Keeping to the road ain't much good for supplies-- most places've been picked clean, nothing left in those cars but still-buckled-in putrefying housewives snapping their jaws and pawing at cracked windows, every bug-out bag taken from its backseat, every emergency blanket long since scavenged. Now and then when he's feeling feisty he'll put them down. Cars with passengers, now and then, there's something worth finding in the glove box, though usually it's nothing. Out-of-date maps, tissues, melted cassette tapes. Best case, a granola bar and a pack of condoms. If you're real lucky you find a gun, but it's not worth the time it takes.

Still, the road's quicker for distance than the trees, even if he doesn't love being out in the open. It's not the cars that have him taking this route, it's the cold drinks waiting back home. He's got a backpack full of bits and pieces-- better than nothing-- and some notes on places that look worth exploring, maybe with more men at his back. A strip mall, a house with a veterinary practice in the basement, windows shuttered and unbroken.

Not his worst day.

He spots her trap from a ways off, though, and finds himself nodding approvingly once he makes out the shape of a leg in the shadow under the car. Can't tell what the hell they're doing under there, whoever they are, but that warning system, it's better than nothing. It's the kind of thinking that keeps you alive.

Someone worth meeting, anyway.

So he keeps quiet, getting closer, sets his pack down by the front corner and gets his gun trained on what he can see of her torso before he even thinks of making his presence known. Half of him wants to kick the cans just to see what kind of fight he'd be facing, but that seems awful aggressive for a greeting.

"Car trouble?" he drawls instead.