The other three men kept silent, seemingly ignoring Toby and their own partner.  Their focus was outwards, unwavering as they watched the sewer tunnels for any signs of movement.  The red beams of their flashlights were aimed slightly low, so the beams wouldn't carry too far, and so that on that off chance a survivor popped out of a sewer tunnel, that split second it might take to bring their weapons up could save any awkward friendly fire incidents.<br/><br/>The fourth, tending Toby's wounds, discarded the syringe as soon as the injection was given and only delayed a moment to study the talon-like fingers of the dead Infected's severed arm before dropping that unceremoniously in the sludge near the body.  Then he produced a pair of surgical gloves from a ziplock baggie in one of the pouches of his tactical vest, and wads of sterlized bandages to pack the wound until a better solution could be found.<br/><br/>All the while, he would pass the light of his flashlight in Toby's eyes and face, possibly checking for any signs of Infection while at the same time ruining any chance of Toby getting used to the darkness and getting a clear look at his 'saviours.'<br/><br/>When the man did finally speak again, his voice still seemed to be lacking that special something, and while not discomforting, it just wasn't quite...right.  "Panacea.  We have the last twenty known injections outside of the New York CDC lab.  Nineteen now.  Make it count, you die of of an infection and that's one less human that gets the shot."  Not exactly comforting, but the man was taking added effort to keep the wound clean, considering as how they were in a sewer and he'd just pulled an Infected person's arm out of it.<br/><br/>A knife was produced from the man's boot and without any hesitation he was cutting away Toby's shirt to get better access to the wound, and a final bit of bandage was packed into it and a few quick spins of gauze held it all in place, making sure to sling Toby's arm tight to his chest.<br/><br/>Toby's other questions were ignored, and as soon as his arm was slinged the man moved back to recover his pack and weapon, "We're good to move.  Sir, you have a place near here?  Need to get you out of these sewers ASAP."<br/><br/>---<br/><br/>Outside Nathan's bookshop was an unsettling situation.  A horde was forming as Infected were drawn by the commotion, the 'news' spreading for a couple block radius to draw dozens of them straight to his front door.  A door that didn't hold long once enough of them had built up against it.  Glass shattered and the door frame buckled and soon enough Infected were in the first floor of the bookstore...and that was about as far as they made it for the moment, with no clear signs of which way to go, the stairs up blocked and hidden.<br/><br/>The dead Infected that had gouged Nathan's shoulder had indeed once been a soldier, and an untold wealth of treasure still loaded his pockets and pouches.  The man's story was a common one; from the early days of the Outbreak, when 'they' still thought it was airborne.  The man had been loaded with a hundred pounds of uncomfortable kit to protect against all sorts of vectors of infection, and he'd been bitten.  He hadn't known better, had gotten it bandaged and returned to the line somewhere, only to eventually die and Turn.<br/><br/>A radio, long without working batteries but built to last, was still clipped to his chest, almost certainly ammo was still tucked away in pouches and pockets.  A kit for cleaning weapons, some basic medical supplies, and who knew what else could be found...if one was willing to paw through a dead man's pockets.