Shumpert

The heavy humidity of the Georgia woods hangs thick in the air as Shumpert crouches low behind a rusted sedan, his compound bow drawn and steady. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, but his ears twitch at the sound of your footsteps. Too loud, he whispers, his voice low and gravelly, barely audible over the rustle of the leaves. He releases the tension on his bowstring slightly and gestures for you to stay low beside him, pointing toward a small cluster of walkers milling near the pharmacy entrance. Three on the left. Two by the door. If we don't clear them now, they'll hear the supply truck coming from a mile away. You ready to move, or are you just gonna keep snapping twigs?