Sound. Movement. She was right, there was somebody in there. Megan pursed her lips and thought, taking a moment to pause and consider her options. They had to know she was there, by now. They'd have to be deaf to ignore the door. She made the choice to back up a few steps and nudge it closed with her heel, the telltale<i>click</i>of it catching sounding about as welcome as an angel's song. It would make her next decision far less stupid.<br/><br/>Megan drew a breath and unceremoniously cleared her throat. It had been awhile since she'd actually had to speak louder than a whisper to herself; projecting her voice had become obsolete since her group went its separate ways. That being said, there was an authority to her tone, developed after years as a foreman for her father's business. "Come out, I know you're in here," she stated as she proceeded cautiously through the room. "I don't think either of us are lookin' to be shot today." That being said, her free hand hovered at her pistol's handle, ready to draw should she need to. The machete remained raised in her off hand, the chipped, blood-flaked blade gleaming dully in what light filtered through the dusty windows in the otherwise lightless workshop.<br/><br/>She reached the doorway, but her boots didn't pass the threshold. It had become habit to check any room before entering; at the end of the world, one couldn't be too careful. Tools, shelves, a Ford Ranger. Her frown deepened, the creases around her mouth growing more prominent. Megan didn't see the source of the sounds... It was a problem. They had to be in there. Tentatively, as if stepping on a mine, she crossed into the main room of the workshop in a partial crouch.