Marga to anyone
Perched on the steps on a little balcony on the side of Carnegie Hall, Marga shot down one zombie, then another, her thoughts alternating between their chances of actually saving this place and how it even became overrun in the first place.
The last thing she recalled before everything went to hell was a nurse trying to help a sick woman. It had been for a noble cause, true, but like the majority of people in the closest vicinity, Marga was inclined to believe the nurse a complete idiot. Maybe it was getting close to cold and flu season, and Marga's heart went out to anyone suffering from that particular illness during these times, but wouldn't it have been better for everyone if the nurse had let those who were immune deal with the sick woman?
It was too late to do anything about it now, though. Marga loaded another clip into her rifle and raised the scope back to her eye. All they could do now was clear the way enough for the remaining survivors to get to the bus area. She thought idly of the cleverness of their leader; charter buses at the ready was indeed a good idea, which should have implied that this particular safehouse had been ready for anything. Obviously not.
One of the snipers next to her set down his rifle and bent to pick up a bottle of alcohol. He lit the rag protruding from the opening and tossed it toward an open alley on the opposite side of the road, from which several shufflers were making their slow but sure way. Additional flames peeked from around the front of the building, a sign to Marga and the others that that area was being guarded as well.
Down below, Marga spotted her friends making their way out of the building, and she gave a relieved sigh. They were but a few less people she had to worry about.
"This is a nightmare," she muttered to herself as she aimed for some zombies creeping around one of the buses. She cast glances at her partners on the balcony, preparing herself for when the order was given that they, too, should evacuate.