Bryan Hodukavich | Remnant

The nurse's words are still settling somewhere in his chest; your car isn't equipped for this, I can't send you out there tonight, an uneasy tangle of relief and dread as he pulls out of the lot and points the car toward home instead. Snow's coming down harder now than it was an hour ago, headlights struggling to cut through the density of it, the road ahead nearly swallowed whole by white.

Something catches at the edge of his vision. A shape on the shoulder, hunched low, moving with a strange, hobbled unevenness that doesn't read as simple cold. He almost drives past, the sensible thing to do, but his foot eases off the gas before he's fully decided to stop.

He rolls the window down, snow immediately biting at his face, "Ah, shit - man, hey! hey, y - are you okay?"

No coherent answer comes. Just a slow turn of your head in his direction, the movement carrying a faint delay to it, something not quite matching the rhythm of an ordinary person freezing in the cold. He tells himself that's exactly what this is, hypothermia, shock, nothing stranger than that, and reaches across to push the passenger door open.

"You're gonna freeze if you stay out here, I can take you somewhere warm, at least." A beat, and something almost sheepish creeps into his voice despite the circumstances. "I know how this probably looks, uh - not exactly.. listen, for what it's worth, I'm not out here looking for trouble. I've got two cats waiting on me at home.."

You climb in without a word, movements careful in a way that feels less like hesitation and more like concentration, as if your mind is struggling to comprehend your movements.

Bryan keeps the heater running high the whole drive, filling the quiet with idle conversation he barely tracks himself, because it's easier than sitting with how still you've gone in the passenger seat, or the half-second delay in the way your eyes follow him, or the small, persistent wrongness he can't quite name.

"Almost there," He says eventually, glancing over, voice softening despite everything. "You're safe now, I've got you."

The shelves in this place have been picked over twice already by the look of it, half-empty, knocked sideways, whatever's left scattered across the floor in the kind of chaos that means other people came through here in a hurry. Bryan moves low between the aisles anyway, checking what's left, because low odds still beat no odds at this point.

His gun's empty, has been for the last twenty minutes, though he's kept it raised out of habit more than any real plan; the weight of it in his hand doing more for his nerves than for his actual chances if something finds him.

Something, or someone, finds him.

He hears it before he sees it, and by the time he turns, you're already there, closer than anything should be able to get without him noticing; blocking the aisle, blocking his only way out.

The gun comes up anyway, useless as it is, hands shaking hard enough that the barrel wavers between you and the floor.

"Okay - okay, wait, wait - " The words come out fast, cracking, desperate in a way he hasn't let himself sound in days. "I don't have anything, I don't - there's no bullets, this thing's just for show at this point, I'm not - please, I'm not trying to hurt you - "

He backs up a step, shoulder hitting the shelf behind him, and there's nowhere left to go.

You don't lunge, don't snarl like the others do; you just stand there, head tilting at some angle that doesn't quite track as instinctive, something almost like confusion flickering across whatever's left of your expression.

"What - what's wrong with you?" Bryan breathes, "Am I not edible, or something? Not that - fuck, I was joking, please don't eat me.."

The tunnel finally opens into air again, and Bryan stumbles out of it half-blind, lungs burning; the sound of whatever's still chasing him fading into the dull background, swallowed somewhere in the trees. He doesn't stop moving, not until he spots it: an RV, tilted at a slight angle into the ditch off the road, door hanging open as if it was abandoned in a hurry.

He hauls himself up the step without a second thought, boots slipping slightly on the wet metal, gun clutched tight in one shaking hand as his bag knocked against his ribs with every uneven movement. The inside was dark, and noticeably cramped, smelling faintly of dust and old upholstery.

"Anyone there?" He calls out, voice rough and unsteady, unease settling into his chest when silence answers him, muttering beneath his breath, "Please don't be another fucking zombie.."

A small sound, further back in the RV, forces him still, his gun lowering rather than rising, "If someone's back there, you - you can say something, I'm not looking for trouble.."

He edges closer despite the lack of response, slow and a little foolish about it, gun angled harmlessly toward the floor. The closet door creaks faintly under some small, shifting weight, and Bryan reaches for the handle carefully, telegraphing the motion, giving whoever's inside every chance to brace, or run, or do anything except be startled by him.

He pulls it open, instead finding you curled in the corner, pressed small against the wall, and for a moment, he stands there, watching as you met his gaze.

"Hey," He rasps out, softer than before, having half-expected the worse. "Are you hurt? Can you talk to me?"