A man walked down the streets, head down, staring at the pavement. He walked as though on a mission, unwilling to let anything stop him. Moving much faster than those around him he nimbly dodged his fellow pedestrians with the practiced grace of one who had navigated these crowded streets many times before. Often, when the crowds grew particularly dense, he would step onto the streets and walk there. No cars drove past, but most people stayed out of the streets due to a lifetime of conditioning. Not even the worst of disasters could break some habits.

Just three days ago it had been announced that the military had succeeded in containing the outbreak to a few central hives, not that it mattered much to the average person walking the street. All anyone cared about was that the worst of it seemed to be over despite the way there were still infected and worse roaming some parts of the city.

Many streets were still barricaded or impassable due to crashed cars and debris from buildings that had been damaged during the worst of the viral rampage. On one of the streets the man saw the remains of a tank laying upside down, the thick armor plating of the military vehicle covered in deep dents.

All subways lines had been closed down from the damage done when the infection went underground and all fuel was going towards the generators used in the bases the military had set up as well as those of hospitals and any other buildings providing what were deemed essential services.

Power and communication were out in large swaths of the city from the damage the infection had done underground.

Throughout the city, usually near the military bases or any churches or synagogue that had survived, were stations where canned food, bottled water and first aid were being offered, but that was not the reason this man was braving the streets.

A few businesses were already reopening, seeing the possibility of publicity coming from reopening within a week of an act of terrorism that made the September 11th attacks seem like a very poor joke.

This man, like so many others, now sought out one of those businesses and nothing was going to get in his way. After all that he had been through, all he had seen he felt as though he would go mad if he did not do something that he recalled as being normal when normalcy seemed so very far away.

For this reason he was braving rubble strewn streets and skirting quarantined areas, the hot zones as he knew them to be called.

He had heard rumors that a Starbucks coffee shop had opened and he intended to get a cup of coffee. Nothing was going to stop him, not the general state of disarray the city was in, not the military, not the infected, and not the fact that he had only the vaguest idea of where this possibly nonexistent open coffee shop might be. Near a military base was what he had heard, and he knew where all of those were. It was just a matter of finding the right one

From time to time he paused as though to gain his bearings, or considering picking up his pace.

After each of these stops he shook his head and sighed heavily, as though dismissing whatever thought had crossed his mind.

Early on in the outbreak he had lost his apartment and since then he had been resting where and when he could, always far from where the military was fighting the infected. It had been good for peace of mind at the time, but now it made his journey all the more arduous. With the streets in the condition they were, he would have to try around the nearest base and if there was no open Starbucks there he would have to give up for the time being. Adding to the difficulties he faced was that the whole city seemed unfamiliar to him. Each street filled him with a sense of déjà vu, either from the recollection of a scene of destruction elsewhere or the knowledge that he had once walked down the streets when the buildings were undamaged. It all left him feeling very disoriented and wondering if he was even going in the right direction. He knew where the base was, it was just finding his way to it that was difficult.

One more block and he would change his focus to trying to find a place to get some rest.

So far, just as he known there would be, it seemed that there was a Starbucks at every corner, just as prolific as any disease.

The thought made him smile, but it was a bitter smile. The disease was still active, despite the military's best efforts, but the same could not be said for any of the coffee shops he had passed so far.

Just as he was getting ready to give up hope he noticed that the people around him were moving with a bit more purpose. Either there was a station handing out supplies nearby or he was approaching the fabled open Starbucks.

A gust of wind, driven between the tall buildings brought with it an acrid scent, one that took him a moment to place.

He was used to death, smoke, the stink of the infected and the Bloodtox that the military had been spraying all over the city for a short time. This though was different, this was one that triggered all sorts of memories, most pleasant.

It was the smell of burnt coffee.

Closing his eyes and leaning against the site of a building, he gathered his thoughts and tried to clear his head. That a simple smell carried so much meaning overwhelmed him for a moment, but it was the smell of normalcy, something he had experienced precious little of in the past three weeks, three weeks that felt like a lifetime in retrospect.

Down the street he could see the building, draped with American flags, as seemed to be the fashion with businesses after any disaster of sufficient scale.

In between the flags there were signs on the windows, which he attempted to read as he drew closer.

Most were either blocked by the crowd of people waiting to get into the coffee shop, or meaningless bits of jingoism.

'We support our troops!'

'YES WE CAN!'

'Semper fi!'

'Marines served first – SERVED FREE'

'Hope!'

Others were more telling:

'NO milk'

'limited selection'

'service stops at sunset'

The man he had overheard talking that morning had not been kidding when he had said that it was near a military base. On one side of the street was the base, on the other was the coffee shop. Seeing so many armed men in uniform left him feeling jumpy even though he knew he had no reason to be afraid at the moment. Like all of the other people in the area, he just wanted coffee.

A line of people wound around the block and he had to search for the end. It took him past the base and out of sight of the Starbucks.

With nothing else to do he got into line. After spending so much time looking for it he was not about to leave without his coffee. Hopefully the coffee, that little taste of normal, would bring him some peace of mind. He was at a loss to think of anything else that might.

Most of the people in front of him in line were talking about what they had seen or how grateful they were to be alive. One of them, a man in a rumpled business suit, tried to bring him into the conversation, but something about the look in his eyes made the attempt fail, killing the conversation for a time. Then a group of Marines arrived, and their presence seemed to drive away whatever apprehension had brought about the silence.

Between the conversation taking place in front of him and the Marines behind him, he started to feel trapped. As foolish as it was, he had to fight the urge to run when he saw that the Marines were still carrying their weapons.

He knew that it was stupid to feel as he did, for he was as safe here as he was anywhere else in the city, but he was unable to shake the feeling that a firefight between the Marines and the infected might break out at any moment.

Before he even realized that he had started to fall to his knees, a pair of strong hands was pulling him back up.

"Hey buddy, you okay?"

It took all his will not to pull away at the touch and he barely managed to nod 'yes' to the Marine who was trying to help him up.

"You sure?" another one of the Marines spoke up, "Because for a second there you looked like you were going to be sick."

"No!" he gasped and pulled away at the suggestion.

"Whoa, whoa," the Marine held up his hands defensively, "That's not what I meant. You looked like you were gonna blackout or something, not that you looked, well, you know."

The man nodded weakly, he did know, all too well. At a time like this the suggestion that one might be ill was as good as a death sentence, especially when there were men in uniform around. He had seen the infected gunned down by the hundreds as they staggered around helplessly before the disease reached the point where it destroyed their minds. Even those who might not have been infected, but simply injured, had been massacred.

"You sure you're going to be alright?" the Marine who had initially caught him held out his hands, ready to catch him again if necessary.

"Yeah," he finally managed to find his voice, "I just - "

But he trailed off, unsure of what he it was that he had just, so he tried again, hoping to make more progress and get the Marines to leave him alone, "Too much -"

Again he found himself unable to complete his thought. There was just so much going on and so little to focus on. He wanted coffee, not conversation.

To his amazement one of the Marines who had remained silent so far nodded sympathetically, "I know just what you mean man. This sort of shit, you don't expect it to happen in the good old U.S. of A, but here we are."

"Waiting in line for some star-fucks coffee," the Marine who had earlier asked if he was sick added.

In the state of mind he was in, it took a moment for the term 'star-fucks' to make sense. Someone he remembered speaking to, maybe a coworker of his, had been fond of calling Starbucks by that name.

Further conversation was put to a stop by the arrival of a young man in a black apron. He spoke to the Marines, but spent the whole time staring at the weapons they carried as though expecting to get shot. Like everyone else in the city, he was more than a bit jumpy, "You know you guys don't have to wait on line. If you read the signs you'd know you can just walk right in."

"Yeah, we read the signs," the one who had called the store 'star-fucks' said, "But we're right next to you. I bet some of these people came a lot further."

"Suit yourself," the apron clad worker said and rushed off.

Now that there was a lull in their conversation, the business suit clad man took advantage of it to bring the Marines into his conversation.

At first it was the usual pointless pleasantries, things like 'thank you for your sacrifice' and all that, but it soon became clear that the man in the business suit felt that he should be getting some answers.

"Is it true you've given up trying to catch that Mercer maniac already? I'd think that you'd want to get the man responsible for this before he could strike again," the suited man asked in such a way as to make the question an accusation.

To the surprise of all around the reply came from a most unexpected source. The man who had seemed ready to faint earlier spoke up in a voice stronger than he should have been capable of managing, given his earlier display, "Mercer should be the least of their worries right now. The city's still crawling with infected in some places and everywhere else is still a disaster area, no water, no electricity, no way of helping the injured."

"I know about that, but what about the bomb? If Mercer and his accomplices managed to get their hands on something like that, there's no telling what else they might be planning right now," the man in the business suit said indignantly.

"Getting out of this city alive probably," the sickly man retorted, "if he's even still alive. You think that they managed to get off the island? And when that bomb went off Mercer was at ground zero."

"What makes you say that?" the 'star-fucks' Marine asked, clearly amused by the conspiracy theorizing that was going on. It was obvious he knew more than either of the two men and was enjoying listening to them argue over matters they were clueless about.

"Maybe you know something the rest of us don't," the sickly man's tone made it clear he doubted that statement was true, "but I never heard anything about Mercer being part of any group. Besides, who else would be crazy enough to release some sort of mutant plague or set off a bomb like that right here in New York?"

At this statement a few of the Marines shifted their weight slightly, cleared their throats or generally became interested in things going on somewhere in the distance, away from the conversation. Oh, it was clear that they did indeed know something the two arguing civilians did not.

"Maybe he was working with Al Qaida," the suited man threw out, not ready to surrender his argument yet, "They're certainly crazy enough to set off a bomb and the previous administration did everything it could to antagonize them. I wouldn't be surprised if they end up being linked to this."

"Or maybe Mercer is working with Vlaams Belang," the sickly man retorted, using the first name that came to mind, that of a Dutch political party that was the center of many conspiracies and disagreements on the internet blogging community. He could remember, just for laughs, frequenting a blog that often ranted about Vlamms Belang as though it was the source of all the evils in the world, "There's no proof that Mercer was anything but a lone sociopath."

"Most lone sociopaths can't get their hands on biological or nuclear weapons like that," the suited man crowed, delighted to have gotten one up on his opponent.

"You know there's no evidence that Mercer was part of a group," the Marine who had first helped the sickly man to his feet put in, hoping to nip any conspiracy theories in the bud and put an end to the argument, "I think we're just all frazzled here because we haven't had our coffee yet."

This got a laugh from the other Marines and their laughter was contagious, putting an end to the argument.

Finally, as it was starting to get dark they reached the entrance of the Starbucks.

Despite their protests, the Marines were served first, though after the long wait their protests were none too great.

At last it was the man's chance to get his coffee, but he was uncertain what to ask for. He had no clue exactly what type he might like, what would be anywhere near normal. Several flavors stood out in his mind as being particularly good and particularly bad and he was gripped by indecision.

"Don't bother looking at the menu," the barista sighed, "it's decaf, hazelnut, lukewarm chai or nothing."

"Hazelnut," he said, not sure if he was relieved to have the decision taken out of his hands or upset that he was unable to chose on his own.

"Oh, and it'll have to be black and you're just getting one packet of sugar."

He shrugged, unsure of what to say to that.

"And that'll be three dollars seventy-five cents."

His helplessness returned as he reached for his pockets, already knowing how futile the action was. Of course he had no money, after all that had happened, why would he be carrying around the three dollars and change needed to get a simple cup of coffee?

One of the Marines must have been watching seen his distress and understood what was going on, for he rushed over with a five dollar bill in his hand.

As ineffective as they had been in fighting the infected, the Marines were proving more than capable of saving a man from having to go without his coffee.

Once that matter was settled he tried to leave, but the Marine motioned for him to come and sit down at the table where he and his companions were, "Don't go. After standing for so long you look like you need the chance to rest for a bit."

He let the Marine guide him to the table and felt embarrassment as the Marine pulled out a chair for him.

Seated, he closed his eyes so he would not have to see who he was surrounded by, he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the coffee. It took him to other places, where he had been with other people, people he had actually known and felt comfortable around.

When he finally took a sip he had to felt ready to cry. Everything he had been through seemed a million miles away, lost in the flood of memories that coffee brought back, times spent with family and friends, or just waiting alone in an airport for a flight to come in, business trips, pleasure trips, visits to relatives he had not seen in years. Early mornings alone with his worries and mornings with his fiancée. Memories as bitter as black coffee and memories as sweet as sugar.

"Man, you've been through hell, haven't you? Just like everyone in this cluster fuck," the Marine who had first helped him at the start of the ordeal laughed bitterly.

Opening his eyes, he realized that he must have been unable to hold back his tears.

"Hnn," the meaningless syllable was all he could manage, adding to the absurdity of the situation he had found himself in.

"It's okay buddy, you don't have to talk about it."

He finished his coffee with the Marines, in the silent understanding of people who had all survived hell and come out the other side with more than a few scars to show for it.

As he got up to leave a Marine again called out to him, "You going to be alright? I mean it's dark out and if you have far to go it might be dangerous. There are a few places near here where we've got the displaced staying. Me and the guys could show you to one of them."

"I'll be fine," he waved to them and left without looking back.

Feeling better than he had in weeks the man left the coffee shop and walked down the darkened streets away from the military base.

No one was on the street now save Marines and none of them gave him more than a passing glance, glad for the boredom that came with the lull in the fighting, not willing to make further excitement of any sort for themselves.

Less than two blocks from the base the darkness swallowed the lone man and safely out of sight he ducked down an alley way.

Shedding the form of one of his numberless victims, the from he had worn that day, Alex Mercer took a running start and dashed up the side of a building.