Carson left the quarantine zone within minutes of entering it. Thomas hadn't eaten anything to get sick, he knew that now. The scratch on his arm was where the pathogen had entered, a small scratch from a blade he said he'd found in the forest. A blade he had left in the trees. He'd been able to tell Carson an approximate location, where he'd left it, and all the Strider could think about was trying to find the knife so it could be destroyed, along with whatever else it had touched. If it wound up in the lake, or even a stream feeding it, the entire landscape itself could become deadly toxic. He was as near a panic as he'd ever been as he rounded a corner and found a hooded figure marching down the road carrying some sort of knife in their hand.<br/><br/>His hand dropped to the hatchet on his hip and he drew it in one quick motion. "Stop!" he shouted, planting himself in the way of the figure. He didn't recognize her, not right away, his alarm too great. "Hold there, stranger. Where did you get that knife? Where are you going with it?"