[u]Desmond Williams[/u]

With a swift jerk of his arms, he tossed the mangled sign to the side of the road, and let out a barely audible sigh, before turning around to survey the rest of the street. It was an odd assortment, a half-urban hybrid of contemporary America. Adjacent to multiple small residential homes stood a drab apartment complex. Looters had already torn their way through the street, but a house or two remained relatively unmolested. His pistol at the ready, but in a dormant position, Desmond scanned slowly and meticulously back and forth. Shattered windows, blood stains, wreckages were likely no good. One of the townhouses next to the apartment had been impaled at the base by a FedEx truck, totally obliterating the doorway. It was a wonder that the structure still stood, and Desmond didn't want to try his luck on the interior. Two doors down, a quaint blue residence caught his eye immediately. Not because of the intact windows, or the closed, sturdy door, or the atmosphere of peace and nostalgia that pervaded through the view of the structure -- provided, of course, one closed their eyes and mind to the carnage beside, behind, and all around. No, what caught Desmond's attention was the pair of eyes staring back at him through the kitchen window. 

It was a woman. Her eyes were wide and alert, and so were Desmond's. He simply stared, mouth slightly ajar in utter surprise, before he was able to shake himself out of the stupefaction and make an attempt at communication. Slowly, he unloaded his gun  and raised it above his head, clip and piece in either hand, to show that he was no threat. Walking forward at an even pace, he did not take his eyes away from her's. She was the first human being he had seen in days, and she could be anyone. She could be a killer. But in this world, they were all killers, and he knew that one of them would have to take a deadly chance sooner or later. 
"It's okay," he called, and hoped he was right. "I want to talk."