[color=00839A][center][h3]Gregory "Grisha" Bainbridge[/h3][/center][/color]

Seattle.

A few years ago, back when Grisha lived on Bainbridge Island, he could see the seaport city from his safe community of people who only fell sick every so often and not nearly all the time as he had seen in some settlements in his later years of pilgrimage, at least, not until the end, when he left, he had dreamed of coming here and seeing its glistening towers. When he was but a boy, those towers shined and shined and seemed to beckon to him. Some people called it the "jet city", due to its history in the old world as a place where one of the greatest plane manufacturers was headquartered and that only excited him more, as he imagined wandering in the concrete jungle, rather than the temperate rain forests typically seen around Washington and definitely on Bainbridge Island, his namesake. Other people called it the "emerald city", citing the green color of the fauna which dotted the city and the surroundings, which Grisha was more than used to.

Today, as he had finally seen the city from a closer distance, entering into its limits for the first time in his life, he was sure of which nickname fitted it more, as the once glistening skyscrapers soared solemnly in the distance, surrounded by the growth of trees, plants, grass, moss and other wildlife, easily visible even from a distance. According to some of the people of the island, Seattle always had many more green areas as compared to many other American cities and to Grisha, it seemed that those green spaces had taken over the entire city. He almost felt a tinge of sorrow that he'd never see the city in its true glory, but had decided to put this romantic idea aside when his home and trusty steed, Ural, had stopped near an industrial zone of the city. Out of fuel, it seemed, as usual. With two of his companions, Joe Fillion and his daughter, Terry, they had set out to find any supplies, items of interest or fuel, leaving Joe Jr., Franklin, Raisa, and the regular crewmen Andy and John in charge of guarding the tank. They had some protection, especially with Joe Jr. there, a much better shooter than himself, Franklin, John, but of roughly equivalent skill to old Andy, but Grisha always felt a bit bad leaving them alone, he was always a bit scared he'd return to find them gutted by bandits or all sick from something no one could ever hope to cure. Old trauma, he supposed.

"Grisha". He said the nickname to himself as Joe looked through some of the rubble in the factory they were investigating. The nickname had been given to him by the tank's resident Russian, Raisa, a young girl who Grisha had become quite fond of, like a younger sister and it seemed to stuck. Sometimes, he forgot his original first name was actually Gregory. Getting a bit sentimental over it, he reached into his coat pocket and removed the Makarov pistol. Broken, it actually belonged to Raisa, it was mostly to scare anyone who caught him alone and off guard, the Fillions were the ones who were really packing. Something about a tiny part of some description missing from the pistol, nothing noticeable to view, so long as he made it look lethal, it might as well be, no one wanted to be shot in this new world. Anyone who wanted to be shot had already done it themselves, that's for sure. Wryly smiling at his silent black remark, he looked around.

"You look like you've had more luck than me, Joe." He remarked with a chuckle as he gestured to the wire. Grisha hadn't found much, to be brutally honest, he had spent most of the time looking at the scenery. After all, he was finally here, in Seattle. It was all quite thrilling, even if it was a lot more... bush-y than he first imagined it. Even Ural had had problems on one of the roads into the city and on the outskirts, it was a mess of trees, puddles, brush and grass as tall as a small car. Still, he dug around in the dust as he felt bumps with his feet, once in a while, he'd find something that looked promising, only for it to turn out to be a rusted old piece of machinery that looked interesting, but was mostly just junk, completely unusable and useless. Sighing, he decided the production line of this factory was a lost cause. There was so much dust and dirt piled up inside that the machinery was completely buried and Grisha had not even the slightest idea what the place had even produced before.

With a disappointed look on his face, he looked around the large room. Light shined through the broken glass of the large windows. Trees were, unsurprisingly, visible in many of them, with a blue, clear sky behind them. Birds chirped, insects buzzed and clicked, and the rustling of the flora by the breeze was a near constant sound. "Joe, gimme a sec, I'll go look across the street, Terry, watch my back, would you?" He gave them a look over before turning around and heading to the door, half of which was blocked, making him crouch down to get through. They were on the south of the city, about a two hours' walk from the downtown, with its towers and in this particular industrial zone, it felt like people had left the city, stopped here, grabbed what they could and kept moving. He couldn't blame them, he supposed, but it sure made things hard for him. Looking across the brush of the street, the asphalt nearly hidden underneath dirt, leaves and grass, after scanning some old buildings, a parking lot with some old vehicles caught his eye. None of them really looked to be in running condition, but he supposed one of them might have a bit of diesel fuel on it, the food of their machine. Grisha made an about face and called for Joe and Terry. "There's an parkin' lot on the other side of the street and one of the buildings! Wanna check it out?" He yelled, not having much regard for staying quiet in a place that seemed deserted of not only people, but things that could actually help them.

As he walked back towards them, toying with a part of his windbreaker, he heard something peculiar over the sound of the dominant nature. "Hey, Joe, do you hear a motor? That doesn't sound like it belongs to us."

[hr]

A twenty-minute walk from Grisha and Joe, Raisa could hear the sound of the car much better, even in her hazy, hot, stuffy and generally sick state. Sniffing vainly from her stuffed nose, she looked over at Franklin, who was standing guard the top of the turret of the tank, his large hands lightly grazing the NSVT heavy machine gun. The tank had come to a stop a few minutes ago, but Grisha had rushed to scout as he didn't want to stay put long in one place for very long in such a big city. It was bad luck, he had said. His "superstition" had made her laugh and she had given her the pistol she had kept for many years, for good luck. Now, she was suddenly wishing the comforting feel of the small handgun, even broken it made her feel a bit more secure. Frankling looked worried as well and for a moment, she saw him dip into the tank at Grisha's normal spot to talk to John, who was tending to the more important supplies inside the turret, as well as their only shell, "Tsarevna", a name meaning the princess daughter of a Tsar, fitting for the large tank. Andy O'Keefe had been working on the bottom of the tank, making sure nothing on the bottom or the suspension was damaged and she was looking over the inventory of the food supplies she had, given to her by John, trying to figure out the best way of making meals out of it. Now, they all froze. Joe Jr., sat near her on the back of the tank with his carbine looked as alert as everyone else. 

No one liked the situation. Franklin got out of the turret and looked with a serious expression at Raisa. "Someone might've noticed us. Nothin' new, just do me a lil' favor and tell Andy to get his ass in his seat and you get in Grisha's spot. I'll close the hatch and sit on top. Joe, you stay up 'ere with me wit that rifle of yours." She nodded and groaning a bit, she got up and climbed up the turret with a lot of effort into the turret. Not wanting to spread her sickness if it was too contagious (even if it hadn't spread to anyone else for the past few months), she clambered onto the commander's seat and the hatch was shut.

Franklin made sure the NSVT was loaded well and waited as the motor's sound grew louder and louder...