[b]June 28, 2014
4:18 AM
Room 10
Archstone Santa Monica Apartments[/b]

Long before the sun pierced through the bleached blinds, Werner Coetzee was out of his unmade bed and dressed for the young day. Fitful sleep was common for him as of late, his mind forever occupied with the same problems. Werner usually ended up four hours early to work, already wrenching on cars long before his boss came in. The stark-white apartment was still shrouded in darkness, but the man navigated through sparse furniture from memory. Outside the building, he could hear the occasional whine of a police siren, but other than that it was fairly quiet. Donning his grey leather jacket, Werner slammed the door shut behind him and walked down the long hallway to the stairwell. Usually, he was the only resident of the building awake at this time, but this was not the case today. Several occupants were leaving their rooms, loaded down with luggage and suitcases as if they were leaving for vacation. From the hall, Werner could hear those within their rooms either packing or talking in hushed voices. The overall atmosphere within the building was tense at best, with residents looking at eachother with suspicious gazes. Werner continued through the hall, rough hands buried in his coat pockets, when he spotted his neighbor, Conrad, also lugging two suitcases behind him. Werner caught up to the man, who greeted him with a tired smile. Conrad, Werner gathered, was a young college student with rather wealthy parents, though he certainly didn’t behave like it. He was tall, slender, and generally an unremarkable person aside from his background, but a kind soul.

“What’s going on Conrad?” Werner asked as the two walked along. Conrad shrugged wearily before replying.

“Nobody knows, really. Some say rioting, others think its a virus, could just be nothing. A big panic,” Conrad replied.

“What do you think?” Werner knew that Conrad was smart, certainly smarter than him, a high school dropout. If anyone in the apartment complex knew what was going on, it would be him.

Conrad waited a few seconds before replying, his mind still sluggish with sleep. “I don’t know, Werner, I really don’t. But I do know that the media… They’re wrong. This is something new, and its gonna be big.”

Werner frowned at the response, hoping for something a little more straightforward. He wished the college student luck and parted ways with him as the two left the apartment. Outside, the situation was quickly escalating. While none had resorted to looting yet, the air was thick with desperation to prepare for whatever was coming their way. Werner decided it would simply be another infamous LA riot, and doubted it would ever reach Santa Monica. Work would be the best choice for him, as it always was. Working away beneath cars always put his mind at ease. 

Werner walked to his parking spot, perhaps a little quicker than usual, but managed to find the time to admire his car for a moment. The grey third-gen Chevy Nova sat exactly where he left it, the soft glow of street lights shimmering on the reflective paint. It wasn’t anything special to look at, but the work under the hood was something of a masterpiece. Werner hopped into the car, and with a swift jerk of the ignition, the beast roared to life. He made his way through the growing crowd of pedestrians in the parking lot and onto the street, which had a little more traffic than usual. 

As he drove, Werner turned through the stations, all of which broadcasted an emergency signal that he listened to briefly. He shook his head and instead popped in a CD, which slowly began pumping [url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WIykHAof9Q] dark electronic music[/url] into the small cabin, the old crackly speakers warping the music even further. The route he usually took to the autoshop was fairly simple and quick, usually a five-minute drive in the early morning. He would take Broadway and turn off onto 14th Street, and with a right turn at Pico Boulevard Werner would arrive at Santa Monica Autoworks. Today, he would not be taking his regular route. 

Werner drove through the poorly-lit streets, with several police cruisers soaring past him towards downtown LA. The sight of blue and red lights in his rear-view always made the man tense up, even when he wasn’t hauling three criminals loaded down with bags of stolen currency in his backseat. It did comfort him, though, that they were heading away from his neighborhood and deeper into the city. His thoughts were interrupted when, at an intersection, a massive H3 Hummer slammed into his passenger door at frightening speeds, slamming Werner’s head into the side of the door. All his senses faded away, and the last he heard was the grinding of metal against tarmac.

The mechanic slowly awoke, and was a little confused as to why he still saw his leather steering wheel as opposed to the bright, sterile interior of an ambulance. He’d been in several car accidents with the scars to prove it, and after each one he was hauled to the hospital. Werner felt the sensation of liquid running against his cheek, but it was traveling up towards his hairline. In the crash, his precious Nova had been flipped on its back. Now, only a seat belt held Werner in his place, the force of gravity acting against him. He unbuckled himself, a decision he soon regretted as his head slammed against the crumpled roof, causing his ears to ring. Werner crawled across broken glass and out the passenger window, where he shakily gained his footing. Nothing was broken, no severe lacerations, only a few minor bumps and scrapes. His right knee ached, an old injury from a separate wreck, but it wasn’t debilitating. Werner took a few steps away and knew that he would never be able to salvage the pile of twisted metal before him. It pained him, but he had others, and he was simply glad to be walking away from the nightmarish crash. Werner walked to check on the Hummer’s driver to find she wasn’t so lucky. 

The woman was about 30 or so, with long blonde hair and pale skin. Her neck was soaked in coagulated blood, and a giant gash ran across her forehead, with even more blood seeping from every orifice in her body. She was slumped in her seat, eyes rolled in the back of her head. Werner opened her door, and the seemingly dead woman suddenly came to life, thrashing around in the car, restrained by her seatbelt. A horrible, gurgling scream of agony ripped from her mouth, and Werner scrambled to help, tearing her seatbelt off. She was quick to reward his help by lunging at the mechanic, pinning him to the ground. He held up an arm to protect himself, using the other to keep her at bay, and she sank her teeth into his leather jacket, though failing to penetrate through the thick material. Primal instincts took hold of Werner as he managed in his weakened state to roll on top of the crazed woman, grabbed her by the roots of her hair, and pounded the back of her head against the cold pavement. After a couple strikes, her skull gave way, spilling the contents onto the black road, though he did not stop. When her screams silenced, Werner slowly stood up, chest heaving. He slowly came to the realize just what he’d done in his haze, looking down at the crumpled corpse splayed before him. He turned away, hands on his knees, and emptied the acidic contents of his stomach. Looking up, nobody seemed to notice. In fact, nobody even cared. Windows to stores were being bashed open like piggy banks, seeking the wealth inside. Collided cars filled the street. Cops tried to restore order, but their shots in the air were drowned out by the roaring crowd. The virus had barely touched Santa Monica, but panic was already in full swing.