<span style="text-decoration: underline"><span style="font-style: italic">Sacramento, California.</span></span><br/><br/>The low rumbling of tank treads down a paved road could be heard alongside the fairly quiet yet throaty roar of a powerful set of engines. The mere sound of the engines themselves was enough to denote the cause of the sound as some form of military vehicle, no civilian car was going to make a din quite so, powerful. The source of this, was the large grey coloured shape of a Russian BMP-3 as it trundled down the deserted Californian road. Dust and mud were splattered across it's wheels and lower hull, and a few paint scratches could be seen upon it's thick hide where stray bandits had taken pot-shots at it. It bore two flags upon it's back right, the blue, white, and red flag of the Russian Federation, and the crimson red flag of Soviet Union...the latter was not standard, but there was hardly anyone of authority to tell the crew otherwise.<br/><br/>Inside the vehicle, ten soldiers, three of which were crew, were sat in an orderly manner, awaiting out their trip across the Golden State. They had been sent here to see how badly the virus outbreak had affected the populace of the United States, and of Southern Canada.<br/><br/>Spetsnaz Major Mikhaylov Abram Dmitrievich was the commander of such a group of soldiers, and currently he was vainly working at an attempt to get radio contact with any of the surrounding survivors. The dull black radio worked just fine, but it was a matter of reaching the remnants. Hiding his accent as best as he could, Mikhaylov said his ruse down the radio. "Come in? Are there any survivors? I and my team are military soldiers bringing aid." Their plan was never to actually help these people, after all.<br/><br/>Setting down the radio in frustration when no reply came back, Mikhaylov looked over to his lieutenant,  Alexeyev, and asked him. "How are the supplies looking currently?"<br/>The lieutenant answered him in a respectful manner. "Sir, we have enough for around the next two or three weeks. However, fuel will be needed soon."<br/>"Good. Perhaps we will not have kill<span style="text-decoration: underline"><span style="font-weight: bold">all</span></span>of these remnants then." Came a dull reply.<br/><br/>---------------------------------------------------------<br/><span style="text-decoration: underline"><span style="font-style: italic">Portland, Maine.</span></span><br/><br/>Lucien Oakden, Second lieutenant in the British Special Air Service, was slowly walking alongside several of the civilian remnants that composed of the group he was with. They were travelling from Maryland, and were hoping to reach Canada by the end of the week, the logic being that the less densely populated cities of Canada meant lesser zombies...hopefully. The group was ragtag at best, an amalgamation of various survivors from around the eastern seaboard, many of them were not even properly armed with firearms or the like, but then again that was why he was here.<br/><br/>They were passing by an old U.S Naval base, none of the ships remained in port, and the one that did looked...worse for ware, with large portions of the hull completely missing or severely dented in by unknown forces. "Bloody hell. Hate to think what kind of thing did that." Lucien had muttered as the group has examined through the ship and scavenged what remained inside of it. There was nothing of worth, and the group had merely moved further northwards towards their destination. Thankfully, it looked as though there were strength in numbers, as the group had yet to actually be attacked by a noteworthy force of other humans, there were always the deranged few zombies here and there, but never anything of real note.<br/><br/>"Not much further to go now mate, soon we'll be up in Canada, maybe even grab a boat back across the pond." Lucien joked with one of his friends, Charlie. They had both served in the Special Air Service at the same time, and known each other for a considerable amount of time before that.<br/>"Aye, with any luck at least. Why we could even stop by those Danish chaps in Greenland if we wished it." Came the laughed reply, Charlie's slightly northern accent showing itself.<br/>"If it were so easy, eh." Lucien chuckled, thinking of just how dire the situation must be around the world, especially in places that relied on other countries for supplies or goods. "I'd wager that those gents are a bit stuffed, nothing much there other than artic conditions...probably no zombies mind you." He finished, a large smile across his face.<br/><br/>--------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><span style="text-decoration: underline"><span style="font-style: italic"> Portland, Maine.</span></span><br/><br/>Zdislava Radenovic, had been travelling within the same group of ragtag survivors as Lucien and his colleagues. She had once been a doctor before the dreaded outbreak and zombie, problems that followed after. She had travelled with the group for little over a month now, leaving behind her old group after a particularly terrific argument regarding their abysmal policy of shooting everything that moved on sight. Currently, she was grasping a battered up old compass in her right hand, and a small pocket map in her left hand. The map was a representation of Maine, however she was far more concerned about their current direction and positioning. They were travelling northwards, towards Canada, in a hope of finding survivors with less zombies and more supplies.<br/><br/>Tracing an imaginary line with her mind over the map, she estimated that their journey, at least to the border, was in it's final stages and all that remained was to merely head north. "Not much further." She called out to the rest of the group, hoping to somehow boost morale despite what had occurred recently. They had lost two people to a running zombie, a horrific creature indeed, that was upon them before they had half a chance to fire their weapons at it. Even thinking of it made Zdislava shudder with dread. These creatures were nothing short of downright nightmares as it were, they needed no extra help.<br/><br/>Zdislava was jumpy after that, and still currently was. She had even taken to not fully enclosing her pistol's holster just in case she was rushed at by some undead horror...<br/><br/>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><span style="text-decoration: underline"><span style="font-style: italic">Dallas, Texas. </span></span><br/><br/>Willem de Jäeger, Dutch mercenary and survivor, was in the final stages of finishing up a raid on another survivor's small settlement. Willem and his men had the hapless cretins surrounded and severely outgunned, even if there were more settlers than mercenaries, their weapons would see to it that none of them remained after.  "Geef je over!"He shouted at them in Dutch, telling them to surrender. It was a fruitless effort, but it stranger things had worked before.<br/><br/>The reply was the sound of several pistols discharging in his general direction, though thankfully his cover held out just fine against the pathetic handgun shots. "Damn them!" Willem shouted in response to the gunfire, though he silently signalled his men to target the firing settlers.<br/><br/>A deafening peal of assault rifle fire ensured, mixed with the screams of survivors being hit with the flying projectiles. Willem had no idea how many were hit, but either way his men had done some fine shooting. Taking his chance, Willem popped out of cover and discharged several shots towards a small group of men that were rushing over to help their wounded fellow, he managed to hit two of them, but three more remained.<br/><br/>"This is damn well hopeless!" One of the survivors shouted as he watched two of his friends be gunned down before him. "We are screwed! Just let them take the supplies damn it!" His words were nigh on sobs as he looked out over their deceased fellows. "Just give in!"<br/>The leader of the settlers took heed of the, now sobbing, man's words. They would do well to not lose all of their comrades in a single fight. "You are right..." He lowered his firearm before shouting out towards the men assailing them. "We surrender! Don't shoot!" To show his intent, he stood up with arms raised and threw his pistol onto the ground before the mercenaries. His men followed suite.<br/><br/>"Watch them." Willem said to his own men, as he peered out from his cover and looked to the settler leader. "Good, your wise surrender means that not<span style="font-style: italic">all </span>your people will die...you have sense. However limited it is." Keeping his rifle trained on the leader's head as he exited cover, Willem signalled for a few of his men to follow him in the same manner.