Chapter 1: Homefront 1 hour after EMP burst Miles was hyperventilating. His eyes staring out vacantly as his lungs drew in gasping breaths. He sat in his homestead, surrounded by his loved ones. It would have normally been a familial time for him. Except, they were all dead. A single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Close range, execution style. They had all been arranged in the living room. The walls, the furniture was speckled in bits of bone, brain and blood. This didn't stop him from slowly taking several steps into the room, his body trembling wildly as he did so. It took much too much courage, too much strength the bear it. In shock, he shuffled around, and sit down slowly on the blood sprayed sofa. It mattered little, that it had the remains of his mother's and father's and little's sisters last thoughts sprayed across the plush landscape of white stained red. It actually...took him a minute to react to the scene of murder, of a massacre. Not all families were killed, some were taken to internment camps. But some...some were killed. Like the bodies laying sprawled out before Miles now. "Ah.." He whimpered, his chest growing heavier and heavier. "Ahh.." His fingers started curling, furling into tightly. He began sobbing, gasping and sniveling all at once. Slinking don onto his knees he crawled to his baby sister of only 14. At first, he reached for her. Then he paused and wearily went on to touch her hair. When she didn't reciprocate, when she failed to move his instincts told him...shake her. When he felt the blood, and his fingers crossed over the divide in her skull where the bullet had perforated her tiny young head...he lost it. "Ahhh!" He screamed so loud...it was like a gunshot going off in his head. His hands were curling and uncurling above his head. Saliva was dripping down, along with mucous and tears. Miles broke down, pulling her tiny body into his arms. He stroked her dark hair away from her pale face. She looked so foreign even though he knew it was her. There, in her forehead, was he exit wound with a blood trail leading down across her pretty young face. He held her there, just stroking her cheek. His mind slipping away slowly, one thought at a time. Like granules of sand in a timer. When the last one fell through that tiny gap inside himself, he laid his sister down slowly and folded one hand over the other. He did the same for his parents. They were arranged in a row, from biggest to smallest. Oldest to youngest, except...one was missing. He then shakily stood up, and in a trance like state, wandered towards his father's room. He wandered into the front room, rounded the corner and stepped heavily up each step. Each step seeming to weigh his legs down more. When he got to the the top, he meandered onward and pushed the creaky door open. He shuffled forwards towards his parents bed and sat down, opening the night stand. Inside was an M11 Sig Sauer. It had a fifteen round magazine, a stainless steel slide and a short reset trigger. This meant it could simply be pulled more times than normal resulting in faster shooting. He'd only had a modest amount of practice with the gun. That said, he was no expert. But did one have to be when pulling a slide back, putting the barrel one's mouth and pulling the trigger? No. However, as long as he sat there with a gun cocked and loaded and in his mouth--he couldn't do it. He wanted to. He desperately wanted to. But his grievances forbade him to.His anger had him retrieve the firearm and slow--stand on his feet an march towards the door. It had him stomping down each step. His suicidal thoughts blurring with his thirst for vengeance. He pulled his from door open, leaving the brass handle blood stained. Stained with his sister's blood. Walking out onto the side walk he looked around at the empty streets. He turned his head to the left and then to the right, when he spotted one of the soldiers, like those that had invaded his school just an hour ago and began to shoot his friends and teachers. Like those that had shot his baby sister. He lifted the handgun marching towards the unsuspecting soldier, opening fire with out hesitation. The gunshot rang out, the bullet striking the car's window nearer the trooper shattering it with the .45 caliber and sending the man running to take cover. Miles fired again. Again he missed. Though he was mentally numb, his hand couldn't stop shaking. The trooper tried to hide behind the silver Kia that Miles had struck before, the second bullet having whizzed by his head, but a third bullet struck him in the back of the leg and tore out the front. The .45 did its job. It's hollow points shredding the muscle away from the bone and severing several tendons in his leg including his hamstring. Yet, Miles kept firing. Holding up the gun with a a vacant cold stare, he continued towards the soldier who was now attempting to crawl himself to safety. He even grabbed his radio and yelled something in his foreign dialect. But it was no use, because now Miles was upon him. Miles stomped on the bullet wound causing the man to scream and holler. Miles didn't seem to hear his pain. Maybe it was just the fact...he was choosing to ignore it. Kneeling, he tore the helmet off the man. The soldier reached back as Miles yanked him up by scalp pulling his head backwards. Gloved hands tried prying adrenaline infused fingers from his dark hair. A cold steel barrel pressed up against the back of the man's head, his eyes dilating before Miles let loose with several shots firing as he screamed. The man's face quickly became one of clear mutilation. One that showed how savage a human could be when pushed over the edge of things. When the soldiers body was only jerking from the additional bullets and not of it's own power--he let go allowing the carcass now before him to slump forwards. Brains and its of skull now clung to his hands and face, even in his mouth. Blood was splattered over his countenance like war paint and as he sat there on his knees heaving he could only look around in his disillusioned view heaving. There would be more on the way. More like the man he just slaughtered. But he could not fight them all. his logical mind overpowering his insanity in that department. He withdrew the man's sidearm as he stood up. He then walked a few feet back, tucked both guns in the brim of his pants in the back, and picked up the assault weapon. He looked at it. Though a simple tool, he'd have to figure out how it operated to make use of it. This wasn't a handgun. He then looked back towards the city of San Fransico's epicenter where the skyscrapers ruled. Smoke was rising from buildings. Who knew how many had lived through this, but he would find them. He had to find them. He had nothing here now.