[u]Desmond Williams[/u]

"So we're both from the city, then," he gave a faded smile, knowing that there was a world of difference between Brooklyn and his luxury suite in Manhattan. For starters, he didn't go to sleep every night to the sound of a gunshot or sirens. But, now it all didn't matter. Wall Street was a bastion for the dead and dying, Broadway had long been abandoned to its fate, and Times Square was hell incarnate. Wealth no longer mattered, and the hedge fund managers and the venture capitalists all rotted away with the retail workers and the petty thieves. Desmond would never go back.

The woman mentioned pairing up, which caught Desmond off guard. The thought hadn't even entered his mind, and he had been traveling alone since his safehouse had been attacked and everyone inside killed. Everyone except him, he figured.  He had always been a loner, the apocalypse didn't change that. But he was in an unfamiliar and hostile environment, and he could use someone who had his back. Desmond still didn't know if he could trust her -- still didn't even know her [i]name[/i], but for whatever strange gut rationalization, he was okay with that. The former lawyer nodded, slowly and decisively.
"I've got your back if you've got mine," he offered, before giving a sharp glance upward toward the origin of the groan. Desmond checked the box magazine that was still in his right hand, before sliding it back into his gun. 
"Speaking of, it sounds like something requires our attention upstairs."

[u]Douglas Knowles[/u] 

Two men, clad in the uniforms of Wilmington's finest, stood atop a roof in downtown, as one lit the other's cigarette, and the other put the pack of Parliaments delicately into his back pocket. It could have been a normal afternoon. Except that their uniforms were ragged, and for the fatigue in their eyes, and for the occasional groan of a corpse shuffling aimlessly down the streets which they once called home. Blowing the first puff of smoke out past the edge of the roof, Ron Bulinski took the cigarette out of his mouth and tore his gaze away from the clouds and back to his friend.
"Thanks, Doug."
"Don't worry about it, Ron," Officer Douglas Knowles put his lighter away and rested his hands in his pockets. Ron had been Doug's partner on the force for years, and he knew that smoking always de-stressed him. Doug, on the other hand, had quit when the dead started walking. He figured that enough things were trying to kill him, he didn't need to add to the list. But with the stress of the past day, he wished he had an outlet like Ron did.

"It could be that they found some survivors out there, and had to help them out before bringing them back or reporting in?" Ron suggested, but he had no faith in his theory. Neither did Doug.
"Why wouldn't they radio that in, then? I mean, goddamn Ron, they've been gone almost a whole day. They knew the rules: patrol for up to three hours, check in, go back out. Plus, Bill would never take the rookie out for a prolonged scavenging run, he knows better. Where the hell could they have gone?"
Ron sighed. "I don't know. I'm worried, too."

The two sat in silence for a few more minutes, before a shorter, unassuming lady in her late forties came up to the roof with excitement in her eyes.
"Ron, Doug!" She called from across the rooftop.
"What's up, Patty? Did you figure it out?" Doug called back. The lady, Patty, wasn't a cop -- just a survivor they had found holed out in the office building they now called their safehouse. She had been with them ever since they'd arrived. The two officers followed the lady dowm the stairs and into the third floor of their safehouse, where another man, Omar, was turning dials on an older piece of machinery connected by numerous wires and cords to their generator. It was a radio transmitter: they'd had it, broken, from the beginning, but couldn't figure out how to fix it. But Patty had done it. Ron and Doug looked at each other, and then back at the transmitter, before Doug walked over, picked up the mic, and had Omar press 'Record'. Doug cleared his throat.
[i]"To anyone out there who may be lost, or hopeless, or broken, there is a safe place in Wilmington. We have barricades, and food, and weapons, and space for anyone willing to come. Together, we can overcome this. We're located downtown, on 8th Street. You'll see the signs. Stay safe."[/i] A few glances went around the room. That was either their saving grace, or their last mistake.