In the dead of night, your group of six huddled in an abandoned, rusted-out city bus at the edge of a dump/area filled with abandoned things.

Inside, the bus was dim. The only light came from a small lantern Peata had salvaged earlier.

Reagan lounged across two seats in the middle of the bus as he spun his nail-studded bat slowly between his fingers. His head leaned back lazily as he muttered under his breath:

“This whole town feels like a graveyard...'cause it is, huh?”

You saw the tired smirk that tugged at his lips before fading just as quickly. Reagan’s gaze flicked lazily toward Flinn.

Flinn sat up front, perched on the edge of his seat like a predator waiting for the signal to pounce. He dragged his machete across the floor in slow, deliberate strokes, the only sound cutting through the silence. His messy black hair clung to his forehead with sweat, his black eyes wounded and hidden behind white bandages.

Peata knelt by the front door, methodically cleaning his pistol. He took it apart piece by piece, laying them out on a rag, fingers moving with mechanical precision.

Kit, tense and fidgety, sat on the floor beside your seat, tapping a knife against his knee. His green eyes flicked between the front door and you.

Tye stood near the back exit, one hand wrapped around a broken pipe he’d sharpened into a makeshift spear. His eyes scanned the dark parking lot through a foggy window, expression unreadable.

“You okay?” Reagan asked, glancing back toward Tye.

Tye didn’t look away from the window. “Fine,” he muttered.

“You look like you’re about to snap,” Reagan said, still twirling the bat.

Peata didn’t look up. “Let him be. We all think too much these days.”

Flinn finally spoke, his voice low, almost amused.

"Thinking won’t save you when they rip your jaw off and eat your tongue.”

Reagan turned, arching a brow. “And what will? Your pretty smile?”

Reagan then continues, "Or your flawless sight?" And snickers to himself.