It was a long time before Bobbi replied; almost a full minute of radio silence then, "I didn't get a good look at him." That could have been easier, in the long run, if they didn't have the weight to carry. Shooting an innocent was always a test, though. Waiting for them to turn was harder. Ideally, and the radio clicked on as if she wanted to convince Clint, too, but it only crackled then went quiet again, this guy was able-bodied and prepared to earn his share of food. Better not to hope and to prepare for the worst. Hurriedly packed, shrugging on her backpack and making quickly for the door to listen for any approach, Bobbi assured Clint instead, "I can handle it." She had told him that sixteen times before she left already, today alone, she would live up to it.
Not hearing anything outside, she slowly peaked out the door then shouldered her rifle to steal down the corridor, ready for anything to come up the stairs. She crouched when she reached them, able only to see down to the landing, listening again before continuing down. It got darker as she went, further away from clear windows, until she was crouched and looking down at the first floor landing. Clicking the radio at her hip off, Bobbi held her breath, straining to determine the situation by the constant protesting grunts of the undead a short flight of stairs away. There were only three or four distinct voices, and they didn't sound too riled up yet. Maybe she should have tried the rooftop to get eyes on the survivor again.