<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="text-decoration: underline"><div style="text-indent:1em;">Heuly &amp; Zesiro</div></span></span></span><br/><br/>“Uuung.” Zesiro groaned, his head was pounding, it hurt more when he opened his eyes. He used his arms to flip himself over onto his back, he groaned again as his arms protested. For a few moments he could not recall if he had a really bad hangover,<span style="font-style: italic">or</span>had barely escaped a collapsing ruin…<br/><br/>The<span style="font-style: italic">latter </span>proved to be true.<br/><br/>The woman that lay beside him was motionless, he reached over and touched her wrist. No pulse. “Shit.” it was too late for her after all.<br/><br/>He saw something, and squinted up into the darkness. “Whoozat?” There was a man standing over him, looking right at him. “Shit…” He hoped it wasn’t an enemy, he was in no condition to flee right now, he was fairly sure he had broken a leg. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, winching.<br/>There was a flutter of movement above the man, whoever he was. A little thing, winged bones, circling around  overhead…<br/><br/>Zeziro might look a bit out of place to the man. Jeans and a T-shirt, but sturdy boots. His pack had been torn off in the fall, it lay a few feet away from him. It was a big square thing with more attachments than a hoover. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties, sandy blond hair matted with dust. Sharp blue eyes that squinted up at Heuley in the darkness, then past him at the little skelleton-bat-bird-thing...<span style="font-style: italic">"Damn that thing."</span>Zes cursed under his breath.<br/><br/>Hirsch and Cox, & Twain<br/><br/>“Ah.. messy, and<span style="font-style: italic">vulgar</span>.” Twain closed his eyes and smiled, the curse words blew over his ears like a caress. Morgan frowned upon foul language like that. Now, with the kid around even Zesiro, who used to make a game of tricking Dizzy into saying<span style="font-style: italic">terrible </span>things, chose his words more carefully. This was refreshing to Twain, it had been awhile since he'd heard an honest-to-goodness<span style="font-style: italic">'motherfucker'</span>.<br/><br/>“Yeah, shit-spitting meat-sacks in cameo.” He was more than happy to dish it back. He inclined his head and lifted his hands, the eye still held in his left. “Don’t worry boys.<span style="font-style: italic">I’m a doctor</span>.”<br/><br/>“How ‘bout you guys.<span style="font-style: italic">American</span>?” He kept his hands in plain sight, but that did not meant they were not at work. He seemed to be trapped, pinned in the sights of these two young-guns.<br/><br/>But A necromancer is never alone in a graveyard.<br/><br/>Behind the two men, three bodies would begin to rise. A twitch, then a shuffle, then an arm or a leg propped itself up and pushed itself up. They stood, burned, or maimed. One looked like a man, the other a bear, the third was clawed and missing an arm. They all had empty blank eyes. The bodies moved quietly, too quiet. Twain feigned surprise, dropping his mouth, in order to help draw attention to the rising dead. Behind the three, another two were beginning to twitch and rise, pushing themselves out from under the rubble of the ruins.<br/><br/>He was hoping these bone headed boys would become confused, and give him a chance to take cover. Hopefully they<span style="font-style: italic">weren’t</span>so trigger happy. They hadn’t shot him immediately, so they weren’t necessarily under killing-orders. They seemed freaked, looking for answers. Not covering up, but surveying the results of… of… whatever had happened here.<br/><br/>Twain would survive the guns, but he was not by any means bullet proof. It would certainly r<span style="font-style: italic">uin his day </span>to get shot. He had to risk it, there might be more of these. He needed to secure his team... before these meat-heads did...