Beads of sweat roll down his face as Miguel Collins attempts to steady his breathing. Running is an option he rarely resorts to. The daytime temperatures are far too high for one to be exerting that much physical energy when fresh water is dangerously scarce. Exhaustion and dehydration are both harsh realities that he constantly fights to avoid. Either of them could mean certain death in this apocalyptic wasteland.<br/><br/>Suddenly, his attention is roused by the sound of something bouncing across the floor and coming to a stop against the wall with a thud. He whirls around and scans the room, searching for the source of the noise as his right hand reaches over his shoulder to retrieve the<span style="font-style: italic">Louisville Slugger</span>from his back. Through the dusty lenses of his gas mask, he spots a small rock on the floor. Miguel decides to dismiss it and continue on his way to avoid any further unnecessary trouble. He slowly begins to move toward the exit, carefully putting one foot behind the other as he backs out of the room.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">--------------------------</span><br/><br/>On the streets below, Miguel approaches an overturned ambulance and slows his pace. He crouches down on one knee and takes a moment to check the surrounding area for footprints. Finding none, he rises to his feet and circles around to the rear of the vehicle. Both back doors have been crudely torn away from their hinges. Miguel peaks inside. The interior looks as though it has already been scavenged to all hell. Only a single medical kit remains - its contents strewn about. He reaches in with his right foot and kicks a couple of pill bottles, confirming that they're empty. Suddenly, a series of faint gun shots ring out in the distance. Miguel shifts his focus toward the direction of the noise as his eyes strain to infiltrate the murky haze surrounding him. "<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: skyblue">Fuckers</span></span>," he mumbles to himself.