[B][U]Prometheus[/U][/B]

Time means little when your heart beats in your throat. When moments no longer separate and the old world hours give way to the continuous now. Like meditation, an intense high, or the fog of war. Joshua knew the last well. He felt it, but could not name it. His body and mind were ‘operational’. Serviceable, minor wounds, negligible damage. Joshua let his pistol lay beside him, feigning readiness. When time blurs you should be concerned. 

Sunset fast neared when Joshua recovered. He gingerly tested his feet and checked over himself once again. Speckled blood stained his vest and battle uniform, but beyond a few tears or splits, the clothes survived. The flesh managed of the same. Joshua felt stiff and bruised, and perhaps the adrenaline was still numbing the pain, but too long had passed. However long it had been, anyway. 

Joshua cocked a brow and looked around. Pistol in hand, he approached the smoking wreckage casually. Besides groaning metal the world fell quiet. No strained breaths of the undead, humming engines, or even the small sounds of unseen fauna. The thought gave the sergeant pause. He looked back once more, this time following the land as it rose into what he’d first discounted as a mere hill.

“Ah shit,” Gunner sighed, his eyes taking in the cliff, ten men above him. “Mackinac. Haven of Hellish Hurdles.”

When the awe dissipated, Joshua found himself pacing around the metallic heap. He lost a moment to the distraction, but smoke still billowed and the wreck still groaned. A path started in the earth more than a dozen yards opposite the cliff. Bits of scrap remained at the start and dotted the space between marks in the land and the crash. Part way through the tail of the helicopter came apart. Its broken remains lie bent with the rear rotor pointing to the bulk of the wreck. Until he reached the the body of the chopper he saw no blood, fire, or anything to do the crash justice. And then came too much. 

Blood splattered against the broken windshield of the helicopter. The pilot had somehow come loose and either broken through, or become wedged party through the already broken glass. His head and shoulder projected out, torn to shreds, as if reaching for something. Joshua hardened himself. Even in his daze, he remembered the dismembered gunner, but not the sparking wires. Gunner stumbled back and met an all too curved metal wall. The very shape of the helicopter had changed. Like a flattened oval or an egg with its shell caved in. Little fires had spread and still burnt within the wreckage. What remained of the soldiers either charred or was half buried under bent metal. [I]Sergeant Evans[/I] planned the excavation process and how best to free the bodies of the fallen. Gunner sought clues as to where the supplies might turn up. 

Saddled with two packs a few weapons slung over his shoulders, Joshua made for the cliff. A few rocks tumbled down, nothing worrisome. He felt a tingling at the base of his neck. The hairs had pricked up and something familiar sent his head spiraling. Joshua glanced up.

“Drop your weapons!” a voice commanded from above. Several figures stood atop the cliff with what Joshua presumed were rifles.
[center]~~~[/center]

People took to the streets for blocks surrounding the eatery. Chico rocked, dry heaving with all the motions of a revolution without the ideals or passions. Some held clubs or rifles imitating them, but the streets were relatively quiet. The low roar of a mob was no firefight. After a night or two held up through a passing horde, a mob just didn’t sound the same, anyway. Night would cool the nerves and invite complacency. Mobs would disperse, perhaps the best defense against the 1007th would tame themselves. Quiet streets meant the soldiers played smart. Played quiet ‘through the passing horde’. 

Simon made it to district’s edge before resting. He leaned against an old apartment converted to a shop, according to the sign over the door. Across the street there was an oil lamp and a sign post. The ‘Oroville Dam’ lie further ahead. Much further. He had no reason travel there, and no energy to manage it anyway. Rumour had it Chico was the product of a few havens, hence the expansive size, but that thing seemed a curse. The community within Evergreen kept to one space, big enough to breath, small enough to stay connected. Even then, under pressure the borders collapsed. Reinforcements came too late, if called at all. Simon studied the sign post against. Marysville, Oroville, Chico, Orland, and the miles between them. All the miles to just assume safe. 

When his strength returned, Simon made his way back toward the center of Chico. The walk gave him time think and to plan. Chico deserved a warning. He needed his health, which meant rest, regular nourishment, and some pot if he could fit it. One night before the world changed again. If this went sideways like Evergreen, shot nerves and weak body wouldn’t do. 

By the time he arrived to the eatery the mobs had either moved elsewhere or dispersed. Simon flipped his collar up to hide his face and sunk into the steps leading to the eatery. That Cajun, the not-slaver, he was attached, like he owed Simon something. Chances were the two would come searching. If not, he hoped the barkeep was generous.