"Hey, look, Miss Machete, I'm not saying I don't trust you. Or even that I didn't. You can check, double check, and then re-check again, and a fucking zombie can spring up out of nowhere. You should know that by know. The night I got bit? Pretty sure we scanned the entire perimeter of that fucking room we walked into, but you know what? Surprise!" He gave a fake surprise face, only to let it fall right back into a more serious and perhaps a bit of an annoyed expression, "a whole fucking group of them comes out of nowhere. Another thing? Trust isn't something you can rely on either. My friend decided he was going to shoot me to escape. I don't want that to happen again, alright? Sue me for asking you if there were any zombies around." Jesus.
He nodded, listening to Leah's perfectly legitimate reasons for wanting to stay alive, and he moved to glance down, thinking a moment about his own family. He had traveled all the way back to Missouri to try and find some of them, but that was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. There wasn't really any sign of zombies being present in any of his family's homes, except maybe one. But he liked to believe they all managed to get somewhere safe-- like one of the safehouses in New York, but maybe in Missouri. He'd actually just gotten back into New york City with the Rookie not long before the accident with the zombies trying to eat him for dinner and everything.
He cut his eyes back up to her, "I just don't want to die because of a fucking gunshot wound, alright? If I can survive being mauled by four fucking zombies, it's going to really piss me off if I die because an asshole Rookie cop, I thought I could trust, shot me, like the fucking coward he is, to get away."
O'Brien shook his head, "The same reason I haven't killed you," he paused, and then added, "Mostly." And no, he wasn't going to draw his gun and kill her. She could quit being paranoid and take her hand off her machete. "Don't worry. I won't." Okay, maybe he would. Later. You know. On those forums she hated so much.
He started out of the back room to head toward the front of the store when he heard that really nasty--slobbery moaning sound come from behind a Hearing Aid display. Fuck. He rolled his eyes and turned more toward the noise-- it was dark, and not all that easy to see. And he remembered a good handful of Walkers staggering around outside, so that meant that if he actually did use his gun, he'd only draw attention to himself and Leah, and that would make things so much worse.
Oh, great. And now Princess Machete was nagging at him about being loud again. "You know," he began, looking around quickly, spotting a glare from Leah's flashlight on --perfect, a metal walking cane-- you know, one of those fancy ones that didn't fall over, because they had that stand on the bottom, and he reached past her to grab it up. "I'm so glad you had an opportunity to accuse me of that again," he didn't play baseball on the NYPD's charity team for nothing. The whack in the face that the first, and hopefully only, visitor they had was definitely a home run, he'd figure.
But he gave the hooker zombie--clearly that's what it was-- a good face smashing with the cane just to be on the safe side, though.