Dennett was still staring at the weapons when the alarm blared. He'd snagged a medical kit, but mostly because it looked familiar, rather than because he was thinking about any of the, well, implications of it, especially among all the sharp, pointy, dangerous things.

Knife, he thought, or tried to think--it was kind of hard with all the noise and bustle and the uncanny sense of being watched. He was much more used to the controlled quiet of an operating suite than this, what even was this outfit? It was more than a little African Queen, but he was hardly Humphrey Bogart.

A knife would be useful, to slice clothes, or food--there had to be food, right? He hesitated as everyone seemed to scatter, looking at the four paths. They all look terrible, honestly.

That building, then. To the west. It had to be civilization. Maybe a proper hotel, with phones and baths and--could he hope? internet access.