YES! SOUNDS GOOD!, his brain screamed at him. Tell the bitch that'd be great and get the fuck out of this truck. Go back for your bike get the fuck out of here. Marcus had a vice grip on the steering wheel from where he'd been holding it, trying to do his part to keep control of the vehicle while she slammed the breaks. Like a fucked up conjoined twin forced to be a stunt driver.
Marcus was no stunt driver, and he was grateful when she slowed to a reasonable stop long enough for him to peel his fingers from the wheel. No more trucks. If he had to fucking hole up even for a second, it was going to be in a building that couldn't be hijacked by a psycho blonde.
For that matter, no more fucking blondes. This bitch did seem intent on taking the cake, but he'd never met one that wasn't at least a little crazy. Marcus barked a laugh, running a hand through his hair and looking away from the gun towards the hood of the vehicle, where the zombie had been, before physics and gravity had thwarted its ambitions. It could be worse, he realized. He could be a half-baked corpse, so desperate for a fucking taste of meat he'd be crawling through desert sand and clinging to the hood of a fucked up truck. And hey, at least she'd strung together more than just one word to throw at him this time. That was almost progress. Maybe she was reasonable, and wouldn't kick him out just to run him over with the damn truck.
“Sure,” Marcus told her, looking back at her with an approximation of a smile. If the gun hadn't been between them, it would have been a smirk, but the presence of the weapon kept it more on the feral side. “Look, mamí, you don't fucking know me. I get that. So let me be clear: I'm not after you. I don't get off on getting torn apart, but I don't want this fucking truck. You see me going for a fucking piece? No. You kick me out, I run for my bike and move the fuck on. Or shit, take me to my bike, and I'll appreciate the fucking ride No hard feelings, yeah? I got my own shit to deal with. You aren't what I want, and I won't fucking follow you. Entiendes? Rather fucking deal with braindead corpses than talk to a gun in my face, so shoot me or ditch me, your fucking call.”
His willingness to just abandon the truck – and its load of supplies – probably said a bit too much about his own cargo, but Marcus wasn't always that careful. He just wanted to be out and away, and he honestly thought the fact that she hadn't shot him yet meant she didn't really want to. His hands itched to grab his duffel and jump out of the passenger door, but her constant aim made a crystal clear statement: sudden movements = bullet to the head. So he waited for her to decide if she had any more to say to him before the zombies caught them up.