( remember them )

-

The air in the safehouse was filled with quiet murmurs, people that Frank had brought back after a call. Some were restless, some were simply cracking under the pressure of the outbreak, and some were simply glad to be hidden away from the dead and lunatics out in the mall.

In all honesty, the photojournalist didn't pay much mind to any of their voices while he made his way through. There was- for once- nothing major taking place. No one needed help for the moment, and he was stuck waiting until the next lead revealed itself. The next fight. The next time he'd put his neck on the line for this goddamned story. (Someone had to do it though, and at the end of the day? He'd rather it be him than some other poor bastard.)

The exhaustion was overwhelming. He had laid in damn battlefields to take notes and pictures for days on end, but there was semi-decent rest there. Without adrenaline, he was certain he would simply collapse in the mall.

"You don't seem all too bothered by all that stuff out there." Something he'd noted pretty quickly. Most that he found were petrified, shaking and ready to peel their own skin off due to the stress. Some were able to keep their composure and remain coherent, though hints of fear and worry stood out.