She let her binoculars describe a final circle over the edge of the forest, he darkness under the trees, then over the open fields that stretched before her. It would be quite a run up to that plane if she'd catch the attention of an infected. Sun or no sun, once their rage was triggered by a sight or sound, they'd come chasing her. She decided to drop on all fours, keep low to the ground, hidden by the hay and wheat. She pulled faces at the grass whipping and brushing against her skin, but crawled steadily, blending in with the swaying sea of hay dotted with poppies, cornflowers and buttercups. The thistles and stinging nettles weren't quite that nice to encounter. In easy running distance of the plane, she got up and walked.<br/><br/>He looked comfortable up there, with his seat and fags and whatnot. She wondered how long it would be till he'd run out of food, and what he'd have done at that point if nobody had come along. She had already made up her mind he couldn't be part of a large military operation, and invasion or something. Probably they never meant to fly over Europe in the first place. With every step, she became more curious, more excited. After six years, she would hear what had become of the world out there, whether it was still only Europe that remained quarantined. But news wasn't even the most important thing, it would be just so damn good to see someone from out there.<br/><br/>So, quite against her usual habits, she was grinning all over her face by the time she climbed up to him. When she usually had to force a friendly expression onto her face, she now had to wipe a too wide grin off it. Wouldn't do if he thought she was some maniac, or hoping for a savior, or just some fool not worth listening to, right? So, she clambered onto the plane, pulled of her much hated hat and smiled, reddish-brown curls standing in all directions. "Hi!" It was hard not to stare, every bit of clothing or equipment he wore to her looked brand new, none of it had probably seen six years ore more of wear and strain. She rubbed the last seeds, ants and pollen off her face and shook out her hat. "I'm Franka."<br/><br/>She didn't hold out a hand or come much closer, nobody did that anymore. Instead, she sat down and kept her hands where he could see them, not bothering to take off her Rucksack. Then she began. "I'm immune." As for him, all of it would be new, she went on to explain. "Meaning, I was bitten and I don't catch the infection. Most think immune people don't infect others. The infection is only passed on if you're bitten or scratched by someone infected, or if their blood gets into your eyes, mouth, or an open wound. But some people who aren't immune don't fancy touching someone who is, so, whether you're immune is something people want to know."<br/><br/>She laughed, then added. "Actually, most people don't fancy ever touching anyone they don't know, anyway." She laughed, watching him. She could tell physically, he was in good shape, healthy, he didn't look dehydrated, sick or starved, had no visible injuries. She spoke this much and lightly in her low voice because it tended to calm people down who had been isolated too long. They could listen, watch, adjust, decide when to start speaking themselves. She grinned at him. "You look alright. You must have done pretty well, here, on your own."<br/><br/>Another strategy, to first reassure people they've been successful and then imply they'd be no longer forced to stay all alone in a world of stinkers. A simple reason was there why to apply strategies. Lots of people simply broke down or freaked out when they realised their isolation in a nightmare was over. One had to be gently, break the news gradually, make it easy. Sure, the guy was a soldier, could stomach a lot, but he'd have figured out by now he'd be stuck here forever, and he'd have thought he was the only uninfected human around, would die without ever seeing or talking to a living, normal being again. That took its toll on the braves.