Catania stood in the street, the lenses on her gas mask gleaming, reflecting the unstable glow of fire. Her combat boots clicked on the ground as she walked forward, and the silk inside of her leather jacket rubbed against her Slightly torn metallica t-shirt. She wore gloves that had retractable claws at the finger tips, and her fingertips brushed against her ripped denim jeans. Her sleek black hair gleamed with an orange tint, reflecting the flames. She pulled off her back not a gun, not a sword, but a battle axe guitar. She clutched it in her hands, ready to swing it at some insane infected people. Anyone who breathed untreated air was infected with this disease, a disease that literally made you go insane. She chuckled and got prepared to swing the guitar. An infected woman ran at her, laughing. Catania swung her axe into the infected woman's skull. She dropped to the ground. Catania held the guitar tightly again. She realized she needed to find an amp and a steady power supply. She decided first to search for survivors.
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