Time: 2136 - Approximate Location: 15 miles due East of city limits
Night had fallen over the outskirts of the city and its surrounding area. On any given day, the eight-lane freeway granting entrance or exit to the city would have been alive with enough cars traveling to and fro to be noticed. This night, though, was different; had been for some time. This night was unnatural in the silence that had come to settle over the city and its surroundings; a silence unbroken by bird or cricket. This was the eternal silence of the grave, touched only by the wind and the occasional scrape of litter-on-asphalt that accompanied the breeze sweeping across the highway.
The tranquility was broken by the distant and growing roar of an eight-cylinder diesel engine growing louder. A pair of headlights slashed the darkness, illuminating a mess of twisted wreckage that had been six complete cars at one point and was now more of a barrier and hazard to anyone who would enter the city. Most people wouldn't have been overly keen to enter the city anyway; it was decently common knowledge that to enter an undead-filled city at night was as good as suck-starting a shotgun when it came to suicide attempts. Still, there were those crazy enough to try.
As the headlights neared the blockade, the engine growled louder. It was a heavy sound, rending the air and then, surprisingly, broken by a loud wailing that resolved into guitar and singing, the words barely audible, but there if those with ears to hear had been present: "It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no military son, son. It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one." With Creedence blaring loud and strong, the vehicle struck the weakest point in the barrier; a small Honda Civic of earlier years, it's hatchback open. It was shunted brutally aside by the reinforced bumper of a military M1151 Humvee that had plainly been modified; the military wasn't in the habit of equipping its vehicles with speakers meant for blasting music, nor did it weld multiple steel rods over the outside of the vehicle windows.
"Crap! Son of a .....!" The vehicle's sole operator and occupant cursed as the vehicle swerved. The swerve was the result of his stretch down between his right leg and the center console that housed the gearshift and a number of other items. The crash had caused his sunglasses, balanced precariously on the vehicles ungenerous dash, to fall. During the swerve and recovery though, the sunglasses ended up near his left foot, and his next movement to feel for them was rewarded by the snap of plastic.
"Cheap issue junk," he muttered as he came back to the driving. His fingers finished tapping out the last few beats of the song as it came to an end, allowing the sound of the Humvee's engine to replace the sound of the music. Clad in tan boots, a pair of unbloused multicam pants and a torn and well-ripped green t-shirt, he was the picture of military lack of discipline. Of course, with order broken down and everything gone to hell, his 'borrow' of the Humvee with two men who'd made it out of his platoon with him, the subsequent 'borrow' of military welding kits various lengths of steel and the eventual theft of wiring and speakers (courtesy of Wal-Mart), he didn't figure prosecution was going to be fast in coming.
At twenty-six, Jericho Novak had held the position of Staff Sergeant in the great and late United States of America, which had devolved into the Fractured States of Zombie-Infested Craphole, at least in his book. Born to a pair of old-school religious folk, Novak had always rebelled against the lifestyle family tried to impose. The war had been a way out for him after high school, and he'd sat with it for eight years and five deployments. This return was supposed to be his last. He was coming home to his wife and a daughter he'd not yet met; newly born while he was halfway through his tour. Instead of his family meeting him at the end, his platoon was met with orders to travel to a quarantine site some eighty miles distant from his posting. Oh, there were promises of families being evacuated from the post and the like, but when the balloon went up, he wasn't with his family as he'd wanted; no, he'd stuck with duty and continued to curse it on a daily basis.
The walkers had come and all hell had broken loose. Men ran. Men turned on each other. Order broke down and his unit fragmented to the wind. So much for the fabled Infantry backbone. Overrun and between a rock and a hard place, he and two others had made it out. Saunders had lost it when they'd finally made post again, fighting their way into the housing areas that were not only under attack by the walkers, but by people stupid enough to engage in looting and other brigandage. His moment came on entering his home and seeing what was left of his family after the undead had gotten hold of them. So much for an evac. Saunders gulped down the barrel of his pistol and Novak's group had become one less.
Novak and his remaining man, Hodder, had headed for Novak's on-post residence. On the second story of an apartment, Novak found nothing. No trace of wife of daughter, just hasty jumbles of clothing as if she'd packed quickly and absolutely no baby clothes. The truck missing from the garage gave him a shred of hope as well as did the missing rifle and pistol from his closet gun safe. It was here that Novak retrieved his remaining weapons: a Glock 23 and an Armalite AR-7 that his wife had detested. For a woman, she'd had the odd notion of 'go big or go home' when it came to firearms.
The motor pool had been Novak and Hodder's home for a time as they gathered limited supplies in short forays to the base post exchange and commissary, as well as the items they'd needed to put together a pair of rolling armor that held the line between efficiency and stupidity. Only an idiot would roll an M1 Abrams out in muck like this. Once they'd finished their work, about a week's time, Hodder had informed Novak that he wouldn't be pushing on with him. Greg Hodder came from the southern part of Texas. His stated intention was to get back to his family and Novak had wished the Specialist well. Now though, alone and trying to find his family, Jericho was a man on the edge; rapidly losing hope.
The city he was flying towards was the next step in the chain. Survivors were in short supply and each band he came across he questioned, flashing his wife and daughters' picture at any. There was no luck. Some people had asked him to stay; others spit at him and blamed the government and its lackeys for the current plague. Novak had even gun down a pair of men who'd tried to waylay him and steal his vehicle and supplies. That had netted him a bit more ammo and a Mossberg 500 Cruiser with a handful of shells.
"You are now entering... well, crap. Sign's all jacked up." He muttered to himself as he passed the remnants of a sign declaring he'd entered the city limits. Looking at the seat beside him, he turned a critical eye to his supplies at hand. He needed more water; there could never be too much of that. At the moment, a case of water that was down to three bottles sat atop a neatly packed multicam-patterned plate carrier. The walkers were but one danger in this new world, after all, and armor was a beautiful deterrent when dealing with humans who tended to feel a little froggy and wanted to take a jump at one's items.
He'd likely have a limited time before his engine noise drew the undead. Taking his first turn off that he came to, Jericho spied a row of little gas stations and corner markets. One of them actually had kept its glass in the front window. Wonders would never cease! Figuring it as a place as good as any to start, Novak cut the wheel and slid the Humvee into a stop directly in front of the window. The headlights would provide good illumination of the store, or so he hoped. Time to see what there was to scavenge.
scratch! For the first time Trenk began to doubt himself. (Full comittment) He thought, then he held up his radio and barked an order: " Unit's 4 through 6! Open the holding areas. Cut all of them lose! Release all of the crawlers!" 
