Racker jogged up the stairs as the first roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. His binoculars bounced on his broad chest. From his viewing position on the 10th floor, he'd seen the heavy, black clouds gathering an hour ago. It was about time to get the chickens locked up in their coop, before the storm broke with a vengence. The wind was already whipping up as he barged open the heavy metal door to the roof - it was always blustery 16 storeys up - and all the chickens were already nestled up in the maintenance hut he'd turned into a coop. He checked for eggs - nothing, second day in a row - and bolted the door. After checking the rain barrels were secure, he peered over the south edge to where he'd thought he'd seen movement in the park. Still nothing. Could be more feral dogs. He'd had to clear a pack of them out of the overgrown grass a week ago. The big ones he didn't mind. Big heads, big targets. The small, yippy bastards were the ones that could dodge and nip you. And there was no decent eating on them.
He hadn't made the tower block his own by being lax about security, though. Jogging back down the stairs as the thunder boomed closer, Racker stopped off at the eigth-floor flat he'd turned into his arsenal and grabbed an SA80. He'd spent over 20 years holding this weapon, or one just like it; at this stage it felt like an extension of his body. He checked the door to his living quarters opposite the arsenal, and jogged down to the fourth-floor viewing position.
The viewing position, like the one on the tenth floor, had been created with the brute expedient of smashing down all the interior walls and all the exterior windows. The cheap, damp plasterboard had fallen a lot easier than the reinforced glass. Now Racker had a clear field of vision of all the approaches to the tower block - just another security measure. Below the fourth floor, Racker had taken a sledgehammer to the stairwell; the only way up now was a rope ladder up the lift shaft.
There was someone down there! As freezing rain began to lance in through the open windows, Racker caught a glimpse of movement on the street beyond the park. It had looked like someone bending at the waist - certainly no movement a dog would make. Eyes half-closed against the rain as the still-thickening stormclouds turned day to twlight, Racker raised his rifle to his shoulder and squinted down the barrel.