[color=BDBDBD][center][color=FFBF00][b]C H A S E[/b][/color]
[color=ffffff]8th Street Safe Zone
Wilmington, Delaware
[@FortunesFaded]
---x---[/color][/center]
[color=FFFFFF][center][i]"We read you; Eighth Street is operational. I repeat, our safe house is operational and the area is relatively clear, over."[/i][/center][/color]
Chase nodded for no one in particular. A solid and straight response had been given after only a relatively short time and they were speaking directly to him. No recorded message BS. All good signs pointing to life broadcasting from safety. He needed to make contact.

[color=ffffff]"It's good to finally hear another voice."[/color] Chase began, speaking into the radio and looking to the East down 8th street where he figured the aid station would be. [color=ffffff]"My names Chase. I'm approaching alone from the East. A white 'flag' will be in my left hand. I'm only looking to trade some supplies. Don't shoot. Over."[/color]

[center][color=ffffff]---x---[/color][/center]
Chase wove himself through dilapidated vehicles as he made his way toward the station. Where he stood now, he could clearly make out the sign affixed to the side of one of the unmarked buildings. Whatever the place was in it's past life was now a forgotten memory. There was nothing there to hint at what that could have been. No labels, no markings, no deteriorating mascot advertising the latest sales... nothing. Just the one sign letting him now that he was nearing safety.

[center][color=ffffff][i]...Let's hope...[/i][/color][/center]
Chase fished the bloodied white rag from his back pocket, wrapped it around an enclosed fist and held it up in the air for somebody to see. From here on out, he'd move slowly toward the building until he got some sort of signal that they'd seen him and he was safe to approach.

[/color]