Hey guys, cut him a bit of slack. He's new; everybody makes mistakes. If you scare off all the new blood, we'll have some trouble. He's not like Zanta or anything. So Lamas, I'm hurt that you ditched me, but I'll live. I'll try to hook up with everyone in a bit, after you guys sort your storylines out. P.S. Police evidence locker, epic, I'll have to use that one sometime. P.P.S. Waleeted?? Like Baleeted..only...French? Name: Aaron McCalister Age: 20 Class:Citizen Weapon(s): M4, Kimber Custom Royal II, knife. Physical Description: 5'8", short blonde hair, gray eyes. Wearing brown leather jacket, long jeans, boots, motorcycle gloves. Time: 0252 hours. Location: 79th block, Broadway, Manhattan. After my breather, on which I did not meet anyone, I continue north. I walk in silence, the occasional scream and shot breaking magic. It's a different city, still lit up but empty of people. Beautiful, horrible....magic. All the same, I'd hate to be doing this in the dark. I wonder how long they'll keep the power flowing. Probably until something big happens, blows a breaker somewhere upstate. I stop to rest again, at the 79th metro entrance. Only about 100 more blocks to George Washington. Might be there by Tuesday at this rate. I'd kill for a cab. Feels good to have my back against something. I hear a strange sound, a few blocks away. It's out of place, alien. Then I identify it: an engine. Someone tearing around in a truck. Good for them. It fades; the magic restored. Then my ears pick up the sound of running. I drop low, raising my weapon. A mob, about 15, covered in blood. I don't stop to count, I just start putting rounds into their rapidly approaching bodies. They don't stop for anything as trivial as the 5.56 I'm pumping into them. No wonder the army is looking for a new rifle. I backpedal, lacing rounds into them as I try to put some distance between their gleaming teeth. When my clip runs dry, I do a quick kill count. Must be at least half a score still coming. My head is still doing the math as it follows my feet the opposite direction. Their horrible moaning screeches drive me faster. I can't keep this pace up for ever. I make for the nearest door, and run into the security lit lobby. Thank God in heaven for fire codes. I change clips as I race to the stairs. My only spare. No good stopping to shoot at them, the kill/shot ratio doesn't seem to be in my favor. I rake the t-handle as I reach the first floor. By the time I hit the third floor landing, they're filing in though the steel door at the bottom. No potshots from the stairs either, too tight. I don't take a second look. By the seventh floor I can hear them gaining. I exit the stairwell and run down the hallway: endless offices; no where to hide. The end of the hall's the same: window with a fire-escape I break the window, and crawl out. I get a floor above them, and start firing down as they pile out of the window. The soft sound of lead meeting is music to my ears, and my legs all but tear up thanking me for the break. The thirty-round clip doesn't finish them all. I toss the useless rifle at them and run up to the next landing. What for? Hit the roof? Then what? Then the news choppers can use what's left of my body for stock footage. I run up anyway. When I reach the top, I pull the pistol and buy myself some time with a few well placed shots. The ones I shoot clog the stairs, slowing down the next wave. I slide my empty pistol back home. I take a few steps back, turn off my mind, the part that says this is stupid and, if I'm lucky, only going to paralyze me. I sprint to the edge and leap I sail across the alleyway like a character from Boondock Saints. I land on the fire stair of the next building, knocking the wind out of myself in the process. I lay there, curled in a ball, alive and in one piece. The zeds sit there an wail. When my lungs can handle it, I start to laugh. I giggle like a child, until the tears stream down my face. I'm alive.