The summer is brutally hot. Without a hint of wind the world seems almost stagnant. The black top scorches under the sun, damn near feels like the soles of his boots are gonna melt right to it and it’s a small blessing when his feet finally reach a clay road, the shade of trees on either side and though it’s filled with sporadic clouds of biting insects, it beats standing in the blistering heat. It’s not a long road, shortly turns into a driveway about quarter mile down. The farmhouse sits on the outskirts of the old town he’s returning from. It ain’t too far, not even a couple hours by walking. Unless he needs to scavenge, Rick prefers to stay a ways away from once populated areas, even if he’s yet to see a single soul, living or dead in the past five days.
He only lingers here because he had the food and resources to do so, thanks to the small town and the old well system out here, not far from the barn. It sits some distance out back of the house. Cicadas chirp insistently all around as he rounds the wrap around porch, taking his worn path through long, yellowing grass.
The barn door is heavy, so old it usually creaks when he pulls it open so he gives himself just enough room to slip in. He could sleep in the house, but most people aren’t looking to raid a barn and the loft inside gives him a good vantage point, multiple exits and fresh air.
He locks the door in place from the inside then turns to hang up his hat on an old nail sticking crooked out of the wood. It’s out of his peripheral that he catches motion and last thing he expects when he glances in that direction is to see another person. The man is laying in his bed, which is nothing more than a glorified pile of blankets and a single pillow.
Instinctively, he’s quick to draw his gun from it’s holster and aim it at the stranger. He’s learned by now that there’s simply no trusting anyone on sight.
“Don’t you move or I will shoot you.”
He isn’t looking too good, whoever he is, but’s he’s alive, no question about it. Those eyes are bluer than the midday sky and though his skin is a little pale it’s clear his heart is still beating. His gaze drifts over the prone body of the young man, noting injury, blood loss, exhaustion. Probably starving, too. Or not. It’s only then Rick notices the open cans of his food not sitting far from the bed.
Lifting his pale gaze, it narrows on stranger’s face. It’s safe to say the guy probably doesn’t have the energy to fight, or move too quick, but he could have a weapon concealed. Even so, he moves forward with his colt still aimed. He gestures vaguely at his injuries with a jerk of his gun.
