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Chapter Text

LEVEL l - THE HOTEL - l/lll

Two flights from the rooftop, Nick knew they were fucked. He knew by the unmistakable sound of chopper blades pulling away from the Vannah Hotel, knew by the grim, clenching resignation in his gut, the same feeling he got right before folding in a high stakes poker game, only in those cases his life wasn't usually on the line, and the feeling wasn't also accompanied by a cramping stitch in his side and ache in his lungs from booking it full tilt up -- what had the big guy said -- thirty flights of god damn stairs.

It was a lot less than that, but in his sour mood, he was feeling ready to bitch too. The hillbilly, who seemed to possess a boundless supply of energy, gunning it up the steps two at a time despite his heavy workboots, was the first to barrel through the door and out of Nick's sight onto the roof, like there was still hope. He heard him hollering out in that Southern drawl, thick as honey, and Nick's feet dragged heavier still, sense of urgency killed, so that even the big guy overtook his tired trudge, coming up sweaty and huffing on his flank.

"Hey, where is everybody? Aw hold up, they ain't left without us? 'Ey! Over here! Come back!"

The woman who'd followed him out joined in his outcry, but their voices soon trailed helplessly off as the sound of the chopper blades only faded further away. All three of them were just standing there, staring out into the evening sky, back in the direction over Nick's shoulder, by the time he stepped last through the doorway, breathing heavy and expression hardened.

"Aw, they ain't comin' back..."

The big man's deep baritone was somber, dark eyes grave with deep disappointment as they gazed after the departing choppers, his chocolate skin warmly cast in the golden light of the dipping sun. Filled with disgust, Nick didn't bother to so much as turn his head to look after their would be rescue, instead stooping to plant his hands on his thighs, trying to recover his breath.

The woman wore a stunned expression, a hand wrapped over the back of her skull, fingertips wedged through bound back locs, and she was murmuring to herself in disbelief, eyes locked on the horizon.

"This is not happening... this is not happening."

The hillbilly just looked slightly baffled, more than anything, blue eyes wide. He, too, was running a hand back through his hair, a short mop of golden brown curls, scratching speculatively at the back of his skull. His billed trucker's cap hung from his other hand, which was hooked over his coveralls where he'd tied the sleeves about his waist.

"Shiit," he mumbled in solemn disbelief, the drawled expletive trailing off like a falling bomb. "Well~, damn. Damn. Guess we'll have to figger somethin' else out. Hey, least we're all here together! Y'all seem like nice folk. Name's El--"

"Overalls," a grating irritation steeled the voice to razor wire, low and acerbic, as the white-suited gambler cut him sharply off, immediately earning the redneck's attention, nonplussed blue eyes meeting hardened green ones.

"You can take it down a notch. We're not assembling the god-damn A-Team over here. If you guys want to hang around I don't give a shit, but I for one am getting out of this hotel before it's overrun with fire and zombies. Anybody wanna hitch a ride, the Nick train is leaving the station now."

He expected that to shut the kid's irritatingly friendly demeanor down like a kicked puppy, or at least put him off, but to his slight disgruntlement the redneck looked only mildly startled, then broke into a curious grin, such a clueless look in his eyes that even Nick, champion people-reader and dedicated misanthrope, couldn't scrute out anything there but genuine friendliness.

It rankled him.

"H'awhah," it was a soft, good-natured guffaw, "alright Nick, guess yer right! Best get this show on the road. Daylight's wastin'!"

... Damn it. So much for skipping introductions. 

"S'nice to meetcha though, name's --"

"Save it," Nick shortly cut him off, again, determined not to encourage him, and turned to leave. It didn't seem to faze the kid a second time either, though he did at least comply, with an affable, "Okay."

"S'posed to be another evac station at the mall," the big man gruffly spoke up, as the makeshift team began to make their way back downstairs, leaving the rooftop and its disappointments behind. 

Motor mouth was off again straight away. That ridiculous dialect was really going to grate on him. Of all the places to be stuck at the end of the world, of all the people to be stuck with, it just had to be fucking Savannah, Georgia, with a hyperactive hayseed who couldn't seem to shut up for literally ten seconds.

"The mall? Aw hell that's just a lil ways 'cross town," he proclaimed cheerfully as he tucked his cap snugly back on, heavy work boots tumbling down the steps as jauntily as he'd climbed them, once more pulling in front of the group. Urgency to get out of the hotel before the fire overtook it motivated all four of them to hasten, despite the discouraging feeling of descending back down the same steps they hadn't yet caught their breath from climbing, ones that had been supposed to lead them to rescue, but the redneck was fueled by something else entirely, that bright energy that bordered on enthusiasm, which Nick could only balk at. "Ain't nothin'. We'll be outta here in no time."

"Christ, kid, would you try not to fucking jinx it?" he snapped, a growl rising easily to his voice, like the coals of his temper were kept ever stoked and smoldering, just under the surface, ready to flare. Something about the hick's easy going attitude just made him want to dig in deeper. "You don't think our luck's been shit enough already? In case you haven't noticed, it's a god-damn apocalypse out there."

That did get the kid to puff up a little, at least, chest swelling under the shotgun he'd pulled from his back to cradle lovingly there. It wasn't offense in his eyes as he looked back up at him from the next flight of stairs, though, just a proud, beaming confidence.

"Hell, I ain't scared," he scoffed, twanging drawl self-assured but softened by a dash of modesty-- or something else. He was looking at Nick too closely, like he was trying to read him. Laughable. If he could read a line off his face, he'd have shut his trap and kept a berth.

"We been kickin' ass so far, ain't we? Don't worry Nick," and he'd be damned if he didn't say it just like Nick was the scared one, "we just stick together, everything's gonna be aaalright."

Like he was trying to comfort him.

Nick sputtered.

The stairs for roof access were separated from those that would deliver them the rest of the way down to the ground floor, on the opposite side of the building unfortunately, and the hick had already reached the landing at their end, where the door that led to the hallway beyond was cracked ajar. Before Nick could recover, and put him in his place for his audacity with a tongue lashing he'd never forget -- he didn't need a back pat, he wasn't scared, the kid was scared, or he was about to learn to be-- the redneck grinned obliviously right at him, and lifted his shotgun, cocking it enthusiastically.

"Let's git."

Goddammit. 

The kid turned and barged into the door shoulder first, hurtling out of sight with a battle yowl so fucking close in cadence to an honest-to-god yeehaw that Nick almost took a vindictive, masochistic satisfaction in soaking it in, because it fueled his seething disdain for the kid so perfectly.

Even the big man, trudging down the stairs after him, was sternly shaking his head to himself, though he was chuckling quietly too.

"Somethin' wrong wit that boy," his rumbly baritone posited.

"You're tellin' me," Nick muttered crossly, clearing the last steps and taking long strides towards the open door. Shot gun blasts sounded from beyond, the hallway obviously infested, their earlier dash through leaving many still moving and attracting still more, and the redneck had gone in firing.

"Hey!" he barked harshly after him, and strode into the fray, against all better judgment. The kid hadn't gotten far, slowed by the rush of zombies that his entrance had pulled, but fresh corpses already littered the ground behind him. From the first guest room door on the left, however, which the redneck had already passed, an infected stumbled out in pursuit of his clamor, zeroed in on his exposed back. Nick's shout so close had distracted it mid run, and it turned in time for its sunken, flashing yellow eyes to seem to meet his, just before his dress shoe connected with the side of its leg, snapping it at the knee and hobbling it. 

It went crashing against the wall, screeching, and Nick had already pulled his Magnum from his thigh holster by the time it shoved itself back off the wall to lunge at him, with disturbing speed. The heavy shot he fired off blasted a smoking crater in its forehead, splattering discoloured brain matter over the wall behind it, and he sidestepped quickly to clear its ungainly topple towards the floor, taking care not to stumble over the bodies lying in the cramped space. He cast a disdainful scowl down at his white suit jacket to confirm nothing had gotten on it, twisting his elbow to see the outer side of his sleeve.

"Watch your six, dumbshit!" he barked over at the hillbilly, who at his first shout had glanced back at him with eyebrows raised in surprise, then, seeing Nick had it under control, quickly turned back to contend with the scattered zombies still tumbling out of doors ahead and coming for him. "This place is crawling!"

"Roger that, Nick!" he called back, tone earnest but a grunt in his voice as he spun his shotgun around to crack his opponent in its skull with the butt end, either due for a reload already or close enough to be conserving shells.

"Sheesh," Nick grumbled anyway, picking his way over corpses to catch up to his flank, raising his Magnum, steadied in both hands to line up another headshot. The other two would-be evacuees were following him out into the hall, the big man comforting the woman, who seemed to still be coming out of her shock at having been abandoned by those in charge. It was no big shock to Nick. This was exactly what he'd expect the government to do in this situation-- fuck it up royally. How any of this had even been allowed to happen to begin with was beyond him. Didn't they have a taskforce for this kind of thing?

"Eyy, don'tchu worry babygirl. You heard the kid. We just gotta stick together."

"You people are gonna get me killed," Nick stated, flat and caustic.

Sounding tired, but exasperation at least helping to goad her from her funk, the woman had to ask, "Suit, are you always like this?"

"Not every day the world outdoes itself this fucking stupendously at going to shit, sweetheart, so no. No. Catch me on a night with a good hand and no shambling dead in sight, I'm a real peach."

Up ahead, casually reloading shells into his shotgun as he sauntered down the disaster zone of a hallway that lay before them, cleared of movement temporarily but smelling ominously like smoke, the redneck playfully snorted, apparently so undeterred by Nick's harsh sarcasm that he felt bold enough tease him, Southern drawl warming to something low and honeyed, blue eyes sneaking a twinkling look back at him.

"You bein' charmin, Nick? Reckon I'd pay to see that."

Dryly, with no hesitation, Nick returned,

"You couldn't afford me, hick. This suit's worth more than your car, I'll bet."

"Naw, hey now... now y'all can poke fun all you want 'bout me, ain't no reason to bring a man's car into it. That's my pride and beauty, that thing. Baby gets a tune up more'n I do, afore you go judgin a vehicle by her driver-- jus' sayin', Nick."

... Had he really just been told off? The redneck still seemed patiently unfazed, but there was a solemn, chiding sternness to the young man's voice, like he might actually be half-serious, and Nick could only balk. 

"... There's a whole lot of implications there I don't even want to get into, hick," he muttered dryly, eyeing the many ajar doors suspiciously as they passed them, ready for something snarling and ugly to come busting out at any moment. "Christ. You at least use a condom with that thing?"

It was an off-hand jibe, not his best, distracted, but the reaction it earned was amusing, at least, finally stumbling the kid. Payback, Nick thought vengefully. The redneck tripped right over his own tongue, turning so immediately into a flusterfuck that Nick almost took pity on him, wondering if he'd been interpreted worse than he'd meant, somehow.

"D- wh- I, what?"

"The car, idiot," Nick clarified flatly, just to be sure, staring at him in disbelief. "Cause you wanna marry it so bad? Jesus, what are you twelve? Condom," he taunted, testing him. "Tits."

"Naw, quit," the red neck mumbled with some embarrassment, nape of his neck looking a little extra flushed, from Nick's vantage not far behind him. "M'twenty three."

"Don't be mean, Suit."

Nick rolled the woman a sardonic stare at her warning, noticing wryly she seemed to be recovering her voice, if only for the purpose of giving him shit.

"Aww, he's a big kid. He's fine. Lighting up like a Christmas tree, but it's okay, I don't think it's the flu. I was just kidding about the car thing, but now I'm actually getting suspicious..." 

"Boy, that's enough a that."

Big man too, now. What was this?

"Aw heck, it's alright," the redneck's voice piped in placatingly, looking back their way, sheepish but smiling.

"Yew jes took me by surprise, that's all," he told the gambler, who smirked, vindicated, at the woman, who in turn rolled her eyes away, giving up on them both. "Y'gotta real way with words, Nick, I gotta say."

"See? He's fine. Lighten up. We're all gonna die, right?"

The big man especially looked disapproving at that, but the young man breathed a bewildered snicker, staring at Nick with an expression of bemusement that bordered on fascination. Like one of those kids who was really into snakes or something, lighting up over finding one even though its bite could send him into a coma.

"Yew got a funny way of lightenin' up, Nick... but'chu sure do got a handsome smile."

Now how in the hell could he say that unabashed, but a dumb dirty joke about getting busy with his car tripped him up completely? His smirk disappeared into a scowl like a flicked off light switch, thin mouth a hard line.

"Oop-- there it goes," the redneck guiltily observed.

"I don't wanna hear that from you, hick," he growled, "keep it in your pants."

"Shit~," the kid huffed a laugh that wasn't embarrassed by Nick's words enough, shaking his head to himself, like Nick was the weird creature. At that point, though, they were coming up on a corner, and all focused automatically in caution. No zombies came running immediately at them as they rounded it, though, and it was apparent why. Up ahead, the hall-- and their route to escape-- was blocked not halfway down by a wall of flames, spreading rapidly. Past it, they could just see the rest of the hallway and the door to the stairwell still untouched, taunting them. There were a few zombies scattered about, but many had wandered into the fire and were either charred, motionless lumps on the ground or had succeeded partially in extinguishing themselves, and now could only just drag their remains along the floor, crippled and scorched, leaving trails of charred, greasy flesh behind.

"Fuck!" Nick swore violently, as the woman groaned in dismay. Jamming his Magnum into his thigh holster, he yanked from his belt the golf club he'd swiped from an abandoned luggage cart in the lobby earlier. He had limited ammo, these half-dead things weren't worth wasting it on, and anyway--

sPLORch

His face was drawn up in fury as his venting swing whistled through the air, punching a hole into the conveniently ankle-height skull of a croaking, smoking zombie reaching for his leg. It slumped over, and he kicked down onto its shoulder, pulling the weighted end of club wetly free and stepping over it. 

He did feel a tiny bit better, but they were still probably all gonna die, and he reminded them all as much with his sarcastic tone as he sulked down the hallway, taking his frustration out on crippled zombies.

"Well, that's just great. Our luck continues, huh hick? Anyone got any bright ideas?"

The head of a fireaxe came whistling down in his periphery, and he jolted involuntarily at the sick sound of it severing a neck, able to feel the thunk through his shoes as the blade wedged into the floor. The decapitated head rolled into his path, jaw lolling open, and he turned his head to scowl at the big guy, who pretended not to notice as he yanked his weapon free and carried on. The gambler and the hick were the only ones packing firepower, but the way the heavy man handled his fireaxe left nothing to be desired in terms of brutality. The woman nursed a crowbar, and though she was, quite understandably, visibly reluctant to engage the walking horrors, it was to her credit that she hadn't yet left any holes in their guard, either, and on the rare occasion that an infected had slipped past the vanguard that was the hick and his devastating shotgun blasts, she had dispatched the attacker with due violence. Her pink Depeche Mode t-shirt was sprinkled with the proof of blood not her own, and her crowbar was filthy, gripped determinedly in both her hands like a baseball bat whenever she swung it. 

Nick was disappointed that it had to be the hick to pipe up immediately with a suggestion. 

"Some them hotel rooms got connectin' doors, right? See if we can't git through, git past the fire, maybe."

They'd made their way far enough down the hall that they couldn't proceed much further, the fire a blazing wall that licked along the ceiling, radiating waves of heat. The nearest door was shut, of course, and locked. 

"Step aside," rumbled the big man without further discussion, in such a firm and ominous voice and with such clear intent, staring the door down threateningly from a few yards away, that Nick was motivated to promptly comply.

The hick, however, shifted to intervene, expression softening sternly. 

"Now hold up, big man," he warned him kindly, blue eyes earnest. "Much as yew'd look a real action star barrelin' through that door, you gonna gitcherself hurt that way! See, reasons I know is cause this one time, me 'n my buddy Keith, we was --"

Patiently, but some strained exasperation breaking through in his voice, the big man interjected,

"Son, this going somewhere?"

"Well-" the hick faltered, looking absolutely at a loss, the gears spinning in his head as he struggled to figure out how to consolidate what he was trying to say into anything shorter than a colorful anecdote. He pouted his lips into a thoughtful puff of a sigh, frowning in confusion, before unhelpfully providing only,

"Boots."

Nick's expression was blank with the keening impatience ringing in his ears, somehow a more dangerous expression than his piercing scowl, the even tick of a time bomb. Nobody else understood either, by the slightly more patient but still uncomprehending looks on their faces, but the redneck didn't make them wait, resorting to a visual explanation as he turned round to the door, hiking his loose coveralls up a little for better movement--

he wasn't particularly tall, and even rolled up once at the ankle the pants of his baggy coveralls still normally sagged down a little over his solid, reinforced work boots--

oh.

He tucked a leg up to his chest, then rammed his boot forcefully into the door, just beside the lock. Nick was almost certain it would not work, just betting on whether he'd hurt himself in the attempt, and despite the implications for their progress and survival, was perversely irked to watch the door slam obediently open at the first kick, so hard it bounced into the adjacent wall.

The room's guests were irked too, judging by their screeches as they hurtled into sight, two of them. The redneck stayed composed, backing out of the threshold to force them into a chokehold, and not hesitating to fire the moment their shoulders tangled at the door, making a wreck of their faces and upper bodies and felling them both. One was dead before it tumbled out into the hall at their feet; the other, half its face missing and one arm hanging off by mere tendons, scrabbled with its remaining arm on the ground till the hillbilly's boot found its fractured skull and stamped firmly down, shattering it with a crunchy, squelching sound that made Nick feel like he might be sick. As he stepped out of the way to reload, looking much too chuffed with himself, the big man stepped past him towards the room, rumbling,

"Damn. Alright, boy. Nice work."

"Aw, ain't nothin'," the other Southerner brushed him off, wearing a bashful grin as he followed them inside, at Nick's heels. "It's jess 'cause me an' my buddy Keith, we used tuh--"

They didn't need to walk far into the room to find Nick an excuse to interrupt him, voice harsh.

"Yeah, great, that was fun, except there's no fucking door. Just an empty god damn room."

The big man was checking the closet hopefully, just in case there was a connecting door hidden in there, while the woman approached the glass windows that took up most out of the outside wall, looking like she was trying to peer down along the side of the building.

"Hey guys?" she called, and Nick's eyes pinched shut in grim trepidation at her tone even before the next words, steeling himself, "you're not gonna like this, but--"

Her sudden yelp of terror jolted them all, along with a slam on the outside of the window. Nick's eyes snapped open to see an infected had appeared on the narrow cement ledge that he could now see seemed to collar the building, and was slamming its forearms on the glass just where the woman had been looking out, leaving behind smudges of muddy, decaying blood. 

"The fuck?" Nick spat, his heart racing at the jumpscare, chest tight as annoyance flooded him in its wake.

The woman had recoiled from the glass, clutching her heart, and now sank slowly to sit onto the nearby mattress, mouth agape trying to catch her lost breath as she glared warily up on the snarling, scrabbling, pounding zombie, shock still etched into her brow. The glass was holding, for now, but she was ready to scramble back the moment it threatened to give.

"Cheezits," she moaned in complaint, "that scared the crap out of me! That's just what I was gonna bring up, though. If we bust this window out, it looks like we can make it the next room over, judging by this guy. That little ledge out there, I think it connects."

"God damn it," Nick swore darkly. He was glad he wasn't the only one with a complaint, the big man pitching in, his low voice heavy with trepidation.

"Oh, I do not love the sound of that..."

There was a screech as another zombie showed up to join the first, indeed seeming to have come from somewhere further down the ledge, out of sight. For a moment, Nick thought they might off-balance each other, and knock one or both of themselves off, but no luck. They began pounding at the glass together, and they all noticed as the first crack formed, and began to spread. The woman quickly tucked her legs up onto the bed and scrambled back off of the other side, putting it between her and the zombies. The hick wandered forward instead, watching them as speculatively as if they were an aquarium exhibit, taking a closer look at the ledge they stood on, which was barely wide enough for the length of their feet. The tone of his observations was much too unconcerned, maybe even some fucking excitement there somehow, and Nick didn't appreciate it.

"Don't look too bad, jes gotta clear this ledge of zom-bies first, so we don't gotta deal with em out there. Everybody ready?"

No, but the last thing he wanted was the hick reassuring him again. 

"I guess falling six floors to the asphalt will kill me faster than burning to death in this shitty hotel room, so sure hick, yeah, I'm ready."

Voice heavy with resignation, the big man agreed.

"Let's get this done."

"Be careful, honey," the woman urged the hick, as he stepped confidently forward in front of the quickly fracturing glass.

"Yes, ma'am," he promised politely, before squaring his shotgun's sights straight ahead and pulling the trigger, blowing out the glass in one giant shatter.

One zombie was blasted right off the ledge and out of sight, while the other, flesh tattered and studded with glass and shrapnel, came clawing at him. The redneck grabbed the nearby wall where it framed the window to brace himself, then hitched his boot up again and slammed it into the zombie's middle. It staggered back, trying to scrabble at his leg, but it couldn't get a grip through the thick material and went careening off into space, following the other. 

With no hesitation, the kid was scooting forward with an abandon that startled even Nick, one boot crunching onto the glass scattered on the ledge outside as he leaned out over the open space, looking down after them in fascination. They had to be at least seven, eight floors up.

"Whewww!" he sang, impressed. "Damn, that's a splat."

"Boy!" the big man boomed, and Nick was vicariously glad to hear someone else getting angry at him, unable to do so himself without giving the misleading impression he had any investment whatsoever in the outcome of Hick versus Natural Selection.

"Git yourself away from that edge. Ain't got no time for that."

"Yeahh, but did'ju see that?" the kid cooed back happily, totally unfazed. "Damn, he flew."

"We all saw, Overalls, now get going," Nick ordered, voice hard, not that it seemed to make any lick of difference to the oblivious young man. His narrowed green eyes were dark with distaste as he reluctantly approached the broken window and the precariously narrow ledge outside, resenting everything in his life that had led him to this point, and this hick, the cherry on top, somehow seeming to represent it all. "Plenty more zombies to kill on the way, Christ."

It was only moments later, when he could still see just enough of the Southerner, scooting along the ledge blithely in obedience and already almost out of Nick's line of sight, that he noticed his shotgun swing up. He heard a screech, interrupted by a blast, and a whoop of triumph. 

Right on cue. So much for not having to deal with zombies on the ledge. He was glad he wasn't in the front, but he did end up the last one out, and thus kept a critical, paranoid eye behind him more often than not, just waiting for something to bust out of one of the many windows along the ledge and come sprinting for him. He'd traded his golf club for his Magnum again, and clung close to the surface of the building, edging carefully along, step by step. He heard that confident drawl from somewhere ahead over his shoulder, sounding further away than he was with the wind whipping around their ears, buffeting their bodies.

"Keep movin', that room's all smoky, we gotta get past the fire.. yer alright, big man, doin' great, jes don't look down--"

It was as they were passing the first room, so filled with dark smoke that the glass appeared opaque, that an infected slammed violently into the window, inches from Nick's face. His heart about stopped and for an awful, sickening moment his instinct to recoil had him going in the direction of the yawning, open space just behind his heels, eight stories to the ground--

and then he lurched back to flatten himself against the side of the building, heart hammering, the infected on the other side going absolutely wild at their proximity, screeching, slamming and scrabbling on the glass just inches from where his cheekbone pressed against it. Eerily, the smoke was so thick he could only glimpse snatches of its pallid hands as they connected with the glass, its bloodied lips and gnashing teeth as it smeared its face close.

Sweat chilling across his brow as soon as it beaded there, a cold, clammy feeling coiled in his gut, leftover from that lurching fear when he'd thought for a split second he might be about to plummet to his death, a sensation that would haunt him for some time to come, he forced his tension stiff limbs into motion again, scooting along after his party. 

"You good, Suit?" the woman asked, the only one to have noticed his scare, and he ignored her, partly out of pride and spite, partly because he wanted to puke if he looked over the side, which he'd just done, and partly because the hick's gratingly oblivious voice provided a distraction, calling from up ahead.

"In here!"

He was already disappearing into another broken window. Nick couldn't get to it quickly enough, fighting the urge to shove aside everyone between him and the safety of the inside.

The safety of that soon-to-be-on-fire, likely zombie infested inside.

By the time he picked his way carefully through the broken window and into the room, which was actually empty of zombies, probably because they'd all come outside to greet them, the hick was already over by the door, tapping gingerly at the handle to make sure it wasn't scalding. Determining it wasn't, he didn't wait, throwing it open and barging out into the hallway. Relief that they'd managed to circumvent the hall fire was shadowed by annoyance-- the kid was absolutely, inevitably going to get himself killed hurtling recklessly through doors like that.

"Hall's clear, but fire's close, let's go!!" came his holler, still alive for the moment, and they ran to catch up, tearing down the last stretch of hall towards the stairs.

Chapter Text

LEVEL l - THE HOTEL - ll/lll

The scent of smoke was stronger in the stairwell, and thickened ominously in the air as they descended, obscuring their vision. Screeching zombies came piling up the steps, and every time they had to slow down to fight, Nick wondered if the precious seconds they were losing would make the difference between them escaping or burning alive. He should have been counting the flights, but didn't know how many floors they'd made it down before they saw the glow of flames down below them.

"Aw, piss," the hillbilly cussed, after bending over the railing, folded at stomach, to get a closer look. He winced as the smoke hit his throat wrong, and started coughing into his elbow, pulling back from his lean.

"Stairs on fire too," he croaked between coughs. "Looks like they tried to block 'em up. No good down there, we gotta find another way."

So they were soon back to running through hotel halls, which were progressively filling with smoke, ceiling panels tumbling down in their path and broken pipes gushing water over the floor, their hurried footsteps splashing past sodden, rotting corpses. The building was deteriorating quickly, in far worse condition than when they'd first entered it not all that long ago, which didn't bode well. 

"The elevator?" the woman wondered desperately, pointing out a sign for it, accompanied by a helpful arrow.

"Aw hell yeah, girl!" the hick cheered, blasting a sprinting infected back with a shot to the chest and breaking into a run. "Let's go!"

"Aren't you specifically not supposed to use elevators in a fire?" Nick had to dryly ask, even as he wearily chased after them, just so he could say I told you so when they were hurtling to their deaths. That was important.

"I'm open to any better ideas," the woman frankly admitted, with such dread and lack of confidence in her own voice, like she actually hoped someone had any, that Nick couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I don't see how we got much of a choice," the big man voiced his thoughts grimly. "And sooner we make it there, better chance we have." 

By some miracle, the hall stayed intact long enough for them to navigate to the elevator, and they all stayed intact long enough to get there. They scurried in, and the redneck eagerly moved to press the lobby button, but Nick made sure to beat him to it, taking satisfaction in the fleeting disappointment that he caught crossing his dumb face. He almost forgot to be relieved when the doors shut and the elevator began to glide down, beginning their descent at an acceptably non-lethal rate.

"Well, since we seem to be sticking together for now," the woman began, glancing at him as she said it, because of course they couldn't have a minute of peace and quiet to catch their breaths, no, "I for one wouldn't mind getting everyone's names. Mine's Rochelle."

"Pleased to meet'cha. Y'all can just call me Coach."

"Name's Ellis," the redneck finally was able to introduce himself, with a little tip of his cap, just brimming with affable Southern charm. "Real pleasure to meet y'all."

"Great, glad we got that done," Nick barely let him finish even this time, voice hard with sarcasm. "Now that everyone knows each other, here's some more good news. The first floor's on fire."

Indeed, as the elevator descended floor by floor closer to the ground level, more smoke was beginning to leak slowly inside. Even Ellis -- Christ, of course his name was fucking Ellis -- looked a little perturbed.

"Aw shit... we gonna have to be quick, y'all, once those doors open, else that smoke'll do us in afore the zombies do."

Clunk-clungh.

The mechanisms of the elevator clunked loudly, suddenly, in a way they were almost certainly not supposed to. There was another ominous clunking, making the elevator shudder heavily, then a loud and distinctly slowing whirring sound. 

The elevator came to a complete, jarring halt, more abruptly than any of them expected, like it had slammed against something -- the bottom, hopefully? -- 

and then the lights went out.

"Aw, shit~."

"Son of a bitch," Nick swore. He couldn't see a thing, but he could feel the smoke thickening, tickling his throat, could hear Rochelle coughing on it, and he was starting to get claustrophobic already. It was like the apocalypse was going out of its way to remind him just how many other horrible ways he could die, besides being ripped apart by zombies. Burning alive. Falling to his death. Suffocating on smoke in a pitch dark elevator. It was stuffy, and he could hear the screams of infected from outside the doors, whatever floor they'd ended up on.

"Damn, anyone got a light? Oop-- sorry, Coach."

Ellis again, apparently bumping into people. Even blind and in a box, he couldn't sit still.

"S'alright. Just give me a little space, I'm gonna see if I can get this door open. Don't want nobody gettin' hurt if the axe goes sideways."

"Oh Christ, okay," Nick groaned, too desperate to be out of there to complain further, but definitely backing up as far from where he knew the doors were as possible, adding 'accidental disembowelment by axe' to his mental list of 'worst ways to die in an apocalypse'.

There was a harsh, metal squeaking sound as Coach found the crack between the doors and wedged the blade inside. When he heaved, Nick saw a glowing crack appear, and widen. In the thin strip of red, smoky light that fell inside, he saw Ellis moving forward to help. Together, he and Coach pried the doors apart, just a foot -- enough for them to get a glimpse of what was going on outside. 

The good news was that the elevator had just managed to deposit them at their destination before succumbing to the building's failing power system. The bad news was Nick was right, and as much as he would have liked to, he could only take so much satisfaction in the fact.

The lobby was an inferno. If these fires weren't accidental, they must have been a last minute CEDA attempt at containment, which would perhaps explain how they'd spread so quickly. There looked to be spaces across the floor still clear enough to run through, but in all the smoke, it was impossible to be sure they'd lead anywhere, that they wouldn't just end up in a dead end. Piles of luggage, corpses and abandoned CEDA equipment blazed everywhere they looked. Burning zombies, paying them no mind, staggered through, screeching in apparent pain, but too senseless to avoid the flames. 

"Ho~ly hell in a handbasket," Ellis muttered softly, mouth gaping slightly open, as he stared through the opening.

"What a fucking nightmare," Nick swore, voice hard and caustic. "Jesus Christ."

Coach, grunting with exertion as together he and Ellis resumed prying the doors apart, took the time to look back at him, warning sternly,

"Son, you oughta not be throwin' around the Lord's name in vain like that. Never know when you might be needin' him."

"Uh, now?" Nick balked, raising one eyebrow sardonically. "Now would be a great time for a little divine intervention, actually. What am I gonna fill up his answering machine?"

"Big guy's probably gettin' a lotta calls right 'bout now," Ellis chimed in sagely, as together they all stepped warily out into the bright glare of the lobby. "Best we watch our own backs, let 'im focus on them folks what really need helpin'."

There was no way back. They were surrounded on three sides by scorching heat, the roar of the crackling flames, the screaming of zombies, the smell of burning rotted flesh and hair. Even if they made it out of here, they'd have to fight their way across a by now thoroughly infested town, to another location where they'd probably find no help either. Nick stared at the hick in disbelief, feeling his sanity straining closer to its snapping point with every word out of that god damn mouth. Death by association with Ellis, he decided -- that would truly be the worst way to go. If by some offensive miracle the hick outlived him, he'd haunt him to his own grave, he decided vindictively.

"-- Oh, yeah," he returned, voice softened and sweetened dangerously with sarcasm, but a growl still just underneath, jaw tight and a manic glint in his eyes as he gestured dramatically around them with one arm, like the hills were just alive with the sound of music. "Right, what am I saying. I forgot we're doin' just peachy here. This is a breeze!"

"I think this way," Rochelle called, her voice small amid the roaring flames even from just a few yards away, where she'd crept to squint through the blaze. Ellis took off to unquestioningly follow her, chortling, his grinning face brilliantly illuminated by the glow of the burning hotel as he looked back at Nick in passing.

"C'mon now, Nick! We been kickin' more ass together than two boots in a buttyard!"

"... Kill me," Nick tersely ordered Coach, with absolute seriousness, as they drew level and began to jog after the younger members of the group, into a veritable maze of flames and horror. The big man didn't respond -- he might not have heard him over all the noise, or he might just have ignored the joke out of disapproval, it was hard to say. 

Where were they even going? It seemed like they were surrounded by flames everywhere he looked, but he kept moving forward through the scorching heat, following the shrinking route through the burning rubble, holding the lapel of his jacket over his nose to try and block the smoke, squinting as it stung his eyes.

"Over here!" 

He'd lost sight of her for a moment, but he followed her voice to find Rochelle at an open door, beckoning them in. It wasn't outside, but it looked not on fire, so he tore through the doorway away from the heat.

There was indeed no fire in this room yet, but the blaze from outside provided just enough illumination to see by, though at first he could make out next to nothing, watering eyes struggling to adjust after the glare outside, and he was wary of something attacking him from the shadows. Through the haze of smoke, at least thinner in here, he could see it was some kind of security room, taken over by CEDA and turned into a combination supply storage and command center, judging by the papers sprawled across the floor from a knocked over folding table. In the dim and murky light he could just start to identify trunks and coolers, wire shelves, and... 

"Awwhahaw yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about!"

-- And Ellis, of course, but more importantly, he saw what had caused the southerner's giddy cackle. Over by the wall, he was reaching into the dim confines of a metal cabinet, triumphantly pulling out something long and dark.

A shotgun.

"Guns here!" he called merrily to Rochelle and Coach, already curiously approaching, sidestepping the light shining in through the door so they didn't block it. "Whatcha fancy, Coach? Shotgun? Rifle?"

"This'll do just fine, son," Coach rumbled gravely, not seeming to share his excitement, but some determined acceptance in his stoic features as he reached to take the shotgun by the barrel, grasping it firmly.

Nick didn't feel comfortable leaving the door unguarded, with plenty of activity audible from out in the lobby, even if most of the zombies were busy being on fire. That there were any left was probably a good sign, much as he hated to have the thought, indicating the whole place hadn't gone up yet. They still had a chance, but he itched to be moving, and every second he spent stationed at the door frame, guarding their exit while the others rifled through weapons and ammo, felt like minutes, time they couldn't get back. His ammo was low, but ammo wouldn't stop them from burning alive, and he was more stressed about that possibility just then than the infected. One came staggering through the flames, and he raised his Magnum, but it was falling apart already, a dying wail gargling from its throat as it stumbled drunkenly over its burning legs, collapsed face first, and didn't rise again. Nick lowered his gun slowly.

"Ro what about you girl? Anything you like?" he heard Ellis call... and then, from closer by, an audible moan from Rochelle.

Eyebrow cocked curiously -- for that was not an unhappy noise, Nick knew immediately -- he couldn't resist taking his eyes briefly from the door to see what could have produced such a sound from the woman short of a bubble bath and a bedroom toy. She wasn't at the cabinet, but had wandered to investigate behind the fallen table, and they now saw her rising from her stoop, holding an assault rifle in both hands with a kind of reverence.

"This isn't supposed to feel so nice, is it?" she asked them almost shyly as she hefted it to her chest, struggling to contain a guilty smile.

"Aw, hell yea, Ro!" the hick cheered. "That's a beauty, jes' like yew."

Even Nick had been smirking slightly at the sight of Rochelle and her deadly new toy, but the expression fell off quick at the hick's bold, unnecessary flattery, more annoying still because Rochelle absolutely giggled, charmed as anything.

"Thanks, sweetie," she replied warmly, almost a teasing reproach in her voice. "What bullets does this baby take?"

"I gotchu, girl," Ellis told her, turning back to rifle through the boxes of ammo available.

"Just watch where you point that thing," Nick warned her dryly, turning his attention back to the door before raising his voice just enough to call over his shoulder without losing his caustic tone,

"Hick, you mind looking for some Mags for me? .44 cal?"

"Already on it, Nick, but I ain't seen any!" Ellis called back, earnest apology in his voice. "Rifle do you fer now? -- 'ere Ro, this whatchu want girl."

"Yeah," Nick barked shortly, "just hurry up! Place is fucking falling apart out here!"

It was true. Great chunks of the ceiling were starting to give way, crashing to the floor, and he grimaced against the heat as he leaned his body just around the doorframe, trying to identify the best way through, if there was still any. He thought he could see some clear area to one side of the huge lobby, but getting to it would be tricky. 

"Ready boy?" he heard Coach's gruff baritone, and straightened back inside to see him standing on the other side of the doorframe, looking back at Ellis. Rochelle held her assault rifle confidently, a new determination in her eyes, and Ellis was running towards them like a dog off its leash, pockets of his coveralls bulging with boxes of ammo and a hunting rifle in his hand for Nick.

"Okay okay let's go!!!"

Nick had only to lift his arm for the hillbilly to sling the rifle's strap helpfully over his back, and rolled his eyes, cuffing the back of his shoulder with the palm of his hand to usher him out ahead.

"I think we can get through over this way," he grunted, with more confidence than he felt, "let's move."

He was expecting them to argue, or at least look skeptical, but to his surprise their expressions didn't change, apparently ready to follow him without question. Great. It must have been the desperate circumstances, or just their very good perception of his intelligence and judgment, but it still amazed him enough that he had to sneak a suspicious glance back as he took the lead through the chaos, as if not trusting them to really follow. 

But they had, and regrettably, it was none other than Ellis directly on his tail, blue eyes filled with earnest warmth like he knew just what Nick was doing.

"Gotcher back, Nick," he reassured him loyally, and Nick scowled at his audacity.

"Keep up!" he barked as he faced forward, though he was of half a mind to scold the kid to back off, too. He vaulted over the long and marble counter of the front desk, his grand idea to make some progress while avoiding the fire, as the alcove behind it had not yet been touched by the flames.

Unfortunately, neither had one of the front desk clerks. He'd been touched by something else, though, and Nick's sudden appearance near him caused his disease-warped face to swing towards Nick's from where he sat, slumped, behind the counter. Not for long-- with an unpleasant croaking sound, he suddenly tore across the ground towards Nick's legs. The gambler swore and tripped back, swinging his Magnum up and firing, but in his hurry the shot went a little wide, blasting just the creature's ear cleanly off, not slowing it all.

Its clawing hands snatched at his ankles, and he went down on his ass. The thing was trying to climb his legs like a tree before he'd fully hit the ground, and expression twisted with rage, he yanked his free leg up to kick harshly out at its shoulder. It forced it back, loosening its hold, but to his horror, it seized towards that leg instead, jaw gaping to try and bite at his calf.

"Get off!" he yelled furiously, in his panic not thinking straight, just jerking furiously at his leg like a bad dog was attached, his eyes bulging in horrified anticipation of the feeling of teeth sinking into the flesh of his calf--

then there was a blur of movement in his periphery, and Ellis came diving to land on his side on the floor beside him, throwing his shotgun up directly at the infected's ribcage.

The blast was accompanied by the wet splatter of the zombie's entire midsection exploding into the counter. 

Nick roared in outrage, kicking and scrabbling to hurl what was left of the zombie's torso, head and shoulders as far from him as possible, expression stricken in disgust at the gruesome state of his white pants, covered in gore below the knees.

"Oh, god, fuck!" he groaned angrily, gritting his teeth as he fought to get up, tailbone aching where he'd landed on it. Ellis was already clambering up, trying to help him at the same time, looking anxious and running his mouth. He swatted him off, reaching blindly up to grab the top of the counter for support instead and about seizing when his fingers slipped on slick zombie blood.

"Aw shit Nick, you a'right? Yew didn't get bit, did'ja?! Shit, m'sorry didn't do nothin' sooner, had to be sure I had a clean shot, an' honestly well I just figgered you had it at firs'--"

"You call this clean?" Nick snapped as he stood, sneering down at himself, shaking one leg irritably to try and dislodge some gore off it, to little avail. Rochelle and Coach had arrived, and he shot them a dirty look, as if just daring them to laugh. Coach had only a suspicious gleam in his eye, but Rochelle tried to cover her amusement with an expression of sympathy, which was even worse.

"Aw Suit, it'll be alright," she cooed, just as poor at fighting the humor in her tone. "Maybe we'll find a dry cleaner's on the way."

"Hell we will..." Coach muttered skeptically to himself.

"Hey, if nothin' else, maybe we find you some new threads at the mall!" Ellis piped in cheerfully, and his earnest helpfulness, still even looking half-way guilty -- how did this kid exist? -- was definitely the worst of all three. Well, the guilt was acceptable. That was a start, he could use that.

"Oh, great," Nick responded, sarcasm merciless and unabating, as he strode past the kid towards the far end of the counter, trying to determine if it would get them close enough to find a path to the yet unburned portion of the lobby, and scowling about on the way for something to wipe his tainted fingertips off on.

"Here I was worried I'd missed my chance to pick up a pair of the latest in overalls while I'm in town. I think I'd rather die in my bloody, three-thousand dollar suit, thanks hick."

"Got more'n overalls, Nick," he heard Ellis gently chide from behind as he tagged after him, though he was pretty sure Nick knew that deep down. 

Then--

"Shit~! That what I think it is?"

Ellis was suddenly barrelling excitedly past him, and when he followed his direction, he saw why. He'd shattered the glass case of the fire extinguisher with the butt of his shotgun by the time he got there, and was reaching in to pull the gleaming red canister proudly out. 

"Hey, look at that," Nick couldn't help himself. "A few dozen more of those, and I bet we can save the lobby, at least."

"Ain't much," Ellis agreeably conceded, but the satisfaction in his eyes was undeterred, maintaining, "but could make the difference."

Slinging his shotgun over his shoulder with a grin, he got a better grip on the extinguisher and slapped its hull lovingly, voice dipping warmly with humor.

"Sides, if nothin' else, reckon this baby's harder than a zombie head, huhuh."

"Cars, fire extinguishers... what other weird shit gets you goin', kid?"

It wasn't enough-- the hick was acclimating to him much too quickly. The jibe only earned a snicker this time, and worse, the Southerner teased him back, voice lowering with humor in a way that added some whiskey to his usual honeyed tone, a coarsening warmth.

"Guess yer gonna have to stick around 'n find out, Nick."

What was wrong with him? It was hard to imagine a classic hillbilly from the Deep South being relaxed enough to make jokes like that with another man, especially when he couldn't detect a trace of malice about it. The alternate possibility, though, that he wasn't joking, was much wilder, and Nick dismissed it outright. That left the chance that he was so witless as to not realize how he sounded at all, which unfortunately couldn't be ruled out. He fixed him with a flat, suspicious stare, unsmiling, holding it a second or two to make his disapproval clear before he warned him,

"Don't count on it, kid. We're not friends, alright? I told you up top, any of you slow me down, I'm leaving you behind."

Coach didn't make his disapproval subtle this time, shaking his head, though he kept silent. Rochelle didn't.

"Wow, nice to know, Suit," she wryly commented, frowning, full lips tightening in a humorless smile. "I'll make sure to remember not to rush next time I see you go down."

"Don't need your help, sweetheart. It's not like you've been any so far."

"Hey!" she protested indignantly, sounding more injured than she meant to. 

"No need for that, boy," Coach growled. "We're stickin' together so we can make it back to our families in one piece, that's all that matters. Don't need to be friends, but we got no time for quarrelin'."

Ellis looked lost, and progressively more put out as the heated exchange continued, chewing on his lower lip as he hesitated to intervene, not wanting to make it worse, but feeling guiltily responsible.

"Agreed," Nick said shortly, eyes dark. "So let's get the fuck out of here already."

He heard the hick huff an audible sigh as he turned away from them, but out of the corner of his eye saw him following after him anyway. They left the alcove of the front desk when they reached its end, picking a treacherous path across the marble floor through the debris-free zones where the fire had nothing to cling to. They were getting closer to the far wall, and to his extreme relief, the flames were thinning before them.

Unfortunately, that meant more infected, too. And as soon as they started shooting, none of their weapons remotely subtle, the amount of zombies rushing towards their racket through the smoke increased tenfold.

The survivors' threat level, however, had also increased exponentially. It fell somewhere between impressive and sickening, for Nick, to watch the swathe of destruction they caused, the carnage their four fire-arms combined could inflict on all that flesh, tissue and bone. He found himself falling to the back of the party, neither his rifle nor Magnum quite so effective at clearing the swarm as the blasts of their party's twin shotguns and Rochelle's deadly spray. 

She seemed to be getting into the swing of the slaughter, at least. The acquisition of the assault rifle had apparently changed her perspective on engaging the enemy, and she even let out a troublingly Ellis-like whoop of a cheer after a particularly vicious spray took down several zombies in a tumbling row, followed by a guilty grin towards the others.

Conserving his precious Magnum bullets, Nick pulled his rifle from his back to wield it, letting his teammates handle the bulk of the slaughter while he acclimated himself to the unfamiliar weapon, using zombies trailing the fringes of the crowd as target practice. The first time a crack of his rifle was followed by a zombie's head exploding some distance away, Ellis let out a drawn out whistle.

"Damn, that was some nice shootin', Nick!"

The gambler couldn't help but smirk.

It was wiped off his face a moment later.

By keeping the bulk of the inferno at their backs, they had little need to watch them. It was a wide enough open space to cover as it was, and there was nothing coming after them through that fire... at least, there hadn't been up till now.

Bringing up the rear, Nick would have seen it much sooner if he hadn't been so zeroed in ahead of the group, if the flames hadn't been so bright, and if the creature's bulky suit had been dark enough to stand out against them, and not a violent yellow. If it had come from right behind him, he wouldn't have seen it at all, and he'd have been down already, but instead, it had run out of the heart of the blaze right for Coach, on the far left of the group, the fire seeming to ignore it. The man was paying not a lick of attention, all eyes forward as his consecutive shotgun blasts only barely kept the oncoming zombies at bay. 

Grimacing, brow locked in a scowl, Nick swung his rifle, zeroed in, and after just a single beat, fired. 

The blast took it through the neck, sundering its spine, and Coach might have been none the wiser if the thing's momentum hadn't sent it staggering far enough forward to collapse into the back of his legs, stumbling him heavily forward. Rochelle gasped as he dropped to his hands and knees directly onto the rotting bodies he'd just felled, but had time to swing her assault rifle over his head and spray bullets into the zombies greedily coming for him, keeping them off while he struggled to pick himself up.

Nick was dashing to him, glancing wildly back behind on the way, just to check that nothing else was emerging from the flames to flank them before he released his rifle to hang from its strap, nearly skidding into Coach's back as he tried to get up, favoring one knee. He got a hold of one of his thick arms and heaved, lending his support with a grunt till the man was back on his feet, looking a little dazed, and surprised to find Nick at his elbow, but unharmed. He gave him a small nod of thanks before he understood entirely what had even happened, then he caught sight of the infected that had stumbled him, and it clicked.

He might have delivered a better thanks, then, but he was distracted-- both by the sight of it, completely unburned in its yellow hazmat suit, and the zombies still coming.

"The hell?" he wondered, as he turned around to fire off a blast, relieving Rochelle, who had about used up her magazine already.

"Damn suits must be fireproof," Nick growled, pushing forward to join the front line. The zombies had thinned out a little, but they just kept coming -- they needed to move and shoot, or they weren't going to make it. "Didn't do shit against the virus, apparently. So we just get fireproof zombies-- thanks a lot, CEDA. By the way, how's everyone feeling?" he wondered, with wry cheer. "No fever, or hankering for red meat or anything?"

"I'd kill for a couple bacon cheeseburgers right about now, but that ain't odd."

"H'aw, oh man, Coach! Don't go talkin' bout burgers right now. I didn't eat nothin' fer breakfast. I might jes' pass up a rescue chopper if I found an open Burger Tank right now."

"Oh, well that's fine, we can make a detour," Nick sarcastically offered, as he followed a running zombie with his scope, calculating his timing so that his shot took out the back of its skull, sending it down. "If the kid wants a happy meal. What about you, Rambo Ro, you want anything? All that slaughter has to give a girl an appetite."

Rochelle looked trapped between amusement, disapproval and guilt. She wasn't sure what to make of him, he could tell, and it bothered her more than she wanted to let on. 

"Don't make me feel bad, Suit," she pleaded. "Let me disassociate a little. I think Ellis has the right idea, it-- it's not like it's not tragic, I know they were people, but--"

Nick's expression was impassive, but he made a dismissive gesture with his head, interested in how she'd taken his words, but not having actually meant much judgment by them. It was Coach who interrupted her, deep baritone gentle but firm.

"That's alright, girl. Don'tchu worry, ain't none of us that wouldn't make all these poor souls well, if it were in our power. Don't do no good carryin' guilt around for puttin' em at peace. Weren't your fault."

"Yea, Ro, they ain't people no more!" Ellis chimed in supportively. "It ain't mean. You good girl, don't sweat it."

Rochelle smiled gratefully at them both.

"Thanks, guys," she told them sincerely, apology and relief mixed in her tone as she blinked down at her rifle. "I'm kind of surprised, I've never been a gun girl."

"Aw hell, I love guns," Ellis cooed happily, with undue affection. "Man ever since we was lil tater tots, me 'n me buddy Keith--"

"Save it for the road, hick, we gotta run!" Nick yelled. They were making progress, but there were too many zombies still coming, the fire was spreading, and he knew they weren't going to make it if they didn't hurry. He had the ugly feeling that they'd have been overwhelmed already if they hadn't found that gun stash, but that ammo was already dwindling rapidly. Nobody argued, the stakes evident, and they pushed desperately forward, shooting as they ran. Rochelle and Coach began to pull ahead, with Ellis bringing up the rear, picking off anything that threatened to come up from behind and catch them unawares if they had to slow down. 

Up ahead, squinting through the smoke, Nick could just make out the antechamber off the entrance hall, dark and still free of flames, and dimly past it, the light not of fires, but unmistakable daylight, coming in through the skylight he knew topped it. They were so close.  

A zombie that had managed to avoid the flames was lumbering sluggishly to its feet from what had looked like just another pile of debris ahead, looking hungrily after Rochelle and Coach. Nick slowed just enough to get a bead on its skull as he neared, using his Magnum rather than take time to reload his rifle. He felt a passing breeze as Ellis overtook him, and he pulled the trigger just before the zombie got enough footing to run, sending it down with a smoking hole in its skull. Satisfied, Nick turned back ahead, putting on speed to catch up to the Ellis and the rest.

He didn't.

Chapter Text

LEVEL l - THE HOTEL - lll/lll

It happened so abruptly, the very first thing he felt was confusion. The marble floor had been clear directly in front of him, with nothing to trip on, but he didn't have time consider too deeply why his ankle had lurched out from beneath him, since the next thing he was aware of was slamming flat on his front into the ungiving marble, knocking the breath from his chest so painfully he wasn't sure it'd ever agree to return. He might have cracked a rib, he wasn't sure, senses overwhelmed, and his face contorted in cringing pain, trying and failing to wheeze in air. 

For a moment, in shock, he couldn't even think, though he knew he hadn't hit his head. His arms, thrown up, had saved him from that, but they'd been jarred from the impact, at once numb and aching to the bone, and his Magnum had been knocked from his hands, out of reach where it had skidded several feet away. 

A moment turned out to be more time than he was given to try and fully register his fall, however, let alone any possible cause, before suddenly he found himself sliding backwards on the slick marble floor, his Magnum getting further and further away. Ellis was nowhere to be seen, and he hadn't recovered the breath to have whispered his name, let alone yelled it... and even at the height of his panic, somewhere in him, his pride balked at the idea of calling out to the Southerner for help. 

His speed accelerating terrifyingly knocked all thought of the other survivors from his head, though, as he was pulled ever further from them. He was alone. Something was wrapped tightly around his ankle, reeling him in with unnatural strength and speed, and it was all he could do to cover his face with his arms to protect it as it dragged him mercilessly through flaming debris, embers scorching his exposed skin.

It got worse. He was already lightheaded, still winded, by the time he came to a sudden halt. He didn't have time to so much as push himself off the marble before a heavy weight fell on his back, flattening him, and even struggling to wheeze in oxygen, he caught a rancid scent, worse than the most rotted breath, so putrid he actually heaved with nausea. 

He was weak from lack of air, had no leverage, making the weight on him seem unmovable, but he was lucid enough to realize exactly how he was going to die when something horribly thick, slimy and fleshy snaked around his neck, like a boa constrictor. He heard a disgusting hacking sound that didn't come from him, felt the tentacle-like appendage tighten mercilessly around his throat, bruising tender flesh and cutting off both his oxygen and bloodflow so quickly his eyes started to roll in seconds, face prickling with a wash of numbness, thoughts shutting down, winking out... wait, wasn't his life supposed to flash before his eyes? He couldn't think of anything meaningful, couldn't comprehend anything but panic and deep, crushing disappointment, this wasn't how it was supposed to go, he wasn't ready...

He distantly heard a gruesome crack, and was aware of falling suddenly onto his side, the weight off him but throat still constricted. Someone was yelling-- his name? It annoyed him, instinctively. He became dimly aware he was still alive enough to be annoyed, which confused him, then there was another crunch, and he caught a familiarly drawling voice mumble a dread-filled Oh, shit--

He lost some time, but not much, because the next thing he knew the fleshy tentacle was loosening from his throat, and his brain lit up with renewed panic as he wheezed desperately for breath, only to choke on the foul air that made it into his lungs. He was hardly aware he was being dragged along the marble by strong hands under each armpit, both of them suffocating on the thick, putrid green smoke surrounding them like a poison gas. He had no idea, still, what had happened, and neither did he understand when he was dropped abruptly, the supporting presence gone from his side, leaving him to just catch himself on one palm and look up in bleary confusion, violent coughs still racking his chest, watering eyes half blind. They hadn't escaped the mysterious cloud yet.

All he could see was the flashing eyes of a snarling zombie, coming right for him. 

There was no time, too shaken to think, instincts failing him-- he could only gape, stunned. 

A fire extinguisher came swinging out of nowhere, bottom rim connecting solidly upside the zombie's jaw and knocking its head backwards with a fatal snap. The breathless Southerner wielding it dropped it again immediately -- he must have let it go before to drag Nick with both hands, then dived back to grab it upon seeing the zombie coming-- and returned directly to Nick. The gambler didn't fight him this time as he helped him to his feet, forced to let the younger man support him, still unsteady and catching his breath, chest aching like something else. He had just recovered enough to keep his balance when another zombie came running up, and Ellis had to break away again to seize up the fire extinguisher, slightly dented now. He swung it in a wide arc, knocking the zombie's jaw half off and sending it staggering, but this one didn't die, and more were coming behind it, several at once. 

Nick swore, hurrying to pull his rifle in front of him and fumbling to load it, struggling to see, breathe, stay upright. Ellis's shotgun must needed a reload too, because he caught for the first time a glimpse of real nerves on his face at the number of infected coming, clearly stuck between sticking with his current weapon and risking dropping it to try and reload in time. Nick didn't think he'd have time. Ellis seemed to make the same call, and braced himself, though he, too, was still fighting just to breathe. This was going to be ugly.

With a flash of gunfire from off somewhere beyond the toxic air, a spray of bullets scattered into the running zombies. The aim was rough, and none died immediately, but the damage was still enough to stagger them all from their charge, leaving them stunned and crippled. He heard a coughing that he recognized as Rochelle's, and the sound was sweet to his ears. Just for that one moment, there was no room in his cynical heart for spite, only relief. 

Ellis cheered hoarsely, and put all his weight and a running start into another swing of his fire extinguisher, demolishing what remained of the nearest zombie's head. Nick managed to hold the coughs spasming his chest just long enough to put a bullet through the furthest zombie's cheekbone, spinning it into a careening topple, and then Coach, good old Coach, was there to finish off the final two, expression stern as he blasted one zombie apart with his shotgun, damaging the last enough in the scattershot that he didn't waste another shell on it, just cracking its skull open with a firm blow of the butt end.

Then he, too, was coughing into his thick arm.

"The hell is this stuff?" he yelled gruffly, jogging forward to meet Ellis, taking his arm to lead him from the cloud. Nick noticed the boy's face was streaked with tears, clean lines through cheeks smudged with sweat and smoke, his eyes reddened. He must have looked just as bad. "C'mon!"

And then Rochelle, clearly struggling to hold her breath, had appeared out of the smoke at his side, a hand at his elbow to urge him to follow her, and he couldn't speak even if he'd wanted to argue, having broken into another coughing fit. They ran, and didn't stop running when they cleared the cloud, which happened rather abruptly. He looked back over his shoulder to see the green smoke still hung there in the air, unnaturally thick and slow to dissipate in the atmosphere.

"We didn't see you fall behind!" Rochelle was wailing apologetically as soon as she could breathe. "I thought you were right behind us, and then we got slowed down getting back-- what happened? We just looked back and you were both gone."

"Fuck if I know," Nick spat, some sullen discomfort in his scowl.

The obvious irony hadn't escaped his notice. He'd promised to leave the lot of them if they fell behind, words so recent they echoed freshly in his ear. 

He'd fallen behind-- badly -- and they hadn't left him. They'd come back to rescue him, all of them. Or, to be very fair, Ellis had. The other two had probably only returned for the sake of retrieving the affable Southerner, not him... but still. It didn't sit well, and he didn't want to dwell on it just then. Instead, he gladly took to the distraction of discussing the mystery that had caused his embarrassment (and almost death) in the first place. His first theory was that the universe just fucking hated him, but he kept that one to himself.

"Something grabbed my ankle out of fucking nowhere, ripped me off my feet and started reeling me in," he recounted bitingly. "Like it was just going fucking-- people fishing. Lost my -- shit! Where is it?"

To his relief, he'd remembered his fallen gun before they'd run all the way past it, and miraculously he was able to spot it, running over briefly to swipe it off the ground. Another minute, and they wouldn't have had time to risk going back for it, and though it wasn't like he had some kind of attachment to it, it was a good gun, and it was his. That was to say, it had actually been in his possession before the outbreak. Technically, he wasn't legally allowed to own a gun, but that was beside the point. That hardly mattered much any more.

"A zombie dragging someone off?" Coach wondered ominously. "That ain't usual..."

"I didn't even see it," Nick spat. "Almost passed the fuck out. It was choking me with..." his voice sullenly, uncomfortably dropped, "something."

It was a disturbing place for them to all pause, but they were distracted clearing a few more zombies, which made themselves themselves easy targets as they ran wildly out at them from the dark antechamber, now just ahead. 

"I think I've heard of infected like those..." Rochelle murmured as they stepped into the smaller room, earning everyone's surprised stares. She looked a little embarrassed at the attention, and quickly explained,

"I work in the news... I was down here covering the infection when-- well. News has been calling them Smokers, if it's what I think. They're some kind of.. mutation from the regular strain, I guess."

"The hell was it that it grabbed me with, then?" Nick snarled, uncertain he wanted to know. It was Ellis who answered, though, sounding rather apologetic as he delivered the news.

"Hate to say it, Nick, but I'm perty sure that there was a tongue."

Nick balked.

"A tongue," he echoed flatly. "You're telling me one of the possible side effects of this virus.. is growing a tongue the size of a fucking firehose? That thing must have dragged me thirty feet, dumbshit. That's not a fucking tongue."

"Well, I dunno what tuh tell yew, Nick," Ellis replied frankly, an understanding condolence in his expression and a solemn twist to his mouth. "I didn't get the best look at it muhself, what with all the smoke an' all, but it sure was comin' out of its mouth, whutever it was. Real ugly fucker, too. If it weren't a tongue, all I can think is it musta been--"

"Shut-- shh.. stop. Stop talking, hick. Whatever you're about to say, I do not want to fucking hear it. Not another damn word."

Rochelle was too absorbed dwelling on the gruesome reality of the thing they'd encountered to give him so much as a chiding look. She only shook her head slightly to herself, and glanced back to the blazing lobby they'd left behind them, sighing.

"This some grim shit we got ourselves into."

Privately agreeing, Nick cautiously approached the edge of the wide opening to the entry hall, gazing up into the long room. The skylight high above still provided some late evening light, though the floor was dim, glass windows and doors to the right having been all but boarded up by CEDA, or at their instructions. To the left, they'd started doing the same with the glass separating the room from the inner lobby, as if to provide a second wall of defense, but they hadn't finished, and he could see it beginning to burn at the corners, smoke curling through.

"Let's just get out of this shitty hotel before anything else fucked happens. I'll be damned if I make it this far just to die in a fucking three star in Savannah, Georgia."

They moved forward into the entry hall, stealing lightly across the floor towards the shadowed recess that was the row of boarded windows lining the front of the hotel, sticking close to the near wall, trying to avoid the attention of the few zombies shambling about, barely distinguishable as more than silhouettes in the smoke hazed, dimming light.

"This your first visit to Savannah, Nick?" Coach wondered sternly, keeping his voice low.

"Yeah, first and last. I wasn't even supposed to be spending time on shore. I should be on a casino cruise ship right now."

"Hm. Gamblin' man, huh?" The big man sounded quietly disapproving, Nick thought-- shocker. "Well, you sure picked a helluva time to visit. Ain't fair to be so harsh."

It was blissfully cooler out here on their hot, sweaty and smoke-stained skin, even if the air was still stuffy. They were approaching the front door, which had already been half broken into from the outside, blood staining the shattered wood and glass. Rochelle extracted her crowbar from her belt, and Coach held a hand out for it, prepared to pry it the rest of the way open.

"Aww, yeah!" Ellis chimed in, warmth in his voice. "Savannah's beautiful, man! You just ain't seen it right. Gosh I wish we had more time, I'd show you all around... 'least I can give y'all a little tour on the way! 'Course, it's a bit of a mess right now..."

"Christ, are you from here?" Nick groaned in disbelief. "What am I saying. Of course you are."

"That makes two of us," Coach told him warningly, not missing his tone, and enunciating his point with a wicked crack of snapping wood as he put his weight into the crowbar, prying it off a piece at a time. The sound alerted just one nearby zombie, and to avoid drawing further attention with gunfire, Ellis waited for it to come within range, then took care of it with his fire extinguisher, which he was still hauling despite having left the fires behind them, like he'd become attached. Nick could think of a few jokes to make, but considering the hick had -- and he had to grimace, even the thought difficult to swallow, but there wasn't much question-- saved his life with it, he couldn't bring himself to just yet. Hell, he might have been a little attached to it himself.

Coach was talking about Savannah again, more to Ellis now than him, as the redneck kept watch through the hole in the door, the two bonding over the discovery of their shared hometown.

"This used to be a nice neighborhood," Coach was recollecting gravely, as he freed the door from the last of the wood. Ellis was peering his head cautiously out through the broken glass, and Nick tried not to imagine a thirty foot tongue suddenly wrapping around his neck and wrenching him outside, dragging him straight across the shards. 

He shuddered, and wondered dryly; was this PTSD? Then he caught himself, and had to resist a laugh-- Rochelle was already looking at him strangely-- everyone in the fucking world probably had PTSD, by now.

"Yeahh, man. Shootin' zombies is fun and all, but sure a shame about all them poor folk what got turned into 'em. S'a real downer."

"Amen."

"Seems pretty clear out there..." Ellis pulled back inside, grinning over directly at Nick. "Thinkin' we got lucky after all, Mr. Gamblin' Man. Let's get movin' afore any more show up."

"What, are you telling me you're tired already?" Nick taunted him, as Coach dragged the door open across the broken glass and led the way out, shotgun at the ready. "Thought you couldn't get enough of these guys."

"S'just real open out here, is all," Ellis admitted as he crossed the threshold, despite his profession of caution choosing to first squint illlogically straight up into the deep blue evening sky, reflected back in his eyes. The effect was somewhat comical, to Nick, who watched him in turn, smirking faintly, leaving Rochelle and Coach to keep an eye out for anything actually dangerous. "I don't like not havin' no walls or nothin' around."

Rochelle, scanning the area, seemed to agree with that sentiment. The wide, sloping driveway in front of the hotel was littered with CEDA equipment; metal fencing all over the place, dumpsters and piles of ominous looking garbage bags labelled with hazardous waste warnings, a trailer and several tents, some no more than canopies on stilts to cover long fold up tables, others larger, such as a huge one set up right in the middle of the blocked off street up ahead.

"I'd say we should try and stay off the streets as much as possible," she advised, a slight hush to her voice, eyeing some shambling figures in the distance. "The more we engage, the more we draw to us. We might even want to stick to our melee weapons, if we can, just so we don't pull more attention."

Nick tched skeptically.

"You wanna let them get that close, be my guest, sweetheart," he drawled, cocking an eyebrow her way with a smirk. "This is a three-thousand dollar suit I'm wearing-- oh, god damn it!"

He had finally only just taken a proper look down at his once white suit for the first time since the Smoker, and even in the late evening shade outside it was now light enough to truly take in the extent of the damage. Soot streaked his suit from head to toe where he'd been dragged through the flaming rubble, and worse, tiny frayed pockmarks everywhere betrayed where the embers had scorched the fabric. He began swearing violently, slapping at the soot, though there was nothing to be done.

"Fucking piece of shit tongue-fucking fuck, burnt it to shit, you fucking see this..."

"Aww, yer still the sharpest dresser in the apocalypse, Nick!" Ellis tried to comfort him, with more earnest sympathy than humor. All bad things, though deep down he was too vain not to take the flattery to heart. Outside, he was ungrateful, shooting him a piercing glare and beginning a sarcastic response.

"That really means a lot co-"

"Sh-sh-sh. Shh."

He struck Rochelle with a slightly indignant look, but put the rest of his indignation on hold, as well as any questions. The zombie apocalypse was one circumstance where he could give someone the benefit of the doubt when it came to things like freezing with a look of alarm and calling for silence.

"Did you hear that?"

Having given up on his suit, he was now occupied trying to wipe the soot back off his hand on the cleanest part of it he could find, brow and nose pinched in a scowling sneer of disgust. He really wanted to say something clever to that, having come up with several clever things to say by then, but before he could the sound of a low, rattling growl interrupted his thoughts, and dissolved them all, soaking a chill down his spine like someone had dribbled ice water down the nape of his neck. 

Though it was like no human nor animal he had ever heard, the sound was undeniably predatory, in a way his body knew in its bones, in its DNA, its evolutionary drive for survival. 

The croaky, rattling growl seemed to echo around them off the walls, the asphalt, and they couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from. There were blindspots everywhere, columns, roofs they couldn't see. They all slowly ventured further out into the open, further from the hotel, turning careful circles to scan their surroundings. Ellis carried his shotgun, now reloaded, in one arm, the fire extinguisher hanging from his other. 

"Ro..." Ellis murmured carefully, not daring to look at her. It was like they were being stalked, they all felt it, and their breath was bated, hearts beating tensely, no one making any sudden movements. "You got anything on this?"

Voice hushed with fear, she murmured back,

"I think so... we gotta be careful, if it's what I think. I've seen what it can do, it's -- horrifying. They call it--"

A screech cut her off, and they all jolted, wheeling around. It was just a regular infected, though, running down the driveway towards them from the direction of the street. Nick took advantage of the interruption to finally release some sarcasm.

"Oh yea, cause that last one was just trying to cop a feel--"

There was a loud thump, and they all spun again, except Coach, busy readying to dispatch the lone oncoming zombie, shotgun raised and aimed. This time, though, they were almost too slow to see it. A zombie had hit the trailer, landing on all fours on the side of it, clinging, like a cat to a scratching post. It had come from who knew where -- the roof over the hotel doors? -- and they only had a split second to take in a glimpse of bloodied teeth in a snarling maw under its raised hood, and unnaturally long, claw-like nails, squeaking like knives against the metal it clutched to, before it launched off with a piercing screech, something between a crow's coarse caw and a bobcat's scream, straight for Ellis.

They all heard him cuss, and the thump of his fire extinguisher hitting the ground was lost in the boom as his shotgun went off in what seemed the same moment, which was the moment just before the zombie hurtled full force into him, flattening him out of sight into a pile of garbage bags.

"Ellis!" Rochelle screamed without thinking, and all three bolted forward. Nick didn't have to hold his breath for long, though, slowing his rush as soon as he saw that Ellis's legs were wildly kicking in the air, the only part of him visible, and that the zombie lay deadweight between them. 

The realization that he'd been holding his breath at all was irritably dismissed, and by the time he sauntered up, rifle slung cockily over his shoulder, it was only to stand by and watch, smirking, as Rochelle and Coach worked together to help the pinned Southerner. As they dragged the mutant off, tossing it aside, there he lay half buried in garbage underneath, indeed unharmed, though his chest was covered in zombie blood and he was looking, Nick was pleased to see, actually somewhat distressed.

"Help!" he yelped, stretching both of his arms out of the pile, cringing his face away from the garbage bags threatening to swallow him up as if they might try for real. "Help, please, it stinks real bad! Think they got people parts in these bags!"

That spoiled Nick's humor a little, smirk falling in disgust. Rochelle and Coach each gripped one outstretched hand, together easily heaving the unhappy looking hick from his impromptu bed and up to his feet. He mumbled a thanks, looking back down behind him at the bags with a revolted shudder. Nick was still amused enough to consider taunting him anyway, but on an instinct turned away, cocking an ear to the wind. He heard Rochelle comforting Ellis over his shoulder, checking to be sure he was okay, and he couldn't quite make out anything over her at first, squinting as if that would somehow help him block their voices out...

Then he caught it. It was quiet at first, but building in volume. It took him a moment to pick it apart, for it was not a sound but many, combined. The voices of distant, screaming infected, all melded together into a muted roar. Muted, but coming closer -- coming right for them.

"We got company," he interrupted their conversation to alert them, suddenly and stiffly. The others looked up, and as they went silent, they could all hear it clearly too. Horror dawned in their eyes as they all at once understood that there were too many coming, too many for them to fight. They had no proper cover, and their ammo was already severely depleted.

"In the trailer!" Ellis was the first to break their frozen silence, voice hushed but strained with urgency, and together they all tore forward. The Southerner reached the door first and ripped it open, urging them up the steps, blue eyes frozen wide with nerves, even his reckless courage chilled by the sound of the howling roar rising to a horrible din, echoing in the surrounding block like they were already almost upon them, though he knew they had to have a few more seconds, precious seconds. Rochelle flew up the steps inside, followed more slowly by Coach, who Nick had to resist shoving in his behind to hurry, then the gambler himself leapt nimbly inside.

Ellis could feel their stampeding footsteps on the ground as he swung around the door to scramble up the steps last, heart racing like a rabbit's, and he didn't hesitate to seize for the ringed hand extended unexpectedly down for him, letting Nick heave him up inside the trailer. He fell half on top of him on the floor, but didn't bother climbing off all the way before lunging back hurriedly for the door, bracing his other arm on one of Nick's legs, and pulling it nearly shut. He forced it to stop just shy of the jam, so as not to slam it, then with a trembling hand pulled it carefully, quietly closed the final half inch, with a click.

At what felt like the very same moment, the howling mob reached the trailer, and the roar of their screams seemed to surround them. As they met one another's tension-stricken eyes, they were all thinking the same, nerve-wracking thought-- nobody knew if they'd closed the door in time to avoid their detection.

Chapter Text

LEVEL ll - THE STREETS - l/lV

When nothing came slamming immediately at the trailer door, it was a huge relief-- enough for Nick to notice the hick still laying on his leg, tangled up by the door right where he'd tumbled inside, and to push him firmly off -- but there was no relaxing yet, the danger far from over. The screams and screeches and stampeding feet poured around them, past them, and Rochelle clamped her hands over her mouth to stifle a gasp when the sound of clawing, scrambling hands climbing the walls outside indicated that some zombies were choosing to go directly over their heads. It wasn't a large trailer, and it rocked ominously as their bodies thudded into it, and grappled at its walls. The thought of it being possibly tipped over was unpleasant, for multiple reasons. 

Coach had an arm around Rochelle's shoulders. She was tucked into his side, knees drawn to her chest. Ellis had scooted back to huddle by the door, curly head leaned back against the wall. He held his shotgun tightly in both hands, and Nick could see the apple of his throat bob as he swallowed, blue eyes on the door beside him but unfocused with tension.

"So much for keeping quiet," Nick dared to dryly whisper. It was meant to provide some comic relief-- it was a little funny, to his dark sense of humor, that it had been almost directly after Rochelle's warning about keeping quiet to avoid attracting attention that they'd managed to alert a whole horde. They literally hadn't made it out of the hotel driveway. Instead, though, Ellis winced, looking guilty, and looking down at one of his boots as he shuffled it.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "s'my fault."

"Are you kidding?" Rochelle protested, and despite her hushed voice Coach grimaced a little, looking worriedly up at the roof, the trailer still shaking with the bodies crawling over it. It was hard to imagine them hearing anything over their racket, but there was no telling. Some noises certainly seemed to attract them more than others.

"Honey, that was an amazing shot. My heart turned to ice when that thing jumped. I'm just glad you didn't freeze up like I did."

Coach interjected in a harsh but careful whisper, tension in his eyes as he lectured them.

"Y'all need to hush, or we gonna be zombie food anyway. This thing can't take a whole gang like that. They hear us in here, they gonna crunch us like a Coke can."

That sobering imagery shut them all up, and they waited in uncomfortable silence for the screaming horde to dissipate. When it did, not a minute later, though it seemed an eternity, it felt sudden. One moment, there was chaos, the next, the roars were dying swiftly away, soon leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

It was over, but nobody was in a hurry to venture outside... they were all a little shaken, whether they'd admit it or not. Ellis was the first to break the silence, blowing out a sigh and resting his head back against the wall.

"Hooo-whee... could hear my heart goin'. That was somethin' else, damn. We ain't made it to the street."

Nick flatly threw his hands up, in a gesture said, That's all I was trying to say! though of course he hadn't said as much exactly.

"That was awful, god," Rochelle whined, rubbing her arms. "My flesh just keeps crawling, think I'm going to have the chills for a week."

Crawling flesh and chills were almost nothing to joke about, Nick thought privately, though of course he nearly did. The idea of limiting contact with the infected was a joke itself, at this point-- either they were going to get it, or they weren't. He was paranoid that at some point he was going to feel himself starting to get sick, but so far, he felt fine -- besides the sour mood, aching chest, tailbone, lungs and everything else, of course. He was starting to think the virus either wasn't airborne, like they'd said, or the four of them were lucky enough to just have some kind of natural immunity. If not, then the cloud released by that Smoker surely would have done the job. It easily still might -- it hadn't been that long. He wondered-- would they turn into Smokers too? Did the mutant zombies spread their specific mutation, or was it something else, something about the host, that caused the virus to mutate? The fact that it mutated in consistent ways, creating creatures with distinctly different attributes and behaviors, was wild.

Pulled down that line of thought, Nick glanced over at Rochelle, and as they were still all taking a minute to recover, asked,

"What was that thing out there? You were telling us about it right before it tried to take Ellis to bed."

Ellis scoffed in protest, looking slightly embarrassed.

"They call those ones Hunters. It's... accurate. We were lucky we were all paying attention, and not already fighting off a bunch of others-- and that yee-haw over here's such a quick shot, of course," she added, giving Ellis, who grinned bashfully at the praise, a warm look. Her eyes sobered again as she went on.

"But those things get real nasty. They stalk you like prey, can climb and leap, like you saw.. and well, you saw the claws."

They hadn't had time to inspect the creature too closely, what with the horde coming, but nobody had missed those claws, long and sharp and hard enough to scrape metal. It wasn't difficult, nor pleasant, to imagine how much damage they could do to tender flesh.

"Awesome," Nick flatly broke the discomfited silence. "This is fun. More and more fun. Are you having fun yet, hick?"

"Uh, well," Ellis began, "I mean, sure it's all perty terrifyin'... but like, on the bright side--"

Nick ejected a disgusted sigh as a guilty, mischievous chortle began to warm the kid's voice, and began pulling himself pointedly up to his feet,

"-- boy am I gonna have some stories to tell Keith, like holy high hell, is he gonna be so jealous--"

"I'll bet," he dryly cut him off, as he stepped past the Southerner, who started to clamber up himself, over to the other side of the trailer, where there was a table attached to the walls, its contents in shadows. "We need to get moving, it's gonna be dark soon. Think there's anything in here we can use?" 

He twisted the blinds stick so that they let in the fading sunlight, green eyes briefly scanning the street for zombies before dropping to the surface below. The others were shifting around and investigating behind him, their steps making the trailer squeak slightly.

"Flashlight would sure be convenient. Or I dunno, some grenades. Or, oh look, even better. Hey big man, good news --"

Grinning slyly, he turned around, and extended a narrow box of powdered donuts, mostly full, out towards Coach.

"CEDA packed donuts. It's all~ gonna be okay."

Coach leveled him a threatening stare. If Nick was impressed -- he was -- he didn't betray it, shit-eating grin staying perfectly in place, etched on his face.

"Boy," he rumbled, low with warning, "I'm not sure I like your attitude."

"Well this would sure be awkward if I cared about your feelings," Nick returned, sweetly snide, still holding out the donuts. He followed the retort up with one, two little shakes of the box, together with a suggestive eyebrow lift.

"... do you not want them?"

There was a stare off. Rochelle and Ellis were captive witnesses, stuck watching the two men in bewilderment. It was Ellis, from near Coach's shoulder, that hopefully attempted to defuse the tension.

"Uhh, I'd.. I'd take a do-nut, if they ain't uh, yew know, zom-bie-fied."

Coach let out a low sigh, and Nick's gambler eyes saw the fold coming before it came, as the older man decided to be the mature one, of course, and reached out to take the box of donuts, holding Nick's eyes with a disapproving stare. Nick kept his thin slice of a grin, perfectly satisfied with being the immature one, for the sake of giving Coach grief, and didn't look away till Coach had, turning to pop open the box and share with Ellis and Rochelle. 

Nick turned back around to finish looking over the desk, though he didn't see much else of any use, information or otherwise.

"No thanks," he heard Rochelle decline, "it'll just make me thirstier."

"Oh most definitely," Nick flatly confirmed, before giving up on the contents of the desk and turning back to them, just to see Ellis looking up at his comment, paused midchew, with an expression that said he was possibly second-guessing his decision to shove what looked to be an entire donut at once into his bulging cheeks. After a second, though, his jaw slowly started moving again, committed by this point.

Nick tried not to think where his hands had been, and gave silent thanks when the hick at least chose to wipe the powdered sugar from his fingertips off on his coveralls, rather than lick them clean. He might have barfed.

"Any chance of us making it to the mall before it gets dark?" Rochelle wondered.

Ellis finished the last of his donut with a hard swallow, and spoke up thoughtfully, glancing out at the evening sky. 

"Uhh, well.. if we make real good time, an' don't end up needin' to make no detours, or fight too many zom-bies.. mm, well," he bit his lip, and regretfully arrived at the conclusion, ".. naww, sorry Ro. Probably not."

She sighed, but nodded in acceptance, as if she'd expected as much.

"That tracks. Mall's still the plan though, right? We're hoping they haven't cleared out yet?"

"We're hopin'," Coach confirmed stoutly. "If nothin' else, at least maybe we get some information. Vannah was goin' down already when we arrived, didn't have time for investigating. Hopin' the mall's in better shape. If they did clear out, at least they'll have left instructions for those left behind."

"And at what point do we decide the government doesn't give a shit about us, and stop chasing after them?" Nick had to ask, voice dry and callous.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Nick," Coach replied in that low timbre, fixing him with another stare. Nick didn't think he'd forgiven him for the donut jibe yet. "What alternative are you suggesting?"

"Oh no, I'm not the ideas guy," Nick dismissed, sardonically breezy. "I just point out what's wrong with everyone else's plan. That's my job."

"Can't just live here with the zombies, Nick," Ellis informed him solemnly, like he'd been suggesting as much. "Too many of 'em for us to clear out on our own. Much as I'd sure like tuh."

"Hey, listen, I'm not sticking around, trust me. I don't care how perty the sun looks setting over the hayfield, or whatever, I'm pretty sick of fucking Savannah right now. All I'm saying is, when it comes to it, might wanna be prepared for a plan C, so we're not all sitting with our thumbs up our asses. I just like to get ahead of disappointment. But hey, that's me. Don't let me ruin the fun."

"... whut bout plan B?" Ellis wondered blankly.

"This is plan B, remember Ace? Plan A's going up in flames outside. Speaking of, maybe we should leave before the hotel falls over on us, huh?"

"Agreed," rumbled Coach solemnly. "We're losin' daylight fast."

"Shiit~... you think 'em zombies do better or worse at night?" Ellis wondered.

"Don't know... I just know we're not going to be able to see for shit," Rochelle pouted. "I hope it was just the hotel that lost power, and not the whole city yet, or this is gonna be scary."

"Maybe it'll help us sneak by 'em, if it's that dark," Ellis imagined. "We could be real quiet, ninja like."

He startled chortling, sneaking a twinkling, too-conspiratorial glance Nick's way.

"Hellll, Nick 'n I prolly smell like them zombies, by now. Could prolly fool um just by noses. Yew think zombies can smell good?"

Nick returned his teasing look with an unforgiving glare.

"You reek twice as bad as I do, hick."

Unfazed, Ellis just chuckled more, a little one-sided grin flashing a glimpse of a canine as he confessed merrily, 

"Mann, I believe it. Can't hardly smell nothin' now, after all that smoke an' zombie guts 'n shit. Think my snout turned itself off for self-preservation. Hell, I was surprised I could smell those bags of body bits-- but they was right up against my face. Uff. Smelled like they'd been sweatin' all day in the sun, too, pee-yew--

"God," Nick cut in with a harsh snarl, "stop. You're disgusting, I don't want to hear it. Remind me not to touch you again till we find you a decontamination shower."

Expression torn between amusement and exasperation, it was Rochelle who, after catching the steeling breath of Coach's waning patience beside her, shrugged herself off the wall, one arm draped over her assault rifle, to step towards the door, crossing between the two.

"Time to go, boys," she chided lightly, though preemptively lowering her voice slightly as she reached for the door handle did more to realign their focus than her tone did.

"Yeahyeahyeah," Nick muttered, closing in on her heels to cut Ellis off as he perked to follow. She leaned carefully out the door, briefly scanning the area for signs of movement, before dropping lightly down out of the trailer, the others soon spreading out behind her. 

The blue sky was deepening further, and pretty colors now stained the horizon and the sparse clouds drifting there in shades of bloody rose and dusky lavender. It was quiet, and as Ellis bent to pick up his fire extinguisher from where he'd abandoned it, even the slight scrape of the canister against the asphalt seemed to echo. Rochelle and Coach were picking their way over bodies towards the road, keeping a close eye on the many blindspots in the area. Nick lagged after the cautious group, and the tiny, grating metal tskh! of a lighter striking in the quiet air had them all glancing back to see that the gambler had produced a cigarette, and now held it pinched between his thin lips as he took a flame to it. 

Nobody said anything, Ellis's stare the only one to curiously linger more than a moment, which Nick ignored, letting his eyes flutter shut in satisfaction with that first draw, savoring the familiar, comforting scent of the tobacco, the heat in his lungs. 

The silence couldn't last, but even Ellis had the sense to keep a hush to his voice as he broke it.

"Aw, well this here's just.. eerie. I don't think I like it so quiet-like. Almost better when 'ems zombies comin' atcha."

Watching his smoke drift up into the sky after a sighing exhale, Nick scoffed, scolding lazily,

"Oh c'mon, Cletus, what have I been telling you. You fucking jinx us when you say shit like that, you know that?"

"Aww how's that?" Ellis protested, laughter in his blue eyes. "Everything's a jinx to yew, Nick."

"You ever heard of be careful what you wish for?" Nick asked, with a dark, warning look his way. "Next bad thing that happens is your fault."

"Hahaww naw, now that ain't fair. Wut if it ain't even zombies? If somethin' else bad happens, then that ain't my fault, right?"

"Well, now it fucking is."

"Man~. Well, then I just hope everything goes real smooth and borin' an' quiet like, jess like you like. S'that better Nick?"

"No. I don't think you get how this works. And unless you plan on being a little slower with the next Hunter that tries to cuddle you, the chances of this being a quiet trip are absolutely fucking zero, hick. You're here.

"H'awhaha.. aw. Yeaa. Reckon that's true," Ellis admitted, wearing a little grin that was sheepish but still wholly unoffended. "I never could keep a lid on it-- my mama would always say--"

It was Rochelle who rescued him, calling lightly,

"Hey guys, you think it's worth checking out this tent?"

They were approaching the large tent they'd seen earlier, set up on the fenced off street in front of the Vannah. The door flap was raised, but they couldn't see much inside from their angle.

"Might as well, while the coast's clear," agreed Coach. "Seems like that big group pulled everything in the nearby area along with it. Should be careful, though, just in case."

As they approached the tent, Nick could admit -- only to himself, mind you -- understanding how Ellis felt about the quiet. What had seemed peaceful to him for a minute under the setting sun, after the stress of the horde and escaping the hotel, the first chance he'd had for a smoke in a good while, now started to itch at him. 

No traffic, no birds, no dogs barking... just a quiet city, the only sounds the tread of their feet on the asphalt and the distant crumbling noises now and then as some part of the Vannah collapsed to the flames behind them.

Inside the tent, the light was dim. They entered cautiously, guns at the ready, but nothing surprised them, the tent as unoccupied by anything moving as it had appeared from the outside. The area was taken up by cots, tables and miscellaneous supplies, some of which looked distinctly medical and worth checking into. They split up wordlessly, avoiding the ubiquitous bodies on the ground at first, at least until Rochelle noticed the flashlight on the belt of an armored security guard and was forced by necessity to gingerly loot his corpse of it.

"Thank goodness," she muttered after announcing it to the rest of the group, switching it on briefly just to check it worked and had batteries-- nice and bright.

"That makes me feel better, even if we do end up deciding to go sneaky. Hey, anyone want a night stick?"

Nick glanced skeptically over at the downed officer, considering briefly, then shook his head, deciding to stick with his golf club. 

Coach had scavenged some medical supplies, stowing them away in his pack. Nick caught sight of a small, canvas roll lying on the ground beneath a table, and motivated to investigate, tapped it to unroll with the tip of his rifle's barrel. There was the faint crunching sound of fine broken glass, and he saw most of the syringes it contained had been shattered, but he saw some remained intact, their prefilled contents safe inside. He crouched to peer at the labels before daring to touch anything.

Epinephrine. That could come in handy. Maybe if they needed to super charge the hick into self combusting. That would have to be about the only circumstance he could imagine giving the already amped boy an adrenaline enhancer.

He shook out the remains of the broken auto injectors, rolled the rest back up and pocketed them. 

As they got ready to go, Ellis waiting by the door to keep an eye out, Coach noticed his fire extinguisher still dangling from one hand.

"Boy, whatchu still haulin that thing around for? You see any fires out here?"

"Aww, nahh... guess it's silly," Ellis admitted with some embarrassment, glancing down at it. "Jess was really hopin' to use it, s'all. An' it does do real good on them zombie heads."

"Just be careful, son. Ain't really meant to be used that way. You hear it leaking or anything, you throw it far. Those things can cause damage."

"Wh- like they don't explode or nothin', do they?" Ellis wondered, gaping, and Nick would be damned if he could tell whether he was more intimidated or intrigued.

"Not usually. But it happens."

Ellis looked unsure, but when they withdrew from the tent and started down the road, Nick noticed he still carried it.

Rochelle was lagging a little bit, seeming distracted by the bodies on the ground. Nick was considering bringing it up, but Ellis beat him to it, piping up curiously,

"Whatcha lookin for, Ro?"

"Well..." she began hesitantly, "please don't judge me, but.. I was hoping to maybe find a bag, or something. I lost mine and I'm not used to not having something to carry things in. And that could.. be really necessary, honestly."

"Can't even wait for the mall to go shopping, huh?" Nick muttered around his cigarette. "Typical woman."

"Hey, I'm not the one who can't shut up about their clothes, Suit," Rochelle countered. "If we wanna talk stereotypes."

"That's okay, sweetheart," Nick carelessly returned. "You don't have to tell me clothes aren't important to you-- I can tell."

"Hey!" Rochelle exclaimed in affront. "Wow! Uncalled for. I happen to really like this outfit."

"Uh-huh," was all Nick meaningfully muttered, one eyebrow critically cocked.

"Sheesh..."

A lone zombie came wandering sluggishly out of the hedges seperating the road lanes up ahead, distracting them all. He swore he heard Ellis mutter a relieved, Oh good just under his breath, and would have punished him if he'd been close enough to be sure, but instead chose to ignore him. It was Coach in the lead, and big man took on the single infected, which seemed a little slow, looking up to them with horrific, gaunt features almost empty of hostility for a moment, in dumb confusion. It was unsettling, and almost better when its expression twisted into a delayed, enraged snarl, and it came careening for them, head askew like its neck had already been injured.

Coach decapitated it with a clean blow, if clean could ever be the permissible word for these kills, as the running body tumbled a few feet forward before crashing down, seperated by a streak of bloody spray from the head, which twirled down through the air before cracking on the ground, and rolling slowly down the slightly declining street away from them. It was still rolling when Nick made himself stop looking.

"Dang Coach, yer a real beast with that thing," Ellis breathed. Coach only gave a low hum of modest acknowledgement, not pausing his steady stride. 

Ellis was soon chatting. Like Rochelle, he had been searching for something, but his eyes were not down on the street, but on one side of it, and the buildings beyond.

"So mall's this way, should get off the road and through these buildings I guess, wherever's safest... aw, heyyy... is that what I think it is?"

He broke into a jog, pulling ahead and leaving them all clueless, and Nick annoyed. He was still reluctant to disturb the quiet in the neighborbood, or he would have raised his voice to demand what he'd seen. Instead, he had no choice to jog after the impulsive hick to find out. 

What he led them to was an extremely unassuming grey door, cracked ajar, built into a concrete brick wall where the street had sloped low enough that they were a level below the buildings there. It was the kind of door that would have never have even registered to Nick normally. He saw more concrete brick inside, a peek of pipes and low orange lighting. The whole city hadn't lost power yet, then, maybe just some of the area.

"Hawhaw, hell yeah," the Southerner exclaimed at the sight, turning back to them with a grin on his face. When he caught their uncertain looks -- and Nick's impatient eyebrow lift, he elaborated.

"It's a maintenance tunnel," he told them proudly. "Ain't gonna be too many zombies in there, right? Betchu we can take this a ways under the streets an' come out closer, lil shortcut."

"That sounds like a great way to get lost," Nick was immediately, critically skeptical. "How do we know for sure this will lead us any closer to where we want to be?"

"Well, we'll have to keep our sense of direction, but.. I mean, I reckon it's gotta let out lots of elsewheres-- gotta be accessible, after all. An' it's gonna be locked from the inside, not the out, so ain't like we gonna get trapped or nothin'..."

Nick steeled himself, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing shut in an effort at patience. Ellis caught his look, and realized what he'd said, expression turning apologetic. He tried and failed to make it better, adding hesitantly,

"... probably?"

Nick hissed a sigh out from his teeth, cutting him off.

"Stop. Christ. Okay, let's go, before I change my mind. For the record, I hate this plan."

"Could be worse, Nick --" Ellis piped up earnestly without thinking,  "aw shit, sorry--"

The gambler had thrown both arms in the air, turning round in a half circle as if to appealing for recognition from some audience in the sky, to see what he had to put up with.

"-- jess sayin, though," he kept trying, "ain't like it's a sewer, or nothin'. Yew'd really hate that."

"I sure~ would, hick," Nick growled slowly, spending a indispensible chunk of his waning patience trying not to chew through his cigarette. "I'm sure you'd feel right at home."

Not waiting for the other two to finish talking, Coach was carefully pulling the door the rest of the way open, Rochelle on full alert following at his heels, rifle defensively readied.

Ellis blustered, torn between surprise, amusement and confusion, so used to Nick already it seemed offense was difficult to target... not that he'd had any better luck at the beginning.

"What, why, what's that for?  .. don't live in a sewer, Nick." 

Some admonishment in his tone, at least, but even that was patient. 

"You mean cuz I'm all dirty? Ain't normally this bad... I mean, these are my work clothes, y'know. I work on cars, does get a lil messy, s'jess the way it is. Don't mean I'm a stinker."

"Alright, alright," Nick dryly stopped him, closing the door just shy of shut behind them as they all made it into the narrow tunnel. "I take it back, sport, I'm sorry. You don't smell like shit-- just actual death. Better?"

Ellis only snorted, giving him a half-heartedly reproachful look.

"Well, yew smell like an ashtray, Nick."

Nick, Nick, Nick. Didn't the kid ever get tired of saying his name? 

Funny-- he didn't think he'd uttered Ellis's name once.

He didn't reply as he inhaled from the last centimeters of his cigarette, close enough to warm his lips through the filter, impassive features giving away nothing... then turned his head to the side without looking, exhaling the stream of smoke directly at Ellis's face.

The hick walked right into it, and recoiled with an exclamation of protest, coughing and swiping at it.

"Aww, ff, hell, Nick," he complained, wincing, "don't! S'like being back in that weird zombie gas bomb. Ain't your lungs got enough smoke today, Nick? Oughta give them poor things a rest."

"Nope."

Ellis tsked reproachfully, shaking his head to himself in disbelief. Nick noticed that as soon as the smoke dissipated, however, he was back near his side, undeterred, even before Nick crushed the last of his cigarette out on the wall as they walked, leaving a sooty black streak behind. 

The tunnel was made up of turns and variations, opening up at times into a maintenance room of some kind before continuing through a door on the other side. In some of these rooms was a harsher, fluorescent light, so white it was nearly green, but in contrast the lights of the tunnel were a dim, low orange, and, they soon found out, had a tendency to flicker ominously. The first time it happened, Nick sneered a glimpse of his teeth, muttering tightly through them with sarcastic pleasure,

"Well isn't that just... perfect."

"Not to worry!" Rochelle said proudly, pulling her flashlight from where she'd carefully tucked it into her belts. "We don't need lights, I've got this bad boy."

She clicked it on and off, its bright beam overpowering the low, golden light of the tunnel, bleaching it of color into the grey it really was.

"Super," Nick muttered, declining to comment on the audaciously universe-taunting nature of a statement like We don't need lights.

One flashlight. If the tunnels went dark, they had one flashlight, and Ellis to lead them out.

Some halls, they soon noted -- for they also branched, to Nick's extreme displeasure, declaring it a 'god damn labyrinth'-- were already dark. Ellis suggested 'maybe them lights is jess off', which was reasonable, but also had to then follow it up with, 'or maybe these ones is already usin' back up power', which made it worse.

Ellis seemed confident in his navigating, which naturally reassured Nick exactly none. He was too confident -- how in the hell was he guessing where they were supposed to be? It was hard to imagine he was taking this as seriously as he needed to be. He wasn't comforted when Ellis paused, apparently distracted to peer at something on the ground. He kept going a few steps, figuring he'd catch up, but then that Southern voice spoke up, in a tone of curiosity.

"Hey Ro, hold up.. would'ju shine a light down here fer a second?"

"What's up, sport?" Nick was quick to taunt, one arm draped over his rifle, hanging at his hip, as he turned round. "Find a lucky penny?"

Rochelle passed him, curiosity in her own features, pulling out her flashlight and clicking it on to aim it at the ground where Ellis was crouched.

In the dim orange light, it hadn't been notable, but in the white pool of the flashlight, they saw what Ellis had seen. Patches of some kind of now-dried substance speckled the ground, a muddy green color with crispy foam preserved at the edges. 

"Hawh," Ellis breathed, his instinct vindicated by his own fascination. He held his fire extinguisher thoughtfully hugged to his side with one arm, like a teddy bear, looking ridiculous, crouched on the tunnel floor. "Shit, that is weird."

"Gross," Nick commented flatly. "Not enough nasty shit everywhere for you, kid? Wanna take a sample?"

"Naww, naw," Ellis muttered distractedly, getting reluctantly to his feet but eyes fixed on that puddle. He toed the dried foam tentatively with the toe of his boot, and it collapsed crispily.

"Weird," he breathed, and then looked apologetically up at the others. "Sorry, sorry, we can go-- was jess curious."

Though Nick was superstitiously reluctant to even acknowledge as much, they hadn't run into any zombies in the maintenance tunnels -- yet. Though Rochelle couldn't fire her weapon without the use of both hands, she kept the flashlight in her hand after Ellis's discovery, as the possibility of the lights suddenly going out soon seemed more likely than a sudden onslaught of zombies. It wasn't long after that she flicked it on again, revealing more muddy green where it had appeared colorless in the cancelling orange light.

"Hey Ellis, looks like more of your stuff," she commented, leaning a little to peer at it. "It is kinda funky looking, isn't it? You don't think CEDA was transporting some kind of chemical through here, or something?"

"Wut... yew mean like some kinda biological zombie killing weapon?!" Ellis gaped, an expression in his eyes like his imagination had just rocketed away. Rochelle hesitated, looking embarrassed as she straightened from her stoop to move on, switching off the flashlight, but admitting,

"Well... I guess so, yeah."

"Ho damn~," Ellis breathed, with an undertone of excitement.

"You guys are ridiculous," Nick scolded flatly. "'Chelle, don't encourage him, what are you doing."

It was as she was quietly chuckling that the lights began to flicker rapidly, then abruptly powered down, descending them into inky blackness.

Chapter Text

LEVEL ll - THE STREETS - ll/lV

"Son of a bitch," Nick spat. "I fucking knew it."

"It's okay!" Rochelle's voice nearly sang from the darkness, far too cheery. "That's what we've got.. this for!"

With this, the flashlight clicked on, its bright beam creating a focused, starkly lit pool, and illuminating little else. Nick could hardly make out his own feet, and though the beam spread decently far as Rochelle trained it down the hall, casting circular patterns on the grey brick till it was swallowed up by darkness still too close for Nick's comfort, a nagging discomfort had him looking immediately back over his shoulder instead, where, at the back of the group, the black void loomed immediately, ominously close, as if something might reach out inches from his face, and him be none the wiser.

"Yeah," Nick replied tightly, "that's great. Please don't fucking drop it. I will... mm. I will be very unhappy."

"Aww, Nick, you ain't sca--?"

Nick whirled on the Southerner, startling him into bemused silence with his snapping interruption.

"No, hick, I'm not scared of the fucking dark. I'm scared of dying in it. With you. Because there's zombies everywhere, and you made us go into a random fucking tunnel with the power shutting down all over the city and one fucking flashlight."

Under that onslaught, Ellis at least frowned a little, twisting his mouth, but there was still more chiding patience in his eyes than anything, tsking reproachfully. The effect was, nevertheless, almost a pout. 

"Maan~... I ain't make yew do nothin'. Still ain't seen no zombies," he maintained, and that was definitely a little huffy.

"Yeah," Nick countered immediately, shortly, "and we won't, when they do show up, cause it's dark as shit."

".... could be darker."

He had his hand up to viciously smack him, but the kid was gone from where he'd been, and he found himself slightly impressed that he'd had the foresight, even in the dark, to scurry away out of reach, a nerve-thrilled giggle on his breath.

Impressive-- and irritating.

"You little-- if that flashlight goes out I'll fucking kill you. You hear me hick?"

He'd snarled it like he might have actually meant to inflict damage, and thought from a moment's quiet that he might finally have the Southerner second guessing... but instead, over the sound of their foot-treads, he could just catch Ellis muttering to himself, quietly proud and petulant,

"... couldn't catch me in the light... ain't never gittin' me inna dark."

"I can hear you," Nick warned him dryly. "And I will. You wanna know why? You know why, dumbass? Cause you'll fucking talk. You wouldn't last one minute -- hey I ever tell yew 'bout this one time, me 'n my buddy Keith --"

The accent came out of nowhere, harsh and exaggerated, lacking Ellis's honeyed, twanging cadence, but so committed that Rochelle and Ellis both burst out in full-chested laughter, and Coach's rumbling chuckles could be soon heard joining them. It was hard for Nick not to feel annoyed, uncomfortable and reluctantly pleased all at once, his ire starting to deflate like a punctured yoga ball, but he flattened his mouth from the temptation of a smirk, maintaining some obligatory hardness to his tone as he finished, though there was a laziness to the threat. 

"And that's when I'll find you and strangle you with my bare hands. Capisci?"

"Hahahaw, oh lawdy. Reckon yer right, Nick. Shit. Jess do that voice, that's all yew need, an' you'd crack me up any time. Wouldn't never win a game a hide 'n seek wit' yew."

The darkness didn't feel quite so threatening, for a little while.

It couldn't last. They'd gone a while without any sign of the infection, beside the power outage and possibly the mysterious dried fluids.  It was in one of the maintenance rooms that they found the first corpse. Rochelle jumped when her flashlight beam first crossed it, with a sharp intake of breath, and they all jolted too.

It was a grisly sight. The maintenance worker was propped sitting slumped against a wall, clearly uninfected by the color of his skin on one half of his body, chalky with death but not the discolored, sickly hue of those infected with the virus.

The skin on the other half of his body was pretty much gone.

The eyeball there was rolled back, milky, shrivelled and an angry red, blood vessels burst. The flesh of his face was raw and exposed, and clumps of mishappen, sticky skin dripped from what remained of his jaw, like it had not been shredded so much as melted away. Part of his scalp had begun to slough away from his skull.

"Oh, Jiminy-- oh my gosh, no, nope," Rochelle miserably recoiled, and the light dropped away as she let the beam fall. "I feel sick."

"God damn..." Ellis murmured, stepping up and gently relieving her of the flashlight, approaching to take a closer look. The kid had a strong stomach. Nick's knuckles touched his pinched nose, trying to conceal his disgust, feeling more in line with Rochelle's reaction but pride motivating him to reluctantly get a little closer, following Ellis. 

"That's real messed up... shit~," the hick was murmuring, with solemn astonishment. "How'd this even happen? That don't look chewed up to me, looks more like the poor sucker jes up an'... melted... - uh-oh."

"Uh-oh?" Nick snapped accusingly. "What uh-oh."

"Looky here," the Southerner pointed out grimly. Though he really didn't want to, Nick took a few steps closer, and with a grimace of disgust, peered closer at where Ellis was indicating.

Muddy green, foamy goo, congealed in with the flesh and skin, sticky and still drying.

"S'that stuff we been seein'," Ellis murmured gravely. "Reckon it's another one of 'em freak zombies?"

They all shared an uneasy look, their faces starkly shadowed in the dramatic, single source light of the flashlight.

Nick was the first to groan, pitiably.

"I don't wanna fucking know, let's just get out of here before it comes back. Or I puke."

Nobody else seemed particularly inclined to argue, or talk about it. Coach was making the sign of the cross over his chest, shaking his head just slightly as he gazed down at the wretched corpse.

"Terrible way to go," he intoned solemnly, before taking the first step to move on. Ellis returned Rochelle's flashlight, and they climbed the short set of stairs to the landing where the hallway continued through another door. There'd been a few of these stairs-- sometimes, a door opened near the top of a room, and they left out the bottom.

"I hate this fucking virus," Nick muttered sourly under his breath as they walked. "Unbelievable. Let's take the maintenance tunnels, he said. Be less zombies in there, he said. You might melt, but at least there won't be any zombies--"

"Ain't seen no zombies yet," Ellis reminded him hopefully, though he sounded a little less confident this time. "Jes a... dead guy. Coulda not been zombies. Least it's quiet, right Nick?"

"Wrong again, hick," Nick growled flatly. "Your pulse is beating, and I haven't found the duct tape to close your mouth shut yet, so no, no it's not quiet."

It was Coach's low chuckle that came unexpectedly from up ahead.

"Boy..." he intoned, "you one to talk. Almost as bad as he is."

Nick sputtered at this indictment.

"I am not!" was all he could indignantly retort.

"Pair of damn chatterboxes, the both of you, if I've ever seen any," Coach went on to condemn him. "And I have. Spent the last twelve years teaching highschool."

Before Nick could wrap his head around being compared to a teenager, let alone Ellis, the hillbilly jumped in with interest.

"Yer a teacher, Coach? That's so funny. I jess assumed you was a coach for real."

"Health and PE teacher, son. I coach the school team."

"Oh right, durr. Never did do much public schoolin', fergot how all that worked."

Shocking. Nick had just the grace to refrain from making a quip. Rochelle, however, questioned him further.

"You were homeschooled, sweetie?"

"Aw, yea, fer some. Didn't do too good in public school, so Ma went and pulled me out, made sure I got an ejacation at home. I ended up doin' jess fine on all my numbers 'n hist'ry, readin' an' shit, ain't like I'm dumb -- though I kinda thought I must be, for a half bit," he admitted with a frank candor Nick couldn't fathom. "Jess couldn't focus fer shit 'n class. An' uh... got in some fights, I guess."

"You? Fights?" Rochelle wondered disbelievingly, and though they probably shouldn't have been talking so much, it didn't take an intuitive leap to guess she was trying to keep her mind off what they'd just seen. He couldn't really blame her, even if it meant encouraging the motor mouth. 

"I can't believe it," she warmly cooed, "you're such a sweetie. Well, except with the zombies."

"Weren't my fault," Ellis protested, though with a hint of guilty defensiveness Nick picked up on, no real feat when he immediately admitted himself, "least, not mostly. I didn't start nothin', but... well. Sometimes yew jes gotta fight."

"Ain't that the truth," Coach agreed solemnly, and even in the dark Nick, at least, noticed Ellis looked gratified, shooting Coach a grateful glance he might have missed himself.

Not long after, Ellis exclaimed brightly, and trotted up ahead towards a door like the one they'd entered through. Nick wasn't sure what exactly had tipped him off that it was a door to the outside-- maybe he'd smelled the fresh air, he imagined with amusement, like a dog.

"Hey, what'd I tell yew!" 

Setting his fire extinguisher down on the floor, he grasped the handle and cracked the door open before anyone could stop him. Only a crack, though, and he put his eye to it, peering outside.

As they reached him, he was breathing in excitement,

"Aw hey, yea I know where we are!" 

He shut the door softly before letting his hushed voice spill out, turning to them.

"Comic book shop I used to go to jess down the street from here, an' there's a good tackle shop too. An'... oh, man." 

A thought had visibly lit up his face, widening his eyes. He had an idea, and Nick didn't like that.

"Listen," he made his case solemnly. "I know we're in a real hurry, but there's this sweet gun store up jess up a few blocks from here that-a-ways, ain't even hardly out of our way none... reckon it might be worth a stop. Shit~, I wouldn't be surprised none if old man Whitaker weren't still open fer business. Tough ol' sonuvabitch, don't trust em government fer nuthin'. Reckon he wouldn't mind none either, if he ain't, us takin' a couple. Special circumstance, 'n all, end of the damn world. Not like money's any good no more."

Nick tsked, sighing as if injured.

"Don't say that kid, damn..." he lamented, "end of capitalist America, what a sad day."

"Could sure use some more firepower, if we're gonna make it to the mall," Coach solemnly considered, ".. and I hate to be the one to say it, but Nick's right."

"I am?" Nick asked, with surprise. "Oh goody."

"Much as I ain't givin' up hope just yet, we can't put all our stock in someone else getting our asses outta this mess. If the mall ends up being a bust, we'll need more ammo than we got to fight our way outta the city."

Nick's eyes glazed abruptly past Coach, and Rochelle exclaimed a startled Hey! of affront as with no warning he grabbed her shoulder, yanking her firmly back a step. In nearly the same movement, his other hand came up to her forearm and swung it up, forcing her flashlight to aim down the hall. As quickly as indignation had entered Rochelle's voice, it was replaced by a nervous hush, all of them staring raptly at what appeared to be nothing more than an empty hall.

"What is it, Suit?"

"I thought I saw -- okay, I know I saw --" his voice was taut with tension, frustration and nerves, "-- I don't know. It was glowing."

"What -- um, can I have my arm?"

She asked rather gently, and he released his grip on her forearm at once, like he'd forgotten he had it. She kept the light trained down the hall where he'd aimed it, though. Nick couldn't help but notice the hall forked off to the right just a short distance down.

"Glowin' you mean like... zombie eyes?" Ellis whispered.

"No," Nick muttered, frowning down the hall. "Green. It was like a neon green, not yellow, and it looked like it was..--"

"What's that?" Rochelle whispered in a hush, though they all already had an idea as her beam dropped to focus on the floor.

".. dripping."

The glare of the flashlight had actually masked it, for it was luminous, a dribbling trail of green slime, bubbling and popping like it was carbonated and-- as they were all a moment silent-- they could just make out a sizzling sound. Unlike the swampy colored, dried up puddles earlier, this was, as Nick had said, a fresh neon green.

Nick's breathing deepened, feeling sick and uneasy.

"What do we do?" Rochelle was the first to speak, on a breath of a whisper.

"... I say we kill it," Ellis was the first to answer, his voice firm. "Don't want it sneakin up on us later, whutever it is. 'Specially when we're dealin' wit' them zombies outside. Could take us a minute to clear em, an' we'd be pinned."

"I don't like to go lookin' for trouble, but I gotta agree," said Coach gravely. "I'd feel better knowin' that thing was put down. We ain't yet met nothin' guns can't fix, have we?"

Nick groaned, hating that he couldn't see a way around this. 

"Yeah, fuck, okay. Shit, everyone just be really fucking careful though. I don't like this."

"I'ma leave this here," Ellis murmured mostly to himself, looking down to his fire extinguisher, sitting by the door still, touching two fingertips to the shiny red. Nick swore he heard him utter a reassurance under his breath that he'd be back.

Fucking goober.

Rochelle, with the flashlight, was leading the way down one side of the narrow hall, carefully sidestepping the trail of luminous slime in the middle.

"Watch your step. That stuff looks like it'll eat right through your shoes."

"Did I mention I don't like this?" Nick snarked, following Coach down the other side with a dirty look down at the green substance popping dangerously close to his dress shoes.

"Sure did," Coach rumbled.

"Hold up," Rochelle murmured before they reached the corner of the splitting hall, realizing a problem, "-- hey, Nick, would you mind?"

She offered the flashlight across to him.

"You're the only one of us who can shoot with one hand..." she explained apologetically, though she didn't need to, as Nick was already slinging his rifle over his shoulder, reaching to take the flashlight, "plus, 'gotta protect the suit."

Nick illuminated his own handsome face to give her a dead eyed smirk.

"Thanks, babe. I'm afraid it's way too fucking late for that, but I appreciate the sentiment."

He traded the flashlight into his other hand, keeping it low, and drew his Magnum. They all made eye contact with each other, making sure they were ready, before they cleared the corner. Nick flashed the light swiftly up, hoping to blind and startle whatever might be there, but there was only empty hall again. They spotted dribbles of the substance, however, confirming Nick's suspicion that it had gone this way.

They proceeded cautiously, ears peeled to hear over their own thudding heartbeats. Just around another corner, a door was cracked ajar. The goo had trailed off, unhelpfully giving them no clue whether it might have gone inside or kept going, but they had to check it out.

Nick and Rochelle flanked the door, Ellis and Coach close by, keeping an eye down the hall. Rochelle toed the door cautiously open with her boot, raising her rifle, and Nick aimed the light inside, his Magnum with it.

The room was crowded with shelving units, junk, boxes and large storage containers. There were plenty of places for a zombie to hide, but there was no sign of one, and nothing seemed to move. The two of them stepped inside for a better look, flashlight beam scanning the room, and as nothing stirred, Nick was emboldened to cautiously give a few short, soft whistles, as if beckoning a dog.

"Come on, glowstick..." he called quietly, "anybody in here?"

"... Guess not," Rochelle murmured, after a bated breath, voicing his thoughts outloud. "Zombies don't hide, do they?"

In the next moment, two alarming noises collided into his attention at once. Ellis from the door, yelling urgently at him, and Rochelle yelping in pain, the closer noise causing him to automatically jerk his light her way, to see her assault rifle swinging to her hip by the shoulder strap as she clutched at her left forearm like she'd been stung. Then Ellis's screams processed.

"Nick, up! Fuck, look up!"

He obeyed, and looked straight up-- and almost wished he hadn't.

Clinging to a cluster of pipes that ran across the room near the ceiling, like it had spider-walked its way up there, a freakish zombie leered down at them, knees splayed out wide in a squat like some giant frog, bare, knobbly feet and hands clutching at the pipes close together. What was most horrific, though, was what the virus had done to its throat and jaw, the first horribly distended, swollen and unnaturally long, looming down towards them from gaunt and bony shoulders, and the jaw missing almost entirely, the flesh of the nose and nearly everything beneath it melted away, bloody and gaping, so that its maw stretched from its few remaining rotten teeth all the way to the base of its neck. Luminous green slime dripped from the cavernous opening -- right towards their heads.

Something barrelled into his middle, and suddenly he could see nothing, the flashlight's beam going wildly wide, throwing the rest of the room into pitch black chaos. He tripped and fell heavily into a shelving unit, which hurt, but it at least had the give to start to fall over.

Wonderful, he thought, as he went down with it in a clamoring din, crushed untidily underneath a body that, by its weight and the grunt it uttered in the fall, he could only deduce to be Ellis. He could hear Rochelle's gun rat-a-tat-tating, Coach swearing, a shotgun blast, and then what sounded unpleasantly and unmistakably like someone hawking up in preparation for the biggest loogie ever.

Rochelle screamed-- he dreaded to find out why. More baritone swearing, more shotgun blasts.

Grimacing, he struggled violently to dislodge Ellis, who was struggling to dislodge himself, swearing at him  with an angry wheeze-- it was hard to breathe under his weight -- and one hand occupied fiercely trying to aim the flashlight from his compromised position, to seek the still obviously living creature no doubt skittering over their heads in the otherwise pitch black room. At least its spit glowed.

"Fucking-- get off me, hick! God damn it!"

Ellis managed to disentangle himself, stumbling to his feet, then blindly reached down to help him out of the shelves, which he'd managed to fold himself right into in an undignified way -- the only saving grace of the darkness, that the whole group didn't have to witness that. When Ellis grabbed his arm, it wasn't a matter of accepting the help or not, this time-- the solid young Southerner just hefted him to his feet, which even in the moment was a little surprising, not that he needed a reminder that the kid was in good shape, the way he'd been swinging that heavy fire extinguisher around like it was nothing.

He didn't have time to give him shit yet, immediately pointing his Magnum and his flashlight together at the ceiling, spinning around to search for the creature. He stumbled a step, disoriented from all the darkness and possibly still a little dizzy from the tumble, and Ellis's solid shoulder caught his back, steadying him. Before he could assume it was a lucky accident, the hick had shifted, turning so that both his shoulders could press, almost tentatively, back against Nick's. He heard his unsteady breathing, catching his notice even as he tensely scanned the darkness for danger -- was the kid actually scared? Despite his presence admittedly assisting his balance, just then, his first instinct had been to jerk away from the contact, but he kept himself from doing so just in time, grimacing. 

Back to back. That was a thing, in movies and stuff. Buddy cop, Westerns, partners in crime and whatever. It seemed so theatrical, but it made sense, and not just in movies. It was dark, something was circling them, and they couldn't afford to have their backs exposed. He could even feel Ellis shifting slowly, like he was guiding them to rotate, and he hated how natural it was to fall into step with it, knowing it was the logical tactic, knowing how they must have fucking looked, and knowing only he would be thinking about how he fucking looked, just then, which only made him angrier. But he rotated with the Southerner, back to fucking back, like they'd done this before, flashlight's beam searching the darkness, breath bated... and as he noticed Coach and Rochelle had become silent too, and knew they couldn't have both been killed so quietly and easily, he realized they, too, must have been following his light, guns trained on it.

At least, he sure hoped.

On the floor over where Rochelle and Coach had been, he noticed a luminous pool of viciously crackling goo, but it looked like way more liquid than a human body should have been able to spit up-- more than wide enough to block a doorway, he considered, and a tough gap to neatly jump. How fucking dangerous was that? 

He was just picturing what might happen if they ever got caught in a situation with one of things where they couldn't dodge, and involuntarily jolted when a soft gasp over his shoulder attracted his attention, and Ellis whispered urgently, "Nick! There!"

Just in time for him to whirl round, rolling off the Southerner's shoulders, and spot the neon green blip falling through the darkness to the floor. 

He swung his light and Magnum straight up, and there it was, more ghastly than he remembered it, spidered back up into the corner with its long neck bending too far down with an unpleasant curve, loose flesh of its torso sagging in the dingy, stained white camisole barely containing it, its swollen and distended gut hanging out over its yoga pants. He had just enough time to be traumatized by the sight all over again, to take in its bulging eyes, bloodshot and milky, and what remained of its lank hair, drooping thinly from its pallid skull, just enough time to hear its nasty, wet hiss before Rochelle's assault rifle went off, and sprays of blood exploded all over its body, tearing up flesh and bone, decimating it. 

Nick got off one shot of his Magnum as soon as Rochelle opened fire, not taking any chances, but he was pretty sure it was already dead by the time he saw his .44 cal explode up through its neck, and didn't fire again, watching its wreck of a carcass tumble limply from his pool of light. It hit the ground with an unpleasantly wet noise, and they heard a renewed hissing sound. Luminous goo spattered the corner where it had clung, dripping down the grey concrete wall and sizzling with the blood mixed in like some macabre, black light wall art. On the ground, more of the awful stuff was leaking from the perforated creature, pooling around it -- her? -- in a disturbingly large spread, though it didn't reach nearly so far as the pool by the door.  

They were all quiet for a moment, able to hear their hearts pounding in their chests. He heard breathing -- Ellis's, still unsteady, shaky, good, maybe he'd fucking sober up a little now -- and footsteps, the others making their way cautiously over in the dark. 

He turned his flashlight away from the horrible sight on the floor, past Ellis's legs and up to the two other members of their team, not pointing the beam directly in their faces but near enough to take a critical look at them. Rochelle was wincing a little, and there was a smear of blood and raw-looking flesh on her arm, the red of it bright and gleaming against her smooth brown skin, but otherwise she looked alright.

"You good?" he checked, expression impassive but for a cock of one eyebrow.

"Yeaah," she lamented, letting a whiny grumble of complaint into her voice, pouting a little. "I was lucky, it was just a drop. Hurt like a son of a gun, though. Makes a beesting seem like nothing. And of course I was stupid, and panicked, and tried to rub it off right away, so--"

She held up her opposing hand -- the right, unfortunately -- and opened her loosely curled fingers, displaying another garish, shining red mark on the creamier skin of her palm. Her nose and mouth were twisted in a wry expression of self-reproach, embarrassment and regret. 

Nick wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Yeesh."

"We gotta get that cleaned up, babygirl. That's no good, leaving those open like that-- get infected for sho'. Got some stuff in my bag from that tent, we'll get you fixed up."

"Thanks, Coach, but it can wait till we get out of here," Rochelle whined. "I don't want to be in this creepy room another minute. I am not looking forward to the nightmares I'm gonna be having after all this."

"Alright, if you say so. Don't wanna leave it long. Least the fight happened down this hall. Maybe 'em zombies outside won't have heard all the racket."

"Great, you're as bad as Overalls. Now they'll have heard us for sure. Which, by the way, sport--"

He found Ellis's shoulder in the dark with the flat of his hand, planted it there and shoved-- hard. He wished he could see the expression on the startled Southerner's face, obviously catching him completely off guard, as he went careening sideways into the dark, and with no way of seeing anything he could grab hold of to catch himself, crashed clumsily into something with a racket. 

He really hadn't expected him to lose his footing so completely, but he wasn't sorry, unkind laughter crackling in his breath as he moved his flashlight beam over to find him, his little bit of mercy, to at least give him some light to make his way back. Coach and Rochelle would be fine for a moment plunged into blackness, though he could hear them both exclaiming in concern, confusion and admonishment.

"That's for fucking knocking me to the ground, assclown," he smugly scolded the redneck, as his light found the boy struggling to get himself up, using for support a shelf he'd half collapsed against, which he'd managed not to topple but had apparently knocked several things off of in his ungraceful fall, thus creating all the noise. "Now we're--"

The smirk evaporated from his face, leaving it blank with shock, and the next word that dropped from his mouth sounded almost angry with the intensity of his confusion.

"Ellis?"

Under the brim of his hat, tears glazed the Southerner's eyes, dripped down his cheeks, off the tip of his nose. They weren't just watering, like before from the smoke, no, he was crying, sniffling, and more than that there was real hurt on his face. Nick's gut dropped like a rock, and he jammed his Magnum into its holster, moving abruptly forward to him. For a moment, his own voice sounded strange to him, stiff with tension, uncharacteristically uncertain.

"Ellis, what-- what the hell, I -- did I hurt --? I didn't mean.."

"No," and he had never heard that voice so small and watery, and more shocking still, as he moved to assist him up, the boy actually waved him off, eyes and mouth pinched in distress, trying to do it himself and having more trouble than he should have, "s'okay, I'm fine-- s'fine."

Nick hardened his expression, and leaned down. He caught one of the young man's forearms in his free hand and wrapped the flashlight-wielding arm around the other, then pulled him forcefully up to his feet, clear of the debris. He held firmly onto his forearm while his other hand re-aimed the light towards his tearful face, staring down into it, his own set with a tension that he couldn't help expressing as anger.

"You're not fucking okay, hick," he growled sardonically. "Look at you!"

He felt a twist in his stomach as Ellis winced at his harsh tone. What was happening? He was still half-sure he'd caused this, but it wasn't making sense, and he felt insane.

"Oh gosh, Ellis sweetie, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Rochelle's concern filled her voice, fretful, and it felt grating to his senses, irrationally exacerbating his agitation.

Ellis was avoiding his glare, like a shamed dog -- shamed, he realized, like he, Ellis, not Nick, had done something wrong. It drove him crazy with confusion, together with the bizarre sight of the tears leaking freely from the thus far unflappable Southerner's averted blue eyes. He wanted to shake him, make him explain, but knew that aggressive urge was not a helpful outlet for his-- frustration. 

"S'fine," the redneck mumbled in that small voice, "really, I'm sorry, guys, s'nothin'."

"Ellis."

So much for containing himself. He hadn't shaken him yet, but he still gripped his forearm raised between them, he knew too firmly, and the single word was a low, grating growl that could have given a Hunter a run for its money.

Blue eyes moved guiltily his way, but stayed low. 

He enunciated each word like a threat.

"Are. You. Hurt."

There was a movement of that mouth that might have been a stoically stifled lip wobble, and those tearful eyes finally, apologetically lifted, holding his.

"... Jes'.. a lil bit, maybe.. m'sorry--"

"Christ, hick," Nick snarled in exasperation, teeth gritted to try and contain himself. "Don't say fucking sorry-- where?"

"Ain't no shame in it, boy," came Coach's rumbling, solemn baritone from somewhere nearby in the dark. Nick heard his expression in his voice, could practically see his visage, stern with concern, in his mind's eye. "Let us see, go on now. You scarin' us."

With trembling breath-- which triggered something in Nick's memory, setting the marble rolling, but he was slow to make the connection-- Ellis pulled just slightly on his arm, causing Nick to immediately drop it, like he'd forgotten he'd been holding him, and then slowly began shuffling to turn, and reluctantly exposed his back to them.

"Oh, fucking--" Nick breathed out, and pulled his gun arm across his mouth, pressing his bicep there, staring nauseously over his sleeve.

The whole center of the poor stupid boy's back was a bright, wet, bloody stain. He couldn't believe he was still walking around, hadn't just collapsed already -- especially when he finally put the timeline together, with a sick feeling in his stomach, remembering his unsteady breathing when they'd stood back to back, what he'd mistaken for fear. How Ellis had hardly said a single word since he'd tackled him out from under the zombie's drooling maw, and how inconceivably out of character that was. He was amazed at how stupid he'd been not to realize that something was wrong. Rochelle moaned in horror, and he could hear in Coach's tone that even he was shaken.

"Son."

"Ain't that bad, is it?" Ellis asked hopefully, in that awful, hurting voice. 

No one could answer him immediately -- it was hard to tell, truthfully, what the extent of the damage was. The acid, strangely, seemed to have soaked right past his clinging, pale yellow t-shirt without corroding it, so without peeling it off, all they had to go off of were the blood stains, which were gruesome. An area about the size of a wide handprint between his shoulderblades was soaked, and it streaked garishly down his lower back, along with the swampy green residue of the now inert acid. The caustic substance at least seemed to have something of a cauterizing effect, which was probably good when it came to limiting blood loss, but didn't help them determine the severity of his burns. 

"Guys? C'mon, yer scarin' me now. M'okay, really. Jes'.. jes' hurts real bad," he admitted, voice tight, the pain in it audible despite what was obviously his best efforts to be brave. "I 'unno if anythin's ever hurt so bad."

"Oh, sweetie," Rochelle whispered, in a hush and trembling tone. "You're okay, you're okay. I'm sure it looks worse than it is. That shit's no joke though. I just got a drop on me, and I was crying too, sweetie."

"Still wanna wait to get cleaned up?" Coach asked her gravely.

"Gosh, no. Gosh. We can stop here a minute, it's as good a place as any."

"No guys, really," Ellis pleaded. "We gotta git to the mall. I'm okay fer now, I promise. I won't slow you down."

Nick grimaced, an ugly feeling twisting in his gut, and the muscles of his jaw flexed, tightening. He took a slow step back, and wordlessly passed the flashlight back to Rochelle, pushing it into her left hand. She was too distracted by Ellis to give him more than a glance, and even then he'd already turned away, taking a few steps into the darkness. He listened to their conversation at his back, Coach lecturing Ellis into submission mostly, as he reached into his jacket, pulling out his smokes and lighter. He went through the routine of drawing one, pinching it between his thin lips and flicking his lighter aflame, inhaling till the tip smoldered, and the warm smoke drew into his lungs, its harsh, familiar burn centering him a little. There was a dull throbbing in his temples, maybe the beginnings of a headache.

"Now boy, don't be a fool. It's a wonder none of us been banged up worse than this before now. We all real lucky to be alive, easy to forget that. Don'tchu go spittin' on that good luck by runnin' off into danger when you ain't fit. You gonna be just fine, but we need you at your best, you hear? So we can take a minute to patch yo ass up. Lotta ground between here and the mall. This here's a marathon, not a sprint."

"Aw... Lawdy, Coach. Man. I 'unno what to say. That's real nice an' all, but..."

"Nope. No buts about it, boy. Now you gonna take time fightin' me on this, or you gonna quit fussin' and let me patch you up?"

Rochelle had noticed the smell of tobacco drifting their way. "Aw jeez, Suit. D'you really have to smoke that in here? It's--"

"I'll guard the door," he interrupted her coldly, and strode toward it.

"Wh-- it's dark!" she protested, concern and confusion in her voice. Some people were so easy to read.

"So it is. No zombies down here anyway, right?"

With that last, biting jibe, he found the doorframe through more memory than anything else, and was just about to step through it when a small, uncertain voice wavered,

"Nick...?"

He paused, and didn't move for several moments, before turning his head to look back over his shoulder, knowing they couldn't see him in the dark-- maybe just the cherry of his cigarette, if they looked hard.

The flashlight beam was low, focused on Coach's efforts to dig through their backpack for medical supplies. He could see that Ellis had sunk down to his knees to sit on the floor between his folded legs, messed up back still turned to them, but that he'd twisted, as if he were looking over his shoulder towards the door. Though he couldn't quite see his face, he had the uncanny feeling they were looking right at each other, though neither could see anything but darkness.

He was quiet another few seconds... then he removed his cigarette from his lips, exhaling the smoke in a sigh, so as to call over, voice raised just enough so that it would carry without changing that familiar dry, caustic tone.

"Relax, dumbshit. Not going anywhere. Just making sure another leaky glowstick doesn't sneak up, hawk a loogie through the door and melt us all into one big spit puddle. I can tell you're really into this whole bonding thing, but that's about where I draw the line."

He couldn't see Ellis's expression, but he'd be damned if he couldn't see, even from there, the tension departing from his frame, shoulders visibly relaxing. 

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head to himself, and turned away, pulling his rifle from his back and settling into a lean, shoulder against the doorframe, so that he could gaze down the black void that was the hallway. Some guard -- like Rochelle had pointed out, it was dark as shit, and a zombie with conveniently luminous spit was about the only thing he would have seen coming, though another one of those nightmares was the last thing he wanted to see just then.

The fact that anything else he would probably hear coming was not a good enough reason to justify why he'd nearly stormed out of the room, a moment before. Even just inside the doorframe felt safer than standing out in the dark hall, though for a moment, the urge to get away had driven him past care or reason. If the lights had been on, would Ellis's voice have been enough to recall him to his senses?

Even now, slightly settled and self soothing as he sucked at his cigarette, he felt a restless, smoldering agitation. He would have rather kept moving, fighting... anything but be left there, gazing into the blackness, with nothing to distract him from the ill-mixed cocktail of feelings battling for dominance in his chest, only exacerbated by the voices of the other three survivors from deeper in the room, by their lone pool of light... of Ellis, trying his stalwart best to stifle his whimpers as they began, no doubt, to try and peel his shirt off his acid-burned back without removing too much of his back along with it, of Coach's soothing baritone and Rochelle's sympathetic murmurings. 

They might as well have been the only other people left in the world.

Chapter Text

LEVEL ll - THE STREETS - lll/lV

Stationed by self appointment by the door, isolated from the others well beyond the little pool of their flashlight, and with nothing to do but gaze into the ominous black, Nick had little choice but to contend with the unpleasant images seared into his brain, seeming to pulse before his understimulated eyes in the darkness.

He could still see that horrible, gaping face, and kept replaying the events over and over; worse, imagining the myriad ways they could have gone differently. What might have -- would surely have happened if Ellis hadn't tackled him off his feet. If the same acid that had melted off a swath of the Southerner's back had hit his upturned face.

He had to shut his eyes a moment, sucking in a deep lungful of soothing nicotine, and it was an effort to keep the inhale smooth, to keep hot bile from rising in his throat. He could feel his fingertips pinched on the cigarette, normally steady as a surgeon's, trembling as they removed it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke out the side of his mouth into the hallway -- you're welcome, sweetheart, he spared a dully biting thought for Rochelle. Cigarette tucked between two fingers, he let his hand hang at his side for a moment, focusing on quelling that trembling, calming his breathing and trying to organize his mind, if not clear it.

The whole thing had stirred him up, riled and stressed him, and he didn't like it. He had to straighten up, get his shit together. A lot had happened, a lot had changed, in a short time. At the same time, had it? They were still probably all going to die before they ever reached the damn mall, though the ODD part of him was indignant at the idea of the time and method of his death being decided by a bunch of stinking corpses and the mindless virus infecting them, on a matter of core principle that was as much about pride as it was sheer contrarianism... not a source of power to be underestimated. It had gotten him this far, hadn't it?

So it wasn't just him now. So he'd accidentally stumbled onto a group of people that irritated him living just a little less than they did getting themselves killed like idiots. He was fucking human, for Chrissakes. Was it so strange for his heart to jolt with a sick cold to see a zombie running from the flames for Coach's unprotected back, to hear Rochelle's scream in the darkness, to see Ellis--

He swallowed, with difficulty, and was reminded of his thirst, the cigarette smoke surely not helping.

He was only human, fuck. 

Fuck.

He actually spat it silently from tight lips and teeth, a seethe of breath.

Stupid hick. What had he been thinking? He hadn't, obviously-- dumb question. There was a gnawing, angry knot in the pit of his chest he couldn't dislodge, and every sound from inside the room twisted at it, the choked, wheezing gasp when skin and t-shirt peeled away together, and then, after Coach's sober warning of This gonna sting pretty good, boy. Hol' on, his low voice only just carrying to Nick, a tightly stifled moan of pain and a slight clanking noise, like Ellis had indeed gripped something to brace himself.

Nick couldn't help it-- though he already felt queasy, grimacing, he squinted over his shoulder, prepared to regret looking.

The boy's shirt was pulled all the way up to his neck, baring his entire back. Foaming hydrogen peroxide, a garish rosy pink, dribbled in thick waves down the exposed skin. He saw streaks of angry flesh, raw and pink, trailing down past the bulk of the injury, but that was enough, and he turned his face back to the hall, another haunting image joining those seared across his mind's eye, to throb before it in the dark.

He'd seen some pretty gnarly things, in his time, but this was something else. 

"Damn... sho wish we had some water. Gotta do the best we can for now, though."

Nick didn't look again until he gathered, from bits of overheard murmurs, that Coach had cleaned him up, applied some antibiotic cream and bandaged him as best as the awkward injury placement allowed. The rattling of a pill bottle also suggested he'd been given something to take the edge off the pain, which was probably essential if they expected him to actually move like that, let alone fight.

Ellis was still slumped on his knees, his head buried in his arms, folded over a shelf, his breathing still visibly deep after the ordeal, but body slackened, the worst of it over. Nick wasn't positive the kid was even conscious, thinking his whimpers might have subsided only because his body had succumbed to the shock and pain, and he'd finally passed out. Coach was gingerly adjusting his disgusting shirt back down over his bandages.

He cleared his throat with a stiff sigh, keeping his voice callously hard as he asked the question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to.

"What's the sitch, Doc? Kid gonna make it, or do we cut our losses and use him as zombie bait?"

It was unpleasant the way his heart twisted when it was Ellis's voice to first acknowledge him, even if it might have been in relief. 

"S'not funny, Nick," the Southerner groaned softly from where he was buried in his arms, apparently indeed still awake, and lucid enough to reproach him.

"Yeah, yeah. You sound just fine, sport, guess we'll have to keep you. Besides, you make better zombie bait when you're still all loud and wiggling."

A weak, guffawing chuckle.

"H'awhaw... yea, that's the truth."

He felt the tight, uncomfortable feeling in his chest easing just slightly, and Coach's low, steady voice gave a hand to his guarded hope.

"He'll be alright. Nasty scar, I reckon,"

"-- aw, hell yea --"

he caught Ellis's fervent whisper, and his eyes fluttered in a roll so exasperated they shut a moment, shaking his head, gladly piling the more familiar, comfortable feeling as thickly over anything else as he could,

"-- but all things considered, coulda been helluva lot worse. I don't like to think. Don't go scarin' me like that again, boy, I'm too young fo' a heart attack. All that blood and nasty shit, man, I thought half yo damn back was gonna come off."

"... Man~," Ellis's petulant tone seemed perversely a good sign, compared to the tearful, unsettling guard he'd thrown up before, particularly when Nick saw it was his t-shirt he'd stiffly withdrawn enough from the shelf to gaze down at in disappointment, gunked up with Hunter insides on the front and his own acid-burnt blood on the back. "Ain't three thousand dollars or nothin'. But I really liked this shirt."

Nick spoke up, tone callously flat and straightforward, like he was redirecting the Southerner, as he so often did. The sarcasm creeped in gradually.

"So gun store after this, quick Burger Tank run, we do some clothes shopping and then if evac happens to still be hanging around, maybe rescue time, if everyone's feeling it? Someone should call ahead, tell them to wait up. Tour bus is running behind schedule."

Coach was reluctantly chuckling, a quiet rumble. 

"Son, I know you talkin' shit, but you better not test me with that burger thing..."

"Bet they won't have no burgers on the chopper..." Ellis chimed in mournfully, again demonstrating the skew of his priorities and calling into question whether Nick had made a strategic error in making the joke, "definitely won't be no Burger Tank burgers, anyways."

Dryly, Nick committed to the bit.

"Well, that settles it. Guess we're stayin' in Savannah," he stated flatly, with a hint of that mockery of a Southern accent that had so tickled them before. "We'll find the last Burger Tank and make a stand of it. Long as I don't get stuck working the fryer."

It was a ridiculous joke, but the disbelieving crop of laughter it earned from the other survivors made it worth it, none more humored than Ellis, whose chiding accusation brimmed with appreciation.

"Yer crazy, Nick."

All in all, Coach had been fairly efficient in administering first aid, both to Ellis and Rochelle, whose forearm and palm were wrapped with gauze by the time they were getting ready to go. The whole thing hadn't taken as long as it had felt like it had. Though ideally Ellis would have been resting after the shock of an injury like that, they obviously had no time for that, and the Southerner wouldn't have heard of it anyway. It wasn't minutes after his shirt was back on before he was climbing up to his feet, smiling reassuringly at them. There was still a slightly strained, shaken look about his eyes, their expression clouded from stoically borne pain, and a tiredness too, that beside being a natural phenomenom for anyone else, Nick guessed was the pills starting to kick in. Still, he looked miles better, breathing calmed and face wiped dry. 

The memory of his pained expression, dripping with tears, unfortunately was still seared into his brain. 

"Here, Suit. You should have this."

It was Rochelle, naturally. She was offering him the flashlight again, though when he languidly lifted a hand to take it, she pushed it firmly into his grasp and held onto it a moment there, levelling him a warning look tempered by a gentle frown. He decided to indulge her, cocking a brow.

"Don't go off into the dark like that," she begged sternly, a tricky combination she pulled off well. "The whole time you were over there I kept having to worry you were going to get dragged off again."

"Aww, you were worried about me, sweetheart? Or afraid you'd miss it again?"

"Definitely the second one," she shot back, with a reproachful pout, but he noticed the corners of her full lips quivering, and he smirked slightly as he plucked the flashlight from her hand.

"Well, now I'll be fine," he taunted her, wiggling the flashlight back and forth. "I've got the light, I'll just leave you guys here."

"Suuure~," Rochelle skeptically doubted, mocking smile still tugging on her frowning lips, warmth belying her admonishing glare, but Nick thought he could still see uncertainty buried there, and knew she wondered if he ever really might. At least, she better. If he'd been broadcasting himself as trustworthy, he'd been doing something wrong.

Finishing tucking away his medical supplies, Coach shrugged on his back and turned towards them, with a ready sigh that, while not exactly impatient, had the effect of drawing their attention.

"Boy, stop spinnin' that thing around... which way we goin'?" the big man questioned as he shouldered his shotgun, consulting his team. "Further down the tunnels, or...?"

"Streets, please," Rochelle appealed, "streets. I know what I said, but..."

"Yeaa, I'd take jess some good ol' fashioned zombies, right now. Them mutants give me the creeps. An' why they all so muthafuckin' ugly? Pardon me fer sayin'."

Ellis seemed to be bouncing back well. Nick eyed the Southerner critically as his chattiness began to restore closer towards typical levels, feeling Coach could have either upped or lowered his dose to enough to combat that, as a public service.

More privately, he felt more relief than sat comfortably with him, and he refused to settle into the feeling.

"Streets it is," he agreed flatly, and started moving, since apparently being the only one with a one-handed gun had relegated him to the permanent role of Lantern Bearer. "Least we must have bypassed a good number of zeds, right?"

It was Coach who followed closest this time, and drew to flank him once they were in the hall. Ellis was the one who replied, though, in sage agreement.

"Fer sure. An' I dunno how much further we'd wanna take the tunnels, anyways. This a lucky spot," Nick's eyes gave up the ghost and fell shut a moment, but fuck, worse that he was maybe right, "ain't too far, now, an I'd hate to overshewt. Plus, who knows how long that light's gonna hold up. Didn't figger on bein' down here so long, or all them lights dyin' so quick. Would suck if it did go out, or get dropped or somethin'."

Like when you fucking tackled me, though of course, Nick couldn't say that outloud.

They didn't need to dwell on that, luckily, because the door to the outside they'd passed earlier was just two turns away. Ellis retrieved his fire extinguisher, standing on the ground where he'd left it, at which Nick gave him a judgmental look but said nothing. They had agreed to try and stay quiet, which meant melee weapons for as long as possible, and Ellis had, somehow, nothing else. He had so far otherwise been using his boots, occasionally fists and the butt of his shotgun for this purpose, but the last, he pointed out so seriously he seemed to miss the irony, was not meant for that purpose. 

Instead, he lovingly hefted his shiny red fire extinguisher as they slipped quietly outside into the cooling October air, the dents and zombie blood coating the bottom of the red canister reminder that it was at least rising well to its new and unintended purpose, thanks surely in no small part to the strength and determination of its wielder. 

Night had fallen. The last vestiges of disappearing light were still just visible on the western horizon, but the stars had come out, and the eastern sky was velvet black. 

Some of the city still had power, they could see, though the lampposts in this neighborhood were out. This was perhaps for the best, as a few zombies wandered the area, none seeming to immediately notice them slipping out from the maintenance tunnel door in the darkness. They weren't exactly in a pedestrian area, near an underpass and chain link fencing seperating an off-limits section, but there was a sparsely lined street crossing under the overpass across a gravelly, scrubby grassy area in one direction, and a sidewalk and beginnings of a shopping area in another. 

Ellis didn't head directly for either of these, skirting along the nearby chain link and heading under the overpass. Hurrying quietly as they could across the dry grass, they made it behind a thick cement column without alerting more than a single zombie, which had time to utter no more than a harsh croak as it rounded it looking for them, before Coach's swing took its head solidly off. The sound didn't seem to alert any of the others, and they moved on, Ellis determinedly pulling ahead again.

Nobody thought much of it, at least until the first time Ellis had the chance to swing his fire extinguisher at a zombie's head. He followed through, but winced deeply as the movement pulled at his raw skin, and Nick noticed
immediately.

"Hey, hayseed, you good?" he asked suspiciously, with a tone that advised him not to bullshit him.

"Boy, don't push it," Coach chimed in warningly, his low voice just as stern. "This ain't much, we can handle it fine. You been goin' at a hundred this whole time, let us take the frontline for a while, a'right? Dr Coach says you on light duty till we get yo ass some proper care."

".. Dr Coach, huh?" Nick teased slyly.

Coach, to his amusement, winced slightly, like he'd known as soon as he'd said it.

".. yeah, that don't sound right."

"Feel real useless, jess taggin' along back here..." Ellis dejectedly protested, though he was too outnumbered to fight too hard, Rochelle adding her concerned but threatening stare to the mix.

"You're already keeping us off the main drag and navigating us to where we need to go," Nick reminded him flatly, with a skeptically muttered, "-- I think," as Ellis directed them towards a dubious, grass-tufted alley, just across the empty street.

"Just focus on that, and you can watch our backs, keep an eye out for any more extra fun zombies," he suggested dryly, glancing back at the dark roof of the overpass they were leaving behind them, as if expecting to see a Hunter crawling along upside down, stalking them.

"Which by the way, Ro, you got any intel on any more of these guys? Not that I'm excited to learn more about whatever other sick shit this virus has cooked up, but something tells me there's more where those guys came from."

A couple of zombies came growling out of the shadows up ahead, just then, and Rochelle and Coach moved forward to greet them, their crowbar and axe thwacking and slicing. Nick hung back with Ellis, keeping an eye out for any others sneaking up.

Rochelle planted her boot on her opponent's chest as it fell, grimacing as she braced to tug the crooked end of her crowbar from its forehead with a squelch. She kicked it to the side, shaking some extra drips of blood off well away from her jeans.

"Well, we've met the Smoker, the Hunter... I'll be honest, that spitting thing back in there? That was new to me. I've heard of zombies puking, but never heard a thing about any glowing green acid shit. But there's others... bigger ones."

"Ohh, heyy, I'm right again," Nick bit out sarcastically. "I really didn't wanna know. How big are we talking? Two Coachs? Three?"

"Boy.." Coach rumbled warningly, but they were both distracted by Rochelle's grim expression, her eyes distant with recollection. She shook her head, taking a deep breath.

"I've just heard horror stories, seen some of the results these things leave behind... we're talking zombies big enough to put holes in buildings, stop cars in their tracks."

Nick let out a soft huff of breath, a humorless laugh.

"... Cool. I love that."

"Shit~," Ellis murmured in wonder, and Nick snapped him a glare.

"No, hick. Not actually cool. I was being sarcastic. You want to see one of those things, don't you? Don't you?"

Ellis looked sheepish, scratching just under the brim of his hat with one crooked finger.

"... kinda~," he fessed with embarrassment, in a small voice.

"Insufferable. You're a lunatic, you know that? Certifiable. I'm certifying you. We get out of this, I'll have them run tests on you. Make a million. You're one of a kind, hick, and I -- no, I don't mean that as a compliment. I did not. Stop smiling."

Ellis turned his head away, poorly concealing his bashful grin.

"You're still smiling."

"... 'ain't."

Ellis's version of 'jess a few blocks' turned out to be a rather loose, as the crow flies sort of estimate, in that true to Rochelle's suggestion, he did his best to avoid busy streets -- the meaning entirely different now -- and thus most of the distance they traversed was not in city blocks, meaning what they were going off of was rather just a variable unit of distance measurement that made sense only to the hick. Rather than the image of a five minute walk down the sidewalk his description might have brought to mind, they found themselves being led into a less populated but confusing series of shortcuts, crawling over a dumpster to hop a chainlink fence, slipping down alleys and cutting across empty parking lots. 

Less populated didn't mean no trouble at all, but they managed to avoid enough of it that Ellis wasn't forced to engage, and Coach and Rochelle cut down most of them before Nick had to do much, either. It was during a lull that Ellis quietly spoke up, the other two ahead just far enough to be out of earshot of his uncharacteristically lowered voice. Nick sensed the apprehension in it, wondered how long he'd been chewing on the words, and cast his hard green eyes down at him suspiciously. Ellis had lowered his head, bill of his cap obscuring his eyes.

"Hey uh... meant to say... thanks fer waitin', Nick. Back there. Didn't mean to hold us up none."

"Tch."

Nick snorted disdainfully, shook his head to himself and looked ahead again, stare hard and dry.

"Dumbass. Yeah well... rescue's probably long gone anyway."

"Y'think?" Ellis wondered seriously, and he could see those wide blue eyes lifting to him in his periphery, though he didn't meet them.

"Hell if I know," he caustically brushed him off, the best he could do. He couldn't -- wouldn't bullshit the kid, but it wasn't his place to crush his hopes entirely. Instead, he straddled the fence, probably not helping either, and kept talking. He didn't know why, really-- maybe he needed to talk it out for himself, maybe he just preferred talking about the unlikelihood of their rescue, just then, to other things. 

"I know I wouldn't stick around. Think about it -- pretty much everyone in goddamn Savannah was swarming these two evac centers, including the zombies and everyone in the middle of turning into them. I'm not surprised the hotel got overrun when it did. Maybe the mall's better equipped, maybe they got bigger guns, I don't know. I just know unless they've levelled the neighborhood, the area around that mall's gonna be fucked. But hey. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we'll get close and see a damn compound, they'll run out with a squad to escort us to the choppers, and we'll be flying over the Atlantic with cocoa and a blanket by morning. Just bein' realistic, kid. Don't think too much on it."

He reached over to swat the brim of his hat down over his eyes, chiding sternly as the blinded Southerner laughed, squirming and stumbling lightly a few steps away to reach and fix it, "That's not your job."

"Hahawh.."

"Your job is zombie bait."

".. haw-- 'eyyy."

His soft guffawing turned to a protest.

"And being a dumbshit, loudmouth, most reckless redneck hayseed hick in goddamn Georgia, I swear to god--"

Nick had gotten going, accidentally venting out some frustration. The Southerner only half-heartedly tried to stick up for himself, fairly certain Nick wasn't truly upset with him, but starting to look sheepish under the beratement all the same. 

"Aww, Nick~..."

"--and saving my fucking skin, apparently. Literally. Better not make it a fucking habit."

That embarrassed Ellis properly, and he was blessedly lost for words in his confused fluster.

"That was a thanks, by the way," Nick clarified for him, voice hard. "All you're gonna get. I didn't ask for that shit."

Ellis reached up slowly to adjust the brim of his hat, dismissing him bashfully.

"Naww.. I, I know," he mumbled, a little hesitantly. "... you don't have to say nothin' Nick, s'alright. I'd do it again in a jif."

"The fuck?" Nick growled in frustration, and snapped out a hand, catching the hick's sleeve and stumbling him to a pause in his tracks. Ellis turned a little towards him, startled blue eyes meeting his curiously, but didn't even try to shake his grip. 

"Did you hear me, hick? I said don't, are you deaf?!"

A slight frown began to form on the shorter young man's brow, and a stubbornness entered his gaze. He jutted his chin slightly, holding Nick's stare. He'd never seen an expression like that on the boy's face, certainly not directed at him, and it wasn't without impact.

".. Don't regret it none," he said, quiet but firm. Rochelle and Coach hadn't noticed they'd stopped yet, distracted up ahead by a lone infected staggering their way. 

"Sorry, Nick," he told him with a steadiness. "Couldn' let that happen. Git whut you're sayin', but I'm sayin', can't make no promises. Ain't about to letcha get hurt."

Nick's heart rate had been rising, and now it pounded hard in his chest. He advanced a step, looming, and seized the front of Ellis's shirt with his other hand, yanking him closer. He could see him wince slightly as the back of his shirt no doubt tightened against his bandages, but he maintained his stubborn stare, and it just made him angrier.

"Do you have a fucking deathwish kid, is that it?" he snarled under his breath. "You realize if she'd gathered a bigger spitwad, you'd be juice right now?"

"Sure, Nick, and so woulda you," the hick argued with him, more heat in his eyes than he'd yet seen, and some building in his face, too. "I don't git why you're so mad. Don't gotta deathwish or nothin'. Just ain't about to see you hurt, if I can help it, like I said. It's perty simple, Nick."

Nick balked, green eyes alight with anger, his ringed hands clenched tight in that dirty yellow shirt. The kid should have shoved him off and told him to go to hell. He was of half a mind to do the shoving himself. He didn't know how to deal with... this.

"Boys? Everything okay over there?"

Of course. 

"Fine," Nick growled, releasing Ellis abruptly, holding the bull-headed Southerner's stern blue eyes another moment before turning away, stalking forward. "Hayseed had something on his shirt."

He'd thought Ellis might at least sulk for a little bit after that, but to his surprise, he heard him emit a quiet little breath of amusement. Rochelle, standing a little ways ahead where she and Coach had finally noticed them lagging, looked suspiciously from Nick to Ellis, but scrutinizing the younger man's expression in the dark, she seemed to settle.

What a Mama Bear, so protective. Coach was the stern Papa, Ellis obviously the baby, so what did that make him, Goldilocks? Self-centered little shit, going where she pleases, taking whatever she can get her grubby little hands on, then leaving a mess and moving on, never satisfied, always looking for something else? 

Yeah, sure, that worked. Deep, he mocked himself for the insight. He was finding himself disappointed with how much room the zombie apocalypse left for ruminating. You wouldn't think.

It was Rochelle who next caused them to pause, barring being slowed by the odd zombie or few. She was standing beside a wrecked car, the window of the driver seat broken, and a wide bloody smear leading down the door to the corpse of a woman slumped against it, who appeared to have been dragged out over the broken glass and mauled to death. Rochelle was looking down at her, biting her lip as they approached.

"What's up?" Nick asked flatly.

She sighed.

"Feels wrong..." she admitted, and reluctantly indicated what had drawn her attention -- a deep red, leather shoulder bag, across the woman's chest.

They were all quiet an uneasy few moments, and it was Nick again who grimly tackled it.

"... Matter of survival, sweetheart. Not helping her any."

"Yeah, Ro, it's okay..." Ellis piped in gently to help. "Why I'll bet she'd prolly be glad to know some nice lady was puttin' it to use, rather than some stinkin zombie gettin' it, right, think about it."

"Not sure zombies carry purses sport, but nice effort," Nick told him dryly. To Rochelle, he added carelessly, "If it helps, -- besides the fact that we're wasting time here -- it would be kind of a waste to leave it. That's a seven hundred dollar purse. Not bad."

Rochelle's brow drew together a little in astonishment.

"... How-- actually, you know what, somehow I'm not even surprised you know that, Suit."

"Yeah, I have impeccable taste," Nick acknowledged dryly, almost impatiently, like nobody should have forgotten.

"Alright, alright. -- I'm so sorry, girl," Rochelle told the woman, with a frown of genuine pity, as she picked her way close to crouch before her. Ellis removed his hat from his curly head and tucked it to his chest, watching solemnly. "Thanks for the purse, I owe ya."

She unclipped the strap where it met the bag, and drew it slowly out from behind the woman's back, before stepping back and reattaching it. 

"I should leave her wallet," she murmured, trying not to feel guilty as she unzipped it, "for when they're.. trying to identify people.. make it easier."

"Just leave her ID then, someone will take the wallet," Nick flatly advised. 

Rochelle's nose pinched slightly, like the idea bothered her. 

"What's the point?" she wondered, with a little bitterness, but as she located the wallet in the purse, she was opening it, prepared to take his advice.

Nick shrugged, not really having a good answer.

"I'd bet you money on it," was all he could offer, with a touch of wryness.

"... point taken, I guess," Rochelle admitted with a sigh. She had found the woman's driver's license.

"Nina... thanks Nina. Sorry you died."

"Amen," muttered Coach, and even Ellis mumbled it too, apologetically tipping his hat to her as he replaced it on his head.

"Well, that's grim," Nick muttered under his breath, the show of mourning making him uncomfortable. It wasn't like most everyone in the world wasn't dead, including everyone they'd ever known.

"Alright, the lady's got her bag, can we go now?" he asked outloud, only slightly less abrasively. "Little bit of a time crunch we're on, in case it's slipped everyone's minds."

"I'm ready," Rochelle replied, without arguing, as she stepped back from slipping the woman's driver's license gently into her jacket pocket. She donned the purse as she walked, fitting it under the strap of her gun and adjusting the length until it was perhaps a little more snug than was comfortable, but stood less of a chance of bouncing around and getting in her way while she was fighting. 

Ellis's backstreets tour of Savannah led them eventually them to a set of stairs they never in a million years would have known to find, stairs that opened to a long, narrow walking bridge, half-walled by some old disused building on one side, and chain link on the other side providing a view of the wide street it crossed. The moon hadn't risen yet, and the corpses they could see wandering around down there were no more than dark, shambling shapes.

"Guns is just down them steps ahead," Ellis announced proudly. "Tol'ja weren't far. An' you can't see the mall from here, but it's jess right over that way. We're almost there."

Nick took a deep, steeling breath, and Ellis caught it and his dull glare. With an apologetic little smile, he tapped his knuckles in passing on a panel of strand wood bolted over a broken window.

Knock on wood.

His glare turned dry.

Rochelle reached the dark and cramped stairwell first.. and almost slipped on the second step as she recoiled, back of her hand pressed to her mouth and nose.

"Oh god.. something smells..."

"Hey, I've been telling him, he can't help it," Nick quipped immediately. "Look for a hose."

"No..." Rochelle complained, "it smells like -- oof. Vomit. Great. Can I borrow that light back, Suit? I don't wanna step in anything."

Nick reached behind his back, under his jacket, to pull the flashlight from his belt, handing it off with a smirk.

"Ladies first," he told her wryly.

They trudged single file downstairs, Rochelle flicking the light on to reveal a dirty stairwell but no immediate nastiness to avoid. As she turned on the single landing and began to trot down the second set of stairs to the ground, there was great, internal rumbling sound, someone's stomach grumbling so loudly it was audible in the cramped acoustics of the stairwell.

"Holy shit, Coach," Nick exclaimed quietly, breath shaking with laughter, "that you?"

"Wasn't me," murmured Coach, sounding a little confused, bewildered expression fixed on Rochelle. "Babygirl, that you?"

"No, I..." As she stepped off the last step, protesting laughingly, she turned back to them, expression caught between offense and bemusement. The flashlight beam turned with her, and as it swept past the dark corner under the upper stairs, which she had just stepped past, she was suddenly swinging it back, eyes widening and expression falling to one of horror.

"Oh nonono--"

They all heard it, loud and close-- the unmistakable, nauseating sound of something retching, about to be sick. Rochelle dove to the side, skidding against the asphalt just as a blur of thick liquid came spraying out from the dark corner, like someone had hurled a giant bucket of the stuff-- though nobody could pretend it had come out of a bucket, a thought reinforced by the horrible chunky sound it made as it splattered in a giant streak across the pavement. 

Coach spun his shotgun round and shot into the dark, and there was a tremendous second bang that collided with the first, the sound of more goo splattering violently against surfaces, and Coach roaring in disgust as wet clumps soaked his shins. He was only fortunate the stairs protected him from most of the explosion. Ellis and Nick, still up on the landing midway the two flights, were mercifully spared.

The stench hit them all like a punch to the senses. It was perhaps even worse than the Smoker, for while it didn't blind or suffocate them, they didn't want to breathe the air, lest their stomachs turn their contents out. Considering none of them had eaten much of anything in a long while, that wasn't likely to be much, but still. Coach didn't let the smell, or the fact that it clung wetly now to the bottom half of his pants, distract him though, barrelling down the stairs towards Rochelle, who was still picking herself up from the ground, looking more distressed than seemed right, considering the offending zombie was dead. 

"Boomer!" she was calling desperately, barely keeping her voice from raising. To be fair, the gunshot would have carried louder. Ellis and Nick ran down after him, desperate to get away from the smell choking up the enclosed stairwell, trying to avoid slipping on puke in the dark.

Rochelle's left arm was badly scraped, dark with blood at the elbow and speckled with asphalt grit, but though she winced as Coach helped her to her feet, obviously aching from her hard fall, she paid it no mind, an urgency written on her face.

"It's a Boomer!" she cried, alarm in her voice. "We have to go. Their puke, it attracts other zombies."

Sure enough, to their dawning dread, they heard the growing sound of a horde in the distance. 

"Git inside!" Ellis cried, and bolted across the small parking lot to the door of the gun store, which the others hadn't even yet registered stood right before them. He dropped his fire extinguisher by the door as he skidded to a halt, grabbed the metal bar across the reinforced door and yanked-- and it stayed stubbornly shut, ungiving. It was locked, of course... and judging by the sturdy look of it and the barred windows, they weren't breaking inside in a hurry, not before the horde arrived.

"Piss! Gawd-damn it! Come on!" Ellis swore in frustration, yanking uselessly at the door. 

"C'mon kid, we gotta go!" Nick growled, grabbing his arm and yanking him away. The hick resisted only long enough to flail for and snatch up his fire extinguisher, earning an oath from Nick, then let himself be dragged, grit spraying from under his skidding boots. The screaming was approaching rapidly-- he could see dark shapes running towards them down the street, and the haunting medley of cries seemed like it came from all directions.

"Back to the stairs!" Coach boomed, and they all sprinted for the relatively enclosed space, which despite its reek was suddenly the safest spot to be. They were all pulling their guns out as they ran, scrambling up the steps and throwing themselves into the corner of the landing just as the swarm hit them, like an oncoming wave. 

The first came tearing down the bridge, and Ellis's shotgun blast caught it before it made the steps, reverbrating violently in the close confines. It still tumbled down the stairs towards them, though, and that was just the first. They had a view of them running up the street, throwing themselves at the chainlink fence that bordered the small gun store parking lot and savagely clawing their way up and over it, till there were so many clogging bodies they could hardly see through, and the fence trembled and threatened to bow under their weight. They came rushing around the corner from their blindspot on the other side of the lot, and they came storming down the walking bridge, all convening on the four lone survivors.

It was a desperate hold out. It became a matter of which would run out first-- their ammo, or the infected. The wave seemed unabating, meaning they could only reload under the cover of another, and barking warnings when they were about to have to became a necessity. The only blessing to the onslaught was that the zombies were packed so thick one practically couldn't miss, each blast of the shotguns in particular devastating several corpses at once.

The resulting carnage was gruesome, though. Bodies piled quickly on both stairs, like some kind of thick, horrible waterfall. Zombies climbed up over their fallen brethen till the layers of bodies became tall enough to start to collapse back on them in a grotesque avalanche, sending them cascading down. On the upper stairs, the opposite problem was occurring, as zombies running into sight had the tendency to come tumbling down the stairs with their momentum no matter how quickly they were dispatched. Ellis was already standing on a few layers of them, which made for less steady footing than the ground, when one particularly erratic zombie unpredictably weaved, and Nick's rifle shot went past his head. Ellis was reloading his shotgun, and his eyes went wide as the snarling zombie flung itself wildly down the stairs at him, tumbling on the bodies carpeting the stairs. 

Nick yanked the reload bar on his rifle, ejecting the spent casing, but realized there were no more loaded, and didn't have time to shove more inside before the zombie was throwing itself at Ellis, faster than he'd accounted for, as it had practically fallen its way there. The Southerner had fallen back into the wall to brace himself -- flinching with pain -- to kick at the zombie, but he hadn't quite gotten his leg high enough in time, and the scrabbling corpse climbed instead, seizing at Ellis's chest with its claws. He grimaced, wrenching his shotgun up to keep it at bay, but it was a sturdily sized zombie, and straining with all his strength against its weight was all he could do, turning away with a cringe as it reached a clawed hand for his face, his work boots slipping out from under him on soft and slipping body parts. 

The crack of Nick's hunting rifle rang out, and the zombie jolted as a portion of its brains exited out through one side of its skull against the stairwell wall, and it fell heavily against Ellis, dribbling head lolling. Wincing away from it, he pushed against its mass, still slipping lower as his footing started to give way. The weight dislodged suddenly as Nick kicked the zombie viciously off him, eyes hard, and ducked to loop an arm low around the kid's back, seizing the scruff of his tied overalls and hefting him upright by the waist, nearly slipping on slick zombie himself in the process.

If he'd had a moment to think about the whole image, he might have scowled harder. As it was, his arm was still around Ellis's waist when the Southerner swung the barrel of his shotgun up and blasted an oncoming zombie into another disgusting carpet, sliding bumpily down the other bodies towards their feet. As soon as Ellis had recovered his footing, Nick released him, swiftly taking up his rifle again.

It was Rochelle who first had to let her automatic rifle drop, her last magazine spent, slinging it to her back and pulling out her crowbar.

"That's it for me, boys!" she explained anxiously, as she swung at a zombie trying to climb up the side of the stairs, clawing at bodies for a hold.

"Do these assholes just keep coming until you guys get a shower, or what?!" Nick snarled.

"It can't last forever!" Rochelle lamented.

"Don't say that!" Nick cried. "Why would you say that?"

"Now c'mon, Nick, ain't like it can get much --"

"Ellis don't you fucking dare."

"Jeez~ alright m'sorry..."

Ellis ran out next.

"Damn, I shot that many zombies?" he asked himself wonderingly, spine bent as he fished almost elbow deep in his coverall pockets for more shotgun shells, coming up empty. "Shit~. Oh well!"

Nick swore he seemed somewhat content with the opportunity to use his fire extinguisher, like this somehow validated him carrying the stupid thing all the way here from the hotel.

"Hey, I think they're thinnin' out!" he proposed cheerfully, as he swung it in a wide arc that Nick couldn't help sourly thinking he'd have had to duck himself, if the targeted zombie's skull hadn't intercepted it as intended. 

"Yew think maybe this shit I got in here would kill the smell maybe?" he wondered. "If I sprayed it all over that puddle 'n like, yer legs, Coach? 'N maybe yer boots... sorry Ro."

She had managed to avoid most of the splatter, sacrificing some skin off her elbow for the cause, but some separated fluid and chunks still clung greasily to her boots, dappling the calves of her jeans. 

"I'm okay, sweetie," she replied a little breathlessly, tone gentle but weary, arms growing fatigued from swinging at zombies. 

"You're just dying to use that thing, aren't you kid," Nick accused dryly.

"It wants to fulfill its purpose," Ellis mumbled, and Nick was flummoxed into silence. He'd have to return to that later... if they had the chance. As actually sanity-preserving as it was to distract himself from the terrifying threat of overwhelm with a little stupid conversation, he was down to his last few cartridges, and he needed to focus if he was going to make every last one count. He was dreading the idea of resorting to his golf club in these close quarters, revolted at the idea that he might die in such a gruesome setting, and never smell fresh, non-zombie-and-puke-scented air ever again. It made him angry. How many residents did fucking Savannah even have?

Then, just as swiftly as it had come upon them, the roar was dying away, and there was a stunningly empty silence behind the screeches and wails of the last couple trailing runners, till they were dispatched by Coach and Nick respectively, and then there was only quiet -- and a ringing in their ears, lingering from the din of firing four loud guns in a small area half enclosed by acoustic concrete for several consecutive minutes.

It was hard to comprehend what had just happened. That they were still alive. That the horde hadn't just passed, this time, but that all those screams had been silenced, one by one, by them. A massacre surrounded them. The silence was unholy -- and didn't last.

"We made it," Rochelle whispered, some shock in her tone, as she slumped back against a wall. "I can't believe we made it."

Her voice broke the dam, Ellis's profanity laced twang tumbling out after her with astonishment and exhilaration, dropping his fire extinguisher to shake his hand out, stiff from clenching so long.

"Hot damn that was a lot of zombies, ho-lee shit. Thought we was jess gonna be buried in em suckers, damn. Them pukers is bull-shit."

"... Two shells," Coach mumbled in that low baritone, comfortingly steady despite the stunned tone to it. "I got two shells left."

Nick blinked in wonder, then breathed a short, caustic laugh at the coincidence.

"-- Me too." 

They shared a look in the dark. It was a strange moment, Nick  trapped somewhere between disgust at the situation and relief to be alive.

He decided to focus on the disgust. Aiming a harsh kick at the bodies mounded on the stairs below to start dislodging them, he growled,

"Let's get out of here, Christ it reeks. I didn't think anything could smell worse than Ellis does."

They kicked, picked, slipped and tripped their way down the slope of corpses, Rochelle wincing more from the feel of bodies underfoot and the smell attached to her lower legs than her many aches and sores.

"I want to boil myself. God-- Coach, I'm sorry, I should have warned you.  I'd heard of some exploding like that."

"That's a'right, babygirl," Coach rumbled gravely. "Still not used to 'em hiding like that. I don't like that shit."

Having fortunately avoided damaging the flashlight in her fall, Rochelle had clicked it back on to scan the ground for puke, and couldn't help turning the beam towards the corner under the stairs to investigate what had caused all the chaos. She regretted it immediately, yanking it away.

"Oh god. Nevermind. Nobody look. Sweet crackers that's bad."

"Wasn't planning on it, sweetheart."

"It.. it is weird, though, ain't it?" Ellis was looking thoughtful, still considering Coach's words. "It musta heard us comin', we was all chattin', but it was jess lurkin' there... like it was waiting for us, almos'. Aimed right at you Ro, didn't it?"

"Sure did, hee-haw. And let me tell you, I took it personal."

"Them mutants ain't like the other ones, what just come at you screamin'," Ellis reflected, adjusting his cap as he surveyed the gruesome scene of the parking lot, remembering absently what it looked like in the sunshine, Keith's rowdy voice laughing with his on their way back to the truck, plastic bags of ammo dangling from their fingers, on their way out to the backroads.

"Spitter was like, runnin' and shit, zombies don't run. Not away. Least, them other ones don't. They'll just go straight through fire 'n shit to getcha, they got no ing-stincts fer survival at all."

Nick sighed tersely, impatience nagging at him. They were down to four bullets between the four of them, his Magnum empty, and they were still extremely exposed. Almost more pressing, the slight breeze picking up was not enough to dissipate the reek of the puke splattered across half the lot, which might not have been attracting infected anymore, but was still legitimately threatening to make him sick. He would never have considered himself to have a weak stomach, but he'd known a lot of tougher guys than he that he'd haved liked to see trying to take this all in stride. They were probably zombies by now... stupid, blissfully ignorant zombies, without a care in the world.

At least, he jealously imagined so. Truthfully, zombies always looked pretty pissed off. Maybe that was why he hadn't gotten sick yet. All the natural anger in him working like a vaccine, or making his body too toxic an environment for the virus to live.

Who was the apex species now?

Okay well, zombies still outnumbered humans a million to one. His rough mathematical estimate, based on the ratios they'd seen lately. He was literally an endangered species, but hey, he was still kicking this virus's butt. 

So far.

"Can we save this fun conversation for when we're inside?" he dryly begged them, as much to put an end to his own musings as theirs. "We still have to get in this fucking place, now."

That redirected Ellis pretty easily, though he wore a troubled frown as  he looked up to the squat, two story building, pouting up at the windows as he trudged up to the door.

"Yeah... man, was really kinda hopin' -- tch. Guess was silly, thinkin' ol' Whitaker might still be hangin' around..."

Rochelle gave him a soft, sympathetic look, perhaps about to say something comforting as the Southerner thoughtlessly gave the ungiving door another sturdy tug, for no reason--

only for him to lurch staggeringly back when it swung open effortlessly wide to his pull, bootheel skidding to catch himself in a stumbling halt.

"Wh..."

He gawped, staring into the dark interior of the shop, frozen a moment in surprise like everyone else.

Nick's voice emerged from the shock first, in a low, menacing growl.

"Hick..."

"It was locked, I swear!" Ellis insisted urgently, mortified but clearly as stunned as any of them. He sounded a little panicked they wouldn't believe him, but Nick had dragged him away from yanking on that door himself, and even as he advanced a threatening step, driving Ellis to continue babbling, he knew he was telling the truth.

"Swear on my mama it was locked, you saw it, right Nick?" 

But he didn't get the chance to answer, for Ellis had turned back to the doorway, more excitement than apprehension taking over his expression, and before Nick could stop him he was bounding in, calling out, 

"Mr Whitaker? Yew in here?"

"Christ Almighty-- damn it, kid, careful!" Nick hissed furiously, as Ellis disappeared into the dark gunshop, growling a breath through his teeth as he was forced, once again, to charge in after him.

Chapter Text

LEVEL ll - THE STREETS - lV/lV

Ellis was hollering out as he disappeared inside the dark gunshop. Nick's frustrated concern was derailed some even before he was through the door after him, as to his surprise the lights inside popped on, revealing Ellis standing innocently by the switch like he was right at home. He wouldn't have even thought to search for a lightswitch, given that this neighborhood had gone dark, but the old man must have had a back up power source.

"Hey, Mr Whitaker, if yews in here, please don't shoot us, sir! We ain't looters -- well, not really -- was juss hopin' to borrow a few guns, if we could."

Nick gave Rochelle a look as she stepped in behind him, and mouthed skeptically, Borrow?

She shook her head to dismiss him, rolling her eyes slightly... then her expression softened in amazement, eyebrows lifting and mouth forming into an O as she took in the sight of the gun shop's interior.

It was a small space, as they'd observed from the outside, with heavy crates stacked about, a wrap around glass counter, and a nook off the main room with a door that must have led to the stairs. Every bit of available space, though, was packed with firearms. They lined the walls, the brilliantly lit display cases, and sat in pristine boxes, glossy covers advertising their features, on rows of shelves, along with a treasure trove of ammo.

There was no one in sight, though, even the glass counter leaving no place in the room to hide, though Ellis had folded over it to check anyway. 

"I'm not sure he's here, Ellis.." Rochelle said gently, as she stepped up beside him to the glass counter, the light illuminating her full features as she gazed down into it. 

"Gotta be," he maintained with confidence as he straightened back up, undeterred. He spoke as he looked around, seeming comfortable and at ease in the familiar environment, hand stroking lovingly along the top of the glass counter as he drifted along beside it. 

"Door was locked before, cross my heart an' spit on it. He opened it fer us, I'm tellin' ya."

Rochelle had become a little distracted, though.

"Sweet Joseph, look at all these guns," she breathed in wonder, and Ellis looked back to her over his shoulder, grinning warmly.

"H'awhaha, aw, you look like a kid in a candy store, Ro."

"Fuck, I feel like a kid in a candy store," stated Nick, though one not familiar with his baseline might not have thought it, by his caustic tone and resting bitch face, making his expression look critical even though he was admittedly impressed. "Look at all this shit. You could outfit a militia in here. Anyone else a little turned on right now?"

"Gross, Suit," Rochelle scolded... though after a few seconds ceded quietly, with a twitch of her mouth, "... but yeah, little bit."

Nick smirked a little -- then the crackling sound of speaker static made them all jump, followed by an older man's disembodied, distinctly Southern voice.

"Well hello there!"

Ellis was already rushing around the counter corner and towards the nook, where just beside the door to the stairs none of them had noticed an intercom, the source of the noise. He collapsed excitedly on one shoulder against the wall beside it, so he could face them all, and pressed the button to talk, leaning in close.

"Mr Whitaker? That yew?"

"Heyo, who, who is that?"

"Ah, hey, mister!" Ellis practically wiggled against the wall, shifting to adjust. "Name's Ellis, yew might not 'member me, me n my buddy Keith, we like to swing by sometimes--"

The speaker exploded in crackling, wheezing laughter and profanity.

"God damn boy! Course I remember you two crazy whippersnappers! That fool boy wit you? You the ones makin' that infernal racket out in front?"

"Naw sir, he ain't right now, but I'm sure he's doin' jess fine. I got some new friends wit me, though, we was wonderin' if maybe we could borrow some a yer fine hardware. Y'know, fer... zombie killin' purposes."

His voice took on a solemn hush, like he was confiding a top secret mission.

"Hee~ell yea, boy," Whitaker exclaimed with no such reverence, only gleeful gusto. "Ev'ry bullet wit a dead sonuvabitch's name on it is freeeee of charge, on the house. Final days' clearance on all weapons of undead destruction-- take anything you can use. Jess do me one favor, son, yew an' yer friends..."

There was a little pause, and the next words were lowered, with an edge of firmness, and they could hear his breath crackle like he'd leaned closer to the speaker.
 
"... fuck em up for me."

Ellis laughed gleefully, pumped as anything, eyes shining with motivated determination. They were a similar breed, obviously, him and the old man, the same yee-haw gene running through their blood.

"Hell yea, sir, will do!" he crowed. If the man had been in the room, he surely he would have saluted, marching orders proudly accepted.

Even Nick caught himself chuckling under his breath, smirking.

"I think I like that crazy old man," he idly decided, as Ellis came away from the intercom. The Southerner gawped at him a little.

"Holy shit, Nick. You like somebody, jess like that? Man.. it's like I don't even know you..." 

He looked so genuinely stunned, almost put out, that it amused Nick a little, but he didn't show it as he coldly reminded him,

"You don't, hick. We met a few hours ago, remember?

"Feels like more'n that..." Ellis muttered, and continued muttering as he explored the store, under his breath, "shit, if I'd known all it took was a shitton of free guns 'n shit..."

"What's that, hick?"

"Nothin'."

Nick eyed him suspiciously, though, and it wasn't long before he just caught, in a still quieter mutter,

".. was my idea gettin' the guns...."

Rochelle and Coach were stocking up on ammo, both choosing, despite the wide array of options, to keep the guns they had. With a few pointers from Ellis, Rochelle had taken quite well to the automatic rifle, and had no desire to try and change to something else, stuffing her new bag with magazines.

Nick, after neatly hopping the counter, sauntered up and pulled a submachine gun down from from the wall with both hands, smirking as he inspected it.

"Ro," he called flatly for attention, holding it jauntily up to his shoulder and turning to show her. "Ro, what do you think. Should I take two? One in each hand?"

"Oh god, Suit. No. You already look like Scarface with that thing... and I know you're taking that as a compliment, and I don't mean it that way."

Nick shrugged one shoulder, cockily unimpressed.

"Eh, I'll take it. But I think I'm a little better looking than Al Pacino, doll. Taller, too."

"Hmm," Rochelle hummed skeptically, though it wasn't like she could argue the second claim, and the first she was not getting into.

"And a better shot, I bet. Bet Al Pacino wouldn't last ten minutes in a freakin' zombie apocalype--"

"Okay, Suit, I get it," Rochelle sighed, with sarcastic exasperation. "You're amazing and incredible. Shush."

"Thank you," he replied, perfectly ignoring that last command. "It's nice to finally hear some recognition."

"Men and their egos..." she grumbled in complaint.

"You know what they say about a massive ego..." he suggested lecherously, smirking at her.

"I sure hope you weren't planning on finishing that sentence," she warned him dryly, but he only chuckled slyly, leaving the rest unsaid.

Ellis's goofy, excited voice drew both of their attention.

"Aw shit, laser sights! Aww helll~, that's so cool.... guess don't really need those none on muh shotgun, though. Damn. Maybe I'll git a pistol, just fer fun. Shit, this is so exciting. I wish I could git one of everything."

He sounded a little breathless, almost tense with his excitement, buzzing.

"Settle down, son," came Coach's low, patient baritone.

"Aw I can't help it, Coach, shit. This like a dream come true. 'Xcept all the bad stuff, y'know..."

"Except that," Nick drawled sarcastically.

"Man, wish Keith was here, he'd be lovin' this... Ro girl, whatchu think, you want laser sights? I can fit em fer ya!"

"Ooo~..."

"Ain't that likely to draw attention, pointin' lasers all around?" Coach rumbled dubiously.

"Awww, well, yew can keep 'em off till you need em.. s'pose none of us really do, though. Man, I'd love t'grab a huntin' rifle, but can only carry so much ammo as is.. wish I had a duffel or somethin'. Killin' me leavin' all this behind... shoulda found a purse too...."

"Deep breaths, son."

In the end, Nick limited himself modestly to just the one submachine gun and as much ammo as he could stuff his suit with. He'd found bullets for his Magnum, too, earning the storeowner another rare commendation. Rochelle and Coach had followed Ellis's example and suggestion and picked up a pistol each. Well, halfway followed-- the hick had actually picked up two pistols for himself, and attached a laser sight to one, which had Nick rubbing his eyebrows to soothe himself.  

"Doesn't actually work real well, usin' two guns at once, I tried before," Ellis was at least was reasonable enough to confess, rambling happily, "cause like, seems like a good idea, looks cool as hell in all 'em movies, like Lara Croft 'n shit, an' it's like yeah you got two guns an' two hands an' two eyes so it all makes sense on paper, but in reality 'course yew can't make your eyes go off in two directions so, yew still only wanna be shootin' one target, an' that's a lil tricky too. Hehehell~, it's loadsa fun tho. 'N these guys get so dang close sometimes, might jess really come in handy. An' I was thinkin', yew know whatchu was sayin, Coach, about the laser pointer 'ttractin' attention-- betcha we could use that to our advantage, too. If they notice bright lights, maybe could use it to distract em, y'know, lead em somewhere... jess like a kittycat."

"God. Now you're going to be fucking playing with them. Ellis, you are not bringing a zombie home, do you hear me? We don't need you trying to teach a Hunter to play fetch."

"Hawhawhaw," Ellis guffawed, about as happy as he'd ever seen him, blue eyes twinkling with humor and some budding longing as he really considered the idea, "oh shiit~~... but they'd be so good at it. Shit Nick you got me thinking."

"Bad idea," Nick scolded him harshly, voice hard and eyes dark. "Stop that. I can see you still doing it, I said knock it off. Nothing good ever comes of you having a thought, hick."

His expression and tone were for naught. Ellis was still laughing, a breathy snickering, even harder now, eyes crinkled with merriment, voice breaking a little as he accused him with a humored attempt at sounding hurt, "Nick yer so mean. I have tons of good ideas."

"Oh yeah," Nick sniped back, merciless. "What was your last one? Spraying our teammates with flame retardant just so you can use that dumb fire extinguisher? Oh no, I'm sorry, it was playing laser tag with zombies. Right."

"Aw shit, Red!" Ellis exclaimed, jumping up from the crate on which he'd been lounging to load his shotgun and jogging towards the door. "Left her outside I'll be right back..."

"God dammit," Nick swore, grabbing his rifle and moving to follow the idiot so they didn't have to fucking give chase when a Smoker tried to lynch him down an alleyway because he'd gone back for a beaten up fire extinguisher he'd apparently christened.

"You have three guns!" he snarled after him in a muted yell, furious to hear not just Rochelle's tittering, but Coach low chuckle behind him. How had he suddenly ended up the kid's babysitter?! He hadn't been running off on his own when the Smoker had gotten him -- though he hadn't cried for help either -- and Ellis had been the one to save him -- but the Spitter, still, that wasn't -- the Spitter Ellis had tried to warn him about, and had taken a bad hit from for him...

"Fucking, tits, ass, inbred little..."

The gun shop had been a welcome respite from their harrowing mission, their breaks till then having included pausing to grab guns in the middle of an inferno in a hotel lobby, hiding in a flimsy trailer while a horde of zombies stampeded past, and taking the time to patch up Ellis's melted back in that dark, underground maintenance room. In contrast, the well lit shop, with its solid walls, clean of any trace of the infection but them in their zombie stained clothes, and its friendly and welcoming if not physically present host, seemed a sanctuary, a place they could actually rest, if only for a minute. They couldn't afford to stay longer.

"Mr Whitaker, sir, we're 'bout to head out," Ellis said into the speaker, once more leaned against the wall beside it. "We're gonna try the evac center at the mall, not sure it's still open, but it's all we got right now. You sure yer alright up there? We'd be real happy to have you along --"

Nick threw his palms out in disbelief, fixing the hick with a look that said that should have been a group decision--

"-- but I can't promise yew'd be any safer out here, I'll be honest," Ellis was earnestly admitting anyway, blue eyes solemnly holding Nick's stare. The answer that crackled from the speaker didn't really surprise any of them, though.

"Noo boy, donchu worry, old man Whitaker's gonna be juust fine. I been preparin' fo' this since before you was born, sonny. Don't need no CEDA, no Nash'nul Guard, no Army. I'll be sittin' pretty here till this all blows over. Yew jess run along, now, say hi to that boy Keith when yew sees him next, tell'ma stay outta trouble. An' if yew should end up this ways again by any chance-- jess holler next time, I'll letcha in -- be a gent, would'ja, 'n bring me some Coke?"

Ellis blinked, none of them sure they'd heard right.

"Uhhh, did'ju say Coke, sir? Like Coca Cola?"

"That's right. Don't gotta be iced or nuthin'. Got jess about everythin' I need up here all~ nice 'n set, but when shit all hit the fan an' I went to lock up, in my haste, I fergot Coke. Havin' a terrible hankerin'. But, s'pose that's jess the way."

Ellis hesitated, then laughed softly.

"I promise yew, mister, if we end up back here before this all blows over, we'll bring yew some Coke fer sure," he assured him sincerely.

"Much obliged. Y'all take care now."

"You too, sir. We owe you one."

"I mean, do we?" Nick had to ask, as they made their way out, in a low, wry voice. Ellis was last, taking one last fond look before he switched the light off and followed them outside, shutting the door. "We could have just taken whatever we wanted anyway, not like he'd even know-- hey!"

Rochelle had swatted lightly at his shoulder, moving off in the middle of his sentence, and Ellis was shaking his head disapprovingly as he passed him, following her. He rubbed his arm as if it had hurt, protesting lazily,

"I'm kidding. Kidding! Jeez..."

They left the gunshop behind them, and soon were traversing a nearly empty parking lot in front of an ALDI's, whose shattered sliding glass doors revealed only a dark void beyond, nothing they could make out. No one even suggested exploring inside, hungry as they were. They'd all had enough of zombies in the dark, and the long but perfectly climbable aisles of the grocery store sounded like a nightmare to clear. Plus, as Ellis informed them in an excited hush, as they slunk around the thick hedges of impassable laurel lining the lot, their destination was just on the other side.

"Mall's jess around this corner. Almost there, folks."

They'd managed not to encounter any infected nearby yet, the night quiet for now. Nick wondered if it was because they'd already gone running their way when the Boomer had exploded, and if that smell could really carry any further than the sound of a shotgun blast. The theory that the puke's draw seemed to have a lifespan, like the Spitter's acid, was holding for now, as he couldn't help but think that Coach and Rochelle would otherwise still be attracting them as they traveled.

"Dear Lord," Coach whispered, "see us safely through our time of trial in this mall. And please Lord... let the food court be okay."

Nick snorted softly, and Ellis and then Rochelle supportively chimed in, their murmur warm with humor, "Amen."

As they neared the wide driveway to the mall parking lot, they all fell silent. Nick saw a large sign, fringed in a once manicured but now trampled flowerbed, displaying the name of their destination-- Liberty Mall. Little spotlights would have once illuminated it, but they were dark. What was lit up was a solar message road sign nearby, its large digital interface reading in orange letters, pointing towards the driveway;

C E D A  E V A C
< - - - - - - -

They slowed as the neared the blind corner of the hedges, apprehension building. It wasn't so quiet anymore-- they could just catch scattered snarls and growls on the breeze, and they knew the infected weren't far.

Creeping so cautiously that he tried  not to rustle the leaves as he leaned his back gently into them, Ellis was the first to peer around the corner, with bated breath.

Nick didn't love the way the Southerner's shoulders slowly slumped, lungs giving up their breath as he sighed a soft,

"Aw, hell~..."

Nick stepped impatiently forward, and pulled an unresisting and worrisomely worried-looking Ellis away from the corner, needing to see for himself. He squinted out through the leaves just far enough to see what Ellis had seen.

"... Tits," he whispered.

The asphalt stretching between them and the mall was infested. A parking lot had never looked so huge. There were few cars, CEDA vehicles mostly, and a few more large tents, but mostly it was just... zombies. Wandering, scratching at themselves, sometimes each other, stumbling, jerking, twitching... some slumped, gazing sightlessly at nothing but obviously still functioning, their milky eyes chatoyant at the right angle, gleaming yellow. There were so many, he could see that eerie yellow winking in and out across the dark sea of shambling figures like fireflies.

Heart thudding, he started to draw back, just to find a soft, warm touch at his elbow -- Rochelle, lurking close at his shoulder, warning him of her presence so he didn't back into her. He let her slip past, along with Coach, and a few moments later they'd both regrouped with him and Ellis behind the hedge, their faces all stricken in their own way -- Ellis with doubt, Coach with a stern gravity, Rochelle a despairing weariness and Nick's hard, his eyes dark and distant and mouth a grim line.

Though he'd been the one to predict exactly fucking this, it was something else entirely to see it, and to be able to see their destination so close, after all their fighting to get here.

Even Ellis was uncertain, chewing on his full lower lip, muttering to himself,

"Dammn~..."

It was Coach's low voice that gathered them, grave but level, solid as ever.

"I think we need to talk about this. Let's fall back."

A minute later, after doing a quick check around the side of the building and the immediate area, they were grouped at the corner of the grocery store, in front -- the hedges at the back were just a little too close to the infested mall parking lot on the other side-- but opposite the doors of the store, at the very end of the long brick corral that was the shopping cart return. The store had no windows at the ground level, and they had a good view down two sides of the building and into the lot and street, their only close blindspot the hedges they'd just come from, which at least made them feel a little more hidden themselves.

Ellis sat on the corner of the shopping cart corral, knees spread wide and workboots tucked up against the brick half wall. Rochelle was perched on the edge of the concrete base of a tall, unlit lightpost, her legs stretched in front of her, slightly bent, with her automatic rifle resting across her thighs for a moment. Across from her crouched Nick, forearms draped over his knees, ringed fingers woven loosely together, skeptical that anything nearby was clean enough to lean his white suit against, though it was no longer very white and was truthfully probably more disgusting than the outside wall of the ALDI's.

Coach stood facing them, opposite Ellis, thick arms folded across his chest.

"I'd like to hear everyone's thoughts right now," he began, baritone voice grave and even. "Nick, even yours."

"Oh thanks. I was gonna ask," Nick quipped sarcastically.

Eyes low and distant with somber consideration, Rochelle tilted her head with a slight shake, hoop earrings swinging just once, her expression dubious.

"That's a lot of zombies," she sighed, looking up to search the other's eyes. "Is that what everyone else is thinking?"

"Pretty much," Nick agreed grimly.

Ellis's tone was not quite the same as the other three's, Nick could hear it in his voice... serious, but with an undercurrent of excitement. The gears were turning in his head.

"I'm thinkin' we gonna git ourselves n trouble, f'we try an take them all head on. Even with all these awesome guns. Reckon we gotta come up with a plan. Make a distraction, or somethin'."

"Before you start, hick--" Nick interjected tiredly, and looked dully at the other two. "I gotta be the one to ask, I guess?"

"Say what's on your mind, Nick," Coach rumbled gravely.

He didn't hesitate. This was what he was here for, the voice of realism.

"That lot looks pretty bad," he straightforwardly stated, voice callous and hard. "Mall's dark, top to bottom, from what I can see. Anyone really think CEDA's still in there waiting for us?"

"Could be," Ellis piped up hopefully. "Could jes be lyin low, y'know, so they don't attract all them zombies in. Maybe they've had to fall back--"

"Tch, no shit--"

"-- but what if we were this close, and didn' even try?"

Coach blew out a sigh, tone softening.

"Babygirl, whatchu think?"

"I don't know, I'm torn..." Rochelle whined. "I don't want to be disappointed again. It's going to be so dangerous getting inside, maybe even more dangerous once we get in there, and if no one's there waiting for us...?"

Coach was nodding in grave agreement. Ellis looked more torn himself, now, chewing on his lower lip again.

"Well this is weird," Nick commented sarcastically, and rose to his feet, stretching his back and shoulders with a couple of cracks and a wry grimace, before folding his arms across his chest. "We're not actually listening to Nick, are we?"

Coach sighed in resignation.

"Ain't just you, boy. I don't like sayin' it myself, but... I got a real bad feeling about that mall."

"... Well, that does it for me," decided Rochelle, turning her palms up from her rifle in a shrug like motion. "If Coach is getting spooked, I'm out. At least, if everyone agrees... Ellis?"

Her tone softened a little when she said his name. It was plain he was struggling the most with the idea of giving up, hesitation in his response and blue eyes low and troubled.

"Jess hard to b'lieve they all up an' left so quick... musta been lotsa folk jess like us, riskin' everything to get where they was s'posed to be safe, jess t'find..."

He huffed a little sigh, and Nick saw his fingers tighten a little on the edge of the brick.

"Might not have been up to them, sport," Nick told him grimly, tone not kind but not so harsh as it could have been. "Not that you'll ever catch me defending the Man, but... you saw the Vannah. Things probably went south just as quick here."

"Yeah...," Ellis mumbled somberly, "don't know f'that makes me feel better none, but..."

"Well, then they're a bunch of chicken shit assholes who split the second things got hairy and left us all here for dead," Nick laid out his options with some impatience, any tempering of his tone not having lasted long, "take your pick, goober."

"So we all in agreement?" Coach checked once more, enforcing the group's democracy in his low rumble, making sure his team was all behind the same game plan. "Mall's a bust?"

"Mall's a deathtrap," Nick's hard voice confirmed, though he'd already made his opinion known.

Rochelle was nodding, disappointment in her eyes.

Ellis sighed again, nodding slightly, but his head was low, picking at the seam of his coverall sleeve.

"Jess wish I knew fer certain weren't no one left inside," he mumbled sadly from under the bill of his cap. "Makes me think if it was that bad, could still be folks stuck in there, y'know? Might be trapped."

Rochelle looked touched, eyes softening like she wanted to go to him and offer sympathy, but Nick's eyes darkened, and once again he stepped up to the plate as the voice of reason this group needed.

"Oh hell no. Don't even think about it, hick. We've been just barely making it out here, we're not going to start going on fucking rescue missions. Even if there was anyone left but the dead in there, which I, personally, would bet money there is not-- we're talking about the guys that were meant to save us, kid. If they couldn't handle it in there, how the hell do you think we're gonna make a difference? We're not superheroes here, we've been lucky. It'd be suicide."

It was harsh, and he saw Ellis's nose and mouth tighten a little under the beratement, but he took it, and when he didn't fight, Nick could see that he'd won. Coach stepped in to take over, soothe the finish, his grave baritone more gentle, real compassion and understanding there.

"Can't risk it, son. I'd have trouble turnin' down any man askin' for help myself, but we can't be puttin' our asses on the line like that when we don't even there's anyone left to save. Be a fool's errand."

Expression softened from its pinch by Coach's words, Ellis twisted his mouth apologetically in what was supposed to be a smile, looking back up at them.

"Naw, yer all right," he admitted softly, "I git it..."

He did look a little put out still, though, and Nick would have let him walk it off, most likely, but Rochelle kindly checked in.

"You okay there, Ellis?"

The boy huffed a sheepish laugh, with a little half smile. He was hiding something, Nick was suddenly, keenly sure. 

"Aw, yeah, s'nothin'... 'silly."

"Real weird you not saying the first thought that pops into your head, hick, I don't like it," Nick called him out straight away, voice hard. "Spit it out."

"Naw naw, s'real dumb, it ain't--" Ellis was bent on protesting, till a sharp, warning look from Nick felled his resolve, and his shoulders slumped, groaning reluctantly, "awww it's jess, see, mall's bin closed fer a bit, renovation, an' fer the grand reopenin', they was gonna have Jimmy Gibbs Jr himself make an appearance, be signin' autographs an' takin' pictures with his stock car in the food court. See," Nick's mouth had fallen slightly open, speechless, and Ellis flapped his hands a little in embarrassment, "I tol'ja weren't even nothin' worth mentionin', jess -- I bin really lookin' forward to it," he sounded more damn crestfallen than he had about his own skin, "an' I'd been figgerin', us goin' there anyway an' all... might have a chance to see Jimmy Gibbs Jr's stock car after all, cause reckon they got it all set up already, y'know?"

All Nick could think to say, after all that, was;

".. Who in the hell is Jimmy Gibbs Jr?"

Ellis blustered in his shock, flabbergasted.

"Pff, huh, uhhh... gosh, Nick, I dunno, only like, the greatest stock car racer of all time!! That man is a national treasure an' the pride an' joy of Georgia. Why if the laws of nature allowed it, I would bear that man's children," he claimed primly, with no trace of shame. In fact it was now Nick he wore a patient, but slightly chiding smile of disbelief for. "Shit~, Nick. What rock you bin under?"

Nick's jaw had just fallen open further, gaping blankly. He didn't... he didn't know where to start.

"You did ask," Rochelle reminded him, with a tiny smile of amusement.

Nick closed his mouth, recovering, at least on the surface.

"... I sure did. OK. No more mall. New plan? Anyone but Ellis, go."

Ellis, who had already been opening his mouth, whined, "Hey!"

"I need to have another look at the young'un's back, clean it up proper. We bin goin' strong, we all need food and rest. I say we find a place to hole up for the night, figure out our next move in the morning."

Ellis shot Nick a furtive, stubborn glance, and jumped into the conversation after Coach-- with, annoyingly, a reasonable idea.

"More cars 'n people, now, reckon we could find ourselves a ride, git outta town."

"Until we get some information, out of town seems like the best bet," Coach agreed. "Too many of em here. If we can't find a rescue, maybe our best bet is gather supplies, find someplace out in the boonies, hole up till this all blows over."

"That doesn't sound half bad," said Rochelle hopefully.

"Great," Nick sarcastically agreed, "Boonies. Cause I really thought the only thing Deliverance was missing was flesh-eating zombies."

"... Y'know, Nick, now that y'mention it... yew ever seen a zombie actually eatin' a person?"

"Uh, when I see them, they're usually trying to eat me, so... no? Can't say I've had the pleasure."

"But the bodies we been findin', an' stuff... can't help but notice. They ain't tryna eat each other, that makes sense, but yew'd think if it was fresh folk they were after, the dead people we find, they'd be all chewed 'n shit, right? Like they're messed up 'n shit, fer sure, but... sorry, ain't real nice a picture, but, yew'd think they'd be all eaten up, right? Down to 'em bones, like animals do. Ain't never seen that."

"That's true..." Rochelle mused. "They bite, for sure, but they also just punch and kick and scratch."

"That body we found in the tunnels, weren't eaten a bit, jess melted."

"Yeah, that's another thing," Nick found himself reluctantly dragged into the conversation, pointing out grimly, "If people are your food source, why fuck up perfectly good meat? .. Yuck."

Ellis was nodding at him appreciatively.

"S'what 'm sayin'."

"It's like they just... really want to kill us," Rochelle murmured.

There was an awkward, uncomfortable silence, the breeze sending a crumpled piece of stray newspaper tumbleweeding through the nearby parking lot, skating softly along the asphalt.

"O-kayy, well that's nice," Nick decided bracingly, unfolding his arms and slapping his thighs firmly.

"I love these talks. Tell you what, though, let's play a game. It's called, nobody says a word till we find a safehouse. First one to lose gets smacked in the spine."

He narrowed his eyes pointedly at the Southerner, who jutted his chin slightly and narrowed his warily back.

"... Yew wouldn'--"

Nick raised his hand suddenly, expression tightening in silent threat.

Ellis protested, looking less certain.

"Now that's jess--"

Nick started violently towards him, and Ellis launched off the corral, scampering out of range.

"Okay!" he surrendered, and then remembered, and dropped his volume to mutter under his breath, "Okay... jeez..."

"Which way, you think?" Coach consulted the other local, as Rochelle approached, paying zero regard to the rules of Nick's game, as expected. Ellis considered a moment, then, stealing a quick, pointedly petulant look at Nick -- he wasn't terribly good at pretending to be annoyed at him, but it amused him that he was trying, and if it kept him quiet a minute, even better-- then motioned a suggested direction with his head. Coach agreed, and together the group departed the lot on a mission to find shelter, leaving the dark mall, and their hopes of evacuation any time soon, behind them.

It was time for plan C.

Chapter Text

LEVEL lll - DOWNTOWN - l/V

With the possible exception of Ellis, nobody could regret the decision to abort their mission into the mall. The idea of them ever making it past that sea of walking corpses seemed more of a crazy fantasy to Nick the longer he thought about it, and he shuddered to think how close they'd come to making the no doubt doomed attempt. They were barely in condition to be fighting the scattered zombies they encountered on the streets, much less an army. 

They all needed rest. The day had seemed to last an eternity, and though the sun had gone down hours before, no one knew how long it might be before they could find shelter and sleep. The Georgia nights were still mild this early in October, so cold was no concern, but the adrenaline that had kept them going through the day had waned, and they were starting to fully feel every accumulated ache, pain and weary muscle. The moon had not yet risen, forcing them to strain their eyes to scan for threats in the inky shadows of each building, alley, car and tree. They had not even the luxury of dragging their complaining feet, for it was as important to stay quiet as it was to stay alert, and keep their tread light.

The goal sounded simple. Find a place just suitable enough to hole up in town for the night, then get a vehicle and move on in the morning. The only problem was, staying still anywhere in infested Savannah turned out to be even more challenging a proposition than staying on the move. It wasn't just a matter of finding a place, it was a matter of finding an area in which to even search for a place. The infected were everywhere, and if they couldn't clear an area enough to get inside somewhere undetected, there was no point-- those outside would try to break in until they succeeded or their screeches brought the whole neighborhood to help. That would of course be while they were dealing with whatever might be inside the building, no doubt lightless, with again just their single flashlight to face the danger.

Countless times, they had to reroute, finding a promising looking street only to have to backtrack and detour to avoid the dozens of zombies scattered along it, shambling slowly about, ready to turn into a murderous mob the moment they were alerted. It was hell. They'd gone from being nearly completely dry on ammo to every pocket, purse and backpack they had bulging with it, but they hadn't used so much as one bullet since they'd restocked, restricting themselves only to their melee weapons for stealth. Without ever knowing if a horde was just around the corner, it was just too risky to be firing their guns unless absolutely necessary.

Ellis was perhaps showing his weariness most of all, which wouldn't have been surprising, considering he was the only one of them with a significant injury, except for the fact that it was Ellis. He wasn't complaining, but he hadn't tried to tell them a story about his buddy Keith for a good hour now, and that was significant. Nick could make out a wheezing grunt on his breath when he swung at the zombies, and his footing was a little rougher, stumbling more often as fatigue weighed at his limbs.

He wasn't even supposed to be fighting with them, Nick eventually remembered, given that his only melee weapon was a fire extinguisher, and wielding the heavy thing put an obvious strain on the giant acid burn between his shoulderblades. During that last horde, when he'd run out of shotgun shells, they'd had no choice but to let him bash away, and Nick knew the fight must have worn him out. It had gotten him back into the habit, though, and it had slipped their attention in their collective weariness and otherwise focused attention that he was once again trying to take on his share of those infected they were unable to avoid.

Nick wasn't sure how many bludgeonings Ellis had gotten away with when he caught notice. A shabby zombie, so crookedly hunchbacked from what looked like a broken spine that it was baffling it could move, had picked itself up from the side of the street behind a car, slow to stir till after Coach and Rochelle had already passed, but then unnervingly quick on its feet when it decided to tear right for Nick. He'd seen it, features hard and pinched with distaste, and was ready for it, adjusting his grip on his golf club to take it out when it came in range, but perhaps he didn't look it, because Ellis suddenly came skipping out from behind him, throwing his weight into a sideways charge, and swung the heavy red canister at its head with brutal, but not quite fatal, force. 

It smashed just under the zombie's temple, cracking it and crumpling the delicate bones of its face, causing that side to slacken misshapenly, but rather than die or even seem stunned, the zombie went suddenly wild, seizing and clawing for him. Ellis winced away, wrestling his weapon back and bashing it once, twice again, the last hit finishing it and sending it slumping to the ground, but not before the thing's nails had bit into his arm. Tearing away had caused them to score down a length of it, only a grazing scratch, but enough to break the skin, and there were bloody crescents where its nails had gouged.

Breathless, exhilaration in his eyes despite his tiredness, Ellis hardly seemed to notice. He jumped, however, when Nick's scolding voice snapped at him, blue eyes looking up to meet angry green ones, large with confusion and then guilt.

"Hey! What'd we fucking tell you, hick? Cool it with that thing, your back's still screwed up remember? And it's a stupid fucking weapon. You could be using anything else, seriously."

"Don't say that about her, Nick," Ellis pleaded, sticking up for his fire extinguisher despite the chastised slump to his shoulders. Nick pointed him rigidly forward ahead of him, where he could keep an eye on him, with a scowl so stern the hick went obediently trudging on ahead, head hanging a little with embarrassment, like he had a need to go kick rocks into a pond for a while. 

"I've killed so many zombies with this baby, I can't even believe she's holdin up so well," he kept right on mumbling, though, from a few steps ahead of Nick. "I'm jess gettin' tired, that's all..."

"Yeah no shit, that thing probably weighs twenty pounds. You're wearing yourself out. Quit it. I'm not giving you a piggy back ride when you finally crash. Especially if that scratch gets you sick."

"Oh, that ain't my first scratch," Ellis remarked blithely, glancing back to blink at Nick with an expression absolutely innocent of any significance. "See?"

He'd slowed to hoist up his left pant leg, turning a little to show off the bare skin above his work boot to Nick, where several parallel lines of red were scraped, already scabbing.

"That was 'fore we even got to the roof, sucker grabbed me from the street runnin' to the hotel. Thought it was already dead. Sure made it that way though, hawhaw."

It was at that moment that the Southerner noticed that Rochelle and Coach, up ahead, had both stopped, and were gaping blankly back at him.

"Wut? .. wut're y'all lookin' at me like that fer? ... Neither yew been scratched yet? Hell, virus is airborne, ain't it?"

"They think," Rochelle clarified hesitantly.

"Oh." Ellis blinked, then shrugged, with a matter-of-fact expression. "Well, I ain't felt nothin'. Jess tired from runnin' around all day on nothin' but a donut. I'll letcha know real quick if I start feelin funny though, no worries. Nick yew alright, ain'cha?"

Nick gave Ellis a sharp, suspicious look.

"Course I am," he answered coldly. "Why?"

Uncertainty softening his eyes, Ellis wore a tentative little smile, and ventured gently,

"Well, cause I mean... yew got scratched a little too, din'cha?"

"What?!" Nick snapped impatiently, brow drawing further into a blank glare, confusion converting directly into anger. He corrected him firmly. "No I haven't."

"Yeaa~..." Ellis meekly had to argue, apologetically now, "right there, under yer shirt? Atcher collar."

Furious green eyes dropped down to the collar of his blue shirt as if it had betrayed him, and he yanked it impatiently aside. Kept undone a couple of buttons, as he preferred it, the shirt had plenty of give, and it was easy to bare the skin where Ellis indicated. Sure enough, just above his right collarbone were a few distinctive red scratches, shallow but skin broken all the same. 

... When?! 

He didn't remember any of them grabbing him there! He racked his mind, trying to recall when he might have gotten tangled closer with a zombie than he normally did, and it hit him pretty fast.

"God damn it," he spat through his teeth, sneering nose twitching with fury. "That fucking Smoker. Must have been when he was wrapping his..."

"... tongue," Ellis supplied helpfully.

"Shut the fuck up -- okay, well, great. I inhaled that gas shit and I got scratched by his dirty fucking nails, man that guy really had it out for me. I guess at least this means I know I've been exposed either way."

"'Nless it's only if you get bit..." Ellis muttered thoughtfully, just to himself, but catching Nick's dirty look, quickly, dismissively shook his head, instead confidently proclaiming,

"Naw, man, I betchu we all four jess got some kind of immunity. No way, all this runnin' around fightin' em, feelin' fine.. man, I hearda folks who turned in minutes."

"Sho hope so. I'd sho like to quit worryin' I'm gonna come down wit it after all an'..."

"And puke on all of us?" Nick suggested slyly.

"Boy, you ain't too old for me to hitchu," Coach warned him sternly. "If I become a Boomer, I'm pukin' straight on yo white ass, I promise. That suit won't never be the same."

"Yeah, that stupid Smoker beat you to it," Nick grumbled. "Hey, stow it-- company ahead."

Ellis glumly hung back while the three of them dispatched the zombies that had emerged from the shadows, croaking and growling, looking for all the world like he was too short to ride the coaster, not on restricted duty from wailing away at nasty fleshbags, the experience of which Nick would have happily passed on. They were all of them covered in layers of zombie spray, at this point, it was inevitable engaging them so closely. Ellis was probably the reasonable one shrugging off the significance of a scratch-- if any of them had so much as a single scrape anywhere, chances were zombie blood had gotten in it already. 

Nick really didn't like thinking about that. Maybe he was immune to the Green Flu, but that didn't mean he was suddenly immune to every other blood transferable disease.

By the time they'd finished dealing with the infected, though, Ellis already seemed to have perked up, and had some information to distract them.

"Seen some lights over thataways. Looks like some of downtown might still have power, could check it out."

It was as good a direction as any, and the prospect of perhaps staying somewhere with power gave them a little much needed hope. Their time in the maintenance tunnels had imbued them all with a healthy respect for the dark, and the idea of exploring inside anywhere with nothing more than that single flashlight, let alone sleeping there, was daunting and unpleasant. 

It took several more reroutes and zombie encounters, and overall, had been a few hours since the initiation of plan C before they came across a promising, quiet corner of downtown. Lampposts illuminated the quaintly brick-cobbled street in sleepy spotlights of deep gold. A row of trees lined one side, and the light that dispersed down through their leaves cast dappled shadows onto the pavement below, a soft breeze making the patterns drift. Multistory buildings towered on either side, the aesthetic old painted brick, wrought iron balconies and colorful awnings extending over restaurants and storefronts contrasting with the untidily wrecked cars, smashed windows, dark lumps of corpses and other signs of chaos that preceded their arrival.

"Buncha these stores an' restaurants got homes above em," Ellis commented hopefully, as they cautiously ventured up the street, scrutinizing every building for potential. "Might be good for us-- block off the staircase, easy to defend if anythin' ugly comes scratchin'."

Coach's solemn baritone was low, stern eyes scanning the street, wary and alert.
 
"I ain't lookin' to get fussy here. Mo' time we spend lookin' around, more trouble we'll attract."

They passed by a few places that looked indefensible, were already breached or didn't suit their needs for other reasons, before Ellis crossed a narrow alley without so much as glancing into it, beelining for the store at its opposite corner. Nick irritably turned his sights down into the dark opening as he reached it, confirming it was clear of threat before striding to catch up with Ellis, planning on scolding him in a harsh hiss as soon as he was near enough. The redneck accidentally cut him off before he could, though, his face almost pressed up against a large glass window, peering inside, and he spoke in a tone of such hushed excitement that Nick was distracted. 

"Aww, looky here! Ain't broken into, got stairs goin' up, an' it's jess a lil place, so I jess betchu that's them owner's home, up top. Prolly got some food 'n shit, what d'yew think?"

Nick abruptly cared more about the thought of food and shelter than he did about curbing the hick's recklessness, a likely Sisyphean task, and squinted critically inside.

It was a record store. It was hard to see much inside, dark as it was, but a few little neon signs glowed decoratively in the back, providing enough illumination to see that the small place seemed neat, with no trace of zombies or blood spatter, and as Ellis had said, a narrow staircase led up to the second floor, just ahead of the glass front door.

"Feel terrible jess breakin' in," Ellis added regretfully, as the others joined them to gaze inside, "but..."

"If he's one of the lucky ones, he was on a chopper, and we need it more than he does," Nick pointed out callously. "If not, doesn't matter anymore, kiddo."

"Yeah... guess yer right," Ellis admitted, stepping over to the door.  "Okay, heads up, this might draw some attention--"

He hefted his fire extinguisher suddenly up, causing Nick's heart to skip a beat with a start, and he hissed and jolted a step forward, raising a hand to block him.

"Woah, Christ, hang on," he snapped tensely. "There's probably an alarm, damn. You'll bring everything in the neighborhood down on us."

"Oh shit, right," Ellis murmured, eyes large, unsettled by the imagery of what he'd almost just done. He lowered the fire extinguisher, albeit a little reluctantly.

Rochelle had stepped back, and was peering up into the alleyway.

"This place does actually have a fire escape..." she pointed out dubiously. "Think it'll hold?"

"One way to find out," replied Nick dryly, pacing back to the alleyway to follow her stare, gazing critically up.

Good, old-fashioned fire escapes. The thing looked like a death trap, naturally, all discomfortingly narrow slats of old, dark metal, forming a lacework of steep, rickety stairs and landings that zigzagged up the side of the building. The second floor window was all they needed to reach-- Nick was just hoping the owner hadn't been thorough enough to put an alarm on that one. The fire escape wasn't lowered, naturally. 

Despite his go-get-em words, Nick wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of being the first one up, and Ellis of course would have been happy to be, but Rochelle was the lightest, and the least likely to bring the whole thing tumbling down off the wall with her weight, and so it was she that stepped up to the task. Coach braced his feet solidly apart and clasped his hands to gave her a step up, and Ellis stood nearby with a hand raised and then a shoulder for her to balance herself on as she stepped delicately up into Coach's hands, rising precariously into the air. Fingertips only just still grazing Ellis's shoulder, she stretched up tentatively with her other hand, grunting out a strained breath as she realized she still couldn't quite reach it.

"I need a boost, Papa Bear," she told him, looking down with a little smile.

"You got it, girl. Ready? On three. One, two, three!"

Her hand leapt off Ellis's shoulder as it disappeared out of reach, Coach's powerful heave sending her swiftly up. She snatched the bar with both hands, the old metal cold and dirty, paint flaking, and gripped tight, falling with it, releasing only when her boots stumbled to the ground. The rusty metal screeched as the ladder fell with a clang far heavier than the flimsy looking thing had any right to give. They'd all rushed to try and catch it -- and her -- but it all happened too quickly, and she gasped in apology.

"Sorry, sorry!!"

"That's alright, girl, that's alright," Coach assured her in a hush, but he was looking around warily. That noise had to have attracted attention.

Sure enough, they heard the scrape of running feet from the far end of the alleyway. Just one zombie came into sight, though, and Coach shook his head dismissively. 

"S'okay, we got this. Just start climbing."

"You sure?" she asked uncertainly, even as she shifted towards the ladder to follow his direction.

"Go," he told her, sure and firm. "An' be careful, babygirl."

Ellis ducked down suddenly behind a nearby dumpster as the zombie drew closer, glancing up at Coach, a determined light glinting in his eyes.

"I'm gonna trip it."

The big man nodded trustingly, and planted himself to face the oncoming zombie, taking care to lead its charge just past Ellis's hiding place. The Southerner launched his boot out firmly, and the infected went sprawling over it, just as intended, crashing hard into the ground. With no hesitation, Coach flung his axe powerfully down just like he was splitting firewood, carving deeply into the base of the zombie's skull, stilling it instantly. Nick winced slightly, and was glad nobody saw.

In the silence that followed, there was just an unpleasantly audible squelching noise as Coach pried his axe out -- giving a small nod to Ellis as he got back up to his feet, his eyes shining with satistaction-- and the strained squeaks the fire escape made with every step Rochelle's boots ascended.

"Seems okay..." came her soft voice, "just kinda rusty."

"Okay, well that doesn't sound great," Nick commented dryly, flat voice hard edged as he raised it just enough to be heard, looking up her way with a scowl.

"Come on up, Suit," Rochelle chided, laughter in her voice. "Just careful you don't brush the sides."

She had reached the window, and was peering in, one hand shielding her eyes to try and make out anything beyond.

"Oof, man, you know I never used to be scared of the dark," she complained apprehensively.

Nick's nose was pinched with distaste as he gingerly climbed the fire escape, which complained a little louder under his heavier weight. Rochelle's advice to not brush the sides was rankling him -- it was so narrow that doing so was nigh impossible to avoid, and he knew dusty streaks of rust were being left behind on his suit, darkening his expression.

He wasn't scared of heights in particular, but even one story up off the ground seemed suddenly far away from it, when all they had keeping them from falling was the structural equivelent of a dog cage that had been bolted to the wall probably fifty years ago and never maintained since.

Rochelle trying to resist an amused little smile, when he moodily reached her on the tiny landing, in that slightly sympathetic way she had, only caused his glare to darken further. She was smart enough not to goad him, though, and the simmering heat of his annoyance was left on the back burner while they inspected the window together, further distracted by the discovery of some good news -- the window wasn't even latched.

Growls below caught their attention, but it was just one more zombie, no match for Coach. Rochelle pulled out her crowbar, and Nick took it from her to do the honors. It only took a bit of finaggling, chipping the paint off wood window frame some, before he had pried the window up from the sill, and could lift it up to its limit, creating an entry into the house sizable enough even for Coach to get through.

"Okay, we're in," Nick called, low and flat, down to the others, keeping them updated and somewhat hoping that if anything nasty was inside, it might expose itself at the sound of his voice, rather than making him go looking for it. No such luck, of course.

Rochelle pulled out her flashlight and clicked it on, beaming it inside around the modestly sized space. Dark wood floors, the back of a couch, a coffee table, recliner, TV, glimpse of a fridge in the corner... it was an apartment, alright, Ellis had been right.

He hated hearing it, even in his head, but in this case it was good news they badly needed. He'd have been very disappointed to find a whole floor filled with nothing but boxes of old music. 

"Hello?" Rochelle called gently, as if thinking there might still be a living occupant. Her voice was probably better suited to diplomacy, in that case, than Nick's caustic tone. Less likely to get them fired at on sight. It wouldn't have been the first time Nick's mouth had gotten him shot. 

"Anyone home? Sorry to drop in, uh.. if anyone's here, we can go... ok, yeah I don't think anyone's here."

"I'm not taking any chances," Nick said grimly, as he bit the bullet and ducked down to climb inside. As soon as he was in, he reached a hand back for the flashlight, beckoning impatiently till it hit his palm, and then he was casting it about the area, scanning from top to bottom as Rochelle climbed in after.

"We're clearing every room and corner of the fucking ceiling, this time."

It was a small, old apartment, longer from front to back than it was wide, matching the dimensions of the store below. They stood in its living room, the far right corner of which was also a kitchen. Beside it, on the right wall, a door disappeared into a decent sized, carpeted room that was probably a bedroom, and on the left, at the front of the building, what appeared to be a small office. The stairs descended along the opposite wall, and near them, behind the kitchen, were tucked two more doors. 

Outside, Ellis's voice softly urged Coach to go up first.

"Go on Coach it's cool."

"Hell naw boy, getcho messed up ass up there."

"Hahaw, okay okay..."

They heard the fire escape squeaking in distress as Ellis began no doubt to scamper up it, and Coach's,

"Easy, son, easy..."

The office was easiest to clear. Nick let down the blinds to cover the window to the street, pulling the curtains shut over them for good measure, then switched on a desk lamp. Its warm light spilled across the room, pleasantly normal. The window overlooking the stairs got the same treatment, and then they felt safe enough to start turning on a few lamps in the living room, enough to transform the space from something dark and eerie to something cozy, comfortingly normal looking. 

Ellis was climbing through by then, and judging by the groan of metal outside, Coach was on his way up. The hick stumbled slightly as he hopped his last leg from the windowframe, looking around in amazement.

"Oh shit~, damn. Wow. This wild, we like burglars an' stuff, man, woaho~."

"We haven't checked downstairs yet, watch it," Nick warned, as he neared the bedroom door, Rochelle right behind him, no longer trusting these things not to be hiding anywhere from the closet to under the fucking bed. In the bedroom, there were some signs of disarray, dresser drawers half pulled out with abandoned clothing dripping from them, some tossed on the floor. It looked like the owner had packed and left in a hurry.

"We got it," Ellis offered lightly, "-- hey Coach wanna check out downstairs with me?"

"Damn boy," Coach huffed, not even through the window yet, only having just made his way up to the landing outside, "just got up here.... -- yeah."

With some grunting, Coach clambered inside, and then he and Ellis trooped downstairs to investigate the shop. 

Like the apartment, it was a narrow space. The walls were decorated by an eclectic collection of taxidermied animal heads and tribal masks, amidst framed band posters and shelves of cassettes. The floor was taken up by bins of records, arranged in alphabetical rows for easy browsing, and other assorted merchandise. 

There was a tiny storage area in back, with nothing useful looking, and a nook behind the stairs where the cash register sat, but once they'd checked behind that counter, there was nowhere else for anything to hide. Ellis approached a rack of clothes and started rifling through curiously, thinking it wouldn't be a bad idea to grab something clean. He still had hopes he could scrub the stains out of his beloved Bullshifters shirt, but in the mean time, it'd be better for his injury if he wasn't wearing something absolutely filthy over it.

He only had scooted past a few articles, squinting to see in the limited light, when he made a find, and exclaimed outloud with delight as he pulled out a black, vintage band t-shirt, the sleeves cut off, with four burly, bearded bikers posing on the front, the name MIDNIGHT RIDERS emblazoned underneath.

"Awhaha, shit! I love these guys!"

"Who's that?" Coach absently rumbled, having become slightly distracted himself looking around the interesting shop. When he caught sight of what Ellis was proudly displaying, his chest began to shake in a rumbling chuckle, and it was hard for him to keep a hearty boom from his lowered voice, warmed all the same.

"Hahaha, boy you kiddin'. I love the Midnight Riders!"

"No way Coach, fer real?" Ellis lit up with excitement, voice almost cracking with the effort it took to still keep it hushed-- they had to be more careful down here, with just glass between them and the street. "Awww, hell, you git it then!"

"Hell yeah! I have all their albums," Coach proclaimed, with pleasure. "Even the new ones that ain't no good!"

"Hahaw yea~, I bought em anyway," Ellis was smiling warmly, eyes a little distant as he reflected, leaning for a moment back against the record bins. 

"It's jess the same old shit but I dun care, I can't get enough. Maybe it's jess nostalgia, y'know, bin listenin' to em since I can remember."

"Damn, kid, make me feel old."

"Just means yew gotta see all the coolest bands when they was still at their best," Ellis pouted jealously. "You been tuh see 'em live, right?"

"'Course I have, boy! Can't miss that show! Been a long time, but yeah, they were really shreddin' back in my day. Heard they still put on a killer show, though."

"Awhaha, yeah, I went 'n seen um a few years back, me 'n my buddy Keith, an' his brother Paul. Still th'best pyrotechnics in the business, an' yew know the Midnight Riders love their fans. Felt like the whole crowd was family. Maybe that's why I like 'm so much, y'know?"

"Yeahh, I feel that," Coach agreed sagely.

"Wonder what em Riders are doin' right now," Ellis reflected thoughtfully. His expression was on the verge of looking a little worried, but Coach's warm chuckling lifted it with curiousity.

"Boy," he told him confidently, "if there's any band still livin' out there, it's the Midnight Riders, I'd bet Nick on it."

That tickled Ellis, and his quiet, snickering laughter joined Coach's, blue eyes twinkling warmly as he whispered through his grin,

"Don't tell him that. He'd be mad we was bettin' without him."

Coach tched dismissively.

"That boy's always mad."

Chapter Text

LEVEL lll - DOWNTOWN - ll/V

Upstairs, Nick flicked the bathroom light on as he stepped inside, and glared at the haggard reflection facing him in the mirror.

It was a tiny bathroom, with cream ceramic tile and original wooden moulding, in which was squeezed an old clawfoot tub with a translucent shower curtain, a toilet, a sink and a medicine cabinet. There was nowhere for anything to hide, and nothing to distract Nick from stepping up to the sink, and the hostile looking stranger eyeing him in the mirror above it. 

"Christ," his reflection muttered dully, though they shared one voice. True, beneath the smeared and sprayed zombie blood, the soot, the rust, the sweat and the dirt, he was still one handsome motherfucker, but this was not his best day. He tried the tap, dully not getting his hopes up... and felt a piece of his tension crack and fall away like a chunk off an iceberg, as the water willingly shot forth, spilling into the sink and swirling the drain. It seemed a beautiful sight.

"We've got running water!" he called, internal satisfaction not reaching the flat tone of his muted call.

"Oh man, that is great news--" groaned Rochelle's nearby voice, appearing in the doorframe, only to cut herself off in bemusement when she caught sight of their reflections in the mirror, "oh~, jeez."

She drifted up to stand by his shoulder, letting out a weak laugh as she took in the full image of them both, utterly filthy, loaded with weapons, looking like they'd stepped out of a horror movie, not like they belonged in such a normal place.

"Look at us," she murmured with slightly sad humor, touching one hand lightly to the side of her smudged face.

"Dibs on first shower," Nick stated unsympathetically.

"Asshole," Rochelle accused him, with a reproachful look. "You didn't get puked on."

"Well, if you're saying we should shower together, Ro, I could probably--"

"Ah ah ah, can it, Suit," she scolded him, with a dry, unimpressed look, and drew away, turning to leave. "I'm just starting to like you. Don't ruin it."

"It's what I do, sweetheart," Nick quipped lazily. "And for the record, I still can't stand any of you."

In the mirror, he caught Rochelle sticking her tongue out at him on her way out the door. As she disappeared, she reproached him,

"You are so full of shit, Nick."

He glared after her a moment, eyes narrowing, but she wasn't there to see it, so he redirected his attention to the medicine cabinet, avoiding his visage too by folding his reflection out of sight, as he opened the cabinet it to search inside.

Tylenol, more hydrogen peroxide, which they could always use, some other basic stuff, a practically useless box of paper-cut sized bandaids... no gauze or anything, though perhaps the owner had some more stuff stashed elsewhere. Just as likely he'd packed and taken it, if he had it. It all just depended in how much of a hurry he was, how well he could think in a panic...

He'd been concerned about finding the corpse, moving or not, of the owner-- he hadn't considered they'd be haunted by his ghost. It was uncomfortable to imagine anything about the man, or what had been going through his head when he'd fled his home.

He found Rochelle in the kitchen, where she was opening cupboards, ignoring any food for now in favor of looking for something to drink out of. She passed Nick a mug wordlessly, but coolly made sure hers beat his to the kitchen faucet.

Tap water had never tasted so sweet. They were both greedily draining their cups in cathartic silence when two sets of footsteps started up the creaky stairs, one bounding with once again renewed energy, the other trudging solidly behind. Any trace of weariness seemed vanished from the boy, in the excitement of finding their safehouse, his mood buoyant as ever, and his mouth unfortunately operating on all cylinders once more as well. Nick gave him ten minutes before Keith came up, tops.

Tragic, how many opportunities for betting the zombie apocalypse was providing him. If only money mattered for shit anymore.

"Downstairs is clear, got m'self a shirt," Ellis chatted brightly, filling them in with more details than necessary, "'n Coach has got badass taste in music. Anything cool up here?"

"Water," bleated Rochelle contentedly from behind her cup, eyes nearly shut in a peaceful expression.

Ellis whooped joyfully, bounding over. Nick wondered how he was even surprised when, immediately after turning on the tap, the hick proceeded to drop his whole head into the sink, slurping straight from the stream.

"Christ Almighty, hick," Nick rasped in disbelief, leaning by the counter just beside him, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. "It's not your trough. There's these things called cups, you want one?"

Ellis was laughing while trying to drink the falling water, a combination that had him
choking and snorting a little, and he shook his head, turning it so that the water ran straight over the sweaty nape of his neck, soaking his chestnut curls dark. 

"Man I missed water," he was saying happily, splashing a few palmfuls into his face, rubbing away some of the grime. "I love water so much, this one time, me 'n my buddy Keith, we was goin' down to Jekyll Island, right, an'--"

Holy shit. Not two minutes. He was fucking Nostradamus. Somebody needed to pay up, please. The universe owed him one.

"Lemme in there, boy," Coach quietly boomed, thirst tense in his stare as he approached with a cup Rochelle had offered out to him. Nick sidestepped further along the counter to give him some space, while Ellis pulled away in the opposite direction, carelessly dripping water down his neck and back, and tried the fridge.

The inside light shone up at his curious features as he leaned into investigate, illuminating every streak of sweat and grime on his young face, and his blue eyes lit up right away.

"Aw shit y'all we got beer!!!" he crowed. "Jess three though, that's okay we'll make it work... 'n what else, let's see..."

He disappeared out of Nick's sight behind the door as he crouched to get a closer look.

"Aw shit, yea man he left 'em perishables, cheese n turkey 'n shit. Could make ourselves some sammiches if there's any bread around. Oh and uhh, wut's this.. ginger ale!"

"Aw shit son, y'all can have my beer, pass me that ginger ale," Coach volunteered, holding out a hand over the fridge door with a beckon. Ellis was hurrying to comply-- there was a clinking as he gathered up several glass bottles and a can to his chest with one arm, and Nick lazily twisted at the waist, starting to check the drawers beside him for a bottle opener. "I need some sugar. Unless-- Ro, babygirl, did you want it?"

None of them knew who among them drank. Somehow, nobody doubted Nick did. That, or Coach just didn't like him enough to offer away his precious sugar.

Rochelle gave a small chuckle, though, admitting with a wry smile, "Honestly, I could really use a beer."

"Hell yea, all fo' me then," said Coach contentedly, cracking open the tab of the cold can Ellis had placed in his palm and taking a long draught. Ellis closed the door of the fridge with his foot, and seemed to be looking for some way to knock a bottle cap off using his fucking fire extinguisher, Jesus, when Nick tapped on it twice, two sharp metal clangs, causing him to jump and look up.

"Here, dumbass," he growled, holding forth the bottle opener he'd tapped the canister with. "Do you actually live in a barn?"

Ellis laughed sheepishly, sinking low  at the knees to set the canister down on the floor, then straightening as he took the opener gratefully from him.

"Naw~, man..," he mumbled, cracking a cap off with a pleasant hissing and offering it to Nick, who lightly swiped it from his hand, stepping a few strides back before taking a drink. The cold carbonation, needling his tongue, the familiar taste of hops, was even better than the water-- cleaner, somehow, to his picky palate. He could have used three or four, sure, to actually take the edge off a day like today, but he'd take the small blessing for what it was.

That, and the other implication of running water.

"By the way, I called dibs on first shower," he flatly wanted everyone to know. Ellis was only just taking his first swallow of beer, having naturally passed Rochelle hers first, leaning on one full-muscled arm against the fridge.

"Not so fast, boy," Coach corrected him sternly. "We gotta get the young'un's back cleaned up."

"Aw, it can wait another minute..." Ellis protested, whining, "gonna hurt like a sonuvabitch, I ain't in no hurry."

Nick coldly changed tactics on a dime, stepping forward.

"Don't be a little bitch, hick. Get in there and get the water warm for me."

Still holding his barely touched beer, Ellis looked ready to put up a fight, face falling into a pout and opening his mouth to protest, but Nick reached him, giving the hick a lazy but firm little shove at the shoulder, just enough to stumble him off the fridge, since he didn't really bother bracing for it.

"Go. Get. Don't want your rank redneck ass sitting anywhere in here and stinking up the furniture anyway. You're getting your blood all over the fridge."

It wasn't true, Ellis's shirt had dried hours ago, but it was true that he stank -- they all did -- and did not deserve upholstery privileges in his current state.

Ellis tried to argue, looking to the others for help, but they left him at his mercy, and Nick kept at it, shoving and bullying him step by stumbling step out of the kitchen, one-handed, on his tail, herding him and not stopping till he gave up with a huff, reluctantly turning to go on his own.

"Man Nick," Ellis reproached him, taking his beer with him as he sulkily trudge towards the bathroom, "yew are the meanest nice guy, I swear."

Nick balked, hard eyes stiffening with offense.

"I'm not nice. Where did you get that idea?"

His stance had turned hostile, and he stalked threateningly forward after the Southerner, who was suddenly scurrying to get behind the door. 

"Take it back. Hey! Don't you dare close that on-- you little shit."

The door had shut, of course, and Nick stopped short a few paces from it, fuming, wondering whether it was worth kicking it down to possibly get the hick to scream in real fear. He'd show him nice. And mean. Rochelle was struggling to contain amusement at the corners of her mouth when he stepped back around the corner into the kitchen, and Coach was just shaking his head.

"Kid is dense," Nick growled, needing a minute to complain to the other grown ups. "Fucking weapon of mass destruction against those zombies, but Jesus. How has he lasted in the real world this long?"

"This is the real world now," Coach pointed out gravely.

"Don't say that," Nick pleaded dryly. "I'm still holding out hope that I'm dreaming right now and you're just a hallucination. A really smelly hallucina--"

"Boy, I had abouta nuff of yo wisecracks," Coach scolded, voice taking on a warning depth.

Nick only snickered under his breath, taking another swig of beer.

They heard the shower hiss on, and then a short interval later, a coughing groan of pain.

"Uuhuuhuu~, oh Lord have mercy, shit, sonuvabitch..."

Once the worst of the profanities had subsided, Coach went over there and leaned on the door, raising his baritone rumble enough to be heard over the shower, letting Ellis know that he'd come in and help him with his dressings once he was done. Nursing her beer, Rochelle drifted to investigate the bedroom, and Nick followed suit, not wanting to get second pick of the loot, having been hoping there was something in there he could change into after he showered. The last door in the house had just been a cramped closet, but in that closet, blessedly, were squeezed a washer and dryer, and Nick did not intend to let that opportunity pass him by.

As Rochelle noticed Nick snooping around too, she gave him a cool side glance, warning dryly,

"Let me just stop you before you make any bedroom jokes, alright Suit?"

"Relax, sister," Nick replied lazily, without looking, busy digging through musty old band t-shirts with one hand, holding his beer with the other. "If I was really trying to get in your barf-covered jeans, you'd know, trust me."

"You know, I really wish you'd gotten barfed on," she told him sullenly, brow crinkling slightly in annoyance.

"See? I'm not into that. It's nothing personal, sweetheart."

"You are..."

There apparently wasn't an awful enough word for what he was, for she sighed, and gave up, letting it hang.

The closet in here was open, and by the swathe of empty space where clothes might have once hung, it looked like the guy might have just grabbed random armfuls in his hurry, hangers and all. Some drawers were nearly empty, others untouched, others rifled through. They picked through what was left, Rochelle putting aside a few things she thought they could rip into bandages for Ellis if they found nothing better, as she mentioned to him, not seeming to expect any more response than the toneless grunt of acknowledgment he gave. 

It wrinkled his nose to think of wearing some strange man's clothes, particularly as none of them seemed very new, shabby, worn and not his style anyway, but he reminded himself it was only for the night. He ended up with a ratty but servicable pair of grey flannel pj bottoms and decided that would have to be enough, not going near the man's underwear drawer. It was, pretty clearly, a man that lived there, and there was no trace of anyone else, certainly no feminine presence. Nick doubted he often had women over, let alone a girlfriend, though he tried again to end his speculations there... it was weird enough to be in the guy's house, drinking his beer and going through his stuff.

Though he did wish that, for a business owner, he was less of a cheapskate about replacing his old clothes.

Rochelle had even less luck finding anything that worked for her, though her jeans definitely would need a washing. Nick sourly intended to be sure his suit went into its own separate load from anything belonging to her or Coach, not trusting that any amount of detergeant would remove that awful Boomer bile smell. In the end, she scavenged some thick socks with a little less build up of piling than the others, an oversized Nazareth t-shirt, and from the back of the closet, a terrycloth bathrobe. 

Coach spent some time in the bathroom with Ellis, and Rochelle brought them what she'd set aside for bandages, as further investigations had revealed nothing better. Nick took a look downstairs, and managed with some effort to get the blinds over the window down, which seemed not to have been extended in an eternity, doubtless to keep the store's interior starkly visible to the street at all times, and thus unappealing for burglars. This was judging by the dust, fluffy clumps of it, that Nick stirred up in the process, sending him into a coughing fit that had Rochelle coming to the top of the stairs to investigate, teasingly asking if it was Nick downstairs or a Smoker. He answered with some sort of raspy threat involving strangling and an obscenity, and she drifted away again, chuckling smugly to herself. 

Nick also confirmed that there was indeed an alarm on the glass, which now that they were inside was a little reassuring. Sure, if anything broke in during the night, the ringing would probably attract a small horde, but at least they wouldn't sleep through it.

Maybe an alarm wasn't such a good idea.

It seemed unlikely the zombies would break in without reason, though, so as long as they didn't sense them in there -- like if any had wandered along the street just then and spotted him fighting with the blinds and dust bunnies, he jibed at himself critically. He lowered the blinds over the door, too, holding a sleeve over his nose this time, then headed back upstairs.

When Ellis and Coach emerged, Nick realized the redneck had suddenly seized the role of cleanest one on the team. Something had gone terribly wrong in the order of the universe. The Southerner's skin -- and there was more visible of it, now, having changed into the shirt he'd scavenged downstairs, somehow of course managing to find the one missing its sleeves -- had been scrubbed clean, marred now only with scrapes, bruises and cloth bandages. His curls were impressively buoyant even dark and dripping wet, and his face shone, wearing a healthy flush from the heat. Nick hadn't considered the possibility of the water not heating till then, but the steam wafting out after Ellis, fragrant with shampoo, was reassuring confirmation. 

His blue tribal tattoo, which had peeked from his shirt before, was now on full display up his bicep, where the skin became a little fairer than on his sun-tanned forearms. 

He looked tired again, the painful ordeal of having his acid burn washed and dressed no doubt having exhausted his few remaining reverses, but relaxed, and when his blue eyes found Nick's they were bright as ever, as if it somehow made him genuinely happy to see his grime-covered, unsmiling disposition.

"All yew, Nick," he told him cheerfully.

"Really?" Nick dryly wondered, not about to say no but glancing briefly, almost suspiciously at the other two. "I thought I was going to have to fight for it."

"None of us want to hear yo ass bitch any more," Coach retorted smoothly, and Nick could only breath a short, caustic laugh.

"Well, keep the dream alive," he snarked, not hesitating any longer but grabbing up his borrowed pj bottoms and striding towards the door, passing by the damp redneck, whose astonishing state of cleanliness he still couldn't get over. Time to restore order. 

The shower... was an experience. It wasn't just stripping out of his disgusting clothes and stepping into that blissfully hot spray, the luxurious feeling as it soothed the tension from his sore and tired muscles, cleansing him of grime and stink and blood and soot. It wasn't just the utterly bizarre feeling of showering in some strange man's weird little tub, in a his house uninvited with three more strangers just on the other side of the door. It was all of it, everything, the outbreak and the close calls, the horror and the adrenaline, the disappointment and exhaustion. It all caught up to him in one surreal blur, something about the familiar sensation of hot water cascading over his head and down his shoulders letting something in his mind release, and for a little while after he got in all he could do was stand there, leaning on one hand against the wall, reeling blankly, mystified by his reality.

Water alone wasn't enough to make him feel clean, though, and that soon motivated him at least into the autopilot motions of scrubbing his body, making vigorous use of the man's soaps and shampoo and nailbrush, though as his well-cleaned fingertips scraped back over his scalp, and he felt the gel that had been keeping his hair in place all this time melting away, he grieved its loss, dully hoping he would be able to locate some halfway acceptable replacement. 

A full damage report of his body didn't turn up anything too bad. There were a few scrapes he hadn't noticed getting, he was bruising at his knees, tailbone, in a few shelf-shaped places on his back, and his ribs were still sore as anything where he'd slammed against the marble floor of the lobby, but all in all he'd been lucky, considering all the close calls they'd had.

Despite the reunion with reality his mind had decided his shower was the right time and place for, he felt enormously better by the time he'd shut the water off, generously saving some heat for the other two members of the crew, whose hygiene he was deeply invested in by association. He toweled himself off and combed through his hair, going through the man's products in search of something he could use to keep it back. There was nothing fancy, and it didn't say much that the guy seemed to put slightly more effort into his hair than his clothes, but he did find something that, after a cautious sniff, he decided would do. 

He felt every bit as uncomfortable in the pj bottoms as he'd imagined-- they were too soft, too obviously well worn, and he was squeamish not so much at wearing what was likely a dead man's clothes as just at wearing someone else's clothes at all, but he'd have to get over that until they found time to go shopping. At least he was fresh and clean, and looked his rogueishly attractive self again, clothes or not.

He was just about to exit, with the filthy bundle that was his suit, pinched gingerly by the cleanest bits he could find, when he noticed something that hadn't been there earlier -- Ellis's Bullshifter's t-shirt, hanging from a cabinet handle, its yellow dark and wet, wrinkled and still dripping slowly from being poorly wrung. Stepping closer, Nick could see it was still stained, blotches of muddy red like water color, darker at the edges where it had begun to set first. Leaning in, he gave the wet material a small, cautious sniff--

and recoiled, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

The idiot hadn't gotten it clean at all. The second he put his shirt back on, probably musty by then and still damp, given how he'd wrung it, he'd be back to smelling like The Hick of a Thousand Corpses. Since Nick was tired of smelling corpses, and the kid never seemed to be able to keep himself away from his side for long, this affected Nick, and it was for this and no other reason that he swiped the disgusting thing, wadding it up into the center of his suit bundle. So that he wouldn't have to touch it any more than necessary, and for no other reason -- certainly not to conceal his actions.

The slightly annoyed frown lingered on his face as he stepped out into the apartment, wad hanging by his side and damp towel thrown over one shoulder. Ellis looked up from the couch, where he appeared to have been drying off his now also freshly washed fire extinguisher, curiousity in his eyes. 

Trying to read him, as always. Nick caught a brief flicker of surprise there, though, when his eyes snagged on the way up, like he hadn't been expecting him to come out half naked. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to make fun of him for it, though like a game of battleship he was never sure just what would actually embarrass the sometimes seemingly shameless redneck, and so he wasn't thinking too deeply on it when he just stopped, unsmiling, and cocked an eyebrow in a critically questioning look.

To his amusement -- which he didn't hide, mouth giving way into a wicked smirk that only exacerbated the effect immediately -- he did fluster him. He was, blessedly, close enough to a lamp that Nick had the pleasure of bearing witness to the scorch that swept up to the hick's face, fully illuminated. 

"Oh, hey, uh," seemed to be his attempt at recovery, like his expression wasn't still conspicuously blank, "Nice shower?"

But Nick, eyebrow still skeptically raised in that expression that had so flummoxed the poor kid, didn't respond, already turning away to head to the laundry closet, more amused to let the Southerner stew in his embarrassment than push him any further just then, particularly with Coach and Rochelle not far away, sorting through miscellaneous drawers in the kitchen, from the sound of it. 

It was a little mean either way, he considered-- the kid was Southern as fuck, about a big a walking stereotype as they came, so who knew what kind of traditional values garbage he'd absorbed, but someone else's internalized homophobia wasn't Nick's problem. A little roasting of that kind was good for the kid-- besides, it was hard to embarrass him, and he was wickedly starting to catch on to a reliable way. He wasn't going to just let that go.

He dumped his clothes and the hick's shirt into the wash, added way too much detergent, and set it to run on cold. Coach had already disappeared into the bathroom by the time he finished, and Ellis was focusing rather intently on buffing his fire extinguisher, face down and surreptitiously hidden by the brim of his hat.

Nick straightened out the smirking corners of his mouth before he met Rochelle in the kitchen, where she stood looking pleased, obviously brimming with news. She'd taken her boots off, he was glad to see, and they were nowhere in sight.

"Coach has dinner all planned out," she announced without waiting for him to ask, undeterred by his masterfully cooled visage. "We couldn't find bread, but, he's got an idea. He says it won't take long," she had a slight note of worry in her eyes, like she worried he might just snatch a package of turkey from the fridge and retreat to the office to eat alone like a feral stray, but he just nodded, passing her to the sink, where he soaped up his hands and began to wash them thoroughly, wanting to cleanse himself of any trace of the soiled laundry he'd handled.

".. You good?" she wondered, and he realized then that he'd forgotten to say anything sarcastic or biting in a minute. She must have been spooked. He twisted to give her a wolfish smirk over his shoulder, wondering if she'd been checking him out while his back was turned too. If she had, she wasn't nearly so easy to fluster as Ellis, expression not giving anything away but a guarded concern.

".. I'm fine, sister," he teased wryly. "Shower felt fucking good, I'm taking a break from bitching-- that's what you guys wanted, right? Give me a minute, I'll be back to it. You can fill in, if you want, you're pretty good at it."

Rochelle rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and turning to walk away towards Ellis.

"There it is," she drawled dryly.

"Hey! That was a compliment!" he called after her in lazy protest, turning the tap off and drying his hands off on his convenient shoulder towel.

"Ellis, honey, how'd you end up so sweet when most men are such buttholes?" she was asking the hick kindly, over by the couch.

Nick heard Ellis chortling bashfully in response.

"Aw, shucks... well that'd be my mawmuh, ma'am, no doubt. I'd be three times the firecracker if it weren't fer her keepin' me straight, she's a real angel she is."

"Wow, a real old-fashioned mama's boy, huh?" Nick wryly sniped without turning, still over the sink as he decided to refill his cup of water -- after rinsing it distrustfully, of course, more out of habit than any rational worry.  

"Sure am," Ellis agreed proudly, warmth brimming in his voice, and Nick scoffed quietly, eyes flickering up in a side roll. 

Back to being shameless again.

Chapter Text

LEVEL lll - DOWNTOWN - lll/V

It turned out not only was there no bread, there were no crackers, nor anything remotely close. They had located a hodgepodge of cans at the back of the cupboards, rejects, intentional or otherwise, of the owner's sweep. Nick was inclined to think it was intentional. Cream of corn. Cream of mushroom. Cream of chicken. Green beans.

Yuck.

It wasn't terribly substantial, most of it, so Coach had decided to leave the pantry foods alone for the night, since it was late anyway by then, and just use up everything in the fridge, just in case they lost power. Everything being not much more than Ellis had described. Once Coach emerged from the bathroom, a towel knotted high around his waist, he shooed everyone -- that was, Ellis, as Rochelle was heading in to shower then and Nick didn't want to know-- out of the kitchen. Nick didn't know what the hell he was supposed to be doing over there with two ingredients, but he seemed pleased with himself, and frankly, Nick didn't care, as long as whatever he was doing was still edible when he was done. He spent some time fussing, then slicing, then slipped a tray into the fridge, concealing its contents. 

Nick wasn't very interested in the theatrics, but the silliness of it, and his mild boredom, were a weird kind of relief after the stress of the day. He even let Ellis, who seemed to have recovered, chatter away for a bit, only taking in about twenty-five percent of what he was saying. 

"... an' that's why I don't trust flyin' on airplanes no more, cause I mean, they don't know fer sure, they could still be out there, an' then nothin' in the air is safe..."

He tuned in just as Coach was approaching to join them till Rochelle was out, and realized he had no clue what the hick had been talking about. Neither did Coach, clearly, staring at the Southerner with a baffled expression until he couldn't help but burst out,

"Boy, what in the hell you goin' on about?"

"Oh shit, Coach! I was jess tellin' Nick about this one time, me 'n my buddy Keith-- well it's a good story, lemme start over."

Reclined on one end of the couch, taking up two thirds of it while Ellis was tucked happily away in the corner, Nick groaned, placing a hand over his eyes. He didn't stop him, though, and as Ellis started off again, he let his eyes shut, and let the sound of that meandering, jovial Southern drawl wash over him, soon tuning out the words once more.

He must have dozed off, there on the couch, because it was with a slight start that he realized Rochelle's voice had joined the conversation. He moved his hand from his eyes, disoriented, scowling sleepily in reflex, and let them drift over the sight of his teammates, relaxed and chatting, paying him no mind. Rochelle was clean, looking dewy and refreshed, brown skin lustrous with moisturizer, and she wore her thick socks and oversized Nazareth t-shirt, the old robe tied snugly around her waist, but styled a la Ellis, with her arms free of the sleeves, turning it into one long, bulky skirt. She perched curled comfortably on the edge of the squishy recliner in which Coach sat, a friendly hand resting on one of his arms. 

It had probably only been a few minutes. Had they even noticed he was asleep? He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep in front of a bunch of strangers, what the fuck. He was unnerved. Maybe they hadn't noticed.

Coach caught his eye.

"Hey, Nick's awake," his baritone rumbled with some quiet warmth. "I'll grab dinner."

Fuck.

With a grunt, Coach was hauling himself up to his feet. Ellis and Rochelle were now both fucking looking at him, secret little fucking smiles on their faces. This was awful. Had he been drooling?

He sat himself stiffly up, glaring at all of them, touching the back of his wrist to his mouth. No. Good. It hadn't been that long, then. He was ready to lash at the first person who teased him, but even worse, neither of them did. The actual nerve. The quiet, endeared amusement was worse, like he was a tired kid who'd fallen asleep in the back seat. He was prepared to fume sullenly for the foreseeable future, but then Coach was returning with a tray, and his lizard brain activated, remembering food. His body remembered food. He was starving.

"Alright, everybody, now it ain't much, but since you eat with yo eyes, I tried to fancy it up a lil. Hope y'all don't mind."

With pride and modesty at once, the big man bent down, carefully depositing the tray on the coffee table. Nick was actually kind of impressed-- he didn't know what he expected, but the result was cute, he could give him that. He had built the slices of turkey meat and cheese into layers, rolled them tight, and cut them into little rolls, the cheese and turkey all spiraled in the middle, secured with cocktail toothpicks and even a little pimento stuffed olive on each one, as a garnish. He'd somehow managed to make their dinner look intentional, rather than the handful of leftover ingredients it was. 

"Oh shit, Coach! Damn look atchu all fancy an' shit, damn that is so cute!"

"Aww, Coach, oh my gosh. That looks great."

Coach's dark eyes were twinkling. 

".. Pretty good, Coach," Nick ceded, wryly giving him some credit, though he was contractually obligated to give him some shit too. "You washed your hands, right?"

"Hell yeah, of course I did, boy!" Coach scolded him. "I got young'uns at home, ain't settin' no bad example. Soap an' everything-- now calm yo ass down fo once and eat."

Nick laughed under his breath, raising a hand lazily in surrender, and turned to pull his legs off the couch, scooting forward to the edge enough to reach out for the tray. The others were joining in, and a little stack of plates was being passed around, as Ellis asked curiously,

"Yer a dad, Coach?"

Daring dinner conversation. Ellis had asked innocently, but Nick noticed Rochelle's eyes fixed on Coach, slightly worriedly, and knew she was thinking the same thing. This could get depressing quick. 

"Mhm. Got a boy an a girl. Ages twelve and eight."

"Oh damn, Coach.. d'you uh.." Ellis hesitated. There it was. Little slow on the uptake, goober. "... know where they are?"

Coach sighed. Nick watched him despite himself, eyes hard, though the topic wasn't enough to put him off his food, chewing slowly to savor that cheese and deli meat pinwheel like it was a steak and lobster dinner.

"Not at present," he admitted solemnly. "Last I heard, though, they were nearin' an evac center. We had to end the call, and lost service pretty soon after that. I'm countin on them havin' made it."

He said it with a quiet, calm confidence, but it was still silent for a few moments, and Rochelle found his large hand, giving it a squeeze.

Ellis, naturally, spoke up.

"Well, I ain't in church too much, 'xcept when Ma needs a ride, so I dunno if the good Lord'll pay much mind but, reckon that's somethin' worth buggin 'im for. Lord, look af'er Coach's fam, will you? Them gotta be real cute lil peanuts. Aw-men."

Nick let out a silent, skeptical breath, but managed to keep his mouth shut. He didn't want to get dragged into this conversation.

"Amen," Coach rumbled. Rochelle's mouth was full, but she hummed two syllables, then looked like she felt slightly blasphemous. "And they sho is. Got the best of me and their moms."

Swallowing, Rochelle cooed warmly, "Aww, I bet."

"I bet they're gettin' that hot cocoa an' blanket treatment right now, right Nick?"

And yet...

Nick scowled at the Southerner's cheerful question, his bright, clueless eyes looking right at him, just as he was in the process of taking a bite of his pinwheel, a piece of cheddar crumbling to the plate in his distraction.

Why ask him?? He wasn't the comfort guy. 

Because the blankets and hot cocoa thing had been his invention, right. God damn it. He hated the hick just then for putting him on the spot like that, dragging him into this sticky conversation, and chewed slowly rather than answer right away, settling his fume. There was an awkward quiet brewing, but when he finished and swallowed, his hard voice cut readily into it, masterfully the same shade of reliable callousness as ever, warning the boy,

"Don't make me jealous of Coach's kids, hick. Guy can already make a better dinner than my ex-wife."

It worked as intended-- the moment of tension melted away, everyone breaking into snickers and chortles, a quiet appreciation in Coach's low chuckle in particular, and miraculously nobody was inappropriate enough to ask him about his failed marriage, though he'd seen Ellis's eyes go large with curiousity, and suspected it'd be only a matter of time. Maybe he should start a bet on that, though if he made a habit of gambling with himself, it could get a little depressing. He could pat his own back all day, but without someone's face to rub it into when he was right, what was the point?

"You should see me when I turn the stove on," Coach joked, teasingly laying on a little richly-timbred charm.

"Oh, baby," Nick dryly flirted back.

"Somethin' tells me yer a beast behind the grill too, Coach," Ellis chimed in warmly.

"Heell~ yeah!" Coach exclaimed proudly. "I am king of the BBQ. Burgers, ribs, you name it."

"How about a steak, mid-rare?" Nick suggested.

"Nick, we get outta this, I'll grill you a whole cow!" Coach boomed magnanimously, about as much warmth in his voice as Nick had yet heard directed his way. And to think he was the only one of them that hadn't had anything to drink. He blinked, not sure how to take it. He needed to insult the guy soon, he'd been slacking.

"Um no thanks," was all he could think to say, "just the.. normal portion of cow is fine."

"I'll put out the whole spread... coleslaw, potato salad, cobbler, fritters... invite all y'all's asses over for a BBQ. Have a whole cooler of beers."

Rochelle groaned with longing.

"Damn, Coach," Ellis looked amazed, grinning at Coach in wonder. "I ain't seen you like this. Yer like a whole different person when you ain't fightin' zombies!"

"Yeah, boy, cause I'm tryna focus on not gittin' killed!" Coach scolded, prompting Ellis to break into guilty laughter, as he suspected had been its intent -- Coach had used that voice on him not a few minutes ago, and it was quite different from his actually stern voice, the threatening one that could sometimes prickle Nick's scruff like a cat's. 

"Not all of us can be chattin' up every damn zombie from here to Atlanta, shit, man's only got so much breath!" he went on exclaiming, setting Rochelle to giggles too, and pleasing Nick, who was watching Ellis squirm in embarassment, though it was evident he didn't truly mind, just as humored.

"I ain't hardly even held a gun before all this, hell..."

"No way, Coach!" Ellis exclaimed, mouth gaping. "Yew ain't used a gun before?"

"Went shootin' as a kid, couple times, with my uncle and cousins," Coach recollected, nodding a little. "Weren't really for me. Lucky the basics stuck."

"Shit Coach, well yer doin' real good for not hardly havin' no practice. Well, guess now ya do. Still, once we get outta town, if yew an' Ro wanna do some shootin' jess fer funs, I'd be happy to show yew both a couple things... been shewtin' since m'first BB gun when I was like yay high, so ain't no thing. Bet Nick's got some slick tricks he could share, too-- yew a real sharpshooter, Nick."

Nick, Nick, Nick. 

Christ, he talked a lot. Nick had been zoning out again a little, staring over the back of the couch out the window to the fire escape behind it, the view of which was currently blocked by the drawn blinds and curtains. He was considering going out there for a smoke, but the risk of attracting attention from infected was wrestling with the temptation, slowly strangling it. 

"Mm," he acknowledged, a little delayed, remembering Ellis had said something to him.

"... Whatcha thinkin' about?"

Nick sighed.

"Some fucking peace and quiet, hick, Jesus," he tiredly snapped at him. "I've been listening to you yammer on all day, I've got a headache. Trying to decide if it's worth getting smokered again to go have a cigarette on the fire escape."

"... would be real ironic--"

"Yeah yeah. Smoking's bad for my health, I get it. And I don't want to attract attention or I'll have to go down and deal with it, or it'll wake the whole neighborhood or come in through the windows or something... speaking of, we really need to block off that staircase before we sleep. Those big windows are gonna look like candy wrappers if they notice we're in here."

Coach nodded. Calm, patient. 

"We'll take care of it in a minute," he told him steadily. "It's resting time just now. We've earned it."

Nick sighed agitatedly, resenting his even tone, feeling the obstinate urge to shrug it off, do anything but calm down and settle.

"... Well, I'm restless as fuck," he bit out a moment later, and sat his plate down, starting to get to his feet. "I might just go downstairs and have a quick cigarette outside. It's been quiet, and if anything shows up I can shut it up fast--"

But he was being drowned out in a clamor of protest-- Coach, Rochelle, Ellis, all three at once, ranging from sternly doubtful to fretful and anxious, and he grimaced, irritation flaring.

"I don't know if--"

"Ohh I don't--"

"Nick yew shouldn'--"

"God!" Nick snapped, cutting them all off.

"Jesus! Back off me!" he snarled. "I'll be fine, I'll be right the fuck outside, okay, God. Give me some space."

There was an uneasy quiet. Everyone sitting, looking uncomfortable, him standing, pissed. It was tense, stupid.

"... Nick," Ellis's was of course the first one to softly venture, coaxing with a note of worried plea, "jess lemme come, what if there's a Hunter or sumthin'..."

"Peace and quiet, do you know what that means, hick? The opposite of you. The exclusion of you. A universe in which you don't exist."

Blue eyes frowned at him, large and somber.

"... I can be quiet," he promised, quietly.

"You can't," Nick snapped back shortly. It felt good to release some of his anger on the kid. "You're like a shark, except instead of swimming, you can't stop talking, or you'll die."

"Promise," Ellis insisted stubbornly, that frown deepening, expression nearly a pout. "Won't say a word."

"Start now then," Nick dared him immediately, pursuing, challenging him. "You can't. Try it."

Ellis faltered, lips softly parting at once, and for a second Nick thought he really would fail his resolve that quickly, but then he shut his mouth again, staying stubbornly quiet. Nick gave him a testing, waiting look, and Ellis responded only with silence, holding his stare.

Nick's chest collapsed in a cracked out sigh of frustration, and he surrendered.

"Oh, fucking -- fine. Fine. We'll be right back," he snarled, stalking off from the couch. "You people are smothering me."

Rochelle sang sweetly after him,

"Make sure you grab a jacket, sweetie, it's cold!"

"Fuck you, no it's not!"

Nick did, however, end up grabbing at least a shirt and socks from the bedroom. He really hoped they didn't run into any infected, as a cigarette probably wouldn't feel worth it if he got zombie juice all over himself right after just having gotten clean. It felt more and more stupid, dressing up and putting their shoes on just so Nick could go for a smoke, considering the risks, but it had reached the point where aborting would have felt more stupid, and he was set on his nicotine now. Besides, Ellis, tagging along after him, had never been quiet this long, barring when he'd been in shock from his acid burn, swallowing back tears of agonizing pain, so he wanted to enjoy it as long as it lasted. Whether that would be as long as it took to smoke a cigarette remained to be tested.

Nick managed to root out a thin Henley shirt, slightly too small. The sleeves ended a little high on his wrists, so he rolled them to his elbows. He retrieved his cigarettes and lighter, and they took their guns, just in case, though when Ellis went for his fire extinguisher, Nick threateningly growled, "Leave it," already starting down the stairs. Ellis hesitated, torn, and Nick heard Coach's voice say, "Take my axe, son, ain't near so heavy as that damn thing."

Nick was checking through the blinds at the door when he heard Ellis creak his way off the bottom step behind him. The coast seemed clear, so without looking back, Nick unlocked the door, opened it, and slipped out into the night.

It was much brighter than before. The moon had finally risen, gibbous and waning, illuminating the quiet world below in silver and grey. It really wasn't cool out at all. They slipped into the alley, thankfully clear, where earlier Nick had seen a deep doorwell on the other side, which seemed like a good place to stay out of sight. Digging his smokes out from the pocket of his sleeping pants, Nick stepped up inside the doorwell and settled to lean against one side of it, so that he had line of sight down the alley if he leaned out, and Ellis mirrored him on the other side, with an angle on the street, so that theoretically nothing could surprise them short of perhaps a Hunter climbing down the wall above their heads, which would have been more bad luck than even Nick could prepare for.

It was a strange feeling, to have company and yet have it be so quiet, with no expectation of conversation. Downright surreal, when that company was Ellis. It was easy to make out his features in the moonlight. He didn't seem to be sulking, he observed, nor did he look anxious anymore. He was staring up at the sky again, head tilted slightly for a better angle, one boot propped up behind him and bare arms stationed comfortably folded across his chest. The axe was propped against the wall, within easy reach. He'd imagined he'd be restless, without any outlets for his hyperactivity, but he seemed... peaceful.

Cigarette pressed firmly between his thin lips, Nick dropped his eyes and cupped his hands around his lighter to shield it from the breeze, flicking twice before it flared to life. The warm light glowed from the cave of his palms, illuminating his features for a few moments till the flame caught. He inhaled deeply as he stowed his lighter away with the box, then pulled the cigarette from his lips, so he could let the smoke flood loosely from his mouth in a sigh. 

On an instinct, he lifted his eyes, and found Ellis looking right at him, not at the sky any longer. He held the stare, and saw Ellis's eyes flicker, a slight squirm of discomfort, an awkward little smile venturing at his mouth. Without the ability to ramble endlessly, it was almost like he didn't know what to do with his face, blinking uncertainly. He'd disarmed him, he realized... and what was the point of creating an unfair situation like that if he didn't take advantage of it?

"This is torture for you, isn't it?" he taunted quietly, still unsmiling.

Ellis's smile warmed, though, twinkling in his eyes, and he quickly dismissed his words with a little shake of his head. Nick watched him thoughtfully, suspiciously almost, while he hit his cigarette, hard green eyes mercilessly unreadable.

"... You smoke?" he wondered, when he'd exhaled again, the smoke still dissipating out into the night.

Ellis tilted his head to one side and shrugged with the opposite shoulder, then nodded a little. 

A little bit, then, or perhaps, Sometimes.

The kid was so expressive, he didn't even need to talk. 

He inhaled once more from his cigarette, then on a whim, saying nothing, he extended it out towards Ellis, filter first. The hick blinked, expression startled, then flattered into a slight fluster, but didn't let that stop him from accepting it from his hand, with care, like it was something precious, and bringing it to his mouth. Full lips bit softly down on the filter, and Nick watched the faint flinch that flickered at his focused blue eyes as he drew in deep, and wasn't surprised when at the end of the inhale his expression deepened into a wince, and he pulled it away, turning from Nick to start to cough a few times into his bicep, offering it back to him as he did. 

Nick finally allowed the corners of his mouth to curl into a wicked smirk, unhurriedly returning the cigarette to his own lips.

"Easy there, Ace," he teased slyly, "don't choke."

The hick had reddened a little, from the coughing or embarrassment one could only speculate, but he huffed with reproachful humor anyway at the jibe, and gave a self-conscious little tug at the bill of his cap as he shifted his position against the wall. The slight smile lingered, though.

It was actually peaceful, the quiet, even with the hick's presence. It was strange to have the chance to soak it in without the irritating distraction of his constant chattering. Nick had space to think, have his thoughts to himself, and yet he wasn't alone with them. There was some sense of security in having someone else nearby, someone who in a few hours had already proved, more than once, that they'd stick their neck out for him.  

Ellis was staring up at the sky again. Nick found himself staring at Ellis, still marveling at the miracle that was his silence.

"You drive me crazy, kid, you know that?" he muttered.

Ellis looked at him, an apologetic, slightly guilty smile twisting at one corner of his mouth, and gave a sheepish nod, scratching at the side of his neck.

Nick just sighed, shaking his head to himself, but there wasn't much bite to it. A few seconds later, he heard something from the alley, but Ellis's eyes lifted in the direction of their apartment, brightening, and Nick recognized it as the sound of a window opening. Ellis raised an arm, waving his hand at the wrist. Arms folded over his chest and cigarette pinched in his lips, Nick reluctantly leaned just around the corner of the doorwell, twisted at the waist, to squint back at Rochelle, who was hanging out from the open window with a palm on the sill for balance, highlit from behind by the warm glow of the living room lamps. Undeterred by Nick's dull, narrow stare, she smiled down warmly in their direction, returning Ellis's wave, then drew back inside without a word.

Just checking on them.

"Clingy woman," growled Nick caustically, as the window shut, and rolled back inside, taking a deep breath of night air to stretch his chest, steaming it slowly out before replacing it with more tobacco smoke.

The next couple minutes passed in glorious silence, and he didn't break it when he finished his cigarette, crushing it out on the wall behind him and stepping from their doorwell without a word, and only a little regret. The silence and  nicotine had been a necessary catharsis, and Ellis's presence had somehow avoided entirely spoiling the solitude he'd been seeking as much as anything. He wouldn't have minded staying out a few minutes longer, truthfully, but he didn't have enough cigarettes left to afford to burn them back to back, and anyway, they'd already pushed their luck. Ellis followed dutifully after him, his mute escort, and he wondered if he was glad to go back in with the others, probably looking forward to making up for all the talking he'd been unable to do.

As he reflected on the memory of the Southerner's relaxed demeanor, though, as he'd kept him company in the dark doorwell, he somehow suspected he wouldn't have minded staying out a little while longer, either.

Inside, Rochelle and Coach were still picking at their food, eyes fixed on the lit up TV. There was something immediately a little creepy about their focus, to Nick, seeing as how the screen was displaying nothing but snow, volume lowered almost to nothing. Rochelle was flicking through one channel after the next, each one the same.

"Anything?" Nick asked, without bothering with a greeting, though he was secretly relieved when Rochelle looked away from the static, breaking the spell of the weird scene he'd walked in on.

"No," she admitted soberly. "I didn't really think so, but I thought, maybe..."

She sighed, and asked wryly, "Where's the news when you really need it?"

"Sitting on her tush, it looks like," Nick said dryly, returning to his claimed place on the couch and collapsing down, taking up space, knees spread and an arm relaxed over the back. 

"Shouldn't you be out there with a camera, interviewing Boomers?"

Rochelle had taken Ellis's spot in the other corner, but she was curled up small, knees to her chest, leaving room for the Southerner to plop down in the middle between them, watching the TV with the same look of rapt fascination as if it had been actually been showing something. He was careful settling his back against the cushion behind him, slouched down low with his arms rested loosely over his ribs, and Nick saw him have to squirm a little to get as comfortable as he could, clearly having some difficulty with the inconvenient position of the injury on his back, trying not to put weight on it.

He was a little closer than Nick was strictly comfortable with, leg just an inch from Nick's knee, but Nick was the one taking up more space, so he dealt with it, grudgingly recognizing they'd allowed him to take up half the living room seating on his own earlier without a word. The recliner Coach had sunk into and now occupied like a throne was the only other place to sit without pulling in the chair from the office -- the owner was so single he didn't even have a dining table. 

"Ha ha," replied Rochelle dryly, as she switched the channel one last time and then gave up, turning the TV off and setting the remote back down on the table. "Okay, first off, I was an associate producer, not a reporter. Secondly, you go interview a Boomer, ew!"

"But they like you so much," Nick said sweetly.

"What do yew do then, Ro?" Ellis wondered curiously, before she could retort. Nick was impressed to realize he'd lasted this long after the end of his imposed silence without breaking it.

"Fetch coffee and lug cables around, mostly," she admitted, with some wry humor. "I kinda got informally promoted when the infection hit, though, and everyone started calling in sick. When I got sent down here to cover the infection, I actually thought it might change my life. I mean.."

Stretching her arms out in front of her, fingers laced, she released a strained laugh, then slumped them over her knees.

"Well, it did~," she conceded wryly. "Not quite like I was hoping, though. Not that it really matters anymore. Just glad to be alive, I guess."

"You guess?" Nick shot back dryly, without much thought. That cigarette had really done wonders for his capacity to put up with other human beings for a little while longer.

Rochelle shrugged one shoulder, and attempted a smile, but it turned out sober, almost a wince.

"I dunno, I just feel... bad. I mean, of course, who doesn't, but-- guilty, I guess? Is that survivor's guilt? It's just so weird... I know there must be other people out there, maybe even whole towns that the infection hasn't hit yet... I hope. Doesn't feel that way, though. Feels like we're the only ones left in the world."

There was silence for a few moments, and then she huffed out a breath, grimacing apologetically.

"Sorry, sorry. That's grim. I know we aren't."

"S'alright, babygirl," Coach soothed in a low voice. "I know how you feel."

"Yeah, it's weird man," Ellis acknowledged sagely. "Kinda don't feel real almost. But hey, least ol' man Whitaker's still kickin', huh? We ain't the only ones left in Savannah!"

That got Rochelle to giggle, and she smiled at him appreciatively.

"That's true. The world needs more Whitakers right now. That was so funny, when he started speaking to us from that intercom. I about peed myself, anyone else? I was like -- 'uh, God? Is that you? You want to us to what? Fuck up them zombies? Well, whatever you say, Lord.'"

Coach was chuckling deeply, low and warm, shoulders shaking in waves. Ellis chortled so hard he choked a little, having resumed nibbling on a pinwheel, but he was so amused that he couldn't quit laughing as he was coughing, continuing the problem, and he had to thwack the side of his fist into his chest to clear it.

"Shit~, Ro," he begged, voice cracking with mirth, "oh my Lawd--"

And Nick was snapping over him, scolding him,

"Jesus Christ, hick, fucking chew, you gonna survive two hundred zombies and then choke to death on a goddamn turkey roll?!"

"Stop!" Ellis pleaded, as Nick's angry words only seemed to renew his laughter, and his coughing, wiping twinkling, tearful eyes with his palm. "Please, m'dyin'. I can't breathe. Ho Lord. -- Lordy Whitaker."

He made himself bust into giggles, that time, and Nick looked away in disgust.

"Kid shoots a Hunter straight out of the air, then fucking dies six hours later 'cause he forgets how to chew and breathe at the same time. Fucking idiot savant of Savannah, swear to Christ."

"N-no more, Nick, please," Ellis gasped, voice warm, thick and breathless from the mirthful cusp of breaking into the giggles again, which at this point were apparently threatening his asphyxiation. "Muh ribs hurtin'."

Nick cast him a flat glare, which then narrowed, and turned suspiciously on Coach.

"-- How many pills did you give him?" he accused.

".. A few," Coach admitted, and though his expression was guarded, Nick could almost see him wearing one that matched his tone, one he'd never heard from the man, like he'd eaten the last donut. "Boy was in a lot of pain, Nick."

"He's loopy!" Nick complained in a flat, muted yell, gesturing stiffly at the kid, who was trying his best not to giggle at this too, while trying to arrange his expression into one of offended denial. It just looked pouting.

"Naww~," he protested, "naw, I ain't!"

"You are," Nick accused, voice lowering to a growl as he turned his eyes back to the hick, sharper now as he scrutinized him. "You're fucking high. Good job, Coach, you got the kid high."

"Mannn, I ain't done shit," Coach protested, sounding faintly huffy. "Boy's fine. That's just him regular."

"It's true," Ellis mirthfully confessed, hiccuping once. "I jess get the giggles sometimes, it happens. Ma always said I laughed a lot even as a baby. Talked a bunch, too, even 'fore I knew any words -- bet that don't surprise yew none. Haw-- this one time, actually, I actually got laughin' so bad, I was with my buddy Keith-- this is real funny, actually, I en' up in the hospital--"

"Spoilers!" Nick complained dryly. "Ok, as funny as that does sound," Ellis identified the jibe sooner than he'd expected, and it earned him a squint of those blue eyes, in a poor impression of offense, "it's fucking late. And unlike Ellis here, I'm not lit, so I think I'm about done partying. Anyone else ready to hit the sack?"

Coach was nodding wearily.

"I'm beat," he intoned, sounding it. "We got a big day tomorrow, an' be nice to move on as soon as possible. Not still be walkin' around, lookin' fo a ride when it gets warm."

Rochelle was nodding her agreement, looking drowsy just at the thought of sleeping.

"Sleeping arrangements?" she questioned, with a timely yawn into the back of her hand, trimmed nails painted rose at the tips of her delicately stretching fingers.

"Aw I'm cool wherever," Ellis rightaway volunteered, predictably courteous. 

"Babygirl oughta have the bed, it's only right."

"Aw, that's sweet, but Coach, I think you should have it... I don't mind just curling up in here."

"Aw, girl..."

"If no one makes up their mind, I'm taking the bed," Nick caustically intervened, impatient to move arrangements along.

"Go on, Coach, Papa needs his rest," Rochelle teased him warmly, reaching out a socked toe to nudge at his leg. "Kids will be alright having a slumber party out here."

With a grunt of effort that was as much theatrics as anything, Coach heaved himself slowly out of the comfy armchair and to his feet, conceding,

"A'right, a'right... I'm goin'."

Nick was getting to his feet too.

"Kids my ass..." he muttered dryly, with a look at Ellis, who still looked tickled but also slightly exhausted from his finally subsided giggling, "only one kid here. You two enjoy your girls' night. I'm taking the office. I need a break from you people."

Ellis visibly looked a little disappointed, Rochelle amused and not remotely surprised. 

"'Night, Suit," she teased him.

"Night Nick!" Ellis chimed in earnestly.

"Good night, dipshits~," Nick sang back with sarcastic sweetness, somehow clearly a threat, and shut the office door firmly behind him.

Of course, he couldn't quite be done with them for the night. First Rochelle tapped on the door a minute later and nagged him to move his laundry so she and Coach could wash their things, saying she was sure he'd bitch at her for touching it if she did it herself, to which he made a somewhat sexist joke she found less amusing than he did, then went to go move his laundry. While he was doing that, she came up to him -- and he made sure Ellis's shirt was nowhere to be seen -- wearing a threateningly playful little smile, just to shove a blanket wordlessly into his arms. Since his arms were half full of wet clothes at that very moment, this was slightly obnoxious, and he approved of the audacity, narrowing his eyes after her as she walked promptly away.

"Bitch," he muttered tonelessly, and then, much more quietly, "thanks."

"What was that?" she called back innocently.

"I said skank!" he raised his voice, flatly aggressive, for the word.

"Asshole," she muttered wryly back, voice warm and amused, and tossed another blanket at Ellis on the couch, who happily threw both hands up to catch it.

Nick shut the dryer, turned it on to start rumbling, and returned to his office. 

"Hey Ro, yew think Coach got any more of 'em donuts left?"

"Ooo.. let's ask!"

He shook his head to himself, and shut the door behind him again. They really were having a little slumber party out there. 

Not two minutes later, when all he'd had time for was to peer through the blinds down at the street below, two steady knocks came at his door. He knew immediately it was Coach, even before his baritone voice sounded through the wood.

"Nick? I got somethin' fo yo ass."

"Is that a threat?" Nick wondered if Coach had decided to beat him up after all. He was reasonably sure he'd fantasized about it. "Because that sounds kind of like a threat."

"Boy, ain't a threat! Open the damn door!"

Nick opened the door wearing a smirk, and gestured smoothly inside with one hand, as if to invite him in.

"Coach, so nice to see you again. Why don't you step into my office?"

Coach didn't humor him, not budging, as Nick had expected, but instead offered out a pillow.

"Two pillows on the bed," he explained. "Figured you could use the other, what wit yo neck and all."

Nick sealed his hand around it, resigning himself to a dry,

"Awful nice of you, Coach. You didn't do anything to it, did you?"

Closest thing to a thank you he could muster.

"Man, yo ass is paranoid," Coach accused. He looked like he was about to walk away on that note -- no good nights from Coach, and Nick appreciated that about him--and he would have closed the door behind him without a thought, but he seemed to hesitate, so Nick waited.

"-- Something else?" he checked.

Coach sighed, and got on with it.

"Y'know, Nick, I wouldn't normally offer, but -- bed's plenty big. We two grown ass men, too old to be sleepin' on the floor."

Nick breathed out a quiet laugh. He didn't know what to do besides make another jab.

"You tryin' to hit on me, Coach?"

"Don't be playin' son," Coach scolded him, any uncertainty vanished from his expression to be replaced by a stern look.

"Yeah I'm alright right here," smirked Nick wryly. "That's real sweet though."

"Yea yea, sorry I asked," Coach grumbled, turning away to lumber back to bed, and Nick was still smirking as he shut the door.

Nick was not, as it turned out, alright. His first thought had been to set up on the carpet on the floor, but it was thin and firm and old besides, and he wasn't down there investigating on his hands and knees very long when he decided with a grimace that Coach was right -- he was too old to be sleeping on the floor.

That left the office chair, which might have been the newest piece of furniture in the apartment, including the TV, and was actually pretty comfortable, but was definitely not intended for sleeping. It could spin, but it couldn't recline. 

Nick ended up sitting in the chair anyway, with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the pillow on the desk and his head and arms buried in it. It was certainly not the ideal way to sleep, and he thought he'd be awake for a while trying to get himself more comfortable, the day's events rattling around in his head, but he was so exhausted, sleep came for him anyway. The last thing he remembered was the soft murmuring of Ellis and Rochelle's voices outside, interspersed by the occasional giggle.

Chapter Text

LEVEL lll - DOWNTOWN - lV/V

Given his exhaustion, it was perhaps not so amazing that Nick slept through the night, but maybe given the position he'd slept in, it was some wonder. He paid for his heavy sleep, anyway, for the first thing out of his mouth was a wheezy groan when he decided to stir, his back and shoulders popping and cracking as he stretched them, aching with stiffness. Straightening slowly, he rolled his neck from one side to the other, with a wince and further crackling, then dragged his pillow drowsily to himself and pushed the toes of one foot into the carpet, scooting the chair back a little towards the window behind him,  lazily swiveling just enough so he could see it. Nudging aside the curtain, he slid two fingers into the blinds, splitting them to peer outside. 

The sky was lightening, but barely. The sun wasn't up yet.

Christ it was fucking early. They'd been up past midnight. 

He groaned again, massaging the nape of his neck, and thought about trying to return to sleep, but his back wouldn't hear of it. He got to his feet and stretched his spine out further, then his shoulders and arms, grimacing as he worked out the kinks to a mantra of curses in his head, at the virus, at CEDA, at that Smoker that had brought him crashing to the marble floor, even at Ellis for running him into those shelves, choosing not to think about what would have happened if he hadn't, since that was not conducive to his griping.

He'd expected to have nightmares, and he was sure he had, but fortunately he couldn't remember anything specific, just a vague, lingering sensation of unease, stress, danger... though maybe that was just from yesterday. Reality was a nightmare.

He heard something from elsewhere in the apartment, and realized he wasn't the only teammate awake. Fucking early risers. Not ready to be conscious yet, much less socialize, he pulled aside one half of the curtains and peered out again, checking the street for zombies. Just the regular morning routine.

It still seemed quiet out there. He saw a figure shambling a ways down the street in the low light, but nothing close by. Clouds low on the eastern horizon were just starting to blush underneath, drifts of pink against the shadowy blue of twilight, heralding the approaching dawn.

Making a decision, he lifted the blinds a hand's length, then unlatched the window and carefully manuevered it up the same distance, taking extra care in case it threatened to squeak, or give way suddenly.

Fresh, temperate morning air floated in, and he settled down to sit on his pillow on the floor there by the window, as close as he could get to the opening without risking being seen from outside, and settled against the wall.

A minute later, and he was exhaling cigarette smoke, directed carefully out the window, easing himself into coming to terms with reality, and the day before him.

Pretty much everyone was dead or worse. Life as he knew it was over, would never be the same. His best chances for survival lay with three strangers, which meant he was stuck with them for the foreseeable future.

Three strangers that he had already spent far too much time too closely with, and knew far too well, for having not known they existed twenty four hours before. Hell, even without that qualifier. That didn't look to be changing any time soon, either. They were about to be taking a road trip together, for Christ's sake. He wasn't ready.

Of course, that was assuming they could get a ride working without getting killed. Two big assumptions. 

He sighed when he finished his cigarette, smudging it out carelessly on the windowsill and tossing it out. Climbing stiffly to his feet, he shut the window and replaced the blinds and curtains.

He wasn't ready to leave the room, either, but he supposed there was no point putting it off forever. He was in that sweet spot of not having entirely woken up enough to step into all of his stress, but with the soothing rush of nicotine to take the edge off the rawness of the morning, of having to be awake at all. Might as well utilize the others as a present distraction before he gave himself more time to dread the future. He had all day to get worked up-- and he was sure it wouldn't take that long.

Also, his clothes were out there waiting for him, dry and clean as they'd get. He really wanted back in his own clothes.

He was down to three cigarettes. That wouldn't last him the day, at this rate. He normally wasn't a heavy smoker, limiting himself to a couple a day, maybe a few more when stressed, but... well, the apocalypse was pretty fucking stressful. If he was lucky maybe he'd be able to scavenge some while they were out.

It wasn't till he was approaching the door that his smoke blinded nose caught the whiff of something savory. It bloomed fully through his senses when he opened the door and stepped through, the aroma filling the small apartment. Buttery, meaty...? He had no idea what he was smelling, and his first instinct was to frown in confusion... but it did smell suspiciously good. 

The living room lamps were off, Rochelle curled up fast asleep in the recliner still, bundled in her blanket, but the kitchen light was on. Coach and Ellis stood over there, fully awake, apparently just hanging out, Ellis leaning against the counter, Coach chuckling at something he'd said, a covered pot sitting on the stove nearby, the oven door a few inches ajar.

Was it not literally the crack of dawn?

Ellis's stupid face lit up when he noticed Nick, confused scowl and all. 

"Nick! Hey!" he whispered loudly, an excited hush. Reluctantly, Nick shuffled closer, past Rochelle, wondering at her ability to sleep through the two talking so close by, and joined the other two men in the kitchen.

"Mornin', Nick," Coach intoned deeply, with a slight nod.

"Coach," Nick returned the greeting, then turned his green eyes, still hard with suspicion, on Ellis.

"Mornin', Nick!" he mumbled, brimming with excitement. "Guess wut!"

Nick did not. Ellis was practically squirming with his desire to tell him what wut was, hips bouncing a little off the counter.

"Did you guys sleep?" he wondered instead, in a soft, bewildered snarl.

"Lil bit," Coach intoned. "Not too good, boy neither. Caught him pacin' around in the dark, had to keep him busy so he didn't wake the whole dang house up, o' break his dumb neck. We--"

"We made breakfast!" Ellis blurted out, unable to contain himself. "Aw sorry Coach. All that stuff 'n the cupboard, didn't look like much on its own, but like, we took that mushroom 'n chicken 'n, and then that canned corn an' them chilis--"

"Jesus, fuck-- Ace, it's early. It's so early. Please. I don't need the whole goddamn recipe. What d'you--"

"Biscuits 'n gravy, son," Coach intoned proudly. "We made biscuits 'n gravy. Well, young'un did most of the work. I just supervised."

Nick could only blink, then lift a hand to rub it firmly over his face, grimaced in sheer disbelief, processing. 

"For real?"

"Check it!" exclaimed Ellis happily, and Coach obligingly shifted a step aside so Ellis could eagerly pull the oven door further open, where... sure enough, a pan of fucking biscuits sat, staying warm, golden and craggy and bewilderingly normal looking, considering Ellis's involvement, and the evident source of that rich buttery smell, blooming out with a wave of warmth.

"What in the fuck, hick," was all he could think to say, leaned down slightly to stare into the oven. He didn't know what to make of it when the boy took it the way he did, beaming proudly. Impulsively, as he stood, he clamped a hand over his head of curls, bare of his hat for once, abruptly enough to make him start. His face crinkled up with startled laughter, though, as he ruffled his hair aggressively enough to make him recoil a little, try to duck out from under his hand-- but he didn't try very hard.

"Little fuckin' Paula Dean, aren't you?" Nick growled at him through the abuse, before tossing his head lightly away, leaving Ellis warm-faced and happily flustered, seemingly pleased into silence. He didn't know that could work. "Good job keeping him from burning the whole fucking place down in our sleep, Coach. Glad he had some adult supervision. I gotta piss. Maybe put on a fucking shirt, I guess, didn't know we were having family breakfast."

As he was washing his hands in the bathroom, he inspected himself in the mirror. Despite the sleeping arrangements, and the early hour, he could tell what sleep he'd got had done him good. His jaw was a little darker than the day before, and he rubbed at it thoughtfully, wondering if access to razor blades and hot water would be in his future, or if this apocalypse would see him eventually growing a beard. Just one more distasteful thing to think about.

He adjusted his hair with some water, smoothing back some stray strands with a few wet fingertips, then, satisfied, exited the bathroom.

His clothes had been left on top of the dryer, which he'd been prepared for, having seen in the kitchen that Coach was wearing his again, a little stained but clean and dry... and he realized now, he hadn't smelled puke on them, either, which was great. He was just untangling his blue shirt out when Ellis's voice by him nearly made him start. God, this apartment was small.

"Hey, Nick?" the redneck ventured hesitantly. He'd removed his heavy work boots for sleep, no doubt why he'd been able to creep up on him, Nick used to him clomping about. He was slightly shorter in his socks, not that Nick didn't have several inches on him anyway.

He cocked an eyebrow, unsmiling, and just fixed him with his penetrating stare, continuing to sort his shirt right side out while he waited. Ellis was chewing at his lip.

"Uhh. Well, um, it's not-- it's jess, I asked Coach, an' well, he didn't know, I was jess wonderin'-- well, I ain't mad or nothin', but--"

The fuck?

"-- did'ju uh.. maybe, throw away my shirt?"

He spoke low and hesitantly, blue eyes large with worry, and Nick immediately scoffed, a coarse huff of breath, and turned away.

"I- I get it," Ellis stammered quickly, "f'you did, cause I left it in there, an' maybe it was in your w-- woopf!"

The projectile that was his pale yellow Bullshifter's shirt smacked into his face, blinding and muffling him. Nick turned away again, so as to not to see his dumb expression when he untangled himself and saw it, able to hear it anyway in his voice as he went on slipping his arms into the blue sleeves of his dress shirt, shrugging it on over his shoulders.

"Oh, shit, wut-- aww~, jeez, Nick, yew washed my--?"

He cut off his awed expression of gratitude, much too touched, before it could go any further, scolding him dryly,

"The washing machine did. You know, the thing that's made for washing clothes? Getting things actually clean?"

"Yeah it... man it... yeah it, sure is clean..." Ellis's happy voice trailed off a little in distraction, becoming aware of the powerful scent of magnolia radiating off of his shirt, and slightly overwhelmed by it, trying out of politeness not to recoil, but blinking like his eyes might water. 

So perhaps Nick had been a little liberal with the detergent.

"It stunk," Nick snapped, glaring a little as he buttoned himself up. "It was that or burn it. Still an option."

"Naw naw," Ellis hurried to correct, "I appreciate it, thanks... looks really good, zombie came out better than I thought it would..."

in a very quiet mumble, as he was wandering off,

"jess smells a lil girly is all..."

Ellis took on the job of waking Rochelle. Nick was amazed at her ability to sleep through them all in her space. He touched her arm, shaking her very gently, saying in a friendly, hushed voice,

"Hey Ro.. Rochelle... hey girl... you want breakfast?"

She stirred sleepily, confusion, naturally in her drowsy voice.

"Hm? What, sweetie? Breakfast?"

"Yuh..." Ellis was still speaking in a hushed tone, as if to ease her gently into consciousness, giving the conversation a conspiratorial feel, though they were all awake and could hear him. Nick had returned to his place on the couch, wanting to be audience to someone else adjusting to the same bewildering situation he'd had to wake up to, and enjoying the feeling of knowing what was happening before she did.

"Coach 'n I got up early. Made biscuits 'n gravy."

Well that wasn't fair, she'd gotten the very abbreviated version. Still, there was some satisfaction to be gleaned from her expression of bafflement. Good. So she also hadn't expected a homecooked Southern meal at the crack of dawn on day two of the zombie apocalypse. 

"Oh my gosh.... how.. wow."

"Yeah, what the fuck," Nick chimed in, voice caustic but a smirk on his face.

"That sounds so good," Rochelle groaned, longing outweighing her confusion, and she began to pull herself more upright. "Okay. I'm up. I'm up. Hi Nick," she greeted him, upon seeing him across from her, with a tired little smile. "How'd you sleep?"

"This is way more people than I'm used to talking to this early," Nick said by way of answer, blunt and honest. "And way too many of them are men. Could've been worse, you?"

Rochelle laughed gently.

"Sure had much worse wake ups," she admitted, with a kind, bemused look at Ellis as he stood back, returning her smile. She was untangling her arms from her blanket to reach them up in a stretch, arching her spine, then turned around, peeking over the back of the recliner towards the kitchen.

"My gosh. I can't believe you guys did all that. I'm pretty sure I got the flu after all, and this is some kind of fever-based hallucination. Are there really biscuits?"

"Well, wut happened is we found flour, right, and then we had the cream of corn and them green chilis, so we was like, well we can make biscuits with that..."

And Ellis was off, yammering away, and Nick was vindictively pleased Rochelle hadn't been spared after all. 

"... and then fer the gravy we used cream of chicken, cream of mushroom..."

"You two are amazing. Ellis, I had no idea you could cook."

"Aw, shucks, I'm jess throwin' stuff together.. sometimes it turns out good. Sometimes it's real bad, I oughta tell yew bout this one time, me 'n Keith--"

"Save it, kid, you'll kill my appetite," Nick cut him off dryly. "I'm already leery of putting anything you've had a hand in in my mouth."

"Boy washed his hands, Nick, don't worry."

"Yeah man, wouldn't want yew to get sick or nothin'," Ellis had the audacity to taunt him.

"Hey, just because we're immune, maybe, to the flu, doesn't mean we can't still get everything else. Like the real flu."

"I think yew jess might be a germaphobe, Nick."

"Uh, a germ just wiped out most of the human race, hick, so... you know what, yeah," Nick retorted sardonically. "I have a healthy respect for germs."

"Well good fer yew I washed my hands, then..." was all Ellis primly retorted.

Coach was pulling out the tray of biscuits with a towel, shutting the oven door.

"Breakfast is ready, y'all come serve yoselves. Ro, babygirl, I got you, you stay cozy."

"Well that's favoritism," Nick drawled in complaint, but he was already lazily getting up, if only because he could see by Ellis's perking glance his way that he was thinking of offering to bring him a plate, and he didn't want to be his 'you stay cozy'... even if the table service might have been nice.

Biscuits and gravy had to be about the last meal Nick would have ever pictured himself ordering. He didn't think he'd ever even tried it. It had always sounded a mess to him, honestly, like a heart attack waiting to happen, and despite the alluring smell, he harbored some skepticism right until the first bite, but fuck -- it was delicious. 

It wasn't that it had been that long since he'd had a hot meal, all things considered, but the knowledge that he had no way of knowing when his next one would be certainly played a role in his appreciation. Truthfully, though, it stood on its own merit. He'd eaten some gourmet food in some ludicrously overpriced places, and sure, this wasn't that, but for pantry food, it was better than he could have expected, and he'd have taken it over a few of them anyway.

He tried to remember the last time someone had cooked him something that hadn't been paid for. A home cooked meal.

He decided to stop thinking about it, and just enjoy the food. He might not have to suffer a future without hot meals. They might die before the end of the day. Better to just appreciate it. 

There was a healthy, respectful silence throughout most of the meal, as their hunger seemed to meet its peak a few bites in, and consume their focus till it was sated, their plates nearly emptied. There had been enough for everyone to have their fill, the tray of biscuits reduced to crumbs. 

Ellis cleared his throat.

"Uhh Ro and I got a surprise too.. you wanna tell em?"

Rochelle tried to supress an amused smile.

"No you go ahead, sweetie."

"Soo Ro and I were thinkin' those donuts gonna be all stale today, and we mighta found some chocolate puddin' mix in the cupboard last night, so instead of eatin' em we made it up and mixed it with them donuts in lil pieces, like with some that creamer was in the fridge..? So~... if anyone wants dessert... well we got it. Should be all set nice by now, lil parfait."

Coach's eyes were wide. 

"Boy... you had chocolate, and you kept that shit from me all morning? Shit. I'm gonna fuck that up."

Ellis chortled with pleasure, a twinkle in his eye as he looked at the big man.

"Can't believe that when I met yew I thought yew didn't cuss, Coach."

"Just cause I'm used to spending all my time around damn kids. Been a while since I spent this much time around other adults that weren't parents."

Despite Coach's chocolate craving, they were all too full to do more than think about dessert. Nick privately didn't need to do even that-- they might have impressed him with breakfast, but he could imagine pretty well what instant chocolate pudding and cheap donuts tasted like together, and thought he could pass on that particular confection, not having much of a sweet tooth anyway. They decided to save it till after they'd succeeded in their mission to find a car, as a kind of reward, planning on returning to the apartment anyway to haul anything they could use, and with that important decision out of the way, and as everyone was still recovering from the meal, Nick brought up that perhaps it would be a good time to talk in more detail about their plan, since it had been only very loosely outlined the previous night.

"Plan C," Ellis affirmed, when he said this.

"Very good, hick. Look, guys, he can count to C."

"Seems like CEDA's pulled out of Savannah," Coach started off the discussion, ignoring him. "Don't know where the next nearest evac point might be. But if Savannah's like this, Atlanta will be ten times worse. We just guessin' right now, anywhere we go. Lyin' low somewhere out of the way does seem safest."

"Yeah man, big cities don't sound like the place to be right now," Ellis agreed. "I liked yer idea last night. I say we hit the backroads, find some place to hole up, an' then we can go intuh small towns fer supplies when we need'm, gas an' maybe information. We get a car, we can check the radio.. weren't nothin of much help on there earlier, but might be later. Soon as we know where to go, hell, I'd kill every zombie from here to California to git t'my ma, but ain't no point 'n tryna check every city, like Coach says."

"Do you have any idea where your mom might be?" Rochelle asked him gently.

"Oh yeah," Ellis replied, cheerfully unconcerned. "I mean naw, but it's alright, last we talked my buddy Keith had picked her up, so I know she's safe. He wouldn't let nutin' bad happen to her."

His confidence in his friend was as unflappable as it was mystifying, seeing as from what Nick had gleaned from Ellis's stories, Keith didn't even sound like a safe individual for Keith to be around.

Choosing not to comment on that, perhaps thinking the same thing, Rochelle asked the group instead, 

"Do we try and get some more supplies before we head out, or stop on the way?"

"There's just too many of them here," said Coach solemnly, a little sadly. It was his home, after all. "I say we keep an eye out, grab anything we can while we're lookin' for a car, then get the hell out of Savannah while we still got daylight to drive by."

That settled it. There was little else they could plan for, really, with so much unknown, up to luck and fate. What they could do was pack everything they thought they could use-- blankets, canned food, kitchen utensils, socks, first aid, towels -- and place it neatly by the stairs, ready to go, smaller things packed into canvas totebags they'd found in the shop below. They took a few empty totes along with them, in case they found anything worth scavenging. They really weren't ideal for lugging things around while trying to fight zombies, but they were better than nothing.

It wasn't an hour after breakfast before they were stepping out the front door of the record store, cleaned, reasonably well rested, fed and armed to the teeth. The young Georgia morning was already bright and clear, not quite warm yet, though it wouldn't be long. 

They left the front door unlocked, having no way to unlock it and not wanting to have to waste time with the fire escape if they were in a hurry on their return. The sound of a car would no doubt attract some attention, they didn't know yet how much, and it might need to be a quick stop. 

Ellis seemed to be feeling himself, insisting on stepping back into the fight and taking on his share of zombies again that day, stubborn nearly to the point of petulance, so that even Coach had no choice but to surrender, though he warned him not to overdo it. He was still in his Midnight Riders shirt, and proudly wore all of his guns, pistols in a shoulder harness he'd snagged from Whitaker's. Nick noticed the back cross straps happened to be placed just a few inches above his injury, and thought that very convenient. He also noticed he wore his shotgun strap a little awkwardly, though, in an effort to avoid it. 

Idiot. He could have easily left it behind. They were still trying to avoid firing their guns anyway, which Ellis was slightly huffy about, commenting, If 'em zombies learned, they'd be runnin' away when they heard us acomin', not the other way 'round. He had, at least, reluctantly consented to leave his fire extinguisher, newly polished and gleaming, behind with the things they were coming back for, only at Nick's violent beseeching, insisting he consider a more practical weapon. He had been helped to his decision by the proposed substitute of a simple old claw hammer that had been found in a kitchen drawer. The poor tool had no idea what gruesome deeds it was about to be repurposed for when Ellis hefted its smooth worn wooden handle in his strong hand, a placated glint in his slate blue eyes, seeming satisfied with its sturdy make.

Nothing immediately came running to be killed as they began their careful way down the sidewalk. There were a few infected in sight some ways down the street, but they were far enough that they didn't seem to register them. The shop was just a building behind them, however, when the sidewalk before them turned into a sea of sparkling blue, shattered glass from the windows of the nearby deli scattered across the pavement, reflecting the sky above. 

A car had careened into and through them, its hood buried in the deli counter. Inside, it was dark, the deep green awning stretched over the front of the business blocking the morning sun from penetrating all the way into the shadowy corners of the establishment, but they could see signs of carnage, mutilated corpses and copious blood, and they all avoided going too close to the busted out windows and the cave like interior beyond, steering clear of the glass littered sidewalk entirely and drifting along the street instead. 

Nobody thought of trying to scavenge in there-- nobody, of course, except Ellis, who just before they'd left it behind them noticed something inside, that the wrecked car had blocked their view of from the other side.

"Hey," he murmured curiously, and with no other explanation, broke away from the party and jogged over.

"Boy..." even Coach began to reproach, turning around to see Ellis already halfway to the deli, but of course they all followed him. Ellis was honed in on something, looking pleased, slowing as he neared the window and stepping carefully inside over an intact piece still hanging on.

"Check it, guys," he chortled proudly, looking back. "S'Cola."

It was, indeed, a soda cooler, with still at least a few drinks inside, as they could see through the clear glass door. The interior was even lit, the little fluorescent light strip still reflecting off the inside of the door, unlike the lights in the rest of the deli.

"Well alright," Coach said approvingly, but Ellis seemed to think he was missing something.

"Coca Cola!" he clarified excitedly. "Mr Whitaker? There's a few left in there too!"

Nick groaned in disbelief. Even for Ellis, it was ridiculous.

"Kid, we don't have time to be taking the guy his soda, are you kidding? We're just trying to get out of town alive."

"But we're gettin' a car!" Ellis insisted. "Means we'll have room to stock up better. Feels like a lot now when we ain't used none, but if we gotta fight a whole slew of 'um again them bullets gonna go real fast. Oughta stock up good 'fore we head out into the country. 'Sides, 'least we could do for ol' man Whitaker, givin' all em guns away fer nuthin'."

"God damn it," Nick swore in a growl, hating that the kid made sense. Coach and Rochelle could see it too.

"An' I could pick muhself up a rifle..." Ellis pined, appealing to them, eyes soft with longing.

"Alright, god damn it, fine. We'll bring the old man his Cola, everyone agreed? Get the stupid hick another toy and an obscene amount of bullets. And then we get the fuck out of here. That's if we find a car. What's the plan on that, anyway, sport?" he asked Ellis, who already had the door open and was crouched in front of it, piling Cola bottles into a tote, the glass clinking. "You're the car guy, right? You gonna hotwire some wheels for us, or what?"

"Yew can't really hotwire most cars these days, Nick," Ellis explained patiently, reaching an arm far into the back, where most of the sodas remained. "They ain't built that way no more, not since the nineties. Kind of a shame, really. I worked on a bunch of old salvaged cars 'n shit, I like em, so I done it few times, s'real useful. Ain't real hard, either, with um older cars, so yeah, prolly could figger it out, if we get that lucky, but yea.. I'm hopin' we jess find one wit some keys still in it."

"Yeah, cause that won't take any luck," Nick sarcastically muttered, watching critically as he straightened from the cooler with his clinking tote. "You're not really going to carry those all over, are you?"

"Naw, 'ma run 'em back to the shop real quick like. Won't be two beats. Prolly should take this water too, I guess, fer us..."

"No shit."

So a minute later, they were starting down the street again, with a tote of Cola and one of a few water bottles left at the record store door.

"That looked like a nice deli," Rochelle reflected a little sadly, glancing back as they left it behind, she and Coach each with a Cola in hand for themselves. 

"It always looked good," Coach agreed somberly. "Dunno why I never checked it out..."

The first zombie they encountered was inside one of the many cars they leaned in to inspect, and it slammed at the window so unexpectedly that Rochelle, closest, jolted hard enough to splash soda down her forearm.

"Aw, man," she whined, shaking some excess sticky drips lightly off, "well, at least it's not zombie..."

"That's what you get for trying to drink and fight," commented Nick unsympathetically, as the car's occupant continued to snarl and claw at the window. "Who wants to shut that guy up before he wakes up the neighborhood?" 

"I got it," volunteered Coach grimly, setting his soda down on another nearby car and steering forward, axe readied. Rochelle stood ready to open the door for him, but when she went to yank it open, it didn't give, locked.

"Damn it," Coach muttered. 

"Let's just leave it," said Nick tensely, glancing around for any trouble the sound might be attracting. Breaking in would just create more noise, and they'd soon leave the thing behind. Its thumps and frustrated screeches followed them down the street for a while, though, prodding them into hastening their pace a little, Ellis inspecting potential vehicles on the go. They couldn't avoid trouble forever, though, and it soon found them, zombies trickling out of buildings and from behind alley corners, distracting their efforts. Nick pinched his nose in disgust when he felt the first sprinkle of their blood hit his suit, an inevitability of melee.

Ellis, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself, holding his own fine. He was appreciating the lightness of his new weapon, swinging his whole arm back and forth with its weight like a pendulum as he walked. It was a little disturbing to watch him so merry with it one moment, jauntily strolling along, and delivering brutal damage in the next. Nick watched him swing it with devastating speed up into a zombie's jaw, cracking his neck back over its spine, and couldn't but wince, rubbing at his own jaw almost in grim sympathy.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Rochelle wondered, as they finished with a few zombies that had come on them at once. "Besides something old or with keys."

Ellis had returned to inspecting the car he'd been looking at when they'd interrupted. He dismissed it quickly, though, answering her as they moved on.

"Well, perty much anything we can git, I guess, but some them roads do git a lil bumpy, so I'd like her to be able to handle a lil rough ridin'. An' some zombie speed bumps, ideal. Boy, once we settle, I'd sure love to spend some time soupin' her up. We could reinforce it real nice, set her up for zombie plowin'."

"You enjoy this too much," Nick accused him darkly.

"Hell~, it ain't all bad!" Ellis remarked cheerily, swinging his hammer again as he passed a pristine Prius without so much as looking at it. "Met yew folk, 'n y'all are great. 'Member when Ro found that Boomer and we had to fight off like a mill'yun zombies, an' they was jess all fallin' down them stairs 'n shit? Shit that was fun. Can't wait to tell Keith that one."

"Found is a nice way of putting it," Rochelle groaned. 

"Yeah, hick, I remember like it was yesterday. Since it literally was. That was fun for you? You're insane. We nearly all died."

"Yeaah~," Ellis admitted, lowering his voice a little with embarrassment, ".. was kinda excitin', though. An' yew guys hadn't let me fight nuthin' in forever."

Nick shook his head in disbelief.

"I can't believe you're fighting now," he muttered honestly. "You're not allowed to talk about zombies not having survival instincts. You have the self preservation sense of a lemming."

"Naww~."

The street eventually ended in a corner, turning to the right. Just past it, on the far side, they noticed a shallow, single row parking lot, with a short set of steps leading up to what looked like a small office building. Or rather, Ellis noticed the lot, and the large, dark blue, four door pick up parked there.

"Ohh... that's a beauty," he murmured thoughtfully, but with a little solemn reserve, as if already trying not to get attached. He crossed the street, and they scanned the area carefully as they went, but it seemed quiet... that was, there were plenty of infected scattered down the new street, but they weren't close enough to pay them mind. 

Stepping up to the truck's tinted windows, Ellis peered inside, cupping a hand to the glass so he could see past the reflection. Nick braced for another jumpscare, but nothing came.

"Looks nice," Ellis commented, hint of longing in his voice suggesting he was failing not to get his hopes up. "Real new. Bet 'em seats still got that dealer smell. Bet she never even been off road..."

He'd gendered it already. He was definitely getting attached. Would he call this one Blue?

Ellis drew from the window, sliding his hand over the hood as he circled it, looking up at the building.

"Perty small place. Think his keys might be in there?"

"Ain't that far-fetched," Coach admitted. "Only a couple cars in the lot."

"They're employee of the month," Rochelle mentioned, pointing out the reserved sign on the wall behind the spot indicating as much with a little smile, only half joking as she suggested, "Maybe we'll get really lucky, and their picture will be up on a wall somewhere, help us find them."

It was a little morbid. None of them were really expecting to find the guy alive. They all knew they were probably looking for a body, hopefully not an infected one. The place was small enough, though, that it seemed worth checking out. There could only be so many zombies inside.

They headed up a short flight of plain cement steps, with one plain metal railing, to a small landing and a fittingly plain door. Ellis tested it -- it opened a crack, unlocked. 

"Ready?" he whispered back, and at their signal, he opened it onto a dim, narrow hallway. It turned left at the end, a door diagonally taking up the corner. A number of doorways led off it. A still body lay halfway through one, and papers were scattered everywhere. Some frames along the wall were knocked askew or had fallen.

Ellis flicked a lightswitch as they drifted quietly inside. The plain ceiling lights lit up, flickered once, but stayed on. 

"Wut do we think..?" he wondered. "Room by room, or call 'em out?"

Rochelle gasped softly, catching sight of something on the wall.

"Oh my god, look. I'm a genius. This is August's. Where's October?"

They really did have their employees of the month up on the wall, pinned to a bulletin board, and apparently never taken down, just plastered over with more recent ones. There were no photos, though, for which Nick was somewhat glad. He didn't really even want to know the guy's name, though he callously read it out when he found it, pretty quickly, as it had nothing over it yet.

"We're looking for a Gerald."

"Okay, that should help," said Rochelle brightly. "Do these doors have names on them?"

They did-- a few each. Most of these guys didn't get the privilege of their own private office, apparently, just their own desk and sometimes parking spot, which considering there were only a handful of spots out there to begin with was sort of ridiculous, when he thought about it. They cleared the first two rooms, but didn't search them, as the names on the door didn't match. As they left the second, the unpleasant sound of racing footsteps prefaced a single zombie sprinting around the corner at them. Nick was closest, and violently swung his golf club at it, knocking it awry, but it was a clumsy strike, rushed by its speed, and it was staggering quickly back towards him. Rochelle's crowbar came slamming down into its shoulder, bending it over, then she wrenched it out, just as Coach swung his axe down into its exposed back, severing its spine. As it crumpled, Ellis stomped on it for good measure.

"Think it's dead, kid," Nick told him dryly.

"Everyone else got tuh," Ellis huffed, and Nick obeyed the sudden impulse he had to bat the bill of his hat down over his eyes, achieving the double effect of earning a protesting 'Hey!' from the momentarily blinded Southerner, and making sure that he didn't catch the smirk tugging at the corners of his thin lips, turned away and moving on before Ellis had managed to fix his hat. 

"Here we go," said Rochelle excitedly from up ahead. She stood by a closed door, crowbar at the ready. Approaching, Nick saw their Gerald listed.

The office was dark inside. Coach had opened the door, and led the way in, Rochelle just behind, feeling up the wall inside for the lightswitch. They heard a guttural rasp as she switched it on, and an infected in a blouse and pencil skirt came crawling desperately over a desk from beneath it, tripping over her one remaining heeled shoe as she staggered down to the floor and throwing herself, screeching, at Coach. The close quarters weren't ideal, and his swing thudded into her neck but didn't cleave entirely through her spine -- at least until it drove her into the wall, which bluntly forced the blade just through with a crack, and she stilled, sliding down. He wrenched his axe blade firmly out, face grim, and as her body hit the ground her head lolled, neck splitting half open in a gruesome gape.

"Sorry," Coach muttered to no one in particular, stepping further into the room. 

There was one other desk, but no other bodies, moving or otherwise. They approached to search it, the nameplate confirming it was the owner of the truck outside. A black sports jacket draped over the chair seemed promising, but turned up nothing, Ellis's hopeful expression falling as he dug through each pocket. The desk drawers turned up nothing more. There was, to Nick's disappointment but to the aid of their mission, a picture of a man that must have been Gerald on the desk, his arm around the waist of a lady Nick shallowly thought looked a bit too pretty for him-- if not quite pretty enough for Nick-- though they seemed happy in the photo. 

"Damn," muttered Coach.

"Could still be elsewhere in the building," Ellis suggested.

"I think that's a little kitchen down at the end," Rochelle mentioned. "We haven't checked down that other hall, and uh.. I haven't seen a bathroom yet."

"Oh, he'll be in the bathroom, just wait," said Nick sarcastically. "He'll be the newest freak zombie, the one that throws its toxic shit at you. That's the natural next step in their evolution of nasty, right?"

Coach groaned in disapproval, and Rochelle whined,

"Oh my god, Nick, stop. That's disgusting. Seriously, too far."

Even Ellis chimed in.

"Yeah Nick, how come it's not bad luck when yew say stuff like that? Yew got double standards, man."

"I sure do."

The kitchenette didn't take long to loot, not well stocked. There was a mini fridge, but nobody was quite daring enough to touch the tupperwares inside. They did find a bag of coffee, which Rochelle greedily snagged, along with, shamelessly, an entire french press, both of which she stowed in her tote.

The other hall was shorter. There was just one other office, a tiny, empty conference room, and at the end of the hall, a men and women's room each.

Nick didn't want to say I told you so. He was more displeased than anyone.

"Okay," Ellis whispered, somehow in the lead again, as they all collected around the men's room door. "If he ain't in here, we might be outta luck, guys. Ready, one, two..."

He threw open the door. No anti-climactic emptiness this time-- a zombie came screeching at them immediately from the darkness. With a yell of surprise as much as anything, Ellis slung his hammer solidly into its temple, crushing a hole into it, and it crumpled untidily down to the bathroom floor.

Even with its sickly, virus-tainted pallor, inhuman expression and gaunt features, they recognized Gerald, his thick ginger mustache distinctive.

"It's him!" Ellis gasped, falling over his body and pawing at the pockets of his pants. There came a jingling sound. "Here!" he exclaimed excitedly, digging inside. 

Nick looked past him into the dark bathroom, just to be safe. It was small, containing just a stall and a urinal. There was only one place anything could be hiding, and as most zombies didn't hide--

The watery gurgle almost sounded like a toilet backing up, for a moment, echoing in the small bathroom.

They all froze, Ellis's hand having just seized on the keys, still buried in the corpse's pocket.

Nick wanted it to be a toilet backing up. Like an immediate middle finger to his inner thoughts, the impossibly swollen, bloated corpse stumbled into sight through the stall door, barely clearing the gap.

Bloated was an understatement. The thing looked like it was about to explode. Huge boils covered its stretched, discolored skin, and the acid smell of bile hit them all at once.

Ellis screamed. So did Rochelle, hers a warning, though that sickly sound and smell had been cue enough for the rest to put two and two together.

"Boomer!"

Ellis scrambled frantically to get back up and retreat. They heard that horrible heaving sound, saw the creature rear back, and several hands seized Ellis and practically yanked him bodily back through the door. His hand grabbed the knob as he came, yanking it with him, and the door slammed shut just as the thing retched.

A horrible, thick spattering collided with the other side of the door, hard enough to make it tremble, and rancid smelling, seperated bile began leaking from under the door.

"Did you--" Nick started to urgently demand of the hick, him and Rochelle still clutching him as he got his footing.

"I got 'em!" he exclaimed breathlessly, fear and delight and excitement shining in his eyes, holding up the jingling keys, and broke away, tearing down the hall in his heavy boots. 

"Let's go let's go let's go!"

"It didn't get on us," Rochelle was hopefully, anxiously saying as they raced down the corridor just behind him, around the corner. They could hear the mutant beating heavily on the door behind them. "And we're inside, do you think maybe--"

She stopped talking when they burst through the front door, as the approaching roar of countless screaming infected reached their ears, the volume building as they closed in. From the landing, they could even see the horde gathering, growing as it came, as zombies tore into sight from down both streets, headed right for them.

Chapter Text

LEVEL lll - DOWNTOWN - V/V

"Get to the truck!" Ellis cried, and they flew down the stairs, the vehicle beeping welcomingly at them as the hick unlocked it with the key fob. "Someone else drive, I'ma shoot!"

No one questioned him. 

"I got it," Coach immediately volunteered, holding out his hand. Ellis stuffed the keys into it without stopping and approached the bed of truck at a run, vaulting himself up over the side. Turning around, his eyes went right for Nick, urgency and tension in them.

"Nick!"

"Yeah yeah," Nick grumbled, stalking forward. Ellis reached down for him, and Nick reluctantly snatched his arm, letting the younger man help haul him up over the high side of the vehicle. Rochelle had bolted around to the passenger seat, and Coach was already starting the engine. They were all fast, but it was still just in time, for even as the vehicle bucked forward -- Nick swore and clutched at the side of the truckbed to steady himself, nearly sent sprawling -- the first infected was tearing into the lot. Ellis had been pulling out a pistol to prepare to shoot it, but had to crouch low and hang on just to keep his balance as the truck bumped its way onto the street and took a sharp turn, leading them away from the direction they'd come down, Coach probably planning on trying to get some distance from the horde rather than lead them straight back to their base. 

As they straightened out, Ellis scrambled up to his feet and over to the cab, positioning himself down over it with his pistol, arms braced on the roof and boots planted wide apart for balance, immediately starting to fire at the zombies in their path. Behind them, Nick saw the bloated form of the Boomer burst out from the office front door. He saw the zombies flooding around the corner, noticed they seemed to split, some of them racing straight after their truck, others heading for the office, lured by the bile. Raising his submachine gun, he made a quick decision and took aim, every second pulling them further away from his target-- but it was a big one, and he had good aim. They all knew he and Ellis were the best shots-- it was why nobody had questioned Ellis jumping in the back, and why Nick knew he belonged back there with him.

He depressed the trigger.

There was barely a sharp ratatat! before there was a heavy boom, and to Nick's intense disgust he witnessed in full daylight the explosion of blood and bile, spraying higher than the office roof, stark against the blue sky, and even from there he could hear the wet sound of it raining down on the pavement below.

"Ho-lee... nice one, Nick!" Ellis exclaimed in awe, swiveling back just to catch the tail end of the raining flesh before focusing upfront again. Nick could still see many of the zombies diverting towards the remains of the Boomer, but he couldn't tell if it was any more than before, if he'd helped or if that had just been a waste of ammo. Some had been caught in the spray itself, which seemed to slow and confuse them, and he saw one running zombie collide with a soiled one, but then he was losing sight of them, and he didn't get a chance to think on it more.

There were plenty more to shoot. Coach could only put on so much speed, weaving around collisions and knocking into the zombies Ellis couldn't fell in time. Nick concentrated on the ones trying to catch up to the truck bed, taking them down in swathes with volleys of his submachine gun as they neared the sides. 

Ellis was having the time of his life, howling through the screams of the horde and the firing of their guns. Nick really did hear a yeeeee-haw this time, and he didn't know whether he wanted to strangle the kid or admit, just in that moment, that his enthusiasm was maybe a tiny bit contagious. Any time now, they could get clogged up by zombies, wreck, be overwhelmed... but Nick had to admit, it was a little fun. It felt good to finally have a chance to use his gun, its pounding vibrations reverberating through his chest, exhilarating, and the back of a moving truck was definitely the best position they'd been in to deal with a horde. It certainly helped that so much of it had been diverted. They would have been in a lot more trouble, he suspected, if any of them had gotten so much of a splash of bile on them.

As it happened, they didn't wreck. Thanks to Coach's driving and their shooting, they made it past the bulk of the horde, leaving it behind them, and soon there were few enough zombies running after them  that Coach risked navigating back towards the record store, not wanting to get too far and risk attracting more, or perhaps worse, another mutant. There were still some stubbornly trailing them, and perhaps the sound of their truck, when they skrrted to a stop before the place that had been their first safehouse. Ellis wasted no time, launching himself over the side and running for the door. Nick followed, knowing he couldn't carry everything on his own.

"Need help?" Rochelle called from the window, as Ellis nearly collided with the door in his excitement, before pulling it open.

"No we got it guard the truck!" Ellis hollered back, scurrying inside and bounding up the stairs, Nick swift behind him. They began filling their arms with the gathered supplies. Nick soon had all he could carry, and Ellis just managed to balance everything else in his arms, including his stupid fire extinguisher, handle biting into two of his fingers while totebag straps strained at the others. Nick was a step back down the stairs, though, when he realized Ellis was bolting in the opposite direction. 

Guns were firing outside.

"What are you--"

Ellis ripped open the fridge, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
 
"Are you crazy?!" he screamed. 

Balancing the plastic wrapped pan of chocolate parfait atop of his pile of supplies, four chilled spoons nestled readily on top and all, Ellis came tearing back across the floor towards him, laughter on his face, nerves and excitement shining in his eyes. He tripped and Nick's heart jolted, thinking he was going to go fucking tumbling, but he messily recovered before he reached the stairs, barely avoiding crashing into Nick himself before bolting down them like thunder, Nick right after him, cursing him viciously the whole way down.

Bursting back outside, they saw Rochelle stationed halfway through the fully lowered window of her door, sitting perched on it with her legs braced inside and elbows on the roof of the cab, where she held her gun, sights set down the street. Coach stood between the vehicle and the open driver side door with his shotgun, and together they were efficiently taking care of the scattered zombies trying to reach them, though their gunshots seemed to be attracting more. 

Ellis heaved his fire extinguisher and the totes up over the side into the truck bed, Nick tossed in his pile of towels, blankets and other bullshit and went back for the water and Cola by the door. Ellis was just clambering in when he reached the truck, and he reached down to take the bags from him. Nick threw himself over next, and Ellis hollered, "Okay we're in let's go! Next stop gun shop!"

He pulled his pistol out, firing at a zombie Coach had been about to raise his shotgun at, and the big man withdrew into the cab, intoning, "Time to get this man his Cola." 

On the other side, Rochelle grabbed the edge of the roof and lowered herself down with her rifle, slipping neatly back through the window inside.

"Woohooo~!" Ellis cheered as they pulled away from the store, dropping to sit on the bed of the truck, holding onto the side. "Shit, we did it! Holy shit that was so great. Man, yew was so right about that dude being in the john. And when you shot that Boomer, ho-lee hell, that was nuts. I think that's the way to go with them things from now on," he chortled, "take 'em out from like, a block away. Shit, actually, reminds me of this one time, me 'n Keith, we was out in the swamps right, cause--"

"Hey, hey Ellis. Sh, quiet. Listen."

Ellis's eyes went wide, falling silent immediately, though his mouth began to form a confused, 'Wh-', no doubt straining his ears for the sound of a Hunter or something over the truck engine.

"Do you hear that?" Nick asked in a hush. "That's the sound of you not talking. Isn't it beautiful?"

Ellis shut his mouth and huffed, giving him a reproachful look. 

Considering how long it had taken them to find shelter the night before, it was a weird feeling to pull up in front of the gunstore just minutes later. As expected, the truck had attracted some attention along the way, but they became more conservative with their shots so as not to exacerbate the issue, something they could afford to do only so long as they kept moving at enough of a clip to outpace them, lest they accumulate a problematic amount. Ellis had already been briefed on his mission -- get in, deliver the Cola, get the shit they needed and get out, no time for chitchat. The others would stay with the truck. 

As soon as they came to a halt, Ellis was launching himself over the side with the totebag of Cola, racing for the store. They saw him tug unsuccessfully on the door, locked again, then holler up towards the roof.

"Mr. Whitaker sir, yew up there? It's Ellis again! We broughtchu your Coca Cola!"

A few moments of still silence, then there came a click and a buzz. Ellis tried the door again, and this time it swung open. He ran in, and even from the truck, Nick could hear Whitaker's voice exploding through the speaker in gleeful, cackling laughter.

"Oh no you didn't boy!! Git outta here, ho boy, son, you don't know--"

The door drifted slowly shut, cutting off their ability to make out the words. Not two minutes later, during which Nick gunned down two zombies that came to investigate, Ellis came barreling happily out with a bulging tote of ammo and, of course, because he'd been left unchaperoned, two more guns; a long, heavy duty sniper rifle, and none other than Nick's abandoned hunting rifle, rejoining the family, now looking rather small and slender beside the other.

"Happy?" he questioned sardonically, staring critically down at him as he reached the truck. "My god. You have five guns now."

"Yeaah~," Ellis cooed, as he lowered the guns lovingly inside, dropping the tote beside. He then hefted himself up after them, and collapsed to sit inside, a little breathless and face flushed with excitement.

Nick rapped the cabin window, signalling they were ready, and the truck began to move before more zombies could come, leaving the gunstore behind. Nick saw Ellis twist to give it one last fond look, before the truck passed under the walking bridge they'd first took to get there, and it left their sight.

There was a little softness lingering behind his blue eyes as he turned back, but he engaged himself promptly in Nick, brightening to say,

"Anyway, other one's fer yew, Nick, case yer machine gun goes low! We got room for it now. Or if yew want somethin' more precise... jess thought it was a waste not to have two long range rifles, since we got two people what can use'm. But hey, I'll use it if yew don't."

The back window slid open, and Coach called back.

"Boy! You gotta tell me where we're headed!"

Ellis clambered over to the window, nearly sticking his whole head through to direct Coach. The big man might have been a Savannah native, but they were headed for back country, Ellis's turf, and that meant they'd have to trust their navigation to him from then on, which was not a part of the plan Nick found comforting.

Driving through the chaos-littered streets of the fallen city in broad daylight was a wholly different tension than stealing through it at night, on foot. Rather than seeking security in trying to stay undetected, the sound of their truck, maybe the only vehicle running in Savannah, announced their approach boldly to every infected in blocks, and they came running, appearing from alleys and cross streets, though often well after they'd passed. Their security now lay in mobility. It felt good, having those high truckbed walls and huge tires between them and the zombies, but the tightness in Nick's chest was his cynicism warning him that any sense of security was a mistake. He rarely underestimated the capacity of a situation to go to absolute shit, very quickly. A zombie apocalypse just broadened the many ways it could happen. 

Mostly, he was concerned about a roadblock. 

Nick had toyed before with the idea he might be cursed. Sometimes it really just seemed like the universe had to be fucking with him, and like a worthy nemesis, he had to give it its dues. It seemed to take amusement in rewarding his cynicism with a reality that accommodated it, and utterly reveled in the opportunity to dash half a hope, on the rare occurrence Nick made the mistake of indulging in one. Good enough at taking life personally and making enemies without anthropomorphizing luck and fate into one, and not a spiritual person by any means, Nick generally just saw this as proof that he possessed an exceptional intuition for the shittiness of reality.

After his prediction at the mall had come so unerringly true, though, and then the keys and Boomer in the bathroom, Ellis's words about jinxing them were echoing in his head when that same voice suddenly spoke aloud, with a combination of wonder and alarm that immediately planted a knowing dread in Nick's chest.

Maybe he was a curse.

"Ohh~ shit. The hell is that?"

Having been keeping watch on their sides and behind them while Ellis covered the front, Nick didn't have a chance to immediately see what that was, as Coach apparently saw it too, and thought it necessitated immediately halting the truck. It was just short of a slam on the brakes, but Nick still lurched hard, gripping the side tightly. Heart pounding, he swiftly scrambled up over to Ellis, ignoring the zombies catching up for a moment, to see what was impeding their progress.

It wasn't a pile of cars blocking their way, nor a fallen lamp post. He'd intuited from Ellis's voice that it was something more sinister than that, and he was right. Up ahead, over a block away, a large, fleshy shape was wandering into the street, obviously an infected but proportions so warped it took a second for Nick to figure out what he was even seeing, at that distance. 

For a moment, he had the hope that they'd found a zombie so mutated it was useless, for he just saw a protrusion of thick, angrily swollen flesh that made no sense. He squinted in disgust, and then figured it out-- it was an arm. One huge, impossibly thick arm, its distended biceps nearly the same breadth as its chest, so long and heavy it dragged along the ground, pulling its center of balance off kelter into a stoop. What was more, where its other arm should have been, he saw the tattered remains of a sleeve dangling off one bared shoulder, and nothing protruding out the other end, like it had atrophied and fallen off, or was as misformed and shrunken as the other arm was huge. 

It had almost appeared at first to not have a head, but that was because its back and shoulder were so swollen, as if to support its gargantuan arm, that they'd formed a hunchback, and the creature's skeletally gaunt head was sunk low into it, visible only from the front, a neck nowhere in sight.

It was a horrible sight, but also, to Nick, frankly a little ridiculous. He half expected the thing to fall over at any moment, and imagined pity-killing the thing in passing.

"Ho-lee shit... why's its arm so damn big?" Ellis asked, gaping, as if Nick somehow might know the answer.

"Too much internet access," Nick quipped dryly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ellis scrunched his nose and eyes in dismay at the inference, muttering, "Aw, gross."

Then the thing looked up, saw them, and gave a tremendous bellow that reverberated down the block, and Nick's blood ran cold. 

And then it charged.

Any amusement, any mocking thoughts, vanished in an instant. Ellis was screaming, slapping urgently at the cabin roof, "Back up back up back up!" and Nick dove down for his old hunting rifle as the truck jolted into reverse. He could feel the heavy stampeding, gaining on them, and a zombie was knocked spinning by the corner of their truckbed as Coach gunned the gas, reversing at a reckless full speed. He had grabbed his rifle to shoot the charging thing, but there was no time to get back to Ellis, seeing them backing up straight  towards the zombies that had been chasing them before, and he was forced to start firing on them to clear a path for Coach, and prevent them from reaching the truck bed. He had to trust Ellis to handle the mutant, heard his pistol already firing off, though his cursing indicated to him that he was missing most of his shots-- or, much more likely, that the bullets weren't having the impact he wanted them to. 

And they were coming up on a corner. 

Please, Coach -- don't crash.

He didn't slow. Nick had to believe he saw it coming, that he had no choice, with the beast nearly on them, but realized at the last moment that Ellis, all his attention trained on firing at what chased them, had no idea.

"Ellis, hang on!" he yelled, and saw Ellis just barely grapple at the roof of the cabin as the truck screeched into a gravity warping turn. He thought the Southerner might go tumbling over the side of the truck anyway, could imagine it so vividly that he didn't resist the momentum of the turn throwing him across the truckbed in his direction, seizing onto the bustle of his coveralls and one of his legs and anchoring him there against the cab.

It worked, and Nick was so stressed he barely had time to hate how awkward it both felt and must have looked. They whipped around the corner, hanging on for dear life, and Nick could see nothing from the bed of the truck, but he could hear the beast thunder by, like it had just narrowly avoided them, and crash into something with a sound like a car wreck.

The truck came to another halt, and they both tumbled-- Ellis, of course, directly on top of him, in a tangle, practically in his lap.

"Get off, hick!" Nick snarled reactively, though it was hardly his fault.

"Sorry sorry," Ellis panted, as he squirmed and rolled off, and, "thanks," as he scrambled past him, reaching to grab hold of his sniper rifle and stumbling to his feet with it, turning to look for the mutant, to see if it had survived whatever it had run into. From the sound, it might have taken itself out, and Nick imagined it splattered like a bug on a windshield.

No such luck.

The mutant was alive, groaning in that unpleasantly low, almost cattle-like voice as it stumbled away from the car it had left a considerable dent in. It was clearly stunned, at least, but recovering-- and the common infected were still coming too. 

"Kill the charger!" Nick yelled, and began firing off shots into the zombies threatening to converge on their truck. He glimpsed Ellis mounting that huge sniper rifle over the roof of the cab, blue eyes locked with stern focus down the scope. His first shot cracked out, earning an angered foghorn-like sound, but he didn't have time to look and see if it was barreling up towards them, firing off shots from his rifle as fast as he could reload them. 

Something nagged at the corner of his eye, and he only took the moment to glance up because the closest zombie had a few seconds before it would reach the truck. He was looking for danger on the ground, nowhere else, and could have so easily missed the figure standing eerily on the roof of a several story building nearby, a dark, looming silhouette against the bright sky. 

Even from there, though, he could see where the brightness dimmed a little, a slight haze of smoke wreathed about the creature, as if drifting from it, seeping from its very clothes. He also saw something long and thick dangling grotesquely from its mouth.

He didn't wait to see if that tongue could reach them from up there. He had a wild fear that it could. He swung his rifle up, squinting through its scope, taking precious moments to train his sight, as he heard the other zombie hit the truck and start to scramble up. Through the scope, he saw the Smoker's tongue suddenly whipping back inside, and thought of a fisherman reeling in his line for another cast.

He stilled his breath, and fired.  

He barely glimpsed the figure stagger before the smoke cloud seemed to burst from its perforated head, obscuring all sight of it and hanging high in the air. Nick couldn't take the time to gloat, charging up to his feet towards the back of the truck to kick viciously at the zombie scaling it. It knocked its head back, but refused to let go with its dirty, clawing hands, till Nick swept his submachine gun back up and ruined its face and skull in a spray of bullets.

It had all only been a matter of seconds, time meaningless in the chaos. He heard Ellis yelling, Go go go it ain't goin' down! and the truck moved forward again, pulling away from the zombies streaming at them from behind, too many for Nick to spray down. He grabbed on tight to the back hatch, and looked over his shoulder as they careened into the turn again, this time in the right direction. The mutant was still staggering drunkenly near the crunched car, seeming confused almost, holding up its heavy arm as if to shield itself from Ellis's bullets, an uncomfortably human looking gesture. Nick saw holes all over its body, but many were implanted in the arm, which seemed to absorb them like a log. Blood ran down its gaunt, skull-like face, though, and over one sunken, angry eye, where Ellis had managed to graze its temple.

As the truck roared past, though, it roared back, and came after them. It was fast, but unsteady, careening into vehicles on either side of the narrow street and bouncing off them like a bumper car, fracturing windows and knocking off side mirrors. The moment it staggered into one particular car, and its alarm immediately began to scream in complaint, piercing the air, Nick wondered that he hadn't seen it coming. He could just hear the distant screeches, echoing off the buildings around them, and knew a horde was on its way. 

Nick saw the mutant slow, though, and thought that perhaps it might succumb to its wounds after all, or that maybe the car alarm had disoriented it so much they'd have a chance to get away... but instead, it seemed to finally orient itself, and charged straight for them.

Nick had only glimpsed its bull-like rush for a moment the first time before he'd gone for his rifle. This time, he bore full witness, and could only watch, transfixed in horror, at its speed and power. The thought of what that thing might do to a person, if it caught it in such a charge, was absolutely revolting. What it might do to their truck was definitely not nothing, and as it was somehow, horrifyingly, gaining on them, Nick was bracing himself for a nasty wreck.

Luckily, Ellis didn't freeze. He had been aiming with quiet focus, not firing when it zig-zagged, but saving his moment for that terrifying charge, lining up his shot directly with that sunken head.

The crack rang out, and the bullet hit home. The mutant's charge sent it crashing violently into the street, tumbling over and then laying very still, a broken mound of flesh.

Nick's tight lungs gave way into a weak laugh of shock and relief, and Ellis howled in triumph. 

"Holy shit, Nick!" he crowed, voice nearly squeaking, and a hand leapt thoughtlessly out for him, clutching the shoulder of his white jacket in an excited squeeze. "Holy shit d'ju see that?!"

"No, I missed it," Nick drawled flatly, squirming his shoulder with  small grunt of complaint to shrug off Ellis's grip, but not so aggressively as he normally might have, his characteristic prickliness momentarily tempered by sheer relief, if not his sarcasm. 

"Do it again."

They left the alarmed car behind them soon enough that they again avoided the bulk of the horde that it attracted. Some zombies they passed at first even paid their truck no mind, but streamed past in the direction of the sound instead. The sky broadened down the road ahead as they soon emerged from the close packed buildings onto a riverfront, at which Coach turned them left, and Nick couldn't help but be drawn to watch the view of the massive river go by, settling by that side of the truck. Ellis wasn't firing just then, anyway, indicating no zombies were in danger of catching up to them imminently, though he could hear their frustrated growls as they gave chase, falling behind.

That, or Ellis was distracted too.

"That's Hutchinson Island over there," came that confident, soft Southern drawl from near his shoulder. "We're gonna be passin' through to git outta Savannah. Sure a shame I couldn't show yew 'round more, Nick. Yew 'n Ro. But South Carolina's real perty too. An' might be less zombies."

He didn't sound disappointed about less zombies, exactly, but suspiciously ambivalent. Maybe a little disappointed. But Nick was more distracted by the revelation that they were apparently soon to be crossing state lines, quirking his eyebrow at Ellis in muted surprise.

"We're leaving Georgia?"

"Yeaah," Ellis sighed tonefully. "Fastest way to git away from big populations quick, off the highways 'n shit. Gotta bad feelin' about them highways, I dunno."

"Don't ever say you have a bad feeling about anything again, hick. Christ, coming from you that's like... the herald of a second apocalypse."

Ellis chortled, appreciating his sharp wit far too much, even when it was at his expense, and spoken like a threat.

"Naw man," he denied confidently, amusement still warming his voice. "Can't have 'nuther apocalypse while we're still in one."

"Don't jinx it. Could always go nuclear. Bomb the whole continent."

"Damn~, Nick... anyway, don't gotta worry 'bout them highways. That's why we stayin' clear of'm. Well, except fer this lil teeny bit up here. But I'm sure it'll be fine."

"God--"

"Aw shit, no, my bad. Can't help it, man, I'm an optimist."

"Except about the highways."

"It'll be alright. Jess feel better once we're out in the country. Only so many folk out there, so many zombies. Might find most the folk still livin' be out middl'a nowheres, don'cha think?"

Nick sighed, afraid he might be right.

"Well, at least the new population of Earth will have a headstart on the inbreeding," he reasoned sardonically. "Got any cute cousins out there you don't have dibs on yet, hick?"

"Aw now that is not nice, Nick," Ellis reproached, giving him a chiding frown, and Nick was slightly taken aback, bemusedly deducing he must halfway mean it, if only because he'd taken an extra syllable to tell him so, rather than his customary 'ain't'.

"Sorry El. Didn't mean to make you jealous."

"Shut it! I ain't! Look out, there's a zombie."

"It's not anywhere near us. You're deflecting. Oh. That one kind of is, though."

Its hand was swiping at the rear bumper. Ellis frowned at it, a bit more petulance in his blue eyes than the zombies normally provoked, and pointed his pistol arm straight at it.

"Hands off."

The bullet took it clean through the skull. 

Even if the Southerner did look kind of pouting, something about seeing him headshot a zombie with a frown meant for Nick made him decide to ease up on him for the minute, though he appreciated the image. 

Their scenery was changing, anyway, the charming old buildings of downtown giving way to more modern construction, more lanes, split by grass and tree lined dividers and broader open space as they neared the city limits. The cobbled brick streets were replaced by smooth asphalt. 

Nick and Ellis kept a closer eye out, clearing a few zombies that threatened to impede their route up ahead, which soon was curving gradually, lanes merging into one, ascending towards a bridge. Dividers rose on either side and the ground disappeared past them. As the curve evened out, they could see the pale twin peaks of the bridge before them, which seemed by the angle to simply disappear into the blue sky up ahead. 

The last of the tree tops disappeared from either side, their lane merging with a few more, and then they were driving forward into the sky, wind whipping at them.

END OF LEVEL lll - DOWNTOWN

THE SURVIVORS HAVE ESCAPED SAVANNAH

- EPILOGUE -

They were lucky, again. The bridge seemed reasonably clear, at least so far-- the thing was massive, stretching further than he could make out, for they hadn't even reached the island it crossed over, nothing off the divider to their side but the blue expanse of the Savannah River. Nick had imagined getting a view up ahead just to see their way blocked by a pile up, but there were only a few unmoving cars, a few scattered corpses and hardly any zombies. Just as he was observing this, the truck began to slow, and came to a stop.

The doors popped open, and Rochelle and Coach climbed out. 

"Aaaw hell yeah!" Coach boomed, like he'd been holding it back since the car chase. "We made it, y'all! That shit was crazy!"

"Fer real, ho man that was so cool! That was some real fine handlin', Coach, yew done me proud. Damn ride, holy hell."

"Was some good shootin', son," Coach returned the compliment with a nod of approval, glancing over at Nick. "The both of you."

"That thing was built like a rock, man," said Ellis, as he and Nick climbed down to stretch. "Kept takin' all my shots in that damn arm. Musta been one them bigass zombies yew was talking about, right Ro? Dude it was fast. Sure glad we had the truck, but I was scared that thing was gonna total it, goin' full speed like that."

"I didn't know they could run like that..." Rochelle reflected, seeming deep in uneasy thought. "It was like a bull, or a boar, the way it just.. charged at us. That was so scary. I'm just glad it wasn't bigger."

"Bigger? Man that thing was huge!!! Whatchu want, tank sized zombies?"

"Wonder if the meatcakes are all like that, or we just got a gimpy one," said Nick dryly.

"One arm or two, I would not want to get tackled by that thing," intoned Coach grimly.

There was a couple seconds of uncomfortable quiet... then Nick slowly, smugly smirked.

"... anyone see me take out that Smoker?"

Ellis gaped.

"Yew did not! When! Really? Naw yer messin'!"

"Am not," returned Nick coolly. "It was up on a roof, watching us like a creep. You were busy with the Charger. I didn't know if that fucking.. tongue," he finally grudgingly admitted, "could reach us, but sure looked like it was gonna try."

"Well hot damn. Knew that rifle was a good idea. Guess yew finally got even at 'em fer messin up yer suit."

"We will never be even," intoned Nick darkly, hardened eyes boring into the middle distance. If had been talking about avenging his lover, or something equally poignant, he might have struck quite the impression.

"Well, we thought you boys might want to ride inside for a bit, since it's quiet out there," offered Rochelle.

"Wow, you mean we get to ride inside the truck?" Nick sarcastically feigned surprise. "With a seat and everything?"

"Oh shit, that's right!" Ellis suddenly exclaimed, brimming with excitement, and reached over the side of the truck, on his toes to manage. "I got the puddin'! I think it's okay. Shit, yea, looks okay! Down a spoon though... oh there it is."

He pawed a utensil off the bed of the truck and reemerged, triumphant.

"That's okay, I'll use that one," he assured them.

"Gross, hick, it probably has zombie blood on it. Immune or not, don't risk fucking eating them."

Blue eyes lifted to him much too solemnly.

"Too late fer that, Nick," he gravely informed him. "Already done got some zombie in my mouth earlier, on accident."

-- he had to clarify. 

Nick was just staring, aghast.

"Tasted real bad. So yeah, man... 'mmune as fuck."

His eyes were still a little distant at the traumatizing recollection, but he shrugged his mouth and one bare shoulder with his consensus, in a matter of fact sort of way. Rochelle and Coach were looking at him with expressions that said they'd just been lightly traumatized by association, and Nick was feeling the same way.

"Ellis... get in the truck."

COMING MAY 1st

LEVEL lV - THE BACKROADS

Chapter Text

LEVEL lV - THE BACKROADS - l/V

If the back of the truck had been an improvement after hours of trekking around zombie-infested Savannah on foot, finally climbing into the sleekly upholstered, air-conditioned interior of the cab was a sweet relief. It was getting close to noon, and it would be several hours before the day hit its peak temperature, but after sitting out under the direct sun in the metal truckbed, Nick was feeling uncomfortably warm, used to a climate where it would already have been cool this late in the year. He could only imagine if all this had been happening during a sweltering Southern summer-- he'd have been miserable. 

Not that he wasn't. Even Nick could only gripe so much, though, as he and Ellis settled in the cool, shaded backseat of the truck, and Coach shifted it out of park and got them moving again. Out his tinted window, past the white, angled bars of the bridge whipping past, the sprawling Savannah river below them stretched off into the east. Even from here, he couldn't see a single other moving car, or ship, in sight. It was eerie. Columns of smoke rose here and there, though, and he wondered which was the Vannah Hotel. Ahead, Hutchinson Island split the river, the great bridge stretching right over it. They navigated around a couple still cars and corpses, past the odd zombie, but the bridge was mercifully clear. 

They'd been lucky -- again. It was slightly stunning to dwell, even for a moment, on how many had been less so. Sure, there were those who had reached the evacuation point, presumably better off. Where were they, though? Packed into refugee camps, set up in warehouses and military compounds? How well protected were they? Did they have any more information on the virus than they'd had, or had disclosed, when the networks and communication went down? What means could they possibly be using to try and contain something this contagious and unpredictable?

He was stuck inside the cab of a truck with three other people, and should have felt claustrophobic, was sure he would soon, but as he gave it some serious reflection, he wondered if he didn't actually feel better about his present circumstances than the idea of trusting his safety to the military. Somehow that idea made him feel more trapped, more unsafe, than being out there in the wide world, suddenly seemingly bleakly empty of anything but the dead, and three other human beings he now relied on. 

Who relied on him. 

Maybe that was a stretch. They all needed each other, anyway, and as difficult as that was for Nick to accept, the apocalypse didn't really leave him any option. Besides old Whitaker, who despite his generosity and friendliness hadn't exactly extended an offer for any of them to come bunk with him, he hadn't seen another living soul -- technically, they hadn't seen Whitaker either -- since the disaster at the hotel, when just as he'd arrived the infected had overrun the CEDA agents, and the crowds of evacuees trying to enter the building had dissolved into a chaotic massacre, the panicked screams of the living mingling with the feral screeches of the infected.

So, yeah. Everything was pretty terrible. But it was going much worse for almost everybody else.

Inside the lone truck traveling out of Savannah across the massive bridge, the atmosphere was in fact downright festive. Ellis had peeled the sticky plastic wrap back from his and Rochelle's confection, which was just pieces of cake donut and chocolate instant pudding set overnight in a glass pan. It looked absolutely ghastly after sliding around the back of the pickup truck, if still intact and still cold judging by the condensation dripping generously off it. He didn't expect it had looked much better to begin with, to be fair. The other occupants of the truck didn't care, taking turns passing it around, and neither did Nick, since he wanted no part of it.

Ellis did beg, though. Nick was mercilessly determined to disappoint him, but let him try a little anyway.

"C'mon, please~? Yew only gotta try it. Swear it ain't half so bad as it looks."

"My body is a temple, hick. I'm very particular about what goes into it."

"Aww, bullshit. Yew smoke, Nick, 'n that's real bad fer yew."

"You're worse for my health than cigarettes. My lungs are fine, it's my blood pressure that'll kill me."

"Well I ain't sayin' yew couldn't maybe benefit from a little more zen in yer life, Mr Mean Eyes. Chocolate's good fer that tho, yanno. Stress n' stuff. And shit, Nick, I chilled em spoons an' everythin', jess like they do at nice places, 'cause I know yew're inta that fancy shit. Ain't gonna get much more fine dinin' than that out here, man. I'm tryin' my darnedest."

Shit.

He'd let him try too hard. He really couldn't turn him down, now. He shot the hick a dryly scathing, suffering look. Ellis's eyes stayed stubbornly fixed large in a solemn frown of appeal.

"Well, I guess if you chilled the spoons," he surrendered in a drawl, flat with sarcasm. He was sure they wouldn't be cold anymore anyway, and sure enough the last untouched spoon was only slightly cool, probably from sitting on the refrigerated pudding through the plastic wrap more than any chill directly retained, but Ellis's face broke into a grin of triumph, and it was at once both slightly annoying and satisfying that he cared so much whether Nick tried his stupid cabinet pudding. Cabinet and CEDA trailer pudding. Mmm.

Nick delicately shoveled a small scoop of pudding out of a yet untouched corner, not taking the dish from Ellis's hands, and ignored the hick watching him as he neatly disappeared it into his mouth.

Lo. It tasted... 

exactly like he'd expected. 

Cold still, at least, just basic chocolate pudding, with a hint of almond and vanilla, the extra flavor probably from a splash of that creamer that had been in the fridge. 

"There, ya happy?" he asked the kid once he'd swallowed. "Jeez. What's next, you got any macaroni art for me? Want me to count how long you can hold your breath?"

Ellis did look a little embarrassed, but was still evidently happy he'd even relented to trying it, whatever the reception.

"Ain't bad, right?" he pushed anyway, withdrawing the pan again, scooping a significantly larger bite for himself.

"Well it ain't tiramisu," Nick mocked, and Ellis was starting to pass the dish back up to Coach and Rochelle, "but-- hang on--"

Expression flat, he reached over and obtained just one more spoonful, before allowing Ellis to proceed with a curt wave of his fingers. 

"It's not that bad," he finished disaffectedly.

No, it wasn't great. It tasted cheap and artificial. But he had kind of wanted a second bite, as soon as he'd seen it being taken away, and Nick wasn't in the habit of denying himself anything he wanted, no matter how trashy it might be.

"Puddin' ain' th'only thing," stated Ellis proudly, earning a suspicious stare from Nick, though his mouth was by then too occupied with pudding to jibe. "I got another surprise."

The Southerner had nabbed a tote from the back before climbing in the cab, and was now producing it from between his boots. As he set it in his lap, there came the sound of hard plastic lightly clattering together.

"I brought music, y'all," he stated proudly, with a grin.

"Aw, hell yeah!" boomed Coach appreciatively. Rochelle seemed to groan and laugh at the same time. Nick just groaned.

"Nevermind," he cried flatly, turning to his door and flattening one hand firmly to it, fingertips tight, as if in an urge to claw his way out of his confines. "Let me out, I'm taking my chances in Savannah."

"Naw naw I got good stuff, don't worry! Gotta be somethin' fer everyone in here... though, I got no clue whatchu like, Nick. I got some British stuff here fer Ro, and all kindsa stuff fer Coach, but--"

"What?" Nick interrupted shortly, with an annoyed frown. "When did I miss everyone talking about music?"

"Oh, well... Coach an' I found out we're both big classic rock fans when we was checkin' out downstairs, 'cause this sweet Midnight Riders shirt I found. An' Ro, well, turns out she hates classic rock. Which I thought was real funny cause she was rockin' that cool Nazareth t-shirt an' she never even heard of 'em."

Neither had Nick.

"Still say shoulda kept that, Ro," he told her solemnly, and her full lips tightened with warm amusement. 

"Did you even keep your old shirt?" Nick couldn't help but almost growl, like an accusation. He would have been pretty offended if Ellis had thrown it away anyway after he'd gone to the trouble of washing it. The Southerner's jaw fell open in astonishment, though, as if balking at the thought.

"'Course I did!" he protested, lifting his hips off the seat a second to dig a hand into one deep pocket of his overalls, and pulling out the wad that was his pale yellow shirt, already wrinkled but still clean. "These shirts are one of a kind, we ain't made more of'm yet! We're gonna sell 'em at some point, though, me 'n Keith. It's our design, fer our band-- did I mention tuh y'all I'm in a band?"

"Mmhm," hummed Rochelle.

Had he? Maybe he needed to pay more attention to Ellis's stories. Not that he cared. The hick didn't need any more tools for noise-making at his disposal than his incessant mouth.

"Oh yeah, okay. Yeah me 'n Keith, 'n some buds -- we gotta get together more, but we sound real dope when we do, man, 'specially when we really get a chance to practice fer a bit! Anyway, Bullshifters is th'name of our group, obviously. Keith 'n I came up with the logo an' his brother Paul drew it all cool 'n shit like this, but we only got a handful made. So I ain't gettin' rid of this shirt fer nuthin'."

"Someone really let you near an instrument, hick?" Nick dryly questioned. 

"Yeah-huh! I play bass guitar, man."

"Sho like to hear that someday," chuckled Coach, sounding sincere. 

"Yeah, jeez, Ellis," Rochelle teased, turning to twinkle her eyes at him from the passenger seat. "Sweetie like you, and you play an instrument? In a band, no less? You must be real popular with the girls."

"Awwhawhaw, naww, I dunno," Ellis chortled bashfully, looking embarassed. "I ain't real good with girls. I mean, girls that is jess chill, like yew, Ro, yer cool. But when they start flirtin' an' makin' eyes and stuff, jeez, I dunno. Ain't like I can't tell, but I jess got no clue what to do, makes me feel all awkward as anything. I jess act real dumb, pretend I don't notice nothin'."

"Real tough act," Nick dryly quipped. 

"Oh, honey," teased Rochelle sympathetically, ignoring Nick. "That probably just makes them like you more, you know."

"Hawhaw, aw naw. Well," Ellis looked sheepish, scratching the back of his head with a guilty smile. "I don't really talk to 'em all that often. Usually Keith or Paul do more of handlin' the customers, 'specially if it's a perty girl. I'm usually hangin' out under a car. An' when I ain't workin' Keith 'n me are usually hangin' out anyways. Keith's real good with people, man. Good with girls, good with everyone. He'll talk yer ear off too, but man, like he's so funny an' good at story tellin' s'like yew don't even mind. Actually, this one time--"

"Too bad he's not here instead, then," Nick interrupted pointedly.

"Aw, yeah man it'd be great if Keith were -- oh, aw, yew meant insteada me. Well, yew prolly would like 'im better, hard not t'like Keith."

"Uh-huh. Think he'd like me?"

It was a beat, just a beat-- but he heard it, the hesitation, before his blusteringly confident assurance.

"F'course! Yeah man, I can't wait to introduce him to y'all. An' my mawmuh. Fair warnin', she prolly gonna be givin' y'all buncha hugs 'n kisses fer havin' my back all this time, 'n stuff, she's real sweet like that."

"I can't wait to meet her," Rochelle purred warmly, and Nick was impressed by her tone, not giving any doubt away, though they all had to be harboring it. Even Ellis, he had to think, no matter the boy's endless buoyancy and optimism. 

"Alright, get it over with," he sighed, grumbling, "show us what music you brought. I need to know how long it'll take before I have to kill myself, so I can space out my last few cigarettes accordingly."

"You're so dramatic," Rochelle accused, as Ellis scooted forward eagerly, propping the bag on the armrest between the front seats so Rochelle and Nick could both access it.

"Mhm. I want to hear you after an hour of Greatest Classic Rock Hits of the 80s, doll. Get back to me."

Rochelle let out a fussy little groan, twisting in her seat and reaching back to start pawing delicately through the... cassettes. They were all cassettes. They were lucky a truck this new even had a tape player. 

"Naw, it ain't all classic rock!" Ellis protested. "I got all kindsa stuff in there."

"Iron Maiden," Rochelle began dryly.

"Nope," Nick curtly shot down, as he inspected the first cassette he'd picked up. "The Charlie Daniels Band..."

"Oh! Yeah no they're really good, we should--"

"Is this country? This looks like country."

"Well~--"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh c'mon~, Nick... yer in Georgia. Fer another few seconds or so, at least..."

The river was so wide, they had been driving over the island and the strip of water on its opposite side, and the bridge was only just finally descending back into highway, nearing the shores of South Carolina. They had indeed left the city behind them as quickly as one could ask for. Ahead, wild ochre fields clogged with scrubby brush and patches of water extended nearly to the horizon, where a dark, rugged line separated land from open sky, marking the edge of woodlands. 

"Good luck, Georgia," Nick heard Ellis mumble softly, then, outloud and more brightly, "Welcome to South Carolina~, folks."

"Woww," Nick commented flatly, unimpressed. 

There was nothing to see but scrubland, billboards and the two lane highway stretching before them-- and of course the obligatory Welcome to South Carolina sign they soon passed, on their right. Ellis had covered that already.

"Aw this ain't the perty part, jess wait."

"You got an idea of where we're headed, right boy?"

"Oh yeah, no worries Coach. I got us a few different spots in mind, jess in case one don't work out. Some real nice spots up north inland further, but I do kinda wanna get us off em big roads soon as we can, 'fore we run into trouble. I'll letcha know where to turn."

"A'right. Just pay attention, don't forget."

Nick appreciated Coach's warning. Ellis did seem to be paying more attention to their choice of music than the road, as was Rochelle. 

"Beastie Boys...? Oh honey..."

"Love the Beastie Boys," Ellis muttered loyally under his breath, a sullen puff to his cheeks. 

"Oh. Johnny Cash?"

"Now listen," Ellis's chest swelled as if taking the breath to defensively retort, a slight frown appearing on his brow, but Rochelle hurried to cut him off.

"No no! Johnny Cash is... fine."

Ellis still looked only somewhat settled, feathers clearly ruffled, till Nick echoed, tone flat and disaffected, but more firmly than Rochelle, 

"Cash is fine."

Coach nodded solemnly.

"Seems like might be a good time fo the man in black, right now."

Ellis was still gaping at Nick, but Coach's approval sealed the deal and broke the spell, and he excitedly bounced in his seat, tapping at Rochelle's wrist like he might tear the cassette from her hand, crawl up front and shove it in the player himself, if she didn't hurry. She laughed, facing forward and popping open the container.

"Ho shit, we found somethin' we all like!! Girl, an' I thoughta yew when I grabbed that one, 'cause he's got that Depeche Mawd cover on it! That's the only one of them's songs I know."

"Oh shit, no way!" Rochelle exclaimed, flipping the tape to examine it. "I didn't even know. Okay, that settles it."

She reached forward, inserting it into the player. She and Coach had already tried the radio, before they'd even left the city, to no avail, but at least now they had a means of trying.

"Johnny Cash, the great unifier," she joked warmly, adjusting the volume.

... and I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder,

one of the four beasts saying,

come and see, and I saw,

and behold... a white horse.

Like on the bridge, there were a few scattered signs of the infection on the highway. Some vehicles had veered off the road, as if one of their occupants had succumbed to the virus mid-trip. Nick tried not to imagine. Some had crashed badly, and burnt to a crisp, blackened chassis still smoking. And of course, besides the odd wandering infected, the highway was deserted of any other movement. Rochelle was right -- it did something strange to his brain, not having seen another living being in so long, to see empty places that should have been busy with them. It really did make it feel like they were the only ones left in the world.

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers...

one million angels singing...

And they were headed to the edges of that world, the edges of its civilization anyway, to escape the overwhelming number of infected in the cities. The middle of nowhere. It was insane, no less insane than anything else, but all the same. 

As if mirroring his thoughts, reversal of perspective and all, Ellis was excitedly saying,

"Man, I can't wait till we get ourselves set up. I wonder what kinda place we'll find. We could make it so nice, build all kindsa traps 'n defenses 'n shit, 'n case any zombies find us out there."

"When you said nice, at first I thought you meant like... cozy," Rochelle laughed weakly.

"Aww, well that too. Gotta make it cozy. Jess gotta be safe first. But then yea we could perty it up, should set up a garden anyway, fer growin' food 'n shit..."

"Jesus, hick, hang on--" Nick cut in swiftly, with some agitation. "How fucking long do you expect us to camp out in the middle of buttfuck nowhere? We're not living out here."

Ellis shrugged innocently.

"I dunno, man, I'm jess goin' a step at a time. Jess thinkin' ahead, y'know."

"Hopefully we'll get some kind of news before we have to start thinking about... that long term," put in Rochelle. "But it's not a bad idea to think about, sweetie. I'm just not quite ready to commit to that country life just yet."

Ellis smiled understandingly.

"I get it, Ro. Yew ain't a country girl."

"I'm really not," she whined, though with a apologetic smile that narrowed her twinkling eyes.

"Careful, Coach," Nick muttered, eyeing a shape wandering the road up ahead.

"I see it," Coach intoned quietly.

The infected began running towards them as they neared, and Coach put on a little speed. At the last moment, he carefully swerved around it. The zombie lunged, and its fingertips just grazed the vehicle, but then it was left alone on the road behind them, staggering and off balance.

Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still...

whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still...

whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still.

"... Sure hope we find some folks still living, up here," Ellis reflected softly. "Can't be as bad as it seems. Gotta be lots jess hidin', s'all."

"I know I'd sure be hiding, if I was all alone," Rochelle admitted, sober at the thought.

"I might have tried fo' the mall," Coach reflected gravely, without regret. "Died tryin', I'm sho'."

"Might be none of us woulda made it outta Savannah, on our lonesome," Ellis agreed. "Sure am glad I met y'all. We gonna be alright. Coach, you wanna take that turn up there?"

... and I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts,

and I looked and behold, a pale horse,

and his name that sat on him was Death

and Hell followed with him

The woodlands had crept closer on their right as they travelled, autumn-hued trees and scrubby evergreens breaking up their line of sight. Coach took the exit Ellis indicated and their route soon turned into a winding one, lined by thin trees and dense brush. Sometimes the trees broke for bright fields, shadows of the thin canopy giving way to sunshine, glinting streams and ponds, before closing in on them again, though not so densely the light didn't have plenty of space to filter in.  

They had flipped the tape, but not finished the other side, when the trees began to give way more often to open, grassy areas, and small houses and trailers began to crop up. Ellis had mentioned they'd be driving through a town soon, and they were considering stopping for supplies if it seemed viable. 

Unlike the area of Savannah they'd stayed the night before, where tenants were packed in storied apartment buildings, the small town was sprawling, and each home, though not any of them very spacious themselves, was spaced widely apart. They passed home after home, large lawns, unbordered as often as not, filled with signs of life, plastic playsets, toys, bikes, birdbaths, flags... but no people, though it was past noon on a Saturday.

"Think there might be folks left 'round here?" Ellis wondered hopefully, staring out his window as they passed, searching for signs of life. Nick was squinting ahead through the windshield, though, noticing the plumes of smoke just coming into sight, rising into the sky.

"... Wouldn't get your hopes up, kid," he said grimly, drawing his attention ahead. 

It wasn't a minute later before the first infected came stumbling across a yard towards them, her feet bare. She didn't make it even close before they passed by her. They could see her for a little ways in the rear-view mirrors, stumbling after them doggedly, but with little haste, as if understanding they were too fast for her to catch up to. Maybe they'd passed so quickly, she hadn't been able to get much of a scent. It was hard to tell all of what did and didn't attract the infected, and how all their senses worked-- how they could sometimes pass recklessly near them without notice, quiet and quick, but the reek of a Boomer's puke seemed to draw them from blocks away, even through multiple shut doors. Somewhere, someplace, the surviving scientists were simultaneously nerding out and pissing themselves, he was sure.

They attracted a few more, but left them all behind. Nobody said a word as they neared the middle of town, where the residential neighborhood gave way to more pavement, larger buildings. They lowered the volume on the music, though the cover of Danny Boy playing was already rather low, its grieving tone uncomfortably appropriate. 

The lanes were broad, with plenty of space to maneuver, plenty of line of sight. Still, they slowed with caution as they neared the town's downtown area, raptly taking in the signs of chaos they passed. There were the ubiquitous wrecked vehicles, some still burning. Nick saw the outline of a charred skull and shoulders in one, wreathed in fire, and only wished he was able to look away, instead staring, transfixed, till they passed it by. Another cursed image burned into his mind.

A downed electrical line. Smashed storefronts, bloody windows. Corpses, everywhere, a few ashen with the hue of infected, most not.

Most of the infected were still moving around, they found. The closer to the heart of town they got, the more there were, and the messier things looked. They passed several stores that looked worth investigating, not to mention a large grocery liquidators, but nothing was going to be looted without a serious fight, and Ellis, unexpectedly practical, pointed out that supplies would do them no good if they didn't find somewhere safe to spend the night, and they had to prioritize that, as there was no telling how long scavenging might take. They'd have to refuel anyway, when they stopped, and that would be its own hassle, as they didn't exactly expect the gas station to still be operating.

As none of them wanted to be stuck staying in town overnight, and the amount of zombies coming their way was quickly becoming daunting, this was agreed upon, and Coach accelerated through the small town, soon leaving it behind them.

The road they took out of town seemed a little less well maintained than the one they'd entered it through, its paint faded, with more cracks and potholes. 

"Figger with the gas we got, we got a few hours to find a place, then we gotta either gas up or turn 'round. And unless we jess find some filled gas cans lyin' 'round all convenient like, we prolly gotta git back to town fer that."

"Well, driving all over the middle of nowhere is boring as fuck, but I guess I'll take being bored on my ass to fighting zombies all day."

"These roads are kind of pretty," Rochelle hummed.

The treeline on the left broke, giving way to a rolling field of hills. A rusted old barn sat atop one, left to rot, amid a cluster of windblown trees with thinning leaves. 

"They have their charm," said Nick dryly. "Again, my favorite part? Fewer zombies. So far."

"Yew know what's real weird though?" reflected Ellis, gazing out at the field as they passed it by. "No animals neither. Usually you see all kindsa animals, when you head out to the country. Ain't seen no cows, horses, nuthin'. Man I love horses."

"Animals weren't responding well to people infected with the virus," Rochelle disclosed what she knew. Things had happened very quickly, after the first infection, and those who had been working in the news were some of the best informed on what little information there was.

"I heard of herds of livestock going frantic, stampeding. Tons of pets reported missing, mostly it sounded like they'd just escaped their homes and run away. Some people thought the animals were being infected, too, and that freaked everyone out, but that was never confirmed. I bet they can just smell it. Too bad it upsets them so much -- if it didn't, maybe they could use them to detect it on people before they turned."

"Bet we'd scare animals too, then," Ellis reasoned sadly, "smellin' like zombies like we do. Hope all them animals is takin' good care of themselves, out there."

They had six bottles of water Ellis had scavenged from the soda cooler, and they each opened one to nurse to themselves on the drive, thirsty after the pudding. Even the two bites Nick had stopped at had been enough. That left them with two bottles for later. Besides that, they had a single can of Campbell's tomato soup, one of green beans, one of lentils, one of sweet potato puree, some remaining flour, coffee and spices, and that was it. If it came down to each slurping down a cold can to themselves for dinner that night, Nick wasn't sure which would be the worst, and he wasn't yet hungry enough to think about it.

At least none of them would be starving for a bit. Maybe he'd just go without that night. Though Nick might have eaten less pudding than the others, the winding roads were more than compensating for his appetite.

They hadn't seen a zombie in nearly an hour when they stopped to stretch, combat a building motion sickness, relieve themselves in the woods -- Watch out fer ticks! Ellis had cheerily called, and though Nick had groaned, he supposed it was nice that was the worst they thought likely to bite them in there -- and for Nick to have a cigarette. He hadn't had a smoke since early that morning, and was growing restless and grouchy-- more than usual, that was. 

There were only two left in the box now.

It was lovely out. The first back, Nick had the area to himself for a moment, and appreciated the peaceful respite from voices and music. Their road had deteriorated significantly, and here and there they'd passed more dilapidated structures, vehicles and farm equipment. Old, rusted fences, with gaping holes and dangling barbed wire. Where Coach had parked off to the side, though, there was none of that, just trees with their autumn leaves drifting in the breeze, the road winding out of sight ahead, the birds singing. 

It would be the perfect time for one of their group to not come back, to be dragged off into the woods by the world's most inconvenient Smoker, Nick decided dryly, as he stood just off the road, lighting his cigarette-- off the road being subjective, the distinction between road and the earth beside it blurry in its neglected state, with enough dirt, dead leaves and pine needles accumulated near its sides for scrubby grass to try and grow.  

One by one, though, each of his teammates came back. Ellis chattered away while he finished smoking, the others stretching. Rochelle lamented the loss of her phone, wishing she could take some pictures. Ellis agreed, saying it was 'jess like a road trip', causing Nick to pinch his eyes shut a moment. He noticed Rochelle diplomatically avoided agreeing with that in return.

Soon they were back on the road. Nick was dubious about its deteriorating condition, even before Ellis suggested Coach take a side road off it that looked pretty much like dirt and gravel.

Coach pulled to a stop before answering.

"Boy... how would'ju like to take over drivin' for a while?"

"Oh shit! Yeah, Coach, I been dyin' to get behind her wheel. I was tryin' hard not to ask. Sides, could get a lil bumpy in here."

"That's what I was thinking," Coach reasoned wryly, and they exchanged seats. Ellis seemed way too eager for Nick's taste, as he hopped up behind the wheel and shut the door. 

"You sure you know what you're doing, kid?" Nick asked, leaning on the back of Rochelle's seat to eye him, green eyes hard and distrustful.

"Sure, man! Yew mean drivin', or navigatin'?"

"Both!"

"Well, yew can't ask fer a better driver. Navigatin', I mean--"

they were already pulling briskly off into the trail, trail, he'd dubbed it in his head, because it indeed was less asphalt than gravel, and as much dust as that.

"-- well, I mean we're gonna have to do some roamin' around--"

an abrupt, rough bump made Nick jolt and swear,

"but I reckon we should be able to find somethin' 'round here."

"Did I just black out for a few hours?" Nick wondered outloud. "I'm trying to figure out how I let you people convince me that following Ellis out into the middle of nowhere was a good idea. Were there drugs in the gravy?"

"This wasn't your idea?" Rochelle posited teasingly. "Get as far as away from human life as possible? Sounds like a Nick idea."

"I'm not a hermit, doll. I hate people. I'm actually pretty attached to stuff people provide for me. You know, like food I didn't grow myself? Electricity, running water, dry cleaning."

Switching from counting them on his fingers to inspecting his nails, he slyly muttered, with a twitch of a foxish smirk, "... maybe a few other things."

"Oh, so you just put up with people for what you can get out of them? Well that's nice."

Rochelle sounded unimpressed.

"I'm sorry -- have we met? The name's Nick. Hi."

"Uh-huh. Well, glad we can provide a service for you, Nick."

"Mhm. And in return, you all get the pleasure of my company, and sometimes I stop you all from making really stupid decisions."

The truck bucked, jostling them so hard everybody lifted off their seats slightly.

"Whoops! Sorry guys! That pothole was too big tuh git 'round."

"Like letting the kid drive," Nick continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, expect his voice had tightened into a growl. "I admit I dropped the ball on that one."

To be fair, the road was wretched. To be twice as fair, Ellis had led them down it. Nick would have liked to have pointed out that nobody could be living out here, so that they could get back onto the road with a standard of pothole size Nick would now have been grateful for, but to his dismay, he did see signs that people had, at least at one time, lived in this... neighborhood.

Trails splintered off into the dense brush. He caught the glimpse down one of an abandoned trailer, broken windows caked with dirt, and saw other glimpses of old vehicles left for the forest. He saw what looked like patchy little gardens left to seed, and some amount of what could only be described as trash. No actual people. He supposed it was possible there were a few around... he'd seen no sign of the infected, at least, no blood, no corpses. Perhaps they'd had the right idea after all-- they'd reached an area so remote not even the zombies wanted anything to do with it. 

Nick wasn't sure he did, either. He hadn't caught sight of anything he'd want to shelter in for the night, much less longer, and they were pushing it with their gas supply. If they drove around too much longer, they wouldn't have enough in the tank to make it back to town for more. Nick wasn't sure himself exactly how Ellis planned to acquire them more gas, even, just knew that as the mechanic of the group, the responsibility was his. And it was possible something in the area had gas they could steal, but nothing Nick had seen so far still contained a usable drop, he was quite sure.

After a few more minutes of rude driving, their large tires crumbling over the thick gravel and uneven ground, the road sloped gradually up a broad hill, and they saw a shallow ravine dip into the earth some way to their left, which they soon were driving alongside. The trees in this part of the woods opened up a little more, and when Ellis slowed the truck, it was because he'd caught sight of something a little ways off up the hill, where the ground leveled out. 

"Now that might be somethin'," he mumbled to himself thoughtfully, turning off onto a dirt road that curved its way up the hill, somehow less treacherous than the one they'd been on. He brought the truck to a halt before a gate in a fence, rusty old wire cattle fencing stretched between wooden posts. It encircled a small yard, overgrown with weeds and piled with junk, including a rusted out truck with its hubcaps half sunken into the dirt, knocked over plastic chairs and a dirty table, as well as a shed and a house.

A house hardly bigger than a trailer itself, single-storied, with a corrugated tin roof and cheap and patched siding, its exposed foundation keeping it just a few feet off the ground, but it was indeed a house, and none of the dusty little windows they could see were even broken.

Maybe it had something to do with the handwritten wood sign on the fence, that pretty clearly, if not flawlessly, spelled out,

TRESPASERS WIL B SHOT !

Chapter Text

LEVEL lV - THE BACKROADS - ll/V

Ellis was completely undeterred by the threatening notice, face lit up with excitement. 

"C'mon, guys, let's check it out!" he exclaimed, as he shut the truck off, popping his door.

"Easy, son," Coach warned uneasily, as they all moved to climb out after him. The area seemed quiet, but Nick scanned it suspiciously as he stepped out of the truck, hard gaze roaming those dusty windows for signs of life. Behind the house, the leaf-carpeted ground sloped down, and past the base of the large hill he could just make out water through the trees and brush, a stream or small river, glinting in the early afternoon sun.

"S'okay, Coach, don't reckon no one's been here in a minute. See the gate, s'all grown up here."

He kicked the toe of his workboot lightly at a tuft of weeds at the gate's base, clogging it from opening.

"Jess in case, though-- heyo~! Anyone home?"

Ellis gave a soft holler, not half as loud as Nick was sure he was capable, but enough to make him grimace with nerves, used to the city and threat of countless zombies around every corner. He still half-expected a horde to come roaring out of nowhere, as if they'd just been lying in wait behind the bushes around them, but thankfully no infected showed up.

Nothing came barrelling out of the house with a sawed off shotgun pointed at them, either, he was delighted to find.

Delighted being wholly sarcastic hyperbole. They had laid eyes on the place that he expected, from the sum of their desperate circumstances, gas shortage and the look on Ellis's face, to be spending at least that night in, if not the foreseeable future. Delighted would not be a word in his repertoire for a while.

He was so disgusted, he didn't know where to begin. There was no point asking Ellis, Are you serious? 

He knew he was. He'd been on the same road trip. He'd seen the options they'd driven past. This was apparently a find, for the hick. They didn't have the gas to risk looking around much longer, anyway.

Maybe he'd just take his chances sleeping in the truck.

Ellis was using his hammer to do a little weeding, using the claw to firmly tug a stubborn bit of plant, roots, dirt sod and all, from where it tangled the gate. The latch stuck, and took a little force to open, but it wasn't locked, and he was able to push the gate open, forcing it past the overgrown weeds inside.

"This is... something, alright," commented Rochelle weakly, as they followed him into the yard, and Nick was glad he wasn't the only one less than enthused about their new safehouse. Coach, too, clearly had some doubts. 

"Aw, sure, she's a fixer upper, but jess imagine it, guys, this could be perfect! We got a view up on this hill, so we can see anythin' comin', got this nice shed here, and see, got ourselves a light by the door here. Means we got some electric set up, maybe a generator we can get runnin'."

"Which one's the shed now?" Nick checked, eyeing both pathetically small buildings.

"Shit~, I'm so excited tuh check out the shed," muttered Ellis, eyes large at the thought, ignoring the jibe. Remembering his comment earlier about playing dumb with girls, Nick suddenly was struck with suspicion, wondering if he really hadn't noticed, or if he was just pretending. "Let's check out the house first though."

"'House'," Nick echoed doubtfully,  not letting it go.

"Nick, man, yew missin' the forest fer th'trees. Yew gotta imagine what could be!"

Nick was satisfied to see that comment immediately followed by the hick tugging unsuccessfully at the door. Shocker-- the owner had locked up his place before abandoning it.

"Oh, I'm not missing the forest," he drawled. "Be pretty hard to, considering that's all there fucking is in miles. What's that over there? Oh look, more forest. And over there, hey, wow, forest... having trouble there, Ace?"

Features pinched in a frown, Ellis was toeing about the junk near the front door, like he was hoping to find a key under a rock, or a broken cabinet door.

"Rather not bust the lock if I can help it, hopin' there might be a key around... can yuh help me look?"

"Mhm," hummed Nick, making no move to do so. Instead he had leaned down, hands on his thighs, to squint at the lock.

After a delay, he heard a faint huff from over his shoulder, and resisted a smirk. 

He heard Rochelle and Coach crunching about in the leaves, helping Ellis search. Straightening, he turned and walked past them all, ignoring them to leisurely pace the perimeter of the fence. 

He could feel their questioning stares on his back, but they resisted voicing their curiousity. Finding what he was looking for, a broken section of fence, he paused.  Carefully gripping a jagged piece of wire, grimly hoping he didn't contract tetanus, he bent and twisted until it broke off. 

He worked at snapping it in half as he wandered slowly back to the others, watching his footing in the treacherous yard, with who knows what hidden in the weeds. Ellis's expression had already shifted from put out to curious, and he stepped aside for Nick as he approached the door with purpose, gaping when he realized what he was up to. 

"Oh shit~, Nick," he breathed with excitement. "Yer gonna pick it? Shit, that's so cool yew can do that. Man, yew gotta show me sometime."

At least one of his companions thought it was cool, Nick thought wryly, as he stooped low in front of the lock, one foot propped up on the top step. He could just imagine Coach and Rochelle exchanging looks behind him. 

"Show you right now," he spontaneously, flatly replied, just to be a bad influence. "C'mere. Be quiet."

It was like a dog when you had a treat, the way the hick scooted up to his side, pulling his cap off as he leaned in close as he dared, obediently silent and rapt with attention. Nick began bending the tip of one wire, using the edge of the door rather than risk cutting himself.

"These suck. Obviously we could have better tools, this might not even work. At least if you learn something it won't be a total waste of time, though, so pay attention. Now this one is going to be our torque wrench..."

It was a bit of fussing to get the door open, but Ellis was, if possible, even more impressed once Nick had explained what picklocking actually entailed, and was patiently, supportively quiet as Nick worked, invested in every mutter and curse he uttered under his breath. When it took only a few minutes -- rusty fence wire did not make, again, the ideal tools -- before Nick turned the improvised torque wrench to a satisfying click, Ellis broke his silence with a cheer, unable to contain himself.

"Ho shit, you did it! H'aw, that was awesome, man."

Nick tossed his wire scraps carelessly to the side, disdainfully trying to dust the rust off between his fingers as he stepped back down from the stairs.

"Finally found your Barbie dream house, princess, not gonna let a little lock get in your way. After you, though. I'm still not sure this place is up to code."

"H'aw, sure, Nick, but I ain't no princess. Yer the princess. Stay here, lil lady, I'll make sure it's good an' safe fer ya."

With that cheeky taunt, a grin on his face and shotgun propped up on his shoulder, Ellis tucked his cap back on and hopped jauntily past Nick to bolt up the steps. Nick, however, lunged, and caught him on the first one, gripping the bustle of his coveralls and yanking hard, prompting a yelp of surprise and stumbling him back down off the stairs, boots scraping up little clouds of dust.

"Nevermind. You stay," he growled, stalking up the steps.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around his middle, squeezing tight, and he stumbled in surprise, might have lost his footing entirely if they hadn't themselves then lifted him off his feet. 

He was going to kill him.

The airborne gambler was suddenly a snarling, spitting armful of rage, and both the men went tumbling back from the door. Ellis had been trying to turn him around to put himself between Nick and the door, but Nick's response to being hefted off the ground was so violent that Ellis tripped, and half collapsed down on the stairs, which was a little terrifying, since Nick was still fighting to free himself, half on top him, and seemingly trying to kill him. He was given that impression by the aforementioned rage, and the fact that Nick was vocally threatening to do precisely that. Panicking slightly, he only clung on harder, out of self preservation, till he could get his feet out from under him, at which point he let go and dove up the stairs, scrambling to get inside. Nick clawed after him, and they tripped their way up to the door just before he grappled Ellis, and they tumbled through the door together.

They stumbled to a pause, tangled together, momentarily startled by their new surroundings. The light coming through the dusty windows was dim, but was plenty for them to see by. A dank little living room, a tiny kitchen in the corner, a single other bedroom. No indoor bathroom, apparently. There wasn't much to see, and the fact that there weren't any zombies inside, as they'd already assumed but for the ever present possibility of mutants, was all that mattered to Nick in that instant.

Next to punishing Ellis, that was.

Having watched the scuffle outside with only bewildered bemusement, Rochelle and Coach weren't much more concerned following the boys inside, by which time Nick had successfully wrestled Ellis into a headlock, and seemed to be slowly strangling him. Slowly. The boy was wheezing against the arm clamped across his throat, under some duress but clearly not in danger for his life.

"... and I will push you into the acid myself," he was murmuring threateningly into his ear. "Do you understand? Cough again for yes. Stay quiet for choke me till I pass out, please, and then the rest of us can get some peace and quiet for a while."

Red-faced, Ellis gave a pathetic cough. Both his hands clutched the arm that held him, one tapping at it in plea.

"Good boy," Nick drawled dryly, and he released him just enough to wheeze for breath. "Now once more-- what do we not do, never ever again?"

"... pick up Nick," Ellis panted. 

"That's it," he purred, and withdrew his arm entirely, letting him go with a healthy swat to the shoulder.

"You two are ridiculous," Rochelle chided, "my gosh. Nice trick with the door, though."

"Mhm," agreed Coach, with a tone Nick was pretty sure translated to, I ain't gonna ask.

"I'd rather be breaking out of here, now that I've seen it," Nick commented bracingly, looking around, "but, you know."

"Aw, it ain't that bad... jess needs some cleanin', lil TLC, that's all," said Ellis cheerily, still a little breathless, ruffled and warm in the face, but mood seeming not remotely fazed by the recent scuffle, or the threats Nick had levelled his way. The hick was approaching the bedroom door, and peeked inside.

"Hm. Well. That ain't real cute," he admitted, and Rochelle swiftly went to join him.

"Oh jeez," she mumbled in dismay. "Yeah, I'm not sleeping in there."

With a groan, Nick resigned himself to having a look, and he and Coach joined them at the door. He snagged the back of Ellis's shirt and pulled on it till the hick moved out of his way, so he could see inside.

No body rotting into the bed, or anything, but the mattress itself looked appallingly grungy, bare and stained. This room was messier than the other, with musty old clothes piled in what little floorspace there was.

"Wonderful," Nick observed with sardonic calm. "Anyone here thinking we might have gone a little too far off the beaten track?"

"I mean... ain't no zombies," Ellis reasoned quietly.

"Hick, you remember what happened last time you were saying that? How's your back doing, by the way?"

He didn't sound concerned, the question a dry warning.

"S'fine," Ellis muttered. He'd never admit their rough-housing had left his injury stinging painfully. "This is different, though. Might not be real cozy, yet, but at least we're real far from all them zombies. Ain't nobody out here to infect."

Coach nodded.

"Boy's right. Might not be high livin', but we're alive and safe, that's what counts. Record store might have been more comfortable, but we couldn't stay there. Too many of those things. And we're here now, so might as well make the most of it. We're lucky we got a roof over our heads. If we're real lucky, might even be able to get these lights workin'."

"Oh shit yea, who wants to come look fer a generator with me?"

"I gotchu, boy. Let's check it out."

As Ellis and Coach headed outside, Nick looked over the living room with an expression pinched in distaste. The couch looked about as grimy as the mattress, and he didn't even want to sit on it. This was a steep downgrade from the record store, alright, Christ. 

"Sweet Mother Mary, is that what I think it is...?" came Rochelle's astonished murmur from across the room, by the kitchen. "Oh my gosh. Nick. Come here."

Glad for anything to distract him from the gathering gloom that was his state of mind, Nick approached where Rochelle was crouched, in the dimmest corner of the room.

"Is this a trapdoor?" she asked, corners of her full lips tightening up in a smile of suppressed excitement as she peeked up at him.

Frowning with interest, Nick crouched beside her.

"Sure looks like it."

They shared a brief look, in which Nick waited for her to suggest they wait for the others. When she pulled her flashlight from her belt instead, his eyes narrowed very slightly in the subtlest smirk.

Without another word, silent agreement reached between them, they took hold of the trapdoor handle together, and hauled it open as they stood.

The smell of musty wood drifted up to them from the hole, its edges tacky with spectral cobwebs, drifting down into the darkness. A steep, narrow set of stairs led down. Rochelle clicked her flashlight on, and they could see there was a cramped cellar below. It looked creepy, but in the normal cellar-under-a-hickhouse-in-the-middle-of-nowheres kind of way, not the body-filled kind necessarily.

"Well, since now I know you're such a gentleman," Rochelle teased him, referencing his recent fight with Ellis, "I guess I better let you go first, huh? Since I'm, you know... just a lil lady."

He gave her a scathingly unimpressed look, and she batted her eyes, with a smile at once smug and innocent. 

"I'll remember you said that later," he warned her, snatching the flashlight from her hands. Pointing it down, he started to descend the steep steps, pulling out his Magnum just to be safe. 

"Mm. No one will believe you," she cooed, gingerly following down after him. 

It was a tiny cellar, but less filthy than the rest of the house. Instead, it was packed with supplies and equipment, which likewise seemed in better shape than anything upstairs. Rochelle gasped softly as Nick cast the light over two sealed, five gallon jugs of water, an electric lantern and two fishing poles, among other odds and ends. 

As they were taking in the stroke of luck, they heard a mechanical whirring sound from up above, and exchanged looks in the dark. Nick's eyes landed on a string dangling from the ceiling, and followed it up to a bulb. He hesitated a beat, then, as Rochelle watched, reached up, giving the string a soft tug.

The bare bulb flickered on, too bright for a moment, then taming to a normal level of illumination, buzzing softly.

They heard Ellis's voice calling as his loud work boots tromped excitedly inside.

"Hey guys, I think we got it working! Guys? Heyo~..."

He had spotted the open trapdoor quick enough, apparently, as they heard his squeaking footsteps crossing the wood floor above. His face soon appeared in the opening, warmly lit by the light shining up, gawping down at them.

"Ho shit, there's a cellar? No way! Man that's awesome!"

He tumbled down the steps in a flash, exclaiming excitedly when he caught sight of the supplies.

"H'oh my gawd, fishin' poles! And water?! Guys what a jackpot, this is awesome. We could jess catch ourselves some fish fer dinner, wouldn't even need to go back intuh town tonight if we don't wanna! Saw a creek jess out back."

"I admit, I wasn't really looking forward to turning right back around," admitted Coach, who was creaking his way down, though he paused halfway, not descending all the way into the already crowded cellar. Nick himself was wanting out, claustrophobic with all the bodies between him and the trapdoor. "Could make the trip for gas and groceries in the mornin', after we're rested."

"I'd be okay with that," conceded Rochelle. "We could spend the rest of the day cleaning the place up, while hee-haw here catches us some dinner."

She lightly tickled at Ellis's jaw with her fingertips, and he chuckled bashfully, ducking away a little but smiling.

"'N hey, there's two poles!" he pointed out. "If anyone wants to learn how tuh fish, I can teach 'em."

"Probably best nobody go off on their own, anyways," Coach intoned seriously. "I ain't lettin' down my guard just cause we haven't had any trouble yet."

"So it's house-cleaning or fishing...?" Nick checked, not particularly enthused about either. "Well, I guess I'm fucking fishing, then."

"Hmm. I guess I'm okay with ending up on housecleaning duty," Rochelle conceded dryly. "If only because I really do want to get this place clean. And I'd rather get dirty doing that than in fish guts."

"Hold on, I'm second-guessing..."

"Nope, too late. You're too big and tough of a man to clean house, right Suit? Go hunt for the tribe."

Nick grumbled.

"Don't see you telling Coach to go hunt."

"Cause I ain't got nothin' to prove," Coach interjected, in a low rumble. "Ain't got time fo that shit. Now go catch us some grub, boys. We'll have things a little nicer by the time y'all come back. I think I can whip up some sauce to go wit' that fish."

"Aw, hell yeah, Coach! We gonna be eatin' like kings. Shit, Nick, 'n yer gonna love fishin', it's real chill. Cleanin' 'em ain't bad either. We can take some'f em chairs out front down to the water... man, if we want, we could even all eat down there. Set up a lil fire. Keep from fishin' up the house, y'know, since it's so li'l."

"Sounds real nice, son. Don't see why not. Long as things stay quiet. Make sho you take yo' guns, now."

"Man, I ain't pissin' without my gun, after that Boomer, shit~. Last place yew wanna be caught by a zombie is with yer pants down, hell naw, won't be me."

"Speaking of, where the hell does the guy who lives here do his business? As the bears do?"

"Oh uh... saw an outhouse jess over yonder."

"Great."

Coach and Rochelle began searching for cleaning supplies, while Ellis and Nick gathered what they'd need fishing, including two of the plastic chairs out front, which they wiped dry and mostly clean with some old clothes, then made their way down the hill.

"Man, this is so cool. I love fishin', an' campin'. I mean, it ain't really campin', but it's kinda close. Won't be sleepin' on that bed, that's fer sure. I'd be worried about critters. Ever had bedbugs? They're crazy, man. This one time Keith 'n me, we was staying --"

"No."

"Whu'..?"

Ellis was a little caught off guard by the curt interruption, looking over at Nick curiously.

"I don't want to hear about bedbugs right now, hick, Jesus. You're gonna keep me up tonight. I'm already seriously considering sleeping in the truck."

"Aw, yew can't do that, Nick! It ain't safe!"

"Oh, and that house is? Bullshit."

"Better than out 'n the car," Ellis maintained firmly. "Sides, jess think, all em windows, an' it bein' all dark 'round... could be someone out there jess watchin' yew sleep, an' yew wouldn't even know."

He spoke in an ominous hush. Nick balked for a second, then shoved him. 

"The fuck is wrong with you, hick, Jesus! Why would you think of that?!"

Ellis had gone stumbling a few steps sideways, blinking at him with a nonplussed expression.

"I dunno, jess what I'd be thinkin' about, if it were me out there."

"Well fuck, now I will be! Thanks a lot!"

"Jess sayin', we shouldn't ever really go off alone. Ain't safe no more. Even out here, like Coach says."

"Yeesh, I get it already. If you wake up one morning and I'm gone, by the way, it's because you guys all crowded me so much I just couldn't take it anymore."

"Don't say that," Ellis entreated somberly.

"Why?" Nick mercilessly goaded. "You'd be sad if I left?"

Ellis was looking down at the ground, a frown on his face, and huffed at that. His reply was mumbled, but it still found a firmness.

"Well... I mean, yeah, Nick. 'Course."

"Not of course," Nick countered, short and hard. "You've known me since yesterday, and I'm a dick to you."

"Naww, yew ain't..."

Nick cocked an eyebrow. Ellis peeked up at him, catching the look, and amended,

"Well, a li'l, maybe, but I dunno... don't bother me none. I think, uhh.. well, I dunno, I think yer a real cool guy, all the same. Jess a lil rough around the edges, but I dunno, that's kinda part of yer charm."

He was looking at the ground again, and rambling. About him. He didn't interrupt, which in this case felt perhaps the crueler option.

"I mean," he was becoming embarrassed, hurrying to explain himself, "what I mean is, how yer a lil mean, y'know, but like it's in a funny way, an' I know yew don't mean it all, I think yew care more than-"

"Alright alright, that's enough," Nick dryly cut him off there. "Let me save you before you embarrass yourself... any more. You got it right that I'm cool and funny and charming."

"Stawp," Ellis whined in protest, face warming, "I didn't--"

"Very much missed the mark otherwise though," Nick coolly went on. 

"I don't give a shit. About anyone. Honestly, kid? Some days I don't even give a shit about myself. So this is sweet, really. I get it, you look up to me. I'm a cool motherfucker. Just saying, flattering as that is -- terrible idea. You'll save yourself a world of hurt if you don't go getting attached to... whatever it is you think I am."

Ellis looked uncomfortable, embarrassed and uncertain. Nick wasn't sure where all that had come from, on his part, but if what he'd said was having this much effect, it was probably a good decision to have said it when he had. He wasn't trying to con this kid into thinking they were friends. It was just really hard to convince him they weren't. 

Even if, considering the extent of Ellis's loyalty to him, he might have benefited from sweetening his palm a little. It wasn't like the hick wasn't useful, annoying as he was. But maybe it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. It wasn't like he'd been nice to him so far. Maybe he would have knocked anyone out from under that Spitter... maybe he was just that kind of guy.

A dumbass.

They had come to the shore, at least, and that provided some distraction, a good excuse for Ellis to avoid replying. It was closer to a small river than what Nick thought of as a creek, wider and deeper than he'd expected. They found a decent place to set up their plastic chairs, and then Ellis began explaining to him the basics of fishing, though Nick could tell he was distracted, his heart not in it. Before too long, they each had a line cast out into the water.

He wasn't all that surprised when not long after, Ellis resumed their conversation, his voice unusually solemn, reflective.

"Ain't like I think I know yuh, or nothin'... know I don't know hardly nothin' 'boutchu. Dyin' tuh ask, but, don't figger yew like folks pryin' intuh yer private life, so I try real hard tuh keep my trap shut, bout that leastways. Don't gotta know someone to get a feel from them though, do yuh?"

It wasn't rhetorical, Nick realized-- he was waiting for an answer.

"... No," he reluctantly, grimly admitted. "That feel isn't always accurate, though."

"Naw... an' it always changes some, y'know, if yuh get to know the person any. But I dunno, I trust my gut pretty good. 'N I don't think yer bad news."

"Yeah?" His voice was hard, almost mocking. "What am I, then?"

Ellis bit at his lower lip, and shrugged a little, not meeting his eyes.

".. I 'unno, but... I think yer a good thing."

Nick stared at him with a slight frown, expression unreadable, till he finally lifted those blue eyes, which met and held his steadily despite his evident embarrassment.

"... You're a weird kid, Ellis."

His tone was void of friendliness, cold and stern enough to be an accusation, but it seemed to have softened slightly, all the same. Ellis seemed to relax some, anyway, giving a surrendering little smile.

"Yeahh, guess I am. Yer one of a kind too, Nick."

"Hey, I meant that as an insult. Both times."

"Suure. Yew ain't that tough."

"I will drown you."

"Won't," Ellis seemed much too proudly certain. "Would getcher nice suit all wet and muddy, and yew jess got it clean."

"Mmm." Nick considered this seriously. "... you raise a salient point."

"... salty?"

"The fuck--? .. okay, that's actually not a bad guess out of context, but what the fuck would a salty point be, huh? It means relevant, hick. Important."

"Oh okay."

They fell to quiet again. This time it was Nick who broke it, not all that long later, to grumble,

"How long does this usually take?"

"All depends," Ellis replied sagely. "Could be here a few hours... can't rush fishin', Nick. S'posed to jess relax, all meditative like, look at the water 'n shit."

"Am I hearing this from you? You're never still. Your restless leg syndrome in the car was annoying me so bad I almost kneecapped you. How are you okay right now?"

"I dunno, jess find it real peaceful, I guess. The water, the sky, s'jess nice. Don'chu think?"

"... I guess," Nick reluctantly muttered. He shifted in his chair, feeling restless.

"'Course, it'd be way better if we had beers... hardly never been fishin' without a couple beers. We'll have to pick some up when we run fer groceries."

He made it sound so normal.

when we run fer groceries...

Nick sighed.

"I'd have a cigarette, but I'm down to my last two," he grumbled. "Was going to try and save them for tomorrow, just in case. With my fucking luck, they won't have any at the store. Or we won't even get back there -- the fuck are you smiling at?"

Ellis suddenly looked like he found something funny, and there was nothing convincing about his hurried,

"Nothin' nothin', I ain't."

"You are too, what the fuck's so funny? You like watching me suffer, is that it?"

"Naw man, it's jess-- hang on, hawhaw, don't hurt me--"

It wouldn't have been so annoying that Nick's temper had apparently already been so established that Ellis expected him to resort to violence on a dime, if he hadn't also been laughing about it.

"I absolutely will if you don't quit laughing."

"Jess wait, man, wait..."

Of all the things he expected, it wasn't for the hick to dig a pack of cigarettes out of the depths of his pocket. 

"Are you kidding me?! When did -- give me those!"

"No, wait!"

He'd reached for them, and Ellis had pulled them away. Nick looked faintly stunned.

"What? Ellis. Give me the cigarettes."

"No, hang on, man, they're fer yew, I jess -- yew gotta guess, first!"

"What?"

"It's a game. All you gotta do is guess how many are in the box, don't gotta be right, an I'll give it t'yuh."

"... that's a dumb game."

"Ain't no different from gamblin'," Ellis retorted firmly.

"How dare you."

"Jess guess!"

"Fine. Seven."

Ellis gasped. Despite himself, Nick caught himself wondering,

"Was I right?"

"Naw, man, but yew were close! There's fourteen, that's like, twice as lucky."

Ellis reached the pack out, and Nick took it from him. He was frowning as he inspected it in both hands, opening the lid as if to double check Ellis's count.

"Where did you get these?

"Gerald's jacket. Back in the office? No keys, but I found those."

"And you've had these all this time?? Why did you hide them?"

"Well, I dunno, I jess wanted to surprise yew.. I thought maybe if things didn't work out, gettin' the car, yew might be real mad, and that might make yuh feel better."

God damn it.

"... Next time you find cigarettes, you cough them up upfront," Nick rebuked him sternly. "I don't like surprises."

"Sure, Nick," the hick ceded affably.

"And kid."

"Yeah?"

"... good job."

"Yer welcome, Nick."

Chapter Text

LEVEL lV - THE BACKROADS - lll/V

The tip of his thumb clipped at the lighter, striking a spark once, twice before the flame bloomed. He let it lick at the tip of his cigarette till it singed, and inhaled the harsh smoke slowly.

Ellis's lure bobbed. Nick's eyebrows lifted in interest, before he settled the expression to something more neutral. He wasn't going to get invested in fishing. Still, it was the first thing that had happened, and he couldn't help but watch closely, smoke from his exhale drifting into the sky, as Ellis murmured his way through reeling it in, coaxing it under his breath.

A flipping flash of silver lifted from the water, and in a moment, Ellis had caught it in his palm, rising from his chair.

"Aww, it's jess a lil guy," Ellis cooed, less in disappointment than affection. He supported his pole against his shoulder so that he had both hands free, using one to grasp the slippery fish close to its head, and with the other removing the hook from its mouth as delicately as possible. "Sorry little buddy," he comforted it through the process. "Notcher time yet. Go live a long life."

He then lobbed it gently back out into the river.

"Have a helluva tale fer his lil fish buddies," he chortled, sitting back down, adjusting his seat and settling comfortably. He seemed to be eyeing Nick, and when he noticed that Nick had noticed, he looked a little awkward, but jutted his chin slightly, eyes dropping to the cigarette in his fingers and back again, as if to indicate it.

"Uh... could I...?"

Nick knew what he meant, but watched him without a hint of change in his expression, eyes hard and narrow, as he pinched his cigarette between his lips and inhaled again. The kid squirmed a little.

Only when he'd filled his lungs did he draw the cigarette away, extending it to Ellis.

"Don't make it a habit, kid," he warned him without exhaling yet, smoke only drifting from his thin lips as he spoke. "You feed my addiction, I don't encourage yours."

The redneck had relaxed when he hadn't been rejected, smiling as he reached over to take it.

"Well shit, Nick, when yew say it like that, make me feel bad. Maybe I should start hiding 'em from yew fer real. Help yuh quit."

He sucked at the cigarette, squinting slightly.

"Better not," Nick warned him. "I think one bright side of the zombie apocalypse, my chances of dying from cancer just went down about a hundred percent. Of course, now I'll get a tumor, since I said that..."

Ellis scoffed only a slight laugh as he exhaled his smoke, and it might have been a stifled cough, admonishing as he returned the cigarette, 

"Man, yeah don't joke about that. D'ju see the tumors on them Smokers?"

"Hm. Wow, comforting, hick, you're right -- I could probably get cancer and become a zombie. Thank you, I needed that."

"I mean, I ain't sayin' yew'd be a Smoker, if yew turned, but... I mean. Could be worse zombies to be."

"Sure. No one wants to be a bile bomb. But are we seriously discussing what mutant zombie we'd be if we turned? Are we already there?"

"I dunno, I've thought about it. I'd wanna be a Hunter fer sure. So cool how they can climb shit, and pounce and stuff."

"Yeah. The freak jumping spider zombie is so cool. You know, that one you blew the stomach out of seemed to think you were cool, too. You should have given it a chance, maybe it just wanted to be friends."

"Naw man. I mean sure, I'd be friends with a zombie, if it was chill," of course he would, "but that shit was scary. Its nails was like razors, I woulda been messed up. I'm glad we ain't seen no more of those guys. Hey, yew think zombies swim?"

"Ellis have you ever tried... thinking, before you speak?"

"Wh- whut? Ain't that dumb a question, is it? They run an' climb an' shit..."

"We're feet away from a river, numbskull!" Nick snapped. "Do you really think I want to be thinking about swimming zombies right now?!"

"Ahh, shit, sorry. Well don't worry, man, that's why we got our guns. They can't be great swimmers anyway. 'Less there's like some freak, water zombie.. shit sorry, sorry!"

They agreed to stop talking about zombies for a while after that. Ellis could actually maintain some periods of silence while fishing, apparently, and Nick settled some after his cigarette, gradually adjusting to the peaceful atmosphere and the quiet, the melodic flow of the water, rushing and burbling here and lapping at the shore there, a calming backdrop. 

It got a little more exciting when Nick caught his first fish. It wasn't all that much bigger than the one Ellis had thrown back, but the redneck confidently declared it a keeper. If that had anything to do with Nick's struggle and taut nerves during the process of bringing it to shore, which he would never admit had gotten his heart racing with invested tension, or the fact that it was his first catch, Nick didn't want to know, admittedly pleased with himself. Ellis was, if anything, even more proud of him.

His talk didn't seem to have done much good, he realized, as Ellis cheered for his catch, and he was reluctantly allowing the curve of a little smirk. Maybe it had sunk in somewhere, the warning, but he suspected it was already too late. He'd been warning him from the beginning, though, in more ways than one. The boy was just obstinate. 

They caught a few more fish, Ellis the bulk of them, Nick just one more, though it was larger than his first, and he was satisfied.

"Damn, that's gorgeous, Nick, shit! Good job man. Hope yer alright with fish, 'cause we're gonna be eatin' a lot of it, looks like."

"... I actually do like fish," Nick admitted, "when it's fresh."

Ellis lit up.

"Well shit, don't get fresher than this!"

"Any seafood, really. Lobster, oysters, shrimp... caviar."

"Damn, man, we oughta head to the coast. Yew ever had alligator?"

"... That's relevant to the food discussion, not the available resources discussion, right? Again, remember, we are sitting by the water. Do not tell me there are alligators in this river."

"Hawhawhaw, man, I mean," Ellis was chortling, way too relaxed, "I ain't gonna tell you there ain't. Lil small fer em, but man there's alligators all over, don'cha know?"

"You're shitting me. You are fucking with me right now."

"Naw man. Savannah River, that we drove over? Full of alligators, man. Where d'yew think yew are?"

"Oh. Right, I forgot. Hell."

"Hawhahaw, nawww~... they ain't so bad. I mean thems grouchy lil fuckers, butchu jess gotta pay attention, not let em getcha."

"Fuckin'... yeah! Jesus! 'Don't let the alligator get you', I'll make a note. Any other genius survival tips, Dundee?"

"Um. Don't putcher hands near its mouth. Snap real quick."

"Perfect. Thank you."

Rochelle and Coach came down to say hi, at one point, and to gather some water from the stream in an old plastic milk jug, a beaten up bucket and some other assorted containers, not about to use their precious newfound water supply on cleaning the house. They agreed to meet down at the riverbank with an hour to spare before sunset, give or take -- none of them wore a watch, and only Coach still had his phone, making it useless for helping two parties to meet at a specific time. Besides the fact that he'd had it on battery saving mode, and turned it off when they'd turned onto the backroads sometime back, so as to save what remaining juice it had. No texts or calls had gone through since earlier the day before, but if service was going to restore at any point, it wouldn't be out here. 

Rochelle was impressed at the fish they'd caught. Coach was impressed Nick hadn't murdered Ellis yet. Nick felt deserving of the credit he received for both.

Then came the butchering. 

Coach and Rochelle had returned uphill, lugging their water, some time ago, when Nick and Ellis decided they had plenty of fish for dinner. Ellis then produced the tools he'd brought, wrapped up in a little towel-- a sharp knife and a pair of pliers, which he explained were for pinbones.

Nick then found out far more about a fish's inner anatomy than he'd ever wanted to know. 

Considering what they'd been fighting the last few days, Ellis was right-- it really wasn't that bad. Maybe his disgust was more at the way Ellis cheerily dug the guts out of the slits he made in their bellies with his bare fingers, imagining that smell never coming out of them again. Though he'd removed his jacket, folded carefully over the back of his chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt in anticipation of getting involved, Nick decided after the first example to learn this part by watching, and let Ellis do all the work of cleaning the things, though once he'd gotten the idea, he got himself up and started collecting wood for the fire, which was plentiful at least. 

The sun was low, shadows deepening and the golden light seeping through the leaves, when Rochelle and Coach trooped back down, bearing two more chairs, a covered saucepot, and some of their salvaged kitchen items, including a skillet to fry the fish on. Ellis was just getting the fire started, and their voices rang out together in cheery greetings and accolades, Rochelle cooing over how pretty it looked down there. Coach showed off the contents of his saucepot, which let off an appetizing steam. He seemed to have incorporated the green beans, lentils and tomato soup into some kind of roux-thickened gravy, generously spiced in a way that was at least Cajun reminiscent. 

Nick left his jacket off while Ellis and Coach cooked, the evening about as warm as it would get, though it was pleasant in the shade by the water. He griped once about a mosquito whining its high pitched whine near his head, swatting at it, but when Ellis commented that he was shocked there weren't far more, and Coach robustly agreed, Nick supposed he could count himself lucky there, too.

The air soon filled with the sound and smell of fish fillets sizzling in hot oil, hissing whenever a fresh one struck the pan. Nick sat furthest from the campfire, claiming he didn't want his suit smelling like a fish fry later, which gave them all an opportunity to laugh when shortly after the comment the wind shifted, sending the smoke from their fire straight in his direction, to an outbreak of curses. 

Ellis did most of the cooking, as if he couldn't bear to give responsibility for their catch over to someone else, though he leaned on Coach's advice, which Nick was glad for, as he trusted the health and PE teacher and father of two not to undercook the fish slightly more than the young redneck who'd caught it, particularly after the horrifying story he'd recounted to him about the time his buddy Keith had tried to make his own sushi, and had gotten food poisoning so bad he had both nearly died and, apparently, developed selective amnesia. Despite the fact that Ellis had played no part in this story himself, and that Keith had apparently used raw chicken meat, not even fish, Nick was left slightly traumatized, third-hand.

Neither Ellis's awful stories nor even the memory of his fingers hooking out fish intestines could ruin the taste of their dinner, though. He was rather partial to seafood, and though his palate might have been refined in some areas, he didn't need anything fancy when it came to a fresh fish or crustacean. He wouldn't have even needed Coach's sauce, just a little salt sprinkled over the crispy-seared exterior, the interior delicate and flaky. For another dish made entirely from canned ingredients, it wasn't bad, though, and did add to the meal, better suited to Nick's tastes than the gravy from that morning. He would never be a fan of canned green beans, but they had disintegrated into the stew till they had surrendered to anonymity, and no longer seemed so offensive, now that they weren't pretending to still be what they'd once been, just providing a vague texture and the concept of 'vegetable' to the dish.

The blue of the sky deepened, and the clouds turned rosy and gold. The campfire crackled, and the trees rustled softly in the breeze. If they hadn't all been armed to the teeth, it might have been an ordinary scene, and there might not even have been any such thing as zombies, except in movies. 

With the mosquitos blessedly few, and the atmosphere so pleasant, they could have stayed out till it started getting dark, the house just a short walk up the hill. As it was, though, the sun hadn't quite set when it seemed to get a little darker anyways, and they noticed those lovely clouds had gathered, now dusky blue and threateningly damp looking. Coach had only just suggested they think about heading back when the first drops began to fall here and there around them, and then they all began to hurry, gathering up their things. 

The rain increased in density quickly, and they weren't halfway up the hill when it began to come down in a torrent. Rochelle yelped a little, Nick began to swear violently, and what had been a hasty retreat turned into a full out dash, encumbered by their things. Nick tried to hold the stack of chairs over his head to block the worst of it, Rochelle was doing the same with the plates. Coach sounded like a horseless knight in broken armor, the pots and pans he carried rattling around as he huffed up the hill, nothing blocking the rain from dripping down his shaved head.

Ellis was whooping and laughing, charging ahead of them with the fishing poles, his hat off in one hand as if he wanted to feel the rain in his curls.

"Ho shit, man, it's like a monsoon!" he yowled out happily, spinning around to face them and walking backwards for a moment, dripping wet and blue eyes shining.  "This is crazy!"

"You're crazy, hick!" Nick snarled. "Get in the fucking house! None of us have spare clothes, you're gonna smell like a wet dog!"

"Maybe yew don't," Ellis huffed, though he turned to keep running, staying ahead. "I got a dry t-shirt in my pocket. Don't smell like no wet dog, that's fer sure. Jess smells like flowers."

Nick thought about threatening to steal the shirt, but he wouldn't have been caught dead wearing it.

By they time they were dashing through the yard, rain rattling loudly on the corrugated tin roof, Nick was quite wet, and had completely forgotten about the cleaning Coach and Rochelle had been doing when he ran inside.

It was a significant improvement.

The couch had been given up on entirely, banished for now to the bedroom with the filthy bed. Both would make good blockades if they had to barricade the door, at least, though with as many miles as they'd put between them and the last zombie they'd seen, it was hard to imagine a horde showing up. The bedroom hadn't been touched much otherwise, but the living room and kitchen looked markedly better. They'd cleared any garbage and debris, swept thoroughly, thrown out some nasty old carpets, and then either mopped or scrubbed the wood boards till they looked halfway decent. 

A significant portion of the floor, however, was taken up by what looked like every towel, blanket and pillow they had, arranged into one wide bed that caught and held Nick's attention.

"Ho shit!" Ellis was saying, stopped just to the side of the door to lean his poles against the wall, and use it for support as he removed his muddy boots. Water dripped from his curls, the tip of his nose, darkly dappled his clothes. Nick's own suit, he noticed with disgust, appeared more damp than dry. "Guys, this is awesome! It looks so much better!"

"Furniture ain't in shape fit fo a dog," Coach explained, unnecessarily, the lack of it. "We'll have to get some of that in town too, if we gonna be stayin' here. Fo' tonight, this the best we can do, I'm afraid. Sorry, Nick."

He and Rochelle were both looking at him, Nick realized, and he dryly returned their stare.

"We knew you wouldn't like it," Rochelle apologized. "We just don't have enough blankets to make it even halfway comfy if we split them all up. It's going to be pretty hard down there as is."

Nick gave a steely sigh.
 
"Just leave me the keys," he surrendered moodily. "If anybody snores, I have dibs on the truck."

No one was tired enough for sleep just yet, though, not even Ellis, who after staying up late with Rochelle and cooking early with Coach, if Nick's calculations were correct, had gotten barely any sleep the night before at all. Instead, he still had more energy than any of them, and busied himself tearing apart the cellar. When he was done there, he replaced his boots to go investigate the shed, despite the fact that it was still raining, pattering across the roof.

He returned shortly, though, disappointed and newly dampened. The shed was locked too, and Nick flatly refused to go out and attempt to open it till the rain abated, or morning-- whichever happened last. 

Rochelle and Coach did some more listless tidying. It would have been nice just to rest, but short of sprawling on the floor on the bed there was no real way to do so, and it was better just to stay busy. Nick found himself missing the drive. With the rain pouring outside, he was just as trapped as he'd been in the truck, without the benefit of back support. 

Ellis was suffering too, now fixated on finding out what was in that shed and unable to settle or think about anything else. It was nearly dark when he borrowed Rochelle's flashlight, tucked it under his Midnight Riders shirt, and disappeared outside again. When the door shut, clipping off a gust of wet wind, it seemed even quieter inside without him-- though with the water drumming on the metal roof, it couldn't really be called quiet.

Nick gave it a minute before his boredom and progressively annoyed curiosity got the better of him. What was he doing out there? Had he gotten into the shed, or was he just getting himself soaked trying? 

Had a zombie finally shown up, and taken him unawares?

He was probably just taking a piss. Whatever. If a zombie had gotten him over by the outhouse, he was as good as dead-- Nick wasn't going that far in this rain. He'd just take a peek outside, though.

Grumbling about Ellis not being able to just sit still, he strode to the door, and leaned out. There was barely a few inches of overhang on the roof, and water dribbled thickly in a sheet from it. He could see from there that the shed door was open, but nothing more. 

He could have left it alone at that, but he really was bored. He stepped swiftly out, avoiding with a grimace the water from the overhang, shutting the door behind him and running the short distance to the shed, dress shoes splashing in the accumulated puddles. The yard had become a mudpit. He could see when he reached the shed that the old lock had simply been forced out of the doorjamb, no doubt with the generous application of a clawhammer. Light spilled from the gap, rippling across the puddles collecting by the door.

Ducking inside out of the rain, he saw the shed's musty-smelling interior was lit by a single bulb, letting off a warm glow. Ellis hadn't even noticed him, busy rooting through the considerable clutter packed into the cramped confines. The walls were lined with tools-- gardening, hunting and more -- and a lot of animal skulls, antlers and horns. The single light source cast the shadows of the old bones across the walls like brambles. 

"Can't just leave well enough alone, can you hick?" 

Nick's caustic voice cut into the air, and Ellis jumped violently, knocking a coffee can of assorted screws over on the wooden workbench, spilling across the surface and rolling around on their heads. Ellis pawed hurriedly to flatten them still before more than a few could tumble to the floor, wide blue eyes lifting to Nick's with a mix of surprise and relief. 

"Shit, Nick!" he complained, with a huff of breath. "Man, my heart's racin'. Yew scared the hell outta me."

Only a slight curl of one corner of his thin lips betrayed his malicious amusement, cold rebuke in his eyes and voice as he drawled,

"Yeah, well you'd be dead if I were a zombie."

"Ain't no zombies out here, Nick," Ellis reminded him, with gentle stubborness, as he propped the  can back upright and began scooping up small handfuls of screws, dropping them back in.

"I'm telling you, stop saying that," Nick growled, but Ellis didn't apologize like he normally did. Instead, as he focused on the stray screws he was now individually gathering into his palm, he asked, boldly yet with almost off-handed curiousity,

"Were yew checkin' on me?"

"No. I was bored," Nick responded curtly. "Turns out the apocalypse is really boring when you're not fighting for your life, who knew. Found any new toys?"

"Yeah man!" His voice immediately filled with enthusiasm, eagerly stuffing the last handful of the screws into the can, before digging into his pocket. "Check it out, I got duct tape an' a screw driver. Hit the jackpot here."

The screwdriver he pulled from his pocket to display in his palm to Nick; an old, sturdy flathead. The duct tape he grabbed off the table, looping it over his wrist like the world's heaviest bangle.

"Duct tape? Well that's convenient."

"I know, right?" gushed Ellis obliviously, stowing the screwdriver again. "Man, duct tape's good fer everythin'. Well, not everything. There was this one time, me 'n Keith, we was tryin' to find out what it was like to sleep like bats do, right, all hangin' upside down like? An'--"

"Let me see."

"Oh yeah," Ellis easily complied, slipping the tape roll off his wrist and passing it to Nick without a thought. "Well, it was a good idea, anyway, only problem was,"

rrrrip

Ellis didn't pause for the sound of Nick tearing off a piece of duct tape a few inches long, merrily rambling on as he continued absently poking about the table. 

"-- Keith's got these pretty hairy legs, right, and he weren't wearing no socks or nothin', so -- whmmpf!"

Taking advantage of his distraction to step close behind Ellis's shoulder, Nick had reached straightforwardly around to his face, clamping his palm, and the strip of duct tape, firmly over the hick's mouth, sealing it shut.

Ellis protested immediately, with a muffled noise of surprise and complaint, turning to Nick even as he tried to pull his face away, bringing a hand up towards his mouth. Nick kept his hand clamped firmly over his jaw, though, and lifted the other to snatch Ellis's forearm, halting him from reaching it and holding him there.

"Ah ah," he chided, smirking at the look of affront and confusion on the hick's warming features, "no, let me enjoy this."

"Mmnnmm," Ellis whined ruefully through the gag, blue eyes accusatory. Nick couldn't believe how satisfying it felt to hold that ever-rambling mouth shut. He could feel his quickened breath huffing from his nose, ghosting warmth over the side of his hand.

"Just another second," he teased slyly, enjoying the fact that the hick was submitting to his bullying, despite the look on his face. He had another free hand, but hadn't tried to fight him with it. 

Ellis gave such a petulant grumble then, though, that Nick had to give in.

"Oh, alright," he drawled reluctantly, withdrawing his ringed hand from its hold on his face, and releasing his arm. "It's a good look on you, though."

Ellis glared at him, a look Nick enjoyed, and saved to his memory, retreating a step and turning away some to pick unhappily, gingerly, at the corners of the ducttape.

"-- Oh come on," Nick impatiently interjected after a moment, "here."

He strode forward, reaching towards his face again, and Ellis retreated a step in protest with a Mm-nn!, sliding along the work bench he was already pressed back against, but Nick pursued. Gripping one corner of the duct tape, he wrenched it mercilessly off.

Ellis's unmuffled voice broke forth in a soft howl, like a dog in pain.

"H'owoww, Ni~ick... that hurt, man," he whined, tenderly palming his mouth and jaw where Nick's hand had been shortly before, where a rectangular reddened mark highlit where the duct tape had been ripped away, probably taking some peach fuzz along with it. His eyes might have been watering a smidge.

"Aww, poor baby," Nick teased caustically, pinching at his soft cheek. "Want me to kiss it better, ya big baby?"

A fascinating shade of scarlet scorched its way up Ellis's face, and Nick thoroughly appreciated realizing just how literally he must have been imagining the threat. It shouldn't have given him such a kick, messing with the kid like that -- but he just made it so easy.

"No," the hick predictably, sullenly declined, and ducked to the side as if to squirm out from between Nick and the workbench. Triggered to chase, Nick swiftly leaned with him and lashed out one arm to block him in a loose cage, fingertips grasping on the edge of the bench. The firm wall that was his arm intercepted Ellis's middle, prompting a small huff out of him, and to Nick's satisfaction he saw he looked agitated, like a trapped animal.

"Are you sure?" he laughed, with a wolfish grin, leaning forward, forcing Ellis to lean backwards at the waist to recoil his face from Nick's, over the bench. He looked stunned, red as anything, at a loss for how to respond.

"Come here," Nick cajoled slyly, maliciously enjoying his fluster and wanting to push him to snap, easily looming his taller frame over Ellis's, forcing his bend more dramatically till Ellis was narrowly avoiding knocking that can of screws over again, as he grabbed back at the table for support. "Dr Nick'll make it all better."

"Quit, Nick, ain't funny!" Ellis yelped, and finally brought up his free forearm to his chest to push him back, squirming hurriedly out from between him and the bench. Nick let him go, this time, not so committed to the bit as to broach sexual harassment territory, as he felt he might soon have been verging on. Ellis's breathing was untidy, warm to the tips of his ears.

"Sure is," Nick argued slyly, mercilessly drawing attention to the observation. "You're so red."

"Stawp!" Ellis whined, looking about another huff away from a foot stomp. He'd put several feet of distance between him and Nick, he noticed. "Quit playin'. I don't like that."

"I know you don't, that's why it's funny," replied Nick smoothly, remorseless. "What's wrong with a lil love between two guys, huh hick? I thought you were all about the love."

Ellis frowned.

"N-nuthin'," he mumbled defensively, and ruefully reproached him, frustrated, "'man, stop messin' with me, shit~."

Nick was chuckling, but he did relent some.

"Alright, alright. Sorry, Ace. I couldn't help myself."

Ellis was quiet for a little bit as he recovered from his embarrassment, and Nick let him sort himself out, leaving him be for a time while they searched the shed together. It was only mere minutes, though, before something or another had him calling for Nick's attention, and once the ball was rolling, he was soon as chatty as ever. 

Even while Nick inwardly bemoaned the loss of silence, he felt himself relax just a little when he determined Ellis was fine. He ignored the feeling until he could put words to it -- it wasn't that he cared about the kid's feelings, but he would care if he started acting all weird around Nick all of a sudden. Seeing as how they were all stuck together, that could get really annoying. Nick wasn't serious, obviously, it wasn't like he would have really done it, but it had been possible that just being the kind of guy to fuck with someone like that would be enough to dull the shine from Ellis's eyes when he looked at him, make him seem not quite so cool as he'd thought. 

Which Nick didn't care about, again, except that it would be annoying. If the kid was going to hate him, at this point, he wanted it to be on his own terms. And if that did turn out to be the case, well, he wasn't bent, so he had no personal offense to take himself, but if the little shit couldn't handle a little meaningless teasing, fuck if he wouldn't make life three times as hard on him. 

He had to tame his imagination, realizing he was stoking the embers of his annoyance over a hypothetical. Ellis seemed fine -- astonishingly fine, honestly. Any other man would have punched him for that stunt... which, as much as Nick liked to get under people's skin, wasn't exactly the kind he generally pulled.

The shed had plenty of miscellaneous tools and parts that might come in handy at some point. Ellis found a sturdy hunting knife that he kept with him too, as well as a propane tank he left where it was. Nick found he felt not nearly so restless in the musty shed, absently picking through junk that was largely meaningless to him, than he had inside the house, with nothing to do. 

He could admit being alone with Ellis was easier than being alone with Rochelle and Coach, too, despite the boy's chattiness. He didn't reflect too much on it. When he heard Rochelle's voice call lightly out through the rain from the front door, he sighed to himself.

"You guys dead?" she checked innocently. 

"Naw girl, we're fine!" Ellis hollered back, sticking his neck out of the door. "Jess loadsa cool stuff in here tuh look at!"

"Mm... what kind of cool? Worth me getting wet for?"

"Uhhh..."

"Tools and bones, doll," Nick had appeared behind Ellis, barely leaning out to avoid the rain, caustic drawl raised just enough to be heard. "We got tools and bones."

"Got it," replied Rochelle dryly. "Boy cool. Thanks, Nick. I'll see you guys inside."

Ellis tsked.

"Weren't much of a sale," he chided Nick, leaning against the doorframe, askew of his back injury.

"I'm not a shed salesman," was Nick's easy, cool retort, cocking an eyebrow at the hick.

"Naw," Ellis conceded with a little smile, "yer a Gamblin' Man. Though, yer good at a lot more than jess gamblin', Nick."

"Careful," he warned. "You're getting dangerously close to a question about my personal life. And you've been doing so good."

Ellis looked bashful, but not exactly innocent, looking elsewhere.

They were about done digging through the shed, Nick figured. Pretty soon there'd be nothing to do but lay down on the hard ground for the night and try to get some sleep. It sounded uncomfortable and boring, much too much time alone with his own thoughts, without the comfort of solitude. 

Just then, he was neither bored nor uncomfortable. A little damp. He was fed, though, and hadn't seen a zombie in many hours, which was a privilege he couldn't imagine many people enjoyed these days. The rain was even sort of pleasant, when you weren't in it, though the view of the muddy, junk-filled yard, now half puddle despite their location atop a hill, left something to be desired. At least it was lit only by the light that fell from the shed door, for twilight had passed, and the dark blue above was more night than evening, shadows dark below the canopy. Everything glistened, though, dripping behind the shimmer of the thickly falling rain.

So maybe it wouldn't hurt to have another cigarette. He had a decent supply now, after all, and that would make it only his third... no, fourth today. He was smoking about twice as much as usual, but whatever. If they couldn't find any at the store tomorrow, he'd cut back, otherwise he wasn't sweating it. He was a man of many vices, and had very few means at his disposal with which to satisfy most of them. If an extra couple smokes a day was all he ended up compensating with, he'd consider himself a god damn saint.

He had the at first fleeting thought that perhaps Ellis would hesitate to share a cigarette with him now. It was a stupid thought, there was nothing weird about it, but the thought that the hick might refuse rankled him irrationally, lingered while he cupped his hands and lit up, to the point that he refused to let himself look up and see Ellis's expression, though he sensed him watching, till after he'd inhaled, and was slowly sighing the smoke out into the rain. 

Green eyes, only one highlit in the warm glow from the shed, were preemptively hard when they fell to the hick, and sure enough those blue eyes were fixed on him. Immediately, though, he could read that furtively hopeful look in them, like a dog at the dinner table, and couldn't resist a smirk.

"You're developing a problem," he accused, toying with the cigarette, and with Ellis, drawing his attention to it but yet not moving to hand it over.

"I ain't," Ellis insisted, and that expression was certainly a pout.

"Well, lucky for you, I don't care about your health," Nick drawled, lazily unfolding his forearm to offer it. Pleasure flickered across the Southerner's eyes as he reached up to take it, before he registered the comment. Before the faux affront had time to form on his expression, it was intercepted by the genuine article, as Nick went on,

"Besides, I like it when you beg."

"Wh--" Ellis gawped, flustered, stumbling to protest with some real indignation. "I didn't, yew-- I ain't even said anythin'!"

"You do it with those pretty eyes."

Ellis flustered, snorted and huffed in confusion, quickly averting his eyes as his face reliably heated again, mouth open as he struggled for words. 

"Ss... stawp," was all he came up with, squirming against the door and miserably looking out into the night, as if he could hide his face from him. Even his neck was burning, Nick could see, with satisfaction. He was such an asshole. 

"It's a compliment," he taunted slyly. "Hey, hit that, you're wastin' it."

"Perty nuthin'," Ellis muttered under his breath, as he obediently brought the cigarette to his mouth, frowning a little as he puffed at it.

"Nahh. Women love that. Soon as you grow a pair and actually talk to any, you'll do just fine. Especially if you don't talk too much. Women wanna talk about themselves, they don't wanna listen to your dumb stories. Unless they want something, or they're really in love with you, and you'll wanna stay clear of that, trust me."

Ellis had returned his cigarette, and now slowly exhaled, managing not to cough this time, watching Nick again. He wore an odd, curious little smile, and a ghost of his frown still lingered.

"Damn, Nick. If yew don't mind me sayin', well -- that sounds plain ass backwards, to me. Wouldn't want no girlfriend that didn't care nuthin' fer all my cool stories... I mean, how else are yuh s'posed tuh impress a lady? An' I mean... if yew ain't lookin' fer love... what's the point?"

A drawn out sound like a leaking air mattress pfffed from Nick's thin lips, twisting in an expression of scornful, pitying amusement. His chest shook with quiet laughter.

"Okay," he drawled with obnoxiously smug skepticism. "I'll wish you the best of luck on that."

Ellis was looking at him in that too-close way again.

"Have yew..." but he trailed off, hesitating.

"Ah. Good, you caught yourself. That was close, watch it."

Ellis huffed. 

"Man, I been tryin' so hard. Yew could tell me somethin'. Don't have to be nothin' personal, or important."

"It's all important. My entire life is classified, actually."

Ellis tsked, waving him off, but he couldn't hide some reluctant amusement.

"Mann," he complained. "Yew gonna drive me silly."

"Me?" Nick laughed the word in disbelief. "That's my line, hick. I'm a saint for putting up with you."

Ellis chortled.

"Some saint, potty mouth like that... yew'd make a nun blush, St. Nicholas."

"Sure would," Nick slyly agreed, with a thin, leering smirk. 

Ellis tsked disapprovingly.

"Per~vert."

"Mmhm."

Chapter Text

LEVEL lV - THE BACKROADS - lV/V

Getting ready for bed was every bit as awkward as Nick had dreaded. It was ridiculous to have four grown adults that barely knew each other sleeping on the floor, side by side, like they were kids at a sleepover. He wasn't looking forward to trying to fall asleep that night, nor staying in the hovel of a house at all. No matter how cozy they got it, even if they carted fresh furniture in from town, planted a fucking garden, waited for the zombies to decompose since the military was too fucking useless to handle them, slapped on a few coats of paint and hung up fucking curtains... it was still a one bedroom shack with no indoor plumbing. 

He was going to go fucking insane here.

Rochelle took one end of the bed, closer to the wall, and Nick insisted on the other end, not about to be trapped in the middle. Coach and Ellis didn't care, which worked out.

As Nick lowered himself to his side, facing away from the others, he grimaced slightly at the firmness under their thin padding, which consisted of their towels and a few not particularly thick blankets. 

"Nick?" came Ellis's whisper, from just behind him.

"No," he groaned shortly, already impatient.

"Okay," came the quiet reply.

Nick sighed. 

"... what?"

"Jess was gonna say," began that earnest whisper, "if I snore, yew can jess wake me up, Keith always says I snore like a Harley hog but I'm perty sure he's jess messin', he's a big fibber, but jess in--"

"Hick. Don't worry. If you snore, I'll just smother you in your sleep, alright?"

He heard a breath of a soft laugh.

"Okay, Nick. G'night."

...

"Nick?"

For Christ's sake--

"Good night, Ellis. I'm going to sleep now."

"Good night," he heard him mumble back again, voice unmistakably warmer. And then,

"G'night Coach. Night Ro."

"Night, son," Coach's baritone rumbled patiently. "Get some sleep."

"Sweet dreams, honey."

Nick gave a grumbling sigh, and wasn't pleased when it earned a response, Rochelle's voice adding sweetly,

"Good night, asshole."

"Everyone shut the fuck up and go to sleep!" Nick snarled.

A giggle responded from the dark, and she quietly, warmly muttered,

"That's our guy."

Nick fantasized about the rain just washing the house away overnight. Unfortunately, that seemed unlikely, though it continued to drum incessantly on the roof, as if it were trying. 

Coach snored only softly, and next to the din of the rain, it didn't really even bother him. He could feel Ellis shifting restlessly behind him for a while, but then he stilled, and he figured he, too, had fallen asleep.

He should be so lucky himself.

He still ached from the abuse his body had taken the day before, and the floor exacerbated his stiffness till it burned. His clothes were slightly damp, and the temperature was such that he felt cool and clammy at the same time, sweating slightly with all of his clothes on. He was uneasy in the new environment, uneasy not having his own space.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, but he must have drifted off, because when he next opened his eyes, he could tell some hours had passed. The rain had not ceased, but it had abated, and the moon had risen, its silvery light falling through the windows. Nick stared across the bluff that was his pillow, across the landscape of dark floor, the walls seeming to loom above them from that low vantage. Rain dripped down the glass in little rivulets, casting patterns of shadows across the floorboards. 

He wasn't so clammy anymore, a little cold even, clothes still damp and the sweat having cooled on his skin. He became aware, though, of a warmth at his spine, seeping through his jacket, and a slight pressure. It took him several seconds before he deduced what it was... Ellis's nose, his sleeping breath soaking softly into his back.

He sighed... but he didn't move. Better than getting spooned by Coach, he dryly supposed. There was no one to see, not even the kid himself-- it would have been different had he been awake. It wasn't sentimental, there was just nowhere to shift to, and he didn't want to wake him, for his own sake. 

It felt appropriately strange, being in that strange room, with strangers sleeping on the floor beside him. He felt an odd, uncomfortable sense of loneliness, though he usually slept more alone than this, by a factor of three.

It was just all so surreal. To think of every place he'd ever known, every neighborhood, every deli, restaurant, hotel, every person he'd ever known or met, to imagine them  now, most likely destroyed, ruined, bloodstained, dead, infected. Never the same.

It almost seemed ridiculous, like it couldn't have been true. A joke someone was playing on him, that he was a sucker for believing. Zombies? Really? 

How could he feel that way, after the number of them they'd put down? More than that-- why didn't he feel worse? When he thought of his life, everyone and everything he'd ever touched, and what little might be left of it now, why did he just feel... numb?

He tried to goad the proper feelings out, to remind himself of everything he'd never experience again, everything that would never be the same, and the feeling was heavy, but it was wrong, too distant.

The thought of the next day, even, hardly felt real. Driving back to a zombie infested town, to loot a store for groceries. Scavenging for food, eating whatever they could find, killing mindless, feral, sick people in self defense. Was that all life would be, from now on? Fighting for survival, until he eventually fucked up, and was ripped apart? In that strange hour that was the middle of the night, though he stared across the floor at proof of reality before him, it all felt like a long, wild dream.

The only thing that seemed real was that soft, steady breathing at his spine, soaking warmly through his jacket. Tired of thinking, he tried to clear his mind, focus only on that sensation.

It helped. He could almost imagine it was just an animal, curled at his back, maybe a half nude, nameless dime, not a crazy, reckless, loud-mouthed auto mechanic from Georgia.

As he was drifting off once more, though, sooner than he'd expected, he was too sleepy to catch himself from remembering what Ellis's arms had felt like squeezing around his middle, when he'd grabbed him outside the trailer. It was just a dumb, meaningless thought, fleeting, to imagine falling asleep in such a grounding hold.

When he next awoke, it was dawn, and the thought had been forgotten, along with most of his dreams. What he did remember, he'd have preferred to forget. He'd dreamt of the house, he was sure, imagining it at once larger and yet in much, much worse condition, with each room filthier and darker than the last, and the ceiling so bizarrely low they had to stoop, all except Ellis, who was insisting on scampering everywhere on all fours and seemed thrilled about it. Nick was trying to warn him about the syringes, rusty nails and broken glass lying all around, but he wasn't listening, wouldn't listen to anything he said, just kept laughing, and Rochelle said she'd heard of a laughing zombie, and maybe he'd turned...

Though reality was not exactly paradise, he was glad to return to it, waking up from his dreams with a lingering sense of frustration and unease. It was dim inside, but there was a pale light outside, and the rain seemed to have finally stopped.

He was the first one awake. Ellis had shifted a little, but still remained close, forehead nestled into his back.

Nick released a quiet sigh. He was so stiff. He had to move-- plus, he didn't want any of the others waking up, and catching him tolerating that. He stirred, stifling a groan as he pulled himself in slow motion up onto one arm, body complaining with much creaking about his choice to lay nearly motionless on a hard floor all night. He cast his eyes back over his sleeping companions, neck giving a quiet crackle at the twist. Rochelle was all but out of sight, just a lump under the blankets, curled in the other direction. Coach lay on his back, head lolled his way, chest rising and falling slowly, not looking so stern or imposing in sleep. Ellis was tucked up some, curly head on the mattress beside the place where Nick's back had just been. He looked every bit as witless as ever, soft lips faintly parted, breathing peaceful, and Nick stared at his unaware, unconscious features a few lingering moments, frowning.

Life was fucking weird.

Gone was that uneasy, lonely feeling of the night before, though. Reality was strange, and ugly, but easier to handle than his nonsensical dreams, than too much time alone with his own mind, the ugliest place of all. He picked himself stiffly up to his feet, and crossed the floor, attempting to keep quiet, the boards creaking slightly even beneath his careful tread.

Slipping on his shoes, he opened the door and stepped outside. 

Birds sang merrily in the trees. Every surface he could see glittered with rainwater, in the yet dim light of dawn filtering through the canopy. The paling sky above was blue, with only a dusting of clouds, as if to apologize for yesterday's deluge.

Nick picked up one of the plastic chairs from where they'd left them outside the night before, by the back, tipping the water off the seat. He gave it a few firm shakes for good measure, then set it down beside the steps, and moved to sit down. He had to stretch one of his legs some, to avoid putting his foot down into a puddle, but settled comfortably enough, withdrawing his box of cigarettes from his jacket.

He was just halfway through his smoke when he heard the doorknob turn, and the door quietly open.

"Hey, smelly," was Rochelle's greeting. Her softened voice made him think the others were still asleep. He twisted to give her a slightly affronted look, cigarette hanging from his thin lips, and found her smiling down at him. "You want coffee?"

He frowned, affront weakening.

"... Yes," he admitted, around his cigarette. Her eyes crinkled warmly, and she retreated back inside without another word. 

As the door shut, Nick felt a rare moment of private appreciation for the woman, and turned back around the watch the canopy starting to golden, catching the glow of the rising sun. He breathed out, watching the way the smoke played in the light.

He had finished his cigarette, and was just indulging in the peaceful solitude, when the door opened again.

"'Ey, Nick," came a sleepy voice. It was Ellis this time, boots untidily tied and cuffs of his coveralls stuck inside them. "Yer up early," he yawned, trudging down the stairs to the ground. "Sleep okay?"

"No. Fuck no. Did you?"

"Was a'right," Ellis mumbled, almost apologetically, hugging one of his arms across his chest in a stretch. "Sorry 'bout that. We'll git it fixed up better."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure it'll be a real little love shack, in the end. I mean, look at this view," he commented sarcastically, indicating the yard with a sweeping gesture of one arm, as if he hadn't just been appreciating, at the very least, some of it.

"S'kinda perty...," Ellis defensively mumbled. "Was nice down by the water, last night.. oh man, though--"

he was squirming a little, and admitted,

"-- speakin' of water, I really gotta piss, sorry, be right back."

Nick rolled his eyes a little as he scurried off, calling lazily after him, "Don't fall in."

Rochelle was back in another couple minutes. Quiet mornings were a thing of the past, he recognized.

"Hey Suit, you want creamer?"

"The Refrigerate After Opening creamer we've had sitting out since yesterday? Nah. I'll take it black."

"I'm not sure there's enough pronouncable ingredients in that stuff to go bad. Anyway, here you go then."

Nick twisted, cocking his eyebrow in surprise, to see her extending a mug of steaming black coffee down to him.

"Wow, table service? Thanks, doll."

"Don't get used to it," she warned, then called out to Ellis, returning through the gate, "Hey honey, coffee's ready. You want creamer?"

"Yes ma'am, please 'n thank yew!" the hick replied cheerily, approaching up the path.

"How are the facilities?" Rochelle asked skeptically, holding the door open for him.

"Well, ain't fancy, but it'll do. Jess be careful, 'cause there's a lil black widow livin' in there. Well, ain't too little, really..."

Nick's mood soured. 

"Naturally," he seethed.

"Aw, they're okay, jess leave her be 'n she'll do the same."

"Yeah, right. You really thinking I'm going in there with that thing?"

"I might be with Nick on this one," Rochelle whined apprehensively.

"Aww, aw'right.. I guess I could move her, hate evicting a lady from her home, but--"

"Jesus Christ, hick-- it's a spider. Not a lady. A spider, in a shithouse."

"Well, technically, she were a lady spider... an' if yew live there, ain't a shithouse, it's a shithome, at the very least."

"Oh my gosh," Rochelle groaned.

"... Get rid of the spider, or I will. Permanently."

"I don't know, maybe we should just let it be... I'd hate for him to get bit messing with it."

"Yeah? Hey, you have to take a seat in there more often than I do," Nick pointed out.

Ellis looked embarrassed by the inference.

"Tell you what, how about you two go get Coach's vote, and let me drink my coffee in peace. This is more shit and spider talk than I want to be involved in this early."

"Same," Rochelle admitted, but they let him be, heading inside.

"Coach, yew ain't scareda lil bitty spiders, are yuh?" he heard Ellis asking, before the door shut.

He savored the roasted, familiar bitter taste of the coffee, hot and comforting. Another thing the record store owner had better taste in than his clothes -- or, no, Rochelle had grabbed the coffee and french press from the office. He was already losing track of where they'd scavenged what from. 

He'd almost finished his coffee, and the morning was brightening, when Ellis emerged again, barely containing his energy.

"Hey," he greeted him, voice brimming with warmth and excitement, and he could feel his eyes on him. He turned his jaw just enough to return the stare, and saw the smile already on the hick's dumb face broaden into a grin, despite the hard gaze and unsmiling expression he'd presented him with, one eyebrow just cocked questioningly.

"Coach is makin' pancakes," he delivered the justification for bothering Nick again proudly, hanging off the doorframe on one arm. "Sweet potatuh pancakes. We don't got no eggs or nothin', but they're smellin' real good."

He held his already empty coffee mug up in his other hand, declaring more solemnly, "Gonna go relocate a spider. Be right back."

Good man, Coach.

Now he just had to deal with the squicky feeling it gave him in his gut, imagining Ellis dealing with a black widow. If he was going to crush it, he wouldn't even be thinking of it, but no, naturally, he was relocating it. What if Ellis got seriously ill because of a fucking spider, of all things? How were they going to treat a spider bite?

A few minutes later, Rochelle came out with a plate of suspiciously normal-looking pancakes. He caught a whiff of nutmeg. 

"Go get food, Suit," she told him. "We're all gonna come eat out here and bug ya. Ew, that's so much mud..."

Nick smirked, and got to his feet to head inside as she carefully navigated the treacherous ground to grab herself a chair. 

Inside, the shack smelled pleasantly of sweet potato and spices. Nick approached the janky little stove they'd gotten working, and Coach's back, casting his eyes over the pools of batter in the skillet, the plate of steaming pancakes beside it.

Indicating a stack of three clean plates with his spatula as Nick neared, Coach gruffly rumbled,

"Help yoself. There's plenty."

Nick sniffed speculatively. There was a sweet aroma to it, like a candy shop... vanilla. And almond.

"Did you use that creamer in these?" he asked suspiciously. 

"Only dairy we had," Coach explained solemnly. "Well, close to dairy, anyway. Smelled a'right. Babygirl tried a li'l."

"Damn it. If we all get food poisoning, Coach..."

"Proceed at yo own risk."

There wasn't much he could say to that. They did smell appealingly edible. With a grumble, and against his better judgment, Nick picked up a plate, and began delicately pinching pancakes up by their edges, tossing them lightly onto his plate.

Coach grumbled too.

"Yo cranky white ass is welcome, too."

"Thanks, Chef. If I don't shit myself to death, I'll be sure and leave a good Yelp review for the Hick House."

Coach tsked dismissively, waving a large hand in the air as if batting him away.

"Mama's all set up in her new digs!" Ellis's voice called out happily, bounding up the steps and inside. "Took a minute, but we found her a nice lil tree nook... ain't no outhouse, but she'll be a'right."

"Thank God," drawled Nick sarcastically. "We were all so worried about the deadly spider."

Ellis ignored him, pulling off his boots.

"Awww, shit, Coach those smell so good! Jess gotta get my boots, don't wanna track no mud..."

Nick looked uneasily at the trail of mud he'd thoughtlessly left. Coach had apparently just thought of the same thing, eyes finally leaving the stove to fall to Nick's shoe-clad feet, then following the incriminating footprints that led back to the door. 

"Boy!" he roared. "Get outta here!"

"Fuck," Nick swore under his breath, skin prickling, and hurried away with his pancakes, taking care to backtrack out over his own shameful trail. Ellis, in his socked feet, steered clear of the muddy path on his way to fetch his own breakfast, fighting bemusement. 

"Least someone was brought up wit' some manners," he heard Coach grumbling behind him, "Man has some nerve, talkin' bout anyone else bein' raised in a barn, hell~..."

"I fucked up the floor," Nick confessed grimly to Rochelle the moment he walked out, before he'd even sat down, making the strategic decision to lay out all his cards, appeal to her soft heart and get her on his side before she learned the news from Coach. "I'll clean it, okay? Don't let Coach kill me. I'll haunt you."

Rochelle was giggling, looking at him with a mix of amusement and not-very-sympathetic sympathy.

"Oh, Suit. You were doing so good until the threat. That's not how you ask for favors."

Nick narrowed his eyes.

"I beg to differ."

"This girl only takes bait sweetened with honey, not vinegar," she teased primly, delicately waggling her rosy nails in the air, gesturing to her own face. "Guess you're on your own with Papa Bear."

"Whatever. I can take him. I'll just go for his bad knee."

"Oh my gosh, Suit," her voice shook with mirth, helplessly amused. "You're terrible. And Coach has kids, sweetie. I don't think tracking in a little mud is going to make him go homicidal on you."

"Did you hear him?" Nick asked, petulant. Maybe it was because he'd earned a 'sweetie' -- he sensed there was pity there he  could appeal to. "He yelled at me."

"I did," Rochelle admitted in a deceptively crooning tone, failing to fight a smile. "I figured you deserved it."

Nick huffed sourly, tearing a piece off one of his pancakes. He'd forgotten to grab a fork in his flight, but without butter or syrup, it didn't make for particularly offensive finger food.

"Bitch," he mumbled, before he took his first bite.

"Asshole," she cheerily returned, and there was an easy silence between them for a minute. The pancakes, again, were really not bad, the texture a little moist, but not unpleasant. The spices were a nice touch, nutmeg and cinnamon, though he could have done without the artificial, cloying aftertaste the creamer had contributed.

Ellis and Coach soon joined them, both their plates piled higher than either he or Rochelle. Ellis was giddy with excitement, chattering non-stop him as he shook chairs off for himself and for Coach, joining them in a little circle. They'd all joined Nick, really, just as Rochelle had teased. Nick cagily eyed Coach, but the big man seemed in a fine mood, and he soon settled his hackles, deciding retaliation was unlikely.

Ellis, too, was eating with his hands, and only when he began seemingly inhaling pancakes did he shut up.

"Who decided the kid could have coffee?" Nick questioned, when a conspicious silence fell in the wake of Ellis contentedly starting to consume his breakfast. "He doesn't need more energy. And that stuff's gonna stunt his growth."

"'Ey, I'm b'un b'roing!" Ellis protested around a mouthful of pancake.

"Swallow before you talk, hick, Jesus. You're done growing? That's unfortunate."

Ellis swallowed before he complained, "Whad'yew mean? Toldju, I'm twenty three, 'course I'm done growin'! An'I ain't short!"

"Maybe with those boots on, you ain't..." Nick chuckled, pleased to see Ellis scowling at him-- with those cheeks so well-suited to pouting, it would have been a waste not to goad him out of his cheery attitude now and then. "I think the hat adds an inch, too..."

"Don't add nothin'!" Ellis huffed indignantly. "I ain't short! I'm jess average."

"Suure."

"Ignore him, sweetie. You're not short."

"See?" Ellis had paid attention to precisely half of what Rochelle had said, still arguing with Nick.

"Shorty solidarity. She can't be trusted. Besides, it's easy to say someone's tall when you're looking up at everyone yourself."

"I didn't say tall," Rochelle argued without thinking, and Ellis gave her a hurt look.

"Oh I didn't mean-- I mean you're not short, honey, not at all, but you know... height really isn't all that important, anyway."

"Now it's 'height isn't important'," Nick pointed out slyly. 

"Oh shush," Rochelle chided. "It isn't. I've dated men shorter than Ellis, and not half so sweet."

"Really?" Ellis asked, looking cheered a little.

"Really?" Nick wondered skeptically.

"Really," she dryly assured him. "Anywayy~ -- these pancakes are delicious, Coach."

"Yeah, man, they really are," Ellis chimed in, earnestly distracted by his heartfelt appreciation for the food. "I love pancakes. Can't believe there ain't no eggs in these things. Hey, maybe if we could find some chickens somewhere, we could bring em home, start makin' our own eggs."

"That'd be nice," Coach intoned indulgently. 

They had discussed the night before their plans for the morning. It was a few hours drive back to town, but they had all day, and they hadn't explored the immediate area yet. Though they'd neither seen nor heard any evidence of zombies since the town, the idea of scoping out at least what of their area might be within earshot seemed prudent. They were perhaps more concerned with the idea of other humans around. Not Ellis, of course-- he was excited at the thought there might be 'neighbors' nearby-- but Nick and, he suspected, Rochelle and Coach, were not quite so enthusiastic at the idea, not so optimistic that anyone living this far out in the boonies would be exactly welcoming to new neighbors.

When the plan came up again, though, Nick groaned.

"I'm really not a fan of tromping around in the mud. Maybe I'll stay here. I've got some Cinderella work to do inside."

"We could take the truck, save some time," Ellis suggested. "Jess a a quick li'l look around, an' then we should still have plenty of gas tuh get tuh town."

There was a little hesitation at the idea of risking using too much of their gas, but with the exception of Ellis, nobody else was real keen on the idea of trudging around the woods in the thick mud either. They decided to take the chance-- it would, after all, take only a few minutes to clear the area by truck, and then they could head right on towards town.

"I'm calling shotgun, this time," Nick grumbled. "Especially if Ellis is driving. Otherwise I might be going full Boomer in the backseat."

After breakfast, they gathered all their weapons and headed out. Just getting that far involved picking their way across slippery ground around muddy puddles, and Nick was intensely relieved they were taking the truck. Ellis did hop into the driver's seat, and Nick prayed the creamer hadn't turned, thinking food poisoning and motion sickness would be a terrible combination for a road trip. Sitting in the front seat did help with the latter, though.
 
As they drove back down the hill, to turn along the ravine they'd been following earlier, Ellis popped a cassette surreptitiously into the player. Nick gave him a suspicious look.

"Y'all ain't never gonna let me play country," he defended quietly, "'nless I sneak it on yuh."

The pluckiest, twangiest fuzzy old song Nick had ever heard crackled to life through the speakers. 

"Jesus Christ, country from when? The pilgrim days?"

"Naww, this like.. '40s, '50s. That's when yew gotcher best stuff from. Hank, Woody, Carter Family..."

"I'm sorry-- did he actually just say 'honky tonking'?"

"Hahaw, yeah... this the real oldschool shit, man. Don't get no better 'n this."

"... It's kind of sweet," Rochelle admitted, after a bit. "Sorry for not letting you play your country, sweetie. I figured it'd be all... tractors and jean shorts, I dunno."

"Yeah, country gits a real bad rap, cause of all that mass produced new shit. That ain't real country. This, though-- musta listened to this album a hunnerd times. My grampa had a record of it."

"Bet he did," Nick muttered, though he didn't mock more than that -- it wasn't as offensive as modern country -- and he was focused trying to hear the lyrics of the second track.

Today I tried to eat a steak with a big ol' tablespoon,

You got me chasin' rabbits, walkin' on my hands, and howlin' at the moon

"This my favorite one on the album," Ellis mumbled happily, quietly as if not to speak over it, and Nick realized he'd noticed him listening. 

He looked away, and only muttered, dryly, "-- Suits you."

They'd barely explored a couple minutes around their neighborhood before they came across something interesting-- a wooden walking bridge, extending across the ravine. Ellis brought the truck to a stop.

"Huh... well that's cool. What d'yew think, guys? Could run across real quick, jess see if there's anything on the other side? Might be more houses over there. Looks real sturdy."

Though Nick was skeptical, it did, to be fair, look quite sturdy, straight and solid, supported by old but hardy-looking wooden posts, hardly the ill-advised, rickety rope bridge of countless action movies. 

"Quick look across the bridge, then we get going to town?" Nick checked, reluctantly conceding to the idea. He missed civilization, zombie-infested or not.

"Can't hurt," Coach suggested. "Ain't muddy on the bridge, at least."

So Ellis twisted the key, killing the engine, and they climbed out. The woods were peacefully silent, barely even a breeze, the only backdrop as they approached the bridge the soft tinkling of water dripping from leaves. 

"If this thing so much as creaks, I'm out," Nick threatened.

It did creak, but only a little. They all ventured cautiously onto the damp wood at first, but relaxed when it remained obviously solid under their feet. It had probably been there for decades, maybe from a time when there'd been more of a population around here, or when there at least had been more of one planned.

"Man, this is cool," Ellis was saying, looking about them. "This bridge makes me think of this one time, Keith and I, we was out fishin'..."

Nick tuned him out, glancing back towards the truck, an odd feeling moving through him. Ellis had turned the vehicle off, he'd seen it, but for a moment, he could have sworn he'd heard something that almost sounded like an exhaust pipe... a thick, grumbling release of air... but the truck was still, of course. In the distance, then? He strained his ears, but started to think he must have imagined it. He couldn't hear anything but Ellis's rambling, not even the bird's singing...

There were no birds singing. 

He heard something again, and there was no mistaking this time that it was close.

"Ellis!" he hissed. A few yards ahead, Ellis and the others paused and looked back to him, the redneck wearing a confused, curious expression to see him stopped.

Then they all heard it.

Heavy... heavy... breathing.

A chill slowly soaked Nick's skin. He could see the looks of trepidation on his teammates' faces, no doubt mirroring his own. 

It was coming from underneath the bridge.

Without a word, slow with caution, hearts thudding, they all crept quietly to the edge, and looked down over the railing.

The bottom of the short ravine had turned into a swamp overnight. The source of the noise was immediately apparent, though it was covered in mud, half-sunk in it. Even buried, though, the thing was huge. The depth of its ominous, engine-like breathing matched its size. Any hope that they were perhaps just dealing with an injured stag evaporated immediately. 

Though the color of the flesh and exact shape were hard to determine, filthy and buried as it was, Nick was immediately reminded of the Charger, for all he could see was swollen, rippling, senselessly bulging muscle. It didn't limit itself to one arm, though-- it was a back Nick was looking at, he was pretty sure, with shoulders like a parody of the worst steroid case one could imagine. 

They didn't need to see flashing eyes, or the hue of its skin, to know they hadn't outrun the virus after all.

No one dared breathe a word-- not even Ellis, though he mouthed a silent profanity, blue eyes wide with wonder and horror. Rochelle might have sucked in a breath-- Nick couldn't blame her, though, for what happened next. They'd been talking full volume up until a moment ago. It was almost as if it sensed their eyes on it.

The heavy breathing suddenly quickened, hoarsened threateningly, then with an earth-trembling roar that made the wooden railing under Nick's hand shudder and his heart freeze, the creature began to heave itself up from the mud with a sick squelching. 

It was even bigger than he'd feared. Nick saw two arms like tree trunk's, each huger than the Charger's. The distended torso alone was the size of what they'd previously mistaken for the massive mutant Rochelle had told them rumors of.

"Tank-sized zombie," whimpered Ellis on a breath, and this time there was no mistaking the fear in his voice. 

"Run!" Rochelle screamed, the first to break free of their horrified daze. At once, the group tore away from the railing, bolting back for the truck. The tank roared like an enraged gorilla, the sound so predatory and deafening, filling the air, that Nick's mind went blank, absolutely emptied with fear, and he could think of nothing but sprinting for his life.

There was a sickening crack, like a log snapping, and the whole bridge shook -- then, just ahead of them, exploded, planks flying in all directions, as the behemoth burst forth from beneath it, shattering their path to the truck. 

Nick might have yelled in terror too, this time. Their screams were drowned out by crashing, shattering wood and the infected's horrible roaring, as they scrambled to reverse, now desperately trying to make it to the other side before the whole bridge came down. Rochelle slipped on the slick and now shaking wood, and went down, but Coach hauled her up to her feet without pausing. Nick had gone from closest to the truck to closest to the Tank at their heels, whose great weight was giving it trouble getting ahold of the slippery planks, the only reason it hadn't caught up to them yet, as it fought not to slide back down off the collapsing bridge even as its savage scrambling continued to destroy it.

Nick's stomach dropped with dread as he saw the bridge disconnecting from the other side of the ravine, a gap forming as it threatened to tip, and slide them all straight back towards the abomination. Rochelle leaped before it had the chance to widen much, clearing the gap easily, and Coach heaved himself after her, landing less tidily with a grunt, but safely. Ellis had to lunge to make the gap, widening with each step Nick ran.

Come on, God damn it, he thought bitterly, as he put on speed up the slippery, inclining bridge, nearly losing his footing at the last moment before his dress shoe planted on the final plank of the bridge, the ravine gaping below, and he leaped desperately off into the air.

"Nick!"

He heard Ellis's fearful cry past the wind whipping in his ears, and even without that grim sign, he knew immediately he wasn't going to clear the gap.

Instead, his body hit the edge of the ravine, and the breath was knocked brutally from his lungs. His arms had made it onto the edge, but he was too breathless to pull himself up, and would have slid right back off, clawing at the dirt, if Ellis and Coach hadn't firmly grabbed his arms, and hauled him up from the ravine, wheezing for breath, shaken and sick with relief. 

"Nick," Ellis panted anxiously, helping support him as he fought for breath, dazed. Behind him, the Tank roared as it went down in a huge crash with the collapsing bridge, but from the sound of it, it was far from out from the count. 

"Nick, you good?" Coach barked tensely. "We gotta go!"

Nick noticed Coach was bleeding from a cut above the eyebrow-- a stray piece of flying wood must have gotten him, though it seemed to be only a graze, thank goodness. He realized it was the first injury he'd seen the big man receive, and there was something disturbing about seeing the dark blood drip down his face. He nodded mutely, still trying to breathe, and they took off down the other side of the ravine, doing their best not to lose their footing in the mud. 

They did anyway. Within minutes, they were filthy from countless slips down the slick slope, unable to slow enough for caution. It had taken a precious minute for the Tank to climb out of the ravine, but they could hear it coming now, and they were desperate not to let it catch up. They had to get around the ravine, and then back up to the truck-- or, if they couldn't make it that far, at least they could hide in the house. 

Nick couldn't imagine stopping to shoot it. Even with all of them armed with loaded weapons, the thought terrified him. If humans and dinosaurs had existed at the same time, he couldn't imagining running from a tyrannosaurus could have been any more frightening. The idea that he, a human being, had ever considered itself the top of the food chain, was laughable. 

They were far enough that they couldn't see it, the few times they dared look back. What they could see was chunks of the canopy tearing to one side and the other, as the monster snapped whole trees aside to get to them, with great cracking sounds that rent the air, and the violent ferocity of its roars was disturbing in a way that Nick, if he survived the next few minutes -- just then, that seemed a lot to hope for -- would never forget. 

He had no doubt that the creature, if it reached them, would literally tear them limb to limb.

Their breathing was ragged, and Nick, at least, was struggling not to lean over the splitting cramp in his side, when they spotted a tree fallen across the ravine. They needed the shortcut-- the end of the ravine was too far, they were realizing, they'd never make it. Nick was skeptical whether they could make it across the log, either-- particularly Coach -- but they had no choice. 

Ellis ran right for it, without question.

"Oh man," he heard him mutter, "wish me luck."

He bolted across. Rochelle followed, a little more anxiously, and without Ellis's confident momentum, immediately wobbled, crouching and extending her arms a little to balance herself.

"Oh my god..." she fretted.

"You okay, babygirl. You doin' great. Keep goin' girl, you got this."

The fallen tree was already wobbling from Ellis's run. It wasn't terribly thick, and Coach and Nick didn't dare risk off balancing it by jumping on too. They heard the Tank's guttural, heavy grunting, though, getting nearer. Ellis's arms started pinwheeling a little near the other side, and Nick imagined him slipping off just before reaching it, but he didn't, momentum seeing him safely onto land. Rochelle crept determinedly forward, expression taut with fear, but quickening her pace gradually till she was running the last few steps, into Ellis's arms, waiting to steady her.

"Go on, son," Coach tersely ordered, eyeing the direction the Tank was approaching from.

With a smirk at once wry and rueful, almost sneering, Nick pulled his rifle from his shoulder.

"Not this time, Coach. I've got the rifle."

He didn't need to explain more. By the time the freak got close enough
for Coach's shotgun to have any effect, it would be too late for him. Nick could at least start firing as soon as he had line of sight, and perhaps slow it down. If it came to that. 

Even if they took time they didn't have to trade weapons, Coach didn't have the aim and experience Nick did. It was the logical choice.

Still, Coach hesitated.

"No time, Coach," Nick snarled, advancing a step on him aggressively. Coach didn't back up, but it was satisfying to see him look slightly taken aback. Maybe not a moment worth dying for, but he'd savor it his last minute. Not that he actually intended to die for any of these stupid motherfuckers -- that would make him the biggest dumbass of all. Echoing as much outloud, he followed that up with,

"Fucking hurry, would you?"

Something firmed in Coach's eyes, and he ran. Nick couldn't watch, shouldering his rifle and pointing it back the way they'd come, eyeing down its scope.

It was coming.

He saw some brush up the slope shaking violently, had his aim already set before it burst into view from them. He fired at once, and was pleased at least to hear it roar in pain as a hole appeared in its chest. It could feel pain, then.

Good.

It was barrelling towards him. Unlike the Charger, it ran on all fours, its massive arms wrenching itself forward in bounds, like a gorilla. It was almost like its upper body was so massive that its own weight pulled it forward, and it was easier for it to fall on all fours than stay upright. 

It was a disturbing sight, but Nick wasn't frozen anymore. He yanked his reload bar and fired again. This one caught it in the shoulder. He heard Ellis yelling from across the ravine.

"C'mon Coach!! You're almost there!"
 
Every second increased his primal urge to flee, every muscle in his body screaming at him. 

He got in just one more shot. This one hit it directly in one gigantic pectoral, and Nick gaped as it skidded to a halt, leaving gouges like semi tracks in the mud, wondering if he could really have finished it. It reared up on its legs and roared with bloodthirsty vitality, though, and Nick knew otherwise.

He'd just pissed it off.

"Nick! Nick c'mon!"

Ellis, and Rochelle too, were screaming at him. Without another look at the Tank, he ran for the log, Coach now safely on the other side, with no hesitation, only determination, submerged in fear to a point that he'd reached a kind of icy calm.

Any moment, he could slip, tumble off, and be trapped, easy pickings for the Tank, particularly with the broken leg he was likely to accrue in the fall. Any moment, the creature could reach the ravine, grab the whole tree, yank it violently from under him, and send him hurtling down.

Instead, he heard an odd ripping sound from behind him. He didn't dare look. The other side was so close. He could make it.

"What's he? Oh god--"

"Nick! Git down!"

He was so close -- but he listened, this time, and threw himself down, clamping himself around the trunk, just catching a glimpse of the others scattering too.

A great whoosh of air passed just over his prone form, and there was a rattling crash of jostled branches as a projectile tree hit the opposite side of the ravine.

"Nicknickhurryhurry c'mon, quick! He's gettin' another!"

Cursing with what little breath he could spare for it, Nick hauled himself upwards. One foot slipped alarmingly as he tried to get it under him, but he caught himself before his hands had left the log, then threw himself recklessly forward that last yard. There was a crack as Ellis's sniper rifle rang out, and by the angry sound he knew it had hit its target, but as soon as Nick was scrambling onto solid ground, he lowered it, yelling, "Hurry let's go let's go!!"

Coach was just helping Rochelle up-- she seemed to have taken a dive avoiding the tree, and looked a little dazed and scratched up but otherwise fine. They tore away from the ravine, and moments later they heard a crash as another tree landed where they'd been. 

They reached the dirt and gravel road and ran up it. Nick wasn't sure how much longer he could sustain that sprint, body protesting no matter how motivating the threat behind them was. The road was easier footing than the muddy slope, but it was tortuously uphill.

"How far?" he panted.

"Not far to the house, I don't think!" Ellis gasped back. "But I... dunno if... we got time tuh... get tuh the truck."

Nick doubted it as well. It had been too much to hope the monster might skirt the ravine the long way, but of course he could hear it was crossing right through. It might take it a minute to climb out again, but the ravine was shallower here. They weren't going to make it.

"To the house then," Coach huffed, and the universe dangled the hope of reaching it tantalizingly in front of them, as Nick recognized the dirt road that curved up the hill to their house up ahead.

The final dash up the hill was hell, made worse by the desperate feeling of it all. Nick was under no illusion they were headed to a fortress. The CEDA trailer had been sturdier, and they'd been sure a horde could have ripped it apart. He would have rather faced multiple hordes back to back than this thing.

When they finally, by some miracle, reached the gate, they were staggering as much as running. The Tank wasn't far off, they could hear its thundering approach, the fence trembling from vibrations through the earth. Mudsoaked and weak with fatigue, they stumbled across the yard and tumbled inside, shutting the door behind them.

Ellis was breathing so hard he was almost hyperventilating, and he collapsed immediately to sit, legs folding beneath him. Rochelle's breathing sounded a little like crying -- Coach was sucking in and exhaling heavy lungfuls, shaved dome drenched in sweat.

Nick felt dizzy with exertion, and leaned against the wall for support as he peered out the window closest the door. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of its chest.

Maybe it would just pass them by... he barely had to time to hope, before the thing came thundering into sight up the hill.

He recoiled back from the window. It broke into the yard a moment later, sending a fence post flying. Debris was knocked about by its huge arms, wailing at anything it could in senseless fury... till it brought both giant hands crashing down on the rusted old truck, sunk deep into the mud. Nick thought it just meant to pummel it... but instead he watched from terrifyingly close as its huge fingers gripped the frame, and with a powerful surge, ripped it from the ground.

Then he hurled it like a frisbee, with such speed and power Nick's knees went weak, cracking a tree in half with a violent noise and crashing into the woods somewhere out of sight.

Rochelle gave up a sound that was half whimper, half sob, clutching her hands over her mouth. It had all happened in seconds.

Nick felt a hand on his back. Coach had his arms wide to collect them, urging them to move.

"Downstairs," he whispered urgently, "now!"

Of course. It was hard to think. The icy calm was long gone-- Nick felt like a half-crazed prey animal. They bolted for the trapdoor. Ellis yanked it open, and Rochelle disappeared down so quickly she might as well have slid down the stairs. There was no arguing about order this time-- Coach pushed Nick forward, and he tore down after her. 

Just as a crash shook the house, and several windows shattered. He heard Ellis's boots tumbling frantically down behind him, and a blood thirsty roar from what might as well been their living room. Nick jumped off the last few stairs and turned just in time to see Coach's legs practically falling into sight, lower foot slipping a few steps. Then the rest of him ducked inside, pulling the trapdoor shut above him. 

They were sealed in pitch darkness. Horrible noises crashed overhead, squealing metal and breaking glass. It sounded as if the house really was being ripped to pieces. The floorboards shook under the monstrosity's pounding movements, raining grit and dust down on their heads, and it was easy to picture them giving way under its weight alone, even if it didn't sense them down there and just rip the floor up in shards till it could get at them, trapped down there like fish in a barrel.

Though it was already cramped in the tiny cellar, they found themselves clustering close, sinking to the floor in exhaustion, and perhaps out of an urge to cow as far away from the violence above as possible. Coach found Rochelle in the darkness and wrapped his arms comfortingly around her. When a particularly violent crash slammed into the floor just over their heads, raining a new shower of grit down upon them and causing Nick to duck his head, grimacing, he felt a hand latch onto his sleeve, and grip the material tight.

He didn't touch it, but even so, he knew it was Ellis. He could hear his nervous, trembling breathing from just beside him.

He didn't dislodge him, either, avoiding acknowledging that he, too, wanted the contact just then.

Chapter Text

LEVEL lV - THE BACKROADS - V/V

It felt like it could all be over so quickly, at any moment, but instead it stretched on forever. Minutes turned into an hour, and the sounds of destruction had subsided, but not ceased. It was nearby, rummaging around... they could hear its low, massive grunts and growls, unpleasantly gorilla-like, hear it occasionally roar in apparent frustration, throw something or smash a tree.

As the adrenaline wore off, unable to keep up with the sustained fear, exhaustion set in. Nick hadn't slept well, not that night or the one before, but he still didn't know how it was possible that he found himself dozing fitfully, waking often with a start in the darkness to a chilling roar or crash from somewhere in the woods nearby. It seemed to wander away for a time, then return, like it knew they were in the area, and refused to leave it.

They hadn't spoken, really, still too shaken. It was all so nightmareish, anything seemed possible... the thing might hear their whispers from an unlikely distance, and descend upon them.

At one point, one of Nick's dozes became more. He didn't know long it had been when he woke, but he felt oddly well rested. He couldn't immediately hear the Tank.

He was still partially upright, but leaned against something. Something comfortable. His head was cushioned... he heard soft breathing, close, smelled shampoo and sweat, came to understand the cotton and skin pressed into the side of his face.

A shoulder.

He'd fallen asleep on Ellis, and wasn't sure he could find a way to blame him for that. 

Moving very slowly, his only hope being that Ellis had fallen asleep first, and not noticed his slip, he carefully drew away, sitting up, and listened harder.

Nothing.

"... How long has it been quiet?" he dared to whisper. His voice sounded raspy. He hadn't used it in a while, except to yell.

"Lil bit," came Coach's low whisper.

"... Think it's gone? I uh.. I dozed off a little."

"Babygirl too. S'alright. Been down here... more'na few hours, I'd say. It's been stayin' in the area, like it knows we're here. Ain't been this quiet fo this long before, though. Thinkin' we might need to think about checkin' outside. Can't stay down here forever."

"At least we've got water," Nick muttered dryly.

"Fraid not," said Coach grimly. "Opened one, refilled our bottles. S'upstairs. Stuck the other one in the truck, just in case anything happened on the way to the store."

"Well, thank goodness we were prepared," Nick drawled sarcastically.

"None of us could have been prepared for that," came Rochelle's soft whisper.

"Babygirl, I'm sorry. Did we wake you?"

"It's okay, Papa Bear. I'm about ready to get out of this cellar, if we think the coast is clear."

"That, or it's just gotten smart enough to go quiet and wait," Nick pointed out sarcastically.

"Helpful, Nick," Coach intoned sternly. "Real helpful."

"Is Ellis awake?" Rochelle whispered.

"Yea."

"Shit, hick, since when?" Nick suspiciously snapped. "You were so quiet, the fuck."

"Jess a minute. Didn't want tuh interrupt. We think it might be safe out there?"

"I think safe is a stretch. I think Nowhere is Safe is pretty evidently the theme of the day, actually."

"We don't got time fo this. That thing's probably gonna be back. We gotta get to the truck, and get outta here. Sorry, young'un. It was a good idea."

"S'okay," Ellis regretfully replied. "Sorry fer askin' tuh check out the bridge. I ain't never gonna feel the same 'bout bridges again."

"That's alright, son. Fo all we know, had things gone down a different way, that thing mighta found us in our sleep."

Nick shuddered.

"Okay. Let's get the fuck out of here. Sweetheart, you got your flashlight?"

"No," Rochelle admitted apologetically. "It's in the truck. I didn't think I'd need it."

Of course not. It had been mid morning, in a bright, sunny woods. What could she have needed a flashlight for?

"That's alright," Nick muttered, "I think I can figure it out."

He navigated his way up the stairs to the trapdoor by feel. He listened close at it, again, going as still as possible so that the steps he stood on wouldn't creak.

It sounded quiet out there.

He slowly pressed against the trapdoor, thinking there was probably debris atop it, and hoping to slide it off with as little noise as possible. He encountered a different problem. There was debris, alright-- so much that the door wouldn't budge. He shoved impatiently, hard. Nothing.

His stomach twisted unpleasantly, heart starting to race.

No. They weren't trapped. They were not buried alive. He needed to calm down. He tried to keep the edge of nerves from his voice, focusing on the frustration, as he growled caustically down the stairs.

"Could use some help over here!"

He knew before he heard them that it would be Ellis's workboots, hurrying up the stairs.

"It's blocked," he told him grimly, when he was beside him. "I don't know what by. We're gonna lift on three, okay?"

"Kay," breathed Ellis readily, and they both braced themselves tightly up against the door.

"One... two... three."

They both heaved. Nick grunted with the strain of the heavy weight stubbornly pinning the trapdoor, but he felt it slowly starting to give, heard some shifting debris and saw bits of light slipping in. The light widened with their combined efforts, and then with a last heave they pushed the trapdoor up and free, and they were left standing on the steps half way out of the opening, surrounded by a field of debris, what was left of what had been, for a very brief time, their safehouse.

It was hardly recognizable. The roof was a distance off, leaning against a thicket of trees. The walls were gone, in scattered, broken pieces. The door had been twisted up into a hunk of metal. Mattress stuffing flooded down the hill in shreds, along with musty clothes, ripped blankets, broken animal skulls and antlers, shards of glass and ceramic, and miscellaneous junk from the yard. Even that was unrecognizable, the fence mostly ripped out and great gouges left in the mud. Nick saw one of their plastic chairs stuck in a tree canopy, thirty feet above. The trees had suffered as well, several snapped in half or ripped from their roots. 

The shed was gone too, of course. Even the outhouse was crushed.

"Ho my Lord..." Ellis breathed. "I ain't never seen... why, I mean... fuckin'... shit~, man."

Nick couldn't blame him. Words couldn't really do it justice. He was lost for words himself, grim eyes captivated by the scene of devastation, feeling very cognizant of his mortality, till Coach urged in a tense whisper from below,

"Is it safe or not?"

"I don't hear anything, but I don't think we should stick around," Nick quietly replied down the steps. "Let's go."

He climbed all the way out, readying his rifle, heart beating tensely. He still didn't hear birds, he noticed, and that only increased his caution, his tread light as he began to pick his way across the yard. There was no need to aim for the opening where the gate had been-- neither the gate nor the fence remained. He only tried to navigate around the great, muddy gouges that had changed the landscape of the yard, and now pooled with opaque rainwater.

In what direction had it gone? Would they be headed right for it, as they went for their truck? Would it hear the engine start? Would it hear them first? Hiding in the cellar wouldn't work a second time. He'd never felt so sick with dread in his life.

"All our stuff...," Ellis lamented, looking over the debris scattered down the hill in every direction.

"Sweet Mother of Mercy," Rochelle swore in a soft hush, as she emerged.

"Should we try an' salvage some things?" Ellis wondered.

"No," Nick coldly, firmly replied, voice tensely low. "No time, Ace. It's too quiet. We need to go."

No one argued. As they all began to move, though, he noticed Ellis stooping to retrieve something from under a piece of shed roof.

"What did I just say?" he hissed.

"I'm comin' I'm comin'!" assured Ellis earnestly, jogging to catch up, the white propane tank dangling from his fingers off balancing him slightly.

"What is it with you and hauling around the heaviest, most inconvenient shit you can find?!" Nick snarled softly, as he neared.

The muddy redneck grinned cheekily as he ran past him.

"Buildin' muscle!" he claimed proudly. 

"Hurry!" Coach hoarsely whispered, throat tight with tension, and they hustled down the road. 

It would have been perhaps faster to cut down the hill straight in the direction of the truck, but that was only if the mud, bushes, and now fallen trees didn't slow them... or worse, draw the attention of the Tank, as they crashed through the undergrowth. Nick had no doubt it was still around. Those suspicions were confirmed as they neared the bottom of the hill, and the other road, and heard again its roaring not far off. Had it sensed them out in the open air?

It was a break neck sprint up the road to where they'd left the truck, by the now destroyed bridge. The good news was that though the Tank's exact location was hard to pinpoint, it did seem to be in the other direction from the truck. The bad news was that, if this was true, it was also in the direction they needed to go to get back to town. That was still the plan-- returning afterwards just no longer was. 

It was mid afternoon by now. They'd spent half the day sheltering, huddled, down in that cellar. They'd napped -- all but, Nick suspected, perhaps Coach-- and they were still in the middle of fearing for their lives, being hunted by this rage-fueled, single-minded monster. It was bizarre, but at least the rest had done them some good. Their bodies ached, as they ran for the truck and their only hope of escape, but they had a renewed energy, and their lungs kept up.

They were all, still, breathless and exhausted as they ran finally up to the truck, which was thankfully untouched. Ellis ran up to the driver's door and hauled it open, but as another roar echoed in the woods behind them, closer now, he hesitated. Blue eyes lifted, meeting Nick's. 

"I think yew better drive, Coach," Ellis meaningfully suggested, and Coach nodded, taking the keys as he held them up and passing without question to climb inside. 

"Let me guess, I get to rattle around in the back of this thing with you again?" Nick grumbled, as from the other side of the bed he began to climb its side, mirroring Ellis.

"Sure would appreciat'chur fine shootin', Nick," Ellis apologetically, humbly requested.

"Yeah, yeah, butter me up."

"Yew think that tank zombie'll hear the truck?"

"Oh, most definitely."

"Shit~. Here we go, then."

The truck started up as he was speaking, and perfectly on cue, a responding roar echoed through the woods. The truck began to turn in reverse, Coach needing to take them back the way they'd come to get back to the main road, but as the earth began to thunder beneath them, Nick knew his suspicions were correct. The road they needed to take was the same direction from which the Tank was coming.

"No time, Coach!" Nick yelled. "It's coming! We're gonna have to circle back!"

Coach heard him. The truck accelerated forward, turning to take them away from the Tank, and further from town, into territory they hadn't yet explored. He and Ellis were each braced at one side of the truck, rifles ready. At least there was less junk rattling around there with them, this time-- they'd lost most of their belongings along with the house. 

There was no time to think of that now, though. It hardly mattered. They could hear the Tank chasing the sound of their truck, and though Coach was speeding up, putting those big tires to the test over the bumpy roads and jostling those in the back unpleasantly, Nick didn't see it falling behind, not unless they could get back to the open road, where they could really hit the gas.  

Nick was hoping they might shortly reach the other end of the ravine, and be able to circle around it. No such luck-- the road soon veered away from the ravine, and they lost sight of it amid the trees. Without that landmark, they had nothing to orient themselves but the bright afternoon sun, filtering in warm rays through the foliage.

"There it is!" Ellis cried, as the Tank burst into view upon the road behind them, letting out a terrible bellow upon finally sighting its prey again. Nick brought his rifle up, aiming through the scope, heart hammering. There was a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, but his fingers felt cold, numb with fear, and he had to steady his breath a moment before he shot. It barely hit, gouging into his arm, but it was a hard target to miss entirely, even on the bumpy, veering road.

Get it together.

He yanked his lever, discarding the used shell, while Ellis's sniper rifle rang out, hitting its target more squarely. The thing didn't even slow. Nick wasn't even sure bullets could take it down, though they certainly annoyed it.

"C'mon, yew ugly sonuvabitch!" Ellis cried, cracking shot after shot into the beast as fast as he could load them. "Yuh like that, buddy, yew want some more? Plenty where that came from! Come 'n git it!"

The road veered into a turn, and they lost sight of it momentarily. Another turn, in the other direction, and then they burst onto a new road, dirt and gravel like this one. Through a thin row of trees now on their left, they could see water, either a river or a long lake, it was hard to tell. Afternoon sunlight shone through the trees in flashing beams, glaring in their eyes as they whipped past, and the Tank hurled itself out onto the road behind them with a roar, skidding into a dirt-spraying turn to bound after them, the ground quaking under its weight. 

"Fuck!" Nick snarled as he fired off yet another shot into its meaty shoulder, to what seemed like no avail. "It just won't go down!"

"It's like the Hulk, man!" Ellis cried. "We're jess makin' it madder!"

"Well how do you stop the Hulk, you fucking nerd!?"

"Uh... in em movies, Scarlet Johanssen, she does this lullaby thing..."

"Oh there you go, Ace!" Nick exclaimed with aggressive sarcasm. "Why that's it! Just sing it a fucking song, huh? You know, I think it'd really like that!"

"Well, see, ain't an actual lullaby, Nick, it's a code phrase, an' it only works to calm 'im down cause it's his girl, yanno, so 'course he's all sweet on her."

"... I'm so glad I could learn this right now."

"Yew did ask, man."

They hadn't quit launching bullets into it for their conversation, but the thing was a sponge. It bled, dark and oozing, from dozens of shots now, but it was still coming. Its eyes were milky in the bright daylight, angry and bulging, and its lower jaw was missing, tongue lolling grotesquely out. The thought of one of its huge, swollen hands swatting them through the air like flies, or grabbing them and crushing them to death, was nauseating.

It was unnerving to think that the most consuming thing left of the once-human creature's mind seemed to be nothing but fury, an imperative to destroy so hateful it looked almost painful, desperate. Past the blood and mud, much of which had caked, dried and crumbled off by now, Nick could now see its flesh was inflamed, its skull angrily reddened, with a network of bulging veins on its forehead, craggy with crazed fury. It crossed his mind that if they tormented the thing long enough, it might just die from a stroke.

They should be so lucky.

Instead they careened along the bank, firing off shot after shot. The incensed Tank was only gaining on them.

"Nick, I got an idea! I need yew tuh help me shoot the tank!"

"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?!" Nick yelled incredulously.

"No, Nick!" Ellis insisted patiently. "This one!"

Oh no. 

Nick looked up to see the Southerner excitedly heaving up his propane tank in both hands.

"Ready?" he asked eagerly, and began swinging it in his arms, as if readying a throw.

"Ssshhit," Nick hissed through his teeth, snatching his submachine gun up and darting, ducked, across the bed, throwing himself against the back hatch and bracing the gun over it.

"Go!" he yelled, but the tank was already sailing through the air. The Tank was fast -- he was worried it wouldn't hit the ground in time, that he wouldn't be able to successfully shoot it. Grimacing, he aimed at the Tank's path, and began letting loose a volley of bullets. They peppered its supporting arms, slowing it with a furious growl just long enough for the tank to bounce, rolling, into its path, into the spray of Nick's bullets,

C'mon, work-- 

The sudden explosion blasted warmth into his face and deafened him momentarily, and he clutched the hatch in shock.

"HAWHAW, YEAH! WOOO NICK!"

Not deafened. The Southerner's gleeful holler rang out loud and clear in his ear. There just was, also, an actual ringing. He felt Ellis grab his shoulder, jostling it with excitement, but he was too distracted to shake him off, squinting closely at the giant dirt cloud behind them, grit raining from the sky, obscuring the Tank. Was it dead?

"Holy shit, man, that was perfect! Gawd damn do we make a good team!"

No. He saw movement. They might have actually stunned it, maybe even, hopefully, severely injured it, it was hard to make out as they gained distance on it, but it was still moving.

"Don't get too excited, kid," he warned. "This thing's still not dead."

"Shit~," Ellis breathed, sounding almost impressed, even as he shouldered his rifle again, taking a minute to wipe a hand across his sweat-dampened brow, under his curls. "Man, too bad it ain't on our side, huh?"

Nick felt oddly calm, as he reached into his jacket, pulling out his smokes. Somewhere in his head, something had clicked. There would be no escape, no convenient rescue. Either they were going to kill this thing, or it was going to kill them. If it turned out to be the latter, he wanted one last smoke to temper his disappointment.

"No one's on our side, kid," he responded to Ellis grimly, as he determinedly flicked the lighter within his cupped hand, shielding it from the wind whipping past, till his cigarette caught. "We're all we got now."

Ellis was looking at him with a gentle smile, curls fluttering rapidly in the breeze from under his tightly clamped on hat, with one of those odd looks in his earnest blue eyes that Nick didn't like, because he couldn't tell precisely what he was thinking.

"Well, glad'ju can admit we got each other at least, Nick."

Nick scowled, his first exhale streaming from his thin lips, smoke pulled away into the air current behind them.

"I didn't say it like that."

"Yeah~.. but it's true, ain't it? ... I'm glad'jer here too, Nick."

"Okay, I definitely didn't say that. You're putting words in my mouth. Quit smiling, you took me all wrong. Also? Here comes the Tank. You ready for this, kid?"

"Hell yea, man! Bouta feel sorry fer this sucker!"

The Tank was thundering up the road, gaining on them again, bellowing murderously. It looked a mess, scorched and bloodied, but no less powerful. Was the thing actually taking any significant damage? Was it more injured than it acted, and just driven by senseless rage? He really hoped it was the latter.

He shouldered his rifle as the Tank neared his range, eyes grimly narrowed against the sunlight flashing through the trees, cigarette pinched firmly in his mouth.

"Hey, Ellis!" he growled around it, caustic voice raised to be heard. 

"-- Make me proud."

The crack of Ellis's sniper rifle rang out a moment later, and a gaping, bloody hole appeared where the monster's cheekbone had been. The air vibrated with its roar, its pace not slowing but at least careening drunkenly at the excellent shot.

"Atta boy," Nick muttered under his breath, and then fired off his own rifle. It caught it in a thick wrist, already peppered with bullets from his machine gun, and it stumbled a little. 

Water sprayed suddenly up from their tires as the truck plowed into a flooded section of the road. They kept firing, Nick praying the water wasn't deep enough to stall the vehicle. Thankfully, the truck was able to surge through it, leaving it clouded and churning in their wake. As the Tank plowed through after them, sending up great gouts of muddy water glistening into the air, Nick saw dark blood blossoming into the opaque brown left in foaming, rocking waves behind it. 

It was now close enough that he seized up his machine gun again. If Ellis went for his shotgun, he'd really know they were in trouble. He peppered it with bullets, directing the spray up into its face. 

"Fuckin' suck on this," he growled with a sneer around his cigarette, "ya greedy son of a bitch."

It stumbled. Ellis took advantage immediately, and this time as his rifle fired, a hole appeared in the center of its forehead, a gorgeous sight. To Nick's disgust and astonishment, though, the Tank only reeled, but kept coming. He didn't understand how, but it was so close now, it seemed to fuel its desperation to reach them. Nick, too, was feeling more desperate.

"What the fuck?" he roared in frustration, emptying his magazine into it. "Fucking die already, come on. God damn it! DIE!"

He heard the familiar blast of Ellis's shotgun, a bad sign as it meant the Tank was about two seconds from closing the distance their car and flipping it like a Hot Wheels, but the  damage it inflicted was devastating. Nick hurriedly changed out his magazine, then joined the ratatat of his submachine gun to Ellis's consecutive shotgun blasts. 

The Tank, a mass of torn and mutilated flesh by now, groaned, and began to slow again. It swiped a huge arm in the air towards them in tortured frustration, sending it careening off balance, an oddly pathetic-seeming gesture considering it likely could still have crushed one of them on impact, as if it had been anticipating knocking their truck off the road for so long it could hardly bear to accept it was pulling out of reach. 

Then it stumbled to a stop, wrenched itself, staggering, up to its feet, and threw its head back to roar in frustration, beating its chest and then throwing its arms into the ground, pounding it as if in some kind of temper tantrum. Nick might have wanted to laugh, if it hadn't then hurled itself, in an unexpected burst of speed, towards a tree, seizing its trunk and ripping it off the ground.

He unleashed the rest of his clip on it. It tried to shake the bullets off, with a weakening roar, but then collapsed to one knee, still trying to bear the tree over its shoulders. One last shot from Ellis's sniper rifle, reshouldered as they gained distance from it, and Nick watched, stunned, as it dropped to its other knee, then finally slumped, tree crashing to the ground with it.

"Holy shit," Ellis breathed. "Holy shit, we did it! I can't believe we actually killed it. Ho man. We killed it!"

"Saw that, sport," Nick grunted, feeling exhausted. He let his body slacken against the back gate, one arm draped over it, and his eyes fall shut a moment, taking a deep, steadying draw of his cigarette and indulging in the sensation of the air current washing over his face.

"That thing was a behemoth, man, holy cow! If we can take on that, we can take on anything!" 

"I don't ever want to meet one of those things again. Ever."

"Yeah, but if we do, we know they're killable, at least! Like Coach says, ain't met no problem 'nough bullets can't fix."

"Here, kid," Nick groaned, offering him the cigarette, "shut up for a second. I'm trying to appreciate being alive, it's hard when I can hear your voice."

He heard a breath of a sheepish laugh, and a mumbled, "Sorry, man."

When he opened his tired eyes and lifted them from his drooped head, he saw Ellis sitting in a comfortable sprawl against the side of the truckbed, like he belonged there, one arm stretched along its rim, wearing a smile as he brought the cigarette to his lips.

Unflappable.

Most of the time.

The truck slowed to a halt soon.

"Looked like you boys took care of things again, but sorry if I needed to put a lil more distance between us an' that thing, dead or not," Coach explained the delay, as he climbed out.

Just past a thin line of trees and a short bank, the river flowed past, glinting in the sun. Nick had no clue if it was the same one they'd fished in earlier, completely turned around. Maybe they were both tributaries of the same river, he didn't fucking know. There was water everywhere around here.

"It's dead as a doornail, Coach! Least, perty sure. Didn't stop tuh get no pulse. Way it was comin' fer us, though, don't think it woulda never stopped 'less it couldn't go no further. Put up a hell of a fight, I'll tell you whut."

"It was disgusting," growled Nick, annoyed at what sounded like respect in the hick's tone for the thing that had spent all day trying to fuck them up. He took that a little personally. "I don't know how that thing was ever human. I hate this virus. We spent all fucking day being chased by that thing. Now we have no house -- the only highlight -- no shit, no food, and oh! Let me guess... not enough gas to get back to town."

He could tell by Coach's grim expression, disapproving as he might have been of Nick's negativity, that he was right.

"No sense in fussin'," the big man intoned sagely, as well as admitting to it. "It is what it is."

"It is what it is? Oh, okay..."

His tone was aggressive with manic sarcasm, building momentum.

"Suit, come on," Rochelle groaned, with thinning patience, trying to halt it.

"No, sorry, I think I've earned the right to do a little bitching! Earlier you said it wasn't the time, didn't you Coach? So if not now, when, huh? Since I guess everyone died and left you the arbiter of when anyone gets to have feelings."

Coach looked a little taken aback, but his baritone kept its patient steadiness when, after a couple of beats, he found his words.

"Settle down, son. That's not what I meant."

"No, then what did you mean?" Nick snapped sardonically.

"Just thankful we're all alive, son. That's all. Thankful we got you and the young'un watchin' out for us. We got some problems to deal wit', now, but we gonna deal wit' 'em, one thing at a time. Right now I'm just glad everybody a'right. But you wanna bitch, Nick, you go right ahead, son. Yo' right -- you earned it."

A silence fell. Nick felt sullenly taciturn all of a sudden, the flame of his anger grudgingly diminished... irritated, still, miserably grouchy about their circumstances, but... slightly settled, against his stubborn will.

"Well..." he muttered petulantly, "I don't want to, now."

He looked moodily away over the back of the truck, to the sunny road stretching behind them, the Tank's corpse already out of sight. The tension had relaxed some, he could tell in the voices of the others, as they respected his snub, and continued the conversation without pestering him further. He felt disgruntled, but now that the flare of anger had passed, the tiredness had returned to replace it, and he supposed he could just appreciate that they weren't fleeing for their lives any longer. He dreaded the next leg of their journey, dreaded the idea of having to trudge around on foot again, as their gas shortage made seem an imminent certainty.

Coach was right, though. He could take just a moment to remember when he'd been more certain than not that he would die being ripped limb from limb, and appreciate that he was alive, and whole, and not in immediate peril.

Covered in mud, in the middle of nowhere, with no provisions but water to speak of, and not enough gas to get back to civilization... but alive.

And, for whatever it was worth, not alone.

END OF LEVEL lV - THE BACKROADS

COMING MAY 28th

LEVEL V - THE RIVER

Chapter Text

LEVEL V - THE RIVER - l/V

So, Nick had been being a little dramatic, as it turned out. They hadn't lost all their shit when the Tank had ripped their not-so-safe-house into an unnecessary amount of pieces and strewn it across an acre of hillside.

Now that had been dramatic.

Still, the losses were considerable. The Tank was defeated, and they were all relatively unscathed, but taking it down had carved deeply into their ammo supply. Less crucial, but still unfortunate, was the loss of all their kitchen supplies, towels, bedding and, though Rochelle might have placed it on the crucial list herself, their coffee.

Perhaps the worst blow, considering their complete lack of food and immediate vicinity to a river, was the loss of the fishing poles.

On the bright side, thanks to their respective and collective prioritizations, they had lost not a single one of their weapons -- regrettably, including Ellis's fire extinguisher, which had never left the truck -- and also retained a five gallon jug of water, Nick's hair product, Coach's medical supplies, Ellis's duct tape and cassettes, and, somehow, the miraculously unbroken french press. Apparently, Rochelle had salvaged it from the sink, which had sheltered it, while Nick had been busy telling Ellis not to waste time salvaging things. He truly had not even noticed her holding it as she sprinted along with him towards the truck, or he would have been sure to divert some of the oxygen he was utilizing running for his life towards mocking her, a worthwhile sacrifice.

Nick did not mourn the loss of the house. That was one good thing that had come from all this, the way he saw it. He was only too glad not to have to sleep another night on that hard floor, and was of the opinion no amount of furnishing, wallpaper and TLC could have made that shithole a place he didn't hate life living in. 

That left them with nowhere to spend the night, though, most of their day wasted, and not enough gas to get back to town. 

These were the problems the rest of the team were currently discussing. Coach had gotten out his medical supplies, and Rochelle was dabbing at the cut on his forehead, gently cleaning it. They still stood by the truck where they'd stopped it, in the warm afternoon sunshine, with the sound of the river flowing nearby beyond a short embankment, gleaming through a thin veil of trees. Ellis and he remained in the truckbed.

Tired and disgusted with the situation, Nick had needed a minute, and without saying so in as many words, the team seemed to understand, and was giving him some space. That was to say, nobody had moved away any at all, but neither had they interrupted the brooding, thousand yard stare of his slitted green eyes in a few minutes, hard set down the road they'd come. He was listening to every word, though, ready to weigh in as soon as something needed criticizing or mocking, not about to neglect his duties. He was sure it wouldn't be long.

"We could stop by the house, at least, see if there's anythin' worth savin'," Coach was reasoning, in his steady baritone. "Then see how far we make it, trek it on foot the rest of the way."

The whole point of coming this far out was that there would be no civilization, no zombies in numbers, for miles and miles. It would take days for one to stumble its way out here from the nearest town, if it ever even had reason to do so. That part of the plan seemed reasonable. They'd just been fantastically unlucky enough that one of the only fucking people who was already out here had turned into the mother of all zombies. And now the isolation was backfiring, because they were the ones who were going to have to walk the distance that was supposed to be their buffer from the infected. Back towards them. To fight their way through the streets, this time without a vehicle, for gas and whatever supplies they could hope to carry back on foot.

To summarize.

"Hate that plan," Nick caustically uttered, breaking his silence, though he didn't yet turn his brooding stare from the road.

"Uh.. I maybe got an idea," Ellis ventured.

"Hate that plan more."

"Bwh-?" Ellis sputtered, and Nick turned his cold eyes his way just so he could see the protest in his expression, "I ain't even said anything yet!"

"In case you forgot," Nick growled, jaw flexing, "it was your last plan that fucking got us here, hick!"

"Well I didn't know there was gonna be giants inna woods!" Ellis argued, frowning, the expression lending his soft cheeks that pouting look Nick did appreciate pushing him to. "Jess thought there'd be fewer zombies. An' I mean, technically, was only jess--"

"Do not. Finish that sentence," Nick warned darkly.

"Jess sayin'," Ellis mumbled, shrinking just a little but blue eyes still petulant. "Plan weren't bad. Got real unlucky, that's all."

"It was a good plan, son," Coach intoned comfortingly. "I think we need another one now, though. Go ahead and tell us your idea, don't mind Nick."

"Sure, don't mind me," Nick put in sarcastically. 

Ellis took a breath, glancing briefly his way, then went on.

"Well, I was jess thinkin'... couldn't look real close, cause I was perty busy shootin', but couldn't help but notice what looked like some lil docks on that there river. Might be, if we check it out, could find ourselves a boat somewhere. Could take it upriver till we find somethin' we can nick some gas from, s'all we need. Might even lead us right back to town."

"So... we've got a plan to hike to the zombie infested town that's several hours away by car, this time with no truck to shoot from, and haul any gas and supplies we find back to the truck on foot... or waste the rest of our gas searching the river for a boat, so we can get even more lost in the middle of nowhere, because even if we find one, we have absolutely no idea where this river leads."

He wanted to be clear they were all on the same page. Ellis winced one eye thoughtfully, lifting his cap to scratch at his curls.

"... well perty much Nick, yea," he admitted honestly. "Think that jess bout sums it up."

"Christ. I hate this," Nick groaned. He was waiting for someone to tell him to stop bitching, but to be fair, neither Coach nor Rochelle looked particularly enthused about the situation either. He was probably saying what they were all thinking.

Well, not all. He wasn't sure Ellis hated anything. Probably the only reason he wasn't visibly giddy about the idea of a boat ride into the unknown was out of respect for his less thrilled teammates.

"We can turn 'round, follow the river in the other direction, anyway," Coach reasoned. "We can decide whether to keep goin', look fo' a boat, or head back the way we came when we get there."

Back the way they came, past the Tank.

Ellis chewed a little at his lower lip, eyes thoughtfully drifting low a moment before lifting hesitantly to Nick's.

"We're perty sure it's dead, right Nick?"

"I fucking hope so," Nick growled dangerously. "If not, I hope it's just alive enough that I can kick it till we're sure."

"Maybe we'll ride in the back till we double check... jess in case," Ellis suggested, with an uncomfortable cringe of his teeth.

They were a little uneasy driving back to the Tank's corpse, dreading seeing it missing from where it had been. From some ways away, though, they could make out the fleshy mass, unmoving. They still slowed to a stop at a prudent distance, leaving the truck running.

They needed to double check before they drove past it. Even a crippled Tank could cripple them, truck or not. They were just lucky the tree it had uprooted had fallen at such an angle that they would just be able to squeeze the vehicle by... it would have been easy for it to have blocked the road, instead. The truck had proved itself to be able to handle rough and bumpy terrain just fine, but with the trees so close, there wasn't much margin on either side to go offroad.

Ellis and Nick hopped down from the truckbed, the latter's expression locked hard and grim, submachine gun loaded and ready. Ellis had his shotgun similarly primed. The mass of flesh wasn't moving, but they weren't taking any chances.

They crept forward cautiously, Ellis of course less so than Nick, his curiousity luring him to pull ahead. Nick bit back the urge to hiss at him to be careful, more convinced the closer they got that the thing was good and done for.

It had sunk to its knees, but not fallen completely. The trunk of the tree it had uprooted, buoyed off the ground by the spread of its foliage, strained under its huge frame, slumped over it. As they neared, they could hear the soft, slow patter of dripping, like the inside of a wet cavern. The sun shone down on the huge pool of dark blood the giant knelt motionlessly in, casting shimmers of reflected light up over its gigantic torso, savaged with bullet holes and still leaking.

It was certainly dead, though. Its blistered eyes bulged, rolled back and sightless, still contorted into an expression of hateful fury.

Ellis crouched by it for a closer look, of course, still way closer than Nick instinctively felt comfortable with. He expected him to remark how cool it was, what an awesome badass monster, or maybe 'sick, man'.

Instead, he watched him sidelong as the Southerner wrinkled up his nose, in an expression of what almost looked like regret.

"Damn... poor bastard. Guess I really do feel a lil sorry fer him."

"Fucking for real, Ace?" Nick scornfully scoffed, though he felt like he shouldn't have been surprised. "You've killed a hundred of these things, now you get sentimental? This is my least favorite zombie. Fuck this zombie. Do you see this?"

He looked down at himself with disgust. Like the rest of them-- though his white suit, as always, took every soiling the worst-- he was fucking covered in now-dry, cracking mud, from all the times they'd slipped and slid fleeing from the Tank. They hadn't even had the chance to do more than wipe it off their palms. It encrusted their fingernails. Ellis had some on his cheek, in his hair. 

Ellis looked like he was trying to figure out how to say it didn't look that bad without lying. 

"Naw, yeah," he artfully dodged, sympathy in his voice, "he did sure give us a time, I ain't arguin' that--"

"So what, you got attached? Not every day you get to meet a zombie in the morning and say bye in the afternoon. You want a moment of silence, or something?"

"Hey!" Rochelle called. "Everything okay? Can we get going?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's dead as fuck, let's go," Nick called back, in his hard voice, turning to head back. Ellis got in his reply as he followed, with one last glance back at the dead creature.

"Naw man, I jess... I dunno, feel bad fer the guy. I try not tuh think 'bout it much, y'know, how they used to be people--"

"Well keep it up," Nick warningly interrupted, giving him a hard look. "They're not anymore, alright? They're monsters. Just like a video game."

"... yeah," Ellis quietly conceded, but Nick eyed him suspiciously till they split around the truck, Nick returning to his seat in the back behind Rochelle. 

"Everything good?" Rochelle checked, as they both settled in, shutting the doors behind them.

"Peachy," Nick dryly replied.

Ellis didn't answer. Considering it was probably his response Rochelle was more invested in, Nick wasn't surprised when she didn't let his answer stand for them both, waiting a few seconds, even as Coach began driving forward again, circumventing the fallen tree, before checking,

"Ellis, sweetie?"

"Oh yea, yeah. Sorry, Ro. Naw, I was jess thinkin'... well, I guess I was jess wonderin' how that feller got infected, that's all. I was thinkin'... kinda sad, him being out here all on his lonesome, y'know? I mean, not not havin' no other zombies but like, before he turned 'n what not. But then I was thinkin', well. Must not have been alone. Otherwise... who'd he catch it from, right?"

Nick didn't miss the part about the kid imagining the poor fuck getting sick and dying alone out in the middle of nowhere. So much for not thinking about it. The point he was making was a reasonable one, though, if one so simple that now that he said it, it seemed obvious. Where there was one, there was likely more.

"... Maybe this mutant strain eats other zombies," Nick suggested wryly, not optimistic so much as just wanting to share the theory. "Maybe it took care of the others already."

"If we killed a zombie-killin' zombie, then I'd really feel bad," Ellis pointed out.

Coach shook his head.

"Naw. Puttin' those things to rest, that's what that is. Restorin' the natural order of things. Ain't gonna be no fightin' zombies wit' zombies."

"Oh, I dunno," Rochelle mused, "I sure wouldn't mind turning them against each other, if there were a way to do it."

"Man, right?" Ellis asked excitedly. "That's a good idea, Nick!"

"I didn't really..."

"Jess imagine, if they could figger out jess what it is about us that makes zombies wanna kill us, y'know? An' like say they could bottle a fairy-moan--"

"Say that again."

"Fairy-moan?"

"Beautiful. Yeah keep going."

"Like a human fairy-moan you could-- Nick would yew quit laughin', I'm bein' serious, I dunno why-- c'mon it ain't that dumb, we don't know bout how they work. Could be possible. Yew can make people believe all kindsa crazy shit with drugs an' stuff, an' they jess dumb ol' zombies. Gotta be easier tuh fool 'em."

It actually wasn't that dumb of an idea. Maybe. In theory. Fuck if Nick knew shit about pheromones. A little more about drugs.

"But say yew make this spray, y'know, makes them think aw yea, that's a person.. I dunno, maybe yew'd haf'ta smoke bomb them too, so they didn't see they was their buddies. Not sure they see too good. Could work."

"We gotta get you to CEDA," Rochelle teased, "get you on their science team."

"Aww, naww. I'm jess thinkin'..."

As they drove, they kept their eyes out for anything promising on the river. Nick could see now that Ellis was right-- the river did show signs of human life, with small old wooden docks and landings set up here and there.

The first boat they saw, unfortunately, was on the opposite side of the river.

Technically, had it been on their side, they wouldn't have seen the boat itself at all. It was parked tucked inside a boathouse, a small building but in decent repair, two-storied, with a half-covered deck above the boat garage, where they could see a few lounge chairs from here. The building squatted some ways out into the water, connected to land only by one long, thin wooden dock. 

"Aw, man," Ellis breathed, a longing lament, leaning a little too close for Nick's comfort to stare across the river, which was now on Nick's side of the truck. "That looks perfect. Maybe we'll find a bridge."

"Guh," Nick let out involuntarily, on a visible shudder, viscerally reminded of the last bridge they'd crossed. He saw out of the corner of his eye as Ellis shot him an apologetic look. 

"Yeah, man," the Southerner admitted solemnly, settling back in his seat, though he still peered at the river through Nick's window, "me too. Fuck bridges. Thing was like a troll, tryna eat us four billy goats. Should call em trolls insteada Tanks."

"Too late, you named it, we're not changing it. Do better on the next one, sport."

Rochelle made a fussy sound, a pretend sob, groaning, "God, I don't even want to imagine what other kinds are out there."

"We met every kind you heard about, Ro?" Ellis wondered.

"And then some. I'd love to say maybe that's all the mutant strains out there, but..."

"Better not," Nick advised darkly.

"Don't wanna jinx it," Ellis agreed sagely.

"Oh shut up, hick. You love the mutants."

"Do not!" Ellis protested huffily.

"He loves them so much," Nick told the others, though he was still smugly looking at the redneck, and his pouting scowl, "he thinks we should call them special infected."

"I never said that! Maybe I mighta said they was special, y'know, account a them ain't bein' common, is all..."

"If I was one them mutants, I'd be a Hunter," Nick mocked, dipping into a committed rendition of Ellis's accent again, and realized he'd erred when Ellis's look of manufactured offense melted away, and his breath skittered out in amusement instead, eyes twinkling. Rochelle giggled from the front seat, and warmly teased,

"Oh my gosh, Ellis, did you really say that?"

"Well, yeah~..." Ellis fessed, a little of that petulance returning to his tone, though Nick knew he was just playing along. "I didn't think it was weird to think about, now y'all makin' me feel weird, though..."

"Mm," Coach's effectively interjected with a single, baritone hum, nodding ahead and drawing their attention as he began to slow down.

"Think that's where we turned off. Time to make a decision. We keep goin', or see how far we can get on the road?"

"You know, I was thinking... we could leave the truck here," Rochelle suggested. "Look down the river on foot for a bit. If we don't see anything, we double back, and we won't have wasted any gas. I'd rather walk along here than have to walk any further later on, before we get to town and have to fight. If we don't end up finding a boat, I mean. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah I gotchu Ro!" Ellis replied eagerly. "That seems like a good idea. Won't be gamblin' so much that way."

"Take a lot longer to search, though," Nick pointed out. "We want to be hiking into town at night? No way."

"Naw," Coach agreed. "Comes to that, we spendin' the night in the truck."

"Alright," Nick reluctantly gave in, though he liked the idea of sleeping in the truck even less with three other people. All the options sucked, right now, he was tired of thinking about it. "I hate it," he reminded everyone moodily, "But I don't see any better idea."

There was only so much they could do to hide the truck, but they tucked it where it was all but out of sight of the river-- which was beginning to look like the more trafficked of the two -- and not impeding the road. Considering the only person they'd seen out here had been infected, they weren't terribly worried about the car being stolen. Not that they would have been particularly worried anywhere -- it was a new vehicle, and as Ellis had explained, couldn't be hotwired like older cars. 

Similarly, anyone could have stolen what they had stored in the bed, but nobody was particularly concerned for their truck or its contents as they set off down the road, which was at least dry from baking all day in the sun, now well past its zenith, meaning they didn't have to bake in it themselves, the tree-lined road providing a pleasant shade. Nick still removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, rolling up the sleeves of his deep blue shirt, in order to get ahead of the overheating he was sure to come.

The last and only occasion he'd traveled a distance on foot with the group had been on the streets of Savannah, he realized, crawling with infected. This, out here on some country road in the middle of nowhere, was a completely different experience. 

Hell, even without the comparison, this would have been pretty novel for Nick, a city boy through and through.

No backdrop of crowds of chattering pedestrians and congested traffic, no horns honking, no belches of exhaust or revving motorcycles. 

The birds were singing. The water was flowing. The breeze rustled the coloring autumn foliage above, the fluttering of countless soft leaves merged into undulating waves of whispering white noise. The dirt road veered gradually ahead, but the vanishing point was a while off. The trees weren't thick, and unless a zombie was hiding half buried in the mud, it did seem unlikely anything would come suddenly up on them.

Unless a zombie caught them off guard exactly like the last one had, essentially.

Still, and despite that very recent experience, it was hard to feel too anxious over the idea. Naturally, if they were so astronomically unlucky as to meet another Tank right now, they'd be screwed -- short of perhaps jumping into the river? -- Nick wondered wildly. Could the Tank swim? It certainly looked more muscle than fat. He bet it'd drop like a rock. They'd just have to get out deep enough where it couldn't simply reach them from the bottom. Otherwise...

He felt queasy, and rolled his neck and shoulders with a soft crk, willing himself to abort that train of thought. He sure did know how to make a peaceful, boring riverside stroll interesting.

With so little to distract him, though, the thoughts wormed their way back...

Even if they outswam the Tank, he imagined the glistening, bumpy hide of an alligator gliding through the water towards him, ready to clamp its jaws around him like a bear trap, flip him underwater and shake him till his broken bones tenderized his meat. 

That's how he imagined it, anyway. Maybe a few alligators would fight over him, rip his limbs from their sockets. His surviving teammates could watch his blood bloom darkly to the surface.

When Ellis's cheery drawl broke into the air like it belonged there, Nick, usually the first and harshest to cut off his meandering, almost perversely wanted to demand what had taken him so long. He didn't interrupt him, though-- not immediately, at least-- finding himself firmly tuning out his own thoughts, and tuning into that meandering, honeyed Southern cadence instead. Hopefully this didn't turn into one of those stories that made him feel more ill.

"S'real perty out here. Bet we're still havin' a much better day than a lot of folks right now, Tank 'n all. Breakfast was real nice. Y'know, this actually kinda reminds me this one time, me 'n my buddy Keith? Well this was back when we was jess teenagers--"

Nick cut in, taunting wryly, 

"So what-- we're talking last year, or the one before that?"

"Haw-haw," Ellis flatly drawled, shooting Nick a dry look that he received with smug relish, thin lips curling slightly in a smirk. "M'twenty-three, Nick, an' yew know that darn well, cause I done tol'ja twice now before. Been workin' fer years now. I run a shop, y'know, me 'n Keith 'n some buds."

"Yeah, yeah, so you said. You're a little grease monkey, I'll give you that. You've got the mentality of a twelve year old, though. A foul-mouthed twelve year old who plays with guns."

"Oh, don't listen to him, Ellis," Rochelle broke in brightly, amusement tightening at the corners of her full lips as she looked  warmly over her shoulder back at the Southerner. Like the rest of them, she was covered in mud, encrusting her jeans, coating her poor suede boots, which had never been intended for off road wear, and drying crusty up her arms in streaks, grey and pale against her warm brown skin. "You're doing just fine. I don't think Nick's in any position to talk about a mature mentality, anyway."

Nick slitted his green eyes.

"... You wanna explain what you mean by that?" he inquired, a quiet, dangerous note to his even tone.

"Mm," Rochelle hemmed, humor lingering, but reconsidering going down that path. "I'm not sure I'm qualified for that one. I got my degree in journalism, not psychology."

"Maybe we stick to journalism, then, huh doll? If I want unasked-for armchair psycho-analyzing, I'll just get fucking hitched again."

"Oh yeah?" bantered Rochelle, a little sharpness in the look she levelled at him, but maintaining a cool amusement all the same. "Who you marryin', Suit?"

"Oh what, between you three? Fuck, no. Yeah, I'm really counting on there being some other people left alive out there somewhere, or fuck all this."

"Oh wow, Suit," Rochelle wryly accused. "You do care."

"Whether I ever get laid again? Uhh yeah. Sure do, sweetheart. Man has needs."

"Yuck. No one wants to hear about your needs."

"Just being honest. Don't tell me you haven't wondered -- if we end up being the last three guys on earth--"

"Boy," Coach's low baritone boomed warningly.

"Aaaanyway," Ellis broke in, hastily babbling, as Rochelle rolled her eyes to level them at Nick, dry with rebuke, "so whut I was sayin' was, yeah so Keith back then, he had this old beater car right, real piece a junk, but was his first car so he loved that thing, dents 'n shit upholstery an' muffler 'n all. Could hear 'em comin' a mile off... anyway, though, we was out on this trip one time, right, one summer, an' alla sudden engine jess starts spittin' out this real dark smoke, all nasty, right there inna middle 'nowhere. Pop the hood an' it's screwed, we don't got nothin' to fuck with it out there, so we gotta trek all the way back to town, right?"

Nick directed a hard, suspicious stare at the mechanic, who seemed oblivious. He was seeing the parallels, and was indeed starting to be concerned this story would worsen his mood.

"And Keith, he says, hey man, let's take a shortcut. We can cut across these fields here, save a bunch of time. Well, probably woulda been fine, only thing was --"

"Hey.. sorry, Ellis," Rochelle apologized, "but... speaking of shortcuts, is that another bridge?"

Through the trees, more densely obscuring their view from this angle, they could just make out another walking bridge up ahead, coming into sight as the river slowly curved. This one didn't even look half so sturdy as the first, tall and narrow and spanning a wider gap, but at least there was only
water beneath it, and visibly no Tanks.

Maybe alligators.

"Oh God damn it," Nick swore tersely at the sight of it, though a bridge was exactly what they needed. Nothing else had yet looked as promising as that boathouse they'd seen on the other side.

"Hahawheyy~, lookit that!" Ellis exclaimed cheerfully. "Shit, m'so excited, we can double back now."

"Great," Nick muttered flatly. "How far back was that?"

He was bitching again, but fuck, he was already tired of walking. His body still ached from being slammed into the floor by that Smoker back at the hotel, and that was now compounded by a soreness in his leg muscles from that morning's frantic, extended sprint. Since they were only walking to have to avoid walking more later on, it was hard to complain... but not impossible.

Ellis sucked on his teeth thoughtfully, tsking as he looked back over his shoulder along the river, though they'd left it outta sight long ago, in the truck.

"Mm, not more 'n an hour or two," he guessed speculatively, "don't think."

Rochelle looked up towards the sky,  squinting slightly against the bright, deep blue unobstructed by cloud or sun, the latter only filtering in from lower, through the trees, and wrinkling her nose a little in consideration.

"What time do you think it is?" she wondered. "Are we running into the possibility we might be travelling at night?"

"On a boat?!" Nick demanded in disgust. "Absolutely not."

"Naww..." even Ellis reluctantly agreed, "maybe shouldn't. Gators a bit more docile durin' the daytimes."

"Docile. Is that the word."

Ellis was unbothered by Nick's sarcasm, informing him with gentle sternness, blue eyes earnest,

"They really ain't that bad, y'know. They jess tryna go 'bout their lives, jess like us."

"Yeah, fuckin' namaste, that's great till they try to bite my fucking leg off, hick, what the fuck. You get cuddly over the weirdest shit, I swear. What'd you get tucked in with at night when you were a kid, a skillsaw? A rabid raccoon?"

"H'aw, I wish. Mama didn't want me near no power tools till shop class. Didn't want me playin' wit' no wild animals, neither. Course, that didn't stop Keith 'n I nickin' shit to build tree forts, trappin' possums 'n shit... man we was good, used tuh trap dozens of um, get 'em away from the big roads so they'd stop playin' in traffic. Then some people saw what we was doin' an' Keith an' I had a lil hustle goin' on fer a while, we'd come clear yer pests out fer a couple bucks. Bro, Keith was wild man, he didn't fear no critter. He had tuh git like, three times as many rabies shots as I did..."

Nick was just staring at him with an utterly flattened expression. In some paradoxical way the hick was the most ridiculous fucking thing he'd ever met, and yet he was already such a parody of himself that he sometimes made himself a difficult target to mock. The jibe about his experience with rabid trash animals had barely overshot reality.

"The things kids do for fun down here," he settled on dryly. 

"What'd yew do fer fun as a kid, Nick?" Ellis asked cheerily.

The gambler delivered him a cold look.

"Aw, c'mon~," Ellis begged, those shaded blue eyes looking up at him in a way a man had no right to look, in doleful appeal. "I ain't got the foggiest, I can't imagine. S'drivin' me crazy."

"Why do you care so bad?" Nick snidely taunted, though privately he liked that he did. Even if he had zero intentions of giving him what he wanted. "You don't see anyone else begging for anyone's life story. I don't know if Rochelle played with fucking Barbies or not, as a kid. I'm going to guess yes, judging by the fashion choices."

"Wow, you are spitting fire, Suit. How am I getting roped into this? And Barbie?"

"Well, I know Coach played football, 'n Ro I talked a lil 'bout highschool an' stuff... yer jess one big mystery, Nick."

"Start getting used to it, kid. I didn't even need your names."

Ellis tsked, shaking his head a little to himself as he looked ahead, seeming wholly undiscouraged.

"Still not sure yew know mine," he reproached him.

"Course I do, Ay-lus."

"Hey, ain't like that. Yer makin' it sound like Alice. Ain't a girl's name."

"It's so close. I bet you'd answer to Alice if I called you that."

"Sure won't. Yew could be yellin' fer help, I ain't comin' tuh Alice. It's Ellis."

"Bullshit. I'd call you a fucking numbskull, you'd still come running."

"Well, yeah," Ellis inexplicably agreed as if it were the most natural thing, but stubbornly insisted, "Not Alice, though. A Hunter'll be on yuh 'n I'll letchu get all carved up, jess fer bein' so rude."

"I guess if I was fucking with you at a time like that, you could argue I maybe had it coming," Nick grudgingly mused, but spared him a sly, sidelong glance, to smugly accuse, "... but you'd come anyway."

"Whut, Nick?" Ellis spoke as if talking to someone else, though, in another scene. "Nah, man, he didn't make it. Hunter got 'im. All happened so fast. Oh well."

Nick relented a quiet, huffing snicker.

"He'll be remembered," Rochelle playfully chimed in, voice warm with amusement.

They were nearing the bridge now. It had been built where the embankment sloped higher, leaving plenty of room for boats to pass below. The wood was old, smooth where it wasn't cracked and carpeted with tufts of moss. Heavy bolts anchored it to the ground, and it looked somewhat more stable up close, but no wider, the narrow walkway only allowing for single file.

Unsurprisingly, all four slowed with reluctance as they approached, till they came to a pause.

"Looks pretty steady," Rochelle hesitantly ventured.

Beside him, Ellis gave a firm, steadying huff through his nose, and stepped forward, deciding resolutely,

"I'll go first."

"Oh gosh, be careful sweetie," Rochelle begged anxiously, sounding much more doubtful than she had a moment before.

"S'okay, it looks a'right... can't go on bein' scared a bridges ferever."

It was plain to see he was speaking to himself as much as the rest of them, as he ventured onto the narrow bridge, one hand hugging the strap of his sniper rifle to keep it from bumping the sides, the other floating over the railing, fingertips dropping intermittently to glide along the smooth-worn wood, softly brush the springy moss, damp from the recent shower. 

The bridge held stable. Nick caught himself peering suspiciously down into the shadowed water running underneath it, and stopped before the others could notice. They were all too busy watching Ellis, anyway. He was about halfway across now.

"Yeah, guys, seems jess fine!" he hollered back casually. 

Nick felt an annoying tension buzzing around his chest, scanning the bushes on the opposite side. Fucking nothing seemed wrong, and he was still on edge. This shit had him paranoid. Any sense of safety he'd felt since this all had started had been proved to be a joke. Reached the evacuation center, about to be carried away in helicopters? Nope, CEDA was overrun. Their truck, their safehouses? No match for a Tank. They'd need a fucking bunker for something like that. And distance clearly wasn't the answer, because the universe had rewarded them for running by concentrating the trouble's worth of a hundred zombies into one particularly nasty specimen. When would he ever feel safe again?

The second Ellis was across, Nick strode forward, impatient to get this over with. 

The bridge seemed steady enough under his feet, but it was so narrow he could see clearly down either side, to the deep and rushing water below. That would have done no more than flutter dismissably at his nerves if he didn't so clearly remember the crash he'd felt through his very soles as the Tank had exploded up through the boards of the last bridge right before him, the feeling of the wood sliding beneath his shoes as the whole structure had tilted back towards it, the sick fear in his gut when he'd been sure he wouldn't make it across the gap to the others.

As it was, the quick beating of his heart annoyed him, as did the feeling of three sets of eyes on him, watching.

"He's right, it's fine!" he snarled back at the two he'd left behind. "Hurry up!"

When he reached the other side, his brow was drawn into a tense frown, and he huffed in distaste to cover his relief. Ellis was looking at him too understandingly.

"Guess bridges are jess like bikes," he commented sagely. "Fall off, yew jess gotta git right back on."

Nick gave him a hard, sarcastic stare, and growled in a tone that matched,

"Yeah."

Rochelle and Coach were venturing across now. Ellis innocently wondered, making a show of looking down at the water below and not Nick,

"... did'ju have a bike?"

"You're not subtle, kid."

He saw those full lips bite together in a guilty, furtive little smile, poorly repressed. Nick scolded him with a brisk bat to the bill of his cap, knocking it down into his face, causing a cringe and an evasive little recoil but breaking that smiling mouth open only wider.

"Yeah, dumbass," he caustically threw the hick a crumb, as he was adjusting his cap back into place with both hands. "It was the 80's. 'Course I had a bike."

"Cool," Ellis gushed, an incomprehensible warmth thickening his already honeyed voice, brimming from his smiling eyes. "Man, I used tuh love my bike. Fore Keith got his car, we'd bike everywhere. Broke my elbow doin' tricks, hawhaw.."

Fuck, all it took was a crumb. As egotistical as Nick was, even he found it a little baffling just how much the kid liked him. Opposites attracted, he supposed.

-- Not like that. 

And it was hardly mutual, anyway. He'd come to tolerate him with more than constant seething annoyance, that was all. The kid had some useful qualities. He wasn't a coward, that was for sure. He did have good ideas, now and then, and god damn, could he shoot. It was fun to fuck with him, almost worth how annoying he was just for the satisfaction of taking vengeance, of getting those peach fuzz dusted cheeks to petulantly puff, his drawn brow a fitting complement to those sleepy cornered eyes of his.

It wasn't strange that he'd clocked a lot of details about the hick's face, the way it moved. He was an excellent poker player, he paid attention to people's faces. It was just habit.

"Ouch. Bikes sure would be pretty useful right now, though," Rochelle admitted as she stepped off the bridge, catching the tail of their conversation. "Quiet, no gas."

"Great, yeah, we'd look like the fucking Goonies. I'll take my chances with the truck."

"I'm wit' Nick on this one," agreed Coach tiredly. 

"What we could really use out here is some dirt bikes," said Ellis wistfully, as together they headed at a slight decline back along the river, in the direction of the boathouse they'd seen. They hadn't resolved the problem that nobody particularly wanted to travel by boat at night, but the options were to go back to the truck or move forward, sleep in the boathouse and leave by boat in the morning, assuming they could get it to work for them. 

Considering neither story of the boathouse had four walls, and one had no floor, it was once again not ideal shelter, but it was exposed towards the water, not the land, and the narrow dock that led to it gave it a single, bottleneck entrance to defend. It would probably do better than the truck, unless they were eaten alive by mosquitos. 

It felt like forever before they came across it again, but judging by the light, Ellis's estimate had been in the ballpark. The light had once again turned golden by the time they spotted it ahead, and the sun had nearly disappeared behind the tree-scattered hills that rose up on this side of the river. 

Water lapped up against the bank as they approached the dock. Nick resisted the urge to stoop and wash his dirty hands, sneering with distaste down at the mud he'd have to sink his dress shoes into in order to get close enough -- not that they weren't already absolutely ruined. Ellis was only too happy to lead the way, the thin walkway creaking under his boots as he stepped out onto it. 

Things seemed quiet. All the same, Nick's ringed hand lingered near to his Magnum at his thigh as he followed, green eyes hard, gazing across the water at the structure of the boathouse, which was the color of old split pea soup. With two stories and a triangled roof, it was taller than it was wide. The dock platform extended along the left and near side, empty but for the oddly familiar sight of another of those white plastic chairs. A wooden staircase led up along the latter, to a ruddy orange door. 

The river was wide here, and the walkway was longer than he'd realized from the other side, and higher off the surface of the water. He hated that he thought to appreciate that, knowing it would make it harder for anything to crawl up out of it, if zombies could swim. He didn't want to have to think of such things.

That was fucking life now, though, he supposed. Nothing would ever really be the same again.

Chapter Text

LEVEL V - THE RIVER - ll/V

As they neared the boathouse, stepping from the long walkway onto the dock platform, Nick noticed a security camera, its light dark, and a sign beside it, with a yellow smiley face and the words,

SMILE, YOU'RE ON CAMERA 

Nick stared the camera coldly in the lens, thin mouth an unfriendly line of defiance, and reflexively presented it with a firm middle finger.

The others were talking, he realized, he'd just been tuning them out. He kept it up, his tiredness having crept up on him. Someone would get his attention if they needed it. He turned to look back at the shore as Ellis's boots creaked up the stairs.

Looked clear. No infected sneaking up on them. Living in a horror movie was fun.

"Hey, Nick?"

Ellis's venturing voice broke through his drifting thoughts from the top of the stairs.

That hadn't taken long, he mused sarcastically, as he turned to look up at him. The Southerner was leaning over the rail on his forearms, looking apologetic.

"S'locked... think yew might be able tuh work yer magic again?"

Nick was shaking his head, though, glancing around dully.

"Doubt it. I don't see anything around here I can use. Really letting us down as the last woman on earth, Ro," he dryly mentioned as he passed her, headed to check the other side of the dock, around the corner of the boathouse. 

Rochelle sputtered, bewilderment stumbling the rush of her offense but the latter rising quickly regardless.

"Excuse me?" she demanded indignantly of his back.

"No bobby pins," he coyly explained, without looking over his shoulder. "Your hair's the first thing I checked."

Rochelle's hackles began to settle, though she gave him a dry, reproachful look anyway, touching thoughtlessly at her hair at the base of her neck.

"Oh, that?" she tsked dismissively.

Fucking nothing on the dock. Just the door to the ground level, which he tried, just to be sure. Obviously that was locked too.

With a sigh, he stooped, planting his hands on his thighs, to inspect the lock. He heard Ellis trudging back down the stairs.

"Guess we breakin' in again?" Coach's baritone reluctantly suggested. 

"Oo~... could do," Rochelle hemmed coyly, and Nick caught a suspicious smugness in her nearing voice. "Unless~~, Nick can do anything with this?"

He straightened, turning around, to see Rochelle there, pleased smile tugging at the corners of her full lips as she presented him with two bobby pins. Her scavenged purse was slung to her front, its zipper open and gaping.

 Nick snatched them from her.

"God damn it, I was working with rusty wire before and you had these the whole time?" he snapped. 

Rochelle gave an innocent shrug, hugging her elbows.

"You didn't ask," she pointed out sweetly.  

Nick glared at her, and clawed his fingers back through his hair, clearing a few stubborn strands that kept coming loose to tickle his brow and annoy him, the mid quality product he'd taken from above the record store not enough to stand up to the exertions of the day.

"Upstairs first or down?" he growled at the group, as he bit down on the split end of the bobby pin and began firmly prying it into shape.

"Actually, could'ja maybe do down here?" Ellis suggested hopefully, eyes catching distractedly on the process. "-- If y'all don't mind. Would love tuh git a look at that boat while there's still a lil daylight. If I gotta wait till mornin' tuh make sure we can get 'er operatin', I ain't  gonna git a wink of shut eye."

"And if you don't, nobody does," Nick muttered through the metal, unpleasant to set his teeth against. He spat out the rounded tips he'd dislodged from the ends of the now stretched apart pin, stepping up to the door. "Sure thing, kid."

"Can I uh.. do yuh, I mean--"

"Hey," Nick cut him off sharply, with one eyebrow cocked. "Spit it out."

"Oh uh, jess... c-can I watch again? If it ain't too distracting..."

"You're distracting as fuck. You're distracting me right now."

Ellis awkwardly, apologetically nodded, sticking his hands in his coverall pockets and shambling back a step.

"Come here," Nick ordered curtly, and was gratified by the eager stumble of Ellis's haste to comply, "just shut the fuck up."

"Aw, thanks. It's jess real cool 'n I still --"

Nick snapped his fingers sharply, barking callously into the abrupt silence it earned,

"What did I just say."

Ellis actually bit those full lips together as if it was the only way he could promise to keep his mouth shut, blue eyes earnest.

Nick eyed him critically a few more seconds, as if testing his ability to behave that long, before swiveling those penetrating eyes back to the bobby pins as he shaped them.

"It'll be a lot quicker with these," he told him smugly, when he'd finished, and stooped to his work. "Watch this."

Ellis did -- a little more closely than Nick thought he needed to, to the point that the Southerner rotated his cap sideways, as if to make sure the bill didn't get in Nick's way.  He cast him a cold, sidelong glance, about to witheringly suggest he give him some space, but as he took in the sight of him with his cap like that, his thin lips curled appreciatively.

"You look like an idiot like that," he accused.

Ellis gave a soft, offended scoff, moving to readjust it.

"No. Keep it that way," Nick curtly halted him, "it suits you."

"Man," Ellis grumbled, "yew one bossy sonuva--"

"Ah."

Ellis clamped his mouth shut, and Nick was pleased to see a petulant hint of glower in those slate blue eyes.

Coach, with a sigh, had taken a seat in the nearby chair to wait. Rochelle let herself down to sit at the end of the dock, dangling her legs over the water. 

True to his boast, Nick made more impressive time with the bobby pins than he had with the rusty wire. Impressive to Ellis, anyway-- he could only imagine what Coach and Rochelle thought of his skill. When the lock clicked open, he cracked the door ajar and stepped back, so that Ellis could eagerly approach, pushing it open with his shoulder and stepping inside. 

It seemed almost ridiculous, to draw his Magnum to follow, but it would have felt more ridiculous at this point to be take off guard by a surprise zombie. Nowhere was safe, he reminded himself, as his eyes took in the dim interior of the boathouse. There wasn't really anywhere for anything to hide in here, though. The light reflected off the water, casting undulating patterns across the ceiling, up Ellis's body as he stepped around the boat's little port, examining the room's contents.

"Oho, man," he was chortling with enthusiasm, "hell yea. All kinds of good shit in here. Nick, look! Gas cans!"

"Don't suppose they might actually have gas in them, do you?" Nick asked dubiously, wary of getting his hopes up, holstering his gun with a last suspicious glance at the water.

"Naw, not likely, but least now we got plenty to carry it in." Ellis touched a can with the toe of his boot, and it scraped easily an inch over the ground, confirming his guess. "And shit man, look! No poles, but there's all these nets! Betcha we could make it work."

"So what, we can have sushimi?" Nick unhelpfully mocked. "Got nothin' to cook it on, sport. Lost all our shit, remember?"

"Naww, I ain't messin' with that," Ellis acknowledged seriously. "Not after..."

"Yeah. Don't remind me. The one time I actually pay attention to one of your fucking stories..."

"That there was a caution'ry tale," the redneck acknowledged sagely.

"Yeah, one no one else fucking needed. 'Don't eat raw chicken', Jesus Christ. I don't know how that guy is still alive."

The words left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, regretted immediately. Despite Ellis's confidence that his friend and mom had both made it safely out, it seemed just as likely to Nick that they hadn't. Ellis didn't seem to think anything of it, though, agreeing,

"I know, man. Keith ain't stupid-- dude's a fuckin' genius, actually, m'tellin' yuh-- he jess don't think sometimes, y'know? Gits so darn excited about an idea, s'like he's in a whole 'nother world, ain't no stoppin' him. I always say Lady Luck must be sweet on 'im, cause by all rights feller should be dead, all his body's bin through. I ever tell yew 'bout the time--?"

"Yep," Nick curtly, dryly cut him off.

Ellis tsked reproachfully, with a sidelong glance his way. 

"Don't even know whut I was gonna say..." he mumbled huffily.

"We've been fighting fucking rabid zombie people with tongue lassos and acid spit, hick, I think I'm good on body horror. Your buddy is a cautionary tale. It's called don't fuck your sister."

He heard a soft intake of offended breath. 

"Now, really Nick," Ellis chided, something about the tone seeming to especially draw out the twang of his accent. "That ain't funny."

"Sure it is," Nick disagreed wryly.

"Three to one you're outvoted," Rochelle disapprovingly joined in from across the room. She and Coach had drifted in to help investigate, both looking about as tired as Nick felt. It had been a taxing day, physically and psychologically, and they'd had nothing to eat since that morning.

Nick tsked.

"Tough crowd," he drawled disaffectedly, rolling his head back to stare up at a set of oars stored across the rafters. He sure hoped Ellis would be able to get the motor running on the boat. The thought of spending the entire next day rowing certainly did not appeal to him.

There was all manner of junk to look at, none of which Nick particularly cared about. He decided to head upstairs to get the other door open. As he left, he saw Ellis hopping confidently into the boat, keeping his footing as it rocked beneath him.

The deck upstairs, when he had gained access to it, had much less to look at -- at least in terms of the deck itself. The view was quite nice. You could hardly see the dirt road through the trees on the opposite bank, the only sign of man with no other dock in sight, and there was nothing to see but greenery and the  gradually curving river.

There were a convenient four lounge chairs laid out, just under the roof, which covered only half the deck area, a few fold up end tables, and in the corner, a slightly dusty cooler. That could possibly come in handy.

Otherwise, there was nothing to see. 

Stepping forward, Nick let his jacket fall from his shoulder to hang from one arm, and pulled the straps of his guns over his head, grimacing as he rolled out his shoulder, which ached from the prolonged weight it had been bearing. Picking the far chair, he tossed his jacket over the back, leaned the guns against the side, and collapsed himself down with a groan of a sigh. He stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles and leaned his head back, shutting his eyes and letting the river-cooled breeze wash over him.

~

He jolted slightly, awoken by the sound of a motor roaring to life beneath him, and blearily blinked his green eyes open.

It hadn't been that long, but it was that time of day when the light changed quickly, and the sun was now properly setting, vanished behind the hills. The river still reflected the sky, milky in the ombre between smoldering orange and dusk blue, but deep shadows rippled at the banks, reflecting the darkening trees and foliage.

He could hear Ellis whooping in delight over the sound of motor's rumbling, and inhaled slowly and deeply so as to deliver a settling sigh, before gripping the arms of the lounge chair and heavily swinging his legs from it, grudgingly hefting his aching body back to his feet. 

There was no need to go down the stairs to satiate his FOMO, though. Before he could approach them, he could make out Ellis calling, 

"I'ma git her out on th'water!"

and the tone of the rumbling changing, so he redirected instead towards the railing. He leaned on it, over languidly draped arms, loosely crossed at the wrists, and gazed down, watching as the motorboat began drifting gently out. Ellis came into sight, at its helm, and just when Nick had the fleeting thought to be impressed he was easing it out so carefully, the engine growled, and the boat surged eagerly forward. Even from up top, Nick received a sprinkling of spray, and grimaced away, nose wrinkled with distaste. Forgetting the state of his hands, he went to wipe the water from his cheek, and spat out a curse when he felt the moisture slicken his dirty palm instead, leaving what was no doubt a smear of mud across one cheekbone.

This while Ellis yowled with delight, of course, now peeling around the water, the boat leaving great trails of foam capped waves in its wake. 

All that water around, and Nick was still fucking filthy. He'd be damned if he was going bathing in possibly alligator-infested waters, though. They hadn't seen any yet, but that didn't sound like his kind of gamble.

"Nick!" Ellis hollered excitedly from across the water, having spotted him leaning on the railing. "Look, I got her runnin'!"

"Oh, did you?" Nick called back, flat with sarcasm, eyes still moodily dark as he gave up wiping his face, after considering using his shirt sleeve but unable to bring himself to dirty the one clean part of his clothing left. "I couldn't tell, with my eyes or ears."

If Nick was honest with himself, he could admit he wouldn't have had the first clue how to get that boat running on his own. Sure, had he been alone, he never would have ended up here in the first place, but he also would have probably been dead. He wasn't looking forward to traveling by boat, nor to inevitably getting hopelessly lost in one, but if all this had turned out to be a waste of time, and they'd had to trek all the way back to truck, resigned to their first shitty plan, he would have been pissed.

And lounge chairs on a deck didn't actually sound any worse than sleeping on the hard floor of that shack, though the hollow ache of hunger in his stomach lost the night some points comparatively. The thought of some of that fresh fish, crispy and sizzling hot off the pan, made his mouth water longingly, and he had to swallow. That seemed forever ago now. They'd be going without dinner that night.

Ellis resisted fooling around too much, as they didn't have the liberty to waste gas. He soon docked the boat and shut it off again. 

It was their third night together. Coach was the one who made the suggestion, for the first time, that they set up a watch. He sounded reluctant to even bring it up. He was as tired as any of them, if not more so, and with only the one zombie they'd seen out here, it almost seemed like a waste of effort.

Except all it would take was just one special -- mutant, god damn it Ellis -- one mutant infected showing up while they slept, and that would be it. Gambling their lives that they'd probably be fine, when against all odds they'd just nearly all been killed by a completely unanticipated encounter, seemed foolish, once it was spelled out, and no one argued.

Nick volunteered for first watch, not wanting to be roused once he'd managed to fall asleep. As nobody else particularly wanted to be the one responsible for rousing Nick, this worked out well. Coach, an early riser but a heavy sleeper, volunteered for last watch, while Rochelle took second and Ellis third. 

The atmosphere was markedly lacking compared to the last two nights, when there had been some vestige of normalcy in the way they'd eaten dinner together and then prepared for bed. The boathouse was a godsend, and the view from the deck pleasant, but it was no real safehouse. The last one might not have had a usable bed or furniture, but this one didn't even have four walls, and with no food to eat, there was nothing to do but try and get some sleep. Or in Nick's case, begin his watch. 

He took up guard on the lower floor, positioning that plastic white chair at the corner of the building where the two decks met, so that he could see the shore and walkway, but also easily turn his head to see out across the river. If some water-adapted Hunter came crawling up over the edge of the dock, he'd be ready. 

Instead, the worst threat he faced that night was boredom. That, and his own thoughts. He'd volunteered because despite the long day, he knew he could easily keep his eyes open another few hours. It wasn't till he'd been sitting in that chair fifteen, twenty minutes in the deepening dusk, till after the footsteps and murmured conversation had quieted away upstairs, that he began to truly feel his weariness, as he recalled that its real source was not his body's fatigue, aches and hunger, but the weight of reality on his mind.

As exhausting as it was being around three other people at all times, as much as he craved solitude and looked for an excuse to avoid them, the moment he was alone, everything came creeping back.

It was all so fresh, so recent. Three days ago, this was just some weird virus on the news that no one knew anything about. Then it had become their immediate reality, and it was hard to focus too much on a broader, more long-term view, when they were all so busy fighting for their lives that they were still processing even that much. 

Now, though, he found himself musing past their present circumstances, considering the momentous times they were living through on a larger scale, and realistically trying to comprehend how it would alter the course of human history. There was no telling what percentage of the world's population was gone by now, but based on what he'd seen in the area, he would be willing to best the answer fell within the margins of most of it. 

Almost seven billion people.

No, that meant nothing to him. A quantity that large was an abstraction, a statistic, not something his mind could grasp in any tangible way.

Humanity might basically be screwed, he realized with a strange, distant feeling. Maybe this wouldn't be an event of total extinction, but even if they eventually came out on top, even if every last zombie was killed, what would be left behind? An empty world with a fraction of those necessary to keep things running the way they had been. Nothing ever would be the way it had been. The remainder of the lives of those left would just be spent surviving in the shell of the old world... and, he supposed, getting started on repopulating the earth. 

Well, that part might not be so bad.

It was just as likely the infected wouldn't go away, not in their lifetimes. As long as there were humans susceptible to the virus, there would be more zombies. Human extinction might be the only thing that would guarantee theirs. 

Three fucking hours suddenly seemed a mind-numbingly long amount of time.

At least the sound of the water flowing by kept him company, soothing at the raw corners of his thoughts. When the sky darkened from blue to velvet black, and the stars rose, they provided something else for his eyes to study than the now impenetrable gloom of the bushes along the banks, and he tried not to think of how much was gone and how little he could bring himself to feel about it. Of how the stars twinkled down on a quieter, darker, emptier world than it had in centuries, and didn't care at all.

With about as many hours of darkness as of light this time of year, they'd divided the watch up accordingly. None of them had any reliable way of telling time, though. It would be Rochelle's turn before the moon crested the horizon. Nick just stayed on guard, sometimes pacing or standing for a while to stretch his stiffness out and keep himself alert, till precisely when he thought he couldn't stand the tedium another minute.

Then he smoked a cigarette, gave it  what felt like another twenty minutes, and headed upstairs.

They had pulled the lounge chairs back, so that they lay entirely under the roof. It was a strange image, three people sleeping like that, blanketless and fully dressed, outside on a deck. Even in the shadows, Rochelle's smaller form was easy to distinguish.

Nick nudged her awake, and a tired sigh stirred from her nose as she came to, but she didn't require more prodding than that, slowly starting to stir up. With nothing to report, Nick didn't bother with more than that, leaving her to head to his chair, by then truly exhausted in every sense of the word. 

He laid down and shifted onto his side, squirming a little in an effort to get as comfortable as he could. As he settled, too tired to muster properly resenting their sleeping situation, his eyes fell on Ellis, who lay on the chair closest to him. 

He'd untied his sleeves, and for once actually wore them on his arms, coveralls zipped halfway up his muddy Midnight Riders t-shirt. Nick had asked him, earlier, why he still wore it, when he had his perfectly clean Bullshifters shirt in his pocket. He'd said he didn't want to get it dirty... and that the rest of him would still be muddy anyway, so he didn't see the point.

Nick hadn't been able to find an argument to that.

The Southerner was passed out, curled a little on his side with his mouth faintly open, arms up to his chest, one loose fist tucked comfortably under his jaw.

At least he wouldn't be waking up to the kid's nose in his back, this time.

That was a good thing, he reminded himself, distantly irked when the thought didn't satisfy him like it should, even as sleep softly tugged at his thoughts, coaxing them apart like cotton candy and melting them away. He forgot why he'd been irked at all moments later, longingly turning into the bosom of blissful unconsciousness as soon as she offered her embrace.

~

Sleep was not blissful.

They were driving along the road by the river again. The Tank wasn't dead, so they were searching for it. If they didn't kill it, it would never stop coming for them. Nick thought it was a bad idea, even so, and just wanted out of this area he felt trapped in, but no one would listen to him. Rochelle and Coach had said he and Ellis could handle it. 

He was in the truckbed with Ellis, though, and Ellis was determinedly sharpening his hunting knife. Nick was trying to tell him he couldn't use a knife on the Tank, that was crazy. Ellis looked grim, though, explaining that he had to. That he knew the Tank, apparently, or rather it had been someone he'd known, and that was why he wanted to save him, which he believed he could do. He had a theory that if he cut into him just the right way, he could fix him.

Nick was struggling in the dream to explain to him why that was insane, pointless, suicidal.  He felt like he had to be careful, for some reason, of upsetting him. Maybe it was because he'd been sharpening that knife far longer than necessary. Except that made sense, because it wasn't just one knife, but many. Ten knives, long and thin, razor sharp now, only they weren't knives but nails. Ellis's nails. He could see, in such detail, the way they split out from the tips of his fingers, which glistened with dark blood.

"Ellis," he gasped. "What did you do?"

He wasn't sure why he said it like that. Blaming him. Ellis looked hurt, though, too hurt, and he realized he'd said the wrong thing. Before he could think how to reverse the damage, Ellis had suddenly vaulted to his feet, lunging at him in a blur of slicing, knife-like claws, and Nick was stunned to glimpse rage-filled, teary blue eyes behind them, before he recoiled, tumbled back over the side of the truck and fell hard into the road. 

In the dream, his head didn't ache from the impact, but he'd knew he'd broken something, and would have trouble moving. The truck was receding further away, but the rumbling was getting louder. He could feel the earth shaking, horrible roaring sounds, and realized with cold fear that the Tank was coming. 

And they'd left him -- Ellis had left him. He shouldn't have been surprised, but... 

His chest hurt. Hitting the road hadn't hurt, but that pain felt real. He needed to try to move, not just lay in the road and wait to die, but what was the point? He couldn't outrun the Tank.

He tried to sit up anyway, only for something to knock into him, flattening him on his back. For a moment, blinded by the bright sky, he thought it was a Hunter, sure he was about to be shredded... but it was just Ellis, straddling him. He wasn't crying anymore, but he looked grim, focused.

"Ellis!" he half gasped, half snarled, squirming indignantly. Ellis stayed rooted firmly on top of him, neither his placement nor position wholly unfamiliar to Nick, only the gender of the one occupying it. "What are you doing?! Help me up, the Tank's coming!"

Instead, ignoring him and the quaking of the road, one of Ellis's hands moved, and Nick remembered his nails. The sharp tips drifted to his chest, where his shirt was unbuttoned, and slipped underneath the blue cloth, scraping lightly over hair and skin. Before he could balk, and buck the Southerner off, he felt the tips of those nails prick into his skin, caged just over his heart, and froze, a breath caught in his throat.

Ellis meant to kill him. 

"Wait," he whispered, stunned, breathless from that pain in his chest-- not the sting of the claws, but deeper. "Ellis? Please. I'm sorry."

It was no use. The young man on top of him seemed unreachable, expression moody and focused. The Tank would trample them both at this rate, but that wouldn't matter to Nick anymore. He felt a sharp, burning pain as the claws began to sink through his flesh, reaching for his heart. Horror, affront, confusion and disappointment battled for dominance, a sickening medley, and there was something else too, a maddening, inexplicable guilt.

Strong fingers, buried bloody deep in his chest, curled around their target, beating desperately, and clenched tight.

He awoke with a gasp that was almost a wheeze for air, still breathless from the tight pain in his chest, as fresh and crippling as in the dream, his heart racing like a rabbit's. With a grimace, he stiffly, slowly rolled onto his back, and with forced patience coaxed his tension to relax its grip on his lungs, breathing careful and slow till he could once more fill them. It took him several minutes before he had it satisfactorily calmed, though something of the ache still stubbornly lingered, and the weariness soaked back in as the pain subsided.

He clasped a hand over his eyes, rubbing their corners with fingertips and the heel of his thumb, a bitter pinch to his features. 

What the fuck was with these dreams? Like he needed any more nightmare in his life. He hated even regular dreams. You could never quite count on yourself. You behaved in ways you couldn't account for, that you never would otherwise.

So did anyone else that might show up, uninvited, to haunt them.

He wanted to forget about it as soon as possible, but he couldn't help letting his hand lower from his eyes to slip into his shirt, laying it over his heart. No blood, of course, just hair and the warmth of his skin. He could feel its beating, though, still not quite back to normal.

With a sigh, he turned his head towards where Ellis lay, to cast the arguably blameless Southerner a dark look. His chair was empty, though. It must have been his watch. The moon had risen, just one perfect half illuminated, and the deck was brighter under its light than it had been when he'd gone to sleep.

He toyed with the idea of going downstairs and bothering him, still unsettled from his dream and wanting a distraction, but pushed the thought away. He needed to sleep. Going on an empty stomach was bad enough, but these restless nights were going to catch up to him quicker if he wasn't careful. If all went according to plan -- a huge if-- they would be encountering infected again before the end of the day, and he couldn't afford sluggish reflexes.

With a quiet growl, he shifted, turning onto his other side. He took his jacket, which he'd been using as a pillow, and pulled it over himself instead, tucked to his neck.

It took him a restless while to fall asleep this time.

~

He awoke to the sweet chirping of birdsong, bright and merry, far too close. The air was cool and fresh, and as he opened his eyes, he saw that the morning was still dim, the sun only just hitting the very tops of the trees on the opposite bank, warming the leaves to gold. 

Nick was not an early riser, so he didn't love recognizing he'd somehow managed to wake every morning since the outbreak at precisely the crack of dawn. He supposed sleeping in wouldn't be a luxury they'd be able to afford any time soon anyway, and wouldn't hold much appeal till he once again experienced an actual bed, for Christ's sake. It had been three nights too long.

The unpleasant dreams of earlier had faded in his memory, and he made a point not to refresh them, sitting himself up and dropping his legs to the floor.

Ellis was back, sound asleep. He'd fallen asleep in his hat, Nick noticed, with the quietest scoff. Dumbshit. It had come half off in his shifting, and looked silly. He watched him thoughtlessly for a few moments, as good as alone with Coach absent and Rochelle turned away-- and, presumably, asleep-- before stirring himself from his distraction and getting to his feet, donning his jacket and slipping quietly downstairs.

As expected, Coach was stationed in the plastic chair, shotgun lying across his lap. He looked perfectly awake, gazing stoically towards the shore, and didn't speak till Nick had unhurriedly descended the last of the steps, though he'd clearly heard the door opening, and was aware of him. 

"Mornin', Nick," he greeted evenly.

"Coach," Nick acknowledged, not looking at him either. Wandering a few steps, to the edge of the dock, he reached into his jacket for his smokes, and only as he pulled them out did he spare Coach a brief glance.

"You mind?" he checked flatly, as if to present it as more of a challenge than an actual request for permission.

"Nah. Surprised you asked, Mr. I Don't Care About Your Feelings."

Nick snorted softly, pinching a cigarette in his lips and returning the pack to his jacket.

"It's too early to put up with anyone bitching at me right now."

He sparked the lighter aflame, shielding it with cupped hands from the gentle breeze drifting off the river, till the tip of his cigarette sizzled cherry red. Cheeks hollowed with his first puff, then he sighed the smoke into the air, putting away the lighter too.

"Uh-huh," was the skeptical acknowledgment Coach limited himself to. 

"That's what I like about you, Coach," Nick quipped outloud, lightly. "The silent judgment."

"I ain't judgin."

One arm folded across his ribs, Nick twisted at the waist to glance back at him with a smirk, his turn for skepticism. He didn't argue though, turning back around and gazing out down the river, reflecting the lightening sky. After the next smoky exhale, he asked,

"Any activity."

"Nope. You?"

"No. Boring as fuck."

"Figures. Probably cost everyone sleep for no reason."

"Probably. But that's all it cost us. Safety is boring, I guess. Not like Ellis's ideas, which are never boring or safe."

Coach gave a single huff of a laugh.

"Smart kid," he mused, and Nick scoffed.

"Nutcase. You realize we have no idea where this river leads, right? We could just end up running out of gas in some swamp?"

Coach was silent, and after a few seconds of that, Nick grew uncomfortable, and twisted again, narrowing his eyes to find Coach just giving him a look.

Disgruntled, he shrugged one shoulder in agitation, as if to dislodge something, and surrendered a growling sigh.

"Yeah alright, fine," he bit out, turning darkly back to the river and lifting his cigarette to his lips, "I don't have any better ideas."

"Least we all in this together."

"Yeah, you say that now. Wait till we're deciding who to eat first. That doesn't look good for you, you know."

"Boy. Quit bein' dramatic. Have yo smoke. Ain't none of us eaten nothin' since yesterday morning, liable to bite each others heads off today if we ain't careful."

"Was that... meant to be a cannibalism pun?"

"No," Coach admitted.

~

When Nick finished his smoke, they decided they might as well get the group going. Without much in the way of preparations that could be made, it was a very short time before the little team was awake and climbing into the boat downstairs, and Ellis was finagling with the massacred remains of the ignition till the motor roared to life again. 

Nick had to admit, as they cruised out over the water, the misting air pleasant on his skin, nicotine still soothing his nerves and the taste of tobacco lingering in his mouth, that things could have been worse, at least right in that moment. His stomach was hollow, and he could feel the fatigue it caused him, but at least he didn't have to fucking walk, and he was firmly operating on the assumption that zombies couldn't swim.

"This is so nice actually," Rochelle cooed, a more flowery mirror of his thoughts. 

"Yeah, man, I love bein' out on the water," replied Ellis, blue eyes and voice both still a little soft with sleepiness, but no less warm and cheerful for it. He was still waking up, blessedly not yet as chatty as he was at the peak of his energy, though his gaze was focused enough on the river ahead that Nick didn't challenge his ability to handle the craft. "Could do this all day."

"Might get your wish," Nick grumbled. He was closely scrutinizing the water over the side of the boat, looking for alligators, wanting badly to finally wash his hands but leery of giant jaws snapping out of nowhere. He was probably being ridiculous, but if an alligator did bite his hand off, he'd feel ridiculous and be short a hand, and he just couldn't quite bring himself to risk it. He really liked his hands.

It did seem like they were in for a bit of a trip. Considering how long it had taken them to get so far from civilization in the first place, that was to be expected. The river wasn't straight, either, weaving to and fro. Nick severely doubted they'd end up anywhere near the town they'd originally planned to return to, but it was far too late to change plans again now. 

Over the next couple hours, they passed other docks, other boathouses, sparingly at first but cropping up more frequently as they went on, which was enough to keep Nick's pessimism just at bay, at least. Some looked long abandoned, others distinctly less so.

Their plan was not to stop, if they could help it, until they found some kind of town, or at least a promising source of gas. That was the plan, anyway, until they saw the house.

It was built into the side of a high embankment on the north side of the river, a modern, three story construction. A covered wooden deck on the far side and a wrap around balcony were built off the middle floor, looking out over the water. 

"Woah," murmured Ellis, easing off on the gas.

"Shit," Nick muttered in interest, frowning thoughtfully up at the house. 

"Place looks nice," admitted Coach.  "Could even be people there."

"We gotta check, right?" asked Rochelle hopefully.

"Yeah, gotta," Ellis agreed, excitement in his voice. He glanced back Nick's way, as if unsure he'd agree.

"If that place is half as nice inside as it looks outside, you'll have trouble getting me to leave," Nick told him seriously, one frowning eyebrow cocked.

So a few minutes later, the motorboat had been quieted and left lassoed to a tree, waiting for their return, and they were hiking up the hill to the driveway, which was level with the middle floor. There were no cars in sight, but there was a garage separate from the house, so that didn't necessarily mean nobody was home.

It certainly seemed a nice enough place on closer inspection. The wood of the deck was freshly stained, the flowers in the planters well kept, healthy and blooming. 

"S'pose we oughta jess knock, right?" Ellis checked, glancing back at them as he stepped up to the front door. There was an oval window in its center, but the white curtain over it was drawn, obscuring the view.

"Seems the thing to do," Coach agreed.

Nick wondered if he was the only one suddenly conscious of their no doubt shocking-looking state, battered, bandaged and mud-plastered. He certainly couldn't have been the only one thinking that the sheer amount of weaponry they were all strapped with did not make for a friendly first impression, zombie apocalypse or not.

It was probably one of the many things Ellis was considering, by the apprehensive glance he cast back their way, before biting at his lower lip, turning round, and lifting a fist to rap a polite little tune on the door.

Silence followed.

He waited a few seconds, then repeated the tune, more firmly, and called out, 

"Hullo? Anyone in there? Hey, sorry, we don't mean no harm. Know we must look somethin' frightful, but we jess bin dealin' with all these zombies.. yew folks alright in there?"

Crickets.

"Either there's no one in there, or they want us to think that," Nick said dryly, eying the upstairs windows suspiciously. 

Ellis tried one last time, leaning his cheek close enough to the glass that his breath misted against it as he hollered,

"Hullo? We'll be on our way if yew don't want us here, but jess lettin' yew know, if yew gone, we're probably comin' in, so... speak now, man."

"They probably cleared out," commented Rochelle in agreement with Nick. She had wandered onto the porch and was peeking with interest around the corner. Nick stepped up to the door beside Ellis, who shifted a step to give him room to try the door. Locked, naturally.

"Let's check the windows first," Nick muttered, catching Ellis's eager, expectant look. The kid might not have been tired of watching him picklock shit, but he was sure tired of doing it.

It proved a prudent suggestion. Circling the deck, Rochelle discovered an unlatched window on the east wall, which seemed to lead into a kitchen over a sink. It was new enough that they didn't even need her crowbar to get it open-- a few hands flattened firmly to the glass, pushing up, and it slid smoothly up and open. 

Rochelle stuck her head bravely through, and called out once more,

"Hey! If anyone's here, don't be scared! We're friendly, just hungry!"

"Not in a zombie kinda way, though," Ellis whispered, as if he thought this was important for her to clarify.

"Pretty sure they can tell we're not zombies, sport," Nick sardonically reminded him. "And unless there's a special one hiding in there, I'm willing to bet this place is empty."

"Okay. I'm going in," Rochelle told them, with a glance back. Ellis was the only other one who probably wouldn't have complained about the idea of crawling in awkwardly over the sink, and Rochelle being the considerably slighter, it was obvious who the best person for the job was. 

Still--

"Careful, babygirl," Coach urged her, and they all watched as she wormed her way through the window, till her boots disappeared. There was some careful maneuvering over the sink, then a light thump as she landed on the floor.

"Oh, this is a nice place," they heard her say admiringly. "I'll meet you guys at the front door."

Ellis eagerly scurried off, and Coach and Nick followed. Despite Nick's conviction that the house was empty, there was an unavoidable tension in having one member of their party in an uncleared area, separated from them, that didn't abate until they saw that white curtain swish, and heard the door unlocking.

Chapter Text

LEVEL V - THE RIVER - lll/V

Rochelle pulled the front door open for them, wearing a warm smile, and gestured courteously for them to enter. "Boys~."

With a little grin, Ellis tipped his hat to her as he stepped inside the foyer, politely responding in turn, "Ma'am."

Nick sighed as he stepped through last, after Coach, gazing around the pristine little foyer with a strange expression, perversely looking almost moody with appreciation. Ellis gave a low whistle, impressed.

"Stop," Nick suddenly, curtly ordered, before they could move on to the rest of the house. Everyone gave him a puzzled look, and Ellis looked of half a mind to go for his guns. Trigger happy little fuck.

"We're filthy," he told them sternly. "Maybe we don't track mud all over this place, since it's actually not."

Rochelle blinked, eyebrows arching in amazement as high as they could go.

"This from you?" she wondered, amusement teasing at her voice.

"Listen, I'm sorry, but that last place was a fucking dump, alright? I'm glad it's gone, I'm not even kidding. But this is a nice place. We could stay here. So maybe we don't wreck it, and we pretend we're still fucking civilized and take our shoes off before we go looking around."

Everyone was looking at him in wonder and amusement, Coach shaking his head slightly to himself.

"What?" Nick snapped, scowling. "Don't look at me like that. You were the one yelling at me before."

"I didn't yell," Coach defended himself, with a little frown.

"Did too," Nick shot back petulantly.

"Now now, boys," Rochelle chided, with humor. Ellis was chortling too, but had dutifully dropped directly down to the floor, half cross-legged with one knee up as he started untying his boots. "You're right, Suit. Few days into the outbreak, and we've already forgotten our manners. Good looking out."

Coach sighed, giving Nick a dry look as he lowered himself down onto a bench, no doubt there just for that purpose, to remove his shoes.

"Not sho' yo' the man I'd be takin' advice from on manners, Nick, but can't say you wrong about this. Just surprised, that's all."

"I'm full of surprises," Nick dryly drawled, as he knelt to one knee to untie his own shoes. Rochelle just leaned back against a wall, lifting her feet to pull off her suede boots, the straps of which were only decorative.

"I'll bet," he only just heard Ellis mumble, and caught his stare a moment, at eye level with him, before the Southerner appeared slightly embarrassed to have been noticed, and averted his.

Nosy little brat.

Mystifying as the redneck's fascination with him was, though, and obnoxious at times, he couldn't deny that he enjoyed the attention.

When they were all down to their socks, the party again advanced, and the rest of them finally got a proper look at what had impressed Rochelle. It really was -- not to overstate it-- a nice place. The carpet was light-hued and blemish free, besides a few flakes of dried mud leading from the kitchen, the floor plan spacious, with plenty of light coming in from outside, even without electricity. 

The decorations were unoffensive, pretty paintings and lots of family photos. There was a brightly lit dining area at the far side of the house, through the kitchen, with a polished pine table and built in corner bench to match, a large, comfortable living room, a bathroom and what seemed to be a guestroom, neatly furnished but impersonal. 

The kitchen was the only let down, and the one area of the house a little less tidy than the rest, only in that the cupboards had been left with their doors hanging open... and distinctly barren. They searched from top to bottom, and found that even the fridge had been cleaned of perishables. All their searching turned up was a single, overlooked packet of instant oatmeal in a high cabinet, lying flat on the shelf. 

They all took a moment to stare at it in disappointment.

"... We could split it," Ellis tentatively suggested.

"I'm okay," Nick flatly, curtly declined.

"I saw a bird feeder out back, we could probably --"

"I'm definitely okay," Nick interrupted, in a harder tone.

"Honey, you know, sometimes I worry about you," even Rochelle informed Ellis, looking at him with a concerned frown.

"Whut?" Ellis protested, cheeks softening as he huffed. "Jess perfectly good seeds 'n shit... s'like trail mix. I don't mind sharin' wit' some birds. They might, but hell, they can do with worms an' shit..."

Nick shook his head scornfully. 

"Ever heard of bird flu, you dumbfuck?"

"Aw," Ellis's face fell, looking sheepish, "right... yeahh~, yer right. Guess I fergot 'bout that."

Nick tched, rolling his eyes, and stepped away. His expression changed a moment later, as with zero expectations, he tried the sink. To his visible surprise, water streamed out.

"Holy shit," he softly snarled, and wasted no time in starting to vigorously scrub his hands together, the water he wrung his ringed fingers under tinted a dirty brown as it hit the sink, swirling satisfyingly away into the drain.

"Hawhaw shit, no way!" Ellis yowled happily, his and Rochelle's faces both alight with excitement. Coach was a little more reserved, but visibly impressed, eyebrows raised.

"Well that settles it," Nick growled firmly, "we live here now."

"Oh my gosh, that's amazing," groaned Rochelle. "Do you think it's from a tank or -- maybe just filtered from the river?"

"If it is, we're fucking set," Nick replied with feeling, finishing washing the worst of the mud off his hands and shutting it off, just in case the supply was limited. His nails weren't scoured to his full satisfaction, dirty half crescents deep underneath each that bothered him, but as soon as they confirmed they had the water to spare, he was taking a full shower, power or not.

Speaking of...

He cast them a sidelong stare, those penetrating green eyes narrowed with thought, anything like hope presenting itself, naturally, as more akin to suspicion. 

"... Think there's power?"

~

There was no power. There was, however, a backup generator, tucked discreetly away on a small, bush-shrouded patio off the lowest floor, which they didn't discover till they explored down there. The basement itself was beautiful, as finished as the rest of the house. A grand pool table was the centerpiece of the first, spacious room they descended into, and Nick couldn't resist a wicked smirk.

"Hey Ellis," he purred before they were even off the stairs, a dangerously cajoling note to his voice that immediately earned Rochelle's suspicious stare, "you wanna play?"

"Sure, Nick!" Ellis eagerly agreed, oblivious to any danger. 

"Ellis..." Rochelle began warningly, earning a sly leer from Nick, but Ellis wasn't listening, having noticed the tucked away patio door and lured to investigate. A moment later, his giddy whoops of delight were luring them outside after him. He and Coach took to investigating it, while Nick and Rochelle continued exploring. 

Besides the poolroom, the floor also contained a TV room, another bathroom and a second guest room, which Nick decided would be his the moment he laid eyes on it, a claim he firmly voiced to Rochelle, who only rolled her eyes, not bothering to reply.

Continuing the seesaw of good and bad news, it turned out the generator was completely dry of gas.

So they had found the perfect place, but they were no better off in supplies, and in fact had again added to their shopping list. If they were serious about setting up here -- and Nick, at least, was deathly so -- they now needed to think about gas for the truck, the motorboat, and the house.

But fuck, it was perfect. Okay -- not perfect. It had one of the same, glaring problems as the record store -- there were a lot of windows, too many to practically cover up even if they'd had the supplies, and that meant a lot of possible points of entry. That was the thing, though -- there still were hardly any zombies out here. They could set up watch. It could work.

The third floor capped it off. One huge master bedroom, a study, a small library, and a fourth bedroom. It seemed as if a retired couple lived here, one with a very active social life, by the number of rooms clearly designated for guests. That meant everyone could actually have their own, private room, with a real bed.

If Nick had to guess, though, it was the spacious, covered deck, on the western side of the house, that sealed the deal for Coach. The deck, and the huge, gleaming BBQ sitting proudly out on it. He caught him gazing at it with a distant look on his face, one large hand placed upon the cover, and decided not to approach him.

Nick couldn't know what he was thinking about, but he was reminded, in that moment, that he was the only one of them that didn't have anybody to get back to, who had nothing really to lose in committing to settle down somewhere so isolated.

Unfortunately, they couldn't stay, not until they'd completed their mission. They were in pressing need of food. Nick was gloomy at the thought of leaving the house, but his stomach was starting to cramp with hunger, and he knew they had no choice. It would be difficult to leave, but it would have been a lot more so if it weren't for one more stroke of luck. Upstairs, in the study, Rochelle had found half a piece of paper crumpled by the waste basket. When she'd seen what it was-- after nosily snooping--she'd searched for and quickly found the other half in the basket. It was a printout of a Mapquest, which appeared to have gotten jammed, perhaps due to someone trying to pull it impatiently out before it had finished printing. Some of the instructions were missing, but more importantly there was a map. Ignoring the route the house occupants had been headed, they were able to figure out where they were, as well as where their river led.

A tiny dot indicated a town within a reasonable distance.

It was not... Nick forced Ellis to study the map, and admit... the town they had meant to return to.

Nick made him find and point to that one.

The winding river led, indubitably, completely away from it. Nick was satisfied by the embarrassed warmth he drew to the hick's face, though Rochelle ruined it somewhat by comfortingly pointing out that if they hadn't followed Ellis's plan, they wouldn't have found this house.

As near as they could figure out, the water was filtered from the river, so they all took a few minutes to clean up a bit, drink and refill their water bottles, but time was of the essence, as their tiring, starving bodies wouldn't let them forget, so regretfully, they were soon leaving the house on the river behind. 

Twisted around at the waist, Nick frowned back at it from the boat till it disappeared from sight around the riverbend, then quietly sighed and turned forward again, to brood in silence for a while.

"Least now we have somewhere to go back to," Ellis pointed out, relief in his voice, as well as a hint of longing that suggested he, too, wished they didn't have to leave so soon. "And we actually know where we're goin', now."

Rochelle had brought the precious map, and taken responsibility for keeping track of the river's curves to mark their progress. 

So they had a pretty good idea of just where they were, and how far from town, when the engine died on them about an hour later.

Nick shut his eyes and swore. 

Ellis did his best, reassuring them he could fix it and apologizing, but a cursory examination quickly revealed the problem was one he could do nothing about -- the boat had simply run out of gas.

"We were so close," Rochelle groaned into the mockingly peaceful silence that had descended since the motor had cut out.

"Well, guess that's whut we got these for!" Ellis reasoned bracingly, reaching back and grabbing hold of the oars.

Nick groaned dramatically, but reluctantly leaned forward and snatched one.

There were only two, so they had to take turns. It was irritatingly slow going for the effort it took, and Nick was soon sweaty and fed up. The river cooled the breeze that glided across it, but the day was still heating, sun up in the sky by now, and he was warm even with his jacket off, deep blue shirt stained at his pits and chest. Ellis was his rowing partner-- Rochelle had complained early on that she couldn't keep up with the young redneck's pace, and despite his best efforts he struggled to match hers. The fifth time his energetic rowing began veering them off to the right, they decided to just have Coach and Ellis just swap places, as Nick was better suited to keep pace with him.

He'd done a couple of shifts, and was resting while Rochelle worked their side's oar, when they spotted where, like a highway exit, the river branched off to the north, in the direction the town was supposed to lie, if they'd read the map right. At the branch's mouth crossed a vehicle bridge, reinforced with old but sturdy looking metal, built into the embankment, and they passed under its dark, gloomy belly, where the air was cool.

Thick blackberry brambles clogged the steep banks as they emerged, and the canopies of scattered trees tried to reach each other from either side, limiting their view and providing a pleasant shade from the sun. Beyond their slender trunks, though, Nick could just glimpse electrical lines, a promising sight. When the banks levelled some, and the treeline thinned for a minute, Nick could see stretches of small fields interpersed between trees and brush, little barns, trailers and houses dotted sparsely here and there.

According to the map, best as they could tell given its size and lack of detail, they had arrived at their destination. It didn't look like much of a town yet, per se, but there were signs they were headed in the right direction. For one, after just a few more minutes of rowing, they caught sight of a small dock up ahead. For another, when Ellis pointed out as much, his excited exclaimation was answered by a ragged shriek from somewhere up the right bank.

Infected.

They were headed in the right direction, alright. A few moments later, the brambles began to shake and thrash, ripping and crackling till a single zombie clawed its way painstakingly into sight, bulging eyes seeming all the hungrier for the thorns piercing its waxy features, stretching the discolored skin of its face back till it tore and oozed. 

"Shit, sorry guys," Ellis whispered, drawing one of his pistols as he watched the struggling zombie with the rest of them, in fascinated disgust. It was only a precaution-- he could have taken the shot then, but that ran the risk of attracting others. If zombies could swim, as it looked like they were about to finally find out, Nick was in a better position to take care of it, being on the right side of the boat.

Pulling his golf club from his belt, Nick wondered for a moment if it might just get stuck like that-- those brambles did look pretty formidable. Just as he had the thought, though, the vines restraining the zombie snapped free all at once, and it came tumbling suddenly down the bank, crashing into the water and scattering them with spray.

"Row, row!" Nick snapped with some urgency, maybe a little more than necessary, spooked by its sudden descent and irrationally unnerved by the presence of an enemy in the water. Coach and Rochelle had both slowed their rowing a little to watch the zombie, but now quickly heaved, oars dragging waves behind them, propelling the boat to glide sluggishly forward. 

The zombie's route was easy to follow, at least at first, thrashing wildly after them through the shallows. Then it seemed to trip against the unfamiliar resistance of the abruptly deepening river, and dropped under the surface. Bubbles marked its dogged progress towards them for only moments, before it apparently used up its air, and they dwindled away. 

Ellis and Nick stared back tensely at where the last bubble had disappeared, as they left it gradually further behind them. At the anticlimactic stillness, followed by the sound of Nick breaking into a wicked snicker, Coach and Rochelle let their oars idle again, looking back too.

"Alright, well," Nick wryly admitted, any slight embarrassment at his moment of panic overshadowed by satisfaction, "yeah, guess that settles it. Zombies can't swim, confirmed. Also, god, are they dumb as a bag of bricks, or what?"

Suddenly, Rochelle's breath hitched in a sharp gasp, and her oar plunged deep into the water, as if it had been seized. In an instant, Nick's golf club was glinting in a flash as it swung down through the air, a jolt of adrenaline fueling his viciousness as he thrashed mercilessly at the water, features locked in fury, into which his alarm had immediately channeled itself. Rochelle yelped as the spray from his pummeling hit her, shielding her face with her arms-- and then he realized she was laughing.

Nick stopped abruptly, face frozen in anger and disbelief. The water by the side of the boat sparkled with the bubbles his thrashing had foamed up, countless radial ripples blooming into one another till they vanished back into the flow, but there was no disturbance that he had not caused, nothing to suggest the presence of zombie.  

"Bitch!" Nick spat furiously, hurling his golf club down into the boat with a harsh clatter. "What the fuck, are you fucking kidding me?!"

"I'm sorry!!" Rochelle laughed helplessly, an unconvincing apology. "You were being so smug, Suit, I couldn't help it."

"Damn it, girl," Coach groaned, "got me wit that too. Don't be doin' that to me."

Rochelle did look a little embarrassed then, but amusement still fought over her face, encouraged no doubt by Ellis, who had recovered the fastest, and was laughing too.

Nick shot him a dark glare.

"You're both brats," he growled.

"Okay old man~," Rochelle playfully indulged him.

"Really gotcher goat, that water zombie thing, huh Nick?" Ellis teased, voice low with warmth and humor.

"I'm about to throw you over to it, then see how you feel," Nick threatened coldly.

"Well unlike em dumb zombies, ah can hold muh breath and swim--"

Nick began to loudly slow clap, drawling with flat faux amazement, "Wow, this guy..." 

"-- so I think I'd be jess fine," Ellis continued stubbornly. "Prolly drowned by now anyway, ain't it?"

"I dunno," Nick shot back, snidely, sweetly innocent. "You should swim back and check."

"Stop it," Ellis, chortling, dismissed him.

"Gosh, I sure hope so," Rochelle groaned, as she and Coach rowed on. "Otherwise I'm never going to be able to go swimming again. I'm just going to imagine there's waterlogged zombies walking around the bottom, trying to grab my ankles."

Nick shuddered.

He caught Ellis looking at him, eyes glinting mischievously. He started spider crawling a hand in the direction of Nick's leg, across the bench.

"Better watch out for em water zombies, Nick..."

He gave the hick about a second for his threateningly dark stare to deter him. It didn't.

His hand dove abruptly into the water, cupping a handful and hurling it straight into Ellis's face. 

The hick's urgent recoil was viscerally satisfying, lurching away hard enough to rock the boat, but it was a direct hit, and he was still left with his dumb face soaked and dripping, mouth agape in shock. The other two had both been caught in the attack's scattershot as well, Rochelle yelping and ducking down defensively, and Coach roaring indignantly, turning back towards them and scolding,

"Ey! You stop that nonsense right-- boy!"

Ellis had firmed his mouth with determination and dunked his hand into the water. 

The smirking satisfaction on Nick's face evaporated, and his voice went suddenly dark. 

"Don't y-"

Ellis flung water straight into his face.

Nick froze. It dripped down his brow, his lashes, his long nose. His eyes were alight with anger, but he didn't move a muscle for a few tensely passing seconds, as if the fury within him needed time to coalesce, build to a peak. Ellis seemed to sense an inkling of the rising storm, a look of soft awe on his witless features, something between fascination and fear, a nervous thrill like even he couldn't believe he'd had the audacity to return fire, and realized the consequences would be imminent.

Nick dove at him.

The hick yelped in fear, scrabbling uselessly a split second before the gambler collided with him, driving him into the side of the boat and sending it rocking from side to side. His hat was knocked to the floor as Nick grabbed for his head, seizing him by the back of his curly-haired skull and wrestling it over the edge of the boat, trying to force his face down into the water.

"Oh my god, stop!" Rochelle cried, clutching for the side of the boat to try and steady herself.

"The hell you doin'?!" exclaimed Coach, doing the same, trying to balance out the boat before it tipped over.

Nick paid them no mind, expression hard and mouth a tight, sneering line, caring for nothing just then but punishing Ellis. The hick was putting up a fight, struggling underneath him, hands gripping the edge and bare arms braced to keep himself from the water, boots scraping for traction in the boat, their legs tangling together. 

"Lord almighty," Coach groaned.

"Guys, if you tip this boat, I swear--!"

"Nick, c'mon!" Ellis begged, his curly head straining back against Nick's hand, cringing from the water's rocking surface, inches from his face. "It might be down there fer real!!"

Nick was quite sure that if the zombie had been able to get itself off the bottom, it would have swum to them by now, but he also was realizing that Ellis's leverage was far too good from his position, solidly braced against the edge of the boat, for him to succeed at his goal. So instead he kept hold of his head, but ceased trying to force it into the river, instead reaching down past him to violenty scoop a few consecutive handfuls of water harshly into Ellis's face, causing him to sputter, squawk and squirm, before abruptly releasing him and withdrawing to his seat.

Coughing, dripping face screwed up unhappily, Ellis pushed himself back up, whining in petulant protest,

"Whut the hell, man! I was jess gettin' yew back! That's so unfair."

"What's wrong?" Nick taunted snidely. "I thought you liked water."

"Not up my nose," Ellis mumbled sulkily, "dick."

"Baby," Nick scoffed back, remorseless.

"You two are both children," Rochelle scolded firmly. "And you gave me shit, Suit, my gosh. Oh and by the way? If you're both done rough housing for now, you might notice we're here."

Right. The dock.

"Ah yeah," Nick recalled innocently, raking fingertips back through his dark hair to fix it, expression shamelessly calm in the wake of sating his temper. Ellis was wiping his cheek on his shoulder, smearing it firmly along his arm to the nook, like a cat with its paw, having nothing else to dry it with, still glaring disapprovingly at him. Nick pretended to neither notice nor enjoy it.

Miraculously, all their commotion didn't seem to have attracted any more attention. They climbed out of the boat onto the humble little wooden dock, roping it securely to a post, then set about pulling their weapons off their backs, so as to strap their gas cans there instead. When they'd gathered their guns again, slung from their shoulders now, they set off along the little dock, the shallow bank and through the treeline, emerging onto a bright country lane, long and narrow. Slender trees were scattered along it and across the landscape, mostly birch and cottonwood with a few evergreens here and there, and bramble clogged ditches ran between overgrown fields.

In the distance, the road sloped gradually down into a shallow valley, with tree-covered hills rising beyond. At its base was nestled what looked like a sprawling little downtown area, if it could be called that, hardly more than one broad, business lined street. 

They set off walking, the sun beaming warmly down upon them. Not even Ellis, whose shirtfront Nick had soaked, would be damp for long. Tiny wildflowers burst from the long grass in scrubby patches along the side of the road; yellow sprays of goldenrod, bright purple starbursts of thistle and ironweed, paler sprinklings of chicory. It was a quiet, peaceful day, though not too quiet, Nick keenly noted, the silhouettes of birds winging their way gracefully overhead, a thrush twittering merrily somewhere out of sight. 

He hadn't really ever appreciated birds all that much, not until they'd gone, like the rest of the animals. Now they and the fish seemed to be all that were left. He wondered how the fish would feel about the presence of a zombie in their river. Would they avoid it? Eat it? Would it poison them?

Or if it didn't, and if they caught and ate the fish that had consumed them, would it make them sick?

Okay, he took it back. It was too quiet. 

In the distance, about as far as he could see before trees and brush inevitably consumed the horizon, he spotted a lone figure aimlessly drifting through a field, stumbling as if drunken, but it was a mile too far to be a concern. Just another reminder that they were returning to civilization, or what remained of it.

The closest barn they passed was rundown, in shambles and long overgrown by brambles taller than their heads, without even a visible trail to it across the long grass. They passed by a long road that split off through the fields, and then another that led only to a solitary building, painted a hot orange that stood out against the landscape. It might have looked like just a squat little two story residential house, with its covered porch and American flag, if not for the little parking lot, the OPEN / CLOSED neon light sitting dark in the window, and the large sign out front advertising it as a local real estate office, which Nick found wryly amusing for some reason. As soon as they drew close enough to determine as much, though, their interest evaporated, and they wordlessly passed by. They'd be hard pressed at that point to waste time exploring anywhere that wasn't likely to have food.

Next, on the opposite side of the road, they passed a parking lot wrapped in a strip around a plain, mowed field, which hosted visitors to a row of storage units, a kite shop, a Hallmark store and the ugliest church Nick had ever seen, a long, squat rectangle painted a pus-hued tan. He noticed furniture had been shoved up against the blinds -- yes, blinds-- of the windows from the inside, knocking them askew, as if in an attempt to barricade them.

He also noticed the front doors, warped and stained dark with the bloody prints and smears of countless scrabbling, pounding hands, busted open inwards, the interior a dark maw of unknown horrors beyond.

The plastic letters on the yellowed church sign read,

SERVICES CANCELLED
THE LORD IS MY LIGHT - DAVID 27

Nobody suggested stopping there, either, though Nick caught Coach giving a heavy sigh.

A dry field they passed hosted a broad wooden sign advertising it as AVAILABLE, with phone numbers posted to call if interested. They were nearing the little town now, en route to a sparse and sprawling intersection, traffic lights hanging dark on their wires. Only a couple of figures could be glimpsed roaming around, their shambling gait unmistakably giving them away as infected even at too far a distance to yet make out their features. The broad main street that ran parallel to theirs really was the base of the little valley-- directly past it, their cross-street began to slope steeply up into the hills, where rooftops peeking out between tree canopies and lanes of azaleas indicated a slightly denser residential district than the sparse fields they'd passed. An old convenience store was perched about a block up the hill, behind a cramped parking lot. 

"No guns?" Nick gloomily assumed. It wasn't worth the risk of what they could potentially attract, and no matter how quiet things seemed, they never knew what might be lurking around the corner.

"Best not, 'less we have to," Coach grimly confirmed. 

Ellis had managed to make it all the way to town without going on one of his colorful tangents. Nick was starting to think he might actually be sulking a little about the trying-to-drown him thing, which was... interesting. He hardly thought it was serious, and as much as anything was just coldly curious how long it might last, wondered if that silence was something that took effort on Ellis's part, deliberately holding back in order to make his feelings evident, or an organic result of his mood.

Either way, he was more bemused than concerned. Thrashing some zombies would set him right, he figured, as they wielded their melee weapons in preparation for combat. If not, he'd take care of it, confident the kid's mood would be no challenge for him to improve, relative to what an effort it took to get under his skin in the first place.

"I better be getting a hot shower tonight," Nick grumbled, spitefully decapitating a chicory flower in passing with a whistling whack of his golf club. 

Nobody responded. He'd expected at least Ellis to say something encouraging, and furtively cast him a sidelong look, eyes narrowed suspicously. 

The Southerner was gazing across the sunny field, reflected back through thick lashes by those sleepy-cornered blue eyes, shaded beneath the brim of his hat. Their expression was stoically sober, and there was just a haughty hint of petulant softness to his cheeks, a firming under that full lower lip.

He was sulking!

Despite having just planned for exactly that, any thought of trying to help the situation went right out the window in that moment, perversely irritated. Let him sulk-- he'd started all this, acting childish, so it fit that he should be behaving this way now. 

No matter that Ellis hadn't really done anything besides going quiet, a far cry from one of Nick's bad moods. That was a favor to them all, actually. It was about time he'd managed to shut the kid up. 

The first zombie lifted its haunted features to perceive them, croaked hungrily and began to run crookedly their way, and when Ellis broke into a jog to meet it, Nick glared darkly at his back, watching him throw his weight and momentum into a powerful swing, crumpling its temple so hard its neck twisted about, blood and brain matter flung to spatter audibly across the pavement, before its body reeled down after with a thud.

The other was coming for him, but Coach wouldn't let Ellis have them both to himself, and swung his axe sideways at its head. It wedged gruesomely halfway through its face, just under its cheekbone, but it didn't immediately go limp. Instead, it hungrily clawed towards Coach, blade stuck in the side of its skull. Grimacing, Coach turned the handle sideways to keep it at bay, blood gushing along the axe blade as it rotated in the wedge, till the zombie would have to push its face directly into it to continue advancing.

To Coach's horror, it did, cartilage of its nose snapping as it gnawed hungrily, wildly forward into the cold steel, carving it deeper into its face with its own force, and he growled in pain and anger as its dirty nails sank into his arm, viciously clawing.  He heaved down on the handle, like a lever, and the top half of the zombie's skull cracked wetly free from its jaw and spine, lolling garishly backwards, and its body tumbled heavily down.

"Shit, Coach, yew alright?" exclaimed Ellis anxiously, hurrying up, and Nick was acutely aware of how long it had been since he'd heard that colorful voice.

"Yeah, yeah," Coach growled, sounding a little irritated but pretty evidently only embarassed, looking at the scratches on his forearm, welling beads of blood, only briefly, before dismissively shaking it out, ignoring the sting. "Just a scratch. I'm off my game, forgot just how crazy these things are."

"Papa Bear just needs a snack," Rochelle told him comfortingly, laying a hand on the back of his shoulder. "We all do, I think," she admitted, glancing at Ellis, then catching Nick's hard stare for a moment, which gave nothing away.

"Yeah, man," Ellis whined, "Ah'm so hungry, ah could eat a horse. I mean, ah wouldn't. I'd sooner die. But ah could, s'all m'sayin'."

"Like you wouldn't really eat a horse if you were hungry enough," Nick scoffed. "Put that pony on a grill and slap some BBQ sauce on it, you'd be all over it. I call bullshit."

Ellis shot him a look, a stubbornness in those slate blue eyes that he knew had to do with more than just the horse thing. He still wasn't over earlier. Good.

"Wouldn't," he insisted firmly. "Not a horse. Jess ain't done. Ah'd sooner eat yew, Nick."

Nick balked.

"Me?" he exclaimed, those striking eyes narrowed, a scornful smirk faintly threatening his mouth. "Is that just an example of where your bar is for cannibalism, you fucking hillbilly? Or are you just that mad at me right now?"

"I ain't mad atchu," Ellis huffed, full lips firmly drawn.

"Liar," Nick snarled, softly biting. "You've been sulking since the river."

Ellis's frown complemented the sleepy shaped corners of those eyes, which Nick was used to seeing bright and warm, rather than brooding and heated, like this. He was a bad person for enjoying that expression on him, surely. He just liked it, and when he liked something, he usually indulged himself in acquiring it, for better or worse.

Calling Ellis out seemed to have only emboldened him.

"... Yew can dish it, but yew can't take it," he boldly decided to accuse him.

Nick lifted his eyebrows calmly, allowing only a fraction of his impressed bemusement to curl his long nose and sly, feline mouth. Just enough to keep his expression threateningly ambiguous as he stepped up towards Ellis, shoes crunching quietly on the gritty road. The Southerner held his ground, and his unwavering stare, as he drew close, and stopped, looming before him.

"That's right," he firmly impressed upon him, in a sardonic drawl. "I just dish. So it's a good thing one of us is so good at taking it, huh?"

With his free hand, he flicked the brim of the hick's hat abruptly up. Ellis scoffed in protest and batted his hand indignantly away, losing a step of ground. As he was distracted a moment fixing it, huffing, Nick noticed Rochelle's expression.

Her jaw had fallen slightly open, eyebrows stretched high. The moment he caught her eye, she shut her jaw with a nearly audible snap, and he gave her a scornfully dry look of utter rebuke.

For shame. 

She turned completely around to avoid meeting his eyes, as embarrassed as he'd ever seen her. Ellis was completely oblivious -- though if it weren't for the audience, Nick almost wished he'd heard it how Rochelle had, the dirty girl, fascinated to imagine his response -- and Coach had missed it too, not giving them any look he hadn't given them before, just tiredly baffled.

"That's not fair..." Ellis was muttering back at him, now that his hat was fixed, but Nick could see he was fighting a grudging little smile, and didn't totally resist a smirk of smug satisfaction himself.

See? Easy.

The smirk seemed to draw the hick's eyes back to him. They still stubbornly attempted a look of reproach, but his resolve was giving way before his eyes, Nick could see right through him. Ellis couldn't stay mad at him. It'd take more than some rough-housing, anyway.

"File a complaint," he drawled sardonically back.

Poor Coach was just shaking his head wearily to himself.

"Babygirl's right, we need to eat," was all he could make of all of that. "I say first thing we do is hit up that convenience store, get ourselves some breakfast."

"I'm all fer that, Coach," Ellis agreed, with more of his usual upbeat energy, though at this point they were all visibly tired. "Wonder if maybe after we eat, though, we collect our gasoline before we go on to do our shoppin'. Jess cause I  don't know how long that'll take, an' I'd feel real better knowin' we had all that, an' the boat fueled fer the ride home, before anythin' else."

Home, he'd called it. How sweet.

"Agreed, son. I think that's a smart plan."

"Let's get some grub," Nick dryly agreed.

As they crossed the broad intersection, where the main street seemed to be the only one in the town they'd bothered with the yellow stripe of a lane divider for, Nick's long stride slipped him close to Rochelle's shoulder, and he hissed in her ear in passing,

"You're sick, you know that?"

She gasped a little.

"I don't -- what do you--" she tried to whisper, unconvincingly protesting against his accusation, but he just carried on without looking back at her, shaking his head to himself in disapproval.

Chapter Text

LEVEL V - THE RIVER - lV/V

They climbed the steep hill to the antique little convenience store perched a short ways up the road, broadening their view of the tiny town, and the fields, trees and bramble-clogged ditches sprawling out beyond. They could see glimpses of the winding river from here, a lumberyard, a few low warehouses, and more of the quaint little main street that seemed to be the densest concentration of buildings around. 

The store looked like it might have been built when the town had. It was dark inside, though it would have been difficult to make too much out through the windows anyway, with the amount of lottery posters and advertisements for cigarettes, snacks and beer pasted across them. 

One of the glass front doors had been shattered. They all readied their weapons for confrontation, and steadied their nerves for whatever gruesome sight likely waited for them inside. The push bar was stained dark with dry blood.

Venturing cautiously up, Ellis avoided the bloody prints to push against the bar. It was unlocked, not surprisingly, and he eased the door slowly open, sunlight spilling across the floor, though not far enough into the dim store to properly penetrate the shadows.

Despite his caution, a bell above the door gave a single, merry chime.

Like they'd stepped into a wolf's den, a harsh growl sounded menacingly from the darkness, and though he was still standing out in the warm South Carolina sun, the hair on the nape of Nick's neck rose, and they all froze stiff.

"Ellis..." Nick whispered warningly.

"Oh shit," Ellis breathed disbelievingly, peering forward into the darkness, straining his eyes to adjust after the bright day outside. "That's not...?"

Low on all fours, predatory stalk as quiet as its growl was menacing, a dark figure crept into sight from out of one aisle. Its eyes reflected like a cat's, flashing yellow, directly at them, an instant before a bestial yowl ripped from its throat, a sound that would have scratched a normal voice hoarse, and it shot across the floor.

Ellis yelled and recoiled violently from the doorway, but he was too slow for the Hunter. What happened next occurred so quickly no one could do a thing, and no one quite understood what had happened until it was already over. As Ellis stumbled back, a dark form hurtled out after him, flying off the ground. Its bare foot snapped up to slam into Ellis's chest, using him as a springboard and leaping off him so hard the boy practically choked on the cough it knocked from his lungs, tripping backwards and falling into Coach and Nick's arms as the Hunter scrambled across the store roof, disappearing out of sight before they could so much as lift their guns, much less fire.

Ellis was unhurt, just totally winded from the impact, groaning through his coughs, so strained he was practically dry-heaving on them. At least if he puked, there wouldn't be anything in his stomach to come back up, Nick thought grimly, firmly gripping the boy while he recovered, expression hard from tension, breathing stiff. Like the rest of them, that had made his heart jolt sickeningly with alarm, and it was still recovering, its beat quickened.

"Well," he breathed tightly through his teeth, "that's just great. It's smarter than the last one. Your lucky day, huh kid?"

He gave Ellis's shoulder two firm, bracing slaps as the unhappy looking redneck regained his footing, and enough of his breath to whine in complaint,

"Man, why them Hunters always gotta come fer me?"

"Maybe if you didn't always have to be the first one in everywhere," Nick scolded, flicking his ear. Ellis flinched from him and shot him a glare, those reproachful blue eyes and the huffing pout of his cheeks not remotely discouraging. The opposite, in fact.

They all caught the sound of running footsteps, then, approaching from the far side of the store. Rochelle was closest, and as she took a bracing step to face the corner, expression firm and crowbar gripped securely in one hand, nobody moved to intervene... though the gentlemen among them, at least, had to stifle the chauvinistic urge to.

An infected came hurtling around the corner, skidding to redirect towards them so abruptly it fell to its fours a moment -- though clumsily, with none of the grace of a Hunter -- before scrabbling up, charging the petite woman.

She stalked to meet it, and with no hesitation, struck out with a snapping kick, catching it in the midsection with her boot. It folded in half over the impact, staggering from the reversal of its momentum, and in the split second before it could regather, Rochelle swung her crowbar at its head.

Her force was lessened, with only one hand, but it was enough to knock its skull aside, and what she had sacrificed in power, she made up for in speed. She thrashed it again and again, till its skull was fractured and bloodied, and it was stumbling, stunned, before she joined both hands on her grip and finished it off with one last strike to the dome, collapsing it to the ground.

Breathing stirred, she stepped back, letting one hand drop to her side.

"... Damn, girl," murmured Ellis wonderingly.

"What~?" she huffed softly, toying with one of her hoops as she shot them a look, expression slightly defensive. "You boys keep hogging them all. I'm going to get out of practice."

"Naw, naw.." Ellis lifted his hands in surrender. "Yew good, girl. Yew can go in first, if yew really want. Prolly ain't two specials in there."

"Freaks," Nick corrected coldly.

"Aw that jess feels so mean, though..."

"Oh my god." 

Nick shut his eyes, rubbing a few fingertips from the corner of one eye to the bridge of his nose to soothe himself.

"If you guys are starting again, I'll take another Hunter," Rochelle drawled sarcastically, stepping forward bravely to the door, followed closely by Coach. Ellis looked a little guilty, but couldn't resist muttering, as he moved to follow,

"He started it..."

"Nice, Ace. Very mature. Get your ass in there. Doll's right, we all need a goddamn Snickers."

They crept into the dark store in a close cluster, slow to spread out. It was silent now, but they weren't taking any chances. Nobody thought of doing any looting till they'd cleared every aisle.

A dead infected lay in one, its brains blown over the shelves from a low angle, as if shot by someone on the ground. A few smeared, bloody handprints and a trail of dark drops leading away supported the theory. 

There were two uninfected corpses, a young man and woman. The woman they found near the front of the store, on her stomach, her back utterly savaged with claw marks, flesh flayed to the spine. The man was in the back corner of the store, by the refrigerated section, beside two hastily dropped baskets of food. He was collapsed against the wall in a pool of his own congealed blood, his stomach torn open, intestines spilling out over his lap as if they'd been dragged from him, like ribbons from a magician's mouth, jeans stained dark. The smell was atrocious.

"Lord have mercy," Coach swore gravely, as Nick grimaced, eyes narrowed, and held his jacket sleeve over his nose.

"Holy moly," whispered Ellis, with awe and apprehension. "That's what Hunters do tuh yuh?"

Rochelle nodded gravely, and winced.

"God. Poor kids. I can't look at this."

She turned away. Coach, shaking his head, did the same. The restrooms were only accessible from outside, and the backroom was locked, so there was nowhere else to clear unless they decided they needed to break in back there. Nick turned to start seeing about breakfast, but noticed Ellis hadn't yet moved, still staring down at the disemboweled young man -- who must have been about his age, if not even younger -- with a distant look in his eyes.

Nick watched him a distracted couple of moments, then lifted one hand, cuffing Ellis in the back of the arm.

"Hey," he muttered. Ellis started slightly at his voice and touch, visibly returning to the present, turning to stare up to the man at his shoulder, solemn eyes barely still discernible as blue in the dim light. "C'mon. You're gonna lose your appetite."

Ellis surrendered a soft huff of a laugh, and let himself be coaxed away from the gruesome sight, muttering,

"Not likely. I ever tell yew bout the time --?"

"Not... not now, hick. Not all of us have your iron constitution. My appetite's barely keeping it together as is."

Ellis chuckled, but obligingly silenced-- at least for a moment and a half, before he remembered what they were there for, fully taking in the buffet before him, poorly lit as it was.

"Shit~ yeah," he breathed with excitement. "I'm so hungry!"

From elsewhere in the store, he heard the crinkle of plastic as Coach and Rochelle began to tear into bags of snacks. Ellis right away snatched an oatmeal cookie eagerly off a shelf, pinching both sides of the package to rip it open, and Nick began critically perusing down an aisle, ignoring the shelves with zombie blood splattered over them.

He heard crunching, and Rochelle groaning with pleasure, and what sounded like full cheeks. His stomach grumbled jealously, mouth actually watering in anticipation of finally eating, but he fussily took his time making his choice, not exactly impressed with the selection, even starved as he was.

The shelves had already been pretty severely depleted by previous customers, or looters, but there was still plenty left. He saw Coach with a bag of jerky tucked under one arm, tilting potato chips directly back into his open mouth, head leaned back. Rochelle was piling them in several at a time, in curved little stacks. Nick passed into the next aisle, where Ellis had already finished his oatmeal cookie and was just getting into a bag of trail mix as he perused, eyes bright. Catching sight of Nick, he gawped in astonishment.

"Nick, yew ain't eaten nothin' yet?! Ain'tchu hungry?"

"I'm getting there," Nick grumbled shortly, peering along the newest set of shelves. Ellis was watching him, unfazed, as he poured a small cascade of raisins, peanuts and M & Ms into his cupped palm, then tossed them into his mouth.

"... T'ail mikf?" he offered, tone as innocently polite as if his mouth wasn't fucking stuffed, extending the bag out towards Nick.

"Jesus-- don't talk to me with your mouth full," he scolded him coldly. "That's disgusting."

Ellis stared dolefully at him, silencing obediently as he kept munching his mouthful of trail mix, his mouth shut at least, but left the bag extended. 

Nick scoffed, and irritably surrendered, swiping the bag from him. Ellis's eyes warmed cheerily, watching as Nick tipped a handful into his palm. Stepping around the hick, he flattened the bag back against his chest in passing, a rather rude return that Ellis, of course, didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, next time Nick stole a glance his way, he could have sworn he was still smiling a little to himself.

As for Nick's trail mix, he nursed it in one palm as he continued browsing, picking out the nuts and raisins and nibbling them. He had just finally relented to another selection, unenthusiastically lifting a long pepperoni stick from the bunch, when a nearby lingering, nosily observant Ellis noticed his pattern.

"D'yew sometimes save all the M&Ms fer last too?" he asked, much too excitedly. 

Nick frowned, cocking one eyebrow at him with scornful bewilderment.

"What? No. I just don't care for cheap milk chocolate."

Ellis seemed to go through multiple levels of surprise to process this, eyebrows lifting in astonishment, blinking a few times.

"Woah," he murmured in awe. "Yew don't like M&Ms?"

"That's what I said," Nick confirmed dryly. "Here."

He held his palm out to Ellis, who quickly extended his own, face lifting with excitement when he realized what this meant. Nick tipped his palm slightly, and Ellis willingly scooped the little pile of colorful M&Ms Nick had segregated so far with one finger, so that they tumbled into his palm. The last few still mixed in he swiftly pinched out.

"Thanks," he breathed happily, before tossing the whole handful back into his mouth. Nick shook his head to himself in distaste, though now that his own mix had been cleared of cheap, sugary landmines, he tilted his own jaw back to pour in a mouthful as well.

When Ellis next spoke -- after he'd crunched, savored and swallowed the crisp-shelled chocolate buttons-- it was to venture carefully,

"Yew do like chocolate, though, right? Jess not M&Ms?"

He sounded legitimately concerned.

"Yeah," Nick scoffed scornfully, "Of course. I just like good chocolate. Dark, preferably. And I'd rather eat a nice dessert than just a chunk of chocolate."

"Like cake?" Ellis wondered.

"Yeah. Like cake. Let me know if you see any, huh?"

Ellis chortled, and agreed wistfully, "Man, I love cake. See, this why m'sayin' we gotta git ourselves some chickens. So we can make cake."

"What's all this talk 'bout cake over here?" Coach came stepping up, tearing off a thin strip of jerky with his teeth.

"Oh, sorry, Coach. I was jess sayin', how we should make cake sometime. Yew know how to make cake without eggs?"

Coach blinked placidly.

"Son, I just stay faithful to what it says on the box. Maybe I'll add a bit of whiskey. I'm all about that frosting, myself. That's where I get fancy."

"I used to go to this deli..."

Nick stopped. The words had just slipped thoughtlessly out. 

Everyone was looking at him.

He cleared his throat slightly, uncomfortable, but after a couple beats of undivided attention, a listening silence, he reluctantly muttered on,

"Family owned place. Immigrants -- Italian. The great grandmother, she'd baked there, and she and the owner fell in love, and then they left it to their daughter... anyway. That's not important."

Ellis was watching him with such earnest fascination, giving the impression he valued every word from his mouth, that his skin prickled, at once disgruntled and emboldened to continue.

"The daughter, she had retired a long time ago. She was this tiny old thing by then, snow white hair, bony hands. But she'd still come in, every Thursday, crack of dawn. And she would turn out this chocolate cake, that was just..."

He frowned slightly, mouth drawn thin. He gave it a moment, then shook his head slightly, as if he could flick a thought away like a gnat on his ear, an unusually subdued display of frustration. He didn't have the words, so he couldn't make them see it the way he remembered it so clearly his mind's eye. He couldn't describe the way its depth of flavor flooded the nose and palate, the way its rich and silken texture bled across the tongue, and he couldn't tell them they should stop by if they were ever in New York early on a Friday, before it sold out, as it always did by lunch.

"I don't know how she always made it come out so perfect," he muttered, distant and with just a touch of bitterness, dusted thoroughly over any trace of anything less so, just like the top of that cake, layers of mousse and ganache concealed underneath a smooth, velvet surface of unsweetened cocoa powder. 

"You'd never look at a little old lady like that and think she could make something so..."

Beautiful.

Sourly, he bit the flowery word back. Ellis was nodding though, at least, almost reverent, and he felt his point had been made well enough.

Point? What point? There was no point. He was just rambling. Stupid.

"It sounds lovely," Rochelle murmured wistfully.

Nick felt uncomfortable with the attention, irrationally irritated, but just before he could reflexively vandalize the moment, Ellis snorted lightly, joking,

"Sure a lot better than our doughnut puddin' casserole, I'll bet."

"Low bar, hick," Nick growled, seizing gratefully on the opportunity. "And you're not helping it any by calling it a casserole, either."

"Who decided a casserole gotta be savory?"

"Uh, I dunno, the world? Coach, weigh in on this. C'mon. You're a sensible man."

"I ain't gettin' involved."

"Aw, bull. That means I'm right. He agrees with me. Cause if he agreed with you, he'd just say so."

Coach, already walking away, tsked dismissively, but Nick noticed he didn't contradict him either.

"Man, yew sure got a lot to say about casseroles, Mr. Fancy Steak-and-Lobster Man," Ellis playfully teased. "When was the last casserole yew even had?"

It was Nick's turn to dismissively snort, with a little more scorn.

"Don't remind me," he muttered dryly, thoughtlessly, as he investigated a bag of crunchy pretzels. They looked salty and dry, and he felt thirsty just looking at them, but they were less objectionable to him than some of the other choices in here.

"... that bad?" Ellis cautiously ventured.

For a moment, Nick was tempted to tell him. The hunger must have done something to him, to be talking about himself this much. He decided to shut that down, remind him to mind his business, but what came out instead, after a couple of moments, was a gruff,

"Story for another time, kiddo."

Ellis didn't look disappointed in the slightest, expression hopefully brightening instead. Of course. Because he might as well have promised to tell him later.

Jesus, was he that thirsty for information on him? It was a casserole story, for God's sake.

Breakfast was an informal affair. They continued to wander around the dark convenience store, snacking and trying not to look at corpses, till they had eaten all they could of sweet and salty, shelf stable snacks. It would have been nicer to take the food outside and eat in the sunshine, with the nice view, and in the fresh air away from the smell of the dead, but the presence of a Hunter in the area made that not feel worth the risk.

Before they left, they drained and replaced their water bottles, and Nick grabbed a couple packs of cigarettes from behind the counter. The phone back there caught his attention, noting the receiver covered in bloody prints. He also noticed a pamphlet lying nearby, and recognizing a symbol in the corner, picked it up, squinting to try and read it in the dim light, leaning towards what thin streaks of sunlight filtered in through the dusty windows between the posters densely plastering them.

When he saw what it said, he snorted, and brought it out with him from behind the counter. Coach, who had been browsing a rack of postcards and chewing on a Milky Way, looked at him curiously, and Nick handed it wordlessly to him in passing.

Ellis was by the door, shotgun at the ready, peering outside to check for the Hunter in preparation for their departure, but noticing this he perked up, looking over in interest, and wondered,

"What's that?"

"It's from CEDA," was all Nick bluntly explained.

Coach swallowed his bite of nougat, cleared his baritone voice, and began reading outloud.

"Report unusual behavior..."

Nick put on a solemn face of languid thoughtfulness. 

"Ah, can't say I've noticed anything. You, Ro?"

Rochelle shrugged her full lips, eyebrows stretched disaffectedly.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," the associate producer agreed with convincing seriousness, casually cradling her rifle.

"Barricade your homes..."

Ellis snorted resentfully, peeking back outside.

"Ain't met a Tank, I guess... good luck barricadin' against that."

"Avoid all contact with infected individuals..."

"Oops," Nick muttered flatly. Ellis giggled.

"Wait for official instructions... tch. Wait my ass..."

With that unimpressed growl, Coach crumpled the pamphlet up in one large hand, tossing it aside, and strode towards the exit.

Chortling, Ellis glanced back from the doorway, sunlight warming his face, illuminating the cocky smirk spread across his full lips.

"Kill all~ sons-of-bitches," he drawled confidently, cocking his shotgun meaningfully. "That's ma' 'fficial instructions."

"Amen," intoned Coach gravely as he passed, Rochelle right behind.

"Let's go, Fireball," Nick dryly chided the too-smug looking young Southerner, swatting at his head to shoo him out. Ellis ducked him, grinning, and scampered out into the sunlight ahead of him.

The knowledge that there was a Hunter prowling the area, together with the sparse numbers of common infected, meant a change in tactics. Nick, Rochelle and Ellis kept their guns at the ready -- Nick his rifle, liking the idea of picking off the Hunter before it got anywhere near them, Ellis his shotgun, having handled one that way once already -- while Coach alone kept his axe out. This way he could deal quietly with the few infected they were encountering, and if a Hunter showed up, they'd have three guns ready to keep it from getting anywhere near them. It was clear from the speed and agility the thing had displayed, and the savaged corpses in the store, that they'd been very lucky twice now. The third time they encountered one of these things, Nick wanted to be ready, not lucky.

When it came to scavenging gas, Nick had no idea what they were doing. Ellis did though, of course. After Nick embarrassed himself by asking if he was planning on siphoning the fuel, only to find out you couldn't do that to modern vehicles anymore, either, he just shut up, sourly feeling older than he thought he should have, and kept an eye out for the Hunter. That, and--

"So the one thing I need is like, some kinda tray, t'catch the fuel when I drain it. So if we could look fer some kinda hardware store, or a pet shop--"

"A pet shop?" Nick impatiently cut in, with a baffled scowl. Car expert he may not have been, but what in the hell--

"Yeah, like supplies fer pets? Coz a kitty litter box'd do jess fine. Clean one."

"... Right."

Nick, once again, firmly resolved to stop asking questions. 

It was a sleepy little town, which demonstrated the shifting standards for what qualified as sleepy, considering that every now and then, as they walked down the middle of the long, broad main street, a prematurely decayed virus victim would drag itself up from where it had been slumped behind a parked car, or emerge screeching from a thin alley between two buildings, and come charging, expression twisted with a desperate rage, to try to rip them apart. It had clearly been a sleepy town before the apocalypse, though, and Nick could once again reluctantly see Ellis's point in sticking to small towns and backroads. There just weren't the same kinds of numbers out here, compared to the densely packed cities. The single block on which they'd stayed their first night together, back in Savannah, probably had housed more residents than this town did in miles. He still wouldn't have wanted to settle down here, especially not when he'd have bet the property value of their-- their, listen to him, he was as bad as Ellis-- house on the river was ten times any in town, but as far as a destination for supply runs went, they'd gotten pretty lucky.

Now if only they could find a proper food store, so they could live off more than salty, preservative and sugar-laden junkfood, and shoot that fucking Hunter so the back of Nick's neck could stop prickling with unease, his hard eyes constantly on the look out for it, they'd be set.

Maybe Nick could have relaxed about the Hunter after a while -- maybe -- if it didn't soon become clear that it hadn't just moved on from the area. The first time they caught the sound of its growl nearby, everybody shut up, backing up together in a four point cluster, tense eyes peeled. There wasn't much mistaking the sound for a common infected. For one, by the time you heard a common, it was usually already coming for you, not sneaky in any way -- thank Christ. For another, the Hunter's growl had a particular, menacing quality that their bodies seemed to recognize before their conscious awareness could catch up, a chilling, almost paralyzing effect, that slowed the breath and quickened the heart.

"Where is it?" Nick hissed with annoyed impatience, scowling eyes alight with tension as they scanned their surroundings, roofs, walls, anywhere it could possibly be creeping.

"Can't tell," breathed Coach grimly, axe ready, gripped firmly in his large hands.

Ellis whistled softly twice, as one might to a timid dog.

"Heeere~, lil Hunter, c'mon out," he cajoled, gentle and crooning, "s'alright. Ain't nuthin' tuh be shy about. We jess gonna shootchu a lil..."

"Ellis." It was a flat beg. "Please stop baby talking the zombies."

"Damn, Nick, d'ju jess say please?" Ellis whispered in amazement. "Shit, that's such a miracle, ah'm liable tuh do anythin' yew want."

"Now that'd be a fucking miracle."

"Aw. Well, yew was polite fer a second. M'still prouda yew, Nick."

"You shut the fuck up. When did you start getting so smart with me?"

"Guess yer a bad influence, Nick. Must be yer smart-aleck mouth rubbin' off n'me."

This time, Nick heard it as Rochelle did, and regretted that his stiffened stare flicked involuntarily over his shoulder towards the oblivious Southerner in tandem with hers, so that they met behind his back, over their shoulders.

This time she bit her full lips tightly together to contain her expression as seriously as possible, but gave him a look that said with somehow perfect clarity, I'm not saying a word, but I know your mind went there too.

And she had a point, but that did not exempt her from the harsh look of judgment he narrowed at her, only darkened it.

He was only a man, and most men -- not overgrown children who'd rather play with guns, cars and his crazy hillbilly friends than think about getting laid-- would have had the lecherous sense to know that 'mouth' and 'rubbing off' shouldn't have been so close together in the same sentence. Then again, maybe that was only a sign of just how pent up Nick was. The hickey that drunk, sloppy college chick had left on his neck -- enjoyable at the time, somewhat irritating in the morning, if only because the next hook up might ask questions, women were so fucking jealous, they all needed such ego-stroking, and took it for granted they should have it -- had only just finally faded. It hadn't been that long. Nick was just a man of considerable needs, his many vices historically too often taking precedence over more practical concerns and responsibilities, and this new world did not present many options to satisfy them. 

If the dirty steer of his thoughts meant he needed to get laid, though, he wondered what that said about Rochelle...

"Yew hear anythin'?" whispered Ellis in a hushed voice, reminding Nick that most of the group's attention was on the deadly killing machine lurking in the immediate area. He had almost forgotten, he had been so distracted thinking about sex, about Rochelle thinking about Nick's mouth rubbing off on Ellis -- Jesus Christ, now he was thinking about it-- where was that fucking Hunter?!

It had been well over a minute. A couple, maybe. Nick breathed slowly out.

"No," he muttered darkly. "Let's keep going. I told you it was smarter than the last one. I bet you anything it's waiting till we're distracted."

As the group cautiously began to advance once more, spreading slowly back out again, Ellis huffed, and grumbled,

"Man. What makes these specials so much dang smarter than the others? Y'all think maybe this some big government coverup, like they was tryna make super soldiers or somethin', like Captain America, only all went real wrong?"

Coach huffed, shaking his head to himself.

"Easy, son. I think you been readin' a few too many comic books."

"I think that's exactly what happened," Nick firmly declared, earning a slightly startled but vindicated look from the young Southerner. "No way the government didn't have anything to do with a fuck up this big."

Ellis shook his head solemnly to himself.

"Fuckin' government," he muttered resentfully, frowning blue eyes forward, and for once, Nick permitted himself just a brief surge of warm feeling towards the young redneck, one that very nearly bordered on affectionate.

"Not very patriotic of you," he followed the feeling up by snidely taunting, eyeing him slyly. "I thought you were supposed to be a good little country boy. Don't you love America?"

"Ain't nothin' unpatriotic 'bout holdin' a government 'ccountable if it ain't doin' right by its folks," Ellis firmly maintained, with that stubborn little expression about his mouth that Nick so liked coaxing from him, along with the fascinating intensity steeling those blue eyes just then. "That's why we got ourselves a Second 'Mendment."

Nick snorted.

"I knew there was something I liked about the South. Half of you hillbillies hate the government as much as I fucking do."

Warmth and mischief glinting in his eyes, Ellis glanced conspiratorially back at him, corner of his full mouth sneaking out into a little smirk that promised it belonged to a trouble-maker.

"I dunno if I'd say I hated 'em," he admitted though, with a little shrug. "M'sure there's folks up there tryna do right. Jess wish they'd stay out of folk's business. Lookit all this-- world's gone tuh shit, an' where are they, right when yew could actually use 'em? Ain't nowhere tuh be seen. We gotta look after our own, jess like we always have. Don't need no military, fuck~."

Rochelle giggled a little. 

"Gosh, Ellis, I haven't heard you like this. You sound just like Whitaker."

Ellis snorted, chortling with what sounded more like pride than sheepishness.

"Shit~, yer right," he admitted good-naturedly.

"Just to be clear," Coach rumbled sternly, "when you say you think the government's responsible..."

Nick picked up on his meaning by the tone of his voice, but it was Ellis who hurried to reply-- probably for the best. 

"Oh, naw. Not him. He wouldn't have nothin' to do with this, I don't think. Jess seems like too nice a feller. Gosh, I sure hope they got him out okay. Had tuh, right?"

"Oh, I'm sure," Nick replied dryly, less invested in the fate of their glorious leader than the others, it seemed. Not that he had anything against him either, besides his very identity as a politician. It wasn't like he'd bothered voting for the other guy, either. 

"Wherever's the safest and furthest from the danger, you can bet that's where he is, surrounded by Secret Service and his fat cat donors."

"Well, I'd rather him be there," Ellis reasoned affably, watching the rooftops for the Hunter. Though they hadn't heard it in several minutes, they could almost sense its presence nearby, and rather than distracting them, the dialogue was only helping to settle their nerves, honing their focus. "Ain't like he could do us any good on the ground. Though-- heh," he snickered with delight, "shit~, can yew jess imagine, Obama lookin' all sharp in a suit and sunglasses, rockin' an AR15, gunnin' down zombies left 'n right? Hell. M'feelin' all kindsa patriotic jess thinkin about it."

"A-men," agreed Coach with feeling, a little crinkle at the corners of his dark eyes as he cast a warm glance back to Ellis.

There was a guttural screech, and they all jumped, guns wheeling round, but it was just a common infected, running towards them from up ahead. Coach stepped forward to meet it, and the others drifted after, Nick bringing up the rear. He heard a scuffing behind him, and spun quickly, cursing the false alarm and his racing heart when once again he saw just a normal zombie running for him from back down the street, one they'd apparently passed by, but whose notice had been caught by the other zombie's shrill voice. 

"I got it," he muttered grimly to whoever might be listening, letting his rifle swing by the strap from his shoulder and pulling his golf club free from his belt as he stepped to intercept the doomed enemy. It was about time he bloodied his weapon.

A low, nearby growl cut through his senses, and the air almost seemed to drop in temperature, like he'd taken a step into cool shade, as the hairs on his neck stood on end.

Freezing seemed the right thing to do.

It was not.

Something sealed hard around his ankle, and the deja vu was immediate and stunning. His crystal clear awareness of what was about to happen was useless, having time for no more than a plummeting sensation of dread and a breathed expletive.

"Fuck --"

And the plummeting sensation reversed, stomach lurching, as he was yanked violently off his feet. His arms flailed to catch himself, and were slammed painfully beneath him against the asphalt, jarred to the bone, knocking a coughing groan from him, along with his breath. He could barely feel his fingers, aching arms crushed under his weight, but as he felt his body start to be dragged backwards underneath the truck he'd been standing near, he realized he'd once again released his weapon, and his fingertips clawed desperately over the asphalt towards his golf club, lying so close. 

He only barely missed it, dimly aware of a fingernail catching and tearing on the rough ground as he was pulled out of reach, under the truck, and then he recoiled his arms anyway as he saw the feet of the common infected running up, still bent on him, and realized in horror he was about to be prone, weaponless and dealing with a zombie at either end.  

Then an urgent yell cut through his fear-emptied mind, and he remembered two very important things in succession.

"Nick!"

One; he had teammates.

The infected hurled itself down on all fours, diving towards Nick like a feral beast, so close his mouth went dry. Ellis's shotgun went off with a blast, and the snarling visage seemed to shatter before his eyes, bits of bone, blood and gore raining down in a spatter across the pavement as it collapsed to the side, features obliterated.

Two; he had a fucking gun.

Growling, he wrenched around, trying to get ahold of his rifle at his back, but the long weapon was cumbersome in the cramped space, and became stuck almost immediately. He didn't even have room to roll over entirely, shoulder hitting the sooty under carriage of the truck and gas can on his back forcing him low, and claustrophobia kicked suddenly in as he felt those clawed hands -- for it was hands this time, not a giant tongue -- constraining both his ankles now, dragging him in deeper, towards what felt like the equivalent of death by wood chipper. In a panic, he began to thrash, kicking violently out, and yelled out in pain as claws sank into his calves in response, tearing into his flesh. By the furious snarling and the solid crack of his shoe connecting against something fleshy and solid, he'd kicked the Hunter right in the face, possibly broken his nose, but that didn't slow it at all, if anything it only made it fiercer... and in direct retaliation, he felt it sink its teeth into the sole of his shoe.

Nick roared out in pain and fury, able to feel the points of its teeth bruising through the Italian leather, which threatened to give at any moment under the force of his powerful, grinding jaw. 

"AAARGH!"

"Nick!" Ellis was screaming, practically in his ear, nearly under the truck with him, and he saw his hands reaching in, to grab under his arms and try to pull him out. He knew Ellis would never be able to overpower the Hunter's grip on him-- he'd be shredded to ribbons in the ensuing tug-of-war. He was kicking and thrashing, but the Hunter hung on grimly to his shoe, jaw locked like a Rottweiler's, and he was afraid at any second it would rip off the sole, then do the same to his unprotected foot, far more tender. To be killed by a Smoker suddenly seemed a peaceful death, compared to being mauled from the soles up.

"No!" Nick yelled at Ellis, still yanking at his rifle to try and get it in a position he could possibly use it, though considering he could hardly get a look at the thing, his ability to maneuver so hindered, he was as likely to shoot himself in the leg as he was to hit the Hunter. 

"It's got my foot, fuck! I can't get to my gun, kill it! Somebody kill it!"

Ellis's hands disappeared, and something hard skittered across the ground and hit the top of Nick's head, just as those work boots tore off, scraping the asphalt.

"Ow!" Nick snapped, and reflexively reached up, only for his fingers to brush the cold metal of his golf club.

God damn it, did he have to throw it at him?! His fingers immediately seized around the weapon, though, and he stabbed down towards the Hunter's face, compensating for the awkward angle of his attack with sheer fury. 

It screeched, and the grip on his foot disappeared, as did the claws in his leg. In their absence, he was just aware of the warmth of his own blood leaking out, soaking into his pant leg, but he had bigger concerns. The club was yanked suddenly, and rather than being dislodged from his stubborn grip, he found himself wrenched after it at a rude angle, and his arm felt like it might pop from its socket.

It was chaos then. The Hunter's face was suddenly close in the cramped confines, snarling wildly, baring gums and gnashing, jagged teeth, seizing at his arms and lunging like it meant to bite his throat out. Its fetid breath filled his nose, sickening with the coppery tang of old blood, and it was all he could do to wrestle his golf club up between them, to wedge the metal handle into its horrible, snapping maw.

Teeth and metal struck and ground chaotically together, with cringe-inducing sounds, the bar digging across the discolored corners of its stained lips  -- before it focused and clenched down abruptly tight, so tightly that Nick was ready for its teeth to fracture any moment against the surely stronger metal. If not shatter.

Instead,it wrenched its head back, and to Nick's utter shock, the tension against his grip gave out, as the club snapped sheer in half, leaving him holding two broken ends, and nothing between him and the Hunter.

Before the zombie could gloat, though, as in his adrenaline spun state of mind he imagined it would, just before it bit his whole face off, it snarled suddenly, whipping its head around behind it. In his desperate struggle to keep his mortality at bay, it felt like forever since Ellis had dashed around to the other side of the truck, but of course everything was happening so quickly, only seconds had passed.

They must have been too tangled up for Ellis to risk a shot, so it seemed as if he'd simply grabbed the Hunter by its ankles instead, for a moment later it lurched away from Nick as if it had been yanked. He scrambled desperately to get back from it, shoes slipping and scraping over the ground, heart racing out of his chest. He dropped the broken halves of his club to reach out for the sunlit ground just inches away, ready to claw himself across the asphalt like a half-drowned cat, but then two pairs of brown hands descended into sight, sealing into his, and his fingers wrapped tightly back and gripped without hesitation. The sunlight felt warm on his skin as he was dragged out, horrible screeches still sounding behind him as Ellis apparently wrestled the feral zombie, swearing and growling himself. 

Before he could collect a dazed thought to be concerned for the Southerner, before his legs had fully cleared the truck, a hand suddenly seized his ankle, the stubborn Hunter not willing to let its prey go so easily, and wrenched. He yelled once more in pain, and Coach and Rochelle caught him tight, arms wrapped around him, crushing him between them to keep the Hunter from dragging him back down.

Ellis's shotgun blasted off -- the Hunter screamed, but hung grimly on, and Nick's face was contorted in pain, biting his lip and throwing his head back, enduring-- and then blasted once more, and the grip suddenly released. At once, Coach and Rochelle pulled him the rest of the way out, and he collapsed against them, trembling legs not supporting his weight, upright only for the grace of their hold.

"Shit, Nick," Coach swore, ominously.

His legs burned, and he could feel warm blood leaking down his calves, the tickle of wet, clinging fabric. His ankle throbbed, and he was afraid to put weight on it. He was afraid to look down, to see how bad it was. It hurt, but he was dimly aware he was in shock, and that the real pain likely hadn't sunk in yet.

He was afraid he'd been crippled. 

If he was crippled, he was useless. Worse-- a hindrance. Dead weight.

Over the disturbing words echoing loudly in the hollow chamber of his stunned mind, he heard familiar running footsteps, Ellis returning, calling his name. Didn't he ever get tired of it? He realized he'd closed his eyes, breathing shallow.

"Nick? Nick!" That was Coach, shaking him a little. Wait, how long had he been saying his name? "Stay with me, son!"

He opened his eyes, and was disoriented to find he seemed to have wilted down, and now sat in the street, held upright by a concerned Rochelle and Coach. He felt dizzy. He must have passed out for a moment. Ellis crouched in front of him, curly head bare, hat wrung tightly in his hands and blue eyes staring at him, large with worry.

Something was different about one of his eyes, he lucidly observed-- it was just starting to swell, and there was a flushed mark underneath, a bruise forming along his eye socket, the beginnings of a black eye. 

"Nick?" the hick asked worriedly.

"We need to get him off the street," he heard Rochelle saying. "It's not safe."

"Nick? Yew with us, man? Can yew hear --"

"Jesus!" he snapped, with just a little slur, groaning irritably. "I can hear you, Christ. I just.. got a little dizzy. I'm fine, just get me up off the fucking... the... street..."

He trailed numbly off, having just caught sight of his legs.

"Ffuck," he breathed plainly, staring blankly at the shredded material at his calves, once white, now soaked a violent crimson with his blood. The sight didn't bother him that much, actually. He felt strangely detached from it just then, even his own voice sounding far away.

"That's a lot of blood."

He was only dimly aware of the sky tilting, but not what that meant, didn't comprehend Ellis yelping his name, unconscious before his slackened body had slumped back in Coach's arms, head lolling onto his shoulder.

Chapter Text

LEVEL V - THE RIVER - V/V

It was quiet when he woke. He didn't immediately remember why he'd been asleep, which was always a disorienting feeling. Rather than opening his eyes -- he felt a prickling sensation of dread about the idea, though he couldn't place why -- he tried to retrace his steps from what he could last remember.

Traveling down a country lane in the sunlight. Being annoyed with Ellis. The convenience store, the Hunter...

Oh yeah. That had happened, huh?

That would explain the throbbing in his legs.

He groaned slightly, stirring as reality flooded back, unwelcome, and felt his cheek catch on the vinyl upholstered surface beneath it, sticky with his sweat.

"Hey~, Suit," Rochelle's voice came from nearby, kind and gentle with concern. 

Well that had to be a bad sign.

Frowning, he let his green eyes blearily open, squinting to take in his surroundings. The sun shone in through a shattered glass door,  beaming brightly onto the worn entrance rug and a patch of wall, painted a warm yellow. Rochelle was perched atop a pay counter, legs dangling off the edge and rifle sat beside her.

His cheek unpeeled unpleasantly from the vinyl, unshaven jaw scraping along the smooth surface as he shifted his head to get a better look around.

He was lying on his side on a padded waiting bench, upholstered in burgundy vinyl. They were in the entrance area to what was clearly-- by the cheerful color scheme, the garlands of plastic flowers and chili peppers festooned everywhere, and the embroideried cloth doll of a mariachi player on the counter-- a small Mexican restaurant. Afternoon sunlight bounced off the warmly painted walls, unhindered by the open floor scheme of half walls, wide doorways and arched interior windows, indirectly illuminating the dining room pleasantly despite the lack of power. Even the kitchen in the back, a glimpse of which he could see through a pair of swinging doors, was lit enough to suggest the presence of a skylight.

The faint, greasy scent of tortilla chips he now recognized should have given it away from the start.

"How ya feelin'?"

The attempt at a light, casual tone was appreciated, he supposed. Better than her fussing anxiously over him. She hadn't moved from the counter to approach him either, letting him have his space.

His legs throbbed. His right ankle throbbed. Even the tip of one finger throbbed, where he remembered a nail tearing. He grimaced a little, a bitter pinch to his eyes and nose, and looked back to her with a sullen stare, to flatly grumble,

"Ow."

"Yeahh. I'm not surprised. You got shredded pretty good there, tough guy. Here."

She slipped off the counter, boots landing lightly on the floor, and picked up two pills and a water bottle from where they'd rested beside her, and approached with them. 

"Coach left these for you."

Nick pushed himself up onto one elbow to accept the pills from her, cocking one eyebrow in wordless question as he slipped them between his lips.

"They're just outside," she explained, cracking the cap off the water bottle open and handing it to him. "Working on gas. Ellis got a bus tub from the back."

The water was a pleasant relief, Nick not having realized how dry his mouth and throat were, flooding down the pills in a few long swallows, careful not to be greedy enough to choke. He accepted the information she gave him without acknowledgment, processing. Probably for the best, she interrupted his thoughts before he could organize them.

"You ready for some good news?"

Finishing his drink, he sighed heavily and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her suspiciously from behind it.

"Yeah," he muttered skeptically as he lowered the now half drained bottle to meet his other hand, which held the cap, so that he could screw it back on, taking the excuse to drop his brooding stare there, "alright."

He really doubted anything was going to make much of an improvement to his mood, at this point, but fuck, it was better than bad news. He could hear a careful excitement in Rochelle's voice as she spoke.

"We can cut the grocery shopping stop out of our trip. This restaurant's loaded-- rice, beans, spices, canned stuff. Basically everything Coach had on his grocery list. Plus, tortillas for days. So that saves us having to find a shopping cart to haul your sore butt around in."

He glared dully at her, and began to sit himself up.

"It was Ellis's idea," she quickly threw the absent Southerner under the bus. Nick believed her.

"I'm fine," he growled, head throbbing a little at the change in bloodflow, now vertically oriented, braced up on one arm.  "How long was I out?"

"Not too long... maybe an hour."

They must have had to carry him there, clean his wounds, bandage him... he could feel the pressure of them wrapped around both his legs, lying on the bench beside him, but he was still avoiding looking at them. Instead he seized at a passing thought, and muttered dryly,

"Bet the kid was freaking out."

"Oh yeah," Rochelle confirmed readily, leaning back against the counter now, toying with one hoop earring.

Nick snorted. 

"Thank God I was out for that, at least."

It was time. Breathing slowly out, he steeled himself, and looked down the bench at his legs.

Well. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. His pants were fucking wrecked, of course, that much was clear. They'd been scorched and filthy before, but now they just looked fucking ridiculous, shredded below the knee, worse at the back, where his paramedics had apparently finished the job, ripping up the length to access his wounds, leaving his calves bare and the excess material dangling.

As far as the wounds themselves, though, there was nothing to see. He was wrapped from knee to ankle in clean, fresh bandages, and only the throbbing and the grotesque amount of drying blood on his trouser legs gave him any means to assess the damage, telling him nothing new. He wouldn't be able to tell until the next time his bandages were removed.

Or until he tried to stand.

With no more delay, he drew his legs carefully to the floor, grimly bracing himself to test them. Seeing what he meant to do, Rochelle's eyebrows lifted in concern.

"Are you sure you should be--"

He shot her a nasty look, and she shut up.

Sneering against the burning ache in his calves, throbbing increasing as they flexed, he slowly rose to stand, favoring his right foot. He carefully let it take a little more weight, and grimaced at the sharp twinge of pain. He felt a headrush coming on, and passed a hand over his eyes, holding his brow. He sensed Rochelle rushing quickly up, and flicked his other hand at her irritably, waving her off with a,

"Shh. I'm -- oh."

The softest groan had escaped his lips instead of the 'fine' that was supposed to emerge, sense of balance leaving him with a wave of light-headedness. He swayed, starting to tilt dangerously forward-- but then a warm hand pressed against his chest, steadying him, and another laced around the side of his waist, as if prepared to try and support his weight should he swoon once more.

He opened his eyes to stare dizzily down at the living, breathing woman pressed so close, taking in the sight of her dark, attractive eyes, looking up at him searchingly, the pleasant feeling of her hand on his chest. 

He smirked.

"Hey there," he flirted, a low, almost predatorily purring quality to his voice.

"God, Nick. You're so white."

"What~, you're not into white guys?" he complained wryly, allowing one hand to drift daringly up to her waist, fingertips lightly stroking at her side. Hers was on his, after all. "That's a shame."

"No, Nick," she groaned, expression a frowning mixture of exasperation and concern he found pretty cute just then. "I mean you're really pale. You look like shit, you should really stay sitting for a bit."

Oh. Right. As if his body had needed to hear the reminder, a wave of nausea and weariness swept over him then, and his smirk faded away, to be replaced by a tired, pinched expression, eyes dimmed.

".. yeah, okay," he muttered, and grudgingly surrendered to let her support his descent back down to the bench. He was glad it was her, here. The thought of Ellis seeing him like this, crippled and woozy, made him actually grimace, and Rochelle surely mistook the expression for the pain. He grumbled as he sank once more onto the bench, leaning against its back with a sigh. His and Rochelle's gas cans were gone, no doubt getting filled up outside. 

Forget grocery shopping. He was just trying to imagine walking that whole way back to the motorboat with his legs like this, which sounded horrific even without the thought of doing his part to lug supplies, and what would now be full gas cans. Not that any of these sentimental stupid fucks would let him. He was fucking useless. And he'd put his Magnum right in his fucking mouth before he let Ellis push him anywhere in a fucking shopping cart.

As if his strength of feeling had summoned the boy, the door burst open, and Ellis came charging in. Not in any kind of panic, mind you, no. He was bright-eyed -- even with one now half swollen shut -- and exuberant, and his face lifted even more when he saw that Nick was awake. No, that just seemed to be his favorite way to cross a threshold, and by the witless look of delight on his face as he met Nick's stiff glare, he was unaware and unrepentant of the irritated racing of his heart his abrupt, boisterous entrance had caused.

"Nick!" he exclaimed, one strong arm flexing as he lowered the full gas can hanging from it to the floor, beside another. Nick could smell the fumes coming off him from here, and his hands, arms and knees were smudged sooty black. There was even a smear across his forehead, as if left from thoughtlessly wiping his sweaty brow.

"Yer awake!" he gushed happily. "Yew feelin' alright?! Man, we was all so scared! I was saying, like we got acid and crazy bile, what if them Hunters like, produce some kinda toxin in their nails? We wouldn't know, cause we ain't been scratched by em before, and Rochelle said she ain't never heard before of no one makin' it once they'd got their claws in 'em, so--"

"Fucking hell, hick, hey!" Nick snapped aggressively, dimly sparing a single thought to be impressed by the redneck's correct use of the term toxin, though that figured, "Yeah! I'm fine! Thanks for asking! Except for the headache I just started getting, right when you walked in and started jabbering. Breathe. You fucking reek, God. You knew you're supposed to be collecting us fuel, right? Not rolling in it?"

Ellis took this healthy stream of abuse with his usual good nature, even sporting a cockily unbothered grin across his full lips by the end of it, mismatched eyes glinting warmly with amusement. Something about the image provoked a strange, twisting sensation in Nick's chest, a muddle of wariness and frustration, flaring irritation indistinguishable from something like respect, that he refused to look at too closely. 

"Ain't like fillin' up at a station, Nick," Ellis reasonably pointed out, voice warm. "Yer welcome tuh come 'n show me how's it done, but I jess figgered yew'd prolly seen 'nuff of undersides of cars fer one day."

Nick narrowed his eyes.

"Too soon," he growled through his teeth. "Give me till the pain pills kick in before you crack jokes, kid. Then I can come shine your other eye."

Ellis huffed out a breath of a laugh, only a little apologetic, and not intimidated at all.

"-- Hunter do that?" Nick checked, tone callously flat.

"Yeah~," Ellis whined, face falling to a petulant pout, the effect only exacerbated as he lifted a knuckle to brush his cheekbone, just by the forming bruise. "Kicked me right in the eye, with his dirty stinkin' foot. Fuckin' dick. Be lucky I don't get pinkeye."

"Should get some ice on that," Nick muttered disaffectedly, almost as if speaking to himself.

Ellis grinned wryly. 

"Hey, yew find any, let me know. I better get back out there, though. Been real quiet, but I don't wanna leave Coach alone."

"I'm watching him," Rochelle assured them idly, indeed standing by the door, holding her rifle.

"Glad yew ain't poisoned, anyway," Ellis told him, starting to look embarassed for some reason, shuffling backwards as if not sure how to make his exit, tugging at the brim of his hat. "Um, I better.."

"Hey."

Ellis paused, and blinked at him attentively.

"I need a new toy. I'm down one zombie-beating stick. Keep an eye out there for me, will you?"

The corner of the hick's mouth crooked up in a one-sided grin, sun warm on his brown curls, his barely stubble-cornered jaw.

"Whut, I don't git a please?" he teased.

"You like staying busy, don't you? I'm giving you something else to make yourself useful, you're welcome. Now fetch."

"Ain'tcher dog, Nick," he chided him, as he turned to go, with a reproachful look that didn't mask the twinkle in his eyes.

"Woof," Nick taunted flatly, and he heard the huffing breath of the Southerner's snicker before the door swung shut behind his departing back.

Rochelle watched them out the door for a while. Nick inspected the tip of his right middle finger, where the nail had torn halfway up the bed, blood seeped into the creases around it. To his grim distaste, he saw the ripped piece hadn't come fully off, hanging on to a bit of tender flesh still, and he grimaced at the sharp twinge as he thumbed it. 

Sneering with resolve, he pinched it between his opposing thumb and forefinger, and with one spiteful jerk, he ripped it off.

"Fuck!" he spat bitterly through his gritting teeth, shaking his hand out away from him hard enough to numbly rush its blood to his fingertips, and to fling flicks of fresh blood to the floor. When the wave of pain had subsided to a sore throb, he inspected it sourly. Catching Rochelle looking at him with a pitying wince, he moodily asked,

"Are you gonna bitch if I smoke in here? I could really use a cigarette."

"Yes," she flatly told him. "It's a restaurant."

Nick rolled his eyes.

"That will never open for service again. C'mon," his voice went from callous to sulkily wheedling, giving her the full effect of his brooding green stare. "I'm injured."

"Oh yeah?" she asked wryly, with a skeptical little smirk. She'd wandered over from the door by then, standing a few feet in front of him. "I thought you were fine, tough guy?"

"Well... that's before I thought I might be able to use it to my advantage," Nick explained seriously, holding her stare. "You're a woman, all your... maternal, care-taking instincts must be going nuts right now."

"Oh, yeah," she agreed sarcastically, skeptically raising her eyebrows. "Pasty men with multiple leg lacerations, that just gets mommy's motor revving."

"There you go with the pasty again," Nick grumbled glumly. "Do I really look that bad?"

"You lost a good bit of blood, Suit. I'd say you're whiter than the suit, at this point."

Nick tsked disapprovingly, giving her a look that was almost hurt. 

"You don't have to kick me while I'm down."

"Sorry."

"So I look bad."

"I mean -- let me put it this way, you'd be offended, I think, if I didn't say you've looked better."

"Oh yeah?" That easily, his smirk had returned, and with it, his sly tone. "Like when?"

"Oh my gosh," she groaned in exasperation, rolling her eyes.

"C'mon, stroke a guy's ego. As the  last woman in the world-- and considering you won't even let me smoke -- I think that's the least you could do."

She scoffed in disbelief.

"Oh my gosh," she muttered again. "You are intolerable."

"No I'm not," Nick replied sweetly, with a feline smirk.

"Fine. You want to know the best I've ever thought you looked? Jeez, I'm so going to regret this."

"Yes. Tell me. In detail, please."

She sighed heavily.

"Shoot me," she groaned. "Alright. It was back when we were first running from the Tank. At the ravine. Ellis and I had just made it across, and uh... well, we both saw you make Coach cross first. And then you turned right back towards the Tank, with this... scary look on your face. And it was coming right for you, and you just started firing off these focused shots, one after the other, all controlled and-- okay, okayokay. I'm done."

She looked equal parts amused and embarrassed, playing with one hoop earring.

"I'm just saying, you know, for that one moment, I thought... damn. That's a good looking man."

Nick was grinning from ear to ear, a smug, shit-eating, Cheshire Cat slice of a grin.

"Oh shut up," she scolded, though he hadn't said a word. "You did a good thing, asshole. Anyone would be a little charmed. You should have seen Ellis's face."

"Oh yeah?" he wondered softly, distracted trying to picture it, trying to coax more detail from her while feigning disinterest.

"Nope. That's plenty of ego stroking. I feel dirty as it is. If any more blood goes to your already inflated head, you're gonna faint again."

"I didn't... faint," he muttered defensively, expression darkening into a moody frown.

"Oh, sorry. You'll take another man-nap. Is that better?"

Nick stared at her with a critically appraising frown, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"... You know," he began slowly, quietly matter-of-fact, "you're kind of a bitch."

The associate producer narrowed her pretty eyes to warmly gleaming crescents, rocking her head innocently to the side with a bow-shaped little beam. 

"That's why you like me," she sweetly accused.

"I don't like you."

"O-kay," she conspiratorially agreed, voice deepening with sarcasm, "your secret's safe with me, buddy."

"Whatever you say."

"You like all of us," she insisted stubbornly, with confidence. "Even Coach."

"Why 'even Coach'? I don't have anything against Coach. You're... pretty annoying, but fine. Eye candy, at least--"

She had already given a little gasp at 'pretty annoying', but at 'eye candy', she pretended as if she was going to aim a kick at his leg, and he jerked it away with a dirty look, continuing,

"-- Ellis is the one that makes me want to blow my brains out five times a day."

"Well, yeah, but..."

She didn't finish, just giving him an amused, knowing look.

"But what?

"I meann..." 

She gave him a wry look, as if to ask, Do I really have to say?

"You guys are... like, attached at the hip."

"What?" Nick snapped in disbelief, scowling indignantly. "No we aren't. He just follows me everywhere. I can't do anything about it. You've seen me try."

"Uh-huh."

Nick had just about had enough of that sarcastic, skeptical, knowing tone of hers.

"Well, he sure likes you. Even if you are a total dick to him."

"That's exactly what I told him," Nick grumbled.

"Really?"

"I'm very self aware, sweetheart."

Rochelle bit her lips together with patience, expression masterfully concealed, breathing deeply in through her nose before speaking.

"Ok, I'm definitely not going to comment on that."

"You definitely just did."

"Whoop. Oop, hey. Want a mint?"

She had twisted around, voice innocent, seeking a distraction, and her eyes had fallen to a bowl of mints on the counter, one hand swooping delicately in to pick one out.

"No," he growled shortly... then, after a couple of beats, muttered, "actually, yes."

She held one up, preparing him to lift his hand, and tossed it over. He caught it out of the air, and there was no sound between them for the next few seconds but the twisting apart of cellophane.  

They nursed their minty hard candies for almost a minute in silence, before Nick broke it.

"You know, usually when a woman offers me a mint, it means I'm going to get--"

Mouth tightening, Rochelle suddenly snatched a handful of mints from the bowl and lobbed them fiercely at him. He swore and ducked, covering his head with his arms as they rained down over and around him.

It was a little while later, long enough that the throbbing in his legs had started to subside some as the pain pills began to kick in, that they heard Coach calling from the street.

"Hey, babygirl. You wanna come out here for a minute?"

What was that about?

"Sure thing!" she called, already heading for the door.

Nick was immediately suspicious. Did they really need her help, or did they just want her outside so they could all talk about him behind his back? He waited till she'd gone, then wasted no time in carefully climbing to his feet, stifling a grunt, and venturing over to the door, still favoring his right foot. Pressing close to the doorframe, he cautiously peeked out, just far enough for the forms of his teammates came into view. 

They all three stood in the street, engaged in a hushed conversation.

God damn it. They were talking about him.

He tried to make out what they were saying, but it was no good. He tried to read their faces, read their lips. Ellis's expression was serious, wearing a little frown. That couldn't be a good sign. If they'd been discussing leaving him to die, though, he would have looked more upset, wouldn't he have?

... try... time...

It was, unsurprisingly, difficult to read the Southerner's lips with his thick dialect. Rochelle seemed to be agreeing with whatever he was saying, though, nodding with a stern look. He couldn't see Coach's face.

The conversation wrapped up sooner than he expected, and he drew swiftly back when they broke apart, and Rochelle turned to return. He hastily made his way back to his seat, trying to look like he hadn't moved a muscle by the time she stepped inside.

"What's up?" he asked, feigning disinterest as he inspected his right shoe. He almost lost interest for real, appalled at the state of the Italian leather, which the Hunter had mangled like a chew toy. 

"Oh, Ellis just wants to take a minute to look for something," she said, tone casual-- suspiciously so. "We're doing pretty good on time, now that we don't have to go shopping, so we figured it can't hurt."

"Something?" Nick prodded. He wasn't sure he bought it. There was something she wasn't telling him. "Did he say what this something was?"

"He said he didn't want anybody getting excited, in case he couldn't find it."

Nick narrowed his eyes. Was that really the truth? It sounded believable -- as a good lie should -- but then, why had they all looked so serious outside? It occurred to him that Ellis was going out of his way to find him a new melee weapon, rather than just keeping an eye out for one like he'd asked, but he dismissed the thought. That task was nowhere near high enough priority that Ellis would delay the whole team for its sake.

All he could do was wait, tense and sour, for them to return. Eventually he got up, deciding he needed to try out his legs a little more, and paced painfully around for a bit, but he grew swiftly tired, and sat back down, sweat beading at his temples.

He could walk, but it hurt like hell with every step. The long walk back to the boat loomed ahead of them, and though he was irritated at Ellis for making them wait, part of him wanted to delay their trip back to the house on the river indefinitely. There was a queasy dread lurking at the corners of his consciousness, like he might not ever make it back there. Even if they were willing to carry him, even if he could have suffered the humiliation of letting them, they couldn't afford to. The whole point of this trip was to carry back supplies. It was a waste of time otherwise. And a teammate that couldn't haul their own weight was a waste of space.

Plagued by thoughts as dark as these, it was no wonder that he became increasingly restless as time went on. How far from the restaurant were they planning on searching, and for how long? What if another special showed up? Were they even close enough that they'd hear their guns going off? 

What if they got killed, and just never came back?  

All he knew, with all the stress this was causing him, was if they didn't make it back soon, he was going to strangle Ellis himself. 

"What the fuck is taking them so long?" he burst out finally, fed up.

Rochelle was looking concerned too.

"I'm starting to wonder if splitting up was a bad idea," she admitted.

"You think?" he snarled sarcastically. "Of course, no one asked me my vote. I guess players on the bench don't get a say."

"It wasn't like that," Rochelle whined, pacing towards the door, as she had many times before, to peer down the street. "They were just supposed to be gone a little while."

"Well, something went wrong, then. Shocker. When does that ever happen."

"Great. Thanks, Nick, that's really helpful. I'm not worried enough."

"What the fuck is he looking for?"

She sighed, but shook her head, and didn't answer. God damn it. You get a little cut up, go unconscious for an hour, and when you wake up, suddenly nobody's keeping you in the loop.

He felt so fucking powerless. Useless, crippled, clueless, and nothing he could do but wait. It was awful.

And then, finally-- a little intake of breath from Rochelle, over by the door again, and Nick looked over to her from where he'd finally settled lying on his back on the bench, one arm folded under his head, to see her listening raptly to something outside.

"Do you hear that?" she whispered, and he would have been pretty uneasy about a question like that if she hadn't looked so excited.

He did not hear anything -- she was close to the shattered door to the outside -- but he was already swinging his legs off the bench, to get up and approach, as in a hush she urged, "Quick, come here!"

Frowning in curiosity, and from the painful twinging in his lower legs as he moved, he lengthened his stride. Her excitement had her pulling the door open before he got there, hurrying outside, and he caught it, following her out. As he did, he heard what she had.

A vehicle.

No way.

The dusty red van coasted around the corner down the street at a downtown-appropriate clip, Coach and Ellis just discernible past the sun's reflection off the windshield, the latter in the driver's seat, Coach with one arm draped out his lowered window.

"Oh my gosh, he did it," Rochelle proudly gushed, and he was too busy with his own feelings, an almost exhausting wave of relief wrestling with something squirmy, cagey and uncomfortable, to shoot her the glare she deserved.

She had known what Ellis was looking for. A fucking car. They'd deliberately hid their plan from him.

He said he didn't want anyone getting excited...

Ellis had seen the obvious predicament they were in, come up with a practical solution, and hadn't wanted Nick, specifically, to get his hopes up, in case it didn't work out. He had the grim feeling that plan B really was pushing a shopping cart train of gas, groceries and grouchy gambler through the town, up the hill, to the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go... or whatever that shit was.

Plan B. More like... god, he'd lost count. If the hotel was plan A, the mall plan C, then the backroads and the hickhouse, then this town... would shopping carts have been plan G?

Fuck it. He wasn't counting anymore. Keeping a tally of all the time they'd had to change plans suddenly seemed like a defeating idea.

The van rolled up, stopping in the middle of the street in front of them, the driver side door springing open before it was even geared into park. Without killing the engine -- scrutinizing the older model and faded paint, Nick was willing to bet the hick had honest-to-God hotwired the thing-- Ellis jumped out, face flushed with excitement and eyes shining. Even Coach wore a broad, satisfied smile, a gleam in his dark eyes, as he climbed more unhurriedly from the passenger side.

"Looky heere~ what I found!" Ellis cheered himself, swollen with pride as he jauntily swaggered around the front of the van, slapping the hood gustily in passing. 

"1987 Plymouth Voyager, ba-by!" he crowed. "She's a real sweetheart, wanted to be runnin' so bad it ain't take me five minutes up in there tuh get her purrin'!"

Christ, how was it the hick managed to sound his absolute filthiest when talking about a vehicle?

"Owner musta been sweet on her too, I know she ain't look like much but she real well kept under the hood, take us anywhere we need to go, I'm talkin'-- Nick, yew listenin'? I got more good news, yew ready fer this? Yew might wanna hang onto somethin', so yew don't pass out again."

Nick sneered, glaring murderously, welcoming the heated rush of irritation over whatever else had been struggling in his chest.

"You shut the fuck up--" he softly snarled, but Ellis went smugly on like he hadn't even heard him.

"I'm talkin', like we don't gotta take the boat back at all. Can come back fer it later, on another trip, if we need it. We can jess ride with this old girl straight back home. Make... hell, three times the time, maybe, long as we don't run into no trouble, an' we got room fer a ton more supplies in the back. Was gonna be a real squeeze in that lil boat."

Rochelle squealed with joy, and Nick, right next to her, winced slightly. She didn't notice, already running forward into the street to throw her arms around Ellis's neck. He caught her willingly, grinning, and wrapped her up in a tight squeeze, as she gushed into his neck -- voice slightly strained from his strong embrace -- 

"Oh my gosh, you beautiful stinky boy. I'm so proud of you, I could kiss you."

And she did -- pulled back just enough to take his head in both slight hands, and pressed a firm, warm kiss to one of his soft, dirty cheeks, squishing it against his twinkling eye.

"Aw, shit~, girl..." he mumbled with pleasure, face warming, scratching the back of his head bashfully as she sank back down to her toes and stepped back. "Shucks, weren't nothin'. Lil kiddy could do it, one of 'em old things, jess need a grown up tuh break the steerin' lock. I know, 'cuz I was jess a lil kid first time I done it--"

"Son, that's actually a real good story, and I wouldn't mind hearing it again, but let's save it for the road. I know it's been quiet for a while, but I don't want to test our good luck. Let's get the car loaded up, and be on our way."

"Yew got it, Coach!" chirped Ellis, easily redirected. He jogged towards the restaurant, vaulting over the corner of a parked sedan and hopping up onto the curb, slowing only when he neared Nick, a shyness creeping over his bright expression.

Though Nick still had a sour taste in his mouth from watching his teammates' unnecessary little display of physical affection, there was no way the sight of the redneck's obvious investment in his reaction, his approval, couldn't tug on his ego. He enjoyed that, enjoyed knowing his own expression was hard as ever, and that the boy waited carefully in suspense, despite bearing objectively excellent news still not sure just how Nick would respond.

That was how Nick liked it.

He stepped forward, taking extra care to keep his unhurried stride smooth, and his expression masked  of the pain walking caused him, the faint narrowing of his eyes not conspicious on that face. The pain pills were helping-- a lot. The hick's blue eyes lifted as he neared, curious, rapt expectancy giving way to just slightly crestfallen confusion as it looked as if Nick planned to step right past him--

till one arm lifted at the last moment instead, across Ellis's throat, hooking all the way around his neck and pulling him head-first into his shoulder for a firm squeeze-- a throttle rather than a one-armed embrace, if anyone asked. The redneck squawked in sheer surprise and joy, as without pause Nick ripped his hat off with his other hand and pressed a hard-mouthed kiss right to the top of his curly head, then broke out in yelps and giggles as the gambler immediately replaced his mouth with his knuckles.

"Not bad, Ace," he growled, viciously noogying the kid and ravaging his curls till he fought -- not all that hard-- and squirmed his way out from under his arm, dodging back, breathless, flushed to his ears and flustered and aglow with happiness.

"Dumbass," Nick immediately, scornfully scoffed, rolling his eyes, and tossing his hat back at his chest for him to catch, turned from him, approaching Coach.

"I'd just take a handshake, if it's all the same," Coach warned him sternly, and Nick wryly smirked, then even snorted very slightly.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered dismissively, but indeed holding out a hand, which Coach grasped in a solid hold. "Thanks for being my nurse, I guess. I'm guessing you're the one who dragged my ass back here."

"Don't mention it," Coach calmly confirmed, as they released hands, and Nick felt like he meant it. "No thanks needed."

"Well, good, cause I really hated that," Nick drawled, hard and caustic. 

"You saved my ass more than once, Nick. Could have been any of us. Ain't no shame in going down, you hear me?"

Nick flinched very slightly, as if someone had feinted at slapping him. He blinked stiffly a couple times, a sullen frown creeping over his expression, and stuffed that away to process later, uncomfortably, gruffly muttering, "Yeah, whatever," then skirting away back towards the restaurant. Without looking at any of them, he growled,

"Let's get this fucking mom van filled up and get the fuck out of here."

~

Together, the four of them made short work of raiding the restaurant. Beans, rice, chilis, spices, tortillas, flour, sugar and oil all made their way into cardboard boxes scavenged from a recycling bin and reassembled, to be packed neatly into the car -- Coach gently but firmly took over responsibility for this feat of Tetris, and everyone left their loads by the curb for him to load himself after the look the first person to unwittingly tamper with his organization system earned -- along with a large pack of clean kitchen towels and all the toilet paper they could find. Ellis was delighted to discover juice-- mango -- and Rochelle, coffee. 

They avoided the walk in at first, sure that nothing pleasant would be waiting for them in there, considering power had probably been out for several days by then, turning it into a sweatbox of rotting perishables the size of a walk in closet, but Ellis was eventually overcome by curiosity, and at one point blurted out unexpectedly, I'm goin' in! and yanked on the lever sealing the huge metal door shut, hauling it open. The warm, reeking air drifted out, and they all groaned in complaint. 

"Hurry up, or I'm shutting you in there!" Nick barked, sneering. "That reeks!"

Ellis rushed out shortly after, though, face screwed up in disgust, and swiftly shut the heavy door once more behind him.

"Nope," he panted apologetically. "Sorry, guys. Jess kept thinkin' -- what's if there's somethin' useful in there? But there ain't. Jess gross. Oh. But the onions looked fine. Yew want onions, Coach?"

"Yes!" the older man nearly barked, startling Ellis before he grinned, and then they all had to put up with a wave of the smell again while Ellis bravely ducked back inside, and retrieved Coach what turned out to be an entire bucket of onions.

"Good job, son," the older man praised him warmly. 

It was still a couple of hours till sunset by the time they were all piling into the waiting, running van. Coach offered to drive this time, just in case they did run into trouble, though if they did, the only place the backseat would be firing from was the single sliding door, if they hauled it open on the go. The back windows were pop-outs, and could only open a few inches, safe to leave small children alone with but pretty useless for aiming through at infected. 

Nick climbed into the backseat -- softly upholstered entirely in red-- first, and Ellis after him, pulling the sliding door shut behind them. Rochelle, still the keeper of the map, sat in front, just in case they got lost. The map didn't show every road, including some of the smaller ones that might prove to be their most direct route back, but they expected navigating there to be fairly straightforward, and if nothing else they had the river to guide them. 

The air conditioner wasn't nearly so frosty as their truck's, more of a hard-working fan than anything, but a fresh breeze soon circulated around the van through the fully open front windows as they picked up a little speed, and soon they were on their way out of the little town. Only a handful zombies crawled from the woodwork to see them off, but they couldn't catch up, and they left them behind in their dust.

As they cruised along towards the river, Rochelle absently fiddling through one static-filled radio station after the next -- Nick was skeptical if the smiley-headed antenna on the front of the car actually functioned anyway-- Ellis got his attention.

"I uh... might got one more surprise fer yuh, Nick," he mumbled, looking shy again and at once far too pleased with himself, biting back a smile. 

What had he ever done to earn this kind of devotion? Was it his acerbic attitude itself, that presented to the kid's people-pleasing urges some ultimate challenge? 

"Didn't I tell you I hated surprises?" he growled. "Now you have another one? You have a listening problem."

"I listened," the hick insisted, eyes dolefully large, slightly reproachful, with a dignified sniffiness to his pout that was reminiscent of one wrongfully accused, on the verge of absolution. Unlatching his seatbelt, he twisted around, threw one arm over the back seat and pulled himself halfway over it, so he could reach down with his other, digging between boxes. 

Nick already knew, from that look and a gut feeling, that he was about to feel like an asshole. He was correct-- but properly prepared, he could get over that feeling pretty quick, because in this case Ellis being right meant a gift he could appreciate. 

He licked his teeth slowly before grudgingly letting them glint in the spread of an almost predatory smirk, as the redneck drew a long, wooden baseball bat into view, presenting it to Nick handle first with a prim, vindicated look.

"Alright, alright," he drawled wryly, concession in his tone, sneering with approval as he wrapped his fingers around the handle and tugged it from the hick's hand. "You listened. What a good boy."

Ellis tsked disapprovingly, but when Nick's hand batted his hat off once again, to obnoxiously ruffle his hair, he couldn't help but notice he made only a paltry effort to dodge his head away. And as he scratched at his head, intent to mockingly imitate the way you'd do the same to a dog, he could tell that Ellis was enjoying the way his fingernails scraped lightly through his curls. There wasn't any doubt. Nick knew what it felt like to have someone melt into his touch. It was a simple, cathartic, gratifying feeling, and he was lost in it for a few moments. 

A few too many, he suddenly realized -- and realizing what he was doing, his hand stiffened, then abruptly shoved the hick's head away. If he'd pushed any harder, he would have knocked him into the window, but the hick was only snickering under his breath, face warm with embarassment but eyes twinkling, averted but happy as he retrieved his hat from the floor where it had fallen. 

Nick didn't look at him for a while, nor did he glance at the rear-view mirror, choosing to assume nobody had seen that. When he next did, though, he noticed his hat still remained off, in his lap, and he leaned his head against the window, staring contentedly out at the passing scenery.

The trip back to the house on the river was mercifully uneventful. They passed more fields, trailers and farmhouses, and eventually found themselves on a road that wound alongside the river, which would lead them directly back to their destination, indeed at a fraction of the time it would have taken them in the boat. It was plenty of time for Nick to once again dwell on how things could have gone if Ellis hadn't successfully managed to get them a ride.

The sun was just touching the horizon by the time they arrived, rays of golden light beaming through the canopy of the scattered trees, the sky still light but shadows deepening on the ground. It was a strange feeling to pull into the driveway, like coming home after a long, exhausting road trip, only they'd never pulled into this driveway before, and really it was someone else's home, not any of theirs, which chances were they'd never return to again. 

Still, relief was the predominant emotion among the party as they climbed from the van, gazing up at the house where they planned to be staying for the indefinite future, where they could rest, heal, shower and feel like real human beings for a while, not desperate transients. They had all made it back in one piece, though Nick, in particular, had seriously doubted at times whether he would. He felt an uncomfortable ache of unwelcome emotion, looking at it now, doing his best to keep himself together as the last several day's toils and troubles seemed to finally crash down on him all at once, and he bitterly fought to avoid thinking about any of it, of what he and his teammates had gone through together, of what they had done for him, of how close they'd all come to dying. 

He was too tired to want to process any of it, and with great effort managed to shove it all to the corners of his brain, where he could at least choose not to acknowledge the storm of complicated, nauseating feelings brewing in the shadows, as if leaving them unnamed and unscrutinized denied their existence. He left room for the only thought he wanted to dwell on it, just then, and held tightly onto it as he did his best not to limp into the house, as Ellis dragged gas down to the generator, held onto it when the others cheered as he got it whirring to life, as they switched on lights, turning the dark house into a warm, inviting place, as he leaned his baseball bat by the doorframe of the basement bedroom, the one he'd claimed, and bee-lined for the bathroom, as desperately hungry for a hot shower as he'd ever been for a cigarette or a meal.

It really was a nice place.

well the moon is broken

and the sky is cracked

come on up to the house

END OF THE RIVER

COMING JULY 2nd

THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER

Chapter Text

LEVEL Vl - THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER - l/V

Yet another brush with mortality, not to mention an unscheduled nap, separated entering the house this time from the last, when a Nick with a few more pints of blood in his body had stepped from the bright morning into the foyer, and insisted everyone remove their shoes so as not to muddy the light-colored carpet. It seemed an eternity longer ago now than it was, and that Nick an unnerving distance from the one that stiffly let himself down on the bench to remove his shoes, and not just for his wretched state, injured and tattered. 

That was more than enough. He was trying hard not to think about anything deeper. It wasn't like his teammates hadn't saved his life before, after all. Nothing was different. Nothing was changing. Ellis had come back for him and rescued him from that Smoker, had shoved him out of the way of that Spitter, but hell, he'd pulled his weight too. They had all covered each other's backs, they were all relying on each other, whether he liked it or not.

What was different this time was the vulnerability. Saving someone in the heat of combat was one thing. Losing consciousness, needing to be tended to... he'd been down longer than Ellis had when he'd been seriously hurt, and Ellis hadn't passed out like a little bitch.

Thinking back on those moans of pain the Southerner had done his stalwart best to stifle when being treated by Coach, though, Nick could admit he was relieved he'd been out cold for the ordeal. It was bad enough knowing his teammates had carried him and treated his wounds without having the actual memory of the humbling humiliation. 

This way, he could do the best that his inevitable scars would permit to forget the whole thing had happened, and he certainly intended to try. He sure wished they'd made it somewhere with harder alcohol than the handful of bottles of Dos Equis beer they'd looted from the restaurant. That would be better than nothing, though-- and exhaustion was doing its part to limit his processing power.

Ellis, somehow, still had energy. Of course. Coach and Rochelle were stiff and groggy after the long day and uneventful van ride, but the hick had hauled the sliding van door open and practically vaulted out as soon as they'd come to a stop, hefting a gas can from the back and jogging for the house to start working on getting the generator up and running. Coach and Rochelle had begun tiredly lugging the rest of the supplies from the van, but when Nick skulked up to help, Coach shooed him firmly off towards the house.

"Don't think about it," he warned him sternly, uncompromising visage and commanding tone earning a sullen scowl from the gambler. "Go rest, Nick. We got it."

Nick had tsked ungratefully, as if Coach were fussing unnecessarily, but headed on inside. Truth be told, even walking without added burden was miserable, the countless cuts on his calves sharply agitated with every step and flex of his muscles, and his right ankle hardly able to hold his weight. It took great effort, which pride compelled him to put in, not to limp more than the impressive little he did on the way towards the house. He was glad nobody could see his expression from behind him, his nose and brow pinched grimly in pain, nor when, after removing his shoes, he made his way down the stairs to the bottom floor, relying heavily on the banister and letting himself ease down a miserable step at a time
only because he could hear Ellis outside, filling up the generator, and Rochelle and Coach making trips to and from the kitchen, all safely occupied and out of sight.

He just wanted a shower. His ankle had swollen, he'd noticed when taking off his shoe, and probably should be elevated as soon as possible, and he had no idea yet how he was going to shower without getting his bandages wet, but he was determined to get clean before anything else. With his luck, there would be something wrong with the generator or water heater, but fuck, even if he did end up having to take a cold shower-- the cherry on top of this fine day-- that would be better than nothing, than wearing crusty mud and two days of sweat.

More of which beaded on his brow by the time he made it to the bedroom he'd claimed for himself, simply making his way downstairs an exertion in his condition, and shut the door. For a moment he just leaned his head against it, hard eyes shut, catching his breath, baseball bat hanging from his other hand at the end of one limp arm. 

Jesus, he was a fucking mess. He was desperately relieved they had a safe place to hole up for a while. The thought of being on the move and fighting gave him a fluttery, panicky feeling in his gut that he had to squash down, or it would turn him off the hot dinner Coach had promised them all.

He'd recover. A couple of days of rest, of eating and drinking properly. He'd be just fine. Even if zombies found them, it wasn't like he'd be useless. He could still fucking shoot, that was for sure. They had a car. Two, once they went back for the truck. It was okay. He was safe. He was safe.

As if to give himself visual assurance of as much, or maybe because that tension was so hard to dislodge, it felt like a threat must have been in the room with him, he looked over his shoulder, scanning it from corner to corner. 

It was reasonably spacious and satisfyingly tidy, with an unnecessary number of throw pillows neatly arranged upon the queen-sized bed, matching lamps on either side table, and a closet. One of its twin doors was slid open, but something could have been hiding behind the other. Nick refused to check, on principle. These were zombies they were dealing with, not the Boogeyman. He was alone in the room, he was sure.

Only when this visual sweep was complete did he lean his bat by the door, handle just resting against the frame. He gazed down at it for an appreciative moment, then turned away, pulling his rifle off his back, strap over his head, and undoing the thigh holster for his Magnum, setting the first propped against his bedside table, the latter atop it, joined soon by his wallet and rings.

At that moment, he heard a whirring sound start up from nearby outside. Ellis had successfully brought the generator to life. He heard Rochelle cheering from upstairs, Coach's booming approval. Limping carefully back to the door, he opened it just as the lights came on in the main room down the hall. Taking a step over  the threshold, he saw Ellis come into view, eyes bright with excitement. He caught sight of Nick looking out from his room.

"Nick!" he exclaimed happily. "We got power! Should have hot water now, might jess have t'let it run a minute!"

"Atta boy," Nick praised dryly. Ellis looked pleased all the same. "Hey. Since you still have so much fucking energy, do me another favor."

It wasn't that he couldn't do it himself. It would have fucking hurt, but he'd have done it, if the hick hadn't been right there, if it hadn't been for the way he perked at the request -- hardly a request, really -- just like he knew he would, blue eyes wide and willing, even excited for the chance to do something for him. Was it manipulative, using him like this? Not really. He wasn't holding back any friendliness just to keep him going above and beyond for a scrap of it -- this was just how he was. And the kid genuinely liked doing shit for him, impressing him, earning his attention. He wanted to be of use, for Nick to benefit from his little acts of service. If it benefited him, and they both enjoyed it... what was the harm?

"Find me some clothes, will you? I don't wanna haul my gimp ass all the way up to the third fucking floor right now. Kitty scratched me up good."

"Gotcha boss, I'm on it!" Ellis chirped, already running for the stairs before the words were fully out, bounding up them an offensive two at a time.

"I'll find'ja something!"

Nick narrowed his eyes, a stir of jealous annoyance at the hick's mobility offset by his gratifying eagerness to comply.

That, and the fact that they presumably now had hot water. He wasted no more time heading into the bathroom across the hall, shutting the door behind him.

It looked as tidy as the bedroom, as he expected by this point. Undoubtedly the most disgusting thing in there was himself. Meeting his eyes in the mirror above the sink was a harrowing sight. He was, as Rochelle had warned him, quite pale, his dark hair untidy, his jaw now sporting several days of stubble. His once striking ensemble, crisp white blazer and pants and deep blue, collared shirt, was a joke, wrecked beyond salvation. Even if half the stains could ever be washed out, it was scorched, frayed and shredded. The pants were hardly worth washing. They'd need to be amputated at the knee, and Nick was hardly going to be wearing shorts around. A button dangled from his shirt at the end of a couple threads, barely hanging on. It wasn't the first time he'd mourned his suit -- it had been ruined on day one, after all -- but now it had truly reached a new low, beyond salvaging. Depending on what they could find upstairs, he might not wear any of these things again.

Still, when he shrugged his blazer off, after emptying its pockets of miscellaneous ammo and a toothbrush and razor he'd scavenged from the convenience store, he dropped it into a conveniently waiting hamper, a tall wicker basket lined with a cloth laundry bag. He untucked his shirt from his pants and unbuttoned that, freeing the dangling button and setting it on the counter, as it would surely come off in the wash regardless.

As he shed the blue fabric, baring himself from the waist up, he eyed himself in the mirror, admiring his strong, lean torso. Haggard as he might have looked, bruised and scuffed all over, the apocalypse was at least keeping his waist trimmer than his gambling circuit would have, firm abs and chest dusted with dark hair, complementing the dark shadow across his jaw better than the remnants of his suit, which had been meant to accompany smooth skin and the scent of unnecessarily expensive aftershave. A jaw like that was meant to be seen, he thought to himself, rubbing it speculatively. As he began unbuckling his belt, pulling it free from the loops and leaving it wound up on the counter, he resolved to shave after his shower, once the hot water had softened his skin.

Unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks, he pushed them down off his hips with his underwear, supporting himself on the counter with one hand while he stripped each leg, socks and all, and dumped it all indiscriminately in the hamper, to be sorted later. It was a relief to be naked and out of all his filthy things, though he realized then that he should have probably started the water first thing, so it had time to heat.

He did that now, noting with relief that the shower head was on a hose, and could be detached and manuevered. That was going to really help with his next issue -- how to bathe without getting his bandages wet.

In the end, what Nick decided on wasn't exactly dignified. Shower head dangling, the water finally warm after several minutes, turned down to the softest spray, just dribbling out, Nick lowered himself very carefully to sit on the floor of the tub, with his legs propped up, calves sticking outside, over the rim. He arranged the shower curtain at his knees, so that he didn't have to worry about the spray getting on the floor or his bandages. The wall of the ceramic tub was chilly at his back, and against his thighs, and he wished he'd thought to grab an extra towel for padding, but it was too much hassle to get back up now. Retrieving the shower head, he carefully increased the water pressure, pleasurable anticipation making his skin crawl just at the feel of the hot water that flooded down his wrist. When he'd adjusted it to his satisfaction, he settled back, and lifted it up, shutting his eyes as he let the spray flood down over his head and face, soaking his hair and running down his aching body, as sweet as a woman's hands. He released a deep sigh of pleasure under the waterfall, free hand lazily rubbing over his chest, feeling the sweat melt slickly away under his palm. 

A startling knock at the door had him about ready to murder whoever had dared interrupt the sacred experience, but before those homocidal feelings had a chance to build, Ellis's voice came through, and he remembered the task he'd given him. He'd been quick.

"Hey, Nick? Sorry to disturb yew, man, I gotchu some clothes though.  Got some nice stuff up there, I figger you'll wanna look through yerself fer somethin' proper, but I just grabbed some things what looked comfortable fer the night... yew want 'em in yer room?"

"Just set 'em on the counter, sport. And no peeking."

The warning wasn't strictly necessary, the opaque shower curtain concealing all but his bandaged calves, dangling out from beneath it, but Nick didn't particularly want Ellis to see the somewhat embarrassing way he was having to wash himself. As if suspicious he'd peek anyway, he couldn't help pulling the corner of the shower curtain aside just enough to watch, as after a beat the doorhandle moved, and the door cracked open.

A hand entered first, feeling blindly for the counter like he'd shut his eyes already. Nick watched in wry amusement as he pawed about the surface of the counter, as if to make sure the area was clear and dry, before the door pushed open a little more, enough to accomodate Ellis, indeed with his eyes obediently shut, producing a little pile of clothing from his other hand and resting it on the surface.

"Okay, I left 'em right here!" he told him, voice raised a little more than necessary, as if being blind had thrown off his perception of sound, and clearly having no idea Nick was watching his every move. "Anythin' else I can getcha? Water workin' alright?"

It was sorely tempting to make something up, ask him to pass him a towel or something, just to watch him pick his way around the room blind. He refrained, though, taking satisfaction enough in the image, and knowing that Ellis would surely do it if he asked him.

"Yeah I'm okay, kid. Now scram, get outta here," he dismissed lazily, with a shooing hand Ellis didn't see. "Trying to have a spiritual fucking experience in here."

Even with Ellis's eyes shut, Nick could see the way they warmed, the pleasure in his little smile. He didn't think a real 'thanks' would have made the kid any happier than his dismissal... which was good, because he'd nearly let one slip just then, and was much more comfortable this way.

"Roger," the hick acknowledged warmly, tugging once at the bill of his cap, whether through thoughtless instinct or because he'd started to consider Nick might be watching him, he couldn't say. "Have a nice shower, Nick, see yuh in a bit! Coach about tuh git started on dinner, I'ma go see if he needs any help."

Nick let the shower curtain drop as Ellis backed from the room, his last words only earning a Mm of acknowledgment as he leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes again as he redirected the water over his head and face. He heard the door click shut, and sighed, solitude restored.

He spent the next few minutes thoroughly scrubbing every nook and cranny of his body, returning it as close to its proper state as his injuries would allow, till his skin was soft, clean and sweet-scented. 

Once Nick had thoroughly cleaned himself, any further time spent in the shower was simply an indulgence. Despite his awkward position, he hadn't felt so comfortable in days, and he sorely needed that, for the soothing of his soul as much as his stiff and aching muscles. 

So comfortable, in fact, that a thought came to mind, one he hadn't had the chance to consider in a while. 

What would really help him unwind was a little release.

It didn't take more consideration than that, the coupling of whim with opportunity. He wrapped one hand around his dark, flaccid cock, and it throbbed in reactive interest at the first squeeze, soon beginning to stir to life as he started up a familiar, pumping rhythm. He breathed slowly through his just parted mouth, head leaned back against the wall, shut lashes flickering slightly as he worked himself, coaxing pleasure from his stiffening flesh. 

What to think about? That was the question. His drifting thoughts sought a muse.

Rochelle, naturally, floated to mind. The only set of uninfected tits left in the world, for all he knew. 

Even he had some limits, though. It just didn't feel right. They had to travel together, he didn't need to start indulging dirty fantasies about the woman, and he certainly didn't need to finish to them. His cock was like a hound dog-- once it got a scent, it'd be thirsting for her, and he didn't need that distraction, or complication.

So Rochelle was out.

Some nameless, pretty thing, a dime he remembered from a porno, or that one bartender from last week, the one he was sure he could have bedded if he'd had just a little more time to put on the charm?

His buzz-kill of a brain just had to remind him that chances were high that his bartender, as well as every woman he'd ever slept with or jerked off to in a magazine, was by now dead or infected. Every face he pictured began to decay before his mind, eyes turning milky, jaws gaping hungrily.

Thank you, invasive thoughts. Thank you. Fuck.

Alright. Maybe he didn't think about anybody, then. He would just focus on a good thought, something else satisfying. Other things than sex turned him on, after all. Winning a gamble, for example, always got him going. That was a temporary high, though, one that always faded, not something he could ride on long after the fact. Something else... fuck, just this shower was satisfying, but he needed more than that...

the feel of Rochelle's warm hand on his chest, big dark eyes looking up at him, he had liked that... when she'd said how handsome he'd looked, that one time, at the ravine...

No, no. Fuck.

You should have seen Ellis, she'd said...

Definitely -- definitely not that.

It was a satisfying thought, though. The boy was fascinated by him, and his ego didn't discriminate by gender. He enjoyed the attention, even as annoying as the kid was sometimes. It was almost worth it for how good it felt when he did punish him, though, like when he'd duct-taped his mouth shut. Now that had been satisfying. He reflected with amusement upon the memory... remembering how hot the tape had felt against his palm, from his soft mouth sealed behind it, the way his quickened breath had ghosted from his nose over the back of his hand, warm and damp, the feel of his jaw under his firm fingertips... the look in his eyes....

Wait-- wait, shit. He was getting his wires crossed. God damn it. How had Ellis butted his way into his thoughts?! This wasn't the time. He blamed him, somehow, nose and mouth pinched in a sneer of frustration, trying to redirect his thoughts to something, anything but Ellis, before he lost his fucking boner.

It seemed to be hanging in there just fine, however. If anything, his anger seemed to have fueled it, hard as anything under his still stroking hand. 

Tits. Ass. Somebody's. 

Like any time when one tries not to think about a specific thing, though, he found that he could think of nothing else. Even now, he fumed, he couldn't get just a little bit of peace from the fucking Southerner, couldn't even jerk it without him ruining it...

He kept up the movements, harsh and vigorous.

It was like he'd grown so accustomed to that stupid voice that it echoed now in his head, Nick, Nick, Nick. He just wanted to stuff a sock in there sometimes... clamp it in with one hand and pin him down...

Shit. He was really close, he suddenly realized. It had crept up on him. Too late, he asked himself...  was he really about to to get off to fantasizing about shutting Ellis up?

It wasn't about Ellis, he hastily reminded himself, breath grazing tightly across his teeth, gritted and just bared under a curling lip. It was just about how much he annoyed him... he just wanted to shake him sometimes, slap him, grip those soft cheeks and squeeze his jaw till his affront turned to wincing, till he whimpered at the feel of his thumb digging in under his cheekbone, bruising the inside of his mouth against his teeth...

"Ffuck," he breathed helplessly--

and came so hard he nearly bit his tongue, head falling back against the wall as the orgasm washed powerfully over him, grimacing in excruciatingly sweet ecstasy, a groan escaping his throat and eyes lolling behind his shuddering, shut lids. He milked himself indulgently through the crest of his climax, hot seed spurted in strings carelessly across his thigh, coaxing out every throb of pleasure, till the last sensations had ebbed away, leaving him feeling pleasantly jellied, boneless, with a warm pulsing in his loins. 

Fuck... he'd really needed that. 

Lazily, he focused the shower head on his thigh, helping to clear his seed away with a wipe of his palm.

Well. That had just happened. 

Satisfaction and exhaustion both agreed that the least consideration possible should be spent on what specific line of thought had pushed him over the edge. The important thing was that it was, after all, not about Ellis. It was about how annoying he was. A hatejerk, if you will. Options were thin on the ground, alright? If spite was all he could find to get his dick to spit these days, well, it'd have to do in a pinch. Maybe next time he'd think about almost drowning him, he reflected fondly...

No, no no. There probably shouldn't be a next time. Once was fine, whatever, no big deal. If he started making a habit of it, though, then he'd really start to feel like a creep.

By then, he'd certainly been in there long enough, though he reasoned he had the excuse of his troublesome injuries if he took a little extra time. He reluctantly shut the shower off, and painstakingly climbed out of the tub, grabbing the  towel their absent hosts had left politely waiting on a rack and wrapping it around his waist. Leaning into the counter to take the weight off his ankle, he used just a bit more hot water giving himself a proper shave in the mirror above the sink, gratified to see the coarse early stages of a beard disappear scrape by long, neat scrape, rinsing between each row, till finally only a blush of shadow remained, which with his dark, dense hair was always present, just under the skin, no matter how smooth a shave. Last, he broke his toothbrush out of its packaging, and scoured his teeth and tongue till his mouth and breath felt satisfactorily minty and fresh.  

As well as soap, toothpaste and shaving cream, the bathroom was supplied with moisturizer, which Nick made use of on his face, neck and hands alike. He then pulled his towel from his waist to dry himself more thoroughly in advance of dressing, finally letting the pile of clothes Ellis had brought him fall under his scrutiny. 

A pair of drawstring cotton pajama bottoms, light gray and pinstriped. Sure, fine. But then... a separate article, of the exact same pattern? He lifted it from the rest, so it could unfold and hang. Yes -- he was holding a button down shirt of the same material, with a single pocket on the chest. The kid had brought him a matching pajama set. These were old people, alright, but did Ellis seriously think he'd wear that? Adorable. 

Idiot.

Underwear were rejected too. There would come a day, he was grimly sure, when he wouldn't be too good to wear another man's used undergarments, but that day had not yet come. He'd wait for his own to be clean again.

The fresh socks, he did want to take advantage of, and with a sigh remembered he hadn't washed his feet yet. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but it felt like a waste to finally get clean and then leave his feet unwashed. It had been three whole days, after all. 

He ended up sitting on the edge of the tub again, using the conveniently maneuverable shower head to avoid his bandages as he scrubbed. As he rubbed a thumb into the arch of one foot, he reminisced glumly on the last time he'd had a good massage. Slim chance of one of those in his future. He was pretty sure that was beyond what he could get even Ellis to do for him, at least without making it weird.

Although, the redneck did have strong hands...

Christ. Maybe it would be worth it, making things weird with Rochelle. You'd think he could make it a week without getting touch starved, but obviously not, if now he was fantasizing about a foot massage from fucking Ellis. Mistakes had been made, clearly. He was just a creep. He needed an outlet.

Rochelle had needs too, didn't she? Unless she and Coach secretly had something going on... he'd have been floored, their relationship seemed platonic to him, but not that floored. People were filthy, he expected little from them. 

Coach seemed like he had other worries. And Ellis--

Nope. He was drawing the line at speculating on the redneck's needs. He had cars and generators to look after, he was fucking fine. Kid had gotten his libido stuck in an exhaust pipe at an early age. 

He really wished he'd just been thinking of anything but all of his teammates' respective sexual needs by the time he headed upstairs towards the sound of their voices. He had a towel slung around his shoulders again, but otherwise was bare chested. It wasn't exactly modest, but neither was he. Even if he did hold strong indefinitely from making an actual move on Rochelle, if there was any chance she was suffering in the same boat as him, he intended to exacerbate it. He shouldn't be the only one dealing with this shit. 

Upstairs, the kitchen and the dining room were warmly lit. Even the dark living room down a few steps to the right, to which both other rooms connected through the open floor plan, seemed cozy, unthreatening, even with the glass patio doors leading to the covered deck beyond. Coach was busy in the kitchen, looking quite at home in nothing more than a large, green terrycloth bathrobe and an apron. The appealing, familiar smell of sauteed onions greeted Nick as he approached, and the sound of Rochelle and Ellis giggling from the dining room. 

It looked as though everybody'd had time to shower. The sight of Rochelle, in particular, made Nick's mouth curl immediately at the corners, amused. Her skin was clean and dewy again, but it was her clothing he noticed first. The nightdress was certainly modest, a babydoll cut that began high at her neck and ended around her toes, layers upon layers of gauzy, rosy pink fabric. A thin white robe with a print of peach-colored blossoms covered her otherwise bare shoulders, and a little pair of house slippers completed the ensemble. Ellis, curls dark and damp atop his head, looking happy and refreshed despite that striking black eye, was wearing another pair of cotton pajamas, pale blue with white pinstripes, longer on his shorter legs but slightly snugger around the hips, and he had finally put his clean Bullshifters shirt back on.

"Well don't you all look adorable," Nick drawled dryly as he stiffly sauntered through the kitchen, hiding his limp as well as he could. His wry green eyes were mostly on Rochelle, but he made sure to neatly tug on Coach's apron string in passing, undoing it.

"Boy!" the big man hissed, and he could feel his scowl at his back as he made his way to the dining room doorway, where lounging rakishly against the doorframe made a good excuse to take the weight off his ankle, crossing it over his other instead.

"What's up, Sandra Dee?" he slyly taunted, smirking at her, arms folded across his bare chest.

Rochelle played along, lifting one palm by her ear as if plumping up an imaginary blonde bob. 

"Can't make fun of me, Suit," she claimed, primly unaffected. "I look adorable."

"Isn't that what I said?" Nick teased, avoiding looking at Ellis, though he could feel his eyes on him. He twisted to look over his shoulder back at Coach.

"Smells pretty good, Coach. What are you making us?"

"I'm makin' them beans 'n rice, wit' salsa an' tortillas," Coach told him gruffly, with a stern look, still trying to get his apron strings retied. "You lucky if you gettin' dinner, unless you can manage to behave yo'self fo' ten minutes."

Nick hissed in a breath skeptically through his teeth.

"Ten minutes is a long time, old man. You really threatening to starve an invalid? That's cold."

"You seem like you're feeling much better," Coach grumbled. "Notice it didn't take you long to start leveraging that, though."

"Well, if you're all gonna be such softies about it, every time one of us gets a scratch... Ellis got his turn to be babied. Figure I should get to make the most of mine."

"Sit yo ass down wit' the other kids, then, an' I'll bring y'all some supper in just a minute here. Ellis, son, you wanna grab those beers? Make sure you drink Nick's too, if he don't mind his manners."

That earned a glare back from Nick, and he saw a twinkle in Coach's eye. Ellis was chortling, already scooting out of the booth.

"Sure thing, Coach!"

He slipped past Nick -- he briefly caught the scent of shampoo off his damp curls, and that familiar magnolia off his shirt -- and jogged, to Nick's disgruntled confusion, into the foyer.

"What-- where's he going?" he complained, frowning. He didn't like not knowing what was going on.

"Left the beers down in the river, to get cold," was Coach's simple explanation.

That made sense. Dark outside or not, it was just down by the water. It shouldn't have prickled him with uneasiness, thinking of him down there by himself... imagining him reaching for a bottle of beer, submerged in the cold running water, only to have a wet, diseased arm lunge from the depths instead, claws raking down his flesh, yanking him down underwater...

Stupid. It was like when Rochelle had gone in through the kitchen window to open the front door for them, out of their sight for a matter of seconds, but every one of those seconds tense. They couldn't be anxious every time one of them was absent for a single minute.

Or shouldn't they be?

Both of Nick's close encounters with a mutant had occurred because he'd been seconds away from his crew, because he'd let down his guard for just a moment, and not even realized he'd done so. It really wasn't strange at all that he should feel so paranoid, that his heart should clench in anticipation of his return, violently imagining how fucking stupid he would feel if Ellis got himself killed fetching them some fucking Dos Equis, all because he'd stopped himself from following his urge to go out onto the porch to watch him, because God fucking forbid either of the only other two people left in the world think he gave a rat's ass.

God forbid.

His pride disgusted him, just then, but it won out. He convinced himself he was being paranoid. They hadn't seen any zombies this far out but one. Coach and Rochelle didn't seem worried, so why should he be?

Maybe the day's events had frayed him more than he wanted to admit.

He just needed a good night's sleep. And a decent meal, fuck-- since those pumpkin pancakes yesterday morning, they'd still only had garbage convenience store food. He needed a real meal.

He'd started counting the seconds in his head, without meaning to, something to focus on, tracking how long he'd been gone. When he reached a certain number, he'd decided, he was going after Ellis, so as to kill him personally, and save himself any future stresses of this nature.

Fortunately for Ellis, he didn't reach that number. He heard the front door again, and the clenched feeling in his heart eased its grip, though the frustration of his stress remained throbbing behind. He didn't realize until then that nobody had said a word in the hick's absence-- maybe the others had been more worried than he'd assumed.

Ellis's cheerful, noisy presence filled the room a moment later, once he'd had time to remove his boots and emerge from the foyer on socked feet, two dripping beer bottles in each hand.

"Haw, worked great, I tol'ja! Ain't frosty or nothin', but they're nice 'n cool now. Nick, yew ain't happen t'see a--"

"Christ, hick, did you even take a gun?" Nick snapped suddenly, as it occurred to him, cutting the hick off mid-sentence just as he was stepping into the kitchen. The boy looked startled.

"Uh... shit, well--" he dumbly began, looking contrite.

"Whatever happened to not even taking a piss without one, huh?" Nick scolded him harshly. "Be a little more fucking careful, why don't you?"

"Sorry, Nick," the hick mumbled, voice small and sincere, seeming to have wilted a little under his rebuke, blue eyes looking up at him, large and guilty. There was confusion there, too, obviously taken off guard by this sudden heat, but mostly guilt. "Jess meant t'be a minute, didn't want tuh keep nobody waitin'... but'chu right, was dumb. I'll be more careful. M'sorry fer -- fer bein' dumb."

Nick had the feeling he'd been about to say something else, at the end there, but it didn't matter. The earnest apology, the way his anger had so easily shrunk his frame and drawn guilt to his eyes... now he could only turn that anger inwards, but even that was not so harsh as it could have been, fracturing apart under those eyes, leaving him frustrated beyond belief, certainly, disgruntled and moody, but with no angry heat to harness, cooled to a simmer.

"... You can't help it," he told him coldly, though his tone had settled slightly, as had his glare, still intense but sullenly sated. "It's in your nature. Dumbshit."

Ellis smiled apologetically at him, and something twisted in his chest, interfering with his breathing for an unpleasant moment. 

"Beer?" the boy offered, extending a bottle to him neck first, like a token of peace. 

Nick reached to take it from him, features hard, and didn't like how acutely he noticed when the hick's wet fingertips brushed against his, as his fingers closed around the glass, indeed cool.

Coach and Rochelle, captive audience for all this, had wisely chosen not to interfere, and were now looking awkwardly like they were trying to decide whether to act like they hadn't heard any of that, or to comment.

Coach chose the latter. While Nick began looking for a bottle opener, since Ellis had apparently decided that was his job, he contributed, in his deep baritone, 

"Easy to let our guard down, especially out here. None of us used to livin' like this. Nick's right, though. Can't ever be too careful, life's too precious. Shouldn't even be goin' anywhere separate, but if we do, best start treatin' our guns like shoes, and not leave the house without 'em."

"... well~, I go out barefoot all the time, Coach, but I do catch yer drift."

"Without your head then, son."

Ellis grinned, only a little sheepishly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh, I def'nitely ferget that behind sometimes, Ma's always sayin'."

Nick shook his head to himself, unable to disagree, and a moment later located a bottle opener. He cracked the cap off his, then passed the tool to Ellis. Coach had just finished plating.

"Since y'all insist on bein' in my way, you can carry your own plates to the table," he gruffly chided them, pushing a heaping plate at each of the younger men, Ellis delightedly clutching the remaining three bottles and opener to his chest to reach out and accept it with his other hand.

"Holy shit, Coach, this looks so good!" he crowed. 

"Oh shit," Nick muttered, letting himself be shooed from the kitchen, distracted by his acquired prize.

The plate was generously piled with beans and rice, both studded with bits of tomato and jalapeño from the salsa and brightly seasoned, the steam wafting off them aromatic with cumin and cayenne. The tortillas folded into quarters on the side had been warmed, which was a nice touch. It was basic as anything, but just then, it looked and smelled amazing.

They all made their way into the dining room and settled down, Rochelle whimpering with happiness when Coach proudly sat a heavy plate before her, with an affectionate, "There you go, babygirl."

It was half-way through dinner, bellies half-full of beans and rice, beers half-drunk, that the exhaustion seemed to really sink in for the crew. Nick was still hungry, but once the edge of starvation wore off, even his fork slowed, and he found his eyes unfocusing on the plate before him. It had been such a long day.

Coach was making an effort to get ahead on planning for tomorrow, but even he didn't sound terribly committed, and Nick was less so to listening, drifting in and out as he made a mission of trying to finish his plate, one tired bite at a time.

"Got 'nough food fo' a good while, but I figure we want to take another trip into town in a few days anyway, could use some variety... and we need medical supplies fo' sure, we go through those quick. I was thinking tomorrow, maybe we go back fo' the truck..."

A single beer should have done nothing to him, but perhaps the day's blood loss could be blamed for the way it went straight to his head. He zoned out again to the sound of Coach's baritone, the other two murmuring some agreement now and then. Even Ellis seemed to have finally succumbed to exhaustion, slumped over his food on one arm propped up on the table, cheek resting on his fist, smeared against his knuckles, and though he kept his sleepy blue eyes loyally on Coach as he spoke, slowly making his way through the burrito he'd made a portion of his dinner into, Nick thought they looked unfocused, like Ellis, too, was struggling to pay attention.

His suspicions were as well as confirmed when Ellis did his poor best to hide a yawn behind his hand a moment later, a painful effort to watch. It was contagious -- Nick caught it a moment later, and grimaced through it like a cross cat.

"Sorry, Coach," Ellis apologized, voice thick with the end of his yawn, tone sincere as ever but bleary with drowsiness. "M'listenin', it's jess my brain that's goin' tuh sleep..."

Nick shook his head a little to himself. Yeah, it was definitely bedtime for the kid. He sure wasn't his dad, though... thank God.

Where was his dad? Had he ever said? He only ever had heard him mention his mom. He tuned him out a lot. He'd probably tell him, if he asked.

Not that he cared to. He didn't need to know any more about him than he already did, than was unavoidable, considering he never shut up. Just because he was stuck with these people, and had accepted as much, still didn't mean he was trying to get any closer with them than he'd been forced to. This, all of this... was foreign enough territory as it was.

He needed to not forget to keep these people at arm's length. Even Ellis.

Especially Ellis.

~

doesn't life seem nasty, brutish and short

come on up to the house

when the seas are stormy and you can't find no port

come on up to the house

Chapter Text

LEVEL Vl - THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER - ll/V

Surely it would only be Ellis, the baby of the group, who would doze off right at the fucking dinner table, just like an exhausted toddler after a long day.

Nope.

Once again, to his displeasure, Nick found himself returning to consciousness in the presence of company, without having intended to leave it, this time by the sudden pull of gravity on his head as his jaw slipped from his palm. His eyes flicked open, and he neatly caught his composure before making too much of a fool of himself, though everyone at the table still noticed the abrupt movement, and this time when he wiped his wrist at the corner of his mouth, scowling tiredly, there was certainly a smudge of wetness there. 

"Okay," he muttered sourly, before anyone else could comment, noting poorly hidden smiles, "that's bedtime for me."

Coach sighed tiredly, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, I think we could all stand to hit the hay. Sho gonna be nice to sleep in real beds again. We got real lucky wit' this place, gang."

Nick was climbing arduously to his feet, wincing, finding that his aches and stiffness had set in again with a vengeance after the meal.

"Yeah, praise the Lord," he groaned, brow and nose pinched with sullen displeasure, tired enough to give in to a little whining. "Fuck that Hunter though, god damn it. C'mon Coach, whad'ya say, you wanna carry me again?"

Coach gave him a dry look, at least halfway certain Nick wasn't serious, which was about as certain as Nick was himself, just then.

"Aw, I'll carry yew, Nick!" Ellis cheerfully, earnestly offered. 

He should have known. 

"No way," he curtly, coldly growled.

"H'aw, c'mon! Ain't nothin'. Yew were startin' to look a lil skinny even before yew did all that bleedin'. Me 'n Coach gotta fatten yew up."

That earned a glare.

"Not a chance," was his snarling refusal.

He didn't regret that refusal, he firmly maintained, as he was climbing his way painfully down the carpeted stairs a few minutes later, breathing stiff and expression set in a grimace of discomfort, a white-knuckled grip on the banister. Between the Hotel and this injury, he'd come to decide that he really hated stairs. The pain was more tolerable than the thought of ever allowing Ellis to carry him, however, and it was worth his solitary struggle when he finally made it to his room, shut the door, and collapsed down onto his bed.

His bed. All his. A real bed. 

He groaned blissfully, rolling over onto his back on the pillowy comforter. Beautiful. God, he'd missed this.

Despite his exhaustion, there was a creeping trepidation in the corners of his mind, dreading the thoughts that tended to creep in from the shadows whenever he found himself alone, dreading that they'd come for him before sleep could find him, and keep him from it.

He needn't have worried. He was too comfortable to stay awake, and wouldn't lift his head again for some time, fast asleep before he could think to crawl under the covers, lulled by the comforting, whirring hum of the generator outside.

This time, the dream started out pleasantly.

They were out on the deck, in the shade from a bright, beautiful day. Sun shone off the water, so brilliantly it seemed to glow. He heard kids laughing, saw them playing down by the bank in their swimsuits, some splashing in the shallows, others crouched, digging in the mud with sticks. There was a boat out on the water, other people around, chatting, eating from paper plates. Everything seemed so... normal. Not his normal, but somebody's.

His teammates were there, too. Ellis, Coach, Rochelle, all dressed appropriately for such a gathering. Coach was manning the grill. Ellis, wearing sandals, shorts and a tanktop, was with him by the railing, and they each had a beer in hand.

Everything was fine, until Nick started worrying about alligators. It made him uneasy how close the kids were to the water. He started scanning the river, just to reassure himself, till with a jolt of unease, not moments later, he saw the bumpy, grey-green hide of one of the dreaded creatures gliding through the water, just as he'd feared.

Alarmed, he tried to draw Ellis's attention to it, but the hick was bewilderingly unconcerned. He said the kids were from here, that they weren't scared. Looking back down to the bank below, Nick saw another alligator had actually come right onto land already. The kids were clustered around it, teasing it, poking it with sticks and laughing. The alligator didn't look amused at all, snapping at their twigs as terrifyingly as one might imagine, like they were only making it angrier.

And Ellis, stupid Ellis, he was just laughing, like it was funny. Nobody else seemed concerned either. Was Nick really the crazy one here? Surely not, but he was starting to feel it.

"Gotta expose 'em young," Ellis was trying to explain to him. "Jess the way it is now. It's how they build an immunity."

What?

He looked back to the children, and felt a cold, sick jolt of horror.

It wasn't an alligator. It was an infected, crawling on its belly from the water, through the mud, rotted flesh glistening. He could see its hungry, bulging eyes, yellowed, gnashing teeth, its lips shriveled back from greyed gums. The kids were screaming with laughter and glee, thrashing at it with twigs. At any moment, it was going to seize one of them, wrench it off its little feet, and rip it to shreds. 

He couldn't stand to look, tearing his eyes away. Ellis was watching him, not smiling anymore, his eyes uncharacteristically, unpleasantly grave, even cold. He was shaking his head a little, as if in disappointment.

"Yer not cut out fer this, are yuh?"

His ears were filled with the sounds of screaming children, the infected snarling, their shrieks blending together.

He awoke with a sickening jolt and a sense of deep wrongness, breathing rapidly. There was a nauseous cramp in his gut, a tightness in his chest, and he had to focus desperately on steadying his breath, staring rigidly, unblinkingly at the dark ceiling for some time, as if needing to ground himself back to reality, willing his heartbeat to slow and that skin-crawling sensation to fade.

He was really starting to get sick of these nightmares.

It was stiflingly quiet. The generator had been shut down for the night to conserve fuel. They'd located a collection of candles, and they all knew where they were if anyone needed a light in the middle of the night.

It was a strange feeling, lying there in that soft bed, in the safe, quiet house, letting the silence fill his ears. Though he would have liked to have drifted back off into a dreamless sleep, he could tell that wasn't happening anytime soon, wide awake now. He'd had at least a few hours of deep sleep at least, he was sure, and it had been a while since he'd had a smoke, so he decided to head upstairs for a cigarette and a glass of water. The tiny patio with the generator would have been more convenient, and saved him climbing those stairs again, but the thick bushes surrounding it weren't enough to give him any sense of security, particularly at night, and the deck seemed safer, though realistically it probably wasn't.

Recalling that just a few hours ago, he'd delivered Ellis a healthy scolding for stepping outside without a gun, he made sure to strap his Magnum to his thigh, ridiculous as it looked over his pajama bottoms. It wouldn't seem ridiculous if any freaks showed up while he was having a smoke. He grabbed a throw from the end of the bed too, wrapping it around his shoulders to complete the image, then headed out into the hall, navigating the dark house and limping upstairs. Maybe he was just getting used to it, but it felt as if even just a few hours of sleep had done his legs some good. They didn't feel worse, anyway.

In the kitchen, he filled himself a glass of water at the tap, and drained the whole thing in several long, indulgent swallows, the taste sweet to his dry mouth. When he was done, he left it behind on the counter, and wandered through the dark living room to the patio doors.

They were unlocked. Sheesh, they were really getting comfortable, weren't they? Fucking asking for it, at this point... not, he supposed, that he could imagine a zombie stopping to test a latch. They'd just come right through the glass.

He slid the doors open, stepping outside and shutting them behind him. The deck creaked softly as he stepped out, pointedly steering clear of the far corner, where in his dream he'd stood with Ellis looking down at the bank and the playing kids, and shivering at the fresh memory, instead heading to where the deck disappeared around the corner of the house, where the balcony overlooked the riverfront, and the moonlight would be brightest.

Before he could step out into that light, though, a familiar voice called softly from around the corner ahead, someone else apparently awake, and already exactly where he'd intended on going. The same someone, incidentally, who had been standing with him out here in his dream, just minutes earlier. That gave him an uncanny feeling. It didn't help that though he couldn't have caught sight of him yet, the words he heard were--

"Nick? That you?"

Nick was frowning already as he stepped from the shadows under the deck roof, into the silvery light of the high, thinning moon. Ellis was leaning on his arms over the railing, looking back over his shoulder, but straightened up from it some as Nick appeared, expression lifting visibly in the moonlight. He wore a thick hoodie over his shirt, zipped half up. The grip of a pistol was visible sticking from the front right pocket.

"How'd you know?" Nick muttered, approaching the railing beside him, still slightly disturbed to see him there, after his dream. Not to mention... anything else.

Ellis shrugged matter-of-factly, like he really couldn't say himself.

"Jess did. Couldn't sleep neither?"

"Did for a bit..." Nick muttered, and reluctantly decided to admit, "Bad dream."

"Oh, yeah," Ellis was nodding, with knowing sympathy. "I bin gettin some weird ones lately."

"Yeah, you too?"

"Yea, s'funny... my ma always told me dreams were meant tuh balance out yer wakin' life. Like if things was all peaceful, yew'd have troubled dreams, jess t'keep yuh on yer toes. So yew'd think our dreams would cut us some slack right now, y'know? But maybe it's a different kind of balance. Like the universe remindin' us things could be worse. Like at least we got each other, an' some things still make sense."

Things could be worse was slightly triggering to him, of course, but he was distracted by what followed, something driving him to disaffectedly press,

"Like what?"

"Like... stuff yew can still count on. Stars keep shinin', sun keeps risin'. Coach, Ro..."

Don't say it.

"... yew."

Nick gave him a dry, withering stare as he pulled out his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, recalling the reason he was out there.

"Don't count on me for anything, kid," he rebuked him sternly. "I'm not offering that."

Ellis wore a small smile, however, as he leaned back down over the railing, slouched on his folded arms, gazing out over the river.

"Jess funny," he muttered, almost to himself, a wryness in his tone, "... cause I was perty near countin' on yew sayin' somethin' jess like that."

A cigarette pinched in his mouth, Nick muttered coldly around it, "You just got me all figured out, don't you?"

Ellis huffed wryly.

"Not by half."

They were quiet for a little bit, as Nick lit up. He took a deep inhale, like Ellis settling at the railing, leaning on folded arms. As he exhaled out into the night air, he passed it wordlessly over, with hardly a look the hick's way. 

When Ellis returned it after taking a pull, though, he cast him an unreadable glance.

"You know, you can have your own, if you want one," he felt obligated to point out. "I have plenty now."

"Aw, that's ok. I shouldn't get in the habit..."

"Good."

He'd never offer him his own again.

"... you like yer bed?" Ellis ventured, after a short while. 

"I don't like small talk," Nick growled dully.

"Sorry."

"... but fuck, yeah," Nick had to admit, after just a few seconds, the words slightly hissed with feeling. "I sure do."

"Right? Oh man. Been restless as shit but least I was comfy."

"You tired now?"

Ellis seemed to have to consider this a moment, but then admitted,

"Nah. Not really."

Nick chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his lip.

"... you wanna play some card games?"

Their search of the house earlier that day had turned up a cabinet stuffed with boardgames, and along with an UNO pack, Nick had spotted a few decks of regular playing cards. Ellis, of course, was immediately on board. They stayed outside while Nick finished his cigarette-- Ellis received an extra puff this time, which he didn't question -- then Nick led the way inside. 

They collected a few handfuls of candles and a couple of decks of cards, then had to decide where to play. Nick had assumed the living room, but looking over at that large, dark space, every window and doorway lending it a pleasant openness during the day, but at night, each only a void of shadow, Ellis expressed some reluctance, and though Nick mocked him for it, he understood his point.

"Be kinda hard to get it light in here, it's so big... be all dark at th'corners, y'know?"

"Tch. Now who's scared of the dark?"

"Ain't scared, ain't scary, jess... ain't real cozy, neither. Be fine if we was tellin' ghost stories, or something."

"Fine, whatever. Where, then? We can just play in your room, I guess. If you haven't messed it up yet."

"Wh-- how would I have? Jeez Nick, I swear, yew act like I sleep in a barn."

"Tell me you never have."

Ellis tsked dismissively.

"Every country boy's slept in a barn, Nick," he chided him, as he began leading the way back towards his room. "Lofts are great fer campin' out. An them animals don't always wait fer business hours fer birthin', y'know. But barns ain't even that nasty! Least, they shouldn't be, if they're kept."

"Okay. You're not helping your case, if you think barns are a clean place, Overalls."

Ellis shrugged, eyebrows raised with a serious look.

"Don't know what tuh tell yuh, Nick."

"Am I crazy?" Nick balked incredulously. "They're shitting and pissing all over the ground, are they not?"

"Well, sure, but farm animal shit really ain't that bad. Not the herbivores. You shovel the big stuff, an' the goats 'n sheep jess leave lil berries yew gotta watch out fer. But it's all jess good clean manure, y'know."

"Manure. Shit. It's shit. Do you hear yourself?"

"Ain't spent much time round farm animals, Nick, have yew?"

"Uh. I've driven past a cattle farm?"

They'd entered his room, and stopped to light some candles, Ellis holding one out for Nick to use his lighter on. As the flame bloomed, illuminating their faces warmly, Ellis's was gently amused.

"Yeahh, man," he chortled, "that's what m'sayin'. An' that ain't nothin' like a real family farm. Them places ain't right, y'ask me. Butchu might jess have tuh trust me on this one, Nick. I don't think this yer wheelhouse, respectfully." 

Nick cocked an eyebrow at him, as Ellis shuffled the candles about to offer him a second one.

"Yeah, alright," he dryly conceded. "I guess you got me there. I trust you about as far as I could throw you, though."

Ellis gave him a curious, thoughtfully appraising look, as if trying to imagine how far this might be. The pupils of his blue eyes looked bottomless in the candle light. 

"Well, that's gotta be better than when we first met," he decided optimistically, before stepping away to unload the first two candles down on one of the bedside tables, leaving Nick in the shadows at his back. "Sounds like progress t'me."

Nick cast a dry, dark look after him, as he began to navigate around the bottom of the bed towards the other table, tossing the card decks carelessly onto the mattress.

"Trust is an ugly word, kid. That's not something I do. I appreciate the effort, though."

It came out sounding slightly less sarcastic than he meant for it to. He could see Ellis looking solemnly, thoughtfully over at him, but he pretended not to, setting his candles down and starting to light up a few more. 

"That's ok, don't gotta. I ain't gonna let yew down, either way."

Nick's brow twitched into a frown, looking sharply over at him. 

"... The hell're you talking like that for?" he scolded, and scoffed, "Queer."

Pocketing his lighter, he dropped down to sit on the bed and reached over to grab the card decks.

Ellis was just blinking at him, he realized, expression slightly startled. Nick scoffed in disgust, shoulders slumping with exasperation, and he rolled his eyes a little.

"I'm kidding," he drawled with annoyance, "sheesh. Forget you can't make jokes anymore."

"Naw, it's -- not that, jess..." 

The hick didn't really look hurt or offended, Nick noticed, expression far away instead, thoughtful.

".. made me think of Keith fer a sec, is all," he admitted, not what Nick was expecting to hear. "He calls me that all the time."

He cocked an eyebrow, frowning a little, not really sure what to make of that.

"... yeah?"

"Oh, yeah, but he's jess razzin' too," Ellis assured him, seeming to brighten up a little, returning to the present as he sunk down onto the bed to sit opposite Nick. "See, we been perty tight since ferever, an' like it ain't a thing no more, butchu know kids. Some of em used tuh give us shit, well.. huhuh... we made em eat a lot of it. Anyway, kinda became a joke after a while, tho, callin' each other some of the stuff they used tuh call us. We're careful y'know, around other folks, cause don't mean no 'ffense to nobody. It's jess like, when I'd say like, shit bro, nice shot, or like damn what a perty morning, Keith'll be like -- homo -- an' it's funny, yew know? Ok, well, maybe it don't sound that funny..."

Nick was shaking his head to himself, though, looking reluctantly amused as he dumped a deck of cards into his palm, effortlessly starting to shuffle it between his long, ringed fingers, which instantly earned Ellis's rapt, mesmerized attention.

"I guess I'm glad the kids haven't changed too much."

Ellis was so invested in the way he shuffled, slick cards falling with perfect precision under his deft, practiced fingertips, clipping from his thumbs to slap down atop each other in obedient, tidy succession, in a pleasant whir of flicking paper, that Nick went on shuffling a bit longer than necessary, unable to resist casually showing off just a little with such a fascinated audience.

Then they started off by warming up with a couple rounds of Go Fish-- a game Nick didn't think he'd played in decades, only because it was the first game the redneck admitted he knew-- which Ellis did decently at, then several of Blackjack, at which he was consistently terrible. Nick then taught him how to play War, but they quickly grew tired of that, and moved onto Slapjack, where naturally things started to become a bit more lively. They were both competitive people, with quick reflexes, and it wasn't long before they were both intensely invested in the rapid pace game, to the point that the quickest hand to slap the pile was certain to be pinned beneath the barely slower, Ellis exclaiming in triumph when it was him and groaning in complaint when Nick beat him, and the gambler silently snarling whenever his rapidly snapping hand smacked down upon Ellis's, and not a slick, sloppy pile of cards. 

As the night wore on, they both reached that point of tiredness at which the brain begins to run off of fumes, providing an animated second wave of energy but causing their behavior to become increasingly stupid, almost like an intoxication. Ellis kept breaking into giggles, proving that -- unless Coach had overdoped him after changing his bandages earlier -- he really hadn't been exaggerating before about his tendency to succumb, on occasion, to helpless laughter. It didn't help that what really seemed to tickle him, in this state, was how worked up Nick was getting, spitting curses whenever Ellis won a game. 

He had no concept of how late it was. They had never moved on from Slapjack. It was unbelievable how long they must have been playing. Ellis was on a winning streak over the last few games, and Nick was more heated than ever, furiously determined to balance the score. This game had been fiercely tight, though, with each of them having won a similar sized stack of cards, and the competition so intense that Ellis had recently been given cause to utter a pained little yelp, when a particularly fierce but losing smack of Nick's had connected one of his rings with one of Ellis's knuckles, leaving it smarting, and Ellis had taken one of his losses so sorely that he'd refused at first to release Nick's hand and its winning cards, returning his dark and gloating smirk with a petulant glower, lip bit firmly in a pout, for several stubborn seconds. His surrender was all the more sweetly satisfying for it.

They were neck and neck now. Cards slapped down in urgent, alternating succession, blue and green eyes sharply, rigidly focused. Whoever claimed this round won the game. Nick had to win. It was unbearable Ellis had managed to gain this much of a winning streak on him already. His heart was pounding more fiercely than it had any right to over a game he didn't even have money riding on, barely breathing.

Two of hearts. Ace of diamonds. Three of spades. Queen of diamonds. 

Jack of clubs. 

They both lunged forward like their lives depended on it.

His hand collided over Ellis's, and the redneck's thrilled cheer of triumph was not enough to drown out Nick's snarl of rage, and he clenched his fingers as if to pry the cards forcibly from Ellis's hand, which the hick naturally wrestled back against, laughing. That laughter turned into a giddy squeal as Nick snatched a handful of nearby cards up, careless of bending them, and hurled them viciously into his face. Ellis fell back, shielding himself with an arm, but didn't release the fistful of cards Nick was still pointlessly gripping, and in the next minute the gambler had toppled over him, wrestling him down. Ellis shrieked and squirmed in delight, laughing breathlessly till Nick snatched up a pillow and clamped it down over his face, smothering his screams. 

That lasted just about as long as it took Nick to realize he was practically on top of the struggling kid, on all fours with his forearms tightly pinning down the pillow, one knee somehow having ended up fully inside Ellis's.

He swiftly withdrew, sitting back on his legs, his breathing stirred. He could feel some heat building in his own face, for once, and rebuked himself harshly. Act like a fucking adult, how about, Jesus. Ellis didn't seem to have thought anything of his sudden retreat, distracted pulling the pillow off and catching his breath. His face was more flushed than Nick's was at least, surely, though possibly only from being suffocated. Breathless but happy, eyes shining with exhilaration, he plumped up the pillow that had just been weaponized against him, then plopped the side of his face down into it, one arm hugged underneath.

"Man~," he was chortling, teasingly reproachful, "yer such a bad loser. Look at these cards, yuh done bent 'em all up."

He clearly didn't actually care about the state of the cards, making only an absent effort to gather them up.

"Stupid fucking game anyway," Nick huffed darkly, Ellis's new horizontal position causing his tired body jealousy. Stealing the other pillow, he followed suit, though he didn't get quite so comfortable as Ellis, just settling down to lounge on one elbow, cushioned in the pillow. He began irritably flicking cards back into a pile, some no longer lying flat, thanks to his rough treatment. 

He'd been less than vertical not seconds before another one of those gripping yawns stole over him, and his eyes and nose pinched as if in resentment of the effort as his jaw stretched long.

Ellis chuckled sleepily.

"Think I saw yer tonsils," he teased him, the last word breathy as, to Nick's satisfaction, a powerful yawn came over him too. The contagion worked both ways, apparently.

"My eyes are up here," he dryly rebuked him, and Ellis chortled. 

They continued collecting cards for a little bit, until Nick impulsively, spitefully struck out at the stack Ellis had been neatly collecting, sending them flying.

"Hey!" he complained, and immediately tried to retaliate. Nick successfully defended his own cards only briefly, before they too were scattered in the ensuing scuffle. At that point, Nick just began swiping wildly at all the cards, sending them flying around in every direction, and Ellis enthusiastically joined in the brief, cathartic chaos, the two of them making a ridiculous mess before collapsing, at the same time, back into their pillows, even Nick grudgingly snickering. It was stupid as anything, but he was tired past the point of caring, inebriated on the particular quality of energy still keeping him awake, and there was no one to see him acting like a kid but Ellis, the biggest kid of all.

"Man, I don't think I've had that much fun playing cards in... ever," Ellis commented happily.

"Slapjack's barely a card game," Nick dryly denigrated his victory. "If we can rope Coach and Ro into it, we should play poker. You know, a game for grown ups. Not sure what the point even is without something to bet, though."

Ellis spoke through another stifled yawn.

"Bet we could find somethin'... mm.. bullets, maybe?"

They were definitely done playing for the night. He'd tuckered the kid out properly, he could tell he wouldn't be conscious much longer.

"Yeah, that's dumb," Nick muttered drowsily. "How is that supposed to work? There isn't one kind of ammo we all use... also, what, if a person bets away all their ammo, next time a zombie comes, they're just fucked? God..."

"Aah yeah... weren't really thinkin' that through, I guess. Mm... well... bet we could find somethin'."

They fell quiet a moment, Nick's brain sluggishly trying to come up with something better than Ellis's suggestion, which seemed an easy bar. It was hard to focus, though. When he realized his thoughts had started to wander afield, and his eyes had drifted shut, he groaned quietly, stirring himself.

"Ugh. I'm gonna need to head back to bed in a minute," he muttered, and instructed sternly, "Don't let me fall asleep, okay?"

...

"Ellis?"

He opened his eyes, looking tiredly over from his pillow to Ellis's, across the battlefield of cards scattered between them.

The kid was fast asleep, face halfway buried in the plump pillow, soft mouth just slightly open.

Grumbling under his breath, he wearily shut his eyes, gathering his resolve. It was time to pry himself up and go downstairs. He felt glued to the mattress, not looking forward to moving. He just had to get downstairs, though, and then he could sleep. Just a minute more here, to gather his resolve, and then he'd move...

If he dreamt, this time, he remembered nothing of it later. It was a deep, untroubled sleep.

~

no light in the tunnel no irons in the fire

come on up to the house

and you're singing lead soprano in a junkman's choir

come on up to the house

~

Chapter Text

LEVEL Vl - THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER - lll/V

When Nick next woke, the room was light, the drawn curtains glowing with bright, late morning sunlight. He felt at once deeply rested and utterly dazed, groggy from sleep.

He had failed to make it to his own bed, as he was promptly reminded by the sight that had greeted him the moment he opened his eyes-- Ellis, still out as soundly as Nick had been a minute before, wearing his hoodie and, like Nick, lying atop the comforter, amid a sea of scattered playing cards. 

He released a flat sigh, rubbing a hand firmly over his already frowning eyes. Great. This wasn't an embarrassing way to start the day off at all. Here they were, after all of his bitching about wanting space and privacy, finally in a proper house with rooms enough for all of them, and he'd spent the first night in Ellis's fucking bed.

Rochelle and Coach couldn't know. That was important, for obvious reasons he would have been hard put to explain. It was possible, if he was stealthy enough, that Ellis might not even have to know. He'd fallen asleep first, after all. If he'd been out cold since, and if Nick could make it out of the room without waking him...

As soon as he began to move, he remembered the state of his legs, and he silenced what wanted to be a groan of pain into a trembling sigh, wincing. His pills had long worn off, and the injuries felt raw again this morning, sharp and aching. He was miserably reluctant to test his ankle, once he'd lowered his legs to the floor, but steeled himself, and pressed his right toe gingerly to the floor.

It throbbed, but to Nick's relief, he did think it already felt a little less tender than the day before. The swelling had died down some too, he was sure. That was promising-- he'd already established it was only twisted, of course, not properly sprained, but that could have still been a big problem. With a little luck, as long as he went easy on it for a few days, it would continue to improve.

Prioritizing stealth and favoring his ankle in absence of any witnesses, he made his way to the door, silent but ungainly, limping heavily. He kept a suspicious eye on Ellis, making sure he stayed asleep, till he'd reached the door. At that point, he realized he'd left his throw blanket behind on the bed, but dismissed the thought of going back for it. Ellis could think he'd left it the night before, that didn't matter. Carefully cracking the door open, he found he had other problems-- he could hear Coach and Rochelle's voices from the other side of the house, either in the kitchen or the dining room. 

He just had to make it to the stairs.

Like a stealth agent, he stole along the wall of the hall, making himself as flat as he could. He felt at once breathless with tension and utterly foolish, heart beating in his ears only adding to his private embarrassment. On top of everything, he really had to piss. Ever so carefully, he peeked out from the hall when he reached the end. Rochelle and Coach were just out of sight, indeed in the dining room and not, thankfully, the kitchen. He had a clear path downstairs.

He booked it, stealing across the carpet as swiftly as his ankle would allow, grimacing. He was getting better at navigating the stairs, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief once he was safely down in the stairwell, relying heavily on the banisters for support.

Crisis averted. 

Once he'd relieved himself, freshened up and brushed the unpleasant aftertaste of beer and Mexican food from his mouth -- a few days of the apocalypse, and not having access to basic needs, had really done a number on his usual hygiene habits -- he supposed it was time to head upstairs again. He and Ellis had been up late, he had no idea how long he'd slept in. Though they weren't really in much of a time crunch any more, Coach had been pretty set on making a game plan, the night before. He wouldn't be surprised if the man had been up since the crack of dawn, impatiently waiting for the rest of his squad to rise.

Rochelle was in the kitchen this time when he entered it, nursing a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. She was still wearing her robe and nightgown, he was pleased to see. Coach was sitting in the dining room within line of sight of her, with a glass of what Nick knew to be mango juice. The oven was on, and something in the air smelled pleasantly sweet.

"Hey, Suit," Rochelle softly called when she spotted him approaching. "There's coffee."

"Great."

Coach was still in his robe too, Nick noticed with a sidelong glance, as he opened the cabinet to collect a mug. That was good. Either they hadn't overslept as badly as he'd thought... -- ew, he didn't like referring to him and Ellis as a 'they' in that context-- or the others hadn't been up long either. Judging by the groggy, faraway look in Coach's eyes particularly, it was the latter.

Nick poured himself a cup of coffee, apparently fresh given it was still hot enough to steam, he was pleased to note, and set the french press back down. 

"Something smells good," he commented offhandedly, drawing away from the counter to drift towards the dining room doorframe.

Stifling a yawn interfered with Coach's attempt to respond. Damn, the old man really did have a rough night.

"Cornbread in the oven," he mumbled when he recovered, baritone extra husky. "Overslept, or it woulda been done by now."

"Yeah, right, this is late for you. What, bed too soft for you, Papa Bear?"

Yeah. It felt weird as soon as he was saying it. Coach looked like he felt a little weird about it too. Neither man acknowledged this.

"Couldn't sleep," Coach admitted, and it was one of those rare times that Nick appreciated Coach's tendency to deal with some of the things he said by pretending he hadn't said them. "Just too strange, bein' in a new place every night, no matter how nice. I was so tired, I was sho I'd be out like a light, but it didn't happen. So I went lookin' through that library, and stumbled across a real page turner... musta kept me up past midnight. Sho was nice to step back from real life fo a little while, though. No offense to y'all."

"None taken," Nick dryly replied, taking a careful sip of his hot, bracingly bitter black coffee. He'd resumed his place from the night before, in a rakish lean against the doorframe. So Coach was a reader, huh? He wondered what kind of books he liked. He didn't ask, though, and Coach changed the subject to him instead.

"How're yo legs doin'?"

"Not bad," Nick commented disaffectedly. "I'm getting used to the feeling of a hundred stabs every time I take a step. At least they don't itch."

"That's good. I was worried about infection more than anything. Just the normal kind, that is, not the Flu. All that bleedin' must have helped."

"Ah. Yeah, I'm very good at that. Glad to know I did my part."

"Guess the kid must have needed the sleep too."

Nick remained silent.

He reflected, again, how quiet things were when Ellis wasn't around.

"Figured we could go get the truck after breakfast."

"Mm. Sounds good. Little better suited for the apocalypse than the mom van."

"I'd say you should stay here and rest, keep that ankle up, but..."

"Fuck that," Nick dully snarled.

"Yeah," Coach tiredly, patiently acknowledged, as if Nick had finished his sentence for him. "And quiet as it seems around here, frankly, I don't want to leave you alone."

"Correct. I would throw a party as soon as you were out the door. My friends and I would trash this place."

Coach narrowed his eyes, though Nick thought he caught a glint of grudging humor there.

He still ignored him, though.

The cornbread came out a few minutes later, and hadn't cooled enough to cut by the time Ellis came wandering from down the hall, looking sleepier than any of them for having slept the latest, barely able to keep his bleary blue eyes open.

"Hey guys," he mumbled thickly, smothering a yawn into one bicep as he shuffled into the kitchen. "Everyone up? Dang... mm, is that cornbread? Oh m'gawd... looks so good... oh shit coffee, that up fer grabs? Hey Ro. Good mornin', Nick, mornin' Coach."

God. For being hardly conscious, he still talked a lot. 

"How'd everyone sleep?"

"Mmm. Had some trouble," Rochelle admitted. "I tossed and turned for a long time. Coach read like, half a book. I love my bed, though. How about you guys?"

You guys, because they hadn't asked Nick yet, either. Not because they were being asked together. Nick kept a sharp eye on Ellis, wondering how much he'd say, how much he was aware of.

Ellis was gawping at Rochelle in disbelief, as if the idea that they might all four have trouble sleeping, given the circumstances, was a bigger coincidence than it was.

"You too? Yeah man, same. Took me forever. Beds sure are comfy though, huh? Once I was out, I was out like a light."

Nick slowly settled. He was starting to become convinced that Ellis had no idea they'd had an accidental sleepover. He hadn't even let on that they'd been up late together, which Nick... appreciated, for reasons he again couldn't really name. There was nothing to be secretive about. They both hadn't been able to sleep, so they'd played some cards, that was all.

Which begged the reason, why was Ellis keeping it secret? Perhaps he was reading too much into it, but it seemed too out of character for him not to blab about it, if it wasn't a deliberate omission.

He resolved to stop thinking about the night before -- any of it. It was a new day, and there were surely more important things to think
about. Coach's voice was a welcome distraction this time, when he again brought up the topic of the day's plans, once they were all settled around the dining room table with coffee and plates of still softly steaming cornbread. 

As he'd brought up earlier, Coach suggested going to collect the truck after breakfast. Ellis was dying to finally investigate the garage, which they'd still not yet broken into, but agreed it could wait till later. Getting the truck was a four person job, since they'd have to split up to drive both vehicles home, and it had been soundly agreed upon that they should enact a buddy system policy -- not Nick's choice of words -- and leave no survivor alone, as a strict rule.

Strict rule would also not have been Nick's preferred choice of words, as it did give him the spiteful urge to fuck off at the first opportunity. He rephrased it in his own head to humble suggestion, to temper the shamelessly self-destructive urge.

The cornbread was a little sweeter and denser than Nick preferred, but managed to be neither too dry nor too moist, which was half the grade, really. Some vanilla tried to compensate for the flavor falling a little flat, which Nick could forgive Coach for, as the big man was the first to regretfully admit it lacking, without eggs, butter or buttermilk. Considering all it was missing, it was quite passable.

Before they could leave on their errand, they definitely all needed a change of clothes. Rochelle and Coach had apparently both economically handwashed their muddy clothes when they'd showered the night before, figuring the generator was burdened enough with four people showering in a matter of hours without running the washing machine as well. Neither he nor Ellis had planned so well, not even having started their laundry. Rochelle would have to scavenge something too, for her clothes were still damp, her jeans in particularly. Nick assured her she looked fine to leave the house 'just like that', in her 60s style nightgown and slip of a robe, but she didn't seem to believe him. 

Poor Coach would have no choice but to wear his only outfit, damp or not, stoically refusing Ellis's insistence that he run it through the dryer, saying that would be a waste of fuel, and that the sun would dry him soon. The woman who lived in the house wore a couple sizes larger than Rochelle did, and the man's clothes would be just slightly loose on Ellis and Nick, the couple obviously enjoying their retirement, but besides the one-size-fits-all robe that Coach was wearing, there was nothing the big man would fit in. Now that their situation was stable enough that they could think  about such things, locating him some spare clothes became another errand to add to their list, whenever they took that trip into town. At the least, Coach occupied himself holding his pants stretched over the cracked oven door, making use of the waves of heat still dispersing up from the recently used oven, while the rest of them headed upstairs.

Nick felt some deja vu as he and Rochelle fished through their hosts' clothes together, thinking back on the apartment above the record store. This time Ellis was with them, too, and though he skeptically kept his expectations in check, Nick was soon pleased to discover that the husband's wardrobe did offer him a much better selection than the record store owner's. He took his sweet time rummaging through the closet in particular, where hung his selection of jackets and button down shirts. 

Ellis was done in mere minutes, locating an old pair of sturdy Carhart jeans and a belt to compensate for the loose waist, then wandering promptly off to change, leaving him and Rochelle alone again. 

"I love all these pinks and creams, but gosh, does she have anything dark?" Rochelle complained, as she sorted through the wife's side of the closet. "All of this stuff is going to get stained so fast, once we have to fight again."

"She took all her fall and winter colors with her," Nick suggested flatly. "You got stuck with her spring shades."

"Oh my god," Rochelle groaned disbelievingly. "You might actually be right. Well, it could be worse. It could all be white."

"Ha ha," Nick muttered sarcastically. "Jokes about the suit, still so funny. Never gets old."

"Suit jokes are classic. I don't even know how I'm going to talk to you, once you're in something else. What, am I just supposed to call you Nick all the time? That just feels weird. Hey, PJs--" she tried out--

"Do not call me that."

"PJ? No, you don't really look like a PJ... Pinstripes?"

"You've had too much coffee," Nick scolded her. 

She flashed her white teeth at him in a cheeky little grin. 

Privately, he thought Pinstripes was somehow not the worst nickname a man could have. You could still have a dangerous reputation with a moniker like Pinstripes. Ideally those pinstripes would be on a suit, however, not a pair of sleeping pants.

In the end, Nick ended up with a promising looking ensemble, and as Rochelle had already returned to her room down the hall with her selection a few minutes earlier, he locked the door to try the clothes on then and there, not wanting to haul his way back upstairs if something didn't work for him.

As he was making the finishing touches in front of the full length mirror nearby, though, tucking his shirt in, buckling his leather belt -- like Ellis, he needed one to keep the pants on -- and fixing his collar, he felt reasonably satisfied he couldn't have done much better. 

The pleated slacks he'd chosen were cream colored, almost not any more practical than his previous selection at all. Into them, he'd tucked a moss green, collared shirt, the top several buttons left undone, as he preferred, revealing a gap of skin and a glimpse of chest hair. The blazer he'd chosen was dark brown, and to his satisfaction fit him sharply, the husband's shoulders apparently just his size, even if his gut was not. 

His dark hair was pushed back from his face, clean and washed, but without any product to keep it in place, it had a loose, much too natural look about it, betraying the wave it held when not styled into obedience. Strands would fall out of place now and then, and need tucking back.

There was nothing he could do about that just then, but studying his reflection, he happened to catch sight of something in the mirror that gave him a different idea.

Lying in plain sight, atop of an antique wooden vanity, was a jewelry box. 

As always, he tempered his expectations as he approached it. If you were packing to leave, and didn't know when or if you'd be back, surely you would pack your valuables. Nick certainly would have. But why empty a box so portable when you could just grab it, in a hurry? Maybe she'd had it sitting out so that she wouldn't forget to pack it, but had anyway.

Picking it up, it felt too heavy to Nick to be empty. His heartbeat picked up just a little, anticipation building, and he drew closer to the window, where the sunlight was streaming in the brightest, before carefully unlatching it, and lifting back the lid.

Dappled golden light danced across the ceiling as the sunlight greedily fell over the box's dazzling contents, reflecting off the shining  clusters of jewelry in every direction. The smirk his feline lips curled into was nothing short of lecherous.

Yeah, sure. It didn't matter. None of this shit had any value anymore, not practically, anyway. He could tell himself that, anyone could tell him that, it wouldn't make a lick of difference. Gold was still gold, he thought, as he keenly scrutinized a little charm bracelet, confirming that it was indeed that... and diamonds--

he dropped the bracelet back in the box abruptly, in favor of a pair of studs that caught the light suspiciously well, multiplying it into dazzling points that scattered across the wall as he inspected them--

well, diamonds were diamonds.

Even if they were pink.

If they hadn't been, Nick considered with a sigh, idly rubbing a long-pierced earlobe, he really might have been tempted to put them in, though it been years since he'd worn anything in his ears. That was just a little too fruity for him, though.

He did find what he was almost certain were a pair of emeralds, and those tempted him even more. They'd match his shirt, not to mention his eyes, though they were of course darker and more vivid than either. For now, he simply pocketed both pair, after wrapping them neatly up in a handkerchief. What he did wear from the jewelry box with no hesitation, after confirming it, too, was real gold, was a thin, elegant Figaro chain. It gleamed against his skin, hanging just below his collarbones, a visually pleasing accent to his throat and moss green shirt. 

Now the look was complete. What was more, if his estimate was in the ballpark -- and he was pretty confident it was -- that chain alone was worth an easy 2k. Together with the blazer, the belt and the leather loafers -- again, perhaps not the most practical choice Nick could have made -- the whole ensemble was at least approaching the value of his previous one. 

Either of the pairs of earrings in his pocket would have rounded off that number handily, and then some. There was a part of him, loathe as he was to consider anybody else's opinions ever, that reluctantly had to imagine what his teammates' reception might be to Nick emerging quite so dressed up, though, and he had a sour feeling he would be mocked. He would look handsome as fuck, and they'd all know it, but they'd make fun of him anyway. It was the zombie apocalypse, after all, he could almost hear them say. Who was he dressing up for?

The thought sobered him a little, his green eyes staring, frowning slightly, back at him from the mirror.

Who was he dressing up for?

Well, nobody. He didn't dress for anyone else anyway. He just liked to look good-- fuck what anyone else thought. So what if they were living through an apocalypse? It was like Ellis had said -- he'd still be the sharpest dresser out there.

He felt a little better, then. 

Ellis might not even laugh, if he came out in earrings. He'd probably think he looked cool, and want his own. Maybe he could give him the pink ones, he considered, with sly amusement.

Before leaving the room, though, he did shed the blazer, and rolled the sleeves of his shirt neatly to the elbows. It was much too warm outside for a jacket, and especially so in this third story room. Central AC was not something they were willing to spend their fuel on-- at least, not yet. The days would only be getting cooler, anyway, though summer didn't seem to want to let go down here, crowding autumn up against winter, the air warm and flowers blooming even as the leaves, at least, changed their colors on time.

He was the last one to enter the living room, naturally, blazer draped over one arm, other hand in the pocket of his slacks, expression cool and disaffected. He was fully prepared to derisively snub them all if they made a single comment out of line.

Instead, the first thing he heard was a slightly stunned,

"Dang, Nick..."

and that gratifying tone was all he needed, ego swelling with satisfaction, though the matching expression in Ellis's staring eyes was an added indulgence. It took considerable effort not to show his pleasure, only a hint of a smirk sneering faintly at his nose, smoldering in those sharp green eyes.

Ellis was nothing dramatic to look at himself, in his familiar Bullshifter's shirt, only now with a pair of jeans, instead of pj bottoms. Nick thought it funny, though, to see that thick hoodie tied around his waist, somewhat mimicking the appearance of the coveralls he was so used to seeing him in. It also made him look even younger, somehow, like at least the streaks of car oil on his mechanic's uniform had lent him the slightest amount of credibility. 

Coach's clothes were of course the same, just clean-- and damp.

Rochelle... well, Rochelle did look nice. He thought she looked even nicer a moment later, as she recoiled her head as if needing the extra distance to properly appraise him, one eyebrow cocked, and exclaimed with too much sincerity to smile, "Daaang~ is right, Suit, gosh! Look at you!" She pouted her lower lip, and Nick thought she'd in fact never looked better, as she sulkily whined, "Can't I be the pretty one?"

Nick couldn't help it -- his feline mouth gave way into a supremely satisfied smirk, sleepy eyes glinting with relish.

"We can both be, sweetheart," he purred in a rare display of generosity. "I see you chose beauty over practicality as well."

It was Rochelle's turn for the spotlight, as she lifted herself from the couch with delicate buoyancy, and she did deserve to share it. Likewise, she knew it, wearing a pleased little smile and a coy twinkle in her eyes as she took a couple steps forward to present herself.

"Better, then?" she taunted him, wrists posed lightly in the air by her shoulders.

She wore a half-collared shirt of soft rose, just a modest couple of buttons left undone, the bottom tucked, loose but neat, into a pair of fawn brown slacks, slightly oversized on her but cinched about her trim waist by a thin belt. A cream colored cardigan, thick, loose and drapey, completed the look, her still present bangles and hoops accenting it all.

Yeah. The minute the two of them had to splatter any zombies, they were going to look fucked. But damn, did they look pretty now.

He kept her on the hook, though, tilting his freshly shaven jaw appraisingly, eyes cool.

"Give us a twirl," he directed.

She rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt, but couldn't resist showing off, even while making a bit of a mockery of it, expression wry as she turned in place, with a theatrical flourish of her wrists that lifted them high enough for her bangles to slip up her forearms. Ellis cheered her on supportively, and Nick couldn't pretend to hold out longer than the time it took her to finish her turn, already nodding to himself, with an almost sternly serious expression.

"Much better," he confirmed, with pointed emphasis. 

Rochelle immediately halted her theatrics, scoffing in disapproval, his meaning understood. 

"You had to," she accused him, offended, but not terribly. How could she be? She knew what he'd thought of her last outfit.

"What, ruin it?" His smirk was back, curling at his feline mouth, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Of course, doll. That's what I do."

"If they're the pretty ones, what does that make us?" Coach solemnly was asking Ellis, voice low, but not so much that Rochelle and Nick couldn't hear him clearly.

With equal seriousness, Ellis declared firmly, "Handsome motherfuckers, that's whut."

"I'm that too," Nick wanted to make clear.

"Well, if everybody else gets to be handsome, I want to be handsome," Rochelle pouted.

"Only if I get to be pretty," Coach rumbled, so seriously that they couldn't help but all break out laughing, even Nick silently snickering. 

"Aww, yer pretty, Coach!" Ellis exclaimed warmly, blue eyes shining with sincerity. "Yer beautiful!"

With that, the much shorter of the Southerners threw his arms around Coach, pinning one of his arms right to his side, in a squeeze of spontaneous affection, startling a breath of a laugh from the older man, his dark eyes softening with warmth despite some evident embarrassment.

"Don't be foolish, son..." he chided weakly.

"You are beautiful, Coach," Rochelle warmly agreed, appearing at his opposite side to clamp onto his other arm, leaning her head affectionately into his shoulder. "Inside and out."

"... If Coach gets to be beautiful--" Nick began, deadpan. 

"Alright, that's enough!" Coach boomed sternly, throwing up his arms -- more gently than he made a show of -- to shake off his clinging teammates, flapping them in the air as if to shoo them away. "Y'all beautiful, handsome, pretty, whatever, y'all are crazy, that's whatchu are! Every one of you, getcho guns and getcho ass out the door, 'nough of this nonsense! God damn... pardon me, Lord, but good gracious, you see this...?"

He was striding from the room by the last of this muttering, shaking his head to himself in frustration, exasperation and wonder. Ellis and Rochelle had scattered obediently, giggling. 

"I think we broke him!" Rochelle wailed in a furtive hush, a twinkle of sympathy mixed with the mirth in her eyes. 

Ellis was shaking his head to himself, with a faux solemn look.

"Reckon that's whut finally did it, yup. Don't feel bad, Nick. Was a team effort."

"I was just saying..." he began to drawl sniffily.

"I think yer beautiful, Nick," the friendly Southerner blurted warmly, too much sincerity shining in his eyes.

"Shut the fuck up," Nick sharply rebuked him, as if his harsh tone could convince an observer they imagined the gleam lurking in his eyes, the not-quite-contained sneer of pleasure curling his nose, threatening at the corners of his lips. Both were sincere -- the stupid compliment had caught him off guard, and his scathing judgment was as much for the hick as for himself, for the way his vanity jealously seized onto the words, gripping with far too much investment. If he'd thought Ellis didn't actually mean it, it would have been an uncomplicated feeling, but just the way that idea stung him, fiercely possessive of the flattery now that he'd been given it, was ridiculous, considering the source.

He'd really just take an ego-stroking from anybody at this point, huh?

Cause he'd have taken a comment like that, from a man, a lot worse, once upon a time. Sure, nowadays, he wasn't quite so sensitive. He could turn down a man's advances without being a total ass about it, anyway. It certainly wasn't like he hadn't been hit on by members of the same gender, plenty of times, growing up in a big city and looking like he did. He hadn't ever been so short on attention to be flattered by it before. In fact, if he didn't consider an approaching party to be objectively, solidly in the same league as he, they had to really make up for it in some other area for him not to feel insulted they'd made the attempt at all, man or woman.

Not that Ellis was hitting on him, obviously. He was just being... Ellis. He'd just said the same thing to Coach, after all... and remembering that soured his mood further. 

If Ellis had been hitting on him, he snottily reminded himself, he would have had reason to be insulted. He was certainly out of the idiot redneck's league.

Well... physically, he supposed... as handsome as he was, Ellis, objectively-- there was no need to hem about it, he could acknowledge in his own fucking head that sure, yeah. For a guy, the kid was a specimen. He was a fucking pretty boy, he'd teased him about as much before. Those sleepy, soulful blue eyes, full lips, that ridiculous mop of curls. And his body was perfect, really, Nick was jealous of how well he held weight, sure that Ellis had an easier time building those plump biceps than it took for Nick, with his extra height to fill out and tendency towards leanness, to keep his chest and shoulders in the shape that they were. Ellis's comment about him losing weight really had irked him -- it took effort to keep that weight up.

So physically, sure. Clean him up a little, the hick could be a gay man's equivelant of arm candy, a thought that made Nick resist a snicker. Women would swoon in envy, seeing the two of them together. 

It wasn't like he was a disaster as a person, either. He was just a kid, after all, and more genuine, kind-hearted, hard-working, selfless and brave -- for better or worse -- than Nick certainly had been at that age, or, incidentally, ever would be.

And he could fix your car? It was amazing he didn't have a girlfriend by accident. Yeah, he wouldn't even have to try, when he eventually looked up from under the hood of a car, or down from the clouds, and laid eyes on the woman that reminded him he was a man.

He probably would, though. Try, that was. God, as hard as he tried to impress Nick, he could only imagine how motivated he would be if his libido had a stake. He'd probably be the ridiculously romantic type, going above and beyond for his girl, at least until he learned better. 

The thought filled him with a creeping, ugly feeling he was too familiar with to avoid acknowledging.

He had no right to feel jealous of anybody pulling Ellis's attention away from him. What the fuck? Let alone somebody that existed only in his imagination. Ellis was young, likable, optimistic, full of life and love. He deserved to live in a world as full of color and life as he, surrounded by friends and family who cherished him.

He wasn't, though.

He was at the end of an empty world, in more ways than one, and his friends and family were, just as likely as not, all dead, as well as whatever pretty girl his age he might otherwise have someday met, courted, and had lots of fat, happy redneck babies with. He was stuck here, with strangers he'd met not a week past, with Nick, and maybe it was actually him that didn't deserve it, but he, Rochelle and Coach, they had him all to themselves, didn't they... and there was no one else he looked at the way that he did at him, with those lively blue eyes, so eager for approval, no one else for him to try harder to impress. 

And fuck... if that grim, depressing truth didn't bring him some kind of sick, secret, truly selfish sense of satisfaction.

His skin crawled, a cold disgust squirming in his gut.

Even for him, that was... dark.

No... he really didn't deserve the way Ellis looked at him. He didn't deserve any of them.

It didn't matter, though, did it? Seven billion other people hadn't deserved to live any less than they did, either. Whatever any of them deserved, they were stuck here together, and all they had was each other. 

~

there's nothing in the world that you can do

you gotta come on up to the house

and you've been whipped by the forces that are inside you

gotta come on up to the house

Chapter Text

LEVEL Vl - THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER - lll/V

The trip that had taken them so tediously long on foot was, of course, exponentially shorter by van. By the time Nick emerged from the deep reflection he'd fallen into since they'd split up to grab their guns, they had reached and crossed the vehicle bridge, and had nearly made it back to where they'd left the truck.

Nobody really expected it to be gone, but still, it was a relief to see it parked there just off the road, as if waiting patiently for them, a few autumn leaves collected on its windshield.

Predictably, Nick ended up paired with Ellis again, climbing up into the passenger seat of the truck, grumbling about the wave of heat that flooded from the interior of the vehicle, after baking in the sun all morning. He felt himself break a sweat the second he was settled in the stifling cab, but Ellis didn't seem even fazed, too excited to be reunited with the truck. Nick winced at the unpleasantly hot air that came flooding from the vents as Ellis started the ignition, twisted the wheel and began easing the truck back onto the road, before reversing the gearstick into drive and drifting to follow the van, which began moving as soon as he neared. To Nick's relief, it took only a couple minutes of driving, picking up to a reasonable speed, before the vehicle's brand new air conditioner had cooled to an icy blast, and he sighed in relief as it chilled the fresh sweat dappled across his skin, shutting his eyes and pinching the front of his shirt, tugging it out a few times to fan the fresh air down his chest.

"God, that's nice," he muttered, eyes still shut, blissfully drinking in the sensation of the cold air on his face. "I don't know how you people live down here, Jesus. It's October."

There was a grumpy, accusatory note to his voice, like the weather down South was something the locals had all collectively decided on, somehow.

"Jess get used it, I guess," Ellis mused. "Summers do git kinda nasty, if m'bein' honest. Yew need a lotta swimmin' and cold beers to git through it. Spring's my favorite, though, s'real nice around here. Ain't too hot, everything's comin' into bloom... oh shit!"

Nick opened his eyes at the abrupt exclamation of excitement, frowning over at Ellis as he twisted in his seat, reaching down in back. 

"Can we put on some music?! I fergot!"

"What, you're asking this time?" Nick taunted dryly, reaching over to steady the steering wheel with a dark look at the distracted driver. It only took Ellis a second to withdraw from the back with the bag of cassettes, though, during which time the truck probably wouldn't have veered off the road.

"No witnesses," Ellis explained matter-of-factly. "Yew might jess say a zombie got me, leave me behind, if I start playing that honky tonk 'gain without askin'."

"I've heard worse," Nick dryly, charitably ceded. "But that's a good point about that no witnesses thing. Hey-- gimme that. Eyes on the road."

He stopped Ellis from trying to dig through the cassettes as he drove by closing his hand around the bag, pulling it from his lap and into his own. 

"Nah, yew should pick anyway," Ellis agreed, and added somewhat apologetically, "if there's even anything in there yew like, 'sides Johnny Cash."

Nick was frowning critically as he sorted through the tapes, skeptical himself.

"Didn't you say you'd tried to pick something out for me? I can only imagine..."

"Yeahh, umm... I really had no clue, f'I'm bein' honest. I just grabbed a bunch of different shit, at the end there, hopin' I'd get lucky."

"Christ, kid," Nick muttered in almost pitying disbelief as he sorted through one cassette after the next, shaking his head to himself. Ellis wore a sheepish smile.

"Country, country," he began to list off in a dry drawl, discarding one after the next bag into the bag, digging deeper, "classic rock, classic rock, classic rock... what's this...? Oh, punk rock... country, country..."

His mutter was fading away when it stopped, interrupted by a soft tch of laughter.

"Oh, thank God," he wryly muttered, inspecting the tape he held with a faraway smirk.

"Whut, which one?" Ellis had to know, his eyes wide with urgent curiosity, craning over to try and see what Nick had. He teased him, with a turn of his wrist shielding it deliberately from his view, and casting him a sidelong glance of his glinting green eyes, secretive and considering. He even toyed with not actually showing him which cassette had earned his approval, cruel as that would have been. Music was something... somewhat personal to him, truthfully. Intimate.

"What is it?" Ellis begged, and he felt something in him give way, appreciating that pleading too much not to indulge it.

"Eyes on the road," he scolded firmly, and only as the kid obeyed, straightening back in his seat with his hands on the wheel, did he click the case open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ellis patiently stiffen in anticipation at the sound. He distrustfully kept the cassette's title hidden in his palm as he ejected the last tape and replaced it with his, though when he sneaked a look Ellis's way, he noted his eyes were still obediently forward.

The music began to bloom forth from the speakers, seducing his ears at once, soaking through him like a skin-prickling swoon, unfurling, stretching and purring luxuriously inside his chest, as at home there as anything. Wearing a faint, sleepy smirk of satisfaction, he settled back into his seat to let the cool air and rich horn section wash over him.

He risked sparing just a glance Ellis's way, not expecting anything in particular, but this was certainly not classic rock. The hick's expression was open with intrigue, though, eyebrows lifted and eyes large, seemingly fascinated.

That was enough for him. He turned his head forward again, shutting his eyes and releasing a sigh, as the singer's iconic voice began to croon.

That's life

That's what all the people say

You're riding high in April

shot down in May

but I know I'm going to change that tune

when I'm back on top

back on top in June

I said that's life...

"S'Frank Sinatra, right?"

"That's right."

"Yew like jazz, Nick?"

"Sure do, hick."

"... S'real nice. I know 'im, but I ain't heard this song afore. I like it a lot."

"Ellis."

"Yew want me t'shut up, so yew can listen to it?"

"Smart boy."

Ellis tsked in reproachful complaint, certainly at being once again commended like a canine and not the request itself, but duly complied. Neither spoke again till they were home, appreciating the music together uninterrupted, except for when it came time to turn the tape over.

Some of the songs... a lot of the songs... were awfully romantic, he couldn't help but be aware of. He felt some defensive tension that Ellis might make a joke about it, but once they were past a few of the worst offenders, he began to relax. Dimly recalling a couple of lines from that one honky tonk song Ellis had mentioned being his favorite on the tape, he reminded himself that the Southerner was in no position to tease.

The drive back was much more peaceful than the one there, with far fewer thoughts. Ellis didn't complain once about the music, and in fact whenever Nick happened to glance at him, seemed to be enjoying it, content as ever, a knee even bouncing sometimes to the beat of a particularly jaunty tune.

When they got back to the house, Ellis was able to convince Nick to help him break open the garage, for the same reason Ellis wanted inside-- he was really hoping they'd find some fishing poles. 

Unfortunately, it seemed fishing wasn't one of the retired couple's hobbies. There was plenty in the tidy garage that might come in handy at some point, but nothing they needed then. 

Not that easily discouraged, however, Ellis suggested they simply take a drive back to the boathouse. They were on the same side of the river, after all. They'd left the nets they'd scavenged behind, in the boat back at town, but there had been plenty more where those had come from. It wasn't as good as a pole, of course, but Ellis seemed confident he could put them to good use, so before long they were off on another errand. 

They all went together, again. They looted the boathouse properly, this time. Nick even took the plastic chair, which by mid afternoon he found himself making use of. After that nightmare, there was no way he would have been able to let Ellis go wading into the shallows without  close supervision, so since there was nothing better to do anyway, he found himself sitting in the shade of the trees down on the bank, just far back enough from the water that the legs of the plastic chair wouldn't sink too far into the mud, not to mention his new leather loafers, which he was determined to keep clean as long as destiny allowed. He sat with his rifle across his lap and a book in his hands, having had the chance to scour the library. 

He kept a stern eye on Ellis, of course, who seemed delighted by his company, no matter how much Nick grumbled about having to babysit him. Ellis didn't seem worried about the possibility of alligators at all, of course, already further out into the water with his nets than Nick was comfortable with. He looked ridiculous, too, just the sight of him rankling him, for some reason. He'd left his hoodie and socks draped over a tree branch, and before stepping into the water, had not only rolled his loose jeans further up his thighs than a grown man ever needed to, but hitched them high as they could go, tightened his belt around his trim waist, exacerbating exactly what looked so wrong about the image. It was, Nick decided, the fact that it gave him an almost feminine silhouette, and not even a undershaped one. Hell, with thighs and an ass like that, he could have mistaken him for a woman -- only from the waist down, of course, and from behind. There was no mistaking those arms or shoulders. 

It was hard to focus on his book, too, when he was distracted into looking up every time Ellis suddenly lurched into motion, hefting the weighted net out of the water, whether he splashed about uselessly for a bit and was left cussing and empty-handed, water dripping from his nose, or whether he successfully caught something worth catching, which meant an exclamation of delight and a return to shore, wading till he could hop and trip through the shallows, where he'd have to show off his catch to Nick before storing it. Sometimes all he'd get was a somewhat sarcastic-sounding  'Mhm' of acknowledgment, the gambler not even lifting his eyes from his book, other times just a glance and a dryly appraising stretch of one eyebrow, but he never ignored him entirely, and Ellis didn't seem to expect anything more from him.

That evening, Coach got the BBQ going, and they ate out on the dock, overlooking the water. Dinner was tacos with grilled fish and onions, with glasses of river-cooled mango juice.

Afterwards, in an uncommonly good mood, his stomach satisfyingly full and the taste of fresh grilled fish still lingering on his palate, Nick suggested a game of pool. Ellis was willing, of course, but he couldn't convince Rochelle or Coach, so instead they found themselves in front of the board game cabinet. Nick, consistent to his established reputation of not being a team player, grumbled before they'd even made a selection that he'd just watch, reluctant to get roped into playing anything he found tedious, and skeptical there would be anything he didn't.

"Oh hey, I know this one!" Ellis piped up, rising on the toes of his socked feet to reach for a bright red box on a higher shelf. Coach automatically reached above it, as a safety precaution, and sure enough, as Ellis withdrew the game, a box of dominos that had been hidden from sight on top of it thumped onto the box beneath, instead of all over the floor, or right onto Ellis's head.

"Thanks," Ellis mumbled gratefully, as he sank back down to his heels, holding something called Apples to Apples.

"I play this with my lil cousins, it's their favorite. It's good fer all ages though, and it's super easy tuh learn how t'play. Yew'd be really good at it, Nick. It's all about how funny yew are."

Nick was skeptical, but a few minutes later they were all settled in the living room, and after watching just one round, despite determining the game was every bit as stupid as he'd expected, Nick conceded to play. With a resigned sigh, he scooted up to the edge of his seat, and it only took extending his palm in Ellis's direction and two sharp folds of his hand, in a wordless beckon, for him to catch on, and eagerly deal him a hand.

When, on his first round, Ellis judged his card the best match -- Sean Connery for Masculine -- Nick decided he liked this game.

What felt like only a short time and endless rounds later, when Ellis was somehow already only one point away from winning, Nick was no longer so sure. 

They'd had some good moments, though. When it was Nick's turn to judge Irresistible, he thought Local Police objectively the funniest answer, and was amused to find it was Coach who shared his dark humor. He also judged Haunting, and with a reproachful look and a suppressed shiver, gave Screeching the point, thinking of that Hunter. That was cute, their team had an inside joke. There was no doubt they were all thinking of infected when he read the card, though it was Ellis who had placed it, and earned both the point and the glare.

Ellis, on the other hand, picked Coach's Dating as the answer to Spooky, which amused Nick considerably. 

In the end, despite Ellis's early lead, it came down -- to Nick's unimpressed disgust -- to a three way tie, with each of the others with six points, and Nick just four. The saving grace was that Nick was the judge for the final deciding round, and having that power in his hands did appeal to him.

What was more, it was truly a difficult round to judge, giving Nick a chance to build anticipation while he deliberated. The green card was Innocent, and two of the red cards were Disney movies-- The Little Mermaid and The Beauty and the Beast.

Nick was ruining both movies for everyone.

"Neither of those girls were innocent!" Nick snarled, a good way into the debate. "Ariel's like, fifteen or something, right, says fuck off to her entire family, swims off without telling anyone shit, goes straight to the nastiest bitch in the Carribean and makes this dark magic deal, all so she can literally spread her legs for the first man with a cock she's ever seen. Come on. Like, fucking get it, but innocent? And then Belle, well-- I mean, I gotta say it? She was just fine with Beast the way he was. True love my ass. That's just bestiality. She likes it rough."

"Oh my gawd, stop!" Ellis wailed, face warm and buried in his hands. "Yew can't talk about em like that, ain't right!"

Coach was groaning, apparently too embarrassed to stop him. Not Rochelle, scolding him soundly-- but he was onto her, could tell she was fighting not to laugh, even if she hated herself for it.

"You're disgusting, Suit."

"Is that all you got? I'm right. You know it. And that's why..."

He took a deep breath, resigning himself to the only option he could choose, praying it wasn't Ellis's, and selected the third card, holding it up between two fingertips and drawling flatly,

"Cabbage wins."

Ellis and Rochelle both groaned, and Coach broke into a broad, satisfied smile. That tracked.

"Cabbage can't be innocent!" Ellis complained whinily. "It's cabbage!"

"It's no good, Ellis. The guy has it out for Disney princesses. That level of issues is beyond either of us."

"Oh what, are you gonna really tell me those girls are role models? I mean, I didn't say I had anything against them. Sure wouldn't mind holding something against some of them, if you know what I mean... like that Jasmine, she's a real babe."

"O-kay, that's enough," Ellis huffed firmly, standing up for his princesses' honor, a chiding look in his blue eyes and mouth set petulantly. "We gotta find out what we are, now."

"-- Hm?"

"Yeah, so whatever cards yew have left at the end, yew read 'em out, and they're supposed to describe yew. Y'know, jess as a joke, though," he added hastily, as if concerned Nick might take legitimate offense to his cards, otherwise. 

Everyone's supposed descriptors were so ridiculous, though, even Nick could only roll his eyes in grudging amusement.

Coach was apparently Frightening, Spooky and Unreal, for example, but also Irresistible. Rochelle was Dainty, Graceful, and somehow at once Boring, Spunky and Profound. Ellis was Extreme, Twisted, Haunting, Soft and Comfortable. 

Mostly, Nick had done well. Masculine and Intense he could own up to, and he'd take Luxurious, but he didn't think much of Cowardly. 

Coach was the first to turn in for the night, not long after the game had ended. He made a show of being sleepy, but Nick had a strong suspicion he was itching to get back to that book. Rochelle wasn't far behind, her yawns increasing in frequency till she surrendered to her drowsiness and said good night, heading upstairs.

Once again, it was just him and Ellis. It was dark out, but only just, the night still young. 

"... Tired?" he gruffly asked, sounding more like an accusation than an offer.

"Nah... not really," the hick mumbled, blue eyes watching him with uncertain anticipation. "Yew?"

"Eh."

Ellis bit his lips together, hesitating, then ventured,

"... yew still wanna play pool?"

"Yes."

Ellis brightened at the unhesitating response, chest puffing up with excitement, and promptly scooted forward, hopping up from the couch. Nick followed suit more stiffly, stifling a groan of displeasure at the effort.

"Let's have a smoke first," he decided dully, wishing he'd thought to ask Coach for another pain pill before bed. He'd made it through the day alright, but injuries were always the most troublesome at night, when there was nothing to distract from them.

"Okay!" Ellis willingly chirped.

A few minutes later, they were making their way downstairs, leaving the rest of the house dark behind them, along with a lingering trace of cigarette smoke.

Just one day of peace -- from the zombies, anyway --  and he'd already cut back on the nicotine, having only smoked once earlier, at the boathouse. 

If he didn't drive himself completely insane within a week, maybe he could start to get used to this place. 

The smooth, deep green felt of the pool table was a pleasantly familiar sight, radiant under the warm glow of the light above. The colorful balls gleamed, spinning against one another as Nick pushed the triangular frame that held them into place near one end of the table, holding it still a moment before lifting it off the neat little arrangement of balls.

"Alright," he muttered, straightening back. "You know how to play?"

"Sure I do!"

Nick began to circle the table towards the cue sticks on the wall, eyeing Ellis keenly. Something about the claim seemed weak-- he sensed bluster.

"Are you lying to me?" he asked disaffectedly.

Aha -- that caught, slightly guilty look, immediately. The kid was so easy to read.

"I mean, I've played," he insisted. "Jess, me 'n my friends, we don't really follow the real rules, always."

Nick scoffed, selecting his stick and pulling it free.

"There's really not that many rules, kiddo," he told him wryly, looking over his shoulder at him. "Pot your own balls, don't hit the eight ball till you've got them all in, or you lose. That's it."

"Yew say that's it," Ellis replied solemnly, holding onto his own cue stick with both hands like a staff, blunt end planted on the floor squarely between his socked feet. "If yew'd seen me 'n me 'n my friends play, yew'd agree yew should be givin' me a lot more rules."

Nick narrowed his eyes, indeed now darkly suspicious.

"... Noted. Okay, here's another rule, no playing in any way that could possibly damage the table, okay?"

"Okay."

He didn't appreciate how seriously Ellis agreed, as if that had actually warranted saying. Christ, what kind of degen game had this kid and his hillbilly friends been playing-- and on what poor sod's fucking table?

Nick sighed, rubbing a chalk cube over the tip of his stick. This was karma, he realized. He deserved this.

"You can break," he generously granted him, scooping up the cue ball and passing it off to him. 

"Over there," he added dryly, gesturing to the head of the pool table, furthest from the balls, not trusting him to know even that much at this point. Trailing after the mechanic, he tapped at a little white mark set into the railing. "You can place it anywhere past this diamond. This line?"

He indicated an invisible line in the air with his finger, between the diamond mark and its twin on the opposite side.

"That's called the head string."

Watching and listening attentively, Ellis promptly asked, "Why?"

"What?"

"Why's it called that."

"Fuckin'-- I don't fucking know," Nick snapped. "I'm showing you how to play eight ball, not teaching you the history of the fucking game, here."

"Jess wonderin'," Ellis mumbled, a bit defensively. "S'a weird name."

"Well, that's considered the head of the table, that end. No idea why it's called a string, though."

"Huh. Okay. Sorry, go on."

"No that's... that's it, pretty much."

Ellis's mouth quirked in amusement, eyes twinkling, and he teased him, "That's whatchu said before. Now I keep hearin' more 'n more rules."

"Right, yeah. That's on me, for making assumptions. You use the thin end to hit the balls, by the way. With the tip."

"Haw-haw," Ellis retorted sarcastically, as he set the cue ball just shy of the invisible line Nick had indicated, and took up the cue stick into... some kind of form... in preparation for a shot.

"Ah know that much, dick~."

His twang seemed to add a few extra vowels to the expletive, and the corner of Nick's mouth quirked in amusement. He liked that he'd pushed the kid enough for him to start calling him names here and then. He sure took them with enough grace. 

He shot, the cue ball struck, and the triangle of balls burst apart, rolling in all directions, just the sound of them soothingly familiar to Nick's ears.

To witness Ellis shoot pool was a masochistic kind of pleasure, at once painful to Nick and so appalling it was entertainment. Correcting his form sounded less fun than privately judging him for it the entire game. If he'd been some pretty thing at a bar he was trying to get with, that'd be something else. Nick had used that move more than a few times, and he could often tell just how receptive a lady was to his advances by how much she hammed up being a ditz at the game. There was a unique intimacy to the little bit, so much that could be communicated with the way he would adjust a woman's hold, so that she could feel him direct her, take charge, feel the assured confidence and sensual attentiveness behind his touch, his low, instructing voice near to her ear. Depending on how far along they already were, he could be a perfect gentleman for the lesson, only subliminally suggestive, or a deviant, his hips pressing into her ass as they bent low together, his hand around her waist...

He caught himself on this train of thought just once, and willed it away, along the frustrating mix of arousal and grim feeling it threatened to inspire. It was consistently depressing skirting the reality that his days of philandering were over. There were many scenes that would never play out again. If he let himself keep thinking about it, he'd never stop. Not even just the sex-- commonplace things he'd taken for granted, that he'd never once appreciated half so much as he did now, knowing he'd never experience them again, he bitterly acknowledged. 

Like ice, he thought randomly, the least of his longings, but distracted staring distantly at Ellis's black eye. No more ice for their drinks, or for soothing sore and swollen flesh, unless the weather outside someday allowed it, and then they'd have bigger challenges.

It was funny how quickly he assumed the rest of the world was as over as their area seemed. Maybe he shouldn't have been so sure, but it was easier to assume. For him, anyway. It was easier not to think about it.

Fortunately, that wasn't too difficult to do, just then. Ellis was a thoroughly distracting and engaging opponent. 

Challenging, not remotely. Predictably, Nick slaughtered the hick like the shark he was. Despite Ellis's rapt focus and invested efforts, he was lucky if he could land a ball or two each game before Nick would do his thing, neatly executing shot after shot with confidence and precision. 

Ellis was almost as affable a loser as Nick was a sore one, cursing healthily at his fumbles but mood staying light, and seeming too gobsmacked by Nick's prowess to remember he was the victim of it, eyes shining with admiration as he watched him play, in his element.

Naturally, Nick started to show off. Crushing the hick outright would quickly become boring, he realized, so he began toying with him instead, sometimes purposefully missing after sinking one shot to give him more tries, or attempting more challenging shots than were available, just for the sake of Ellis's excitement when he made it.

Somehow, even though the idea of it being any kind of competition had gone out the window almost from the beginning, rendering the premise of what they were doing practically as pointless as whatever game Ellis and his friends used to play, and despite the pitfalls of dark thoughts scattered hazardously around his mind, Nick eventually realized he was having a good time.

As depressing as the world outside was, one comfort he could always fall back on was the certainty that most everyone else was worse off than he. As far as comforts went, it was a pretty sick one, but he wasn't shocked by much he felt or did at this point. 

He had a supply of food, and he didn't even have to fix it for himself. He had -- unbelievably -- teammates who would bring it right to him, watch his back, tend to his wounds, look out for his needs. He had shelter, electricity, running water and two working vehicles. He was hurt, but even in that, he had been incredibly lucky. He had his own bedroom to sleep in -- and certainly would, that night -- clean clothes, a fresh shave. There was no mud or zombie blood on him anywhere, not a tear or smudge on his clothing, moss green shirt tucked into his waist, sleeves rolled up just past his elbows. He'd even fixed his hair properly, having recovered his product along with the truck.

And he was playing pool, with someone who, to say nothing else, he was used to. Even the particular way Ellis annoyed him was starting to become a fixture in his life, something he could count on. It wasn't his fault. It was unavoidable. He'd come to expect those blue eyes, watching him attentively, brightening at his engagement, twinkling in mischief and warmth, always ready to help.

They were on him just then, from directly across the table, as he leaned low over it to line up a shot.

The thought popped into his head that the front of his shirt dipped almost to the table, and that from that angle, Ellis could no doubt see all the way down his shirt. Nick lifted his gaze to meet his, dryly accusing,

"Stop lookin' at my tits."

Ellis started snickering.

"Button yer shirt up then, yew sleaze," he chided him with amusement. "Ah can see yer belly button."

"My eyes are up here," Nick reproached back gravely. "For shame, Ellis."

Eventually, he couldn't help himself, and did finally surrender to giving Ellis a few much-needed pointers-- without the close and physical demonstration, of course. The kid actually started to show some improvement with a bit more practice, and Nick felt something akin to a grudging pride when, at his peak, he managed to sink three shots in a row. Ellis had been thrilled over two, but Nick had taunted him on, insisting he could make the third shot.

"Now you're getting it," he encouraged fiercely, frowning with intensity while he nodded slightly to himself, as Ellis whooped and celebrated. "Fuckin' keep it down though, Jesus. You're gonna wake Ro and Coach. It must be, what... shit. How long have we been playing?"

He had no idea what time it was. They'd been playing so long they'd taken breaks for water, and to piss. 

Ellis shrugged both shoulders haplessly almost to his ears, blue eyes as lively as ever, before letting them drop.

"... One more game?" Nick suggested, stare fixed and serious, as if daring Ellis to deny him.

Naturally, he didn't, bobbing his head eagerly.

They played a few more games. Weariness seemed to come upon them both at the same time, then. It only took a couple of yawns before they decided to call it.

Ellis never had mentioned a word about Nick falling asleep in his room the night before. He had himself just about convinced that he didn't even know he had. Nick had been doing such a good job of pretending it hadn't happened himself, he almost didn't even know it any more.

Ellis headed towards the little patio to shut down the generator, while Nick headed back towards his own room. Before he could disappear down the hall, though, Ellis addressed him, and he glanced over to see him looking his way, lingering by the patio door.

"Hey uh-- jess wanted to say, if you have trouble sleepin', an yew want somethin' tuh do, yew can jess come knock.. we can play some more cards or somethin'."

Nick was tired. His usual biting wit was drowsy too. He should have teased him, or said something cutting, but instead he just tched in a quiet scoff, and muttered gruffly,

"Yeah.. alright."

As he was approaching his door, he was disgruntled to hear his words echo in his mind. It hadn't come out sounding as sarcastic as he'd meant for it too.

When he stepped inside his room, though, he didn't immediately close the door, or venture deeper. Instead he waited there, in the dark, listening until he heard the generator power down, then straining his ears in the silence left settling in behind, until he heard the softest creaking, of steps retreating upstairs.

Only then did he shut his door, secure that Ellis hadn't been smokered off into the night during his very brief outing, and make his way over to the bed. It was nearly pitch dark, but he went carefully, and by feel, till he bumped the edge of the mattress, and could crawl forward down onto it, onto that blissfully pillowy comforter. He listened to the slight creaking across the floor above him, recalling that Ellis's room must be roughly above his, as he began to undress, starting with peeling off his socks. When he'd shed his clothes completely, he crawled under the comforters and sheets for the first time, sighing in pleasure at the feeling of the cool, clean,
soft bedding against his bare skin, drinking in the sensation.

No, all things considered... it really could have been a lot worse.

Knock on wood for me, Ellis, he thought sleepily, as he was drifting off.

And while you're at it, stay out of my dreams.

As he drifted off, Nick harbored an unusual optimism that even though he'd had nightmares almost every night since this had all begun, tonight might be different. It turned out to be a poor investment of a scarce resource.

In the dream, it was night still, and pouring rain outside. He could see the inside of the room -- the same he'd fallen asleep in -- in the moonlight coming through the windows, warbled through the water running down them. The bed was much larger than it was in reality, and seemed to take up most of the space. 

It was also occupied by other people, and Nick experienced the uneasy jolt of waking up in bed beside strange and slumbering figures. It was actually a relief to recognize Rochelle and Coach, to remember they existed. For a moment, he had doubts about the form just beside him, and thought it was someone he didn't know, but then he recognized Ellis, too. 

Why were they all in his bedroom? He had the perfectly insane thought that, like children, they'd been scared by the veritable storm outside and run to his room, but dismissed it. As his mind searched for a more reasonable explanation, he suddenly had it-- the rest of the house had been washed away, down the river, and his room was all that was still hanging on. That would explain why the door was rattling on its hinges, why the room seemed to be swaying slightly, the wind howling around all its walls, not just at the windows.

But why were they taking shelter in here? They should have woken him up, they needed to leave. The whole room was going to go any minute. If the vehicles and the road itself hadn't been washed away in the downpour, they needed to escape. They could outdrive the storm.

He needed to wake them up. It sounded as if the river had risen beyond reason, like it was right outside the door. He realized, though, that his teammates were all fully dressed, which hadn't struck as him strange until that moment, when he remembered that none of them had been sleeping in their daywear since they'd been living at the house. 

He also remembered that he was fully naked. 

He was appalled to realize they'd all climbed into bed with him like that, and just gone to sleep beside him, like it was nothing. Maybe they hadn't realized, but still, could a man get some fucking privacy? He couldn't wake them up like that, so he carefully extracted himself out from beside Ellis, repressing the trauma of having been lying stark naked directly beside another man, and slipped from the bed, trying to locate his clothes. His white suit should have stood out even in the dark, but he couldn't find it. 

Where had he left it? Hadn't it been on the bed? Fuck, this was fucking weird, pawing around the room where his teammates were sleeping, with his junk just hanging out. It was their fault for barging in in the first place. He'd been this way when they'd gotten here. Why should he have to wear clothes to bed in his own god damn room? He wasn't changing for anyone.

Only now, the water was rising, and if his was dream was trying to put on the airs of a god damn metaphor, rather than just an amalgamation of stupid shit that added up to the most ridiculous fucking nightmare he'd had yet, it was pretty telling that even in a situation where his life and those of all his teammates were in jeopardy, he was prioritizing pride, unable to comprehend how ridiculous it would be to wake everybody up, screaming about the danger, in the blessed buff. That couldn't be reality.

It wasn't, of course. And in real life, Nick would have just wrapped a throw blanket around his waist, and that would have granted him enough dignity to resume prioritizing trying not to die.

If he hadn't left it in Ellis's room, anyway.

As it was, Dream Nick did not think of a throw blanket. His suit had to be around here somewhere, after all, he'd just changed out of it last night, for bed. Only when, to his horror, the carpet became soggy under his searching hands, down on all fours by this point, and he realized that water was starting to flood in underneath the door, did he remember that his white suit was completely ruined, and that he hadn't been wearing it.

Almost as soon as he remembered his new clothes, he found them, but they were already soaking wet. He dreaded the thought of putting them on, but surely that wasn't worth dying over.

How were the rest of them even sleeping through this?

As soon as he thought it, he felt a sudden, terrible sense of dread.

He didn't remember dressing, but he was wearing his clothes as he strode towards the bed. He was soaked, but so was everything now. The water was coming in from the ceiling, pouring in sheets, so it was hard to see anything as he dropped down onto his knees on the soggy comforter, which oozed water from his weight like a squeezed sponge. Puddles were forming in the nooks and valleys between his teammates' bodies. 

Coach was closest. Nick pulled his softly jowled, grizzly jaw towards him -- it was strange how real it felt, though Nick had never touched Coach's face in reality -- and lightly slapped it, twice, trying to wake him.

He didn't stir. He held his face in both hands, heart beating tensely, then dropped it after just a couple of seconds, as if he'd been scalded.

His skin was cold.

No.

He didn't want to touch him, suddenly feeling sick, but he jammed two fingertips under his soft chin, fumbling urgently to find a pulse. His skin was clammy, cold even in the fold of his neck. He recoiled his violently shuddering fingers before he could even try, knowing it was pointless.

Rochelle.

He almost snatched her shoulder, and the small woman felt too heavy as he yanked, as she rolled onto her back from her side, head lolling limply, pretty features still, too drained of color even in the dark. 

No no no --

This didn't make sense, it didn't make any sense, this couldn't be right. Heart racing, he sprang back from the bed, which was starting to drift from the wall, floating, the water having come up to his knees. The bodies of his teammates lay together under the blankets, water pouring down on them in streams from the ceiling above. 

How could they be dead?  He'd just seen them all. They'd been fine. What the fuck had they done?! They couldn't just leave him like this. 

Along with the spiraling panic, maddening confusion and everything else, he felt painfully, irrationally betrayed. For just one second, he'd thought maybe he could count on these people, just a little. Then they had to go and get themselves killed, because fucking God forbid he leave them alone for just one night. The regret was a physical, painful sensation, gripping his heart so tightly he had to bend over slightly, feeling like he might be sick, like he couldn't breathe. This never would have happened if he'd been there-- if he'd been awake. Why hadn't he woken? Had they called out to him, for help?

He'd just seen Ellis, just a few hours ago... he'd made sure he made it inside safely... but he hadn't done enough, apparently.

He hadn't gone near that furthest form, the one that had been lying next to him. He didn't want to. 

He was scared. 

Somehow he knew he had to. Like it was his duty. He had to check the body, and then he had to get out of this room before it was swept down the river. He knew it crystal clear, like a directive he couldn't dismiss, but he couldn't do it. He just climbed onto the bed before it floated too much higher, and sat huddled at its foot, staring numbly at the still bodies of his teammates, unable to bring himself to look at their faces, to cover them like he ought to have, or to approach that last form, to imagine feeling that soft cheek with the warmth all gone from it, seeing that mouth forever silenced, those eyelids shut over blue eyes he'd never see again, bright and seeing him, unable to give himself that confirmation that he was, once again and more thoroughly than he'd ever been, alone.

When he finally awoke, after what seemed a small eternity, he was the only body in his normal-sized bed. There was no howling wind, no rain drumming against the window. The night was peaceful, the house quiet, no disturbances he could hear other than the painful pounding of his own heart. He was safe and dry, except for the wetness on his face, which he felt the tickle of, and automatically lifted a hand to wipe away with his knuckles. 

It was a familiar action, but it wasn't the corners of his mouth that had been leaking, this time-- just his eyes.

~

all your crying won't do no good

come on up to the house

come down off the cross we can use the wood

you've got to come on up to the house