<strong>Character</strong>: Rich Han<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Gary Danko Backroom, Fisherman's Wharf<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Present<br/><strong>Attire</strong>: Running shoes, cargo pants, t-shirt<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: Rich<br/><br/><hr/><hr/><br/>Before the Fall, Gary Danko had been<em>the</em>chef to go to on the San Fran waterfront.  Big bankers, corporate executives, media stars, and the odd payday yuppie had all made pilgrimages to his temple on the Fisherman's Wharf, offering tribute in the form of buying overpriced Mediterranean cuisine.  He got rich, and they collected another cocktail party story to appease their egos and improve their social standing.  His food wasn't even that bad.  The spice was lacking, and there were always too many vegetables, but his dishes had a certain satisfying composition to them.  Gary Danko may not have earned his godlike reputation, but he had certainly been a decent chef.  Now...<br/><br/>Rich nudged one $400 leather shoe with his own $20 Reebok runner, grimacing behind the Lysol wipe he had pressed to his mouth and nose.  The foot inside of it had swelled grotesquely, bulging the fine leather outward into a ludicrous shape.  A foul black liquid with the consistency of gritty pine tar had leaked from the opening of the shoe, coagulating into an oblong pool around the rotting left calf of Gary Danko.<br/><br/>The calf, which wasn't connected to nothing besides the foot rotting inside the leather shoe, was at least three weeks gone.<br/><br/>"No more than a fuckin' month though," Rich muttered irritably.  His stomach was cramping from hunger, and his sinuses burned with the overwhelming scent of Lysol.  Powerful as it was in covering up odors, the air was nonetheless laced with cloying putrescence.<br/><br/>He stepped over the limb gingerly, then over the other leg with its exposed femur.  This one was actually still attached to the torso, which was scrunched in the corner like a discarded child's toy.  Given the deep gashes along the chest, the ripped out throat, and the gnaw marks on the distal femur, Rich figured it was a dog that had done the deed.  Maybe two of them.  Zombies, surprisingly, were not nearly so messy with their feeding.  They usually didn't have the strength to literally rip a man limb from limb, at least not on their own, and they didn't gash all over the body.  Plus, the fact that Gary Danko was in the advanced stages of decomposition and not up and walking around was a dead give way.<br/><br/>"Heh, I'm just too good," Rich said with a chuckle, leaving Gary Danko slumped at the entrance to the kitchen.  He didn't look back.<br/><br/>The restaurant, appropriately named Gary Danko, was a ritzy place, all fine furniture and fancy artwork and wide open spaces.  Most of the dining area had been compromised -- several windows were missing, and the doors were a mound of splinters, twisted wood, and burnt metal -- but a surprisingly efficient barricade separated the kitchen and an upper dining balcony from the mess below.  It was here Gary Danko had died, and it was here that Rich was going to score big.  Some militia or gang had claimed the restaurant, only to move on.  Gary Danko had moved back in a while later, only to get mauled by some dogs who had found their way in.  By then, San Fran was essentially a deserted warzone, especially down here where the zombies were thick.  The nonperishables should be mostly intact: rice, oats, canned food (not that a place like this would have a significant amount of canned beats), potatoes, and so on.<br/><br/>Rich had been casing Gary Danko for a week now, and had finally made his move.<br/><br/>As he ducked into the storeroom behind the row of ovens, Rich hoped it wouldn't turn out to be a waste of time.