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[Camera pans]A smouldering ambulance outside a hospital clinic. It’s walls, riddled with bullet holes. A badly scuffed, steel toe-capped boot kicks in a door.
[Under his breath] “Fucking barricades! When will those bastards ever learn not to put so many up?”
A stocky man in his late twenties, bleeding from a bite to his left hand, stumbles inside. He searchs the shadows for signs of movement, his ears straining to hear the slightest sound, but even the rats had the good sense to leave this ship. Satisfied, he makes sure to close and secure the doors behind him.
He enters a room on his right and in the darkness, his hand searches for the light switch, flicking it frantically.
“Damn, they must have nailed the gennie.”
Blindly he pulls out drawers - ransacks cupboards. He can feel the infection slowly seeping through his veins, making its way to his brain. Grimacing, he slowly clenches and unclenches his left hand.
“No, I’ve got to fight it.”
His pillaging becomes more desperate as he feels himself succumbing to the craving. Then his hand lands on it – a FAK. Like an alcoholic who finds a hidden bottle, he rips open the seal with his teeth and holds the syringe, filled with the milkly inhibitor fluid, tightly in his mouth. Pushing up the sleeve of his brown leather flying jacket, he jabs his Saviour into his arm.
The relief - like the onset of a high. His back slowly slides down the wall until he hits the floor.
“The ‘cades, the ‘cades!”
The last thoughts that steal through his mind as Morpheus beckons.
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