<strong>Name:</strong>Marcus Lethin<br/><strong>Age: </strong>42<br/><strong>Hometown:</strong>New York<br/><strong>Height:</strong>5’11”<br/><strong>Weight:</strong>225lbs<br/><strong>Hair: </strong>Black/grey<br/><strong>Eyes:</strong>Blue<br/><strong>Primary Occupation: </strong>Helicopter Pilot<br/><strong>Secondary Occupation/skill set:</strong>Mechanic<br/><br/><strong>Physical description:</strong>Marcus isn’t the fittest figure of a man; not to say he is overweight or unhealthy, but he certainly lacks tone; in every respect he is physically average.  His hair reaches to his shoulders and is sometimes tied back; he sports a goatee which is only rarely trimmed.  He wears a fairly vulgar line in Hawaiian shirt and jeans.<br/><br/><strong>Notable equipment: </strong>A109E Power Police issue helicopter, S&W 4506 [45 rounds], Glock 22 [20 rounds], Remington 11-18 w/ 18” barrel [32 shells], baseball bat.<br/><br/><strong>Background:</strong><br/>Born in New York; Marcus led what could only be described as a life uneventful;  Pretty average would be an accurate snapshot of anything he set his mind too, he had only one passion, that being flying.  In his 30’s he landed his dream job; a helicopter pilot for a news channel; he would actively follow breaking news stories, whether they be police pursuits, transporting a news crew to an ‘as it happens’ news locale or hovering above the cities gridlocked streets during the daily traffic congestion reports.  But all wasn’t as good as it could be.<br/><br/>He hated the pace of life in New York; while others thrived, he floundered amidst the continuous throb of activity; his passion was rapidly becoming his burden and he turned to contemplating the hereafter with a bottle of Jack Daniels; this became an increasingly regular habit, regular enough for the channel he worked at to tire of his constantly staggering through the door unfit to fly and he was rapidly dropped from their news team.  Left with no job and crippling debts; not to mention a drink problem, he upped and left the city and headed out west to a small Midwestern town to try his hand at reinventing himself; but he could never truly escape himself and was still reliant on the bottle; only now he had learned to hide his problem from his employers.<br/><br/>In the early onset of the outbreak Marcus was doing what he usually did; transporting the field reporting team to one of the sites of breaking news; an event that would be coined as Z-day.  There had been rumours about what had been going on but Marcus had paid them scant attention as he had been nursing a drink for most of that day.  He flew the team in and set down a little outside of one of the reported encounters.  It was little more than ten minutes after setting down and beginning their live report, the news team where attacked.  They creatures broke cover, a group of twenty or so, their bodies torn and bloody.  Were they attracted by their scent? their activity?  They didn’t know, the news crew tried to fight them off and sprint back to the chopper.  Marcus was sat in the pilot seat and saw all of this; he could have helped, but he panicked.  He hit the engines and lifted the bird into the sky, leaving them to their violent fate.<br/><br/>He was alone and airborne; from his vantage point in the sky he could see the panic and the carnage caused in the wake of the attacks.  He turned to his hip flask and tried to clam his fears, for now he was safe; nothing could touch him in the air, but he couldn’t remain airborne for long.  With the copter running on fumes he was forced to ditch it and he spent a taut evening fending for himself with no idea of what to do next; more out of instinct than the belief that he would be safe, he made headway towards the police station.  He found the place in chaos, what few people remained there were in no position to aid him.<br/><br/>Sat on the roof of the building was the  Police air support chopper; an A109E; beneath the seat he found a weapons box containing a couple of handguns and some 9mm ammunition as well as several packs of shells; the shotgun being mounted on the back wall of the copter.<br/><br/>He was wracked with the guilt of leaving him colleagues to their grim demise; and the sight of the lead anchor woman’s face is burnt into his memory and often leads to him having some brutal nightmares as her bloody and rotting corpse lurches towards him; he has forgotten how often he has awoken wrapped in sweat soaked sheets; and each time he promises himself that he will never abandon anyone to such a violent fate,<br/><br/><br/><div align="center">(http://remote.lohudblogs.com/files/2008/02/pilot.jpg)</div><br/>edit: Just so I can keep track of what ammunition I have left<br/><br/>S&W 4506 [45 rounds],<br/>Glock 22 [20 rounds],<br/>Remington 11-18 w/ 18” barrel [29 shells],