Chris peeked over the edge of the boardwalk and then quietly drew his pistol with it's suppressor. It was a low profile one so he could still use his sights. There were a couple of walkers around the marina, close enough to be dangerous to him anyway. There might have been more, but for the moment it seemed decent enough. He stabilized the pistol on the boarding and then squeezed the trigger back on a smooth steady breath that died away to nothing. The gun bucked in his hand but the slide system on the Sig could take out a lot of the recoil, and with a big can on the end the muzzle barely did more than twitch. The sound was nothing more than a small pop, not the thunderous boom or ear-splitting crack one would expect. The closest walker, some twenty-five feet dropped bone limp. Chris sighted for the next nearest one, almost fifty feet out. He breathed and squeezed again but his sight wobbled a little at that distance. The shot took it in the cheek and blew out the other side, but did nothing to really harm the walker. The next shot which came right after though dropped it too. It had been carrying a sawed-off shotgun uselessly in one hand and fell face-down atop it. Chris grimaced. 

Chris climbed up, avoiding the stairs and made his way to the close one. It was, or had been, a man of mixed decent with a pair of what had been cargos that were shreded, a tank top, and a loose comfortable shirt. The color of most of it was unrecognizable. Turning the body over, he found a pair of brass knuckles in one pocket, and a magazine with thirteen rounds of nine millimeter ammo in it and a $10 roll of quarters. The pistol must have been dropped somewhere, for all the good it did him. Chris pocketed both the knucks and the magazine. Could be good for trade, or if he found a '9' the magazine would fit it could be useful. The rounds themselves were of value anyway. 

Moving on to the second body Chris looked it over. There was a semi-worn leather jacket that seemed to be in useful condition. Quickly he peeled it off and rifled through the pockets. Ten rifled slugs were in the front left pocket of the jacket and three buckshot were in the right. Over the leather jacket had been a blue Eastsport backpack. Chris tore into it quickly, and found four road flares. Quickly he put the jacket on and slid on the pack. It would be hotter, but zombies couldn't bite or claw through the material so it offered decent protection. He found a wallet with ID, looking it over. It was a picture of another bi-racial man with the name Jorrel Robinson, he'd been twenty-four years of age, not an organ donor. As Chris studied the body, then looked over at the other he shook his head, noting a couple of tattoos. Both were affiliated with a small time gang Miami Murder Kings. Heavy voodoo bent to their flavor, but guns still seemed to work fine. "You guys are a little ways from home," he muttered as he flipped Jorrel over. He found eighty bucks in cash in the front pocket on one side, but decided it was just funny money now and tossed it. The double-barrel sawed off though.. Chris picked it up and checked it over, popping it open to find a pair of spent buckshot shells. Tossing the empties aside, he peered through the barrel. It seemed fine, but the man pulled off a piece of Jorrel's shirt off and pushed it into the barrel, only to pull a radio antenna off a car and push the cloth through while he made his way toward the lot. After doing this a few times and finding no sign of rust in the barrel and only minor to moderate residue from previous discharges, he figured it was safe to use. Then again, out in the elements for so long, it could fall apart on him or blow up in his hand first time he pulled the trigger. he'd have to really check it out at the boat. Just in case though, he loaded a couple shells of buckshot into the tubes and snapped it shut, then threaded it through the straps of his pack at the bottom so he could reach back and pull it out quickly. 

It was then that he spotted a man approaching the marina, trudging along with a determined stride, head down a little. As far as Chris could tell, he was more watching for walkers. And then off of another street that he could see, came another one. The body language was different from a walker for sure. Chris withdrew his pistol, checking to make sure he had one in the chamber. Hunkered down between a pair of cars, he checked to make sure there wasn't crawlers under either one, but they were clear. From there he peered around the metal to see what these two people were about.