﻿<strong>Malcolm Mercer<br/>Thursday, 7/18/11 -- 7:54 AM<br/>McLemore's Auto Service<br/>"Terrifying in Their Professionalism"</strong><br/><br/>The sight of one of the soldiers spinning around to aim his rifle at Mal's head made his heart nearly stop dead. He squeezed his eyes shut, visions of his grief-struck parents flashing through his mind, and waited for the bullet to strike. A sharp, pungent breeze whipped past his cheek and he heard the sound of lead ripping through flesh immediately behind him, and he turned in time to watch a shambler with a fresh head-wound crumple to the ground behind him. Mal looked back in awe at the shooter, hundreds of feet away, and pounded his chest with one fist.<br/><br/>"Damn, boy! You must be hitting the<em>shit</em>outta those carrots!" He shouted, a dopey grin of relief spreading over his face. Two more soldiers raced toward him, exterminating walkers with practiced ease and efficiency, and threw him a large duffle bag. "Do something and carry this," one of them barked as they started escorting him back to the rest of the group. Mal looked down at the bag in mild confusion and resignation as he hoofed it to keep pace with the troops.<em>'Malcolm Mercer, bag boy of the apocalypse at your service. Sure, why not?'</em><br/><br/>The other soldiers discussed their next move as though Malcolm wasn't even there, or perhaps just a piece of furniture to be moved from A to B. Under almost any other circumstances, he would have been irritated at the callous disregard for his presence, but at this point he was more than willing to be shuffled about like a hockey puck on ice if it got him out of this killing field. He slung the bag over one shoulder and shifted its weight to a more comfortable position as the soldiers began to split up. The ones staying with Mal turned to look at him and asked him where to find...a car.<br/><br/>Malcolm's jaw dropped as they stood waiting on his reply, and he looked each man in the eyes to determine whether or not they were joking. His shoulders slumped in despair as he realized they were serious. They'd just left a goddamned<em>garage</em>, and they wanted to know where to find a car.<em>'Fuck me, I'd have been safer with the zombies!'</em>he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. "Yeah, guys. I think I might know where we can find a car," Mal deadpanned as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the garage behind him. "Wait a minute, hold up. Why don't you guys already have transport, a truck or a tank or something? I mean, what did you do to get here in the first place? Surf?"