A soft 40s tune played on an old record player, perched carefully on the small atmittance table. Kyle Ritter leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of the hotel lights illuminating the room, head bobbing softly to the tune, and his throat humming off notes as well. Flipping open his revolver, Kyle took a small rag lying on his lap and started cleaning it up, all the while looking at a painting on the wall. It was one of those paintings of fruit, pointless in theory, but relaxing in execution. Looking back down at his newly polished six-shooter, he reloaded the wheel and snapped it back in place, returning the gun to its rightful place at his side. Unsheathing the claymore he scavanged from his apartment before it burned down during the initial panic, he absent-mindedly began to polish it as well, as if trying to impress some unseen judge. He had finally did what many others have failed. He had a healthy food supply safe up on the third floor, he was able to reinforce the doors my installing a medieval-style board lock across the doors, and had enough ammo for his revolver and rifle for at least a month. Quickly coming back to his senses, Kyle jammed his sword back into its scabbard and pulled out the .303 hunting rifle he scavenged from, amazingly, a hunting store down the street, and began to polish it as well. When he was finally finished all of his polishing, he stood up and walked over to the doors, sighing sadly. "I know I can save someone, I just know I can," he muttered placing his hand on the frosted glass, "but I'm starting to believe I'm the only one left in this god-forsaken city."
Walking back to the record player, he pulled the needle off the disk, interrupting a calm love ballad, and started for the stairs to the second floor. Right as his feet hit the first step, he heard a painful howl from afar. Looking back, he began creeping back to the doors, looked through the window, and not just heard more pained howling, but saw zombies cracking out of their icy prisons. Breathing much faster than before, Kyle unholstered his revolver and removed the first barrier. "They sense something," Kyle muttered to himself as he opened the first set of doors.
Drawing near to the second barrier, he saw a distraught young man running across the ice, gripping his assault rifle in a deathgrip, hurtling over frozen corpses in a hurry. Cautionsly, Kyle opened up the second barrier. "Am I going crazy?" he muttered to himself opening up the second set of doors.