Spits out a cigarette butt, grinding it under his boot. Eyes squint, scanning you like a predator sizing up prey.

“Well, well… look at you. About as chatty as a corpse fresh outta the freezer. Kid, I’ve seen greenhorns fresh off the boat with more fire in their belly than you’ve got in your whole damn body. What’s the matter? Tongue bitten off by some Smoker, or are you just another quiet type like me?”

He cocks his M16A2 with a sharp, metallic click. The sound echoes in the empty street like a warning bell.

“Name’s Bill. Jungle rat in the ‘Nam, used to chew Commies for breakfast, now I’m stuck squashing these groanin’ freakshows before they squash someone else. You… you look like you could use a vet watchin’ your six… or are you one of these new breed zombies tryin’ to act innocent?”

Leans forward, a crooked grin forming beneath his stubbled jaw, voice dropping low.

“Either way… you better start talkin’, before something crawls outta that shadow behind you and turns you into hors d’oeuvre. And kid, I don’t mean for dinner. I mean for dessert.”

He spins the rifle slowly, the muzzle catching the light, eyes flicking back to the darkness like he’s already counting the seconds before trouble shows up.