[He'd noticed them, of course. He always notices the gun-happy sorts. He feels doubly alert, the human part of him with his ever-pressing desire to talk to someone or at least know they exist, and the other part which has his gaze snapping up and puts a hungry growl in his throat before the other part of him can even register what it means.
Even if they weren't going his way, he always trails the survivors he finds. He never recognizes them. Even when he allows himself close, he stirs the memory of people but no particular person. But then, he doesn't allow himself close often. Too risky, and not just for him either.
He wishes he had this time. He sees the pair break off from the third with no explanation as to why. He couldn't tell if they were fighting or if there was a plan for differing directions. He only knows that no one was bit but that doesn't take a genius, or something like him, to figure out. But solo survivors rarely last long, whether from bites or other bouts of bad luck. He decides it's both safer for him and kinder for this soloist to stick with them rather than the rowdy pair.
Of course, that doesn't mean that all he does is follow. He can move through the cities and towns and even the overgrowth faster that most people. He doesn't have to worry about being overheard and moving quickly about feels natural. He takes it upon himself to scout, to see where the dead are huddled more and where the looting doesn't appear so significant. There's always the chance that the person he's helping out will be gone before he can get back to find them, but in those cases he figures it's just as well and that person will be fine... if they're not already dead.
This one is not dead. He knows that right away, contradicting the rather flippant message left behind, not in the perfectly servicable book, but on skin. He has... so many questions... But, he doesn't ask them. He leaves a box of likely-stale crackers, the cardboard battered but the inner bag still servicable, and he sets down a candy bar that was probably less-loved in the pre-apocalypse but would be valuable calories now. He finds the pen, considers the book which would be so much easier, but decides to write on the cardboard instead.]
Head east out of here. West is infested. No F today.
[It feels weird to see his own writing. It's the first time he's written anything since he woke up, but it's also the fact that, with writing, there's no pause or rasp in his words. It's exactly how he sounds in his head. But if he lingers too long, he's not going to have a head, so he gets moving, quick to replace the flimsy protections that he'd passed by to start with, all quiet and quick.]
no subject
Even if they weren't going his way, he always trails the survivors he finds. He never recognizes them. Even when he allows himself close, he stirs the memory of people but no particular person. But then, he doesn't allow himself close often. Too risky, and not just for him either.
He wishes he had this time. He sees the pair break off from the third with no explanation as to why. He couldn't tell if they were fighting or if there was a plan for differing directions. He only knows that no one was bit but that doesn't take a genius, or something like him, to figure out. But solo survivors rarely last long, whether from bites or other bouts of bad luck. He decides it's both safer for him and kinder for this soloist to stick with them rather than the rowdy pair.
Of course, that doesn't mean that all he does is follow. He can move through the cities and towns and even the overgrowth faster that most people. He doesn't have to worry about being overheard and moving quickly about feels natural. He takes it upon himself to scout, to see where the dead are huddled more and where the looting doesn't appear so significant. There's always the chance that the person he's helping out will be gone before he can get back to find them, but in those cases he figures it's just as well and that person will be fine... if they're not already dead.
This one is not dead. He knows that right away, contradicting the rather flippant message left behind, not in the perfectly servicable book, but on skin. He has... so many questions... But, he doesn't ask them. He leaves a box of likely-stale crackers, the cardboard battered but the inner bag still servicable, and he sets down a candy bar that was probably less-loved in the pre-apocalypse but would be valuable calories now. He finds the pen, considers the book which would be so much easier, but decides to write on the cardboard instead.]
Head east out of here.
West is infested.
No F today.
[It feels weird to see his own writing. It's the first time he's written anything since he woke up, but it's also the fact that, with writing, there's no pause or rasp in his words. It's exactly how he sounds in his head. But if he lingers too long, he's not going to have a head, so he gets moving, quick to replace the flimsy protections that he'd passed by to start with, all quiet and quick.]