You take out one of your firearms and hold it at the ready, slowly cracking the door to the shack and heading into the building.
>P35
>AR-15
>THE JUDGE
Your chosen weapon sits in your hands at the ready, nothing will stop you from switching to one of your other guns, but that time is precious.
As the door opens naturally you do a sweep, as much as you can at least, and you aim left to right. Your line of sight is blocked and crowded by a horde of crates to either side of you, misshapen masses of black through the throwers of smoke, with the old world horde taking up nearly half of the small building. Boxes of clutter. There’s not nearly enough space to hide behind them, they’re all along the walls, piles of ruined junk. You move forward, aiming your gun ahead to see the other half of the shack.
The trail of rancid crimson from outside pools at your feet, a huddled mass sits motionless beneath a creased and bloodied tarp. The one who made it to your door earlier in the week no doubt.
The plane hunk looms above embedded into the ruined planks, creaking as the wind blows over it outside.
And your box of respirators sit proudly on the shelf. Hallelujah.
To get to them you need to make it to the shelf, approaching the tarp in the process. What’s the plan?
>Speak to the figure
>Shoot
>Quietly approach
>Rush the shelf
>Write in
