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((Samuel Wilson continued from Grasping at Straws))

So he'd finally made it to the town. Sam didn't feel like celebrating, though. His temples throbbed as he leaned sideways against a wall of a building, the sun beginning to rise in the distance. He hadn't got much sleep; he'd caught a few hours, or maybe just one, or half of one, near the river. It wasn't practical to sleep much more than that, not out in the open. In fact he couldn't say that the sleep had done much at all.

Sam had refilled his water bottles too, but he wasn't going to drink them until he was all out of the water that the Sheriff had supplied. Who knew what was in that river, after all? Sam wasn't willing to risk it until he had to. So he was probably suffering from some form of dehydration, as well. His right hand clenched around his second-to-last "clean" water bottle, already half-empty. He took a swig. Two. Three-fourths empty. He stashed it back in his bag.

He had two bags on his back. One held all his belongings, and the maple syrup he'd been assigned for a weapon. The other was Delilah's, and it had pretty much the same things inside. He'd put Clair's toque inside, though.

His eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for others, for threats. He hadn't quite given up on finding others, forming a group, but it was beginning to look increasingly infeasible. He had to find Delilah, though. For Clair, if nothing else.

Sam made his way around the corner of the building, and managed to make out what it was. It looked like a saloon. It probably was a saloon. Thematic, for someone who called himself the Sheriff. It looked a little strange inside, from what he could see. He pushed open the swinging doors cautiously. It could be a trap.

It wasn't. It took a little while for his eyes to adjust fully, and when they had, he almost wished they hadn't. It wasn't strange inside the saloon. It was just utter devastation. There were tables flung over, chairs wrecked. There were bullet holes in the wall. And the stain in the middle of the room... Sam looked away, made his way across the room towards an intact corner table. There were cards lying on the table. More importantly, there was someone lying on the ground, next to one of the chairs. He checked. Warren Davies. He didn't bother asking if he was alright. Warren was dead. Sam's gut tightened again. He'd heard his name on the announcements, hadn't he? Someone had got him, someone who he couldn't remember right now. Probably one of the big killers. Rebecca or Simon or someone. Not Delilah.

Warren was clutching something, and Sam eased it gently from his cold hands. A gun. Shotgun, it looked like. Probably not much use for a gunfight, but Sam weighed it in his hands for a moment. This could help. It was short-range, but... it could help.

He made his way over the bar with the shotgun, still avoiding the middle of the room. Leaned on it, facing the swinging doors, trying to stay as out of sight as he could be. It felt wrong, especially with Ken Danielson dead behind the bar. It didn't feel right that he was just living in a saloon filled with the dead. He felt like he should do something. Bury them somewhere, instead of looting their bodies. He didn't have a shovel, though.

Ten, fifteen minutes. Maybe Delilah would show up. If not, he'd move on.
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Program V3 Prologue:
Sylvia Veneski -- F32 -- Clothes Hanger -- Alive -- Stroke of Midnight

Auld Lang Syne
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While Rome Burns · The Saloon
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