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[center][color=olive][h1] John Roberts [/h1][/color][/center]

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John sat on his bunk in the musty cool of the barn, frowning. He had been taking a quite refreshing nap, if he did say so himself, only to be awoken by some shouting about a maniac in the woods who had killed Clay. And as though that wasn't enough, only minutes later the radio had begun to sputter about a plague and fits of madness -- and it hadn't taken long for even the dimmest of farmhands to make the connection.

If only John [i]hadn't[/i] been sleeping, he might have been able to take a look for himself, but by the time that he had truly been awake and alert the command had already gone out to stay shut in the bunks. John was no stranger to rabies, though in truth the disease was hardly well-known to him -- nine times out of ten, some mongrel dog would be found wandering the roads and be put out of its misery before any poor soul was bitten. Nonetheless, John had seen the disease for himself several times, and if there was anything that could inspire madness he had no doubt that rabies was a likely candidate. He'd heard stories of men killing themselves upon being bitten by a suspicious stray rather than fall prey to the disease.

Nonetheless, John had not joined the more social men in chattering about the apocalypse. He had seen worse deaths in the trenches than anything that half of the farmhands could envision, and saved men from even worse.

John considered the possibility of asking Tackett to take a look at the body of the attacker come morning, assuming that he'd not yet been buried. And with any luck, the storm would let up and the radio would begin to function again.

Shrugging, he laid down in the bunk and dozed.