Entering a building was always questionable. You never knew what was inside. Zombies, maybe. Or worse, other raiders. It was easy to get rid of the zombies, relatively speaking. Fun, even. Other raiders, you had to play nice with. You had to barter and bargain and compromise and Sparrow Peterson fucking hated to compromise.
So entering a new building had a routine. Silent as a ghost, enter and adjust, then scope.
He'd been targeting restaurants, bars, anywhere that might happen to have the holy grail of all canned items: oranges. He'd be damned if he got scurvy at the end of the world. Survive the goddamn zombies and get scurvy? No way. Not gonna happen. So. Oranges. He'd been through three restaurants and a bar, and found pretty much nothing he cared about but a single small container of honey. Honey never went bad. It wasn't his favourite, but it never went bad. Good for... whatever. He'd find a use.
The fifth establishment, some kind of bar, and the second he slipped inside, it was clear he wasn't alone here. Someone, a female, sat on the counter. Dammit. Sparrow kept his arrows quivered, but made sure his bow was clearly visible to her.
"Find anything good?" he said, pitching his voice exactly as loud as necessary to be heard. He guessed he wasn't going to get anything out of this encounter, but giving up without trying wasn't exactly a thing he was willing or able to do.