[color=ed1c24][center][u][h1]Chapter Three[/h1][/u] [h2]Thermopylae[/h2][/center][/color] [b]Everyone[/b] Riled by the stimulus provided to them by the attack helicopter, the Stage Ones in the lobby area threw themselves into a frenzy. They moaned and whined, tearing at and shoving the barricade with the terrible strength of those who feel no pain. The benches - a key structural point of the barricade - began creaking, their wooden panels snapping against the weight of the statue, and their iron frames bending inwardly. With a final orchestra of unholy sounds, emitting from their putrid throats, the infected pushed through the benches. Many of them fell over the former barricade, whilst others skirted around their bumbling kinsmen. In any case, they ascended the stairs with the pace of drunks, searching desperately for a glass of water to heal their hangovers. Though the infected had been dealt a heavy blow outside, there were still anywhere between twenty and thirty crammed into that lobby. The stairs were now the only real issue they had to overcome. In any urban warfare environment, a good commander will always highlight the defensive importance of stairs. They could be booby-trapped, for one, or destroyed even, to prevent attackers from using them effectively. Furthermore, an attacker was confined and constricted, denying them any numerical superiority they may have had. If the healthy living could develop some kind of coherent, on the spot battle plan, then maybe- maybe they could hold the horde at bay, killing them one by one until they were all taken care of. Or, they could run, flee to their respective rooms, and hope beyond all hope that the infected wouldn't find a way inside them. [b][Austin and Sylvia][/b] John Marcel was a physically [i]big[/i] man, but lacked in substance when it came to character. He was a weak fool, intelligent, but lacking in ambition. At the age of 36, he'd never seen a naked woman, let alone felt one's touch. For all of his life, he'd leached off of his mother, who had dominated him the moment his father left them when he was just three years of age. She hadn't been home in four days, owing to the crisis. Dead, alive? It didn't matter to John. The simple fact was, she wasn't there to tell him everything was okay, to cook him his favourite meal and put him to bed at the ripe hour of 8:30pm. John was cracking, the earthquake of him having sudden responsibility for himself running a deep ravine through his mind. Austin and Sylvia would have heard him crying, if they'd of knocked the day before. Now though, John didn't have many more tears to give. He had desensitised himself to his situation, no, he had resigned himself to his situation. Without his mother's loving guidance, he was going to die. Until the attack helicopter broke him from his reverie. There was something about what he saw, pulling back the curtains from his window, about the mass destruction. There was something awesome, holy... sensual? About seeing so many bodies obliterated and dismembered by a destructive force beyond their comprehension. Suddenly, John had fancied himself to be a "destructive force". He had snuck into his mom's room - a forbidden act in a life he was quickly forgetting - and dug out her 38. from a shoe box, where Mrs Marcel had kept some of her ex-husbands things. John had seen it once, when he was eight years old and had stumbled upon her doing a bit of spring cleaning. He'd gotten the belt, for his efforts. John knew how to use guns. He hadn't used one of course, but Youtube was an underestimated tool in today's world. Theoretically, he was an expert in this particular weapon, having obsessed over it for more than a decade. He cracked it open, and found the chamber fully loaded - six shots, six shots of destruction. And then there was knocking at the door. [i]I am Death, destroyer of worlds.[/i] "It's open," John said in his squeaky voice. He stood to full hight, all 250 pounds of flab coming with him. He wore a green shirt, the words "I <3 MOM" written across it in large white New Roman font. He didn't wear trousers, just his boxers - a plus of his mother's absence. Quickly, he looked for somewhere he could remain unseen for his guests. [i]I am Death, destroyer of worlds.[/i] He spied his mother's old couch, a thing from the 1950's, with that depressing post-war floral pattern. John was a big man, but the couch was just about big enough for him to get behind. "I said it's open," he called again, louder, forcing gristle into his effeminate voice. He brushed back some of his long, greasy ginger hair from his eyes so that it didn't get in the way of him. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." [i]I am Death, destroyer of worlds.[/i] [b]Wright[/b] Andrew Zeller was a shadow of his former self, a nightmarish ghoul with a foggy brain. He no longer knew logic, nor emotion or passion. He knew only hunger, and Andrew was very hungry. His jaw hung lopsidedly from his head, courtesy of the healthy's attempt on his undead life. He didn't feel what would have been insanity-inducing pain though, he only felt his hunger increase. There was food on the other side of the door, and Andrew very much wanted to get at it. At first he threw himself against the wooden frame, but was frustrated by the impossible obstacle that it presented. So with a feral growl, he reached deep into the disjointed memories of his once living mind, and plucked forth an image of the door's handle. He saw how it opened, and then he tried to repeat the task. However, with little sight to avail him, and with limbs that were still only partially responsive, his endeavour was a tough one. Eventually though, he unlocked the handle, and engaged the latch. Now to open the door! Andrew started diving through his clouded memories again, his virus-addled flesh striving to discover the truth behind this mysterious contraption.