It was the cries that drew R's attention. He'd taken it upon himself to wander off on Wyatt and Max to get something to eat, hopefully without shoving it in their faces. Those pain-filled yips made R u-turn in his aimless shuffling, arriving by the time Orc's about to finish up, the sun starting to rise again so he can see (sorta). There was a big, angry rock shaped blur swinging a stick - crowbar? - at a snarling furry smear in the dawn light.

The smell of fresh blood dragged R closer, the zombie staggering until he was probably too close for safety's sake.

"All...yours?" He asked, his groan coming up practically from Orc's elbow. R sounded dimly hopeful, like he was hoping that was a "no". Did rock-men need to eat? He couldn't eat all that, right?