equally as blood stained as his hands and he slings a shotgun over his shoulder where it joins an old, worn looking Katana sword. He looked dangerous. An urban samurai… a demented terrorist? Maybe both.
A scream from a nearby street causes him to react. But not in fear, in anticipation. The noise was followed by the sounds of a large crowd running past, as it always is. Dozens of feet, pounding the pavement. But it fades away slowly as they move away from his position.
He thinks to himself as he looks carefully over the ledge to the carnage below: I need to get back to the house.
Somehow the idea of leaving nothing but severed body parts and destruction everywhere seems like a positive thing to do now.