<br/><div align="center">(http://s29.postimg.org/n3la7iec7/bloodeye.jpg)</div><br/><br/>(Dean)<br/><br/>It didn't appear Los Angeles had oodles in the way of gun shops. This was probably attributed to the absolutely stupid and overzealous laws the state had adopted over the years. And the lawmakers made it ridiculously difficult to sell guns, which usually discouraged would-be entrepreneurs from traveling down that business avenue. As such, he definitely got the brunt of such exchanges because his venue was most definitely something unique.<br/><br/>Marcus Zeh had woken up this morning feeling like a bag of beaten ass. His head felt like it was going to split open in the worst migraine in history. He took some pills for it -- some Tylenol 3 that he had left from his hospital stay when he had his gall bladder surgery last spring -- which took the edge off. But still, he really felt just plain terrible and ended up calling into work for the fourth day in a row.<br/><br/>Marcus had a gun, but with all this epidemic shit on the news radio, he was kind of feeling paranoid and knew he only had one box of ammunition. So, he thought he'd make a run to the gun shop on Vine and then spend the rest of the day sleeping, but at least ready in case something bad happened. And damn, was he ever hungry.<br/><br/>Marcus walked into the store, his light auburn hair a curly mass and his nose and eyes red. It was clear he was suffering from the flu. He had a tissue with him and he slowly walked towards the counter in way that indicated he had the crappy body aches. He offered Dean a small shrug and a lopsided, uncomfortable smile, but his face was so pale with sickness that he just looked pitiful. "Hi. Man, this flu shit is the pits isn't it?" he asked offhandedly as he came to stand in front of the glass counter.<br/><br/>"I'm uh...looking to pick up a few boxes of .45 caliber hollow points. Not sure how bad things...are gonna ge--" his request was interrupted by an enormous and sudden sneeze. He caught the brunt of it in his tissue, but so much mucous had come out that little goopy cloudy pink flecks of it shot out from the sides of his hand. He even bent over with the force of the sneeze and kind of seemed to spasm there stiffly for a few moments as if he might be having a seizure.<br/><br/>He lethargically straightened and his hand dropped from his face, leaving the abused tissue sticking thickly over his mouth and nose. It was almost comical, but something was horribly wrong with the man's eyes, which were ringed with dark red because it looked like his blood vessels had all burst when he sneezed. Those eyes focused on Dean and they kind of seemed to go cold. An odd noise escaped Marcus' mouth, causing the tissue to flutter around a little. It was like he was trying to speak, but appeared to be so angry that he was incapable of it. He visibly trembled as the veins began to stand out on the sides of his face.<br/><br/><strong><em>"YuuOOOOOAAAAR!!!"</em></strong>he bellowed suddenly, so loud one might have thought his vocal cords would have ruptured. Then he lunged for Marcus with such a ferocity that his knees struck the glass display case between himself and Dean that the glass shattered. Marcus' arms stretched out for Dean, his fingers tensed and spread like elongated talons as though he sought to tear the man to pieces.<strong><em>"GggggrrAAAHHHH"</em></strong>he roared, seeking purchase with his tennis shoes so that he could reach the man.<br/><br/><br/>(Vincent)<br/><br/>The cough that Vincent had thought he heard had come from Angel Torres. Vincent knew Angel from their mutual frequenting the shops here on campus. What Vincent didn't know was that Angel had spent the night here in the shop because he had felt too weak and sick to go home the previous day. He didn't feel any better today. At about the same time that the person formerly known as Marcus was shattering Dean's display case; Angel Torres was seizing on the floor in the bathroom.<br/><br/>Thick ropes of bubbling pinkish snot drained from his nose and oozed down his cheeks. Finally, he lay still for a moment, his breathing shallow and congested. Then, Angel stood up, slowly, and began to almost lazily walk out of the room. By now, Vincent was banging away at his axe. He probably didn't see the now very dangerous Mr. Torres as he shuffled out of the bathroom. The twenty-something college senior kind of stood for a couple of seconds, kind of swaying and gazing dumbly at the ground. He had a gnawing, hot hunger in the pit of his stomach. He could feel that. He had never, ever been this hungry before.<br/><br/>Gradually, Angel lifted his head and walked some more. He didn't seem to have a sense of direction initially because every now and then he would pause and linger in one spot before continuing. Finally, he seemed to notice Vincent. His face, which was still shiny and drippy with that odd mucous draining from his nose began to twist and contort as if Vincent was the most hated person ever to be in the same room with him. The muscles and tendons on his neck were so tense that they stood out beneath his skin.<br/><br/>Suddenly, he was running and fast right at Vincent just as he bellowed enormously,<strong><em>"RRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"</em></strong>His sneakered feet struck the hard pavement in the shop repeatedly as he thundered forward like a linebacker. Angels face, which had previously been moderately good looking, thanks to his mother's side, was little more than a mask of slime and pulsating rage. Like Marcus, his eyes were red with blood.