Part III A (flashbacks/backstory omitted).

As the night dragged-on, Rob's headache returned; it was a persistant bother he had to deal with ever since the outbreak. He was already prepared, and rubbed a warm -but empty- coffee-mug on the back of his neck, and over his eyes, in hopes of improving blood-circulation. Sometimes it helped, other times... He poured another mug of coffee mixed with vodka, and produced a pair of 325 mg tablets of asprin, he quickly gulped the remedy down and sighed. It wasn't an infection, that much he was certain, but a nagging feeling told him this illness could still-yet mean the death of him.

Being alone in the woods, in the dark, suffering from a severe headache... with those... things walking around loose outside... Sometimes the pain wasn't so bad and he could work through the it, it even seemed to help a little; other times he felt like curling into a ball and dying; already his vision had been tinged blood-red from lack of sleep, his eyes clearly sunk-in and rimmed red with bloodshot even now. Gone was the face of a care-free target-shooter with a set-for-life scholarship.

Back in the cabin, in the corner of his little maintnance-room he had a gas-stove set-up, not for cooking, but just for lighting bits of tinder to light the wood-stove, or to heat another pot of coffee or [if times get any worse] pine-needle tea during the daylight-hours. Outside in the mess-hall the walls were drenched in blood-splatter, he never liked it out there... too many reminders of what they'd lost... of what [i]he'd[/i] lost. Slumped in the farthest corner, wearing an ACU, was a dead boy, on his breast pocket it read his name: Cunningham.