[He bobs his head, then gets to his feet, swinging the backpack onto his shoulder.]
It'll be okay...
[He goes to the kitchen, pausing a moment there with a feeling of... something. Longing? Wistfulness? He's not sure. He grabs a knife and slips it into his front pocket. He won't need it.]
Try and sleep... barricade the door... if you need to... When I come back... I'd love to hear... more quotes...
[He heads for the door, and unless she's got something more to add, he'll slip out of it. When he steps into the street, the dead don't even look at him.
The search takes a bit of time. He should've looked for a map himself, but he kind of doubts they'd clearly mark the libraries and bookstores. He looks for the malls, the shopping strips, the older buildings that might host libraries. Her list is in hand the moment he finds a place, and then he's stalking down the aisles, stepping over the dead of both kinds.
Fantasy. That's what he needs. New worlds for Ryder. He can't find the never-ending story, but he can find C.S. Lewis and books on a display claiming if he likes that, he might also like these other ones. It gets shoved into the backpack. He grabs some Austen, for both of them, then dozens of pens to write with, and an extra notebook for good measure. The backpack is stunningly heavy.
He stops by one convenience store to fill the rest of the bag with snacks, but after that, he fears either tearing the bag or himself. He races back to the apartment and that, at least, is much faster. The dead still don't look.
Back through the doors, back up the stairs. He doesn't want to startle her, but it's hard to think of a way not to. He croaks.]
no subject
It'll be okay...
[He goes to the kitchen, pausing a moment there with a feeling of... something. Longing? Wistfulness? He's not sure. He grabs a knife and slips it into his front pocket. He won't need it.]
Try and sleep... barricade the door... if you need to... When I come back... I'd love to hear... more quotes...
[He heads for the door, and unless she's got something more to add, he'll slip out of it. When he steps into the street, the dead don't even look at him.
The search takes a bit of time. He should've looked for a map himself, but he kind of doubts they'd clearly mark the libraries and bookstores. He looks for the malls, the shopping strips, the older buildings that might host libraries. Her list is in hand the moment he finds a place, and then he's stalking down the aisles, stepping over the dead of both kinds.
Fantasy. That's what he needs. New worlds for Ryder. He can't find the never-ending story, but he can find C.S. Lewis and books on a display claiming if he likes that, he might also like these other ones. It gets shoved into the backpack. He grabs some Austen, for both of them, then dozens of pens to write with, and an extra notebook for good measure. The backpack is stunningly heavy.
He stops by one convenience store to fill the rest of the bag with snacks, but after that, he fears either tearing the bag or himself. He races back to the apartment and that, at least, is much faster. The dead still don't look.
Back through the doors, back up the stairs. He doesn't want to startle her, but it's hard to think of a way not to. He croaks.]
Hello...? It's Teo...