"Tony, and thanks."
The threat abated, he had time to examine the stranger more closely. The man had the presence of a fighting man — a soldier, or something like it. Tony considered that a stroke of fortune; he wasn't positive he could have taken those corpses without some external help. Returning the handshake, Tony looked at the other man and felt something different about him. During his time as a bartender, and even before in his hometown, Tony got quite good at reading people. Knowing their secrets and their motives. The businessmen who frequented into the bar on Mondays and Thursdays, calling their wives to tell them that they're working late at the office. The one girl who came when she could, always trying to hide a fresh bruise, never telling the truth about how she got it. After a while, Tony had come to think that he had seen everything the human condition had to offer. Nothing would take him by surprise.

He couldn't read Victor, though. But then, the world had ended. The game had changed. He was sure he would figure it out, if given enough time, but that raised another question: were they a group now? Hell, they could be the last two people on Earth for all Tony knew. But he didn't know if he could trust Victor. Could he trust anyone?
"Where are you headed, Victor?" He asked, glancing up and down the road for more signs of danger. It was clear, both ways, for now.