When you find him, he's drinking, taking a swig of whiskey. He sits on the roof of his truck, a rifle and some rounds sitting beside him.

You're both in the middle of a field. There's nothing for a few miles on any side. It's a cold night.

He looks at you as you approach, then looks away, taking another swig. Then, he lets out a sigh.

"Clear out," He grumbles hoarsely. Despite the cheap flask in his hand being half-empty, his eyes are clear.