Tony was hard at work at his bench, completing a refurbishing for a local customer who'd wanted him to drill and tap the receiver of one of his old Soviet-era surplus rifles, an old M91/30. He'd already done the hard work, using the machinery to precisely drill out the holes to mount the scope, and had already threaded the holes for the screws. All that was left now was actually mounting the scope and sighting it, something the customer wanted to take care of himself. Tony smiled and picked up the old, antique rifle, moving it to a locker where he kept the rifles he was refurbishing or modifying for customers, unfortunately a lot of the rifles he suspected wouldn't be leaving the locker anytime soon. A lot of the guns were from standing orders from before the outbreak a week ago, and he didn't know if any of the customers would even bother to show up and pick up their guns in the midst of this chaos, let alone, if they were even still alive to come.
He rested the old M91/30 in the locker, but his attention was taken by an antique firearm resting not far from it, an extremely old 1873 Springfield Trapdoor rifle. Tony picked the old trapdoor rifle up, looking down at the tag attached to the trigger-guard, detailing the owner's name and other pertinent information. Despite being well over a hundred years old, the gun was practically new. It had never been fired, spending its many years in the cases of collectors. It happened to end up in Tony's possession only two weeks ago, when the previous owner brought it in to have the stock refinished and the barrel blued, to counter the effects of father time on the antique. It was love at first sight, Tony absolutely had to have the rifle, but of course the owner had refused to sell. Sadly, the outbreak happened on the exact day that the customer was to come pick up his gun; they found find his body sitting outside the shop's doors, apparently having sought shelter from the monstrosities now roaming the earth outside. The old antique had just been sitting in the locker since; no one was really interested right now in trading for a hundred-year-old single-shot rifle, especially not when there were more modern and practical options readily available.
Tony shouldered the rifle, aiming it off in the distance down the hall, but that moment was interrupted by the sound of the PA system coming on, he turned his head upwards to listen. The voice of his recently-reptilian employer came on, announcing a need for everyone to meet in the commons room to discuss something 'crucial'. He sighed, setting the rifle back in the locker and locking the large, deadbolt which kept it secure. He proceeded towards the commons room, jogging along the way to get there more quickly.
Entering the room, he saw Michael sitting inside already, though with his back turned to him, he swung the door open and proceeded inside, lazily flopping down across from him on an adjacent chair. He scooped up one of the billiards from the pool table, rolling the heavy ball across his palm, "Hey boss, something' wrong? Is it about the food?"