Hunched in the corner of a ruined convenience store cowered the last remnants of a quaint town. Huddled against the wall were small children being shielded by the last remaining healthy adults, two older women and the once elected leader, glaring on edge toward the barricaded store front.

"I'm going to go check," The leader said between shaking breathes. He crawled as silently as he could to peer between two boards hastily nailed to the store front windows, blood rushing to his ears and adrenaline drying his throat. Out in the street were the Diseased, once healthy residents turned to shambling predators, reason replaced with violence and ferocity in place of emotion. Veins forced out of blue tinted skin give the appearance of snakes slithering through water, eyes blood shot and pin point hyper fixated on their one objective. When the Diseased first began appearing they abused their super human reflexes and strength to steal from stores and farms to satiate their ravenous appetites, in response the government began providing food for them hoping to prevent further attacks. However, once food became short in supply for even regular citizens the Diseased resorted to other methods, being hunting down regular people and consuming them in turn. 

Six of them stood in the center of a once bustling residential road completely still. Besides the occasional twitch they stood in stasis, completely frozen. The Leader reached for a pocket radio he kept in his pocket. Once the Diseased began their assault the government created a traveling caravan service that could provide goods and routine maintenance to anyone who managed to radio in to their frequency while they were passing by. 

He began pleading, "If there's anyone there we need help! There are six Diseased at the convenience store just off of the highway going toward Sickle City!" 

On the other end of the radio was pure static, the leader could only hope someone had heard his call as he continued watching in fear through the misshapen wood.

There was no way of keeping track of time but it felt as if several hours had passed. Still the Diseased stood motionless, staring vacantly to the distance, until one towards the rear began to turn. 

Walking up the road was a man clad in leather; a black biker jacket and jeans tucked into black boots detailed his frame. On his head was a motorcycle helmet tinted darker than pen's ink, a tan camo head wrap seeped out and over his shoulders, and on his back rested a large well-worn rucksack. As he approached the group he stopped, alleviating the pack from his shoulders. He pulled from a side holster what appeared to be an ordinary fireman's axe, the steel blade glimmering in the harsh sun, however upon closer inspection the handle was made from a human femur making it much more compact. Using the pick on the head of the axe he struck the frying pan tied to the other side of his ruck sack producing a sudden gong. 

The Diseased were observing motionlessly up until the sound rang out. At the noise they buckled down like a cat preparing to pounce, launching forward into a full sprint. The illness provided the Diseased with enhanced physical capabilities making it only a matter of seconds until they crossed the 20 feet separating themselves from the biker. Although physically enhanced they were not equal, as they advanced one broke ahead of the others lashing outward towards the man.

It happened swiftly, the biker sidestepped just as the Diseased lunged for his chest and at the same time brought down his axe onto it's nape. The blade hardly had time to catch the blood pouring from the stump that was once the Diseased's neck as the biker contorted to dodge the second attacker. With surgical precision he weaved in between the remaining five attacks exploiting the passive opportunity to slice at the Diseased's necks. From the first axe swing to the last hardly five seconds had passed. Each Diseased, now missing their heads, lay still on the street. Their corpses still appeared to be mid lunge as if they themselves hadn't come to terms with their demise. 

The biker casually hung up his axe onto his rucksack while digging into a pocket, he pulled out a small canister along with a piece of metal and a small black stone. Nonchalantly he kicked the corpses into a general heap before pouring the liquid in it's entirety over them, then he created a slight trail going about three feet from the mound. He kneeled to spark the trail of gasoline until a sudden banging brought him to attention.

The village leader had seen the action unfold in it's entirety. For several seconds after the massacre he stood mouth agape in awe until he tried to leave the convenience store, and was unable to. His last resort was banging on the door to try and get his savior's assistance. The biker grabbed his axe and readied it, approaching at an angle cautiously. 

"Excuse me good sir! I-I seem to have secured our position a little too firmly! Could you maybe help pry these boards off? If possible?" The leader pleaded.

Without speaking the biker returned to his rucksack retrieving a small pry bar and slipping it through the window boards, before turning his attention to the mound once again. The village leader waved for the other residents to assist in prying the boards from the entrance before making his way out into the street, where the bonfire was now reaching for the sky. 

The biker was setting things into his pack when the village leader approached, "Ah excuse me sir? Thank you for saving us! My name is Chester, we don't really have the resources to compensate you but, you are more than welcome to stay for dinner!" 

"Where's my prybar?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The prybar. I gave it to you." 

"Oh of course! I forgot it in the-" His sentence was interrupted by a presence, that of a young girl standing in between the two men with the prybar in her hands. She stood beaming making direct eye contact with the biker, or rather attempting to by guessing where his eyes might be.

"I want you to take me to Sickle City." She proclaimed with utmost confidence. 

Chester interjected, "I apologize she does this constantly to travelers who pass by, what have we told you about trying to burden travelers?"

"I'm not a burden, I'm a delight. And did you see him earlier? I think a handicap is in order or else it'll be unfair. What's your name sir?"

"No." The man stated flatly walking towards where the other residents began setting up a cook site. 

"That's not your name, you're a handyman right? You came because Chester called you? So you have to be a citizen which means you had an ID which means you have a name."

"Impressive deduction."

"Impressive attempt at dodging my question except it wasn't impressive because it didn't work; my name's Lily but if you take me to Sickle City you can call me Lils."

"No." 

"Since you won't tell me your name I'm going to call you Handy."

"Don't."

"Too late, should've told me your name when you had the chance."

There was a faint hiss, hardly audible but piercingly present under the murmur of conversation. Handy opened his ears to it listening intently drowning out Lily's rambling negotiations. It appeared again, the same consistent hiss a house down. By the third listen he deduced what it was and instantly bolted to his feet. He approached his rucksack and grabbed his axe striding with purpose toward the house.

"Handy? Where are you going?" Lily called out jogging to keep pace with his long stride. Another person, one of the older women noticed his determination and ran after him.

"S-Sir? Why are you going that way? That's my house and I'd prefer if you didn't-" Her words were cut off by a solid front kick to her front door sending it flying open. 

Inside was a fairly ordinary living room, with an open archway leading to a kitchen and a closet door underneath some stairs leading to the second floor.

"Sir I would really prefer if you leaved my house!" The women basically pleaded, her voice had an edge of urgency to it. 

Handy paid her no mind as he moved to the closet door, opening it aggressively. This was met with the lashing of teeth as inside, handcuffed to a fixture was a Diseased. 

"W-Wait please! That's my husband! He hasn't eaten in a while and he's weakened, but I know when they eventually find a cure he'll be-" 

Handy brought his axe above his head and brought it down on the captives neck as he had done earlier that day. The women was stunned as the corpse of her husband slouched against his bindings. Chester had become privy to the commotion and was in the living room standing next to the women. 

"Dear God, was that really necessary?"

Handy stared at him, no emotion discernable behind his helmet. 

"He was bound and weakened, there would be no harm in having let him live." 

"I came to kill Diseased, I'm going to kill Diseased. Everyone of them here and everywhere else."

"But all of them? They're still people and one day they might find a cure. You're going to commit mass murder before that happens? Alone?"

"It's mass mercy killing." 

At that Handy began walking out of the house with a casual gait, as if he wasn't walking away from anything at all, but stopped at the entrance to the house where Lily was standing having watched the whole thing unfold. 

"Still want to travel with me?"