[center][img]http://s3.media.squarespace.com/production/608565/7068214/_CO3n6ieLgM8/SUHBjHiXavI/AAAAAAAAAGM/eh7vYP36Vbc/s640/alexchu-bloody-apartment.jpg[/img][/center]
[hr][h3][color=gray]Local Apartment Complex, Toronto, Canada[/color][/h3]
[sub][h3][color=gray]August 29th, 2018 - 23:40 EST[/color][/h3][/sub]
[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34jC1fmeFD0]Theme Song: We're Killing Strangers[/url]
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[quote][i]"I'll kill every last one of you bastards!"[/i] -Francis[/quote]

	Hours had passed since Francis found himself free from the trek from Al Flaherty's several blocks away, having done nothing but pass unconscious upon the bedroom's king-size since then; his body was exhausted, ached, and oiled from dried sweat left to stain his skin. The clothes stuck to him in a undesired manner, having been beyond the point of care to have removed them upon laying upon the bed initially. What awoke him was the battered sounds of limbs against lumbers, as it seemed someone in another nearby room had taken the attention of a horde of infected; the constant symphony of strikes and cracking wood suggested they were no small number either, giving Francis all the more fuel to his fears of being discovered. His door was loosely secured and barricaded, not enough to hold any dedicated amount like that for too long - a minute or two at best. He'd tip-toe his way along the carpet of the bedroom, grabbing for his [url=http://cdn3.volusion.com/ftmar.dfprg/v/vspfiles/photos/RM400-16B-ECP-ODG-2.jpg?1452325999]M400[/url] to hold tightly to his chest, before making his way closer to the door to peer through the keyhole for whatever mess he could make from this - only to catch glimpse of an infected staring back at the door, causing him to recoil. He'd fall back and crash his back to the ground, causing a loud enough audible collision to drag some of the attention of the horde to his door next; this wasn't going to end well.

	Uncoordinated fists and legs began beating upon the door mercilessly, pushing back the screws upon the hinges and bringing the door to a crooked tilt; the mangled, shambling corpses visible from the cracks of visibility. [color=0072bc][i]"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"[/i][/color] He cussed out louder and louder, anguished that he knew the first round would be the signature on the contract; once he unleashed a single bullet from that chamber, every infected in the floor would be bursting through that door. He began rushing for the door, holding faith that the barricade would hold long enough for him to traverse up the fire escape for the roof as a last resort of sanctuary. Midway through slinging the duffel bags over his shoulders - an ear-piercing cry overwhelmed the banging and moans of the forsaken. [i][color=ed1c24]"Ahhh! Help me, please - somebody help meee!"[/color][/i] It was familiar, though - he could not pin where he had heard it before, not at the moment of adrenaline and hell raising. He'd keep muttering to himself as he'd unsling the bags back off his shoulders, pacing back to the main room with four of his STANAG magazines slammed down onto the granite countertop; [color=0072bc][i]"Don't be a hero, don't be a hero, don't be a hero, be a hero, be a hero, hell with it!"[/i][/color]

	His thumb slid down to caress the safety, flipping it over to semi-automatic and signing his death wish provocatively with a bullet expelling from the chamber aimlessly into the door. The crack demanding the attention of the rest of the floor to try and push their way into the doorway. [color=0072bc][i]"It's dinnertime, boyos! Come and get a pint while you're fuckin' at it!"[/i][/color] More of the door began to break as wood splintered and faltered in, exposing more of the nightmare separating the two sides of the war. He'd bring the ironsights to his gaze, beginning to pick off one after another through the cracks and shreds - some falling as dead weight to make it worse, and others falling miscellaneously to offer nothing but another corpse to trot over. It wouldn't take long after emptying a single magazine where the door would finally cave in completely. Ejecting the mag out onto the counter to pop another one in, he'd take precise shots for their heads and domes to take one after another. His eardrums ringing from lack of protection from the cracking high calibers, deafening him as he'd roar out incoherently. The shambling infected moved ever so closer to the standpoint where Francis demanded to remain, within reach of his remaining three magazines. There were too many to pick, too many approaching, and he had to retreat back for space.

	His feet slid back one after another, finishing off the magazine that he'd eject onto the counter again. Two infected within feet of him, and with him having an empty rifle. He'd toss it onto the counter as well to retrieve the [url=http://hkusa.s3.amazonaws.com/20140509154029/HK45-BLACK-left-MARCH2013.jpg]H&K 45[/url] from its holster to unleash into both their skulls with two bullets to each. Half a dozen remained approaching him, demanding the last of his current magazine and the next; he aimed for the knees, giving himself the time to aim properly for the heads next on the next sweep of ACP rounds. The ringing in his drums deafened him for the time, unable to hear the distant groans in the hallway that met with the sound of rending flesh from a corpse. He took no time to rush, reloading his pistol to soon holster, then reaching for his rifle again to reload another magazine into as well. His feet stepped over the still bodies, turning out the doorway to see the horrendous sight of a single infected devouring out the throat of a just victim with her body still twitching. His face contorted to that fury, walking behind to administer the stock of his M400 repeatedly to the back of the shambler's skull until it was but a caved-in crevice.

	He'd look up to the still-living victim of the torn throat, bleeding crimson onto herself for the last few moments of her life. A disturbing gurgling noise making its way from her mouth, tormenting Francis as he'd widen his eyes - and drop his rifle. His hands raised to cup his mouth with watering eyes, as he butchered out the name; [color=0072bc][i]"R-Rebecca?"[/i][/color] Alas, the victim before him had been his beloved Rebecca, gurgling - begging for mercy before inevitably falling still, dead... Quaking hands balled into fists as he'd fall to his knees, pressing the heels of his palms to his brow, and broke down into shameless tears. The man broken and shattered by what had been done, and his inability to save his own girlfriend... Minutes flying by, and all that interupted poor Francis' sorrow was the sounds of more approaching infected finding their way up the stairwell upon the opposite side of the hall - and they'd be only a minute or so before on his position if he chose not to act. A hand slid across his nose with a sniffle to wipe, reaching for his rifle he had dropped to aim to Rebecca's crown, praying quietly to whatever forsaken god was watching over; [color=0072bc][i]"H-holy father, f...f-forgive me."[/i][/color] The bullet lodged itself into her dome, giving Francis the alleviation that at least she would not suffer the fate of the afterlife. The sullen, shaken soul marched back to his room for the rest of his gear, stowing away the empty magazine and making his way down the fire escape; the city was no longer safe, not the dark side at least. He'd sneak his way down the downpour and darkness, vowing a promise. [color=0072bc][i]"I'll kill every last one of you bastards!"[/i][/color]