Rough Notes on infected persons.

    Most common transmission is a bite or scratch, though other ways have been heard of. So far there have been no cases in which breathing the same air as an infected or drinking water touched by infected causing infection, have determined virus cannot survive in air or water.

    Once infected, the same time chart follows, with varying hours depending on individual:

    Hour 1: Pain and discoloration around wound, blood clots.

    Hour 5: Fever, chills, slight dementia, vomiting, pain in joints.

    Hour 8: Numbing in arms and legs- specifically fingers and toes -as well as infected entry wound, increased fever and dementia, loss of muscle coordination. Victims known to lash out randomly without meaning to.

    Hour 11: Paralysis from waist-down, numbness spreads to areas with feeling, heart rate slows. Not much longer now.

    Hour 16: Coma. Life signs at minimum.

    Hour 20: Heart stops. No brain activity. Victim is, at this point, deceased.

    Hour 23: Reanimation.

    ANY person infected, no matter how slight, WILL turn. Virus has yet to be found occurring in nature. Bioweapon, perhaps? If so, why? Who? Must research later. Only one method of disposal has proven effective against a reanimated infected. The brain must be destroyed. They do not seem to feel pain nor exhaustion. Or anything, for that matter.

    Footsteps sounded near Scribbler, who shut his journal quickly and hid it in his backpack. The passing patrol looked at him in curiosity. "What are you doing back here?" The taller of the two Canterlot Guards asked quizzically.

    "Nothing, I was just, uh... taking a break. I'm tired." Scribbler said, yawning from a long night without rest.

    "In an alleyway?" The same guard asked, eyebrow raised.

    "Uh, yep." Scribbler said, rising to his feet and shouldering his pack.

    "Right. Um... stay out of trouble." The guard said with a firm voice.

    "Sure thing." Scribbler said with a slight smile.

    The guard gave him one last curious look before moving on.

    Scribbler let out a small sigh once he was sure the patrol was out of earshot. He slowly walked out into the Downtown Canterlot Safe Zone, or D-CSZ as people called it. Just because it was "secure" didn't mean it was safe or pleasant.

    {/\} (/ \) {/\}

    When the plague had reached the breaking point of people rioting and infected shambling after them, The Canterlot Guard acted quickly under the command and orders of Princess Celestia to secure as much of the city as was feasible and establish two areas: the Safe Zone and Quarantine.

    The Safe Zone had been created with most of downtown Canterlot and a secure and barricaded route to the castle. It consisted mostly of small shops with living quarters above them and three apartment complexes, as well as the South Plaza. The shops were kept open and the living areas in them divided to house as many survivors and refugees as possible. Once space there had been exhausted, the apartments were given out on a "first come, first served" policy. And when the number of people exceeded the number of apartments, a tent area that was quickly becoming a slum was created in the South Plaza.

    Scribbler had the misfortune of being placed in the South Plaza.

    As if the universe thought that walking corpses weren't enough, it decided to put him there. Here, in this hopeless place, tensions were high and tempers higher. It was crowded, dirty, and overall unpleasant. Oftentimes, a family of four was put in a tent meant for two, and many people were forced to share tents to conserve space. Small shacks had been erected along the walls of the Plaza with whatever people could find that wasn't cared about by someone else. These makeshift homes were dangerous at the best of times in construction alone, and they were fiercely guarded by their inhabitants. And with good reason.

    In the very center of the Plaza, one large tent stood with a homemade fence around it to allow a few feet of space from tent to fence. The tent was easily large enough to hold a small party in, anywhere from twenty to twenty five people with space for more. And it was the new home of Canterlot most dangerous and notorious crime lord, Iron Fist. When the rioting was in its early stages, Iron Fist went to the plaza and erected his massive tent, stripping nearby buildings of anything useful to create the barrier around it. He gathered a select number of his close friends and most loyal employees and settled in, much to the discomfort of everyone.

    And just because there were a few zombies didn't mean his business had to shut down. Any people that paid him "protection" money that survived were still expected to pay the same amount on the same collection dates, no exceptions. Thanks to the shops being open for business, that left no excuse for anyone. Those that failed to pay had one of two options; become an unpaid employee, or get grabbed when no one was looking. Everyone had a different story for what happened to people that choose option two, but they all ended the same way; they were never seen again. People often wondered how Iron Fist could still get away with this with guards crawling all over the place, but between holding the line, distributing food and water, and settling immediate and obvious law breaking, the Guard had far bigger fish to fry.

    Whether this was to Scribblers advantage or disadvantage, was anyone's guess.

    {/\} (/ \) {/\}

    The entryway to the South Plaza loomed ahead of Scribbler. He sighed, hoping that today might go a little differently than any other day. Not "normal", that was far too much to ask in todays world, but maybe not "suckish" today. It wasn't a lot to ask, but then again, the South Plaza didn't have a lot to offer anyone. Passing under the massive wrought-iron gateway, he glanced warily at the two guards standing to attention at either side of the entryway. Scribbler hadn't done anything that they could prove, but the Guard had made a point of calling a hunch reason for inspection of anyone. Luckily for him, they didn't seem interested in him or his affairs for right now. Hopefully it would stay that way.

    Now the maze of tents was ahead of him, the once stark-white material stained dark colors and overall dull in comparison to what it had been. The flaps were closed on most of them, open on a select few to allow the smoke from fires in tin cans leak slowly out and the hungry, desperate faces watch people with caution. Walking by, Scribbler noticed three men sitting around a wooden box that had seen far better days, cards in their hands and on the box-turned-table, as well as ration stamps for food and water respectfully. Farther down the line there was a tent that had its flap open wide and a table standing between the entrance and inside with second hand goods on display in exchange for bits or ration coupons, an elderly man calling softly to anyone who passed by.

    "Used goods here for cheap, cheap prices! Clothes in good condition! You there, you look like you could use a jacket!" The older man called to Scribbler.

    Scribbler glanced over and saw the old man holding a dirty red hoodie that had a hole in the right breast and a tear in the left sleeve from the wrist to the elbow. "Um, no, thank you." Scribbler said politely while continuing on.

    "A-are you sure? It gets awful cold here in winter, and it's just around the corner!" The old man said quickly.

    "No thank you, I'm fine, really." Scribbler knew he would need warmer clothes soon, but he had to get "home" before-

    "Old man! He said, he's fine." A scratchy voice said behind Scribbler.

    Damnit. Scribbler thought as he turned around. Standing in front of the table was a tall, slightly muscular man with dark brown almost black hair that was combed neatly to one side. He wore slightly faded jeans and a dark sweater that seemed nicer than most, almost formal in appearance. Unlike most anyone, his clothes were free of damage or dirt, not a hair out of place or a thread hanging loose. His light grey eyes were currently locked with the milky blue of the old vendor.

    The vendor's eyes widen slightly. "O-of course! I-I-I meant no offense!"

    The younger man smirked. "Well, you're in luck, 'cause it just so happens I'm in a good mood today." He said, grabbing a silver watch off the table. Turning it over in his hand, he spoke to the vendor, "Now this is a fine watch. I'd say it would put me in a fantastic mood if I could just take it off your hands for ya." The look he gave the old man said he had no intention of compensating him for it.

    "Uh, y-yes! It looks like it was made for you! It's, uh, it's on the house!" The old man cowered slightly.

    "I thought the same thing! Be seeing you around." The man said while clipping the watch to his left wrist. "And it does look damn good, don't it Scribbler?" He said, putting his left arm around Scribbler's shoulders.

    Scribbler glanced over at it, the watching looking almost brand-new. "Yeah, it looks great Capo."

    "I thought so too. Got it for a steal!" Capo said with a grin.

    "That's great. Uh, I really need to get to my tent, there's this-"

    "I'm sure that whatever it is, it can wait. Boss man would like to have a word with ya. You don't mind, do you?" Capo asked as though it were a sincere question.

    "... Yeah, it can wait." Scribbler said after a moment.

    Capo smiled, his teeth much whiter than, well, anyones. "Tarrific! Let's get goin'."

    Capos arm still snugly over his shoulder, Scribbler walked with Capo through the maze of tents, everyone that noticed the two giving them a wide birth and averted eyes. Back before this mess, most people would have, at the very least, giving a quizzical look at a well-dressed man walking so close to a kid no older than nineteen with such torn-up clothing, but here, everybody knew what nice-looking clothes meant around here: trouble. Scribbler's weren't, of course. He had ragged sneakers and light tan cargo shorts, as well as a black shirt with the words DJ-PON-3 in faded electric blue with a few tears. In addition to the small brown backpack he wore, it would normally be quite an odd pair to walk all buddy-buddy together.

    "So, how're things goin’' for ya, Scribbler? Good, I hope?" Capo asked casually.

    "Fantastic." Scribbler said dryly.

    "That's good. Crazy times like these, it's good to be good." Capo said, ignoring his dry tone.

    "I don't think 'crazy' begins to describe it." Scribbler said, a lone boy with light brown hair and a red bandana sitting in a corner and looking shyly at the two.

    "Yeah, maybe 'crazy' ain't the best word. But I've never been a man for words meself." Capo said.

    Scribbler chose, wisely, to not comment.

    "Almost there. Ya arn't tired, are ya?" Capo said when Scribbler yawned.

    "A little. Long night." Scribbler said quietly.

    "Not that it's my place to ask, but what does Iron Fist got ya doin' anyway?" Capo asked, facing Scribbler.

    "Uh... research." Scribbler said, eyeing a passing guard patrol.

    "Research? Researching what, those freaks out there?" Capo asked surprised with a chuckle.

    "Yup." Scribbler said, void of emotion.

    "Shit, wonder why he would have ya do that?" Capo said, mostly to himself.

    "Boss don't pay ya to think, Capo." A mountain of a man said in a deep, baritone voice.

    "Bruiser! I'd forgotten what your voice sounded like. You should talk more." Capo said with a smile, stopping the two just outside the entrance to the huge tent.

    "Yeah? And you should talk less. Get inside; Iron Fist's waitin'." Bruiser said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

    Capo put a hand on his chest and a face of mock hurt. "Bruiser! You hurt my feelin's." Capo said as he walked in.

    Bruiser gave a short grunt and folded his arms over his chest.

    Reluctantly following Capo, Scribbler walked forward into the massive tent.

    The inside of the tent looked much closer to that of an actual structure. Furniture was placed like an apartment high-rise with a designated living room, kitchen, dining area, even entryway where Scribbler and Capo stood while the former was searched for weapons. If the fabric hanging from metal poles were any indication, this tent even had separate rooms. Scribbler wouldn't be surprised if it had indoor plumbing as well. After Scribbler's hand hatchet had been removed from his person, both he and Capo were escorted by two employees to a part of the tent with a hanging portion meant to be a wall. One goon opened the flap while the other put his hand on Capo's should. "Boss wants to talk to him only. You wait out here." He said in a deep voice similar to Bruiser's.

    Capo looked like he was about to argue before he thought better of it and reluctantly made his way elsewhere in the tent. The goon then waved Scribbler forward. Once he stepped through, the flap was closed behind him.

    "I'll be just a moment. Please, have a seat." Came the melodic voice of Iron Fist.

    Walking slowly forward, Scribbler sat down in a rather elegant chair, one made of dark wood and red upholstery. His chair was seated just in front of a large desk made from a rich, dark brown wood that gave a small shine from the light in the room. Looking about, Scribbler though it was similar to the study his dad spent so much time in when he was a kid. On the wall to his right was a massive bookshelf that was more or less the same color as the desk. It was lined with all kinds of books and decorations, a model ship in a bottle catching his eye most. To his left was a flatscreen t.v. atop an entertainment stand and some potted plants, baby palm trees, by their looks. Scribbler thought it rather odd that they were there, but turned his attention back to Iron Fist.

    The man in question looked up from the book he had been writing in to address Scribbler. He was an older man, from his looks in his early forties with grey hair that was combed back to reveal a slim forehead and sharp features. He had ice blue eyes, something that set Scribbler and anyone else on the receiving end of them on edge. His jawline was soft at the curves, but rather strong. Everything about him said the opposite about his name; he seemed much more akin to a politician than a crime lord. His onyx suit made that possibility even greater. "Thank you for coming so soon. I know it's rather short notice, but these are... interesting times we live in." His soft voice offset much of what people thought it would be like.

    "It's fine. I didn't have anything too important to do." Scribbler said, always feeling like those ice blue eyes were staring right through him.

    "Thank you for being so understanding. Now, to business." Iron Fist held one hand in the other an leaned forward in his chair slightly. "What have you learned of the infected individuals?"

    Scribbler shrugged off his pack and opened it to withdraw his journal. He flipped it open to where the notes he had taken were. "Nothing that I'm sure you don't already know. Most people succum in twenty-four hours or less. They seem to not feel exhaustion or exertion, they have what would be for us unlimited stamina. This is offset by poor muscle coordination, the most they can do is shuffle quickly for someone or something. Whenever they spot prey, the moan and head straight for it. Anything is cause for investigation, really. Sound, lights, smell... anything."

    "Do they attack each other?" His voice was soft, patient.

    "No, not that I've seen. Most they'll do is bump into each other and move on without a second glance. It's like they don't even know they exist. The only time I've ever seen them acknowledge one another is when one of them moans. It acts like a call to any within ear shot." Scribbler described as he flipped through pages.

    "Hmm." Iron Fist's lips were a hard line. "Thank you for your time. You've done good work. Come see me again later tonight, just after sundown; I have a job for you." Iron Fist said, opening his book again.

    "... Alright. See you then." Scribbler said as he packed his journal back in and made his way for the tent entrance. As he reached the main tent flap, his hatchet was returned to him and placed in his backpack. Wouldn't want the guards feeling nervous, or more so than they already are. His unpleasant business for the day concluded, he made the return trip to "his" tent.

    Luckily for him, the sun looked to be about noon in its position, leaving plenty of time until his next meeting. Speaking of, the sky was perfect today. The sky was a light blue, a friendly, soft color that went as far as the eye could see, with small tufts of fluffy white rolling lazily across the great expanse. It was a pleasant Fall day, not too hot with a nice breeze that flowed through the sky as lazily as the clouds. It felt almost normal. Returning his gaze to the area in front of him, it felt so out of place, like something so nice should never be near a place as rotten as this. But how the Goddesses worked was how they worked.

    Sighing, he continued to move through the tight-packed paths between tents, slowly making his way "home". Every few steps, someone would bump into him, mutter a quick apology and continue past. At first, he didn't even notice; occurrences like that were all too common here. But when it happened over and over again, he stopped a young woman rose colored hair with lighter streaks in it. "Excuse me, but where is everyone headed?" Scribbler asked.

    The woman seemed slightly confused. "The food stands. Don't you know?"

    No, he didn't. "The food stands? But, they're going the wrong way. They're supposed to be to the north."

    The woman's eyes widen slowly. "You haven't heard? Someone had been stealing food, so they moved it to the west side, where they could keep it under guard more easily."

    "Oh, I didn't know. Thanks." Scribbler said, beginning to walk away.

    "No problem." She said, heading the other way.

    You know she was pretty. His head said to him. Scribbler paused for a moment before turning around. "Hey! Wait a sec!" He called after her.

    She looked behind her before stopping. "Yes?" She asked, glancing nervously in the direction of the food stands.

    "I, uh... never got your name." Scribbler said, rubbing the back of his head.

    The woman giggled. "I'm Roseluck. And you are?"

    "Uh, S-Scribbler! I'm Scribbler." He said with a small blush.

    Roseluck giggled once more. "Well, Scribbler, I'll see you around, 'kay?"

    "Yeah! Uh... see you later." And she headed west. Once she was out of sight, Scribbler facepalmed. "Smooth." He said sarcastically. He once more began making his way for his tent, only for his stomach to growl loudly. Right. I need food. He thought, turning around and making his way west.

    The closer he got, the thicker the crowd got. Some people choose to push their way through, hoping to get their food faster. Some didn't have the strength to push, and others barely had enough to just stand and shuffle closer. Scribbler did as those people did, take his time and just let the natural flow take him closer. It's not like the food stands ever ran out, somehow, just that people didn't get a lot when they did get there. If what he had heard held any water, there was upwards of a few hundred people living in the Plaza along with the numbers climbing around two thousand total with the apartments and shops included. It was an honest miracle that they had enough food to feed all those people.

    After about ten minutes of slow moving through the mass of people, Scribbler had finally made it to the stand. The stand was a large trailer with one side customized to act like a food truck's side; able to pass the door down to whoever ordered. Both sides of the trailer were heavily guarded with guards wearing full riot gear and holding shotguns and submachine guns, giving verbal warnings to anyone that got to close. Looking back at the window, Scribbler dug a coupon out of his pocket and passed it up to the guard, the guard giving him two protein bars and a water bottle in return. Scribbler quickly stowed the food and water into his backpack before slowly making his way to his tent.

    Much to Scribbler's disappointment, he never caught sight of Roseluck in the crowed. He didn't think that he would, but a man can dream, can't he? Once he was well away from the crowed, he moved his backpack in front of him and grabbed one of the protein bars, giving the packaging a once-over. Deciding that it was safe to eat (With the condition of the public restrooms here, the last thing he wanted was a meal that didn't agree with him), he was just about to unwrap it when it was snatched from his hand and a little boy with a somewhat familiar red bandana took off running from him. "Hey! Get back here!" Scribbler called after him, running as well.

    For his size, this little boy was surprisingly fast, weaving between people and tents, though not nimble, per say. Scribbler shoved anyone that was in front of him and gave a quick "Sorry!" over his shoulder, though the angry shouts after him didn't make his sorrys very effective. "Stop that kid!" He yelled ahead, no one making a move to do so. He didn't expect anyone to, it was an unspoken rule that it was far wiser to look out for yourself than others in this place. Scribbler had finally gotten close and was about to grab his collar when he turned a corner at the last second, sending Scribbler running right into someone. "Shit!" Scribbler cried as he and the man went tumbling to the cobblestone ground. "Sorry! Sorry!" Scribbler said quickly, jumping to his feet and running down the corner.

    When he did, he saw the boy looking up at the iron fence that made up the wall of the plaza in despair, quickly looking side to side for a different route, none being there. Scribbler quickly snatched the bar from his hand before he even knew he was there, making the little boy jump and cower beneath him. Still holding the bar, it was time to rant a little. "What the hell, man?! Why didn't you just wait like everyone else?!" Scribbler yelled.

    The little boy curled closer and muttered his response.

    "What? Speak up kid!" Scribbler said.

    "I don't have any stamps..." The kid said in a quiet, British accent.

    Confusion took the place of anger now. "Why? Everyone gets some every morning."

    'Only adults can get stamps." The little boy said quietly.

    "Yeah, but how do you not have any? Did your parents lose them or something?" Scribbler asked, crouching down to his level.

    The boy was holding back tears, to no avail. "My mum and dad are dead." He said, barely over a whisper.

    Aw, shit... Scribbler thought as the little boy cried quietly. "Hey, uh... it'll be okay little guy." Scribbler was never very good around kids.

    "No it won't." He said through the tears and cries.

    Luna, this is painful to watch. "Here, why don't you stay with me? I can make sure you get some stamps every day, I promise." Scribbler said.

    The little boy sniffled and looked up to Scribbler, his brown eyes still swimming in tears. "R... really? Pinkie promise?"

    Scribbler gave a soft smile. "Pinkie promise." He offered his pinkie.

    The boy looked at his outstretched finger for a moment, looking like he was weighing his options. Slowly, he reached out his pinkie and wrapped it around Scribblers, slowly shaking it up and down.

    Scribbler smiled a bit wider. "I promise. Here," Scribbler gave him the protein bar, "I can start with this."

    The boy widened his eyes slightly before taking it. "Thank you." He said quietly.

    "No problem. What's your name? I'm Scribbler." Scribbler said.

    "I'm Pipsqueak, Pip for short." Pip said a little louder.

    "Alright Pip, let's get going." Scribbler said, standing up.

    "Get going where?" Pip asked, munching on the bar.

    "First, chew with your mouth closed or I'll go apeshit on you," Pip giggled slightly, "And second, to your new home."

    The way Pip's face lit up at those words is something Scribbler will never forget.