The individual inside his cabin responded - he sounded pretty young, probably a teenager - and Jack relaxed a bit. He had dealt with hardened survivors before, men who killed for pleasure and who didn't care what got in their way. He had seen quite a bit of it in Oregon and Northern California. The entire territory seemed to have been reduced to armed gangs without the vaguest hint of morals. The boy inside didn't seem that way, but.. First impressions can be deceiving. His old group in California had taken in a couple of people who seemed alright, hard workers, and he supported their entry. But after two weeks with them, he awoke one night to gunshots. One of their own lied dead on the ground in the storage room - the two guys had been caught attempting to steal from them and run away. He remembered how his men forced the thieves to the ground and began kicking, pummeling them into the dirt. He stopped them, and, in one fluid motion, put a bullet in each of the thieves' brains. They deserved punishment, but not to suffer.
Jack remembered going back inside and throwing up right afterwards. Sure, he kept the facade of a tough leader, but the execution was too much for him. By then it was too late though, he knew there was something inside him. The ability to kill. But he also had something inside him that told him when it wasn't needed. And standing outside his temporary house and listening to the kid, he realized that this wasn't one of those times. With a sigh, he responded genuinely.
"My supplies are taped to the underside of the sink. There are a few days of food, some water, some other essentials. Now, you have everything I own in this world in there. Come outside. I got a deer, I'll make a fire and we can talk over dinner."
