Look for transportation in the parking lot

"They've worked over this place," you nod at the trashed restaurants.

"Yeah, but who is 'they'?" Ritter asks.

"Crazies," you reply, holstering your pistol. "Plague victims. Marauders. Survivors. It doesn't matter. The fewer people we see the better."

"Alright," Ritter turns to look at you. "So what now?"

You answer him by walking south past him. He falls in behind you.

"Now we find a car and you hotwire it," you say, staying vigilant. "We need to find a grocery store or **** store. Some place with supplies."

"Forget about a **** store," Ritter says and spits on the floor.

"Why is that?" You ask as you approach the twisted metal and fractured safety glass doors of the mall's exit.

"**** store is the first place I'd go," Ritter chuckles. "Lots of ****. Good times."

You snort with disgust and put your shoulder to the door to **** it open. You grunt and push, but it barely moves. Ritter gives you a look and slides his arm past you, brushing against your breast as he flattens his hands against the door. You push together and with a grind of metal on concrete it swings open.

The parking lot is mostly empty. The mall was closed down as the plague spread. There are two cars, both of which have been torched by someone. They're just blackened heaps.

"Looks like we've got nothing," Ritter grumbles.

"No," you reply, "over there."

You point to a loading bay and Ritter follows your finger to a white delivery van parked behind back entrances of the mall's shops. The driver's door is open and a body is lying on the ground.

As you approach you can see the signs of the plague madness. The poor man was slashed and bitten to **** by the crazies. His fingers have been chewed down to the bones and when you roll him over your stomach flops. His face is gone, torn off, his eyes scooped out.

"Nasty," Ritter comments.

Ritter climbs into the van and begins to pry at the steering column with his knife. You search the corpse's pockets. You toss aside the wallet, but you find the keys.

"Move," you tell Ritter.

He moves over to the passenger seat. You sit behind the wheel. Three tries and you find the right key. The van starts immediately. It hums to life, but you notice the gas is running low.

"We need to fuel up," you say.

"There's a gas station about a mile that way," Ritter points north. "I know of a good place to the south. A military surplus store. Lots of goodies. It's in an old house so I doubt it's looted."

The decision is yours.