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"Come on, you little RATS!" chuckled Miles, cocking his father's rifle. His fingers trembled over the bolt, excited with anticipation. "This is MY town!" 

Miles Green was twenty five years old. He had been born to a good suburban family, educated in a private institution and had been working his way to a PHD in the field of physics before the world went to shit. He didn't care for any of that though, because for him, the shamblers had brought him freedom. 

Always, he'd been forced to walk a path set before him by his old man. Always, he had to clamber over obstacles that he never wanted to even encounter. He was a warrior, God damnit! The U.S Army was his calling, but no! His father had put all those dreams to sleep with his overbearing ways. That didn't matter now though, because his father was dead - and so was his mother. Good, let them rot in Hell. 

The fire door over at the school started to creek open. Miles' Mauser Kar98k - a meticulously maintained relic his grandfather had bought back from the Second World War - was more than enough to punch through that wood. He sighted in on the door, adjusting the scope with practised hands. How he had loved this rifle when he was growing up; he could still remember the odd days that he would sneak out with it, hitching a ride with his cousin, to some remote location to shoot it. It had been risky, if the Cops had pulled him over then no doubt he'd of faced his father's wrath, and the rifle would have been confiscated.

That hadn't happened though, not even close. And father was dead now. 

He pulled the trigger, the antique firearm kicking against his bruised shoulder. The fire door splintered in the middle, and it shut instantly. 

"Did I get you? Or didn't I? Come on, come, it's okay! It's O-FUCKING-KAY! Show yourself, you little RAT!" Miles sneered, breaking into a cackle. 

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Garret Mercer had been watching the school since the bus arrived, with eager anticipation. It had drawn the dead away from the house he was in, and the sniper's shooting had further diminished the build up of shamblers in the roadway. At last! The squad car was deserted. 

Keeping low, he moved from the house, sprinting from one bit of cover to the next, and only stopping to check the coast was still clear. He'd been trying to get to the abandoned police vehicle for days - he'd seen the driver show up, before the sniper killed him. That meant it was still functional, and that more than likely, it still carried supplies. 

As he crept across the road, he paused briefly, to look at a house surrounded by the dead. A shot rang out, and Gerret flinched - he saw the shooter in the window. And then he saw something else; a shadow slinking below the window. His heart froze for a moment, because he knew if either of them saw him, the game was up. He had to do this quickly. 

He reached the squad car, stepping over the body of a decaying former police officer. He knelt down, and painstakingly separated the ice-cold fingers away from the officer's pistol. He didn't know too much about guns, and right now, he didn't care beyond the point that it would be useful in the future. He stuffed it into his bag, ensuring the "safety" was engaged. He didn't know much about guns, but damn, almost every American knew they had a safety cache. 

The keys were still in the ignition, and he smiled. At last! He could get the Hell out of dodge. The roads further into the city were gridlocked, this was true - but that didn't mean he couldn't take the scenic route to Easton. He slowly eased himself into the drivers seat.

The sniper fired again, and Garret heard the distant shattering of a pane of glass. He looked over at the school, and saw people cowering away from a window-covered wall. That maniac was shooting at them! But why!? 

Well, who cares. He has the car, it's not his problem.

Or is it? 

He might be able to get them to safety. The car could take a bit of a beating, surely? He could drive right over that green, pull up, get them in- but no, wait a second. Maybe there's a reason the sniper is shooting at them. Maybe they're bad people? 

He places his hand against the keys, preparing to turn them. Once the engine kicked up, he'd draw the sniper's attention no doubt, and he'd have to move one way or the other. 

Garret quietly contemplates his next move; his conscience fighting it out with cold minded logic.