The air was foul and tainted, the smell of decay overwhelmed Roy. Somehow he knew that the world was never going to be restored and he didn't want to be killed by a zombie, he'd rather take his own life. On his right side was one of his two pistoles, he reached down with his right hand and gripped it. He took it off of his belt and just stared at it - the grip, carbon fiber? No plastic? Maybe it was carbon fiber... the rest was steel. From the hammer, to the trigger, the safty and the barrel - all cold-hard-steel. [i]This is a better death.[/i] He'd thought as he shifted the gun to his left hand, with his right he saluted his comrads while using the left to shoot himself....