"[i]Stupid fucker...[/i] Alright yeah I'm sure it's for the best." Fred replied, smiling. Fred thought for a moment and then thrust out his papers. While the organizers of the scavenging operation were busy he ran home and pulled a few magazines and books as well as a set of yellow pages before running back; it took him less than a minute to get back, for he knew there was little time. He had these things with him for a simple purpose; if he would be denied research more or less the only way he knew how then he could look for new research equipment. With the journals and other texts he brought along he could at least look up some pertinent addresses when they were going around. Of course if that failed he knew he would be almost useless back in refuge so there was always the back-up plan. He was quite fond of it really, he knew there was at least a decently sized hipster community in Washington and that naturally lead to craft breweries. If the people didn't want to know how the fuck these ghouls worked so be it, at least he'd make a pretty penny... a pretty piece of paper for food off of their desire to drink.

He already had his own gun and needed no more, so he boarded the trucks without any further ado. Fredrick smiled politely at whoever the hell sat beside him, but then looked to the sky. It would sure be a long drive. He was damn well certain that the fu-... Eli was right that somebody would die. It was a given fact to him that he wouldn't, even if the odds were seemingly against it but he didn't really care. Wasn't planning to write a will in any case, even if he'd recommend it to others present.

[hr]

After a while Fred was a little more enthusiastic, standing up and looking at the scenery. He had only been outside of the grounds that were now refuge... once or twice since all the shit started. The man wondered if perhaps he'd gone rusty or if there were some developments that via isolation he hadn't hear of. He pushed this worry aside, knowing that a pretty tight regimen made sure that he would not do too poorly and that he would at least, live as earlier he predicted. He wasn't scared of death, but precautions were nevertheless a pretty damn good idea.

When they stopped to clear some of the road he hopped off to take a walk, pacing along gently. Sitting all that time made his ass hurt, especially with the jeans that he would have murdered someone for seeing them in conjunction with a laptop and starbucks coffee. Fred kneeled down and burned just a bit of the growth on the ground and wafted the smoke to take a sniff. Putrid, to say the least.

After a while he smelled a much better smell, of tobacco and whatever other shit companies put in there. Instinctively his hands reached to a pocket and produced one of his own much better and savoury cigars. He flicked his lighter a few times and cursed as it was out of fuel. He started madly flicking the thing until there were enough sparks to finally get his smoke alight. Taking one long puff, he stared at the city. Once, the word "stone jungle" was but a metaphor. There was probably some deep philosophical shit and it was somehow a metaphor for humanity or greed or something else but he couldn't be bothered right now. After savouring the smoke in his mouth, he let out the stuff from his nose in a wide arc of smoke like a vaping asshole of old. There wasn't really much to do, so he just stood with his Cuban friend between his teeth watching the people working, wondering if he should ask to help. Remembering one of the things he had to do, he looked about for some sign of a bar or brewery, perhaps a billboard or broken neon light. It was the jackpot that perhaps nobody but him seemed to realize was in fact, a jackpot.