She flinches at the peals of thunder, at strikes which sound like they strike far too close. She does not like this. She does not like the storm, or the bridge. She does not like the zombie limbs.

But she will hide her fear, as best she can. She stops growling. She would stare with dangerous intent at the zombie limbs, but it is difficult to know where to direct her gaze when the zombie limbs have no eyes.

She says nothing. She merely hopes that she may, somehow, gain the opportunity to strike.