The only thing that keeps him from going off the rails in the worst possible way is that he doesn't see Karen turn to dust with his own two eyes. If he had, there's no telling what he would've done, but it wouldn't have involved getting his shit together, steeling himself for the chaos, and traveling. New York's a fucking mess, but he navigates through the looting and the rioting and the gunfire and the martial law enforced by the national guard. Karen's apartment is still locked; when he breaks in, he finds her purse on the ground, her handgun spilling out onto the floor, and nothing but dust.
He thinks, briefly, about using it — and then remembers that he has other people that need him, other people he needs. People who aren't answering the damn phone; communications go briefly spotty. The ones he can reach don't give him promising news. He doesn't have time to wait for satellites and phone companies and gaps in service to level out, or to keep trying calls that cannot be completed as dialed. He gets in his van, and he drives.
The homestead is eerily quiet when his van creeps up the rural road. No birds, no animals, no neighbors, no kids in the yard. Nothing. Nothing. It would be enough to make the hair at the back of his neck stand up, if he had any. It feels haunted here, and it's the oppressive air that has him parking a little ways off, strapping up with a handgun in a holster, and quietly walking the last couple hundred yards on foot — in case someone's ransacked the place, in case someone's squatting, in case he needs to do something about it all.
sᴄᴏᴜᴛ sɴɪᴘᴇʀ ʙʀᴏs & ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ
He thinks, briefly, about using it — and then remembers that he has other people that need him, other people he needs. People who aren't answering the damn phone; communications go briefly spotty. The ones he can reach don't give him promising news. He doesn't have time to wait for satellites and phone companies and gaps in service to level out, or to keep trying calls that cannot be completed as dialed. He gets in his van, and he drives.
The homestead is eerily quiet when his van creeps up the rural road. No birds, no animals, no neighbors, no kids in the yard. Nothing. Nothing. It would be enough to make the hair at the back of his neck stand up, if he had any. It feels haunted here, and it's the oppressive air that has him parking a little ways off, strapping up with a handgun in a holster, and quietly walking the last couple hundred yards on foot — in case someone's ransacked the place, in case someone's squatting, in case he needs to do something about it all.