Robert Cook, being of sound mind and mostly sound body at the ripe age of fifty-seven was amazed at just what lengths the current situation had pressed him to. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been busting young punks for shoplifting, and now he was outright looting. Everything had changed. The cash registers were untouched but the shelves were bare and some of them had been moved to form barriers against the Hoards. There was dried blood on the ground that he could see in the dim light of the flashlight he carried in one hand and the air smelled vaguely of rotted meat and vegetables. In his other hand, he carried a burlap bag that was a quarter of the way filled with enough cans to feed him for a week, and now he was in the back of the grocery store, rooting through the baby supplies. Not many children had survived, especially not infants like the sleeping four month old Jenna, Robert's granddaughter, who was strapped to his back like some National Geographic cover he had seen back in the times when the world made sense.
He had just pushed an armful of food for his granddaughter into the bag when he caught sight of a spot of light flashing over the ceiling. Immediately, he pressed his chest against the shelf, but when he didn't hear the usual moans and groans of the undead, he reckoned it was another human. Survivors were rare, but Robert had very quickly learned the lesson that trusting every living body he encountered was not a viable strategy for this strange new world. The living could turn on each other just as quickly as the undead would kill them. He flicked off his own flashlight, pocketed it, and withdrew his own handgun from inside his jacket. He slunk down the length of the aisle and turned, walking slowly and softly until he had located the source of the light.
"I would keep very still if I were you." He said evenly as he turned the corner into the stranger's isle, raising the gun with both hands and pointing it in his direction.