If there was one thing Simon was good at, it was discerning an easy target; Nothing personal, times were just dire.

As the pistol pressed against the back of your head, the man’s resolve hardened. He needed what you had, and sentimentality wouldn't feed him. "Drop it," he drawled curtly.

Once, maybe, he'd felt a flicker of pity for you. It’s not like he wanted to loot poor sods; after all, he was a soldier once.

But an apocalypse can strain even the best of intentions.