High above the streets of toxic fumes, a rusty generator sputtered to life, its old and overused mechanical parts clanking and buzzing loudly. This would have been a terrible idea if Quinn were on ground level; the infected found their way around best using sound. But fortunately for him, he was safely atop a rather tall high-rise apartment building. He could even take his mask off here without having to worry about the infectious clouds of ToGo reaching him.<br/><br/>“There we go,” said Quinn, wiping his brow. “Just needed some grease, didn’t you?”<br/><br/>His ‘radio tower’, as he called it, had been running off some salvaged solar panels that he'd managed to hook up a couple of weeks ago. They worked, and Quinn was grateful for that, but they sucked. They were weak, and could only power one major electrical component at a time. If he wanted to power his AC or space-heater, he’d have to sit in the dark for a while. Now with this generator, that problem was history, at least until it broke down.<br/><br/>“Well, that’s that,” said Quinn, sinking into a small folding chair. He grabbed a half-empty bottle of beer from atop his workbench and lifted it into the air. “God bless America…” he took a long sip of the low quality alcohol, “…and her self-inflicted biological bullshit.”<br/><br/>How long had he been in this hell-hole anyway? When the whole thing started up, Quinn hadn’t thought to bring a calendar. Hell, nobody did. It all happened so fast…<br/>Quinn leaned over and lined up his row of broadcast transmitter radios. Although he knew that the chances of anyone actually picking his signals up were next to nothing, it was still a habit of his. He set each of the transmitters to their usual frequencies: the ones that were uncommon and rarely used, like emergency or military frequencies.<br/><br/>“Testing, one, two, three,” he spoke into one of them. “Testing. Any receivers?” He paused.<br/><br/>He made sure never to set them to commercial frequencies, as there was a chance that some of the terror gangs in the cities might pick him up. The last thing he needed right now was people looking to kill him and loot his stuff. His ultimate goal was to reach some relief group outside of Manhattan who could send a rescue team.<br/><br/>“If anyone’s hearing this, my name is Quinn Garter, I'm a survivor of the Manhattan attack,” he said. “In need of immediate assistance and evacuation.”<br/><br/>Of course, if there was someone out in the mainland US picking this up, they would have heard him a long time ago. Which left only two options. Either they were ignoring him and leaving him to rot, or… there was no one left out there to hear him.<br/><br/>“If you’re receiving this, please respond,” he waited. A minute passed. Another.<br/><br/>Quinn lifted his hand off the transmitter and set it aside. He slowly downed the rest of his beer, savouring the last mouthful. Then he picked up the next transmitter and switched it on.<br/><br/>“Testing, one, two, three…”<br/><br/>The harsh sun continued to bake the dead city relentlessly.