[center][h2][b][i]EPISODE 1: A KINDRED PAIR[/i][/b][/h2][/center]

[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/xFCMshR/D0930-C05-1625-4-EB2-97-D3-59925-A588-AA7.jpg[/img][/center]

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     Bleak. That was the best way to describe it. Or at least that was the best description that John Marlow could think of. He had seen this very same scene so many times since it all ended, since the world ended and the dead had begun to rise and stalk the Earth. It was an abandoned town, a small countryside town in rural Kansas. The large, rusty green sign on the right side of the road identified the abandoned hamlet as “Briar Field”. Beneath the white letters of the town name the sign said “Population 767”. [i]Not anymore.[/i] John thought grimly.

     John stood in the middle of two lane road that lead straight into town. The tallest building to be seen was the church, about one hundred yards ahead of where John stood. The church was in the best visible condition of all the buildings John could see. The numerous brick buildings that lined the small street were dilapidated and caving in, the bricks faded and sprouting moss, and the doors and windows long gone, leaving only gaping entries into the crumbled structures.

     The church stood tall and proud. Aside from a faded look to the white washed front of the building, John could see no major damages or sign of decay. Of course the opposite side and interior could be completely different stories. 

     John shifted his feet slightly, the sound of his boots seeming to echo through the forsaken town before them, he and his companion to the back. He reached his right hand up and adjusted the gray-black cowboy hat that sat atop his head. His weathered face was sincere and firm. A slight gust of wind whistled down the street and across his face, causing his long graying-black hair to flail slightly at the back of his neck.

     In his left hand John held his [u][url=https://i.ibb.co/x2fk3z9/C7-DCF6-D3-5-EAB-48-F6-B715-70-E7938-A4304.jpg]Winchester rifle[/url][/u], down at his side. He checked his revolver at his right side, it was comfortably placed in its brown leather holster at his belt. He adjusted his the straps of his black backpack. Satisfied, he turned and faced the young lady at his back. His traveling companion of over two years now, Florence Davis.

“Alright, let’s go,” he said flatly,”we’ve got about six hours until sundown. We need to scavenge as much as we can and find a place to lay up for the night.”