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The radio tower, it seemed, was surrounded by hordes of the infected.

Not that it should really come as a surprise, at this point. There didn't seem to be any task in this zone that actually was as simple as it sounded, nothing that you could just stride in and do. Even the most innocent of locations -- a school guidance counselor's office, STAPLES, the men's washroom -- tended to be haunted by the creatures, ready to leap out without warning and go for the face.

And in this particular case, the task was one that they'd been handed: important but simple, basic but difficult. It required sneaking, stealth, sharp eyes and quick reflexes. It asked for refugees with injured limbs [or in this case, faces] operating on only a couple of hours of sleep, to take on an incredibly difficult opponent and then, on top of it all, complete a task with absolutely no information about what would be found within.

It was ridiculous. And infuriating. And, mostly, it made Austin want to beat the s**t out of more of the mob, take the creatures apart.

That would have to come later, though. For now, he watched the movements below and took note of apparently haphazard behavior, trying to find some pattern within the mess that he could use to his advantage. A gap he could dance through, or a distraction that would not rile them up but at least turn their attention in another direction. While he waited for some sign, some hope, he slowly began to tuck in and tie down every article of clothing he had, to truss up the belongings in his bag, drawing in deep, predatory breaths. The pain in his jaw was starting to dim, at least, dying down to a low throb instead of the stabbing pulses up through his skull.

There was no opening.
There was no smart path through the crowd.
There was nothing clever he could do.

It required simple stealth, the brute force solution, and so Austin closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and committed to it, assuming everything was strapped down to the best of his ability and creeping around the edges of the mob. He stuck to hidden spots, to dark corners, taking cover behind obstacles and staying out of the sight of the infected.

All things considered, he didn't do all that poorly. The radio tower grew closer and closer, in a way that was encouraging. Austin flushed, and then sweated, gone shaky and tired well before he got there, before he even got close. Nerves made his hands tremble wildly, made the backpack shudder on his back, and still he stayed out of sight --

And all at once, his radio went off.

Austin was sure he'd turned it off. He was positive he'd flipped the switch. Maybe he should have removed the batteries entirely, and maybe his movements had jostled it up against something else, flipping the volume back on to full. Secret's voice blared out, the joking DJ, and left a hammering behind Austin's eyes as the mob slowly, slowly, turned to focus on him instead.

They moved as one, and Austin took one look at the tower, still too far in the distance, before taking off in the other direction -- back toward the safety of the camp.

He ran flat out, with no attempt at stealth now. His boots pounded against the pavement, his backpack rattled on his back, and the infected reached out to grab at him. Caught at his coat and pants, and he slipped free. Snatched the hat off his hair, and he pulled ahead of the crowd. All the while, voices chatting cheerily at him from his bag.

By the time he got back to safety he was exhausted, collapsing on a bench in a shuddering mess. He wasn't going to try that again.