Brennan had decided to step outside earlier than he intended because it was starting to get crowded indoors. He wasn't crazy about personal space, but the air in the safe house started to feel a little stagnant, so he opted to take a walk outdoors for a bit, maybe take some time to think about things other than rationing food and water, the infected and the ever-looming question of how long could everyone really keep this up?
He wasn't really one predisposed to morose thoughts, but it's hard to say that he was the same exact person he used to be when he lived in a grossly over-priced apartment in Manhattan, spending stupid amounts of time sitting alone in that very apartment at his drafting table and thinking of things that he wasn't even sure physics could accommodate. It was the child in him somewhere that delighted in the idea of making things that where almost impossible, but Brennan was sure that child was long gone now.
The air was getting close to the temperature where it started to nip, but the cold air in his lungs reminded him that he was still alive; that, in spite of this Hell that ruined everything he'd ever known, he was still living and breathing, and right now, that was enough. It's a strange feeling when all the things that used to cause him so much stress -taxes, deadlines, board meetings- were almost figments of his imagination now, now that he has to worry about where they're going to get food when their current supply starts to run low, or what his course of action would be if a wave of infected managed to reach their island.
And the constant reminder that his brother Mihael was out there somewhere, and he could only pray that the kid was alive somewhere, kept warm in a safehouse, protected and healthy. He's had enough nightmares about his brother becoming infected that he's almost able to plan his sleep schedule around them.
Brennan was caught off guard when he heard someone shout, the sound coming from the pier and he pulled a knife out of his belt and bolted in the direction of the sound, hoping he wasn't too late. When he got close enough to the pier, he saw who he could positively identify as David Zimmerman nearly fall into the water before stumbling off the dock gracelessly.
"What the Hell are you doing?" His voice was a little harder than he intended. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?"