Patrol and recon.

David Schoenberg had hated hearing those words even as a young man, and forty some-odd years hadn't changed his opinion one whit. Being out in the hot Levant sun was no picnic even for a strapping young buck of twenty. A sixty-five year old alter kocker in the Florida sun? Forget it.

But even a man as stubborn and set in his ways as David Schoenberg knew wisdom when he saw it. Mobility was the way to get by. Travel light, travel fast, travel quiet. The first five weeks barricaded inside his condo had been relatively uneventful. The television had died, then the radio, then the power. When the water stopped flowing from the taps, then he knew it was time to leave. So he had gathered what little supplies were left, slung his shotgun across his arm, and stepped out into the wide world. 

He hadn't expected things to have improved any. They hadn't. He hated being right almost as much as he hated most things.

The schmucks in charge had loused up the whole thing. Quarantine, evacuation, even outright combat, none of it had gone right. The government he hadn't voted for fell apart, so now it just people, wherever they had holed up.

So for the last week, he had occupied his time with wandering around the city. He usually hid from any of the dead he encountered, and never dared show himself to any other people he may have come across. David had spent several hours patiently hiding in the back seats of wrecks and behind bushes. Firing his piece would be like ringing a dinner bell, bringing every chazzer in earshot. Not to mention whatever living were still alive. He had no illusions, this event hadn't cared if you were nice. Now, the best way to get ahead was to be a real no-goodnik. 

David allowed himself a twitch of the lip, a response to the sweat tickling his mustache. It was too hot for this noise. The problem with that, he knew from his service in Egypt, was sweating. Schvits was the best way to lose water in your system and not get it back. He was going to have to find clean water for drinking, or risk dehydration.

He had thought about this earlier, and figured odds were good of finding useful supplies at the marina. There had been a mad rush to leave on boats early on, but surely there were a few. Maybe one with a store of water, or one of those desalination doohickies. He only had about a gallon of water left, it was worth looking into.

"Oy vey," the old man sighed as he adjusted the strap on his bag and started schlepping his way towards the shore. Might as well take on a project for the afternoon.