Though it has been explained to Derrica more than once, she still considers her pistol in nearly the same light as she does any bricks or bottles she lays a hand on. More distraction than important tool, no matter what Ellie has said to her about it.

Even now, it's the hunting knife strapped to her thigh that Derrica reaches for first. It is a formidable weapon, a very good find entrusted to her for whatever moment her stave fails her and muscle memory doesn't prompt the instant grab for a gun.

Everything in this place is covered in grime, earth sucking the dilapidated structure down. The collapsed shelving is damp under her hand. She is looking to Marcus as the clicks and squeaks echo around the water-logged shop.

She lifts a hand to her own mouth as they hear a second wailing groan of sound. Far off, coming from somewhere deeper in the dark. Maybe a fitting room, maybe the stock room, not that it matters. It's still too close.

A metal clothing rack clatters to the floor. A series of agitated clicks follow. Derrica's hand finds Marcus' elbow, telegraphing alarm even in the half-dark.

If they kill anything, they have to do it quietly.