Keeping to the shade, Miguel makes his way west, away from where he'd heard the gunshots. Through the dusty lenses of his gas mask, he constantly scans the thick haze surrounding him, watching for any signs of movement. Its dangerous to travel around on street level for extended periods of time. Numerous gangs of raiders still roam the city, searching for weak souls to prey upon. This, mixed with the angry hordes of ToGo victims, leaves only one semi-safe place to go: upward.<br/><br/>Miguel crouches behind a trash can at the corner of<span style="font-style: italic">Church St.</span>and<span style="font-style: italic">Franklin St.</span>in Lower Manhattan. Across the way looms a high-rise apartment building. Perfect. He takes a moment to breathe and listen to the silence while counting how many floors he'll need to climb. "<span style="color: skyblue"><span style="font-style: italic">Seventeen</span></span>," he notes. Miguel rises from his crouched position and quietly crosses the street.<br/><br/>A quick swing of his<span style="font-style: italic">Louisville Slugger</span>smashes out the rectangular glass window of a door. The abrupt contrast of the sound - against the silence - makes him cringe. Things aren't the same in the city anymore. These days, you can hear a mouse fart from three blocks away and the noise will usually attract unwanted attention. With the baseball bat tightly gripped in his right hand, Miguel rotates his body and steps through. Shards of glass crunch beneath his booted feet as he steps into hallway beyond. Light wisps of the toxic haze roll in behind him and creep across the floor like water.<br/><br/>The building is quiet and dark. It smells old; musty. The off-white walls are devoid of any pictures or markings. The red carpet is surprisingly clean, however. Miguel cautiously navigates through the lengthy hallway in search of a staircase. He briefly stops to glance back at the dusty footprints trailing behind him. "<span style="color: skyblue"><span style="font-style: italic">Not anymore</span></span>," he mutters with a faint hint of sarcasm.<br/><br/>With ease, Miguel finds a staircase near a fire exit at the back of the apartment building. He takes a few minutes to sit on the steps and rest his aching feet. Three light taps of his baseball bat - onto the concrete floor - reverberate upward through the darkened stairwell. The sound is strangely stimulating. The following silence is almost deafening.<br/>Finally, he rises to his feet, retrieves his LED flashlight, clicks it on and mounts the staircase, "<span style="color: skyblue"><span style="font-style: italic">Time to go up</span></span>."<br/><br/>With flashlight in hand, Miguel cautiously ascends the pitch-dark shaft. The climb is slow and debilitating. He makes it a habit to constantly stop and lean over the handrail, listening for movement above and below, before continuing. When he reaches the top, Miguel takes a few moments to catch his breath. Then, he bursts through the<span style="font-style: italic">Roof Access</span>door, into the sweltering heat of the sun.<br/><br/>The air is much clearer up on the roof, allowing for safe breathing without the need for proper ventilation. Miguel removes his gas mask and wipes the sweat from his face. "<span style="color: skyblue"><span style="font-style: italic">Too damn hot</span></span>," he grumbles in a hushed tone as he drops to one knee, slips his backpack off and retrieves a half-empty bottle of water. The liquid is warm and burns the back of his dry throat as it fails to bring any relief. He winces at the harsh feeling and searches for some shade on the roof. None. "<span style="color: skyblue"><span style="font-style: italic">Fuck</span></span>," he grumbles. Then, with eyes squinted against the bright sunshine, Miguel turns his gaze towards the other nearby rooftops.<br/><br/>Suddenly, something catches his attention. Miguel rises to his feet and tightens his grip on the<span style="font-style: italic">Louisville Slugger</span>.<br/><br/>Another survivor.