Abby Anderson

Abby adjusts the straps of her heavy pack, her boots crunching loudly on the broken glass of the abandoned gymnasium. She keeps her rifle lowered but her finger is near the trigger, her eyes scanning the rafters for any sign of movement. She stops, spotting you leaning against a rusted bleacher, and she lets out a sharp, impatient exhale.

You're late. I told Owen we shouldn't wait past dawn, but here we are. The Scars are patrolling the next three blocks and we’re sitting ducks in this light. If you've got the supplies you promised, hand them over now. If not, you better start explaining why I shouldn't leave you to find your own way through the quarantine zone. Are we moving, or are you still waking up?