Verus, 12 hours prior to Emergency Quarantine

It was dark. Dark, cold, wet and full of those damned spores. They´d been crawling like this for hours - belly down in some of the worst smelling, stagnant filth ever to make its way out of Central. It was enough to make a man sick - and it did. Every so often there was a pause whilst someone added their last meal, sparse as it was, to the swirling mix of human sewage that surrounded them.

Four men followed behind. Convicted criminals the lot of them, yet, they were the only four he could trust this close to the end. They´d been through too much not to. The plague had changed everything. No one knew where it came from - Xenotic plague they said it was called. Some said aliens sent is, others believed that God was punishing humanity for its sins.Someone had even said it had come from the Forgotten Lands. Earth.

He didn´t care where it came from, all that mattered was that it was here. It took its victims slowly. Over the course of 48 hours, it turned its victims into something... something less human. Claws, talons, jaws. Slobbering and mindless, the infection soon spread past the checkpoints and counter measures put in place to stop it, and spread like wildfire throughout Verus. Now, with a Coalition cruiser in deep orbit, the end was nigh. The end was really f***ing nigh.

There were only a handfull of the militia left- those conscripted from the State prisons and those unlucky enough to be cought by the press gangs. They were the Remnants - at least, thats what they called themselves. Those left behind to die along with their home to ensure the last few survivors made it offworld before the Emergency Quarantine Protocol took effect. They were the last.

The sewage conduit was cramped, there was barely enough space for a man to fit - let alone one bogged down with combat equipment. He tried not to think about what the damp was doing to his rifle, much less its ammunition.

Abruptly, the conduit ended, opening up into a wide, cavernous chamber. Dim light filtered down from the few lamp globes that were still working. Say what you will about the Coalition, they never let their citizens live in the dark - even if the world was about to end.

Shadowed shapes of broken and rusted equipment lay in the far corners of the room, twisted hunks of scrap metal that once purified Central´s drinking water. He rose slowly, pulling the rifle free of its sling as he scanned the dakness with night adjusted eyes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

He clambered out of the conduit, rifle pressed hard to the shoulder as he made a quick sweep of the room. This had to be the Sewage Treatment Plant.  Several out-flow conduits traced off further into the complex. A soft curse, that echoed through the shadows, told him that the rest of the squad had arrived. Silently, he crept back to their entrance as the first dark shape emerged from the conduit. Colour Sergeant Wakeman, the only member of the squad to have served in the militia before the infection.
"Glad to see you´re still breathing." He said, slowly rising to his feet as he stretched out bruised and sodden limbs. " How does it look?" Rifleman James Moorlan cast a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Empty. Theres dust ´aint been trod on for a while." Moorlan stretched out a hand to help the brown-stained soldier out of the conduit as another followed behind. By the soung of the grunting, it was Yan, the squad´s Grenadier.

"We´ll rest up here for a bit." Wakeman said, walking over to an uturned barrel. Moorlan followed, crouching down beside the sergeant as he took an old rag to his rifle. It really was a beautiful weapon, even in the dim light he could make out the ivory inlaid detail all along the weapon´s stock. The stainless steel of the workings, tarnished with age, still reflected the little light, despite his many attempts to dull it.

Carefully, he removed the small, ten round box-magazine from the rifle as the last few of his squad-mates clambered out of the sewer. He exchanged a brief nod with them as they formed a circle around the two. He looked over to Wakeman, who was studying a data pad intently, as if trying to memorise information displayed on it. Slowly, he returned to his weapon and started to clear the debris from the rifle´s mechanics.

He knew the antique weapon would be next to useless in a close range firefight - the weapon´s small magazine and the painfully slow action of its manual bolt all but eliminated the chance of a repeat shot. Yet, it was an elegant weapon. A chance find in a ruined city and the last reilc of a dying world. He was determined to carry it to the last.

Finished with his rifle, he set it down on a relatively clean patch of ground and set about checking the rest of his equipment. The watertight seal on his ammunition pouch was intact - thank the stars - but the one on his ration pack was not. In the vain hope that he might find something edible in the remains, he emptied out a damp brown lump of what might once have been called food onto he floor. Nothing. A quick scan showed everyone doing the same, a brown, soggy lump infront of each of the men. The only thing that seemed untouched was a plastic wrapped packet of cigarettes. Slowly, he placed one in his mouth and touched it to the enclosed igniter, before passing both around the circle.

Murmered thanks followed the packet. Even Wakeman, who had been so engrossed in what Moorlan could only assume was a map, paused to take one, before returning to his own, private world, whispering to himself as he stared at the pad.

A few minutes passed in silence whilst blue-grey smoke drifted slowly to the ceiling. Abruptly, Ash, the youngest of the squad at just over 18, broke into a coughing fit.

"kitty" Yan muttered as he took another drag from his cigarette. Suddenly, the group burst into laughter that seemed to fill the room, making the poor lad cough even harder.

"Moorlan." Wakeman´s voice cut through the laughter, bringing everyone to dead silence. He looked over to the sergeant as the heavily set man beconed for him to come over. "Got a little job for you."