Later; Tom finds a wild Marcus... and uses camouflage! It's not very effective...
It always made Tom more nervous to see other people out in the world that weren't at all nervous like him. Marcus was clearly one of those people, and Tom knew it from the moment the other turned the corner, though he didn't immediately recognize the stance. In retrospect he probably should have. The smaller man might very well have been in the slow process of dying, but it would have taken a long time, and it felt sort of overwhelming at the moment.
Tom hissed when he tested his side and knew for sure that running was not an option, and taking an unsteady step away from the wall, he raised one arm in a weak halt gesture to show that he was alive and not to be summarily executed. It was still better to be taken as a survivor worth robbing than one of the undead. He'd dressed in dark colors, as he usually did, but it hadn't been enough to blend into the shadows and escape right then, especially since his shirt was a thing of the past. He still held onto his jacket, but it too was soaked in blood.
The voice sounded familiar in that way that made Tom squint into the dark. "Uh. Not today, anyway." He had to catch his breath in the middle of the sentence, and knew how weak that made him sound. Tom lowered his arm and used his shoulder to catch the wall again, electing the support of the brick over empty bravado. He'd lost enough blood that his muscles complained heavily when asked to support his injured core, but his legs were still somewhat competent under him.
"The zombies seem like they're the least of my problems today, to be honest." That was ironically the truth, but for all Marcus knew, Tom could have been talking about him. The distance between them had stayed manageable, but the tone of voice and that flavor of memory to it had Tom hoping for a passive encounter. "I'm hoping you're not another one on top of it."
He knew he didn't sound like he was in any condition to hold his own in a standoff. The sound of Marcus's bike had been indistinct enough to Tom while he was holding his skin together and fighting off zombies, but he was already trying to calculate where the best place to hole up until morning would be when the guy took another half-step towards him, and Tom's half-stumble backwards in response only landed him on the concrete again, unable to catch the sound of his breath being knocked out of him.
If the guy wanted his goddamn gun, he could take it as far as Tom was concerned. Alejo hadn't left him that much, but the gun and the map and one fucking hell of a future scar, and Tom decided there was no way he was handing that damn map over, blood-stained as it was. It had been the only thing to come between Alejo's sickle and Tom's completely opened belly, and now it felt like some sort of faulty good luck charm. His gun still in hand, Tom could only catch his breath, lean against the dumpster, and wait.