(http://www.zen90682.zen.co.uk/johndmini.jpg)<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td><strong> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">John Donnelan</span></strong></td></tr><tr><td><strong>Location:</strong> </td><td>On the outskirts of Wellington, just where the infil meets the open countryside</td></tr><tr><td><strong>With:</strong> </td><td> Nobody and no-one</td></tr></tbody></table><br/><hr/><br/><br/>John lent the bike up against the side of the house, his senses alert for any sound, any movement. The last four places he had tried had been looted so thoroughly it was maddening. This house however showed fewer signs of such activity. It was closer in towards the town, which was bad, John hated being so close to all those potential threats, yet he needed food. The apples he had picked that morning he couldn't eat all at once if he didn't want to wind up with pretty severe digestive distress.<br/>The door was unlocked and opened to his touch, it swung quietly, which was a relief. This was the back door and lead to the kitchen, which was extra handy as it saved searching around for the target room in question.<br/>The backpack he had found about fifteen places back was sturdy, and a dark green colour, not as good as a bergen, but it was doing the job for now. He swung it down and placed it quietly on the table where it would be easily accessible. Then he set to work. The first cupboard he opened was full of canned goods, which was very satisfying. He opened drawers till he found dishcloths and set to wrapping cans in cloth to silence them before putting them safely in the backpack. A small amount of thought and preparation could safe your life further down the line. A fighter pilot always had to be thinking miles ahead after all.<br/>He had all the food he thought he could carry after a few minutes, there was no point over burdening himself after all, so he made a quick inventory of the other cupboards. The tall one in the back corner turned out to be very interesting. A Remington pump action twelve gauge. Which would have been fantastic if it wasn't for the padlock shackling it in place. He pulled a face and shook his head, not worth the noise, the four boxes of shot however he grabbed up and put in his pack. They were light, he could find another gun at some point and if things did calm down enough at some point for him to make a fire they could come in very handy for that.<br/>He took a few other small items, cooks matches, a pack of twelve bic cigarette lighters, a spare can opener, then from the cupboard by the door with the gardening tools he found himself a rather nice machete and a hatchet, both showed signs of use, which was good, if they hadn't broken from rural abuse they were likely good tools. The hatchet went in the pack, he took the time to strap the machete to his leg.<br/><br/>He had his pack on his back and was heading back out of the door when he heard the distant rumble of the car. -shit- His heart flip flopped. He was being so very quiet, so very careful, and now some joker was going to ruin that with engine nose?<br/><br/>Back out of the house and over to the bicycle and out to the road with it, he mounted up and started peddling for the back road he had been using fast, he could already hear movement around him, others waking up to the sound of the car's approach, people he likely didn't want to meet. It was a quiet stirring for now, something that he would rather avoid hearing change to a dull moaning. If he could make it to the back-roads without being seen he was golden. Why were people so thick as to be driving around in a car? It was like banging the bloody dinner gong, especially out in the countryside.<br/><br/>Every sense alert for movement, John pedalled like a crazy man, dodging around cars and piles of rubbish and who knew what, heading for the relative safety of country roads and farm tracks.