Ghoul isn't really the man to sit around and do nothing all day. He's got his full stock of water and a few stale crackers that will last him however long, and bullets to last him a week. The only thing he doesn't have is meat
. He doesn't have meat at all, doesn't have protein. He's wearing thin, muscle starting to not exist. Holding Meekah is starting to become a problem, and even she's hovering with her front paws over the thin line of death. They both are, and the thought petrifies him. Without Meekah, he's nothing. The relationship between both dog and human is mutual. Without him, Meekah's dead. Ghoul barely has the muscle mass to get up and hunt for the pair every morning.
Scavaging is what he's doing now, actually, walking over rubble of a broken down wall of somebody's old home, hoping to any God or life form that made him has mercy on him and lets him find something he can use here. It's taking him longer than expected just to get his feet in front of the other, and even longer to assess his wounds after he falls and smacks his head on a rather large, but not too sharp, rock. He stands after a beat, and makes his way closer and closer to the inside of his house, seeing the kitchen without any hassle. That wall's broken, too. Everything in this house has either collapsed or had been forcefully damaged. He can't imagine why, or how.
Sighing after realizing that he can't see anything without his flashlight (or batteries, for that matter), he turns back to his van. He's there for a beat until he hears a voice. "Excuse me?" it says, and he nearly jumps out of his skin and throws his hands up. He's not a threat, God damn it. Steal from him, shoot him, but have mercy on his dog. At this point, he's lost all care in the world. He doesn't want to live here anymore, doesn't want to live in Hell. But he can't fix the damage. He can only live in it.
"Excuse me, but do you by chance have a bit of water? I've still got a long way to go, and I'm really parched." Continues the voice, and Ghoul wants to punch the owner so hard they're knocked out. Who is this person, believing that everybody is 'parched'? Simon's nearly dying of it, body thinning, mouth running so dry, all that leaves his mouth is a short huff of breath. He'd meant to tell the stranger to fuck off. Obviously, his voice holds no malice. So, he spins around in hopes that the sunlight hits him in a way that highlites his scars. It probably doesn't happen, but his tired face is meeting the... Healthy face of a woman he recognizes. He knows her from the people he'd trailed to Area whatever.
The first thing he notices is the girl at her heels, then their healthy shape. He wants to wave his hands at her and tell her to leave, that he doesn't have anything for her. Who is he, though, to turn down a little girl? Fuck, what is wrong with this world? Having kids and raising them like nothing is wrong. Ghoul believes firmly in a pity kill, that the girl is better off dead than to be living in Hell. The second thing he notices is how the two look nothing alike. Okay. She's just some rogue kid. He can't even think about turning her down, now. He sighs, just a little bit, and lets out another huff of breath.
"Yeah." He finally answers, running a hand through his greasy, messy fringe before looking back up at the girl. She had been inside Area 9's gates. He doesn't understand why she can't just turn around and get more water and more food and be fine and fuckin' dandy, not worrying about the peole who are half corpse and half alive. "How many do you fuckin' need?"