Yeah, she's got his number. He just grunts, firing off a round, and watches the asshole jerk and fall in the mirror. It's not as satisfying as it ought to be. They're still running-- even if they pick off a couple along the way, even if the Governor's rotting somewhere right now, they still lost this fight.

They've got, what, maybe a couple dozen bullets? No food, no plan, not much besides whatever gas is in this thing, whatever shelter it'll provide if they can outrun the guns behind them.

Basically, they're fucked. But at least she's got her priorities straight.

He takes another shot, fails to hit anything but a tree. Swearing, he leans back in his seat. Fuck it, ain't like it's helping anyway. Instead he just glares uselessly out the window, trying to come up with anything-- any kind of plan.