[color=7ea7d8][Centre][h3]Henry Charlton[/h3][/centre][/color] "Read, read, never want to read, ah, here we go." The library was dark but seemed empty of infected to Henry, or any other living being, for which he was grateful. It was hard to remain sane when spending such a long time by oneself, avoiding both the living and the dead for fear of a slow and painful death, or undeath, and so he had sunk himself into his favourite retreat: literature. Specifically the non-fiction kind. Part of him chastised himself for not even trying to approach any of the living few he had seen in his travels across the city but then the other part would immediately remind him of the brutality he had also seen enacted by his fellow human beings. Definitely safest to stay alone until he was sure he wasn't teaming up with an axe murderer or something. "Why are we here? Looks like the place has already been tossed." Voices down the stairwell had Henry reaching for his sabre, a replica of a Napoleonic-era cavalry blade he had 'borrowed' from the museum for lack of anything better at the time. He crawled to the edge of the stairwell to hear better and sure enough there was what sounded like two people coming up; it was difficult to tell with their footfalls echoing in the otherwise silent city. "Never know when someone's missed something, 'specially as a place like this might have infected in so others'll stay away." They were definitely coming up to his floor, the one which had all the staff areas, and Henry made a split second choice to grab his few belongings and creep as quietly as he could towards a fire exit at the far end of the floor. He paused at the door, hearing the noises on the stairwell stop, and a voice question something. Then there were warning shouts and a gun went off. [i]Great, bring more of them running why don't you?[/i] He shoved the door open and started running, all attempts at secrecy thrown to the wind as he tried to get as far away as possible from the hotspot the morons downstairs had created.