Later; Tom has a sickle wound to the torso after the scuffle... and finds a wild Marcus!
Working graveyard shifts for years had left Marcus with a strange sleep schedule. Sometimes, he could rest at night, but he was just as often to sleep through mornings... or the hotter parts of the afternoons. Nights were cooler to explore in, and it was easier to lose people in the dark if necessary. Not that Marcus Caravahlo was the sneaky type. Far from it. He rode like something plucked from the pages of a comic book. An avenging spirit comprised entirely of machinery and leather and flesh. The bike had seen better days, to be sure, but it served its purpose. Whether it was the growl of the motor or the size of the man that announced to the living that he wasn't the best target, Marcus wasn't sure. He was rarely attacked by anything but corpses when he was out, however. Even when he was out alone.
He'd needed to think. The Dog Park was a choice he'd yet to make, and he didn't know what he was choosing between. Some common sense urge told him to get away from the place to weigh his options, at least. Make the decision away from tits and booze, where his head was clear. Someplace where he wouldn't have that charming blond motherfucker smiling at him and calling him brother like they were already family. Making him want to jump through hoops to prove himself worthy. Acting like he already had.
Marcus wasn't sure what to do with that particular feeling. He needed to be sure he trusted the guy... all of them, really... and wasn't just letting his dick be his guide. It had been too damn long since he'd run with friendly people, and the warmth of it was fit to burn him alive if he wasn't careful.
So he wasn't out scouting so much as just riding, and while he'd come well-equipped for a bad situation, he hadn't necessarily come looking for trouble. Still, the gunshot definitely pulled his attention. Gunfire meant someone was in enough trouble to throw away caution. A chance to play hero, maybe work out some of his mixed feelings. He cut the motor of the bike and moved towards the sound, which had seemed to come from an alley.
Bad scene, alleys... and Marcus was fully aware that his first thought -- his first fear -- was that it was Mardi Gras or Rodeo or one of the other smiling faces from the camp who was hurt back there. He dismounted and drew a machete from its sheath against his leg. There was a gun at his back that would probably have been the better choice to go for first, but if the person was shooting because of zombies, the machete would serve him better. There wasn't a question of whether or not he was actually going to turn the corner to see what the fuck was going on. That spoke volumes about his mindset. Maybe thinking he'd still had a choice at all had been bullshit. If he didn't get himself murdered or eaten in this alley, he'd have to go talk to Rodeo.
He was surprised and relieved to see that it was just one figure down the alley. From his vantage, he couldn't actually tell if the person was already dead or in the process of dying. The small form was flattened up against the wall, but some of the undead behaved in strange ways. Especially right after getting up. But it could also be someone who was hurt and needed help... so Marcus broke the silence before approaching further. "Hey, cabrĂ³n," he said, his tone cautious but not unfriendly. "You trying to commit fucking suicide-by-zombie or what?"