He just shrugged. The leather jacket made a creaking sound as his shoulders moved. He didn’t look up, he was concentrating intently on pissing against the brick wall.
“No, I mean it. That thing would’ve gotten me.”
“Woulda ‘gotten’ you? They’re zombies, this ain’t touch football, pal. It woulda eaten you. And you’re welcome. Now less noise, right?”
“Right, okay.” I whispered it. He zipped up, and I handed the shotgun back.
“Stay on me. I mean on me. We need to find a truck. With gas.”
I’d never even spoken to him in the elevator before today.