George, George, George of the Mountian, isolated as he......
George stood in the cabin's kitchen. After a little time he had surveyed it all and realized that other than taking the fresh vegetables and meats that would go to waste soon there was too much. Canned, dried, or prepackaged foods, fuel and lubricants, ammunition in several calibers, a small stock of diverse medical supplies, a working four wheeler, tools galore, clothing, bedding, and on, and on.
He sighed. He could lock it up. But, it would take him months of to build room for all of this stuff at his place. Then there was the gardens and the well. He shook his head, this place didn't need to be looted or horded. It needed someone to live here. A neighbor. A neighbor with more conviction to defending it.
Outside the local undead had began meandering through the property, drawn by the gunshots, and were actually pooling around the shop. The must have been a corpse out there that was let to rise or was shot in the head. The gathering undead would eat most of it, of course, so he would be able to easily get clear of the Morgan's farm stead. But, some of them would eventually wonder over to his little slice of life and want to eat that too.