The stench from the refrigerator hit Crosse like a freight train as he rustled around in the dead machine, looking for anything that he could drink and carry. The sports bar he was raiding was decrepit and run down, reduced to nothing in the few short months that it had been abandoned. Bottles clinked together as he pulled out some warm beer, a bottle of vodka and some plastic bottles of water, which he loaded into his rucksack. Warm water was better than no water and despite it being bad, the alcohol could provide some use down the line. He felt a chill run through his body but he wasn’t sure if it was coming from the brisk Washington spring air or…something else. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it and if he had learned anything over the last decade: always follow his gut.<br/><br/>The temperature wasn’t unusual for him. Despite growing up in the sub-tropical weather of Southern California and having spent the last few years in the barren wasteland that was Texas, the desert was cruel at night overseas in Afghanistan. But it came with the territory of being a Navy SEAL, the elite of the elite, and the ability for him to acclimate as well as regulate his body temperature had become an easy one. However, he still wore a fitted navy blue long sleeve shirt underneath his short sleeve white V-neck and a buttoned up black flannel over that. Crosse zipped up the tactical jacket he was wearing, which he had stolen from an abandoned police station, and felt his pockets. Knowing that his spare loaded magazines were there helped reassure him. The bow slung over his shoulder rested comfortably, the drawstrings pulled taut across his chest. He did a quick pat down of his urban camouflage pants. Gun, check. Extra magazines, check. Knives…not check.<br/><br/>“Ah” he turned around to retrieve his other SOG knife. He placed his gloved hand on the head of the Shriek and shimmied the knife from the skull of the dead, the force of the blow so powerful that the knife had penetrated all the way through and into the wood paneling of the bar. Crosse wiped the knife on the barstool and sheathed it, both knives accommodated for, before adjusting his rucksack and heading to the door.<br/><br/>The wind hit him immediately as he stepped out, his black Nike tactical boots cushioning his steps on the wet asphalt. He pulled the collar up on his jacket and made his way back towards the Safe Haven, curfew just a few hours away. Nighttime in barren Tacoma was not somewhere Crosse wanted to be. Although he could survive a night or two on his own, he didn’t want to chance it and picked up the pace.