(Really the only connection between this and the movie is the name. I don't own that, so please don't sue me)

The Fall

Part one: The quickening

Sam Burns woke up to the morning of April Seventh like any other morning. He got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and brushed his teeth. Checking his watch, he yawned groggily as he walked to the kitchen in his small apartment to make coffee.

It was Tuesday. He hated Tuesdays.

Grumbling, he walked slowly over to the coffee maker, and began making a cup just the way he liked. Glancing over his shoulder, he reached for the small, black remote that controlled the only television in the apartment on the counter, and turned around to look at the TV. Pressing the red 'power' button, he went back to making coffee, whilst listening to the goings-on of the world. Not really paying any attention to the TV at all, Burns tended to his coffee, and sat down at the small table in the center of the room. Only one chair was positioned there, as he rarely had any guests.

Holding the white mug with both of his hands, he slowly swirled the mug underneath his nose, savoring the scent of the warm, dark liquid. Setting it onto the table, Sam sleepily looked up to the television. The newscaster spoke of a virus spreading, or something along those lines. Sam quietly groaned. Probably another fucking bird-flu outbreak. Glancing back to his coffee, Sam put the back of his hand up to the side of the mug, feeling its warmth. Deciding that it was cool enough to drink, he brought it up to his lips. The still rather warm liquid eased its way down his throat, almost instantly providing him with a burst of energy.

Standing up from his seat, Sam left his coffee and went back to his bedroom, where he removed the boxer shorts he had slept in, showered quickly and put on the clothes that he would wear to work. A black jacket and tie, as always. Grabbing his keys off the dresser, Sam exited the bedroom, and went back into the kitchen. He picked up the coffee mug, preparing to take a sip, when he heard a loud knock on the nearby door. This startled Sam, making him spill his still rather warm coffee onto his torso. Sam chuckled sarcastically, and swore through gritted teeth. Glancing at his watch, he swore again.

More knocking on the door.

Sam grumbled, and made over to the door at a brisk pace. Undoing the dead-bolt, he flung the door open. In the hallway, stood his neighbor, Bill Harrison.

"Sam! Uh buddy?"

Sam sighed. While Bill was a friend of his, his habit of being a bit bothersome was starting to drive Sam insane.

"What is it Bill? I need to get to work in… twenty minutes. That's gonna be impossible if you're gonna try to have another one of your conversations."

"Sam, you can't go to work! Haven't you seen the news?"

"Oh please, just because of some stupid new flu strain. Bill, I hardly get sick. You of all-"

"The flu? The hell? No-no-no-no. C'mon, I'll show you."

Sam furrowed his brow and looked at his watch. The clock was certainly ticking.

"How long is this going to take?"

"Trust me man. You're gonna to want to thank me. It's only gonna take a minute."

Sam shrugged. What the hell, he thought to himself. For all intents and purposes, he was already late for work.

Bill nodded and barged through the doorway, bumping into Sam. He led him back into the kitchen, where he picked up the remote and flicked the TV on. Sam's eyes widened at what he saw. A reporter sat in the back seat of a helicopter with a small camera crew. He narrated while the camera panned by the plexy-glass window.

"As you can clearly see, the freeway is in complete chaos. There are dozens of pile-ups everywhere. People are getting out of their crashed cars and getting hit, there's smoke and blood…. If you're listening out there, STAY AWAY from the freeways as best as you can. The sheriff's department issued a statement about five minutes ago saying to find a safe place, and stay there. It is imperative that you stay where you are. Going outside has proven to be extremely dangerous, and therefore something else you don't want to do. Back to you guys in the studio." Finished the helicopter reporter.

The TV cut to the studio newsroom, where two anchormen sat.

"Dwayne is absolutely right folks. It is complete chaos outside. Stay in your homes. Do NOT go to your place of work, and do NOT take your children to school. It is simply too dangerous. Do not let people into your homes, even if you know them. We don't know at this time what exactly is causing this pandemonium, so don't take any risks."

"That's right Tom." Began the female Anchorman.

"The Sheriff's department has just issued another statement, this one saying to secure means of defending yourself, if any, then to secure your home, water, food and other supplies, and in that order. The important thing here is to stay put. Moving on the streets is simply too dangerous right now, even if you are inside a vehicle. If you are on the road already for any reason, get to a rescue station at one of the following locations."

The picture cut to a scrolling list of locations, ranging from department stores, to police stations, to parking lots. After the list finished, it cut back to the studio.

"As we said earlier, if you are in your home, we cannot stress the importance of staying where you are. We recommend that you barricade your doors and windows, and head to a room in your house without windows. If your home does not have such a place, stay low, and keep quiet. If you're in a building with more than one level, then head to a higher floor. Try to avoid being on the first floor of a structure, as it presents the most risk."

Sam turned to Bill with an indifferent look in his eye.

"I don't know about you, but I gotta get going. I'll see you this afternoon, ok?"

"Are you stupid, or just plain deaf AND blind? Can't you see what's going on out there?"

"Yeah. Some more sensationalist bullshit from our wonderful media outlets. Come on man. It's all about ratings for these people. There's probably some protest that turned nasty and now you've got a bunch of environmentalists or socialists running around burning shit. The cops will take care of it. Or the Army." He added as he left.

"Suit yourself man. Stay safe!" Yelled Bill as Sam left his apartment, closing the door behind him. He realized that he hadn't bothered to change his coffee stained clothes, but then he realized that he didn't care. Walking towards the stairwell, he pushed the door open and walked down to garage level. Removing his keys out of his pockets, he slowly moved towards his Honda and pressed the remote lock.

The Honda beeped back at him, and Sam muttered some obscenity while he started the engine.

Backing out of the space the car had occupied for the last eight hours, Sam turned the car around, and put the compact sedan into 'drive'. Moving forward, he took the garage door opener out of the center console and pressed the button. The door slowly moved up, and as soon as it was up fully, Sam drove through it and out into the morning air. Turning out the street, he yawned. Once an insomniac, always an insomniac.

He turned on the radio to listen to the news, only to realize that the riot was going on. Instead he tried the local music stations, but they were also going nuts with riot bullshit.

Giving up on the radio, he switched to stereo, and the sound of the blue Oyster Cult filtered through his car.

'-ons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain
We can be like they are

Come on baby... Don't fear the Reaper
Baby take my hand... Don't fear the Reaper
We'll be able to fly... Don't fear the Reaper' Sang the speakers, while Sam tapped his fingers on the steering wheel along to the beat.

He observed the streets, but they were mostly empty of pedestrians. There were only a few vehicles on the road, which Sam found odd. This was the time of morning rush hour, aka Dante's seventh circle of hell.

Where was everyone? Why did Sam care?

They probably, Sam thought, had gotten the piss scared out of them. They read the news, and stayed in their homes. Typical behavior of the typical American sheeple. Easily frightened, mate constantly and congregate in groups.

Taking a right, he put the air conditioning on low, and rolled down the window. He was hit by the morning's soft humidity. The calm before the storm. If the storm was 105 degree heat. La-la land in the summer…

Meanwhile, at the Crossroad's indoor shopping mall about five miles due east of Sam's current position….

Jack Gibbons, along with several other part time FEMA disaster workers stood in a large tent that had been erected in the Crossroads Mall's parking lot. There, they attended to people who had been affected by one of the riots that had now been occurring in Los Angeles, and many other cities worldwide. So far, the authorities hadn't been sure about the time the riots started to occur (or why for that matter), but they believed that they first started at least two days prior. It wasn't until now that they had escalated from a minor law enforcement problem, most cases being dealt with by civilians, to what was now considered a global military issue.

As Jack applied disinfectant to a bite wound that one victim of the riot had sustained on his wrist, Jack saw several dark, camouflaged Army trucks drive on by. Probably National Guard troops: about damn time they got here, Jack thought to himself. Finished applying disinfectant, he took a bandage and wrapped it around the unfortunate man's wrist, before putting some tape down on top to make it stick.

"Well, you definitely won't be needing stitches. There's really no harm in the wound now. Just don't pick at it, ok?" He said to the man, who looked like he was probably a High school teacher. The man nodded, and left the tent. Gene, another one of the disaster workers approached Jack quickly, with a worried look on his face.

"Jack, we got a problem with one of the people that just came in."

"What kind of problem?"

"Here, let me show you." Said Gene, ushering his superior past a large crate of medical supplies and out of the tent. Outside, there were several picnic tables set up, where more disaster workers, civilians, several uniformed police officers, and even a couple of National Guard soldiers in full battledress were. At the far side of the makeshift M.A.S.H. unit were several FEMA workers and a couple of cops. Gene ushered Jack over to the crowd, and showed him the scene.

There was a man, probably in his mid-fifties, in a wife beater and jeans. He had a deep wound in his neck, which was flowing with massive amounts of blood. He inched towards the small group slowly, shuffling. Although he didn't say it, Jack though he looked drunk.

The two officers that were there took out their electric stun batons, and held them at their sides while the disaster workers tried their best to control the situation.

"Sir, hello?" Asked one of the FEMA guys. The man didn't answer. He simply kept on shuffling towards them.

"Sir, you've been hurt. You're probably disoriented. Would you like to be assisted?" Asked the same man. Once again, the man completely disregarded what was said. He just kept on shuffling towards them. One of the cops said something to the main man in charge of the group, who nodded.

Both officers approached the man slowly, as not to provoke him. One of them took out a pair of handcuffs, while the other removed his taser-gun out of it's holster.

One of the cops tried to cuff the man, but the man resisted, looking disoriented. Instead he lunged at the officer. The man managed to get out of the way, but the other officer took action. Leveling the taser-gun, he fired two small metal prods into the drunk. Surprisingly, considering that this was an especially powerful taser-gun, there was no effect. The man shook a little, but he kept on coming.

Both officers went after the drunk with their batons, after he tried to lunge them for a second time. They managed to get him down onto the ground, and hit him with their metal and heavy plastic rods multiple times, but the man kept on trying to get up.

Looking to Gene with a slight look of disinterest on his face, Jack turned around. Walking back towards the group of white medical tents, he massaged his tired face.

"So that was what you interrupted me for? Is that it Gene?"

"Hey, I thought you should know man. You seem like you're one of the few people whose got his head screwed on tight around here. Just thought you might wanna know if something was going down."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the guy in charge. You wanna talk to a man with authority, then talk to Dietz, or Captain Trips. Not Jack, the lowly volunteer who joined up a couple weeks ago because service was tax deductible, and a really cool t-shirt also came with the deal."

"Whatever you say man. Just thought that-"

"Yeah, well you thought wrong. I'm busy Gene. Don't have time for useless bullshit. See you later." Interrupted Jack, stepping back into his tent. The patients that he and some of the other FEMA people and disaster medics had taken in for treatment seemed to have gotten worse. Surprising, since he had only been gone three minutes at the very most.

Stepping next to a doctor wearing a plastic facemask, which covered his mouth and nose, he looked over one of the victims.

"What's been happening? They look like they've taken a turn for the worse. And why are you wearing that mask?"

"We got news from the CDC place back in Atlanta, Georgia. They say that there's a very large possibility that some sort of illness is tied to all of the riots. Wouldn't surprise me a whole lot, if that turns out to be true." Finished the bearded man, who placed a stethoscope on the man's horizontal chest. His breathing was raspy and getting slower.

"Would do you say that?" Asked Jack with a puzzled look on his face.

"Because, all of these patients are showing symptoms of what seems very similar to the flu. Lot like the flu to be truthful. Rising fevers, vomiting, loss of energy. And there's something else that's really weird. Only the people that have been BITTEN are showing any symptoms. How's that for strange?"

"Well, I'm not a doctor. Not by a longshot. But are you suggesting that these cases of illnesses, which all seem an awful lot like the flu, may be contributing to all of the riots?"

"Now you're really using your head. Tell me something else Jack. How do you think the Army got here so fast? Why do you think they got here so fast? What possible reason do you think they could have?"

"This is obviously a national security concern. The Governor over in Sacramento okayed military support. So have a lot of other Governors. You're not suggesting that the Army had something to do with this whole mess? Like some sort of germ warfare thing gone outta control? Because if you're going to ask me, that sounds like the plot of some lame B-movie."

"I'm keeping my options open. I suggest you do the same. In the meantime, we observe these folks' symptoms. If they worsen or improve, we'll know what we're really dealing with. But my gut's telling me that there's something else going on here. Something that the politicians, the Army or even the police isn't saying. Since we're civilians, I doubt that we're going to hear anything, but if you do, tell me. I'd like to know everything that I can." Finished the doctor.

"Sure thing Dr. Flagg." Said Jack, leaving the tent.

On a different side of town, Sam pulled into the parking lot of his place of work, anticipating having to search for a spot. Almost miraculously, all but two were empty. Taking a brief moment to thank the gods of parking, Sam pulled into a lot, and put the car into park. Opening his door, he grabbed his utilitarian briefcase off the front seat and stood onto the damp pavement.

Slamming the door behind him, he walked briskly towards the office, with a small smile on his face.

Judging on all that fuss about the flu, he might not get in any trouble today. Especially since he was pretty much the only guy that showed up for work.

Walking down a sparsely lit corridor, decorated only by insipid "motivational" posters, he turned a corner. Walking through a maze of cubicles, he turned on his desk lamp, and booted up his computer.

He heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the room, and saw that it was his boss, Mr. Jenkins. Ah, Mr. Jenkins. What an unpleasant surprise…

"Sam! Sam!" He called out, the overweight man panting somewhat as he jogged towards Sam's nondescript cubicle.

"Yes Mr. Jenkins?" Sam inquired, wiping his wry smile off his face.

"Thank god you're here. Only you and Cathy showed up. This is a freaking disaster." He uttered, still panting.

"Everyone must have been getting scared about the flu. I really don't see what-"

"The-the flu? What are you talking about? There isn't any flu. There's a huge riot out there man. The police are saying that it's bigger than Watts, and it's everywhere. This is huge. People are saying that guys with guns and spacesuits are everywhere. To be honest, I'm not all that surprised that only you two showed up for work. Most offices and schools are closed anyway."

Sam nodded, looking at the man, but not paying much attention anyway.

"Since you and Cathy showed up, I'll pass along a good word to the higher ups. They always seem to reward people who come to work when these sort of things happen."

Sam kept on nodding, still not paying much attention. Mr. Jenkins turned to leave, but then much to Sam's chagrin, he remembered something else. Turning around to face Sam for a second time, his mouth opened.

"By the way, did you get a chance to look over those TCP reports?"

"Not yet. First thing I was going to do."

"Super. Thanks again for coming Sam."

"No problem Mr. Jenkins." Said Sam in the most kiss-ass tone he could without it being too obvious. Jenkins, the Dumbass he was, didn't notice. The guy was on a serious everlasting powertrip, Sam thought as the man walked away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Sam opened up a couple of windows on his computer. Mostly boring work stuff. Then, he discreetly took a small CD case out of his briefcase. Opening it, he placed an unmarked CD into the computer tray. Closing it, he waited patiently whilst the computer booted up. A window popped up, and Sam leaned forward, popping his knuckles.

Counter strike was fun, but it was even more fun when he played it AND got paid at the same time. Thing was, everyone around here was so wrapped up in their boring little lives to notice.

Back at the FEMA tents in the mall parking lot…

Jack saw the situation deteriorate before his very eyes. The man whom they had thought to be a drunk and wounded turned out to have something very wrong with him. He had attacked several people, and the policemen onsite rushed to bring him down.

Regardless of how many times they shocked the guy with stun guns, he kept on getting up, and charging them. It wasn't until he mauled an innocent bystander did they shoot him down in a volley of shotguns and pistols. After a brief moment of relief, the unthinkable happened.

More people descended upon the rescue station, numbering in the dozens. The small detachment of National Guard troops that stood guard outside the tents joined into the fray, spraying the attackers with automatic gunfire.

Not used to combat situations, Jack dove for cover in one of the medical tents. As if things could get worse, some of the paitents began to go crazy and attack other hurt and wounded, along with doctors and FEMA personnel. The scene turned into a bloodbath as several soldiers in military fatigues rushed into the tent and fired in a spray pattern at the frenzied mob.

Several of the attackers went down, as did some people who made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The remaining attackers however, charged the guardsmen, and a close quarters fight broke out. One of the men (all of which were wearing gas masks and other gear associated with biological and chemical weapons) took down a janitor with a bayonet lug through the eye socket. The other two soldiers took down a second attacker with repeated butts from their rifles.

Wanting desperately to get out of the scene of carnage, Jack crawled on his belly out of the tent, only to see that what was happening outside was exponentially worse.

More attackers arrived, and their ranks now numbered around a hundred. Some policemen and guardsmen had taken cover behind a makeshift barricade, and blasted away at the new arrivals, but it was little use. Even with the high powered assault rifles and 12 gauge shotguns they all carried, they only managed to down a fraction of the attackers before they were swarmed and torn to pieces.

Standing up, Jack looked for a place to run. He supposed he could try the mall, as that wasn't that far away. But there was always the chance he could get shot by a panicked officer or soldier. Not a chance he wanted to take.

Running around the tent he had been in earlier, he came face to face with the barrel of a Remington pump action. The gun's owner was a police officer.

"Move and I waste you." He hissed, backing up slowly. He didn't see the bloodied person behind him, and before Jack could swear, the cop was bitten on the neck from behind. His own blood spewing everywhere in an almost comical fashion, the man's face lit up in shock. Dropping his shotgun down onto the dirty pavement, he tried to fight off the rioter, but it was of little use.

Trying to focus the man's screaming in agony out of his mind, Jack's eyes floated to the gun that now stood on the ground. Picking it up, he tried to recall the memories he had of hunting waterfowl with his grandfather in Wyoming.

He pulled back the action, loading a shell into the chamber. Remembering the safety, he flicked the button into the 'armed' position. Now with means to defend himself, he redirected his attention to the cop and the enraged psycho. Bringing the sight up to his eye, he waited for a shot. It had to be just….

He squeezed the trigger, and the weapon recoiled into his shoulder. A flock of birdshot found it's way into the chest of the rioter, sending it backwards.

Perfect…

The man was simply stunned however, and he soon began to charge his greatest threat in the area. Pumping another shell into the chamber, Jack fired a second time. Now, he hit the man just below the shoulder. His arm, which now held by a bloody thread, threatened to fall off. Still, the man was undeterred. Swearing loudly, Jack pumped the shotgun yet again. This time, he aimed a little higher. A sound of thunder, and all that remained of the highly persistent man's head was a bloody stump and pink mist. His body fell to the ground with a sickening thud, and moved no more.

Rushing to the wounded officer's side, he saw the extensiveness of the bite.

"Oh god… Jesus…" He uttered. The man was still alive. Barely. He tried to speak, but only blood came up. Choking, his eyes started twitching, and his body convulsed. This was, without a doubt, some of the strangest behavior he had ever seen in a bite victim. After a few more moments of this, the cop stopped moving. Wincing, Jack looked to the man's belt, where there was a loaded Beretta handgun.

Reluctantly, Jack eased the man's equipment belt off his body, and secured it onto his. He wouldn't be needing it anymore.

Back at Sam's office…

Sitting at his desk, Sam sipped crappy tasting coffee. He had minimized counter strike for the meantime, getting in some actual work. The dreaded TCP reports of which he hated with much gusto were a total pain in the ass to work on. He loathed every second he spent on them.

Looking away from the harsh glare of his computer screen, Sam massaged his already tired brow. God he hated these TCP reports.

Turning back to the monitor, he went back to scanning through the most recent ones.

Same old, same old. All of these lines of data were the same, and frankly he thought-

A scream pierced the quiet office atmosphere. Sam was startled, and jumped slightly. Standing up from his seat, he peered over the edge of his cubical, trying to see if he could find out what was happening.

Unfortunately, he couldn't see what was going on. He could hear it on the other hand.

The scream was definitely feminine. That was the only thing he could be sure about. Very faintly, he thought he heard the sound of someone pleading, but to little avail. There was another scream, this one vaguely masculine, and a crash. Probably glass. More screaming, and some thumps.

The shit scared out of him, Sam paid no more attention to his computer and his job. Looking to his feet, he fumbled around with his drawers in his desk, looking for the maglight he kept at work.

Finding the large flashlight, he turned it on, and shined it around the mostly dark office. All of the noise had stopped, and Sam was considerably worried. This definitely had something to do with that flu business. He was very sure of that.

Turning a corner, he almost gasped when he saw a crimson streak of blood that was smeared across the floor. Doing his best to keep it all together, Sam inched his way down the hall, apprehensive about whatever he would find.

Avoiding some broken glass on the floor (most likely connected to that crash he heard earlier), Sam walked down the remainder of the corridor, and rounded another corner.

He found himself facing his boss, who was kneeling down in front of a prone Cathy. Sighing of relief, Sam tapped Jenkins on the shoulder. At first he didn't respond. He simply kept on hovering over his underling.

Sam dared to tap the man again. Two seconds later, he would regret that decision.

Jenkins spun around, his entire face covered in blood and gore. Parts of Cathy's body were revealed, and Sam recoiled in terror.

Her face was GONE man. Her face was FUCKING GONE. All that remained was a bloody mess.

Snarling, Jenkins stood up and charged Sam, who instinctively batted him with the heavy flashlight. This stunned Jenkins slightly, and Sam made a light-footed dash to the front door of his former place of work. The place had certainly gone to hell in a bright, pretty yellow basket. 'A tisket, a tasket, that girl took my yellow basket' Sam sung to himself in his head.

His brief moment of victory soon vanished, when Jenkins gave chase.

Now, Jenkins was a heavyset man. Fat, to be honest. Running at a speed that could be considered 'slow' to most people, he easily tired himself out, often getting cramps. Sam and his fellow co-workers often theorized that their boss weighed at least three hundred pounds.

However, Jenkins was now running at the speed of an Olympic athelete, and he showed no signs of slowing. Swearing, Sam picked up the pace, dashing nearer to the exit. Jenkins was gaining on him.

Panting, Sam didn't even take the time to push the door open. Simply kicking it wide open, he ran out into the still wet parking lot. The sight that unfolded before his eyes was a little too much to bear.

Off in the distance, smoke filtered off the skyscrapers in the downtown area. Helicopters swarmed the sky like enraged birds, and sirens from emergency vehicles blared everywhere. Hell in a handbasket indeed.

Sam's little view of the carnage was interrupted by Jenkins, who burst through a window without much personal concern for well being. Swearing, Sam panicked, running back to his car. Taking the keys out of his pocket, Sam dashed for the driver's side. Pressing down onto the remote lock, the car beeped back at him. He'd never been so glad to hear it.

Opening the front door, he quickly sat down, and put the keys into the ignition. Jenkins was right behind him, and tried to barge his way into the car, but Sam had the upper hand. Kicking him away with a loafer, Sam put the car into reverse, and backed out of his parking space, his still open door knocking down his beserk boss onto the wet concrete. Sam heard a sickening thud as the man's head slammed into the pavement, and blood started to pour from his head.

In far too much of a hurry to care, Sam put his car into drive, and got the hell outta there…

Back at the mall 'rescue' station…

"Gene? Where are ya man!" Yelled out Jack, the twelve gauge in his hands. He was still in the mall parking lot, and there was still some semblance of a fight going on between the authorities and the rioters. The remaining SWAT, CDC, FEMA and National Guard troops however, were spread out very thinly, and there was little co-operation going on between all four parties. All that Jack was concerned about, was finding his friend. After that task was over, they'd get the hell outta there. Head for the hills, so to speak…

Blasting one rioter in the chest with the shotty, Jack worked the pump action, and turned around a portable trailer that the CDC had been using as a small field lab. Nothing. Turning back around, he nearly crashed into a National Guard soldier, who was in full battledress. The soldier held an M-16 assault rifle, which was pointed squarely at Jack.

"Hey man, I'm on your side!" Said Jack, putting his gun down. The soldier slowly backed up, looking around for anything that might pose a problem.

"You trying to get outta here?" She asked, her gun lowering somewhat. Jack was somewhat surprised.

"What do you mean?"

"You're the only person I've run into with their head screwed on. Listen, we gotta get outta here. This entire operation has gone to hell."

Jack nodded.

"Oh.. ok. Where do you have in mind?" He asked, picking his shotty back up again. The female soldier pointed to the mall with her rifle. Jack nodded in agreement.

"Alright. I have to find somebody first."

"But everyone's dead man… it's bloodbath city here… If we don't get out, we're gonna die in a way I'm not too keen on."

"I know, I just have to know if he's okay or not."

The soldier nodded, in minor understanding. Flipping the selector switch on her rifle, she gestured for Jack to follow her. Shouldering her automatic rifle, she shot several rioters in front of them, while Jack covered their rear, taking out one rioter. Swearing, the woman pressed down on the magazine release, and slammed a fresh clip into the receiver.

"Gene! Where are you!" Jack yelled out.

"Jack! Is that you?" Cried out a voice over the screaming, moans and gunfire. Jack's attention was alerted, and almost ran out to find his friend, but was stopped by the soldier. Holding her left arm up in front of him, she slowly advanced, weapon at the ready. Ushering him forward, she knelt down onto the ground, covering the area.

Taking her cue, Jack ran forward, looking for Gene.

"Where are you?" He called out. Gene soon responded by popping his head up from on top of the trailer. Jack's spirits soared, and he showed his friend he was armed.

"Come on buddy. We're getting out of here." Said Jack, pointing to one of the FEMA vans that was parked nearby. Nodding, Gene began to climb down.