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"Yeah, I gotcha."

Jerry decided to loot the restrooms, after all, there's only so many pages in the survival handbook. Hah, get a good look at that you fucker! That left Michael with the weapons and beer run.

This was the plan then. Ransack the place, get what we need, prepare for what could be the rest of our lives. Rather do it now, then try later and find the rest of the place has been fucked over. At the very least, whatever's in here will add three days to our lifespan, and that's if there's no high-proof alcohols in the building. Michael had doubted there'd be just cheap lagers and drafts here. But first, there was another task at hand. One that required a bit of Crowe-creativity.

Michael's eyes trailed down towards the table below him. His hand slid across the top of it, it was old, but it wasn't soggy or moldy. This was built to last, which meant...

Michael's leg shot up into the bottom of the table, knocking it on it's side. Grabbing a hold of the table leg with his right hand, he took his axe with his left and brought it down on the base of the leg, right where it met the counter top. Four decent smacks, and the leg came off without a hitch. "One for you..." Michael swung twice on the next leg, before twisting and yanking it off. "One for moi..." Michael squinted through his shades, admiring such a simple, yet effective tool.

Wasn't too hard, wasn't too soft. With this, he could pull his hits. He didn't have to worry about killing someone if he hit them with this. If someone were to attack him, he could knock them out, take their shit, leave, put it in the back of his mind.

He couldn't say that with the axe. There's no pulling punches with an axe. You'll cut through them, or if you don't, you'll cut so deep they'll bleed out anyways later on. He didn't want to use it except as a last resort.

Michael moved over to behind the bar. He wondered how this place was abandoned, how much was left over. And how much after that Danya and his droogs took. You bastards, you fucks, you're gonna get it, just you fucking wait. Michael slid his hands along the counter, reading the worn labels on the bottles. "High proof, high proof..." He needed something with a high alcohol content, on one hand, you could make a molotov, easy dispatch right? Except it was a cruel and senseless waste of both life and liquor.

The liquor wasn't for drinking. He knew while he was on this island he was gonna get shit on. Beaten, cut, burnt, blown up, shot, maybe even literally shat on. He'd need something to clean those wounds if he didn't want to die of sepsis, or blood poisoning, or some fucking flesh melting bacteria or shit that could be on this island. He'd need it to survive, and contrary to Danya's belief, survive doesn't necessarily mean kill everything that moves.

There wasn't anything here of use though. Empty draft machines, pitchers, glass cups, bottles of 50 year old flat beer. No way in hell was this place inhabited since the 70's.

He remembered where he woke up. That barrel soaked his fucking ankles when he broke it. There had to be something in the back room, right? Michael shifted over to his awakening point, if that's the right word to use. "Yo!" Michael called out to the restrooms. "I'ma check the store room, maybe we'll find some rum, or whiskey or some shit y'know, in case someone tries cuttin' us or some shit!"

Michael opened the door, and walked down the two steps into the room. His shoes stuck to the floor with each step, as an audible plop was heard as he walked through the wet floor. If the place still had the good shit, it'd be here.
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