The sun began to rise, the prior night restless with violence. Hundreds had already died on both sides, and what was once a military state was now a war zone. Scopes, Super Fly, Bruiser, Bootlegger, Bolt, and Luke Winter were among the only remaining lives in the elementary school, getting ready to leave. The stench inside was unbearable, and death itself filled their lungs.

They stepped outside into the already warm air of July. The sun had its entire body above the horizon, and it illuminated the streets, littered with bodies and debris. Distant sounds of brutish combat was the only audible sound in the area. Rats tore at the eyes and gaping flesh of corpses, feasting on what the leapers had left them. If it wasn't for the bodies, the air would smell of ruins.

Chanting emitted from an adjacent street, the six men shuffling behind what was once a metallic stairway within an alley. The stomping and chanting came closer, and before long at least forty Skunks emerged from around the corner, evidently singing a war song. Their uniforms were ragged, a few of them burnt, some with black eyes. They all had blood on them somewhere, and a few were missing ligaments. Some bore spears, some clubs, some guns, and some had no hands to carry anything in at all. Some eyes were bandaged shut with filthy articles of clothing, some had freshly lost teeth, and others were carried over the backs of their brethren, those who had no legs to walk with, draping their toters with blood. Many of the carried looked dead, but it did not occur to these men on the warpath. Few had shoes, some tying rags and clothing around their calloused and bloody feet. Behind their disorderly marching line it was clear that they pulled on ropes the bodies of women, stripped naked and shamed by their appearances. The ropes were fastened to their necks, they all appeared long dead, and they bled from several orifices. They looked beaten, just as the soldiers were. The grimy pavement tore off the flesh that ground against it of the odd cargo, and none of the Skunks looked back; none of them cared. They kept marching by, and they kept singing.

None of the six spoke. They did not dare to provoke the tired, ruthless beast that was this group before them. Ragged and weathered, maybe, but they had the lunacy to fight regardless. As they passed by aimlessly, they walked down another street, and the coast was clear.

"Roger Street." Scopes said simply "We have to get to Roger Street."

Roger street is where one of the main hideouts was located, and was also where the resistance kept most of their arms. They strafed across the street, zigzagging through different hiding spots as stray persons darted through the streets, from Skunks covered with flames to resistors carrying all sorts of unconventional weapons who hadn't slept in days. The six heard the vicious barking of dogs, and they began high-tailing it down the alleyway away from the noise. None could drown out the sound of the adult German Shepherds tearing at the throats and bodies of the resistance, killing any they pleased. They emerged into a desolate two-way strip, shells of vehicles and lifeless corpses paving it more than the asphalt. They meandered into the middle of the road unevenly, catching their breath. Dumpster lids flew open, trashcans tipped over, doors gaped, and piles of debris were shifted out of the way as about sixteen armed Skunks drew upon the men. They set down their guns, raising their arms into the air, circled entirely. The warm July morning cast a breeze on them, the leader figure of the group approaching Scopes, looking him up and down. He noticed the medical sling on his left arm, looking down at his revolver, which rested on the abdominal of a body. The Skunk picked it up, reading its engraving. Riffs.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"It's mine." Scopes said weakly. His lips were dry, and he yearned for water. Sweat beaded down his face.

"This is Scopes' revolver." the man said plainly, smiling to himself as he tried to confirm the gold he'd struck.

"I told you, it's mine." Scopes said. His voice was gravelly, he wasn't rested.

"So you're Scopes?" the Skunk asked. At this point he seemed to be toying with him.

"Get fucked."

A blunt object connected with the back of his head, and he collapsed onto one of the rotting bodies around him.