Glossary
Dead Drop: A dead drop or dead letter box is a method of espionage tradecraft used to pass items or information between two individuals (e.g., a case officer and agent, or two agents) using a secret location, thus not requiring them to meet directly and thereby maintaining operational security.

The chip implanted in my head gave out an earsplitting screech signalling the curfew. The sound was shrill and agitating. This wasn't good. I have 15 minutes to get to a location at least 30 minutes away. If don't make it I would surely get a beating to remember. I've been out past curfew three times this last year and one of them I was caught. I worry that next time may be my last, that I might end up being another bloated corpse in the sewers. Nobody would notice, and if anyone did, it would be nothing more than another person lost. Not uncommon not at all. My hands started to shake as I thought of what to do. I stood there in the street sodden from the day's rain, the grass
and vegetation from the wear of time prying themselves from the earth. The cold eyes of diseased rodents peering out at me from darkness. Then I started to run.

He stood lingering, waiting, watching. Moving to and fro in the heaped rubble beyond the quarantine zone walls. The guard on the tower has been rather attentive this rainy night and it was getting on his nerves. If this martial pawn didn't move on soon he would have to do something about it himself. He waited another 15 minutes, and, giving himself a moment to think, he loaded his silenced rifle. He had a message to deliver, and he wouldn't let a mere bump in the road stop him. Steadying his gun and pointing the old ironsight over the soldier's, head he squeezed the trigger. He missed, the bullet splintering a support beam. “S***e!” he hissed at himself as he let another round fly, this one finding its mark and sending the soldier to his bone breaking fall. Quickly now he worked, wrapping his rifle in a thick cloth and hiding it in the trunk of a rubbled Sedan. Hopping over his cover, he sprinted for the gulch before the wall. There was an abandoned drainage system near here that is commonly utilized by smugglers, getting people or things in and out of the city. That is what he is going for. As he bounded across the sharp rocky terrain and leapt across eroded streambeds, he could feel the cold six round receiver of his 44. knocking against his hip. He hurried through the collapsing sewer, kicking diseased rats as he flew over the slippery moss matting the ground, leaving a trail of rodent corpses in his path. Reaching the takeout point he pulled himself out of the sewer into the old hotel building, left forgotten by those outside of businesses like his own. He unbuttoned his soaked through coat, letting it heap to the ground. The extra weight was just going to get in the way. “it was a good coat” he thought, ‘but the soldier would be found dead soon and warmth wouldn't be a priority.’
He was on the ground floor now peering out from the boarded windows. The streets were calm but they wouldn't be for long. If it hadn't been a soldier they wouldn't have given it a second glance, people die everyday and the government, if you can even call it that anymore, has larger problems on their hands. With an issue like this, murder of a person of law and a potential intrusion to the quarantine zone is usually to be taken more seriously. If he had the luxury of time he would wait it out, give it a day or two and they would have as good as forgotten. But time wasn't something he had right now, the meetup was only 15 minutes from now and if he doesn't show the whole thing could be dropped. He had invested too much in this already and it wasn't time to let his sloppy handy work get in the way. He had to get to the dead sector of the city, the forgotten streets of disease.

Here I had to make a choice. I could go through the quiet sector, the dead zone or the plagued streets-whichever name you choose they are all talking about the same place. Or I take the long route, past curfew. If I went through the dead zone I could make it back to the s***hole I call “home” before supper, but the plagued streets are called that for a reason, sickness walks freely there, the abandoned buildings all burnt out from previous attempts to cleanse the area through flame. The empty husks of towering apartments are like haunting apparitions. The only residents are those sick and come to die, isolated and unloved. The other option however could be a lot worse. If I went around, like people do, I would be out past city curfew, and I would risk getting beaten to death. I can't let that happen, I can't let down my brother. I was out here in the first place because of him. I need to get the little food I found back to him. Only five and already sick. I know the fever will kill him soon. People say its a waste of my resources and effort nurturing his last few days. They say I should keep the food I find for myself, he will die soon anyway. I know that's logical, probably what I should do, but I can't stand seeing him that way. I have to help any way, even if it's futile. I'll risk the quiet sector. I've done it before and I know the path. I can make it back in ten minutes if i'm fast.

The dead drop had said to meet in the old city commons, the center of the city, and secluded in the dead zone. He found it, the dead drop, as instructed in a split plastic mailbox holding residence to a family of diseased rodents. The note instructed him here with the promise of ammunition and supplies. He waited in the old building till the patrolling humvee did its rounds twice. Sprinting across the wet mossy street he kept his strides light and quick to avoid slipping on the slick cobbles. Maneuvering himself through the city would be difficult but as long as he stayed in the alleys, rooftops, and moving building to building, he could avoid detection and make his way to the barren walls that separated the city of the living from the so close streets of death and abandon. He knew the city well, and as he ran he remembered. Below him he passed the small park he so enjoyed on sunday evenings, spending warm afternoons under the large oak with his parents and brother. He past his old apartment, and then the building he grew up in, he yearned to go in it, to lament. He hadn't the time, however. There was money to be made, and that is what he needed the most. He was nearing the last building to jump, his feet just brushing the rooftop gravel as his legs moved on in a blurr. Reaching the ledge in one swift action he put one leg out above the ground three stories below, then he pushed off with his other still tethered to the brick ridge, throwing his whole person onto the gravel of the neighboring building. He was here, in the dead zone. Peering over the roof to the ground below he saw the cement wall blocking off the ashen streets of the dead zone. As he lifted himself he heard a cat screech and a gun fire. The yowling stopped.

I was soaked all the way through now, the cold seeping through to my frail bones. I ran nonetheless, my throat burning. I could see the cement wall ahead of my, easily scaled, the wall isn't what stops people from going there. Reaching the wall I looked it up and down, taking it in and thinking of how to climb it. It was a stack of cement parking stoppers, many spaces to climb. The concrete wet and slicked over in slime, that was the difficult part. It rained so often now. I started to climb, first foothold, digging my worn shoe into the moss and slime, secure. Second foot, a dry patch, nice and safe. I repeat this process till I'm almost there, my feet held 25 ft from the ground, I just needed to swing myself over and secure a decent. As I reached my foot up for the next outcrop it slides on a patch of ice under the thick green sludge, this throws my foot out from under me and I fall to the ground, my arm lands underneath my weight, I scream in pain, a dagger splintering all down my arm then ricocheting throughout my entire torso. I turn myself over, onto my back. Laying there for a minute I let myself recuperate. Then I get up and go at it again.

Standing on a rusted, burn marked fire escape, he looks out at the forsakened commons. He had been waiting too long and was starting to get nervous. Just as he started to leave he saw a hooded figure approach across the square, the hooded figure peered out from the alley looking left, then right, then left again before they stepped out into the moonlight. This must be the person the dead drop sent me after, he thought as he leapt the 15 remaining feet to the ground. He started a steady walk forward towards the contact. At about 20 feet it appeared this person saw him coming. They looked a little afraid, jumpy. He gripped his side arm firmly underneath his coat, keeping it out of view, and then he confronted the hooded figure.


I had made it over the wall, though the time I had remaining was getting dangerous, that fall cost me. I would have to cut through the old city commons and around from there, it's not the fastest but it will bring me out to a complex of alleys which I can use to get the rest of the way back home. I sprinted down the hollow streets, the tall city buildings cutting off the rainfall, making the entire district hauntingly still and quiet. I rounded the corner into the commons, the large metal board was faint and worn but you could still make out the bold words, Boston Commons. I entered the square cautiously, no one goes to the infected district but I naturally shy away from large open spaces. Then I heard something. In a small court surrounded by scorched four story apartments was two tall people. One walked steadily approaching the other. My curiosity won over my better judgment and I found a hiding spot near by.  One person was wearing a hoodie with what appeared to be a gas mask, strange. The other wore a worn out plaid button shirt and a rough hide jacket, he had a gas mask clipped to his side and a black backpack, concealed behind his back was what looked to be a revolver. Placing one hand on the rusted waist high fence, the one with the plaid shirt swung himself around and over the fence landing square four feet in front of the hooded person.
“Well, hello my friend I assume you are who the dead drop directed me to,” he said to the hooded figure, it was in a tone that was quite obviously non questioning, but almost cunning. “One does not simply take a stroll through the dead zone, not unless they're here to die,” he said the last part quietly, a mutter under his breath. He spoke assertively his voice rough, dangerous.
“You're the one they sent? Good, we need your help, hopefully the dead drop gave you all the information you need, but I can answer any questions of course,” said the one wearing a gas mask under their hood, which made it hard to make much out of them. Their voice was distorted and hard to distinguish emotion, though you could still hear a quiver of fear, even under the thick plastic mask.
“Yeah, I know what I need to do. But the dead drop wasn't clear about one thing. How much?” he said with a threatening undertone.
“ Yes, the money of course. We don’t have much, i'll give you half now, the rest i'll bring you after the jobs done.” He drew out a box, opening it he took out two stacks of bills. He handed one over and put the rest back in the box.
“Hmmm, alright, not bad. There in the box, that's the rest of my pay?” he asked in an unnervingly calming voice.
“Ya-Yeah…” The hooded figure said, his voice faltering as he backed up, possibly realizing his mistake. The poor fool.The mercenary, whoever he is let out a bone chilling laugh, an uncaring, cold, evil laugh. “No please…” The hooded person's voice cracked, now he knew of course he knew.
In one swift motion the mercenary pulled out his revolver, pulled back the hammer, and struck down the now crumpled corpse of the hooded fool. The noise ricocheted throughout the court. I needed to get out of here, but my body stayed frozen, Move damn it! Suddenly I broke free of my shocked body and turned to run. But it was all to sudden, as I pulled myself up and ran my nylon coat scraped on the dead prickle bush, the noise was to loud. As my head turned I saw his head snap around, targeting me like a wolf on the hunt. I rushed for the nearest turn to get out of his line of fire. In one fleeting moment I turned my head, I saw him raise his iron sights, lining me up. The sound cracked the air around me, then I felt the bullet split into my spine.

He stood there in between the two corpses, the hooded fool and the dirty, dark haired child, short and underfed. He stood there for a minute before going to loot the bodies. He took the other half of his pay, and then drew a lighter and a flask from his jacket. Getting to work, he piled the two bodies and poured the thick liquor over them. He took a roll of paper out from his backpack, lit it, and dropped it on to the flammable liquid. It quickly lit and within a few minutes the corpses were engulfed in swirling flame.
He left, forgetting that he had ended two lives the very next day. Remembering only the two stacks of paper in the wooden case. He would live on, at least a few more months, but now everyone dies before they should, and with a lifestyle like his, it will come all the sooner.