Under candlelight, Morrison sat reading one of the few remaining books in the village. "God Emporer of Dune" by Frank Herbert. A man who a died half a century ago, yet his works reflected, in an odd way, the current state of affairs in this world. For the most part Black Messiah controlled most of the resources and salvage from Dublin to Rome. They dowled it out in small increments quarterly to all the uncontaminated settlements in their territories. For the most part they were saviors, feeding the hungry and defending the weak. Though at times they were know to hoard weapons and technology and even conscript people to undertake dangerous mission against their will. Now was one of those times. He glanced around the dimly lit room. It was small, having only a sink, a twin bed, and the desk he sat at now. In his bed lay a young woman wrapped in bandages from several cuts and lazerstions she'd recieved from her fall in the glass moat. Morrison found her a hours ago, unconscious and bleeding profusely. He'd cleaned her wounds on the spot with iodine and dressed them in strips or his shirt. After bringing her to his home he recleaned and redressed the bigger gashes and lay her on the bed. After some careful thought he decided to strap a saline drip to her less injured arm to assist in rehydrating her. After that, there was not much left the black man could do. He could only wait and hope she hadnt contracted the virus. There were many infected that had gotten trapped in the glass moat before this woman and their blood stained the the glass and rubble. On the desk was a .45 smith & weston loaded with blunted ammunition. All Morrison could do was wait.
Max stood a short distance from the gatehouse wondering. Was the possibility of a cure worth risking his life? He shook his head thinking of everything the infection had cost him, cost everyone. One more life wouldn't make much of a difference. He knocked on the door. "Come in." A voice answered. The door creaked as he pushed it open. Inside was dimly lit by a small fire place and a lamp. Pete sat by a desk in a tall chair. "Ah Doctor Max." "Doctor M will do" "Very well Doctor M. What can I do for you?" Pete asked leaning back in his chair. "I want to join the search for the cure." He replied. "Ok. We're leaving tomorrow with an escort of Black Messiah troops. Bring any weapons and supplies you want to take with you and be hear for early morning." Max nodded before leaving. He walked back to his temporary house, one of several small buildings designed for traders and travelers to stay in. The inside was littered with medical equipment. He sat down on the small bed. Tomorrow the fun began.
Afternoon tea came and went without a change in the girls condition. Morrison sat his desk, the revolver still with in reach. He poured over the pages of his book barely moving except to prepare his meals and relieve himself. He didn't go and do his various odd jobs. He didn't open the tavern to the desperately 'thirsty' populace. Often the injured girl who lay in his bed stirred somewhat painfully. She sweated feverishly through her bandages and didn't seem to be responding to antiboitics. He was sure the plague would take her. One more flesh craving abomination to put down. Soon he would have to make a decision. Twilight was beginning to bloom in the outside world, someone would surely come looking for him and find this girl. Then there would he trouble. Gingerly he set down his book and and lifted the revolver from the table. Cocking back the hammer and taking it off safe he stood from his seat and turned to face the unconscious young woman. He drew the weapon up until it was level with her face. Better to end her quickly. Her eyes popped open and she sat straight up in the bed. Her eyes were wild yet fearless as she stared directly down the barrel of his gun. Morrison, so surprised by her sudden recovery didn't move a muscle, just met her fearless gaze with one of intrigue. And there they were at a standstill.
