Micah J. Stubbe	

	He had traveled over 17 miles that day, his feet burnt like he had walked on coals the entire time, and his legs stung like they were being stabbed with cattle prods. It was a good sign that he was doing well, pain meant he was still breathing, pain meant he was live and several days from death. As he walked, stumbling a bit, he finally stumbled into the ground, laying in the dust for a few moments, before sitting up, his feet semi-extended and his elbows resting on his knees. Setting his Lionsdale back pack between his legs, he took out a jar of black powder, a box of nails, a 4-inch pipe, two caps, his pocket knife, the pipe glue, and the fuse. First, he cut out a small hole in the center of a cap, then glued the other cap to the pipe. Cutting off about 6 inches of fuse, he laid it inside the tube, so one end was touching the cap, and the other was sticking out the open end of the tube. Grabbing a handful of rocks from the ground, he poured them into the tube, then poured in a layer of black powder, patting it down, and putting a layer of nails on that, finally topping it off with a last layer of gunpowder. Sliding the fuse through the hole he made in the other cap, he glued the cap onto the open tube end, then glued the fuse in place. There he had it, a fourth pipe-bomb for his collection. It only took him about four minutes a time,and they were incredible damaging against the undead fucks.

	After he finished the mini bomb, he noticed that his back had begun to feel strain from the position, and his butt was going numb from prolonged contact with the hard, uneven surface. Regretting the fact that his rest was so short lived, he rolled onto his knees then stood, bomb still in hand. Slipping it into his left gun pocket, he now had two per inner pocket. The left were single bombs, whereas the right were dual bombs, duct-taped together for use against larger crowds against undead. He had only been forced to use a dual once, back when he had been trapped in a public emergency room while he was searching for medical supplies. Snapping from his regression, he reached down into his bag and pulled out a broken pack of cigarettes, bringing one to his mouth, he lit it with his black matte zippo, taking a long drag and falling back into his memories. 

	Snapped back into reality by the burning of his lips from the cigarette, burnt to the filter, he flicked it into the ground and stomped on it, twisting his ankle to grind it in the ground and putting it out. He'd been smoking since he was 11, and had picked up the habit of grinding it into the ground by his chapter leader, a combination of ritual and practicality, after all, the last thing the apocalypse needed was an enormous forest fire. Gazing at the cigarette for a few moments, which felt like an eternity, he picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, pulling the bat of the side, and began walking, he had a lot of distance to travel, and the faster he moved, the better his chance at survival. Remembering that, he picked up the pace, Holding the bat on both ends and jogging. He continued to move, a few hours into his progress he saw two figures, moving in the distance. Sprinting far right, off of the trail, he drew out his rifle, aiming down the sights, nearly getting knocked on his ass out of surprise.

	It was a very attractive woman, a man, and their cat, walking and talking.
[color=9e0b0f]"Hey! You There, Survivors!"[/color]
	He called out, standing and jogging towards them, rifle in hand.