down and scooped the scattered pills into the bottle before pocketing it. He caught a sight of himself in the cabinet mirror. One half was smashed, an it threw his haggard face off in odd angles but he still knew he looked fucking awful. A thin layer of stubble persisted, and dried blood caked his face. He could wash it off now he supposed, but he couldn't stomach being in the room with the womans corpse any longer. He left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Thankfully, the next room was empty.

[Four Years Earlier]

Neon lights illuminated the glass table in a kaleidoscope of flashing lights that glimmered harshly off every sharp angle. Everything shook visibly with the pounding bass, strobe lights flickering constantly as every thundering beat filled the club. Three other men sat around Anthony, all dressed in almost identical black suits with matching dark sunglasses on despite the gloomy surroundings. They spoke little; they all stared regularly across the club towards another set of booths where two more men sat talking. The three men around him leant forwards for another brief conversation, speaking in heavily accented English. They were South American, from Argentina. He ignored the conversation, eyes still lingering on the two men across the club. One was from Argentina, the other was an American. Someone nudged Anthony sharply in the shoulder and he turned around. Jual was staring at him intently, he glasses resting on the tip of his nose. Anthony stared back for five long seconds, breath caught in his throat. Jaul started to laugh, and the other men joined in. Nervous, Anthony gave a few short chuckles. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead already. He stood up and smiled politely.

"Just need to use the gents."

He pushed his way through the throng of people on the dance-floor, hurriedly forcing his way through the mass of writhing bodies. When he reached the toilet he threw the door open and barged inside. It was empty, save for himself and he leant on the sink with his head pressed too a cracked mirror. Graffiti marked every wall and cubicle door, even the ceiling had a few words scribbled messily over its expanse. The floor, cracked tiles and puddles angled slightly towards a drain clogged with toilet paper. Anthony took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves. By the time the door opened and Jual swaggered in, he was washing his hands, fresh-faced and smiling. Jual studied him for a moment, then gestured for him to follow.

[Present]

Dim orange light flickered endlessly through the window across the room, erratically bathing the bed in an eerie glow. Although the window was shut tight, and the door blocked off with the large chestnut wardrobe the room was still inexplicably cold. Figures - It was supposed to be summer, and yet he was freezing his bollocks off without a blanket. He pushed himself closer to Cujo, who opened one eye to look at him briefly before laying his head back across his paws. Dominic squeezed his own eyes shut, trying to blot out the pulsing street-light illuminating the room. Even with Cujo's warmth he couldn't drift off for more than a few minutes without waking in a cold sweat. He was unable to shake the images of the two children rotting in their bedroom, or their mother who had overdosed in the bathroom, probably driven crazy watching her two children hack up their lungs in red-and-black clotted lumps. He sat up, feeling a dull ache in his shoulder that always crept back on a chilly night. He clenched his eyes shut again, trying to shake the images from his mind, but they seemed burnt into his eyelids. He groaned loudly and swung his legs from the bed, careful not to stir Cujo again. Predictably, the dog paid little heed to him. He stood up, back clicking with an audible pop that almost made him start. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and slung it onto the bed, its cool metal barrel uncomfortable against the small of his back.

He tugged his hood tighter around his head and shuffled over towards his backpack. He shuffled around inside, before taking out a battered and well-worn copy of Cujo by Stephen King. A dark stain marred the front cover, and a large chunk from one corner was missing. He ran a hand over its front slowly, and then climbed back into bed. He retrieved the plastic bottle from his pocket and stared at it while he lay. He knew he shouldn't take the tablet - for practical as well as moral reasons - but he was exhausted, and he needed a good nights sleep if he planned to travel tomorrow. He lowered his gaze and popped a pill into his mouth, swallowing it with a grimace. He tossed the bottle onto the ground, already feeling the shame rise up in his guts. He flicked open the cover of his book and began reading about half-way through the first chapter, trying not to pay attention to the continuously glowing light outside that was on just long enough to glare across the page before plunging him into darkness. In the end he discarded the book and rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, the image of the cot still engraved in his memory. It was far from the worst thing he'd witnessed. It was no wonder he had nightmares almost every time he slept.

True to form, Dominic drifted into a troubled sleep ten minutes later.

[Three Months Earlier]

Dominic picked up a second bottle of water and slung it into the basket hanging at his hip, its metal grill digging uncomfortably into his thigh. He continued along the aisle, picking up various items and chucking them into the basket as he went. By the time he made it too the checkout the basket was filled to the brim, and his hand felt sore from having held its weight. The girl scowled, it was late and she looked exhausted - drawn, even haggard. Her name badge read 'Stacey' and she had dirty blonde hair scraped back into a tight pony-tail. Dominic gave her a polite smile, but the girl merely hacked a cough into the back of her hand and continued swiping objects across the counters scanner. Dominic packed a few plastic bags full and handed her his card. While she busied herself typing in numbers to a machine, she let out a few more dry coughs. She was pale, he noticed. Frighteningly so. He soon forgot the girls sickly appearance when she handed him his card, however, and he made his way out of the store without another glance at the young girl named Stacey. Dominic would never know that Stacey was on of the first to die from Redlung in New York. Just that day she spread the infection to 43 other people. Dominic should have been 44.

By the time Dominic reached his apartment block it was dark out, and the plastic bags felt like they were about to tear through the soft flesh of his fingers. He switched hands gingerly and shuffled in his pocket for his keys. His legs still ached from climbing the six stories to his floor, and he fumbled the key the first time he tried to get it in the lock. The second time he managed to do it properly. He stepped in a closed the door without turning on the light. He stood in the pitch black hallway for ten seconds before walking slowly into the apartments heart. His eyes swept every inch of the room carefully. They way they darted from spot to spot betrayed his anxiety. It took him almost five minutes to reassure himself that the place was empty before he slung the plastic bags onto the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. The apartment wasn't big, and had little in the way of furniture save a sofa, coffee table some drawers and a small plasma television. There were no photos, letters or paintings, nothing which might give an insight into who the owner was except an empty fridge and a pizza box knocked carelessly onto linoleum in the kitchen. He placed his head in his hands and let out a ragged, tired sigh.

[Present]

The window gave with a loud smash, and he held his breath while he listened. The only noise in the street was the smashed glass falling to the ground at his feet but he glanced anxiously around his surroundings anyway. Fifth Avenue stretched out before him, tall buildings lining either side. Here and there lights still glowed brightly in the towering blocks of cement and glass, but no-one moved within. Vehicles lined the street, long abandoned by sick or panicked drivers. Bodies still littered the streets where some of the sick had stumbled into the warm August day only to succumb to the infection. He could hear a television or radio playing music faintly, but didn't look to find the source. Instead he reached into the car, hand all to aware of the moist warmth of the cars interior. A male corpse was slumped over the wheel, but the horn no longer made any noise - the battery powering it was long dead, exhausted by the constant bleating. Dominic tugged the iPod from the corpses grasp and slipped his own headphones into the socket. Thankfully, the iPod turned on - half charged. He couldn't quite grin, but he let out a sigh of relief. He set the music to shuffle, and slotted one headphone into his ear. He left the other free, straining for any sound of danger.

With some pop tune still playing quietly in one ear, Dominic cast another sweeping glance over the vast, resounding emptiness of New York. He had lived here almost all his life, and had never really appreciated the thousands of people constantly littering the streets. Now it was empty, save slowly rotting corpses that filled the air with stink. He shouldered the back-back which hung to him by one loose strap and began to meander his way through the abandoned cars, SUV's and trucks filling the roads to the brim. A few had mounted pavements, crashed into shop-fronts and telephone masts. Dominic skipped to another song, trying to find something more up-beat than the heart-strings pop-tune currently playing. He wasn't successful - whoever the dead man in the car was, he wasn't into 'happy' music. Dominic removed the iPod and tossed it to the floor. The scuffed green case shattered as it hit the tarmac, but Dominic paid it no heed. He tucked his headphones into one pocket and carried on walking, tugging the hood of his gray jumper over his head as he walked. A slight breeze had picked up in the streets, and its cool caresses swept litter along. He had never realised how much noise a rolling can could make until he had stepped into the ruins of New York. The can, Fanta he saw, rolled past him still clanging loudly until it rolled off the curb and came to a rest beside the tire of an SUV was two punctured tires and a smashed windowscreen. The front end was wrapped around a lamppost, its driver no-where to be seen. The only evidence he had ever existed was a blood stain smeared across the crumpled hood. Cujo ambled over to investigate, paws almost silent on the tarmac. He sniffed a few times, and then continued to follow his owner down the streets, winding between cars and corpses with only a few brief pauses to sniff. Dominic smiled at him briefly, but their was little joy in it. It was hard to smile when an entire city rattled out its death gasps around you.

By the time they reached Central Park it was midday and sweltering. The cool breeze of the morning was long gone, replaced by a muggy stillness that made Dominic regret wearing the faded black jeans and gray hooded jumper he had chosen that morning. Both had fitted him well though, unlike the lilac shirt that he had also found in the wardrobe. He hated lilac anyway. He glanced up when he noticed Cujo had stopped walking. He sat at the edge of the fence, peering through the twisted black bars. A motorcycle had wedged itself between some of the bars, its wheel horribly mutilated by the impact. The driver, red helmet and black leathers was eight meters away, slumped against a green bench. A trail of blood smeared the pathway behind him. His eyes took in more bodies, as though someone had zoomed out to show him the bigger picture. Men. Women. Children. Babies. A pram tipped over with a tiny corpse still strapped inside, blood smearing its white overalls. A park warden slumped by a tree, a long kitchen knife still protruding from his ribs, one hand clamped around the serated blade. He felt bile rise in his throat, and threw up. It burnt his throat. Made him feel even more nauseous. Cujo whined softly and carried on walking along the edge of the fence, unwilling to enter the Park - now a rotting graveyard for humanity. Dominic didn't force him, he too couldn't quite stomach making his way through hundreds of corpses, some more than a week old. The smell of decay was thick in the air, its putrid stink lingering in his nostrils with every reluctant intake of breath. He resisted the urge to vomit again, instead lowering his head and hurrying his step. Cujo shadowed him closely, his own eyes cast down to the ground too. They needed to hurry anyway; he wouldn't stay out after dark and they still had to find a pharmacy and a place to hold up safely for the night.

Not for the first time, Dominic felt panic swell up in his gut. He smothered it quickly, but it still left a lingering sickness pulsing below the surface of his mind. Each abandoned car, rotting corpse, broken window and faint sound of the world left behind reminding him of how truly, and completely alone he now was. Dominic had always been a solitary person; but faced with the bleak nothingness around him, he found himself craving someone to talk to for the first time ever. Cujo was a start, but the young dog was still wary of its new owner. Dominic wasn't surprised, he had found the dog curled up beneath a van with what he supposed was its former owner rotting in the drivers seat, one hand still wrapped around the grip of the revolver that was stuck in his mouth. He had ushered the dog out cautiously, and at first Cujo - he had named him a few hours later, when the dog seemed as though it would stick around - had been wary of him. over the past four days they had grown together though, and he wondered if Cujo needed the company just as much as he did. It was a bitter-sweet thought, and all it served to do was remind him that everyone he had ever known, whether he cared for them or not, was dead. Rotting in the streets around him. Cujo turned his head and whined, as though sensing Dominic's thoughts. This time he couldn't force a smile. Hopelessness hung in the air almost as strong as the stagnant muster of the dead.

Large clouds of dust were being kicked up in the wake of a red truck hurtling across the country-side, that dotted the majority of Indiana. The once dedicated sheriff looked grief stricken, still unable to confront his desolate home-town in Iowa. He left it behind days ago, unable to stand seeing people he had waved to daily under body bags. He simply ran. He never stopped running, scavengers had a tough time pinning the sheriff down, for when they managed to confront him when he was refueling he usually already had a gun trained on them. Random survivors had tried to take his wheels from him three time. They had also failed three times. The sheriff, knew it would be best to never stop, but he needed to stretch his legs every-now, and then. He simply couldn't help it.

Plus if anyone did manage to take his truck full of supplies, they would undoubtedly find his badge that the sheriff was unable to leave behind. Long story short, was that the world wasn't a kind place to law enforcement. People tended to pin their troubles on people that were originally supposed to help the general population. Holding his badge lightly the man looked down at it mournfully. The words read 'Sheriff Foyer'.

Foyer gave a sad sigh when he read his last name engraved on the badge. He pocketed it, and slowly eased on the brake slowing his truck to a stop. He continued to rub his temples in frustration before wrenching the driver's side door open. He took a swig out of a flask that was lying near the glove box. Grimacing as the alcohol went down Foyer silently put it down in it's normal resting place within the glove box.

The man kept his hand on his holster, getting ready to tear out his gun incase if raiders were lying in wait. His feet crunched on the desolate gravel road when he pulled out a gas can from his truck bed, which was packed with supplies. The sheriff had done some looting himself before he left his home town. He figured a truck full of supplies would make him a prime target, but then again as long as he stuck to back roads he should be fine. His reasoning was solid, ad he had only met three groups of people in the miles that spanned from his state to this one.

With a brooding scrunched brow, Foyer silently began to refill the gas tank that was craving the much needed fuel source. After around a minute or so Foyer had done his job, and quickly slammed his door shut, just as the roar of a shot-gun rang out. The first initial round hit the truck's tail-gate nearly making Foyer jump out of his seat. He quickly slammed on the gas, and sprayed micro-sized rocks, and grit all over the shooter situated a few feet behind the truck. He silently cursed his luck, when he was a good mile away from the shooter, in the distance he could hear more gunshots, but quickly dismissed the fact that he would be getting hit by any of the buck-shots.

Out of all of the place he could've stopped, he had ended up stopping where a gun-man was lying in wait. The man gave yet again another heavy sigh, clearly not liking the whole situation the world was in. But no matter he tried he would never escape the chaos the world was thrown in after the death toll finally peaked from the disease that swept across nations.

Location: New York City, USA.
Time: 12:14 Local Time.
Date: 14th August 2010.
Infection Status: Total.

"Dooon't stop, beliieeeeviiiin'..."

The bright yellow muscle car hummed through the city streets at a gentle pace. As much as Naia would have preferred to put her foot down, there were too many abandoned vehicles in the road for that. It probably wasn't the smartest car to be driving, to be honest, given how much petrol it guzzled, but the Challenger was Naia's baby, modded to hell and back. Apocalypse or no, the car stayed. 'Don't Stop Believin': the Best of Journey' screamed at full volume through the Challenger's speaker system, audible for several streets around.

Naia hummed along quietly to the music, her fingers tapping on the bottom of the rolled down window, arm lolling out casually. She navigated the vehicle through the dead traffic with ease -- though she made no effort to avoid the significantly denser packing of corpses. Consequently, the car's yellow was marred with crimson stains, and its wheels were almost entirely coated in blood. As she rolled past a particularly gruesome scene -- a body jackknifed between two cars, spine bent backwards so that both its legs and its head (with face permanently twisted in a scream of agony) stuck up into the air -- Naia shuddered, rolling up the window with a flick of the switch to her right. It helped cut out the smell somewhat -- as did the fourteen dangling air fresheners scavenged from other vehicles.

Speaking of scavenging...

A general store caught Naia's eye as she rolled up the road, its door hanging open. She clicked her tongue, frowning over at it. "Hmm... time for a snack."

Stealth at this point was impossible -- anyone within a several block radius would be aware of the rapid approach of a fan of Journey by this point -- and so when Naia rolled up, she did so only a few feet from the pavement. She swung the door open, reaching over to grab the shotgun off of the passenger seat, and hopped out of the car, locking up behind her. That was another thing -- ammo was relatively easy to come by (Naia knew where the gun shops in town were, and the good new was she didn't have to pay for stuff anymore!) for the time being, and so Naia was making a stockpile. The back of her car was rather full; things ranging from long lasting food, stacks of CDs, and chocolate (lots of that) to crowbars, guns, and boxes upon boxes of ammo. Smart girl. She didn't want someone to come along and just drive off with all that.

The loose, unhinged door of the store fell inwards with a smash of glass when Naia kicked it out of the way, scattering shards around the floor. Naia crunched over them with heavy boots, making her way into the store proper. The fruit and veg section was already a pile of rot, but that wasn't where Naia was heading. Sure, she had plenty of snack food in her car, but it was never wise to use up stocks when you could draft in something new. She grabbed a trolley from the entrance, and set about piling stocks up that she thought she could fit in the vehicle.

Time passed.

When Naia emerged from the store accompanied by a trolley full of preservable food, she scowled. A pair of teenagers were hovering around her car, one fiddling with the door handle. He'd smashed her window in, and was trying to get in.

"Ahem."

Both boys looked up at her with a start, fear in their eyes. They didn't look older than seventeen, and neither of them were armed. Naia pointed the shotgun at them.

"Move along, twerps. Find a less occupied car. I ain't in the mood to shoot ya, so be thankful for that much. Now shift."

The kids didn't need telling twice. Naia was glad. She didn't enjoy shooting people. 'least, not relatively innocent people like them. They'd probably go on to have an entire series of adventures, become the best of friends, grow apart, split up, find each other again... would make a whole feature film. Awkward homoerotic undertones optional.

Too bad Hollywood wasn't around any more!

Naia climbed back into the car, a pack of tortilla chips wedged between her legs and a can of coke lodged in a makeshift cupholder, and set off at a roll again. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, really. Maybe she'd head back to her apartment. Well -- she said (thought) 'her' apartment. More like the uptown penthouse suite that she'd commandeered. Its previous owner wasn't using it after all...

For now, though, she'd cruise. Maybe she'd run across something interesting.

The car's speakers screaming out "You staaaand by meee, I'm forever youurs, faaaiithfully..." suggested that something interesting was more likely to run across her...

If someone was going to insist in blasting music through the empty streets, the only music most people would hear for days, weeks or even months, then why on earth couldn't they choose something a little less... shit. But then maybe that was the bastard's contribution to the breakdown of society; some looted, some killed, some raped, some made others listen to Journey.

But soon, the music and the screech of tyres died back into the distance and silence, shushed only by the sound of wind lifting the litter that gathered in drains and against walls, loomed once again. Saul lifted his eyeline above the level of the prison parapet, rifle clutched to his chest. At the end of the street a van, this one thankfully lacking associated strains of prog rock, appeared. It hurtled across the weed-punctured asphalt and screamed to a stop, the side door slamming open and four men emerging from inside. Grizzled and tied with gang-blue rags, these men had dead eyes and semi-automatics: never, in the history of projectile-firing weapons, a good combination. Still, Saul couldn't care less if they had come here for what they'd said they were coming here in a hurried message not twenty minutes before.

Two of the men ducked back inside the van and came out with a make-shift stretcher fashioned from scaffolding poles and discarded jackets. It's occupant was blood-soaked and unconscious but from this far away Saul could tell little else.

"Doc! We've brought him!" yelled one of them up into the air. Behind him, another was unloading tins of petrol from inside the van. "He's shot, right in the chest. We've got the gasoline, you've gotta fix him."

"How much gas?" yelled Saul, standing up. The guards' post was a small concrete platform high up on the wall of the prison, ringed by barbed wire and sheltered from the weather by a small roof.

"Eighty litres," called the man, gesturing to the rapidly expanding stack of plastic gasoline containers with the butt of his gun.

"I said one hundred."

"Yeah, well things is difficult, right. Eighty is all we could-"

He was interrupted by the crack of Saul's rifle and the thwack of the bullet impacting the road not far from the van. As one, the men lifted their weapons to his position on the wall.

"Oh, I do apologise, did I discharge my gun dangerously close to that huge pile of petrol canisters?"

"What the fuck- You want I should kill you, huh Doc?" snarled the man down below. "Shoot you right between the eyes, you fucking queer. You said-"

"I said one hundred. So why don't you get another four canisters out of your little van, or I piss off and bossman dies. No? OK, do take care now!" said Saul, with a guffaw before disappearing down the steps below the parapet. Predictably, it was only a second or two before the gang member below shouted back up at him.

"Alright! Can't blame me for tryin' can ya? Alright, the hundred's yours. Now what?"

"Now you and your boys scram. One other can stay with him, but no guns, no knives, obviously. We'll send word when you can take him home," said Saul. Home, now that was a slip of the tongue. Homes didn't exist any more.

It was a sign that the conditions of the clinic were beginning to become accepted that the gangman only bothered to argue for a few minutes longer. No guns, one visitor allowed and in return, no hostage-taking or backstabbing from Saul and his people. As much as he would have liked to have run out and hefted the gasoline canisters back inside the prison compound, leaving the murderous little prick to bleed out on the pavement outside, perhaps with an elegantly written thank you note pinned to his cold dead chest, that was hardly the road to long-term survival. Short-term enjoyment perhaps but the others working in the clinic didn't tend to see that as a suitable trade-off.

Once the van had retreated back to a safe distance, once he and Marco had hauled the canisters (and the patient) inside the reinforced steel door whilst an armed Angela and Marie searched the gang member assigned to stay behind (only finding two serrated knives[/i]), Saul could set about the difficult task of repairing a punctured lung and extracting a .22mm bullet from the left atrium of bossman's heart.

"I think the allotment will be doing better by next week," Saul said cheerfully to Marie as he snapped the plastic anaesthetic over the gang leader's face.

There wasn't much room within the prison grounds to dispose of the more... unfortunate patients and the city was far too dangerous to venture out far enough to find a green space in which to bury a body. So much to the chagrin of Marie, the only surviving nurse, Saul had dug a monstrous hole in the prison courtyard. Whenever a portion of it was filled to the top, he expanded his newly-started allotment to incorporate it.

At his veiled reference the nurse grimaced whilst the conscious gang member frowned thickly in confusion. Saul grinned and got down to work.

Adam stood in his London flat looking out of a window down to the streets of South Hackney. He had been living, no, surviving in his apartment for months now. This was evident by the guns, bowls, plates, cups, and clothes littered all over the apartment. He watched as a few survivors tried to scavenge for food from a nearby store with contempt. "Doing it all wrong." The British hoodlum said to himself, closing the tattered blinds to keep the sunlight out. "Those people aren't worth the life they have now, but my mates can all go. What kind of God does that?" He said to himself, plopping down in his recliner and grabbing his bottle of whiskey.

What was he supposed to think? His friends were dead, his family was dead, almost everyone in London was dead. He saw the news reports, the world was coming to an end. They were being punished, well that's what those TV evangelists said. Adam didn't believe in that stuff. He actually found himself loathing the church over time. Loathing the world. It was all about him. If God existed, he knew. That's why Adam was alive, that's why Adam would stay alive.

Adam couldn't stand sitting down (Get it?) for even that long. He quickly stood up from his seat and walked over to the map hanging on a wall. He was searching, he heard of places that survivors were gathering, but where were they exactly? He had went to a few places to find that the people turned on each other, starved to death, fell victim to the climate, or moved on. He didn't want that to happen this time. "America..." He muttered to himself, "America? America! Those yanks are always planning for shit like this." He said, running over to his bed and grabbing a duffel bag. He ran all around his apartment grabbing up guns, clothes, and food to take with him. He learned how to steer a yacht from one of his friends. With enough patience, enough food, he could go all the way to the states by boat, right?

The chances of that happening were slim. Adam would surely die trying. This was something he hadn't considered. He wasn't thinking straight. He barrelled out of his apartment, intent on finding a working car and getting to the water. He had to make it. He knew he would make it. No-one was going to stop him. Not even God. No-one. He stepped outside, the morning light from the sun shining through the clouds on him. Most would have said it was beautiful day, were it not for the dead bodies, abandoned cars, and the buildings that had been ransacked by panicking survivors.

Adam began his journey onward to the water, to America, first by checking car after car. He would lean into the windows and turn the key in the ignition if it was left there. Each time, the car wouldn't start. Every single car on the street had died, along with their owners. "Fuck!" Adam shouted, kicking the last car he tried. "Why the fuck do you have it out for me?" He said whilst looking at the sky. He was addressing God.

((Haven't written in a rp for a loong time, but I hope this'll pass.))

Welcome To Albany
Capital of New York State

AN ALL – AMERICA CITY

She surveyed the signpost in a prolonged silence, and fought a grim smile as she noted the irony of it all. She then turned her gaze ahead to the barren road that cut through the two sides of the trees. Apart from the vacant path and the absence of wildlife, it seemed quite normal.

But then again, her definition of normal had been drastically altered within these past few months. Seeing no horribly gory and bloody bodies in the vicinity was considered a vast improvement. She didn't like Redlung, which was probably something everyone was thinking. However, her reasons were slightly different than most.

Unlike many, she saw a benefit in Redlung, for it removed all the annoying people from this earth quite effectively. However, she disliked the fact that it did so quite leaving a disgusting mess. The term “Redlung” for this disease was aptly named, for it would have a victim hack up their lungs before dying a very red death, leaving bodies lying around in streets and buildings. It was unnerving to go stepping in puddles of browning blood, or seeing traces and smears of it all over the place, esepcially in urban areas. Not to mention the smell of thousands of decaying bodies. She took a deep breath in, and scented dirt, sunshine, and grass. She wasn't close enough to the city yet; it reminded her of the constant drive to move on. She resumed her trek.

The morning still had that cool bite to it. Despite that, Chole trudged in the shade of the outlying trees, enjoying the last of the clean air before the rotting smell replaced it. It was always travel since Redlung. She usually didn't stay in the cities long enough, since they reeked of atrophy and despair, and the malice that grew within the hunger of the survivors. She herself also acquired a hunger in her eyes from this catastrophe. After all, she was a survivor, and she wagered that her like weren't called survivors for no good reason.

She often became absorbed in her thoughts when she traveled. She suddenly had more time to think about things following Redlung. With this sharp decline in population, humanity had collapsed without government. It was now back to its primitive roots; a soon to be man-kill-man society, once the inventory ran out. Humans would lose their knowledge of the world due to their constant need for a full belly, and communication would be lost among them. It would slip into a dark age in a few decades, at the least, that was, if people didn't think of something, and from the people she had seen, it wasn't promising.

As much as she was horrified, she found it rather interesting.