[hr][hr][center][h1][color=662d91]Alexander Polawski[/color][/h1]
[img]http://cdn.wegotthiscovered.com/wp-content/uploads/robertdenirothefamily.jpg[/img][/center]
[hr][center][b][color=662d91]Location:[/color][/b] Newnan Hospital[/center][hr][hr]

If there was one thing the old man, now trodding up the snowy front yard of a large brick building all alone, hadn't missed down south in Florida, it had been the cold weather. Not that he wasn't used to it, but he suspected it had something to do with him being and old-ass man with too many hours enjoyed in the Caribbean sun. For a split second he wondered if he'd prefer Vietnam over this Hell, but only briefly as he came back to his already tense senses. Standing closer to the large building, he could read what the worn-down letters said;

[color=662d91]"Newnan Hospital..."[/color]

While he hadn't experienced what he could only imagine were massive slaughterhouses of infected during the inital outbreak, he had by now figured out that hospitals and the like were hotspots. At least for a while, because for all intents and purposes, the hospital now in front of Alexander seemed empty. Regardless, he holstered his M9 Beretta and took hold of his fireax before entering silently through the front door. 

It was open, as if ready for him to enter. Quietly making his way in, Alexander could see just the entrance-hall more or less in shades of black because of the darkness. He held his breath, moving his gaze back and forth across the room, taking in anything and everything of sound or smell. But as he only heard the outside world, and smelled the dirt and decay, he made his way upstairs. The further he went, he followed the same proceedure; checking every door through the key-hole, under the door or by peaking very quitly through it. For each room he found, he both prayed and cursed silently for them being empty. No Walkers, but nothing of use either. 

Only God knew how long he spent searching through the second floor; hours or just a few minutes? It felt like weeks and months, because the axe-wielding old man was getting tired. Tired of walking; tired of searching; tired of running and fleeing, and tired of this endless road to nothingness. He just wanted to sleep. Alexander peaked in through one last door, finding what he imaged had been one of those baby-rooms. It was empty, save for a few blankets left behind by scavengers. Who knew how long ago that had been? Who were they? Where were they? Or were they all dead by now? Questions that Alexander tried to push further and further back into his mind as he grabbed one of the blankets and made his way downstairs again. He had learned - the hard way - that heights was a bad thing if escape was needed. He snuck into one of the rooms he'd already cleared and did his best to wedge the door with what rubble was left behind. He wasn't sure that it would hold back any Walker forever, but it would sure as hell make enough noise to alert him of their presence. If outnumbered, he could always get out of the window. Easier to jump from the first floor than the second. 

But now he was tired, and so he crawled up in one of the corners and wrapped the blanket around him, while silently speaking to himself. A series of pictures were placed in his left hand, while his right hand held the pistol. Sooner rather than later, he kissed one of the pictures, tucked it away safely, and closed his eyes. What he would do tomorrow, or the day after that, he had no idea. Now he just wanted to sleep.