Mr Taggart was for quite some time contented to live-out what days he had left at a deserted country-club in Wilmington's suburbs with little more than an emergency-radio and a stray-cat for company. Nearby was Brandywine-creek, which was important for some event that happened over a hundred years ago on September 11th, marking the single largest battle of the American revolution. [i]The Americans lost[/i], but remained unbroken in defeat.

He knew this tyrannical rule of undead would not go away quietly, there was no "waiting this out until more qualified people arrived". All the self-proclaimed experts were dead now. That just left what made America so great, winter-soldiers with a resolve to keep moving forwards at whatever the cost.

Yet here he was, [i]not[/i] doing that.

A small thing nibbled at his hand and meowed. It was a striped tabby he'd found when traveling through Cleveland, and made for probably the best motivational alarm-clocks a person could ask for as it nuzzled his hand. The feline was hungry, again.

After mentally checking his bag, it turned-up bereft of canned-goods or even dry cat-food. Although he [i]could[/i] feed it a quarter-stick of butter or something, it was better to save that for yourself.

Aching as he stood, he loaded-up his gear and prepared to make the short walk into Wilmington. On second thought... best take a golf-cart...