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Steve gazed at the shotgun resting in his lap, a nervous unease eating away at him. He had never cared very much for firearms of any kind. He saw himself as a thinker not a fighter. He ran a finger down the cold metal of the sawed-off barrel. There was no way out now, having came this far.
"Don't let the waiting get to you," Chris said flatly, his large rotund form perched on a nearby tombstone which barely supported his weight. He wore a horribly out of fashion shirt with colors so bright that they hurt Steve's eyes. His black jeans were splattered with mud and his hair was black with a hint of gray, so oily it glistened in the rays of the setting sun.
Steve looked around at the grave markers so worn by time that few still possessed any readable markings. "Yeah," Steve answered, pushing his glasses back into place with a single thin finger. The things had a bad habit of sliding down his face but he didn't have the cash to get a new pair. His own hair was a disheveled mess of blond atop his head and wore an old ratty Alien Sex Fiend T-shirt. Always self-conscious, he tugged at its back uncomfortably.
"The old Fairview cemetery," was what people called this place. It had been filled beyond its limits and abandoned years ago. Still, even backwoods places like this needed to be guarded if the town was to avoid the plague claiming the world as its own.