In reply to Karen (msg # 27):

Joe stared down at Karen with steely yet enveloping, sharp green eyes as the guilty woman came to, managing to respond to him. If she hadn't, he might have hauled her up and struck her until she came to. The elder did not try to assist Karen as she unsteadily rose to her feet. Joe was not a man of malice, but he was not a man of coddling those who took to self pity. Didn't mean he did not have feeling.

His observant gaze took in the fullness of her, expecting her to fall incapacitated as much as assist with any due work. He said nothing though, no chastisement, no vitriol yet, as she cooperated in the raising of the dead Ricky. Joe had carried the dying man in a run the night before after release from their joint captivity under the Lost Boys. He could do as much now, but why should he carry sole burden? And it was right and just that Karen assist in this process as she was indirectly responsible.

Directing the carry, Joe proved himself to be physical capable despite his imprisonment and torture, ably directing the three of them towards the grave where Karen and he set Ricky within. The kid still wore his glasses. He was paler than usual. At least he hadn't taken a shot to the face.

Joe easily caught the pain in the injured woman, and spared her from further exertion after the dead lift by taking the only shovel himself. The survivor set about returning the earth to the hole he'd dug that morning, slowly covering Ricky's young form with soil. There was no betrayal of unsteady emotion from Joe. He was taut and resilient, at least on the outside.

Karen was unsuited to further tasks, but Joe harangued her little on this point as he continued to work. Her question brought a glance from the tall, sinewy man, though he was not shook by the query.

"Had children. Yes." He answered with little hesitation, but vibrant contemplation in his fierce eyes.

The ringing of hammer on metal had ceased from the RV, though Joe did not look over. He heard Lorenzo descend from the RV to gander at the entrails of the engine. No need to look, he knew the steps' owner by ear.

Ricky was all but covered in a solid layer of earth then, only a hand protruding from the ground, which Joe promptly covered, his thin muscles shimmering with sweat. Taking a break before the final finish, though the greatest work was done, Joe stabbed the shovel end into the soil between his feet, wiping his brow then with a forearm, and then resting on the end of the staff.

"There's just enough space left for you to jump in with Ricky. That is, if you want to give up. Got to be something keeping you going. In this world, seeing your flesh and blood for the creature they are, must just about do you in, eh?" Joe spoke quietly, not cruelly, but honestly. He searched the broken Karen for any signs of life, little sympathy in his disposition, but no malice either.

"I get it. You're at a loss. Asking yourself what the hell reason there is to continue. All your hard work, for nothin'." Joe continued, straightening his back as he continued to work, filling the grave the rest of the way.

"Missed your chance. Now you've got to keep living dead like the rest." He focused on his work, only after finishing fill the rest of the grave did he turn to Karen again. "No one's gonna give you a reason to go on. You best find a reason yourself. You feel responsible for Kaidan? Than BE responsible for your boy. If you think blood is on your hands, you ain't kidding." Joe went on, but now moved towards Karen, shovel in one hand, he then dropped it at her feet. His imposing height stood before her like a Colossus.

"You're wounded, tired, hungry, thirsty. I get it. So for your benefit I'm going to give you a reason t keep going. Should you not accept, you can start digging your own grave, and I'll put you in and fill it for you, it's the least I owe you. Why? Because even though you sired a snake, it struck the wrong man. Your boy should have killed me instead, Karen."

His tone turned darker, righteous but quiet just for her, "I'm going to kill your son. Or you are going to finish what you started.. You best make this right, or I'll put you in the ground next to him, where neither of you can cause any more harm, or leave you to the rippers.." Neutral but full of contained fury, or sustained contempt, Joe as nonetheless placid as a mountain lake.

He squatted down in front of her, so that they were eye level. A leathery, weathered, veined hand extended and drew Karen's blond hair from her face so he could see her better. His touch was gentle, grandfatherly, but misleading as to what he was capable of.

"You need to wake up, Karen. Be who you are meant to be, don't keep failing at what was never there. You're a soldier, and a soldier does their duty. You may think you were a mother, but ya can't mother a beast." He stared her down, unblinking, "If you're gonna stay breathing, you better make it count. Anyone who's living now best have a reason."

He wasn't sure if she'd take to anything he said, but it was more than anyone else was willing to offer. They would string her along because they were good people. Not Joe. She was going to evolve, like the rest had to, using the skills and drive that she had left, or he was going to drop her. He resolved this quietly, and in his way, overtly to Karen. Dominic couldn't or wouldn't do it, he figured.

Joe would do what he had to to protect the others, to protect Tom, New Mexico, Hank. His boys.

"The fellas are getting water, the others are seeing to the RV. Doc's planning. Get on your feet, or stay down there for good." Joe stood up.

And extended a hand to Karen, to help her up.

In reply to John Cobb (msg # 34):

The small tin shack was old. Its construction appeared to be just as much rust as it was metal, and the thing had bit of a lean. The shack was a pumphouse, with a large metal pipe protruding out the side and down into the murky, slow running irrigation canal. The water from the storm has washed all manner of nasties into the water, and getting anything potable from it was going to be a challenge. A challenge, apparently, that someone had already under taken.

The small shack came into view as the Caravan water fetchers crested a small rise. And as it did, so did the handful of hungry, rotting, snapping, grabbing zombies that were trying to force their way into it. A terrible racket echoed from behind the thin walls, faintly reverberating off every surface for miles around. Whoever was in there was in trouble. The noise was attracting more zombies by the second.

Sweat ran down Mahmoud's temple, pooling at his jawline before dripping onto his damp, smelly shirt. He was half listening to the conversation behind him, tempted to tell Luke to shut his mouth so they could keep aware of their surroundings. They were close though, so he left it alone for now. The sound of machinery suddenly cut into the air more continuously and Mahmoud grew concerned.

Nearing the ridge to overlook down to the canal, the veteran Caravaner frowned as he noticed smoke drifting into the air. One hand held his empty bin while the other raised up in a sign of silence to the others behind him. Glancing back warily to catch the gazes of his water crew, he motioned for them to follow.

They could hear the gnashing of teeth, the groans and hisses, the symphony of death that was undoubtedly a gathering of undead before they even crested the hill and caught sight of a congregation of rotters battering their decomposing but dangerous limbs against a tin can of a shack.

The noise of the shack was palpable, and whether there was a human/s inside or not was beside the point. They needed the water of the canal, and this shack was drawing walkers from all around.

"Damnit. We have to draw them off the shack and get that racket down." As much as he wanted to withdraw, they needed water, and he thought he saw someone inside the shack, moving about frantically. Maybe the person knew how to use the equipment to get the water most productively. To an analytical guy like Mahmoud that counted.

"Luke, no gunshots, it'll only draw more of them." Mahmoud ordered with warning look to the young man. With that, Mahmoud dropped his empty water bin and looked to Hank and Tom quickly. Unslinging his rifle he would thrust it into Tom's hands as he was closer than Hank now.

"You guy's keep us covered if it comes to that. The others will hear the shots but so will the lurkers. If you have to; RUN. Luke, give them your handgun and lets go. " Mahmoud and Luke were armed with SWAT batons as their melee weapons, and the experienced Caravaner was no sooner passing off his and Luke's weapons to Hank and Tom before he was seizing the frightened Luke by the collar and pulling him along down the ridge towards the shack.

A few of the undead detected Mahmoud and Luke approaching, the men running down towards the fray, Mahmoud in the lead, bushy beard bristling, his arms thick with muscle after months of survival.

The first he struck in an upswing, sending the rattled corpse back from the sheer force and into the tall grass. He pushed another that encroached too soon to quick, earning him a moment to take a hold with his free hand of a disgusting mass of flesh that was the creature's throat. With a tired jerk of the hand, Mahmoud sent it behind him, for Luke to dispatch. Mahmoud knew that he had to keep Luke close or the kid might mess up and get them both killed. He'd have to use him as an extension of himself.

The batons were effective, even Luke managing to edge off a few walkers, but more were appearing at the treeline's, some of them stumbling into the canal.

Mahmoud used this to his advantage, as he was exhausted already. With the lack of food, and the exertion of days of conflict and exposure, he hardly had the energy.

"Hey! If anyone's in there, turn this damn thing off!" Mahmoud called into the shack as he tried to get through to it. Of course the pump was malfunctioning, but Mahmoud's blurred mind didn't care about that fact.
"Shit." He breathed out, fatigued, as he used a SWAT boot clad foot to send a biter from the shack and in enough backwards momentum to fall into the canal.

He could sense Luke behind him doing likewise, and they were making some progress but now they were at the focal point of attention and were in danger of being surrounded also. The looks on their sweaty faces indicated they were well aware of the danger.

"Get out here and help us or let us in!" Mahmoud yelled into the shack, knocking the wall with his baton before a zed descended upon him, effectively pinning him to the wall of the shack as Mahmoud used his baton to block the snapping teeth of the walker before it took his nose off. He rose a knee to keep it just far enough away so it couldn't yet get a firm grasp on him with its cold, pallid hands.

"Luke!" Mahmoud called out, seeing further undead approaching surprisingly quick behind the one that was keeping him bottled up.

Luke was in a similar predicament, but reacting far less effectively, and was backing up along the edge of the pumphouse they had temporarily cleared, until he was up against the canal edge, teetering practically.

"Fuck!" The mustached millennial panicked as a biter with its intestines hanging from its midsection came at him, eyes bleary and rotted out, revealing some black abyss behind.

As it grabbed onto him, Luke screamed, stabbing the pointy end of his baton through the sloshy eye socket and into the brain, slaying the zed. However, this sent it's corpse falling onto him, and Luke lost his footing, both of them falling into the canal with a loud and voluminous splash. He didn't emerge, at least not yet, as bubbles crept to the surface.

In the canal, undead writhed as they sank underneath the water, some managing to stay up by getting caught on debris along the sides.

"Hey, we're going to be fine once we get out of this rough patch things will pick up for us...you'll see" Dominic said with an optimistic smile hoping to dispel any uncertainty Izzy may have over the future. Given a bit of time he was certain that with the variety of skills that the group possessed that they would be able to carve something out for themselves somewhere.

Hearing the door to the RV opening Dominic would briefly look up to see Lorenzo making his way round to the vehicles engine compartment, with Joe and Karen meanwhile talking together as they buried Ricky. Dom wasn't sure what to do about Karen; this was the second time her actions had led to members of the caravan being killed even if it wasn't her who had done the killing. Part of him wanted to put her down but was it really fair to kill a person over the actions of another?
Knowing that there was still no easy answer to the question he drew his attention away from the problematic blonde and back to the ragged map draped across his and Izzy's knees like a really bad blanket. Giving the situation they were in some more thought before speaking again "well first things first, we need to cross the river, if Lorenzo can get that RV going then we’ll have little trouble reaching the bridge, failing that we should be able to find something in Lindsay we can use" the town wasn't very far from where they were and there were some farms along the way too that may yield an ageing pickup truck. The only downside was that the town was kind of an obvious move and he'd hate to turn up only to find Kaidan sat there waiting for them. Better to get the RV working and skirt around the place entirely.

It was with these thoughts running through his head that he'd hear a distant rumbling sound. It was so long ago since he'd last heard a man made sound that it took him several moments to realise that is was some kind of a generator, though there was no telling how far away it was as sound had an unfortunate habit of travelling in the relative silence of Zombieland.
Deciding that it wasn't worth worrying about and with more important things to occupy him, Dom returned to the map "So...we head east and hope to pick up a few vehicles on the way and then cross the river" what could possibly go wrong?

Other than a noncommittal uh-huh to New Mexico, which was as close the kid was going to get to an expression of gratitude, Lorenzo left the RV. He plodded down the steps and nudged the toolbox closer to the front wheel, lit up one of his few remaining smokes, and set to work.

He was aware of the others outside- it was hard for a survivor to not be hyper aware, especially one usually raring for a fight. Hopefully his arm would heal soon. Other than knocking zeds' heads together, or sniping at the people who were supposed to be his teammates, Lorenzo didn't have many ways of blowing of steam these days.

What did he used to do to occupy himself? He tried to remember, only half-focused on the task at hand. Helped strip cars. Finished fights. Wait, that was more stuff he had to do. What did he like to do?

Listen to music. Stupidly loud music. The kind of stupidly loud where it felt like the car windows were shaking. He couldn't imagine doing that now, he might as well get a speaker phone and scream come eat me! He grumbled to himself and stopped the half-assed recollections there. He listened to the sound of the dirt being piled into the grave. Sucked to be Ricky. Just when they got rid of Janice, too. Aw well, at least she couldn't bother him from hell.

He kept working, trying to gauge the state of the rig. He squinted, muttering under his breath in Spanish.

In reply to Mahmoud (msg # 38):

Hank raised an eyebrow at Tom's outburst, though didn't say anything about it. They'd been doing fine without utensils so far, and he could understand his brother's sentiment. Ya, there were things that could be taken care by oneself, but the right tools made things a lot easier. Giving Tom his space he returned to scanning the grass, looking for a rustle that couldn't be the wind.

At sound of commotion ahead Hank regretted not bringing his crowbar. It was almost a cardinal sin nowadays, but they'd needed all the free hands they could get if they were going to bring back enough water. Following Mahmoud he swore under his breath at the sight.

Um...ok. Tom stammered as the gun was shoved into his hands. The only time he'd really trained with a ranged weapon was with Joe, until joining the caravan Hank hadn't wanted them to rely on something that could run out of ammo and made so much noise. Following his video game training he crouched and tried to line up the sights as best he could.

Right. Hank took Luke's gun with a nod. He wasn't about to just leave the other two, but in a world where the dead walked a gun was almost as valuable as a person, more so depending on who you asked. Watching them charge in he was impressed at the progress they made before the element of surprise faded. Tapping his branch he watched Luke fall into the canal with his slain foe. Shit. Scanning the numbers approaching and the distances involved he let out a sigh. He couldn't hit anything from here, but then again he didn't need to. Tom, stay here. I'm going to draw some away to give them some breathing room. Shoot and run if you have to. Not giving the kid a chance to object he took off.

Scooping up a rock he hurled it at what used to be a man several walkers ahead. Come and get it. He called as it turned, aware he was drawing more then just the couple in front of him. Using the branch he didn't go for killing blows, not wanting to break it. Instead he went for jabs to the face and only swung for their knees, backing away all the while, only giving the briefest glances back to make sure he didn't run into another one. He just wanted to give Mahmoud room to get in the shack and deal with the noise, then they could deal with the leftovers. Even though he wasn't going on a rampage like the others had been he was soon just as sweat logged.

In reply to New Mexico  (msg # 30):

Bohannon turned his gaze out the window, peering through the ugly floral curtains that adorned the undersized opening in the side of the RV. He saw Karen and Joe chatting graveside, the former slumping down into a ball once again. "Some of us need more help than others..." He said absently, thinking of the poor, sad woman he had had a fling with just before the storm.

Rejoining the conversation a little more presently, Bohannon rebutted "You wanna be helpful? Here, grab that." He pointed to his orange nylon duffel bag, tucked out of the way, just under the foot of the bed. It had the last of his extra clothes, a nearly full box of  .45 Colts, and beneath all that was a jumbo evidence bag of assorted prescription narcotics.

New Mexico kicked the bag over to the cowboy. It rattled tellingly as it connected with the leg of the table, announcing the illicit portion of its contents. Bohannon ignored it and pulled out his last fresh set of clothes. A pair of faded jeans and a navy t-shirt with a badge logo that read "the police never find it as funny as you do." It took some careful maneuvering to get his leg into the pants without snagging his wound, but he managed it.

Now fully clothed, Bohannon turned to the topic on everyone's mind. "So Kiddo, what do you think the next move is for our merry little band of adventurers?" He asked with a wry grin.

In reply to Mahmoud (msg # 38):

Rather surprised to hear another voice coming from outside the shack that had more in its repertoire than a gaggle of moans, John let his momentary surprise distract him from his work...as the second flurry of sparks could attest. Some bastard was knocking on his door to fix the machine making the noise. John responded with the utmost urgency and politeness one could in his situation. Adjusting his tone to properly express his feelings over the loud whine of the engines.

"AND JUST WHAT IN BUMBLEFUCK DO YOU THINK I'M DOIN' IN HERE DICKHEAD? LISTENING TO A FUCKING MIXTAPE?!"


In his temporary rage, John managed to get his hand caught in a belt, replace a blowout, and figure out what in the hell he could do about the noise. Quickly wrapping his hand while he thought up an idea, he set to work on the wires to find a quick cure-all. The labels were well worn with age and poor maintenance, it was no wonder this thing was going to shit. Probably hadn't seen a repair since it was made.

The man outside began asking for help as John shimmed along the cords in his search.

"I CANT GET SHIT OPEN FOR YOU WHEN IM SHOULDER DEEP IN GEARS GODDAMN IT. JUST FUCK OFF FOR A BIT, OR CLIMB A FUCKING TREE!"

John was a bit more aggressive than usual, sure. But with the situation unfolding the way it was, he needed to him himself to help anyone else. And it was a solid ten minute search before he deducted which one of the rusted valves were the emergency shut-off. Damn thing had more rust than a tank sitting in Chernobyl. Hefting his weight onto a makeshift prybar, John used some leverage to slowly move the Vale around. When the screeching sound finally quit around him, he found that the constant banging went with it. So at least he knew it was working. Though it'd have to be fixed later, there were more pressing matters outside.

"PUMPS OFF, YOU HANGIN' ON?"

He bellowed as he began to unbarricade the door.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:39, Tue 20 Sept 2016.

In reply to Joe (msg # 36):

Karen took Joe's offered hand and rose to meet him on the side of the grave, eye to eye. The old man was right. Full of shit, but right. Anybody living in Zombieland needed to have a reason to keep going, whatever that reason was. Maybe this was it. Maybe Joe's pep-talk had given her her reason. But perhaps it wasn't the reason Joe wanted.

"How do I do that Joe?" she asked, horsely. "How the hell do I do that?" Karen held his attention. She straightened her back, feeling her strength returning to her. "You want me to kill my boy? Otherwise, what? You're gonna have to do it for me?" Karen reached out and grabbed the handle of Joe's shovel, preventing him from finishing his task. "My son is sick Joe. He spent his childhood seeing councillors, therapists, psychologists, you name it. He was institutionalized when he was nine. But they couldn't find anything wrong with him. I did everything I could. And the shit he's been through... Me almost dying in Iraq, his dad's suicide... The fucking end of the world! The first time he saw them they ate his friend's parents, right in front of him. Bit the kid he was in love with. By the time I found him he had a gun to the poor boy's head and he pulled the trigger to keep him from turning. A few months later he was taken from me. He watched them beat me. Kick me over and over again until my ribs broke. And when they dragged me away from him they had him for three days, alone in their lab. The day after we got to Fort Dixie he disappeared. Vanished into thin air to spend the winter doing god-knows-what. He's been through Hell! He's sick and he's been forced to live through an absolute Hell that no child should ever have to endure. You want me to kill him Joe? Fuck you. He doesn't need to die, he needs help. You want me to find my reason to live? There it is. I found it. I'm going to save my son."

In reply to Dominic Dubreton (msg # 39):

Izzy listened to the positivity in her mate and allowed it to affect her, having learned enough that to be content or happy one really had to choose to be that way, and let it be that way so long as it could. In spite of any doubts that would almost always remain, she managed a sidelong look to Dominic, her lips forming into a small, knowing grin, albeit cautiously at first. "Yea, yea you're right, hun." She looked him in the eyes, not just playing around, and confirming he really meant what he said.

With Dom going over the working plan further, Isabelle ran the details through her mind again, almost not trusting her judgement with how hungry she was. It was worse for her men, she understood. Back in pioneering days the Donner Party had been devastated by exposure and starvation, the men suffering the most, as they required the most 'fuel' to keep going. Giving Dominic a subtle look over, she resolved to keep an eye on him to make sure he did not succumb to that trait of leaders, of putting everyone and everything above themselves, to the point of dire consequence.

Izzy heard the inscrutable sound the same time as Dominic, her ears practically perking as it disrupted the forest serenity, perverse as it was with Ricky buried not far away. Dominic seemed unworried, or at least willing to let it go for the time being. She might have reached the same conclusion. "Maybe our guys found something." She pondered, a free hand moving to her side, fingertips roaming the holstered grip of her glock at her waist, making sure it was there in case something they ignored came to call. They could be beset by walkers at any point, but that sound would draw the dead away, which was fine so long as it wasn't towards their own boys. But if it wasn't their own, was that any better?..

"Plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy. That was something I taught the kids in my high school history classes. What other choice do we have? Heh. We've survived this long, we keep going, we get ourselves the means to move and then we move our butts to higher ground and let our people recover. If Atlanta comes to call then we get rid of him once and for all." Izzy added to Dom's assessment of their working plan, her gaze shifting from her lover out to Karen some distance away, silently acknowledging the liability, perhaps preparing herself mentally for a choice she alone may be capable of making should Karen prove untrue. When you had just one leg, you couldn't run away from reality as easily as everyone else.

"That sound.. Do you think?.."

Chapter 6 - The Caravan THE LOST BOYS "Amongst The Mud And The Blood"

Flashback - St. Louis - Chapter 3 - Lyle, Justin and Kaidan

"Come on Jee, stay with me! Stay with me buddy." Lyle Caranza stooped over Justin's body as he slipped away, succumbing to bites on his arms and his shoulders. The trio had swept the CDC building and found a nothing more than what you'd expect. Now they found themselves at the end of a dead-end alley way in downtown St. Louis with nowhere to go. Justin was dead. Lyle was panicked. And Kaidan sat on his knees, watching the dead make their slow approach to consume them all. They had tried all the doors on their route, finding each one chained, bolted or otherwise impassible. This was the end of the line for Kaidan...

Lyle rose to his feet, furious at his friend's passing. "This is all your fault! Jee is dead because of you! And now we are too!" Lyle lunged forward and punched the slender teen in the face. As Kaidan toppled Lyle kicked him again and again. Suddenly a loading door behind them rolled up revealing three teenagers. "Hey come on! We're here to rescue you!" One of them shouted, ushering Lyle and Kaidan inside before the Zombies could get them.

With the loading dock shut tight behind them Kaidan started scrambling away from Lyle. "This guy kidnapped me and my friend out there! Please you have to help me!" he lied.

The teen who seemed to be in charge faced Lyle, who immediately denied it. It was becoming a shouting match. The words "he tried to have sex with me" cut through the noise. That was enough. The leader of the teens smashed Lyle over the head with his club, uttering "pervert" and approaching Kaidan, offering him his hand in alliance.

"Are you alright? My name is Washington. My friends here are Dakota and Kentucky. What's your name?"

Kaidan hesitated for a moment, his eye caught by the boy called Kentucky. "Well... I guess I don't want to be "Georgia" so... I'm Atlanta. Nice to meet you guys."

...

Present - Somewhere Near Slaughter, Louisiana.

The surviving Lost Boys ran down the highway, the horde in hungry pursuit. The morning's first rays of sunlight peeked over the trees informing Atlanta that they'd been running all night. The dried blood in the boy's hair was washing down his face with his sweat. He and his group were exhausted.

"We can't keep going like this!" Dakota screamed at him. "Atlanna!"

Atlanta swivelled his head back to look at the horde close behind. He looked all around him at his group. Dakota was right. They couldn't run forever. He'd hoped they could outrun the zombies by now but they just weren't fast enough like this. Sweat poured down his face, dripping off his nose and lips. He struggled to catch his breath, still whipping his head around, taking in his options. Atlanta stopped and pointed with Joe's bow into the distance. A small house presented its silhouetted shape to him, the morning light framing it in soft blue grays. "Farm house!" was all he said.

The Lost Boys resumed their marathon run in the direction of the farm house. As they neared the yard Atlanta lead them over the barb-wire fence, hoping to slow the zombies down just a little. The Boys crossed the pasture, one more fence and stormed the porch. The house's front door was wide open. A likely family of dormant walkers stirred as the tired group crashed into the living space. They were able to dispatch the ghouls with relative ease as they emerged from their not-so-final resting places as Wyoming and two others barricaded the front door.

"Everybody upstairs!" Atlanta ordered his people, still short of breath. He got them to fill the stairwell with as much of the upstairs furniture they could lift before he collapsed on the hallway floor. With his back against the wall he spoke softly. "Nobody make a sound. They'll lose interest."

A few hours passed with some of the Lost Boys catching some shut eye before the low distant rumbling sound of a malfunctioning water pump motor permeated the air. The majority of the pursuing horde were distracted by the sound and headed off in its direction, leaving Atlanta and his Lost Boys to catch a break for the time being.

Unfortunately for Dominic and his Caravan, the horde was amassing, and they were headed in his direction, growing stronger in numbers every minute. By the time the pump shut off it was too late. Zombies were following Zombies now, not even knowing where they were going or what had grabbed their attention in the first place.

It was only a matter of time before they reached the Caravan...

"Oh we've got plenty of options, but they're all as bad as each other" Dominic replied with a grin, knowing full well that the plan was liable to change at least two or three times between here and the river and that all they could do was hope that it would work out for the best "so...History teacher huh? Always knew you was a classy girl, ma mere would be proud of me" he spoke teasingly before giving Izzy a kiss on the cheek; with him feeling more than a little tempted to drag her back into the barn. But alas he had places to be, people to see...Zombies to slay, so that would have to wait for another time.

Unsurprisingly the conversation would turn to that of the distant droning of what Dom assumed to be a generator "What? That it’s Kaidan?" Dom suggested as an ending to Izzy's half asked question "…we can only hope, because that thing is going to be drawing every Zed in a five mile radius straight for it" though to be honest it'd be a little disappointing if the little shit was torn apart by Zeds instead of receiving his just desserts from the Caravan, but if it got the job done so be it.
However it was as he was saying those words that several troubling thoughts entered his head; thoughts such as: If its not the Lost Boys...then who is it? How close are we to that thing? And how many Zeds are going to pass through our camp in order to reach it? With none of these questions resulting in answers that he liked Dominic got the sudden urge to find out how Lorenzo was doing with their only form of transport and so after folding away the map and giving Izzy another peck on the cheek Dom made his way over to join him by the RV "Hey Lorenzo, how’s it looking? Do you reckon you can get it running again?" and if so how quickly because we may soon need to run like hell!

In reply to Lorenzo (msg # 40):
In reply to Benson Bohannon (msg # 42):

Mexico glanced to the front zone of the RV, observing Lorenzo pop the hood of the RV to take a look at the no doubt dusty innards of the beached whale of a vehicle. The guy was tough, but over time true colors always showed themselves, maybe Lorenzo did want them to see he wasn't that bad a guy. He couldn't blame him if that was the case though, being hard-edged gave you the edge over others, but it was exhausting.

Benson seemed to have taken the moment to survey their group as well. The RV was like a little watchtower, though it could easily become a tomb if biter's found them and surrounded them and they couldn't get the rust bucket moving.



The increasingly long-haired teen followed Benson's gaze out to Karen and Joe, guessing at who and what the cowboy meant though he wasn't about to call it out. He his fingers through his messy hair, pulling it from his face; he was going to have to tie it back or it was liable to get him killed.
An off hand comment like Bensons, devoid of eye contact, was close enough to tenderness from the gruff, increasingly beaten up outlaw that NM was liable to get. He considered that Lorenzo and Benson ought to get along for their tendency to be the assholes with hearts of gold.

Mexico grinned sarcastically when Benson enlisted him in passing his bag over, which NM did with a lackadaisical bunt with the side of his SWAT boot. The bag was a noticeable orange, which didn't matter to walkers but could be easily noticed by people of course.

The teenager's eyes went to the bag when it jostled with the contents therein, his gaze then shifting up to Benson as if to read the cowboy's intentions, both present and going forward. Not too long ago Izzy had started a confrontation with Bohannon over this matter.

Normally it would have been awkward to stand watching another man get dressed in front of him but they all knew eachother intimately enough by now. Hell he was pretty sure that Doc and Izzy were due for some private time as the mom and dad of the group, kinda. The thought brought humor to him.

As did Benson's shirt. NM's head tilted slightly as he smiled more outwardly, raising his eyebrows in silent question to Bohannon as if to ask if the man had picked that shirt out specifically or just grabbed one that might fit and was clean. Probably both.

NM walked slowly a few steps towards the front of the RV, glancing at Benson's bag a moment on the way. His left hand rested at his side, his right bracing his too slim form as he leaned against the cockpit doorway, watching brief glimpses of Lorenzo around the cracks of the popped RV hood.

The fingers of his left hand lowered a bit to drum against the hilt of his machete, sheathed accessibly where the sheath was strapped around his upper thigh with old belts.



"I think we get out of here, on the road, keep moving like before. Find ourselves some high ground I guess.We need to kill some time so some of us can heal up."

The young man answered with some thought. Their options were always limited, as they had to consider everyone in the group. It had been harder when there had been dozens of them, but for a time there had been safety in numbers even if the dangers were greater. They were more fluid with just a handful left, which could help, sadly enough.

NM had been alone most of the apocalypse since it started, until he met up with people usually one at a time. He had some survivor's guilt lingering, as anyone he'd ever met had died by the biters or by other people. NM had almost been killed by Sam's cronies, and then Sam himself, but true to form he made it out. Part of him considered what it would be like to be alone again, but na, he was a people person, and these were his people, even if just for now.

"I once travelled with this kid, Abbie. Real badass despite her age. I think kids, some kids, adapt better to this new world than most adults. She was fast, and smart. I was with her, just the two of us for quite a while. We found some luck in the city, hung out in a penthouse apartment for a bit. Eventually had to move on, but it was a nice place. We just did whatever we wanted. Just wandered, no real purpose."

He paused then turned back from watching Lorenzo to Benson again, a smile popping up again, "So yea, I have no clue. Same old same old right?" Changing tack slightly, NM nodded at Benson's bag. "Mind if I try something? My shoulder's been nagging me still."

In reply to Lorenzo (msg # 40):



The camp went about its routine, the tree's and bushes surrounding the area listing softly in a cool breeze. Earlier in the morning birds had been heard singing and going about their mating and foraging rituals, but at present the air was quiet and still but for the noise in the distance, in the direction of the canal that started, and then shortly later, stopped.

A walker stalked barefoot through the woods, following at first the sound from the canal, and then the sounds of camp, sporadic enough but telling the monster which way to go. They were the dumbest of creatures, but they never rested, and would often walk in one direction endlessly until distracted by a sound of life, the singing of birds, etcetera, until a more obvious opportunity distracted them yet again.

As Lorenzo went about his work at the RV, a white haired, heavily mangled but still intact walker broke through the bushes a few meters from Lorenzo. Its raspy, ragged breathelessness fortelling its presence just before it became visible.

The lipless mouth presented grey-ish yellow teeth, clacking and snapping together as if the flesh of the Caravaner were already in its maw.

Arms extended as far as the dried out nature of the body would allow, and it staggered forward towards Lorenzo, pale, dead, rubbery eyes seeming engaged suddenly as if it was still capable of feeling alive.

In reply to Hank Lucion (msg # 41):
In reply to John Cobb (msg # 43):


Mahmoud was glad that Tom and Hank were there to cover for them, though he was worried for them all the same, kicking himself for getting cornered like he had. A rule to staying alive was not being a hero all the time. He wasn't afraid of dying, but he didn't want to die being gnawed on by these things.

Sweat rolled down Mahmoud's face as his muscles strained to keep back the dead weight of the rotter. There was nothing he could do for Luke then, and while he hoped he was alright his own attention became more and more singular. He could see Hank arrive up close to lure off the dead that were about to mob around the shack, giving Mahmoud a break.

The man inside the shack yelled back at him after his own cries, with Mahmoud gritting his teeth briefly, just as frustrated but feeling in the most danger. "Funny guy! You're welcome." Mahmoud groused, breathing heavily. He was fatigued, and weakened from the lack of food and water lately. His rushing in might have been ill-conceived. In fact, it certainly was. He'd wanted to help. But he'd dragged the others into this mess too..

"We're trying!" He spouted back to the shack man, relief washing some of his trepidation off when that attention grabbing sound went away. The walker upon him kept attacking unabated however, its meal just within its grasp.

When the door became unbarricaded behind him, the pressure of Mahmoud and the sizable biter trying to envelop him caused the door to give way, with both the living and the dead falling inside to join John.

Mahmoud dropped his baton, and instead braced his forearm under the snapping jaw of the lurker as it snapped at his face, "Kill it, kill it!" He was losing his stamina to keep it off of him.

Luke emerged from the canal water with a hefty splash of water all around, taking a deep gasp of air as he did so. The walkers that had fallen in around him tried to go after him, but it was far from a sure thing as the water carried them aimlessly down the canal or into the grassy siding.

The soaked hipster cried out and thrashed for the edge of the canal that his people were on, tattooed arms reaching out frantically, grabbing grass, reeds, anything to get him out. He succeeded only in pulled grassy debris and muddy earth into the canal with him however, panic set in his eyes.

"It's holding onto my Alden Indys!!" Luke exclaimed in intense fear, meaning of course his expensive leather, handmade hip shoes. The walker who'd fallen in with him had a hold on them.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:42, Mon 26 Sept 2016.

In reply to Dominic Dubreton (msg # 47):

It was probably a good thing the doc came over, because Lorenzo looked like he was about a second away from cranking the obscenities he'd been muttering at the RV up to shouting. Stupid thing. Not that it could understand it was a stupid thing, it was just a stupid RV, but that didn't make him any less annoyed or the RV any less stupid. He'd really wanted it to be their ticket out of here. Now what? Wait for the gaggle of middle-schoolers to catch up to start another firefight?

He turned to Dominic with a marginally cooler expression. The misplaced ire he had toward the medic had dried up now that there were more pressing matters. "It's no good," he complained, waving an accusatory hand toward the RV. "Unless I can pull a new battery outta my ass, I don't know how else to fix this fucking-" puncuated by a kick to the front fire "- stupid thing."

He stared at the vehicle for a moment, thinking, but was rudely interrupted by a sudden crashing. The ugly knife hung at his hip was drawn in a flash. As soon as he registered the ghoul, Lorenzo was already maneuvering to the side, starting a routine as practiced and fluid as any dancers'. One wanderer wasn't a big deal. It was hardly even fun, really.

"Oh, he looks hungry! You think he's alone?" he crowed to Dominic. He whistled at the monster. "Come on then, speed racer."

Keeping half an eye on the brush, though he trusted Dominic to handle any stragglers, Lorenzo tried to goad the creature further from the treeline. He wasn't willing to bet his life on the thing being alone. Efficiency trumped the desire to put it down, so he waited for the right moment, trying to lure it into a lunge.

Then he'd stick 'em.

Lorenzo grinned toothily. Jarring, but he looked almost playful.

In reply to Karen (msg # 44):

He'd gotten Karen to her feet, and that in itself was something, as the woman damn near croaked and trembled all over again. Joe regarded her with his sharp eyes as she seized upon the shovel, imploring, arguing, to himself or to herself, one or both.

"I've heard sadder stories, Blondie. Your boy ain't special except that he's a psychopath."

It wasn't so much as beef with him as she had a beef with herself, and Joe released the shovel as she finished her tirade, letting her have it if she was so keen to grip on to something other than the right course of action she'd have to take when the time came.

"You jeopardize anyone in this group again, and I'll give ya the peace ya so clearly need." Joe threatened coolly to the distraught woman, his features stoic as he turned to witness Lorenzo coaxing a walker out of the treeline before turning back to Karen as it seemed the situation was under control.

'You got anymore air to waste or you finished?"

In reply to Atlanta (msg # 46):

Atlanta put a finger to his lips as some of his people stirred. He held out a hand to keep them calm. Whispering he said "I don't think that sound is a vehicle. Maybe some heavy equipment, I don't know, but It could be the Caravan! Saskatchewan? Take Orleans, sneak out of here, quiet as a mouse. You two go find out if it's them. Don't get seen! 'Sippi, Tex, Tennessee: Go find us some cars, get 'em running, get back here." Texas pipped up. "Atlanna? Getting cars running was usually P.K.'s job... I'm not so good with engines as he were." Atlanta rebutted. "You spent time with him on the road, you watched him work. You learned something, go figure it out!" As some of Atlanta's crew began to disperse he turned to his most trusted lieutenants. "Dakota, put a couple on watch and take whoever's left over to scavenge this house. Anything useful bring it up here, get it ready to go when Texas gets back. Wy, come with me."

Atlanta led Wyoming out a bedroom window and up onto the highest part of the roof of the farm house. There they watched the horde, far off down the road and in the fields getting further off, meandering towards the sound of the motor. Atlanta calmly and gently extended his fingertips out from his side to find Wyoming's, slowly grasping the other boy's hand. Wyoming shook him off, pulling his hand away. "Atlanna? I..." Atlanta cut him off. "'Tucky is dead Wy. I'm sad." He looked to Wyoming with puppy dog eyes, reaching out for his hand once more. Wyoming recoiled again. "He's dead because of you! It's your damn fault!" Wyoming wasn't angry with Atlanta, more just stating the facts. He walked down the roof to get away from him. "I'm not what you think I am. I can't be... what you want. Just leave me alone."

Atlanta took a few steps in pursuit of Wyoming, his face vacant of emotion, and a little frightening. "Wy! Nobody says "no" to me. You're my lieutenant now. You are going to do as I say. You'll learn that." He turned to gaze back out at the horde for a second before turning his head back to Wyoming in taunt. "I saved your life, you owe me."

Wyoming passed Dakota on his way down. She climbed up to meet Atlanta atop the roof where she found him sitting, staring out at the wanderers. "What was that about?" She asked him, with enough trust that he'd tell her the truth. "Wyoming needs to figure out his value around here. He's gonna have to pay his dues eventually. What'd you find?" He asked, perking up with new found interest. "Pantry was pretty much in tact. Stale cereal, some canned food... An old couple's stocked medicine drawer. Blood pressure, cholesterol..." Dakota shrugged those ones off. "A nearly full bottle of some pretty strong antibiotics. One of those dead zeds in there must have had strep throat or something when this thing started, poor thing." Dakota put her arm around Atlanta's hip, offering him a box of Raisin Bran and squeezing him tight. "I'm sorry." She said. "Paris Kentucky was a really nice boy. He'll be missed, by all of us, even if you don't know what that means." Dakota made sure Atlanta looked her in the eye. "The other's need to know this affects you. At least they need to think that." She finished, resting her head on Atlanta's shoulder, her hair blowing gently in the breeze while Atlanta crunched on the stale yet chewy cereal.

...

Flashback - Somewhere between St Louis and Fort Dixie, on the cusp of winter last year.

The night air was cold on the Mississippi River bank tonight. The Lost Boys, with Atlanta in tow were traveling to Fort Dixie to meet up with the Caravan and join the people of Fort Dixie.

Fallen leaves of yellow, red and orange painted the landscape a vibrant colour, though it was too dim to appreciate but for in the small ring of warmth and glow around the camp fire. The Lost Boys camp was a hive of subdued and cautiously quiet excitement. The prospect of having a Fort to call home for the winter was a thrill to all. the kids talked amongst themselves in hushed voices, trying to make sure they didn't attract any undue attention to themselves.

Washington and Dakota knelt by the firelight, pouring over a map, trying to decipher from Atlanta's descriptions how far they might be from Fort Dixie. They were arguing, clearly disagreeing about how to get where they were going, like most couples did. The others sat around the fire talking, only a few clever enough to get some sleep while the getting was good.

Kentucky had the south watch tonight. He wore his Carhardt work coat and his hair poked out from underneath his camo hunting toque, as always. Washington still hadn't added Atlanta to the watch rotation, so he had little else to keep himself busy, so he decided to sit with 'Tucky. The boys had traveled together the last couple of days. Getting to know each other better. Flirting a little.

Atlanta was trying to figure out this boy. He'd been around the block a couple of times before the end of the world, but it was clear Kentucky hadn't. Atlanta wasn't really even sure which team he was playing for. But he was getting a definite certain sort of vibe from Kentucky.

Sitting close to Kentucky in his borrowed blue hoodie, Atlanta leaned in close. The tension between them was killing him. Whatever they were talking about had faded in both their minds. They're lips were so close... Until Kentucky turned his head to look back at camp. "I...I can't do this." He said nervously. "They might see." Atlanta laid his hand gently on Kentucky's cheek. "Yes you can. The world we came from is gone. You can have anything you want, you just have to reach out and take it." with that Atlanta kissed Kentucky. Slowly at first, tentatively. Then more fervently.

Kentucky had never done this before, with anyone. He was nervous, scared even. worried that they might get caught. Worried they might get in trouble. But after a second, his fear went away. He kissed Atlanta, trying things to this point he'd never done himself, only seen in the movies, and finding that is was in fact as fun as it looked. Atlanta stopped for a brief moment to look into Kentucky's eyes. Kentucky bit his lip and said simply with a smile "Okay."

Meanwhile at the fire Washington watched his watchman, carrying on like that, with an uncharacteristic smile. Maybe things would finally actually be okay for his people. "Wyoming, can you please take the south watch? I'm not confident it's being covered..." Wyoming, was about to put up a fight until Washington pointed out why. "We should reach Fort Dixie late tomorrow, maybe early the next day, if we're slow. Everybody else get some sleep."

Upon hearing Lorenzo's diagnosis that without a new battery that the RV was as good as dead, Dominic couldn't help but swear under his breath, though considering the groups string of bad luck he probably shouldn't have been too surprised that the RV was a no go "what about all that farm machinery in the barn? Any of them use a battery?" he asked; knowing deep down that the odds of them finding a working battery in that lot weren't in their favour.

Hearing the rustle of bushes Dominic turned to watch the Zed as it shambled out of the undergrowth with Lorenzo eagerly moving in for the kill "We'd better hope its by itself, we're in no position to be fighting off a horde...especially with half of the group not here" Dominic replied; loosening his sword within its scabbard just in case any more decided to make an appearance "...speaking of which, where the fuck are they? It shouldn't have taken them this long" he continued as bad thoughts entered his mind concerning the missing group members and the generator they'd heard not that long ago with the appearance of the Zed not making him feel any better about the situation, no...they wouldn't have been stupid enough to turn that thing on...would they? "Hey Lorenzo, maybe you and me better go take a walk and see what the hold up is…what do you say?"

In reply to New Mexico  (msg # 48):

"Ain't a bad idea." Bohannon shrugged at the thought of being back out on the open road again. Before the Fort, the Caravan had spent most of their time moving from place to place. It was free. And exciting. Digging in had lost its thrill... "Where would we go though?" He asked the boy young man.

Bohannon pulled the orange bag back into the corner of the booth he was seated in. He tilted his head and gave New Mexico a sly grin. "What, the Doc run outta children's Advil again?" He leaned forward, suddenly interested. "You want somethin' stronger, you're gonna have to pay for it." This is what Bohannon was after when he took the pills from the van in the first place. He learned early on in Zombieland that those who had things had power.

Before he had a chance to barter with New Mexico though he caught glimpse of Dominic, finally emerged from the barn. Bohannon turned, unwilling to stand and go see Dominic, and wrapped his knuckles on the window. "Doc!" He shouted as he did so. "C'mere!"

It would be a second before Dominic joined them, if he decided to grace the cowboy with his presence this morning, so Bohannon looked eagerly back to New Mexico for an offer.

Lorenzo stepped to the side and evaded the staggering ghoul's lunge, allowing the creature to throw its self off kilter. He plunged the knife into the back of its head, angling the blade upward, then slid it out quickly with a wet squelch. In a matter of seconds the ghoul was dispatched, and Lorenzo was standing over it with a blackened, gory knife, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Sure, yeah. Sounds good to me," he replied. He gave the the corpse a soft kick to make sure it was done for. "Man. The longer this shit goes on the squishier they get, huh."

He glanced up at the rapping on the window, already annoyed by the potential delay. "Oh yeah," he said like he'd just remembered something. "He probably wants you 'cause his leg is all fucked. Don't know what you can really do about that though."

In reply to Joe (msg # 53):

Karen stopped listening to Joe's words as the thought donned on her that she'd been so hurt by what happened that she forgot to be a cop. Her head hung low while she thought, then snapped back up, her eyes all business. "What happened? When they took you, what happened? The flood waters came in and separated everybody, then what? How soon after did they find you? Where did they take you? How many of them were there?" Karen felt stupid that she'd spent so much time and energy thinking with her heart instead of with her head. Joe was the victim of a kidnapping, Kaidan a person of interest in the case. It was standard police work.

Karen let go of the shovel. It fell in place, for Joe to pick up if he wanted it. She closed the gap between them a little, levelling with him, as it were. "Joe we both want the same thing. We want to find him. For different reasons, sure, but we both want to find him. And If I can talk to him, one on one, when he doesn't have an audience to play to, no show to put on, I can help him. My boy needs help Joe. I need to find him."

In reply to Mahmoud (msg # 50):

Catching his thumb with the last piece of rebar that had been holding the door in place, John gave an unsolicited opinion of the sudden intruders, alongside a rather nasty comment about what they happened to do with their free time and a variety of not-so-sexual objects that didn't seem to fit the part. That said, he also stepped to the side and brought his sledge above his shoulder.

"CLOSE YER HATCH SON!"

And with a swing that more rightfully belonged in a fine game of polo, (but seeings as there were painfully few, or more to the point, no games of polo being played, it had decided to give up and join many other swings in zombie slaying), crushed the head of the intrusive zombie, and embedded itself well into it's neck. This, of course, left a small shell of what was once a zombie's head around John's favorite tool. And that just wouldn't do. Pulling the now re-deceased body off of John's guest, he began to pry his slegde free of it's meat puppet.

"Hey buddy...y'all'right?"

Watching Lorenzo dispatch the Zed with style, Dominic couldn't help but but smile at the thought that one day they might simply disintegrate leaving them solely with the issue of dealing with the living. So intent had he been on the Zed and the surrounding woodlands that he hadn't noticed the sound of the Cowboy's knuckles rapping on the RV's plexiglass until Lorenzo pointed it out to him, with the medic grumbling  "I can put him down like a dog" as he headed for the RV's door.
He'd already stitched the guy's leg up for him so short of cutting it off there wasn't much he could do for him with his severely depleted supply of medical equipment "Give me two minutes to see what he's whining about then we'll get going" Dom spoke over his shoulder to Lorenzo before pushing open the RV's door and stepping inside "Alright Bohannon, what is it you're after?"