And someone was indeed approaching.
Backpack slunk over one shoulder and gun holstered about the belt on her hip, Jacqueline traversed what was possibly one of her least favorite places. Open from every imaginable angle and prone to roaming packs of infected, it was—Jacqueline imagined distantly—the equivalent of Hell on Earth.
Had to be.
She would have never strayed this way, but there was hope somewhere in the back of her mind that nagged her for risk– not for the risk itself, no, but rather the slim chance that maybe—just maybe she would find what it was she was looking for.
And so she marched onward with keen eyes and poise to her step. She felt tense, frankly– tense in a way that had her almost jumpy for it. Perhaps it was the hour. Perhaps it was the location. Perhaps it was both.
Jacqueline loathed it either way.
To her left was a gas station; several feet separated them—well over sixty—but her hand instinctively hovered over the holster as experience told her to err on the side of caution.