It looks like they used the entrance you made to get inside, but they've boarded it back up again so no one from the road spots their flashlight.
You're in the middle of the disused convenience store's three aisles, invisible in the darkness. At the far side of the store, a short hallway leads to three doors: a locked bathroom straight ahead, the office where you slept to the right, and what you guess is a storage room to the left. The mortals are trying to get it open.
You count four of them: a man and a woman in their midtwenties, an ancient woman, and a frail and gray haired older man, even smaller than the old woman.
The younger woman whispers something in Spanish you don't catch, then forces the storage room door open with a shriek of metal.
"Not much here," the young man says, sweeping the storage room with his flashlight. He's traveling heavy: crowbar, backpack, water bottles, road flares…those are your road flares! They must have found your Honda.
Whoever they are, they're foolish or desperate to bring a woman in her seventies (at least) and a guy who isn't built for this kind of work. You're surprised that they're this far north without having already made contact with someone. The younger woman starts jiggling the handle to the bathroom, which is between the storage room and the office. Bored and fearless, the old man hobbles down one of the aisles.
And your Beast screams behind your eyes.
I can sneak up on him and drain what I need before anyone knows what happened. I just need a little to take the edge off; he'll be fine.
I should be strong enough to grab the old guy without him making a sound. And once my fangs are in, he'll go limp. I go for it, take just a little blood.
I'm not going to risk a snatch-and-grab turning into a massacre, or a tired old man's heart suddenly stopping. I stay hidden.
There are too many of them, and I'm not taking any risks. I stick to the shadows and watch.
I can't risk violating the Masquerade—the undead code of secrecy and silence—by revealing what I am. I stay hidden.
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