March 1st, 2012...<br/><br/>It was raining again.  Had been for nearly a week.  With the fall of man the air had already begun to clear up, and what fell from the New York sky was...not quite clean exactly but at least not as filthy as it had been.  The streets were still filthy though; luggage and belongings, crashed cars and discarded furniture, abandoned military check points, crude impromptu barricades, abandoned military vehicles, the occasional crashed helicopter.  Burned out buildings, entire neighbourhoods reduced to ash and debris.  And bodies.<br/><br/>They were everywhere, but had long since become little more then a common part of the background.  Suicides in cars or from out of high windows.  Infected clumped at building entrances or where they swarmed military checkpoints.  The unlucky, little more then scattered limbs and bones.<br/><br/>The scars of the Evacuation still marred the 278 into Fort Worth, reinstated as a military facility during the Quarintine and now the site of the deaths of some 50,000 citizens when the military escort was bogged down crossing the bridge and was eventually over run by seemingly limitless hordes of Infected.  The Evacuation was seen as the greatest culmination of a long series of military mistakes, incompetence and failure.<br/><br/>New York today was a quiet place; Infected still lurked everywhere; sewers, bank vaults, elevators, apartments, houses, shops, the streets...inside vehicles, the subways...anywhere people might have been, where people might have tried to hide, denying that they had been bitten, denying they were infected too.<br/><br/>Bands of survivors were few and far between, many had no idea others existed in the city.  Some fared better then others.  A horror story for survivors, when one of their own finally snapped under the pressure.  The stress and horrors of their situation finally strip them of any final desire to go on, the overwhelming realization that there was no hope, no rescue, no one else.<br/><br/>The merciful ones simply shoot their fellow survivors.  The worst leave the door open when they walk into the street, their friends waking to find Infected beating down bedroom doors.  A terrifying and pitiful end to over a year of survival against the odds.<br/><br/>Infected often mingled about the streets, and it became hard to believe they could run, or were even dangerous at all as they roamed mindlessly.  The could seem so sad when no food was evident, and each told it's own horrible story.  Some could almost be mistaken as still alive; no wounds evident, their bites often bandaged and hidden beneath clothes in some foolish attempt to go deny what had happened to them before they died.  Others were obvious; horrible wounds on faces and hands, but still only that one bite...the average person could escape after just one bite, fleeing to find a place to hide and eventually die.<br/><br/>March 1st was just the beginning of another day...