Bill:
In reply to Sam (msg # 27):
Following Sam through the middle of the street to the sealed doors of the bar, Bill looked at the deserted town. First left, then right. No one was to be seen here.
Bill listened to Sam's words, but his attention floated past them to the bar itself. He thought about the liquor inside, thought about the last time he had a drink, the last night at Fort Dixie. Bill wanted a drink, but he knew he couldn't.
Not now.
He missed those days at the Fort. Everything seemed a lot simpler only a few months ago. Here they were now, in this deserted town with it's unfortunate name. Looking for scraps of food to take back to the industrial park they called home. Where they slept on the floor. Bill wanted a drink, but-
"I-" he hesitated. "I don't think that's a good idea." It had been four months, as far a Bill could tell. The draw of the liquor was strong, but the fear of slipping down that path again was stronger. "Don't cause more trouble than we need Sam. Leave those walkers in there."
Sam seemed displeased with Bill's replied, making a 'tsk' sound as he shook his head feigning disappointment.
"What happened to you, geezer? You used to be so jolly. Staggerin around the Fort, tripping over yourself and your words. A real piece of work." The bearded Southerner chuckled to himself then, glancing to the chained door where the undead were desperately clawing from the inside to try and get at the sweet human voices outside.
"Then again, you were our piece of work, now ya belong to Cookie Jar and her Temperance League." Sam might've been taking a stab at being sentimental as he looked back towards the former Sheriff.
The large man stepped away from the bar door as if to heed Bill's warning. Then, on the turn of a heel, Sam's body shifted and he gave a solid booted kick to the lower end of the door, giving it a terrible rattle and eliciting greater noise from within the building. It would seem that even more of the undead were focusing upon that entryway then.
"Oops, I slipped." Sam commented dryly before descending the steps to the street, rejoining Bill, seeming to pay no mind to the bar anymore.
"How about we head to the old Sheriff's Office, chief? MIght be we find some ammo, guns, cuffs, maybe a lil outfit for you to wear and play make believe." Sam teased the older man, always walking that line between ribbing and insulting.
Leading the more timid raider along down the street, the bar was left alone, though the undead continued to try and follow them long after they had gone beyond an audible distance.