"Dear God, you have put me in a place that is hell incarnate. People are going crazy and they eat each other. I did not attend worshipping after I started my career as a comic book writer. I know there would be many things I would have deeded more conscientiously. It's not that I ignored you. I picked up on signs, opened up the book and read some infrequently. But God, please, forgive me of my dumb acts, I wish to repent before you. Save me from this hell. Save me from dying this way."

Praying had become as usual as Friday night lights for Jim Ruthers. And, if he ever exited this death infected island, he was buying a new suit and enrolling in every religious community center he could find. He would write of his testaments to god, what he had witnessed men doing to men, how he survived with a knife. That's all he had to defend himself, a knife. But, he had found himself an empty, cold garage.

Of course he had entertained busting open a windshield and barreling his way out of hell. It wasn't smart. He thought he could getaway, but it was five hundred to him and a car. Jim shook off his impulse. He found a place to nest, in an old folded lounge chair sitting next to a vending machine. So, he purchased himself a can of Coca Cola for one dollar and one quarter and sat back. He laughed aloud when he bought the soft drink and sat down. Maybe one of the cars had a few DVDs and theater seats. It was a moment of compromise between survive and living.