Thom had an empty rucksack over his shoulders as he pedaled along from his fortified house, his bastion of safety at the corner of West Breton and Clark ST, to a grocery store to find some food. His perishables hadn't perished, he'd been sure to eat them first, but he was running out of canned food and wanted to make a go for more while he was still strong enough. He had his magnum in a holster, the only weapon he bothered to carry, the others more suited to defensive positions than the run and gun he would be trying. He was pedaling down West Breton when he saw the group next to the hummer, two women and three men by his count. He hadn't seen any live people since his brother had been taken, and was shocked. They were holding weapons and talking quietly.<br/><br/>To be on the safe side, Thom stopped his bike and picked up a stone and threw it near the feet of what appeared to be their lookout, a woman with a shotgun. He held up his gun, and was waving, silently hoping that they understood the message. He was human and armed and wanted to talk without getting shot.