It was kind of like an ant farm. From this high up the broken city wasn't all that different from trails blazed through dirt and grime. Little shapes meandered stupidly below the boy's feet, mildly swarmed at the base of the city bank where Phander was perched. The dead that had caught wind of him ceaselessly clawed at the walls as if their efforts might bring his nest down eventually. [Well, far be it from me to underestimate these things after all this] The nineteen year-old turned away from the four story ledge and assessed his backpack inventory: two lighters, a knife still unused, empty .38 revolver, the photos, canteen, canteen filled with liquor, tea bags, bag of peanuts, duct tape, and a roll of toilet paper with maybe four squares left on it.
"Shit."
He picked up the knife and cut the sleeping bag off of the outside of the backpack, pausing only to untie the sweatshirt from his waist and adorn it. This high up was bound to get cold come nightfall. There was weight in one of the pockets.
"Oh, fuck yeah." Half a pack of cigarettes and his wallet. One of those was useless. He lit one of the sticks excitedly and shouted over the Earth below: "I told you fuckers I never lose 'em!" More ants stirred and a chorus of impudent moans rose up to meet him, boosting the victorious sentiment. Before he chucked the wallet over the side, the boy decided to rummage through it one more time. "Oh." [Guess I did that already on a vodka night] His drivers license was all that was left.
Name: Phander Erza Gastrig
DoB: 01-17-1989
Ht: 5'9"
Wt: 155 lbs
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Hazel
...
Over the side. It was a stupid identity. "Vigil." He tested it out. "Vigil. Gill, for short." Good enough. Anything was better than Phander. [fucking hippy mother] He tried not to cry, even though there was nobody around for probably blocks. A few years of parkour had saved him from a lot of combat. All he had to do was stick to the taller rooftops. He was always afraid to make a permanent base camp, but it just seemed like a bad idea. Phand -er, Gill, unfurled the sleeping bag and crawled inside it. He knew better than to zip it up after last time, but there wasn't much else to do now but sleep. Sometimes he listened to the gunshots and explosions of other survivors -he even heard real sirens once- but he never endeavored to find any of them. [Anyone still alive now'd just be as crazy as I'm becoming] That was always his justification. But...
"What's the point?" Sure, he'd survived this long, but for what? He knew no more about the extent of the situation than when shit first hit the fan, and without having a real objective, there seemed to be a stronger case for being a zombie than a human. [Both of us are just trying to survive. At least they aren't weighed down with cares and sanity] "Purpose." It's what he would need if he wanted to keep on living, and he wasn't going to find it alone. [Tomorrow then] he addressed himself, [Tomorrow we begin looking for new friends] He put out the cigarette and wiped his eyes. He didn't fall asleep right away, but this might be the last 'safe' night he could allow himself, so he enjoyed it as best he could. Just pretend that 'enjoyed' was in air-quotes big enough to breach the atmosphere.
))