Mike Harland trudged through a particularly desolate suburb in the outskirts of what was once New York City. His thick boots left clear prints in the thick shell of dust and dirt covering nearly everything, although the ragged, torn overcoat that glided behind him obscured his tracks somewhat. Stopping to rest at one of his usual impromptu safehouses, he took stock of the resources he had at hand. The hiking backpack he'd stolen some weeks ago made a too-loud thud as he took it and the smaller bag at his side off, and Mike was worried that he heard some stirring just outside the walls of the blown-out home he was squatting in. Makeshift barricades and boarded-up windows would keep him safe for long enough, atleast from whatever those damn things roaming the land and attacking people were. He still didn't know exactly what to call them. The zipper on his pack opened slowly; trying to cause as little noise as possible, and his smaller bag opened with a pull of some strings. He still had water for a few days, if he rationed it well, and enough food to stay content and energetic for as long, or hungry for a week and a half.<br/>Relatively content with the state of his equipment, Mike threw the pack and bag back over his shoulders, and peered out a number of small holes in his barricades. He was unable to see any threat, so decided it was safe to leave. Almost as soon as he lifted the great wooden barricade he used as a door, one of the creatures practically jumped on him. It had clearly just fed, blood still wet on its hands and face. Mike was floored by the thing, struggling to push it away, to hopefully reach a weapon before its chomping teeth closed on his throat; or worse, his gasmask. His head was spinning from the fall, and the collision with the ground, but he managed to get his feet on the creature's chest, and he pushed it away with all the strength he had. It would take a minute for it to pick itself back up, which Mike used to grab the hatchet hanging from his belt, and he brought the blade flying down into the once-person's neck. It collapsed, giving Mike a sense of respite, but as he turned away, the thing sprung back into life, groaning and growling and screaming. Fed up with this too-resilient creature, Mike stepped on its back, keeping it on the ground, and swung his hatchet atleast a dozen times into the meat of the thing's neck, only stopping when the pulverized head slowly rolled away from its lifeless, motionless body. More would be by soon, certainly drawn by the first creature's cries of hunger. Mike replaced the barricade-door of his makeshift home, and waited in the most defensible corner for the inevitable onslaught.