For someone who hadn't exactly been expecting to have a weapon in his face, Marcus felt that he recovered fairly quickly. Not enough to pull a weapon of his own, but enough to assess the situation. After the initial confused jump and fuck..., he took in the woman's size as well as the gun in her hand. That she held it steady didn't escape his notice, either.
It was a testament to the filthiness of the cab windows that she hadn't seen him as she'd approached. He'd been reclined, waging a silent war against the heat and debating the usefulness of staying put, but his bulk still took up most of the interior space. Marcus had known it would be stupid to nap in an overheated truck in the middle of the day, but it honestly wasn't that much better traveling in the afternoon sun, either, and he'd stopped at the seemingly abandoned truck for the same reason that drew her out to it: a chance for supplies. Namely, food and gas. Marcus knew that he wouldn't have been able to carry everything that had been in the truck with him, not with his other goods, so he'd decided to pause for lunch inside the cab. That way if either the undead or any toxic dust decided to make life difficult, he at least wouldn't be completely out in the open for the time it took to recharge and refuel.
Given that he hadn't seen anyone in over a day, it had seemed safe enough, but wasn't that always how this shit went down? His left hand was maddeningly empty, but in his right there was a half-eaten flaxseed and pressed fruit meal bar pilfered from a box of the same that was sitting open on the floor of the cab near the driver's side. Not exactly deadly, but could serve as a peace offering. It was possible that the truck belonged to the gun woman, and that she wouldn't take kindly to his presence. It was even more possible that she'd shoot him over a fruit bar, but since she hadn't immediately done so, Marcus decided to play it cool.
"Hey, mamí, you only had to knock. Would've opened that for you. Heh. No eres un ángel, or that'd be a beer instead of a fucking gun," he observed, before flashing a toothy grin at his assailant. "Must mean I'm still alive. Want to fucking celebrate? Don't got tequila, but these --" His foot nudged the box of fruit bars as he indicated the one he was holding. "-- are all right. Help yourself."