The drive 'into Wilmington' encountered a roadblock, literally. And a quick glance beyond it confirmed that going into a major city in an open and slow-moving vehicle would not be the best of ideas. So he took an on-ramp to the deserted highway and decided to check the surrounding suburbs as he downed another pair of asprin to make the intense pain in his skull subside for a few more minutes.

He always thought it was ironic that these chronic headaches were more painful and debilitating than even getting his ankle lacerated down to the bone. He could not afford to cower into the fetal position, not here, [i]not just because it hurt to look at things[/i]. So his solution was drugs, and lots of them.

He heard over his radio something about a safehouse somewhere back in Wilmington. No chance in hell he'd make it there alone; didn't even know how old it was, for all he knew it could be a trap. He didn't bother to answer.

Following the highway he soon came to a tiny suburb named 'Bear'. From here he started his house-to-house sweep, Mosin at ready with bayonet attached; it was cumbersome and ungainly, but it gave him plenty more options for defending himself or pushing through a mob than a claw-hammer. Probably along the third house he saw [i]a little girl tugging at a body, blood everywhere[/i].

His book-learned tactical know-how kicked up a notch as he took aim with the rifle, just as she looked through the busted window like a frightened feral-animal, then called-out [color=fff200]"D-daddy?"[/color].

Confused, he decided to speak-up: [color=9e0039]"Shouldn't you be someplace safe, girl?"[/color] He asked, while shifting his aim towards the window.