Beads of sweat roll down his face as Miguel Collins attempts to steady his breathing. Running is an option he rarely resorts to. The daytime temperatures are far too high for one to be exerting that much physical energy when fresh water is dangerously scarce. Exhaustion and dehydration are both harsh realities that he constantly fights to avoid. Either of them could mean certain death in this apocalyptic wasteland.

Approaching an overturned ambulance, Miguel slows his pace. He crouches down on one knee and takes a moment to check the surrounding area for footprints. Finding none, he rises to his feet and circles around to the rear of the vehicle. Both back doors have been crudely torn away from their hinges. Miguel peaks inside. The interior looks as though it has already been scavenged to all hell. Only a single medical kit remains - its contents strewn about. He reaches in with his right foot and kicks a couple of pill bottles, confirming that they're empty. Suddenly, a series of faint gun shots ring out in the distance. Miguel shifts his focus toward the direction of the noise as his eyes strain to infiltrate the murky haze surrounding him. "[i]Fuckers[/i]," he mumbles to himself.

Moving quietly into the dark shade of an overhang, Miguel makes his way west, away from where he'd heard the gunshots. With his right hand, he reaches over his shoulder to retrieve the [i]Louisville Slugger[/i] strapped to his back. He knows its dangerous to travel around on street level for extended periods of time. Plenty of raiders still roam the city, searching for weak souls to prey upon.

Slowing his pace, Miguel drops to one knee at the edge of the overhang's shade. Ahead of him, an intersection extends out into the murky haze. Steel beams - on all corners of the intersection - reach skyward to support an elevated railway running north and south. A service ladder runs up one of the beams to a catwalk underneath the railway. Miguel remains in the shade for a moment as he listens to the silence. Then, he returns the wooden baseball bat to the makeshift strap on his back and mounts the ladder.

The climb upward feels slow and debilitating. As he reaches the catwalk, the haze begins to thin out to a more tolerable level. Wiping a fine layer of dust from the lenses of his gas mask, he follows the catwalk underneath the railway to the other side of the street, where a short stairway is suppose to lead up to a service platform on the railway.

However, Miguel finds that the majority of the steps have broken away and fallen to the street, 40 feet below. He mutters in frustration, "[i]Fuck[/i]." Leaning over the edge and peering down into the toxic cloud, he analyzes the situation, making calculations in his head. His focus shifts to the service platform above as he makes a calculation of distance. The gap is about 8 feet across, not really too far but one minor slip could prove fatal.

Miguel backs up, getting as much runway as he can, and takes a deep breath. In one swift motion, he launches forward, terminating the distance between himself and the gap almost immediately. He pushes off the edge with his right foot and propels through the air. Once again, time and space seem to distort. Suddenly, his fingertips hook the edge of the service platform above as momentum causes his legs to swing wildly out in front of him. Miguel scrambles to pull his torso up and over the platform before sliding himself the rest of the way to safety. Then, he takes a few moments to rest his arms and catch his breath.