"Cut the engines."
The boat began to slow down, now being carried only by the salty waves of the Atlantic Ocean. The man known as Alexandru took out a small pair of binoculars peering through the lenses at the foggy coasts of the formerly known promise land. The East Coast of America. "Foggy as stuff." he says, sighing. He looks to his passengers behind him. "Row us to shore. Quick. Get your respirators on, make sure you stay low." he says, bringing his M4 to his front, loosening the three point sling. He sits down in the boat, leaning against the comfortable rubber sides. All had been according to plan -- their supplies lasted just as long as the journey, and there was indeed a hole in security where a drainage pipe stuck out of the short cliffs of the beach -- just as the man back in portugal had said. Along his journey, Alexandru had picked up a few followers from the country of Europe, some armed, some not. He made it his goal to get them to America safely. They began to near the shores, not a Wrath unit in sight. So far.
