The cash register rattles as you look through the drawers for any rounds or pistols, just in case the cashiers of yonder kept stuff here to protect themselves from hold-ups. Oh, the troubles of back then. You'd kill to have them again, they seem so simple now.

Stroke of luck; a Renetti and a 12-round box of ammo. Pretty good for a Walmart.

Something else rattles in the backroom storage behind you; expected, this place is crawling with walkers. You're good for now though, since they haven't noticed you.

What's out of the ordinary is a man's voice, and loud bangs like that of a shotgun that follow, muffled through the thin walls, but it's clear whoever it is thinks they're alone here, so they're not bothering to keep quiet.

"— Rat bastards! Damn Geeks swiping my shit, that was my lunch, asshole!" you hear a definite man's voice shout, and the following undead snarl gets shut up when one more round presumably blows their head off.

"— clawed through my bag, dumbass spilt the whole thang, I had cans in there, I had good shit in there.." you hear him mumble to himself, as he swings the door open that lead him to the main store where you were, behind the register, his shotgun by his side. He almost doesn't notice you, but when he does, he freezes like how you're frozen, your hands still stuffing things into a backpack.

The two of you simply stare at each other in the silence of the abandoned store. You're not hostiles to each other, but you're certainly not familiar. Awkward. He doesn't even raise his gun. It's not fear or joy or.. anything notable that surges through the both of you. A multitude of things. Relief, that they weren't alone. Impending doom that they weren't alone. Peculiarity.