Bobby respects the elderly... a little.

Bobby kept a groan behind his teeth and refrained from rolling his eyes too obviously. Of course this old coot would give him the "not a duck" routine. Why was it so hard for adults to accept that it didn't matter whether it was disease or magic or whatever, if it's rotting people eating people, it's zombies! But he bit back a snide retort. He still had his manners, after all, and this man was willing to help them it seemed. "I'm gonna get Hannah and Devin," he said.

He had some trouble getting Bandit to come along. The dog seemed overjoyed, not only with the newcomer but with the freedom of movement outside the truck. He pulled at his leash. Bobby muttered something foul and said: "Come on, Bandit!" The dog barked once, suddenly changed direction and yanked on his chain. Bobby was pulled off his feet, relinquished the leash, and fell in the dirt. "Feck!" he exclaimed. "Trasna ort féin! Damn feckin' dog!" He sat up and inspected his hands, which were skimmed, a few beads of blood welling up on the left palm. Bandit didn't take notice, sprinting a few laps through the camp, barking happily.

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