The hot summer sun beat down causing sweat to bead and run down his chorded body; still the man was wearing a leather jacket, blue jeans, leather gloves, and boots. His visor was tinted- the features of his face all but indistinguishable underneath the blackness of the glass. A fitting reflection of what his soul had become... just an aching wound where his humanity used to be.
The index finger of his right hand flexed, eagerly caressing the side of the trigger well of his Ruger SR-762. She was a beautiful work of art, matte black, chrome lined free-floating barrel complete with suppressor, two-stage smooth 4.5lb pull trigger, and loaded with twenty rounds of his 175 grain handload .308 that took him years to perfect. With her in his hands The Sniper could put a round of red hot hatred through the sternum of a target at 1000 yards without breaking a sweat. She was the most well maintained piece of machinery in a three days drive, likely the entire state. He called her Emily, and she smelled of CLP and love.
He knew she wouldn't be coughing today. As far as he could tell there weren't any people around. He hadn't seen another living person in quite some time actually. That's not to say he hadn't seen anyone walking around, they just weren't 'living.' Roughly five years had passed since the dead began to rise, and the world as he had known it was slowly bleeding out, one life at a time to be replaced by a shambling mockery of the human condition. He had the faintest flutter of regret shiver through his heart at the way things were these days, passing almost as soon as he felt it. He was The Sniper, and The Sniper had no room for such thoughts.
People, living, breathing, thinking people, were the most dangerous thing a soul could come across in the apocalyptic northern Chicagoland suburbs. But he knew these streets, had run them as a child, and as a man recalled them as fondly as the gentle curve of his first love's back.
He shook the image violently from his mind, literally. A can rolled behind him and he whirled around to face his adversary; the walking corpse of a man who was once obese but his torso had been picked almost clean. The leftovers of his most recent meal spilled out onto the roof of the market. The Sniper drew a knife, no need to waste Emily's time with this one...