InsaneJournal

A man's home is his castle [open to non-infected refugees]
The man in the crosshairs looked safe. He had a healthy enough color, no visible injuries, his movement looked natural, and from what little Vandal Savage heard, the man appeared to be using complete sentences. Still, one couldn't be too careful. He had pulled in the drawbridge at the first sign of this plague, and though he intended to take in some unfortunates and shelter them in his castle (the people of this City held a charitable man in the highest of esteem), he refused to endanger his own life. Earlier, he watched and even fired a few helpful shots as a small group of refugees fought off infected citizens in front of his castle, sustaining minor injuries. However, just as he was about to give the order to lower the drawbridge to allow the survivors in, he saw the infection take hold in the injured members mere minutes after the attack. He would wait a few minutes to see if this new refugee turned.

Vandal removed the sniper rifle from the parapet atop the castle where he sat and watched with his own eyes as the man paced nervously in front of the castle. He picked up a glass of brandy from a table he'd brought up with him, and he sipped patiently. Usually Vandal abstained from such unhealthy activity, but special situations demanded special drinks.

Sure enough, a minute later, the man dropped slowly to the ground, and shortly thereafter, slowly rose up again. The poor wretch began to look around in search of food. Vandal put his fingers to his lips and blew a loud whistle so that the wretch would take notice. He did, and began shambling toward the castle, not seeing the sheer drop of the ravine until he was hurtling down into it. He crunched into the rocks and brush that served as a moat - probably not dead, but out of the way, at least. No point in wasting bullets at this point.

"Damned unwashed masses," cursed Vandal, and he took another swig of brandy.