[u]Desmond Williams[/u]

The door to the residence opened, the lady inside stepping back to allow entrance, and Desmond exhaled a sigh of relief. He realized then that he had been holding it the whole time, anxiously waiting to hear the instantaneous, deadly pop of a bullet going into his body. It hadn't come, yet at least. The woman seemed less-than-friendly to him, but in the world they lived in, that was to be expected. Anything less than utterly hostile left an opening for cooperation. With a gracious nod, Desmond entered through the open door, and turned to face his host.

"Actually, I was hoping to talk more along the lines of the lay of the land," he replied, his eyes occasionally making sweeps around the seemingly otherwise-deserted house. "I just rolled into town, and the place seems relatively safe from what I've seen. Do you know anything about the area that you'd be willing to share with me?" 

It was a long shot -- most survivors he'd encountered on the road from New York weren't nearly gracious enough to even invite him into their homes, never mind helping to orient him with his new surroundings and give a breakdown of the area. But at the least, it showed her that he was just another survivor. Though the two looked quite dissimilar in attire, both faces wore the weary expression of one whose future was uncertain. Now closer, he could see her face more clearly: a sort of tough-pretty, with a short mess of blonde hair and a pair of aviators covering her eyes, though -- eerily -- he could still feel her stare.

"Is this your place?" He asked, already knowing the answer. The house looked untouched, unlived -- as if the family had gone away for a simple vacation, and would return shortly. The woman did not appear at home there, Desmond could tell from her body language. And anyone with a brain would have at least begun the process of fortifying by then, and this lady most certainly seemed to have a semblance of intelligence.