Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"So how'd you get that?" Nick asked, pointing at the small slit that ran across the bridge of his nose.

Ellis shook his head with a touch of embarrassment. "Oh, nuh uh… I'll only tell if'ya tell me how you got that," he returned, referring to the scar on the man's brow.

Nick laughed and shifted against the wall, flashing a large grin at him. "Alright," he consented, "but you might not like it."

Ellis stared across the room at the white-jacketed man. It was late, real late, probably around two AM– he hadn't bothered to check the time. In a couple hours they'd be waking Coach and Rochelle to get some shuteye themselves, relinquishing watch to them until the sun came up a ways and they all hit the road again. The four of them were holed up in a safehouse just south of Brunswick tonight; they had walked to get there and it had been a pretty long day. Hell, it had been a long three days. It felt like it had been longer than that... longer than that that he had met the three other survivors up in his hometown and they had grouped together.

Coach was a pretty cool guy. Amiable, a love for all things food– Ellis could relate– and a decent leader when it came down to it. Sometimes he got grumpy though and didn't always have a lot of patience when it came to tomfoolery, likely from working with all those youngsters in the high school where he used to coach. He was reasonably familiar with Georgia, being a native.

Rochelle was neat too. Very friendly towards him, sometimes a little sassy towards the other two men of their party. She had rather impressed Ellis from the get-go with her ability to handle a gun, cuz he didn't know all that many girls who took to that kind of thing so easy. She was also knowledgeable about random things, Ellis supposed because of her job working as a newscaster.

And Nick.

Nick was just… well, goddamn interesting. The man was like a puzzle.

As it was, staying up on watch with him wasn't so bad at all, for all that Coach and Rochelle expressed a distinct desire not to. Personally, he didn't understand their aversion to him. Sure, he was a little different, but different wasn't always bad was it? Ellis squirmed in anticipation of the story. Nick had quite a few; they had been sharing back and forth all week… heck, the guy had half as many as he had himself, maybe– and that was pretty good for anyone who wasn't good friends with Keith!

"I had a guy try to knife me in the alley," Nick said casually.

Ellis' eyes widened. "For serious?"

"Yeah, I guess he didn't really like my face." Nick laughed. "I was plastering him at a game of Poker. I donno what he expected; when I sat down to play I warned them all I worked at the casino. They don't just let any dumb twit work the tables, you know." His pale green eyes flashed with a kind of mischief.

"Which one?" Ellis couldn't help but ask now, bubbling over with interest at this tidbit. "Y'dun mean Vegas, do you?" he asked incredulously.

Nick swept his hands out show-offishly. "Of course, Vegas, Overalls! Where else?" He chuckled a bit before returning to the question. "I worked at the Rio," he nodded.

"I was gonna bust a gut if ya said Circus Circus," Ellis said, his imagination placing the conman in the middle of all those clowns and animals and striped backdrops. It was quite the ridiculous sight.

Nick shuddered. "Ugh, I can't stand that place. I wouldn't set foot in there if they had the last slots on earth." He lifted an eyebrow with a smirk. "I had a respectable job, thanks."

Ellis stuck out his tongue. He would've jumped at the opportunity to visit the destination, but it hadn't ever exactly been within 'road-trip' distance. Hell, he hadn't even ever been outta Georgia. Though this whole apocalypse thing was going to change that.

Nick continued. "And, of course, as an employee, I wasn't allowed to bet in-house, so," he shrugged, "I took my gambling elsewhere." The conman gave a pause. "Happened to just pick a bad spot that night. You know, 'wrong place, wrong time' sort of thing. And this guy I was playing with kept ordering beer after beer– as if he was going to have enough cash to pay his tab when I was done with him…" he shook his head with a smile, playing with the rings on his fingers. "Anyway, I stepped out of the bar to get some fresh air and count my winnings and he comes out of nowhere with this thing," the conman held his hands out to indicate the length of the blade– a good six inches. "And yours truly manages to duck, but not soon enough to save me the shave."

"You didn't kill 'im, did'ju?" Ellis asked with shock.

Nick laughed. "Hardly. A bloke like that ain't worth the trouble. You know much it costs to hire a lawyer in Vegas?" Ellis chuckled uneasily as he went on. "No, no reason to kill a drunk idiot, but I can tell you he got a mean uppercut," Nick lifted his fist, then studied the floor, brow knitting ever so slightly. "Had trouble with the wife though. I guess she had difficulty believing I could get a scrape like that from slipping and falling on a roulette table."

"Well, sure she'd be worried about you," Ellis said matter-of-factly, finding her concern understandable.

"She could've at least appreciated the extra one grand I brought home that night," he said with subtle humor. "Not every guy can bring home a bonus like that on a regular basis."

The hick gave a shrug. "Money ain't everythin'."

Nick eyed him and inclined his head. "You got that right."

Ellis wondered at his sentiment a moment. He certainly hadn't expected the man to agree so readily, dressed as he was.

A puzzle, like he said.

"That's my end of the bargain," Nick stated, a smile creeping across his features.

Ellis rubbed the back of his head with chagrin. "Oh boy, well, shit that's a story-topper before I even got mine told," he said.

Nick stuck out his palm and curled his fingers. "Ante up, El."

El, ha. The conman had been calling him that ever since he had told him he preferred his full name. He wasn't sure if he was trying to get his goat or just be contrary. But either way it didn't really upset him on account of the fact that the way Nick said it made it sound so nice. Not like the way Keith said it when he was teasing him for stuff, nothing like that at all. It had actually made Ellis realize that maybe the reason he didn't like the shorthand was because of Keith, who always made it into some kind of joke when Ellis didn't want to try his next great scheme that might get the both of them killed. He looked up at Nick and blushed, then considered how to word his story. "Well, okay. Y'see, Keith an' I…"

"Christ, I should've known," Nick interjected.

Ellis continued without pause, already gaining steam. "Keith an' I went deep sea fishin' this one time. A'course, we didn't know nuthin' about it or anythin'– it ain't like regular fishin', y'know. Anyway, Keith figured, fish is fish, right?" Ellis stopped to laugh. "Couldn't've been more wrong. He brought 'is favorite rod, the one he used at the lake, on the boat, put some bait on'it an' cast her in. Well I didn't think he was gonna catch nothin', cuz the boat was movin' so dang-awful fast, but what'd'ya know if he did? That mother pulled 'im off the railing so fast– oh man!– ya wouldn't've been able tuh blink! Next thing I know he's there in the ocean, an' disappearin' fast too, wavin' 'is arms an' yellin' an' I don't figure there's much hope fer the people runnin' the boat tuh stop an' notice, so I wave at Keith to tell 'im tuh throw me the line, ya'know? So he does, but Keith ain't always all that good uv'a shot, an' the hook grabs me by the nose an' I almost fall off the railin' my-damn-self! So then there I am, holdin' ontuh the line by the wrong end, tryin' to reel my buddy Keith intuh the boat, as if he were the damn fish!" Ellis gave a snort, and Nick gave a chuckle. "I did evenshuhly git 'im back in an' he looked so wet an' cold an' miserable… an' I was bleedin' like crazy, but there wasn't much I could do about it. But… but…"

Ellis blinked, still a little unaccustomed to actually managing to finish his stories. Over the past couple days the conman had obliged him, unlike the other two, and he had to admit, it was real nice having someone to talk to, or rather at. "Well, I guess tha's it!" he concluded. He then gave a wry chuckle. "Ain't nothin' cool like yours was though."

Nick gave a shrug. "It's not just about how you got them, it's also about how you wear them afterwards."

"I hadn't ever thought of it that way," Ellis thought aloud. He looked at him curiously. "Do I wear mine good?"

The conman chuckled. "You wear it fine. It suits you."

Ellis tipped his hat, complimented. "Thank'ya." He scratched at his nose, that weird feeling happening where the thought of it made you itchy there all of a sudden. "I git the feelin' I'm gonna have a few more after all'is is over," he said.

Nick nodded. "You and me both, kid."

Chapter Text

He hadn't been too keen at first on informing his fellow survivors that he did indeed know how to hot-wire a car, mostly because he didn't figure it would help his initial reputation any. The kid… Ellis had an excuse, he was a mechanic. Of course he knew how; there would be something wrong if he didn't. But the sleazy-looking guy in the expensive suit?

Yeah.

Only Ellis had expressed out loud: "Cool! It's like we got similar talents an' stuff!" and Nick was pretty sure the kid's reaction was because he hadn't realized the implications behind his know-how. And there certainly wasn't any reason to go into that– why he knew how. Still and all, he appreciated the boy's blithe exuberance because it was way better than the scowl from Coach or the worried frown from Rochelle.

But the last thing he was going to do was stand around and be useless and let the kid do all the work, so he had fessed up rather readily.

As he was bent under yet another steering wheel, cramped and feeling overly warm, but not so unbearably so as to remove his suit jacket, he found another reason to wish he hadn't let on. He was quickly losing patience with the whole operation.

He took his left gloved hand– Ellis had the right glove, not being ambidextrous– and twisted the two wires together. They gave a pop and a spark inches from his face and he grit his teeth, knowing the only thing that had just saved him from a nasty bit of electrocution was the protective glove. He really ought to try and stay focused. But somehow it just wasn't as easy when he was working on the fifth goddamn car that day. He could now say that he had hot-wired more cars in the last three days than he had the whole rest of his life.

The engine of the SUV roared to life, briefly, then shuddered and sputtered back into silence.

Yep. Another one out of gas. No big surprise there. He lifted his head to see Rochelle looking at him with disappointment knitted all across her brow. "Shit…" she mumbled from her seat on the sheet metal barrier, rubbing an arm.

"They're all going to be like this," Nick said, lifting an eyebrow as he sat up. He pulled off the glove and dropped it to the pavement. "It would be a better use of our time to quit trying and walk."

"Six hundred miles??" she said with exasperation. "You've got to be joking."

Coach placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "Maybe, maybe not. Ain't no reason we can't keep our hopes up. One of the evac stations on the way could still be open." He began to list them off, in order, "Jacksonville, Tallahassee…"

Nick rolled his eyes to himself, leaning back on the floormat while Coach continued to ramble. Brunswick hadn't been open when they had gotten there, and he had no reason to believe any of the other towns would be either. He studied the underside of the steering wheel absently with a frown. The maps laid out there at the abandoned evac-station had been just the same as those in Savannah. Big, ugly, red X's over all the little cities, including Charleston and Atlanta and Charlotte and anywhere else that was big and close and seemed like should have still been open– literally everything except New Orleans and Chicago. And hell if they were going to Chicago. Not only was it an extra two hundred miles, but it was north.

And a lot closer to that hideous reddened circle in Pennsylvania.

So, at his own relentless urging, they had taken the time to map out their course before leaving Savannah. They'd work their way down to Jacksonville on I-95, then head west on I-10 until they got to New Orleans. The whole trip was about seven hundred miles, rounded up. At the time, none of them had appreciated his, admittedly, cynical opinion that they'd have to be pretty damn lucky to even get down to New Orleans in time to be evacuated. And his own confidence about the unlikelihood was certainly growing with each and every precious minute they were wasting stationary on these damn cars.

The truth of the matter was that they were all going to be empty spread out along the highway like this, because for the most part, the owners had run out of gas in their retreat with no place to stop to re-fuel, forced to continue their journeys on foot. So unless the four of them were 'lucky' enough to find a vehicle that stopped because its owner turned while driving instead, they too were stuck on foot.

Nick had never had trouble describing his own luck in terms of others' misfortune before, but for some reason this wasn't setting well with him.

Perhaps though it was because of the dead, rotting zombified carcasses they found in those cars, bleeding and leaking into the plush seats and carpeted interiors; the vehicles wrecked or upside-down, having lost control at high speeds, likely above the speed limit if the long black skid marks were any indication. And the smell. The god-awful, horrifying stench of bloating corpses baking in their enclosed little metal ovens for who knew how many days.

All that aside, most of the cars that hadn't suffered such a fate, that would have been available for them to salvage, had been left idle until they also ran out of gas.

He frowned. There simply wasn't much for stragglers like them to benefit from, and that was the plain and hard truth of it.

Coach fired his gun at something in the distance, but didn't raise an alarm. "How's it goin', boy?" he called.

"I've almost got it…!" Ellis drawled back. Nick didn't know how the hick kept so enthusiastic what with the circumstances, but not understanding aside, he appreciated it; shit, it even managed to make him smile just a little. He closed his eyes and imagined the kid, lying on his back as he worked meticulously at the car's wires. He could just as easily stand and take a look, but there was a certain kind of satisfaction with just picturing it instead. It was an odd pleasure, but he didn't deny himself it.

Now, why he had taken an attraction to the young man… especially such a quick one… was beyond him.

Well, sort of.

The kid had a charming quality about him. He was friendly, and while that usually equated to 'target' in his book, Ellis was also curiously nonjudgemental.

"Aaaaan' there we go!" The Ford Pinto the hick had chosen to 'work his magic on' as he had put it, rattled uncertainly before the engine caught… and stayed on.

Nick lifted an eyebrow. Lucky twice. This was the second car the hick had brought back from the dead. The first being the one that had gotten them from the outskirts of Savannah to Brunswick.

He stood.

Ellis pushed himself into the driver's seat, leaning in to quickly look over the gauges. "Well boy-howdy, it ain't much, but it's sumthin'!" He waved them over, "Get in, y'all!"

They all hurried to the little car. Rochelle made for the passenger's seat and Ellis motioned at her. "Nuh uh, my main man Nick here gets shotgun, he been doin' work!" the hick grinned and she laughed and consented, clambering to the seat behind the driver's.

Coach joined her. The whole car gave a large shift downward as he settled in. "I am too big a man for this little thing," he said, shaking his head with chagrin. Nick withheld any commentary about finding the man a wheelbarrow.

Appreciative of the extra legroom he had just been granted, the gambler plopped himself in front and slammed the door shut. "Let's roll," he said, casting the boy a smirk.

"Alright, alright," Ellis gave a couple bobs of his head. He put the vehicle into gear and steered onto the median to get around the wreckage in the street. "I reckon she's got about fifty miles left in her," he nodded with a grin, tapping the indicator as he sped up to thirty.

"You got those wires tight together?" Nick asked. The car jerked up and down on the rough terrain, so he had need for concern. If they rattled loose, they'd lose the engine permanently.

"Shucks, I think so," Ellis said, his head ducking down to check.

Nick suppressed a wince and leaned over to grab the steering wheel before they ended up in a ditch or something.

Coach laughed. "You crazy, boy."

"Sweetie, you're supposed to keep your eyes on the road," Rochelle said in a gentle, reminding tone.

Ellis came up a couple moments later. "Sorry, Ro'," he apologized, then looked at Nick and took the wheel back from him. "We're gooood." He got past the road block and drove the car back onto the freeway, easing the little compact up to sixty.

"Fun fact about Ford Pintos," Ellis began to jabber happily. "The original gas tanks– you know, the ones put in by the manufacturer, not like if ya git 'em replaced– which a lotta folks did, I did bunches uv'um myself, I kin really thank Ford for that." He laughed. "Well anyway, they were defective cuz they wanted tuh keep the weight under 2,000 pounds– iono marketing or sumthin'– so they were sorta structurally weak an' whatnot, an' it turns out that if you crash a Pinto at twenty-five miles an hour or faster, it consistently– like I'm talkin' every single time– the tank'd rupture an' gas'd leak all over the place, an' half the time it'd light an' man oh man." Nick gave him an amused sideways glance; the kid's grin was huge.

"Oh, that makes me feel bunches better," Rochelle said now eyeing the backseat. Coach shifted.

"Dun worry," Ellis was quick to interject, "this one's been replaced. I checked when I was tappin' it. Most uv'um have been."

Nick looked over, suspicious that he was missing something, but almost too proud to bring it into question. He fiddled with the lock on the door. Against his better judgement, he finally decided to ask. "Tapping it?"

"Yeah, tuh see if there was any gas in it," Ellis nodded, his gaze steady on the road.

Nick licked his lower lip. "You're telling me there is a way to tell?" he clarified.

"Well shit, man, sure. I mean, it does take a bit uv'a trained ear sometimes," he admitted. "But if it sounds hollow, it ain't got nuthin' left, an' if not, well, then there might be sumthin' in there. No guarantee, but yeah."

Okay, so it wasn't a complete crap-shoot. Nick gave himself a brief moment to feel stupid for not thinking of such a simplistic check, and a longer moment to appreciate the mechanic's expertise. At least one of them had a useful background when it came to dealing with a zombie apocalypse; he couldn't say the same for football has-been or little miss reporter.

Coach chuckled from the rear, giving the back of his chair a kick. "You just got schooled, Nick."

The conman frowned and held his tongue stringently because telling the man that his fat ass wouldn't even fit underneath the vehicles wasn't likely to make this short car trip any nicer.

Oddly though, the hick came to his defense. "Come on, Coach, give the guy a break." He gave a snorting laugh, "You prolly wouldn't'a thought uv'it either." The older man lapsed into silence at this and Ellis leaned over and drove an elbow into the conman's arm. "Ain't like he lives underneath a car like I do."

His mind conjured the image before he could stop it– the boy on his back again, legs spread, head back…

Okay, time to quit thinking about that. He squeezed the door handle and willed it away, staring out the side window. But the boy wasn't too helpful when it came to getting to stop thinking about him.

"Any of y'all wanna sing a song?" he asked abruptly, his eyes on the rear view mirror to peer at Coach and Rochelle in the backseat. The two exchanged somewhat hesitant glances.

"One hundred bottles of beer on the wall…" Nick mumbled to himself, half sing-song.

Ellis heard it and grinned. "One hundred bottles a'beer!" he continued.

There was no stopping the kid now. Nick joined him, both their voices growing in volume; he matched the kid's baritone. "Take one down, pass it around…"

"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall," Coach and Rochelle couldn't help but add in.

And so they went down the road.

Chapter Text

They only got through fifty-two of the bottles before the car pooped out. Ellis grumbled to himself for being wrong about the mileage, because they had only gotten about thirty miles further down the road, but worst of all, he had passed the off-ramp that lead to a safehouse in Kingsland about five miles ago– the freeway sign about the various eats had been spray-painted over with a bright orange house and cross– and he had figured they could get to the next one, or at least close, cuz the sign also had 'next 18' marked on it.

So, they'd be backtracking, unless they wanted to walk another thirteen miles.

The previous owners of the vehicle must've mistreated the poor thing, abusing regular maintenance checkups to ruin its mpg the way they had, that was for damn sure. Ellis gave an irritated huff.

Nick, as it turned out, wanted to go the thirteen forward. Coach and Rochelle wanted to go the five back. And Ellis, well, heck if he knew what was the right call… sure shootin' he could hoof it the next thirteen, though it'd make for an awful long day considering the ten they had put behind them before acquiring the Pinto. What more concerned him was the lack of vehicles they had passed on the drive. Oh, they had passed a few in the last thirty miles, but most of them had been wrecked or turned upside down.

That, and they had passed a lotta zombies.

As they all got out of the car, Nick took to clearing the area, magnum firing cleanly as he took down six of the nearby wandering monstrosities. "The place is probably crawling with these things," he said off-handedly, reloading.

"And what's to say the next place isn't?" Coach eyed him.

Nick glared back, stuffing his gun into the holster at his thigh. "Nothing. But at least we'd be further down the road."

There was a brief pause. Ellis could tell that as far as Coach was concerned, the argument had already been won the moment Rochelle sided with him earlier. Mostly because the gambler couldn't form a majority by himself what with Ellis 'holding-out' like he was. Ellis tentatively stepped around the car to join them on the right side.

"I'm gettin' real sick of your attitude, Nick," the elder man grumbled.

The conman turned and lifted a supple eyebrow. "Fine, you know what? Maybe I'll just go myself." He swept out a hand south with an all too confident smirk. "Then, you won't have to deal with my 'attitude'." His fingers made the quotation marks in the air, though the tone of his voice was enough to get the implication across on its own.

Ellis felt his stomach do a flip-flop. "Whoa, whoa," he quickly stepped in between them. He looked back and forth at the each of them, making sure both were calming down. "Let's not get hasty none," he said. He looked up at Nick, feeling… well, honestly, a little hurt by his threat. He thought they had gotten past the whole 'I'd be better off without all you' jag he'd been on their first day together, at least, he hadn't brought it up since.

The man's green eyes shifted and unhardened when they met the blue. "Relax, El, I didn't mean it."

"Like hell," Coach grunted, folding his arms.

Nick's brow drew down, but he didn't say anything more, sinking into a brooding silence.

Rochelle shifted awkwardly on her feet, still standing close to the car, having kept out of the argument thus far, probably not wanting to aggravate it or make it worse. "So, we're heading back, right?" she asked off-handedly, scratching an itch.

He felt Coach and Nick's glances both round on him. Ellis swallowed uncomfortably and studied his feet, stalling for a little time to think.

Damn he hated bein' stuck in the middle of decidin' things like this.

And he imagined if he sided with Nick, it'd start a real ruckus.

Nick, however, spared him the decision. "Yeah, we are," he said, his feet already starting into motion, headed northward briskly. All of them were a little surprised by his quick change of mind, Ellis included. Rochelle bent to get the few scant supplies they had out of the car; Coach took their backpack from her and put it on. Ellis snagged the knapsack of food and water and his hunting rifle, securing it to his back. Both Coach and Rochelle began walking, but chose to maintain the distance the cardshark had gained on them, staying in the rear. Ellis gave them each a glance, before jogging to catch up with the man.

Nick emotionlessly plugged off what was in front of him as he went along, his face pulled into a deep, but unreadable concentration. Ellis wasn't even sure if he had noticed him when he jogged up on his right. He waited a moment in lockstep, then plucked up the courage to speak. "Hey, uh…" he started, peering at him from around the lifted gun. The conman gave him his attention; Ellis quickly began fiddling with his hat. "I woulda agreed wit'chu… 'bout goin'."

"I know."

Ellis tilted his head. "You did?" he asked.

There was a subtle nod and another shot from the magnum.

Ellis straightened up, pulling his shoulders back; they gave a little crack with the stretch. He wasn't sure what to say to that, cuz if Nick had in fact known, like he was saying he did, that seemed like more of a reason to argue pressing on towards Yulee than relenting and going back up to Kingsland.

Didn't it?

The green eyes flitted over. "But thanks."

"Oh, no problem," Ellis drawled. He fiddled with the pistol on his waist. "Ya want some help?" he asked. Nick didn't respond for a moment, reloading once more. Ellis blinked, then blushed, hoping he hadn't come off wrong with the offer. His tone quickly changed to an apologetic one. "I know ya got it covered, I was jus'…"

"I'm not angry at you, kid." A smile fluttered across his features, as if to prove it. But Ellis was busy being impressed by his ability to read him with such ease. "A little irritated by the situation," the gambler admitted, "but not you."

Ellis scratched at the back of his head. "That one was my bad."

"You got us another twenty-five miles down the road," Nick reminded him. "What would have been a full day's walk took half an hour cuz of you."

"I guess'so…" His mood began to lift. He smiled appreciatively. "Hey will you stay up on watch wit' me tuhnight?"

The conman laughed. He seemed to weigh something in his head before responding. Ellis watched as the man put on a sneaky grin. "You don't have to ask. It's not a date."

The hick felt himself blush a second time. The reason they had been paired together the first time back in Savannah was because neither of them had been tired yet. Since then it'd just developed into the routine. He and Nick stayed up for six, then Coach and Ro' stayed up for six, then they got as far as they could in the next twelve or so hours before repeating the process. But in the short week that they had all been together, Ellis had grown attached to those six hours he got with the man, who seemed to understand him and listened to him and at the same time challenged him just a little bit. His mouth began to work awkwardly. "No, but, I mean… well…"

But the conman was quick to reassure him. "Of course I will, El." He switched his magnum to his left. "You take right, okay? I'm going to get in a little practice with this side."

Ellis lifted his pistol and smiled. He knew the man didn't need the practice, but he didn't care, just happy to be so readily accepted.

Chapter Text

Nick had been right about the swarm of zombies.

As they walked down off the northbound off-ramp, they were greeted by at least two dozen of the angry creatures, hissing and growling as they ran towards them. It had given Ellis more than enough reason to whip the machete off his hip and slice his way through half of them while the other three backed him up. The zombies practically lined themselves up for him and he dispatched them with several flourishing swings.

He lopped off a final head and gave a whoop, twirling the blade in a circle with his wrist. "That's how it's done right!" he announced, pulling his bill down further over his forehead.

Rochelle flashed him a quick thumbs up and Coach gave a nod before taking to scratching his scruffy chin.

The hick peered over at the conman, eager to garner his reaction as well, but the man's attention was to his far left, under the overpass.

"Nick?" he asked.

The green eyes blinked, then moved to focus on him. "Way to go, Tiger," he inputted, voice low.

The words would have normally made his chest swell, but the man's prior distraction deflated it for him. Ellis felt his eyebrow lift, wondering what he had been staring at, his own eyes now scrutinizing the direction with a sort of annoyance.

The other two hadn't noticed Nick's distraction.

"Sign says we just got a little further to go," Coach said, inclining his head at a sheet wood board that had been erected to the railing.

"Thank goodness," Rochelle said. "My feet are killing me."

"Just make sure nothing else does," Nick mumbled with a half-sided grin.

They stayed to the sidewalk, crossing an intersection. "Looks like we got eee-lec-tricity," Ellis drawled, motioning at the streetlights that shone a constant green for the high-traffic through-street and red for lesser. It was one of those ones that was rigged to operate with metal detectors, so when cars got in a particular lane, it'd flip to accommodate them.

Which probably made this the longest red light ever, cuz there weren't no traffic to switch for.

As they passed by the corner, he couldn't help but give the crosswalk button a push to force it into changing.

The system gave an immediate chirp and he winced, not even having considered the possibility that it'd be fixed up for blind folks too. Coach shot him a disparaging glare that made his shoulders droop. Nick and Rochelle both pulled close as the chirps continued and the indicator across the street displayed the count-down. Ellis gawked. Twenty freaking seconds? It wasn't even that big of an intersection!

He quickly switched to his pistol, eyes darting around him. He could hear the scrambling of feet. Nick leveled his magnum, east; Rochelle peered through her scope, south; Coach closed in the rear direction from where they had come. They waited, wordlessly.

All four of them began firing seconds later.

Zombies poured out in all directions.

Thankfully, out in the open as they were, the creatures had to close quite a distance to reach them, and that gave them a significant advantage. In his head he kept track of the shots.

Nick tugged his eighth. Ellis briefly backed him in the split second it took him to shove another clip in. He returned to his own angle until he had to feed a new magazine into his own pistol. Now Ro' reached fifteen; he turned a 180° to plug a few coming her way and Nick tossed the magnum into his left hand to cover his angle during his short absence. Coach shoved a new shell into his shotgun with each shot he took, taking aim for any zombies that made the mistake of being clumped, maximizing the spray of his ammo. Ellis turned from Ro' as Nick reloaded a second time, and his eyes flitted to the blinking display.

9… 8… 7… Chirp, chirp, chirp.

Nick covered his reloading time again. The brunt was now coming from the south.

"Boys…?" Rochelle's voice was laced with a hint of panic as her fingers fumbled at the empty clip of her rifle.

All three men turned to mow down the predicament headed her way. Coach half-unloaded to a remainder of four. Ellis blasted his balance to the west while the older man refilled to capacity.

2… and 1.

A few more frenzied moments.

Then silence.

All four heaved a sigh. Ellis straightened his hunched posture awkwardly, rolling his neck.

Coach's gun smoked at the barrel. "Can't'cha keep your hands off anything, boy?" he asked gruffly.

"Not really…" Ellis mumbled, taking cover under his hat.

Nick cast the older man a glance, twirling his magnum on his finger into its holster, his face the picture of calm despite the onslaught. "The kid probably did us a favor," he said, admiring the littering of corpses. "Cleared things out."

Rochelle gave a shrug of her pink shoulders. "A little warning might have been nice," she laughed semi-uneasily. "But yeah, it sure did. Thanks, Ellis."

Coach grunted. Ellis felt mollification, but moreover, he felt a kind of gladness and light-headedness that the conman had stood up for him, even if had been kind of a stupid thing to have gone and done in retrospect.

They stepped their way around the bodies, following another safehouse sign to the right and down the street a few blocks.

Ellis scrunched up his nose and Rochelle gave an exasperated sigh.

"Son of a–!" Nick cursed.

The safehouse was a converted McDonald's. Where the entrances had once been now stood the thick red metal doors, and all of the original sheet glass windows had been replaced with a dull grey steel. But what had given them all pause was the huge crowd of zombies wandering the spacious parking lot. They were as of yet unaware of their presence, but there sure were a lot of them.

"Goddammit," Coach grunted at the spectacle. "You'd think there wasn't a better place to hang out than a rest stop in Southern Georgia."

Ellis noticed Nick's face was a wash of "I told you so", but the man kept it to himself.

One of the zombies upchucked quite monumentally then, emptying what had to be the entire contents of its stomach onto the pavement in a single projectile heave. A few others nearby followed suit.

"Must be some good eats," the cardshark commented. Rochelle blanched.

Ellis readied his machete once more, fingers tightening around the handle. He didn't have many glock clips left, and he didn't want to waste any of the 7 mm Remington mags for his hunting rifle in the chance he might not be able to replace them. Rochelle nervously rubbed her palms on her jeans, likely to get rid of any perspiration there that might make her hands slip on her weapon. Ellis knew that one. His hands were always getting all sweaty, especially when he got all pumped up.

"Hold up," the oldest man grumbled at the both of them, now turning to dig through the bag on his back. He removed a pipe bomb– they still had a few they had found in the hotel in Savannah, but they had used them rather sparingly on account of the fact they didn't know when or where or even if they'd be finding any more. Coach depressed the button on the side and heaved the small device quite professionally into the center of the lot. The beeping immediately attracted the desired attention as every nearby zombie rushed forward to claw at it in a mindless rage.

Both Rochelle and Coach turned their heads away for the bloody explosion that followed shortly thereafter.

Ellis stuck out his tongue at the smear left on the asphalt. "Well now that's sumthin' that really kills a person's appetite."

"I donno, I could go for a BigMac," the gambler grinned back at the football player. "What about you, Coach?" It wasn't clear whether or not he was teasing him, but Ellis figured he probably was, cuz really when wasn't he?

"Mmhmm…" the man mumbled, clearly in favor of the idea, regardless of whether or not he was being poked fun of. "And an order a'fries," he added. "Extra large."

"Well, let's go git us some grub!" Ellis announced jovially, leading the way down to the restaurant.

Chapter Text

They found plenty of food in the walk-in freezer. Nick watched the goosebumps prickle up over Ellis' exposed forearms as he helped him collect the patties, fries and other various foodstuffs. Coach and Rochelle meanwhile busied themselves firing up the grill and fryer. He and the hick found everything they needed to prepare burgers, including cheese, onions, pickles, lettuce– though that wasn't looking too good anymore– the works. Some of it didn't really belong in the freezer, like the buns, but it had been placed there by someone to ensure it stayed, while not fresh, edible, which was the important part.

"Thank God for deep frozen meat," Nick mumbled, dropping a bag of quarter-pounders on the counter. "A freezer like that could hold a lot of food for a long time… assuming the power stayed on."

Ellis dumped the sack of fries into the fryer net in preparation; the oil needed a few more minutes to heat before he could drop it in to start cooking. "The sick thing is," Ellis commented with a sideways grin, "these'd prolly last ferever with or without it!"

Nick stuck out his tongue with semi-mock disgust. McDonald's fries were rather… notorious for their unnatural longevity after all.

Rochelle opened the bag of patties and threw a few of the meat pucks on the grill. They started to sizzle and pop instantly and she reached for the sliced cheese next.

Coach took a deep breath, practically hovering over her shoulder as she worked gracefully over the slate. "S'already smellin' good," he said, eyes half closed in desire.

Rochelle laughed as she reached for a spatula hanging above her head. "I worked in a fast food restaurant for a little while before I broke into the news business," she said, now flipping a patty over with the metal utensil. "Who knew it'd come in handy again, huh?"

"I'll say it sure-as-shit is now," Coach nodded.

Nick folded his arms and leaned against the countertop cooly. It was kind of gross but he was salivating himself, looking forward to a meal of grease and a couple thousand calories. For a good few minutes none of them spoke, listening to the sole sound of sizzling.

Ellis stared at the vat of oil in a kind of half cross-eyed fashion that signaled to Nick that the kid was in thought. A grin spread across the hick's features just a moment later. "Did I ever tell you guys about the time mah buddy Keith tried tuh deep fry a turkey?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Rochelle took her eyes off the grill long enough to raise a thin eyebrow at him. She laughed. "I don't think it'd fit, sweetie."

"Well, that was part a'the problem," Ellis scratched his head. "An' he didn't pick no small turkey neither, sucker had tuh be at least twenty-five pounds! He kept havin' tuh turn it around tuh git it evenly cooked on all sides, an' then his arms started gettin' tired…"

Coach frowned at him. "There a point to this story, boy?" he asked, clearly still in a bad mood from the kid's earlier miss-step at the crosswalk.

Ellis shrugged with dismissal. "Shit, iono." The fryer gave a beep, signaling it had fully heated. The hick smiled again and dropped the net in, then turned his attention back to his companions. "Well anyway," he continued, undeterred, "the damn thing slipped an' ended up splashin' him sumthin' awful. Third degree burns over ninety percent'a 'is body!"

The kid was obviously exaggerating, but it didn't stop the story from amusing him at least. "Deep fried Keith," Nick chuckled, examining his fingernails. "Sounds tasty."

Ellis stuck out his tongue at him. "Weren't nothin' tasty about it; looked gross as hell."

"You sure have an active imagination," the hooped earrings bobbed as Rochelle shook her head with incredulity and flipped the burgers.

Ellis' face rearranged into a frown and he scratched his nose, studying the checkerboard tiled floor.

Nick felt his spine quiver ever so slightly. He licked his top lip. "I'm going to look for ammo," he announced, popping himself off the counter with a quick flex of his back. He regarded them briefly. "I'll assume you guys can handle the minimum wage jobs?" He held up his left hand and provocatively rubbed his fingers and thumb together, trying to entice a negative response from either of his companions.

Ellis perked, either ignoring or not catching the insult– not that it had been meant for him anyway. "M'comin' wit'cha," he said quickly, "I ain't hardly got no more pistol rounds."

Nick gave a passive shrug.

Of course, the gesture was a bold-faced lie, because he had grown quite fond of when the kid chose to follow him around. And this was hardly an exception. He proceeded out of the kitchen, Ellis on his heels, a smirk on his face.

"Asshole," Coach said once he was out of earshot.

"I'm going to spit on his burger," Rochelle mumbled with another flip.

Chapter Text

Thankfully, like the food situation, the ammunition stockpile was just as good. Rather ironically, all of it had been stored in the 'play place' of the McDonald's. Weapons littered the multi-colored tables, to which the hick rushed into the room with a "oooooooh!" and started touching every single last one, fiddling with their various mechanisms.

The kid was goddamn adorable was what he was.

Which was probably what compelled him to ridicule the twenty-three year old a little. "Didn't your mom ever tell you not to put your hands on everything?" he asked. "You don't know where those have been," he teased, as if to imply the hick could catch germs or a cold or something from handling all the guns.

Ellis looked up at him and cocked an eyebrow. "Well sure she did," he drawled. "Tole me tuh keep outta the mud too, but heck if I listened." He grinned.

"I can tell that one," Nick said, casting a glance at the dirty overalls.

Ellis just chuckled and lifted a scope to his face, peeking through it towards the corkscrew slide.

Nick observed him sneakily while he was still distracted, letting his green eyes dance over the slender form. He had had a hell of a time keeping his eyes off him during the short twenty-second skirmish that had occurred outside. Kid knew how to shoot. And it was sexy as hell. Shit, just look at the way the S of his spine curved into those baggy coveralls, tied so tauntingly low on his hips… the way his taut stomach–

Ellis looked back up.

Nick turned on his heel and grabbed both a box of .50s and 9mm out of the little shoe rack, quickly redirecting his former thoughts. "You know, you have pretty much got this down to an art," he said conversationally, tossing the lower caliber container to the kid.

Ellis caught it and his brow knit, baited. "What'chu mean?" he asked.

Nick regarded him. "Counting shots," he said with mild deference. Flattery had always gotten him his way with women in the past, not that he expected it to work quite the same on Ellis.

The hick laughed as he pried open the box to get at the little cylinders encased in brass. "Well shucks, yeah, t'only makes sense." He jingled a few into his palm with a shrug. "'Sides, you do it too."

Ah El, always so humble.

"Four guns is a lot to keep track of," he continued. He began to pull the multitude of empty cartridges from his pockets where he had stored them, setting them one by one on the red plexiglas table in front of him. He flashed him a coy smile. "Especially when the hands aren't all the same."

Ellis cocked an eyebrow, clearly confused by his usage of the word 'hands' instead of 'rounds'.

"I'm saying you'd make a good card player," Nick elucidated smoothly.

The hick blushed and his fingers hurriedly started into motion to fill a clip. "Naw," he shook his head, as he finished one and started another. "Playin' cards an' shootin' guns ain't anythin' alike."

Nick gave a shrug. "If you say so." Both men continued to refill, but Nick kept his eyes on El surreptitiously, eyes half lidded.

The hick snorted rather suddenly. "How many a'those you got?" he laughed incredulously.

The conman picked up his fifth from the table. "Not enough," he replied sarcastically. He had actually been collecting them like some kind of packrat; whenever he came across another clip he stuffed it away in a pocket. The count at this point was eleven, but he wanted to get his hands on more if possible because eighty-eight shots wasn't sufficient.

At least, not if they were going to start coming across hordes like the last two with any increasing frequency.

Not to mention the hulking thing that he'd seen lumber under the overpass…

His stomach tightened involuntarily.

But El came to his rescue, his voice quickly driving the thought away, drowning it in drawl. "I actshuhly ain't ever played nuthin' more than War with my younger cousins," he admitted, scratching his chin.

Nick dropped his gaze to him. "Oh, that's got to be rectified," he delivered deadpan. A smart kid like El ought to be at least playing something with a sizable skill component. He wouldn't peg the kid for Bridge or anything, but shit, goddamn War??

Ellis laughed and returned the box of bullets to the cubby. He briefly searched them, no doubt for refills for his rifle. "Well, y'see, mah Ma said that cards is 'the devil's bible'," he explained. "I got a real floggin' when she found out later that night I had been playin'." He gave a short whistle, as if to indicate the severity of it.

Nick shook his index finger at him. "Your mom's got it all wrong, kid. Idle hands are the devil's tools." Ellis gave him an amused glance, his lips pursed– obviously he had heard that one as well, but had never equated the two; Nick continued. "And I tell you right now," he flashed a devilish grin himself, "I teach you how to play poker and your mom's going to be real proud of you, cuz your hands aren't ever gonna be idle again."

Ellis blew a raspberry at him, now taking a seat and leaning it back on its two back legs as he propped up his boots on the blue table. "Or maybe you jus' got an interestin' way of interprettin' things," he said.

Nick chuckled and finished loading his eleventh clip, stuffing it into his magnum with finality as it gave a click. "That's a safe bet."

There was another short silence. Ellis studied his hands which he had folded on his lap. "'Sides," he said, scratching his nose, "no one ever said I didn't know how tuh play, all I said was I hadn't."

Nick eyed him shiftily, disinclined to believe the claim. "Oh yeah? Who taught you?"

"Keith," Ellis replied shortly.

He should have figured that. Nick bit his lip with mild irritation. Asshole beat him to the punch.

The hick grinned at him keenly, removing his hat to momentarily run a hand through his hair before replacing it. "But I'm a'bettin' you could prolly teach me a hell'uva lot better," he nodded and Nick allowed himself a half-smile. Ellis shook his head. "Keith was always losin' all sorts a'money whenever we had poker night at his house." He gave a quick shrug. "I jus' watched a'course. But Keith– aw, Keith'd buy all this beer an' try tuh get the guys tuh drink it, so they'd get intoxicated so he'd have an edge, y'know? But then he always ended up drinkin' hisself an' purdy soon he didn't have an edge no more. Guy was like clockwork; completely cockeyed by nine. An' next thing you knew, he was out another hundred or two." Nick laughed; Ellis paused to eye him. "An' you, well..." he chuckled, tipping the seat forward again and leaning onto his elbows; Nick watched his biceps flex, as the blue eyes addressed him slyly, "you prolly don't ever lose, do you?"

He stared at the young man wordlessly, testing his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

So he had complimented the kid and the kid was complimenting him back.

It was nothing more than that, right?

Nick returned to the conversation at hand. He was tempted to play along with the claim, though the truth was that he lost plenty of rounds, all the time, but he knew when he had a bad hand or when others had a better one and never bet high on them, so he always left the table at a gain. Though that in itself could easily be considered 'not losing'. "Not… often," he responded, finding his compulsion towards honestly odd.

Ellis obviously thought it was too, giving him a confused look. He scratched his chin, dismissing it. "Well, anyways, I dun see why I couldn't give it a shot. Now," he added with a snerk. "Ain't got nothin' tuh lose."

His face fell suddenly, playfulness drained out. "Or a Ma tuh swat mah behind..."

Nick gave an uncomfortable shift on his feet. "Your mom was probably right to keep you from playing," he said quickly, though he had no idea why he said it. Maybe he thought it'd bring the kid some solace, or at least distract him from his missing mother. He motioned his hand. "Gambling is an addiction. And if you play half as bad as you say your friend did, you're going end up flat broke and on the streets."

Ellis laughed at this. "Well, he had his Uncle tuh keep him afloat," he said, and Nick gave an internal sigh of relief that he had managed to effectively redirect the conversation. The hick continued. "Ma didn't lend me so much as a dime, an' even if she a'had, last thing I would'a gone an' done was put it on the line like that."

Nick studied him, a little bit impressed by the show of responsibility amidst all his playful nature.

From the kitchen he heard the fry alarm start going off. He inwardly cursed the timing. Just when he was getting to know a little more about the kid. It figured.

The mechanic leapt to his feet eagerly at the sound. Nick swept out his hand in an 'after you' and the kid tipped his hat as he passed him. The conman followed.

Ellis, however, looked back at him with a sideways smirk, resuming their conversation. "I still dun think mah Ma would like ya vury much though, Nick, if'n she met'cha."

"What?" Nick asked as he skirted around a table to come to his side as they made their way toward the front of the restaurant. "You're telling me you'd actually introduce me to the old crone?"

"Hey hey, watch it," Ellis said warningly, though he was all grin. His eyelids drew down slyly. "She ain't all that much older than you, Nick."

Even though it was supposed to be a slam to his advancing age, Nick had to stifle a laugh for the implication it gave the other direction– that his mom had had kids when she was quite young (her teens considering Ellis' own age) which wasn't what he had meant at all.

"What'chu smirkin' at?" Ellis snorted.

"Nothing. Nothing, I swear," Nick failed to keep his mouth shut against a chuckle.

The hick fell privy to the unspoken joke. "Aww, you ass," Ellis gave him a friendly shove as they entered the kitchen. "You have no shame."

Chapter Text

Ellis put away five burgers. Only Coach, who slathered his in an excess of ketchup– perhaps only to lubricate them on their rather quick way down– had consumed more, his count at seven. And 'daintily' Nick and Rochelle had three apiece, totaling eighteen between the four of them. All of which didn't include the rounds of fries and apple pies.

Ellis couldn't recall a time he had eaten more, save Thanksgiving dinner at his aunt's house.

Stuffed to capacity, it took them all a while to even consider moving from their spots in the large round corner booth of the restaurant.

Rochelle took to scooping up the dozens of small twisted empty ketchup packets onto the plastic tray for disposal. Ellis reached an arm over, offering to get up for her to get rid of them; he was on one of the ends while she sat between Coach and Nick. "Thanks, Ellis," she said sweetly, handing it over. The hick tipped his hat and popped out of his seat, proceeding to the nearest trashcan. He dumped them in through the swinging hatch and returned the tray to the top with the rest. No reason not to clean up after themselves and be polite to the next people who came through this way after all.

Coach leaned back in his seat and patted his stomach. "Well, I donno about you all," he said, "but I'm gonna hit the hay. Been a successful day and we got more ground to cover in the mornin'."

Nick set his drink of water in a paper cup down and flicked his wrist at the older man dismissively as if to say 'go ahead'.

"Where'ya gonna sleep?" Ellis asked curiously, now returning to the table, though he didn't sit. The McDonald's didn't offer much in the way of places to lay down other than the floor, especially for someone Coach's size and height. And the hardened tiles didn't seem like they'd make a very good sleeping surface.

Coach frowned, looking around uncertainly. "Guess one'a the booths," he admitted wearily. "Ain't got much more option."

Nick chuckled.

The football player eyed him. "You got somethin' to say, Nicholas?"

Ellis shifted on his feet, hoping this wasn't about to go anywhere, but getting the bad feeling it was.

The conman stood and smoothed down the front of his jacket; Ellis watched him do it, watched him trail his hands slowly down his own form, carefully and deliberately. It was a very eye-catching motion… Ellis found himself unable to look anywhere else as the hands graced over chest and abdomen, coming to rest on his thighs where the coat ended. "Just that I'm glad I'm not the booth," the gambler said, flashing a smile. Ellis winced.

Coach rolled his eyes. "You got about five more years before all that," he inclined his head at his torso, "turns into a gut."

"Doubtful," Nick mumbled, entwining his fingers behind his head smugly, showoff-ishly. Ellis was still staring at his chest, which gapped from the dress shirt wider in the position.

"Boys," Rochelle interrupted with exasperation, "is this really necessary?" Her eyes darted between the two men with a harshness that said she was about ready to slap them both if they didn't cut it out right now.

The elderly man gave a grunt, backing down.

"I'll be outside," Nick grumbled, pushing past in his own form of surrender. Ellis nearly turned and grabbed his jacket to stop him, but restrained himself, letting the man go even though he didn't want him to and it left him with the uncomfortable aftermath of the dialogue.

Rochelle shook her head. "Seriously, why is he like that??" she addressed Ellis, motioning at the gambler as he disappeared through the door. The hick blinked, feeling rather put on the spot, but Rochelle continued, apparently not actually expecting a real response to her question. "I don't know how you can stand staying up with him," she said seriously, leaning on an elbow. "I really don't."

Ellis opened his mouth to say that Nick didn't treat him that way, but thought better of it.

"He's just an asshole, like I said before," Coach interrupted with a shrug. "Nothin' more to it than that, Ro'."

Apparently they had been having this discussion already, while he was absent. He pursed his lips tightly together, wondering what all had been said… behind his back… behind Nick's back…

"But everyone has a story," the woman spoke, her journalism roots showing through. She shook her head again, this time with further exasperation. "I don't know. It just seems to me like he has to have some reason to be such a jackass." She laughed. "Not that he'd ever open up to tell us if there was."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," Coach agreed.

Rochelle sighed. "I just wish he could get down off that egomaniacal pedestal of his and join the rest of us 'down here'."

Ellis dropped his gaze to his feet, uncomfortable to be hearing this. His ears burned a little as he stared far too intently at a crack in the tiling, dead silent.

Rochelle touched him on the arm. He gave a little jump; he hadn't even noticed her stand up and come to his side. "Ellis, sweetie, you okay, honey?" she asked, voice laced with gentle affect.

"Stomach ache," he lied swiftly, without looking up. Good as cover as any with as much as he had eaten.

"Maybe you should lie down," she offered.

Ellis shook his head stubbornly. "Naw, I'm fine, dun worry 'bout it. I jus'…" he hesitated. "You… you an' Coach should git some rest."

"You sure?" she asked carefully. "You don't look okay."

"A'course he's not," Coach laughed ruefully, pulling himself from his own seat at last. "The way he gets to spend the next six hours I wouldn't look too happy either."

Ellis bit his lip angrily at the man's assumption for his distress. As it so turned out, he had been looking forward to spending time with Nick. All day in fact. If the two of them were already settled in for the night, he could be now. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself a little before he spoke. "You know, maybe if ya'd jus' give him a chance, you wouldn't think he such'a bad guy."

They both laughed at him.

His face felt like it must have gone the same color as the ketchup.

Rochelle leaned against the table, scuffing her boots together in an absent-minded motion. "Ellis, sweetie, we've been giving him a chance." One of her eyebrows lifted as she studied the hick, as if to scry his intentions. Ellis dropped his face behind his hat to break eye contact with her, not in full agreement with her evaluation of the situation. She went on. "It's good you have the patience to deal with him. You sure have a lot more of it than Coach and I."

"You can say that again," the elder man mumbled.

Rochelle gave a shrug. "Besides, he hasn't exactly given us a chance."

"He's with us, ain't he?" Ellis argued.

"Yeah, for now," Coach gave a belly-laugh. "But you saw the stunt he pulled earlier, boy. He was ready to leave us all for Yulee."

"Ugh, I know," Rochelle agreed, rolling her eyes.

But he hadn't left them for Yulee. He hadn't. He'd been willing to go back to Kingsland the moment they locked eyes with one another, blue on green.

Not that Coach or Ro would know that.

Ellis frowned, because it seemed to him like they were intentionally missing his point though. That Nick wasn't a bad person who was 'out to get them' or make their lives difficult, that he was part of the team and wanted to get to New Orleans just the same as the rest of them. "All I was tryin' tuh say is that you could try tuh be a little nicer," he tried one last time. "Ya never know, you might get some kindness in return."

Rochelle peered at him. She pressed a hand to his left shoulder, squeezing. He looked up at her this time, and she was smiling. "You're probably right, Ellis. We're all in this mess together…" she paused as Coach shifted, "for now, anyway; so we ought to stay civil and not harbor any aggressions. We'll both try to be a little nicer to Nick and 'turn the other cheek'." Her gaze settled on the stationary football player. "We can do that, right, Coach?"

The man gave a grunt and folded his arms over his chest, nodding solemnly. "Yeah, alright."

Ellis smiled too, a genuine smile. He tipped his hat to each of them, glad to have come to an accord. "Thanks Ro'. Coach."

"Don't be thankin' me yet, youngin'," the heavyset man joked. "I haven't made good on it yet."

Chapter Text

It took them a few moments to get settled in, but once they had, Ellis waited only a couple anxious minutes longer inside before heading outside to search for Nick.

It wasn't hard to find him, in fact, as he rushed out of the building he almost ran right past him. He was standing, propped against the wall just a few feet from the entrance, hands in his pockets, one leg crossed over the other. Ellis was quite glad he hadn't wandered far, though he wouldn't have stopped searching until he found him if he had.

The conman glanced over at him. "Howdy, par'ner," he said with fake accent and a tip of an imaginary hat.

Ellis chuckled. "Evenin', slick," he returned, unable to conjure anything other than his Southern twang.

"Tuck the twerps into bed?" Nick asked.

Ellis gave a snort because referring to Coach and Rochelle as 'twerps' that needed a bedtime was sort of ridiculous, but still amusing. "Yeah, I got 'em tuh settle down eventually," he went along with it, the sentiment closer to the truth than the conman had any right to know. He shook his head. "But heck'if they'd let me read 'em a bedtime story," he quipped, alluding to his prodigious story-telling.

Come to think of it he had been reminded of a time when Keith stuck a straw in each nostril and attempted to drink Coca-cola through his nose... it hadn't worked out all that well for the guy, needless to really say.

Nick snerked. "Their loss." He let his form slide down against the wall, until he was sitting, then propped his elbows on his knees, hands on his elbows, and invited him to sit with a subtle gesture of his hand. "My gain," he smiled.

The hick eagerly plopped himself right beside the man, no more than a foot away. Only after he had done it did he realize he maybe shouldn't've, but it was too late to shift away and anyway, Nick didn't offer any immediate objections to his proximity. Really it was just Ellis' intention to be close enough so they could hear each other just fine while speaking quietly– after all, they weren't technically in the saferoom– but still, he didn't want to make the gambler uncomfortable none. Ellis waited a few moments longer just in case he was asked to move, but Nick remained motionless and silent, so he figured it must be alright with him.

Ellis scratched the scruff growing on his chin. "So… what'chu wanna talk about tuhnight?" he asked eagerly.

Nick grinned and dropped his gaze to the ground between his legs, shaking his head a little.

Ellis supplied an elbow to his shoulder. "Well?"

"I don't know," came the bemused reply. His head lifted with a smirk. "You want to talk about something?"

That almost made it sound like Nick thought he had something in particular in mind. Well, he had asked him earlier to stay up on watch with him, so maybe he had unintentionally given him a reason to believe he did. Ellis fiddled with his hat. "Shucks, beats me," he chuckled, feeling sort of chagrinned that he didn't really have anything either. They sat in a momentary silence.

"Your hat," Nick said.

Ellis blinked at him, pulling an eyebrow downward. "Whatta'bout it?"

"Tell me about your hat," he requested, and Ellis thought at first he must be joking. But then from the subtle smile playing about the man's lips he realized he was honestly asking.

The hick let himself laugh, a pile of memories already stacking up in his head, too many to say all at once even if he tried. "It's jus' an old thing," he admitted, now removing it from his head to study the front of it– the logo– in his hands. He tapped the patch with his index finger. "When Keith an' I opened up our garage we decided tuh git matchin' hats. Sort of like they was a part'a our uniform or whatever I suh'ppose, but also I guess fer advertisin' a bit, tuh let people 'round town know we were runnin' a shop an' all…" He paused a moment to grin. "An' at first Keith an' I had a bit uv'a bet goin' or sumthin' as tuh which one'uv us could wear ours longer an' not take 'em off, y'know? Shit, we was wearin' 'em tuh bed, wearin' 'em in the shower– heck– even wearin' 'em in church. Shoot fire, was Pastor Redfield mad!"

Nick laughed. "Don't tell me I just made you lose your bet," he said, tipping his head at the accessory that no longer sat on his head.

Ellis gave a snort. "Aw, hell no, I won a long time ago." He turned the cap over in his hands. "See, Keith's ladyfriend got real angry at him fer wearin' it 'in the sack'," he gave the cardshark a sideways glance and a quick curl of the side of his mouth, "an' I guess it was either her or the hat."

Nick joined him in a chuckle. "Women," he said jokingly. "One thing they will never understand is a bet between one guy and another." The sentiment amused Ellis, and the man lifted his right hand and stuck out his palm, a wordless inquiry if he could see said cap.

Ellis bit his lip, fiddling with the edges of it protectively. Usually it never left his head, let alone got out of his reach. He knew it shouldn't be a big deal, cuz it was 'just a hat', right? But that's not how he felt. He eyed the conman's waiting hand, eyed the single ring around his middle finger. But he supposed now that if he was gonna trust anyone with holding onto his prized possession in this crazy new world, it would be Nick. Reluctantly he handed it over.

The gambler examined it with odd care, fingers brushing over the mesh and seams with a delicacy that made clear he knew how much it meant to him.

Letting him touch it was rather personal, like touching an extension of his body almost. The talented fingers caressed the bill.

Ellis' breath nearly hitched.

"So you've had this… what… two, three years?" he asked.

"Longer than that," Ellis laughed.

Nick's face readjusted with a bit of surprise. "Four?" came the curious next guess.

"Try six," he grinned with a touch of pride.

Nick tipped his head, truly impressed. "You're telling me you started up a shop when you were seventeen?"

Ellis nodded. "Yesssssssir," he held the reply smugly.

"Well, I don't know what the law is in Georgia," the conman regarded him, "but in Nevada I'm pretty sure you have to be eighteen to start your own business."

"Oh, yeah, it's the same here," the hick nodded. "Keith's three years older than me though, so he's the one who done filled out all the paperwork an' such; I jus' worked under the table fer a year," he explained.

"I guess I figured you were both the same age," the gambler chuckled and gave a shrug. "Hanging out together as much as you say you did."

"Well, we was the same grade," Ellis elucidated. "He got held back a'couple of years back in grade school, an' me, well, I took this ac-cel-er-ated program, or whatever ya call it, tuh graduate a year early." He grinned from ear-to-ear. He didn't mean to brag, but it was one of his accomplishments he was more proud of because he had flown through his classes without so much as a lick of trouble, and he could still see his beaming Ma as he was awarded his diploma on that hot summer day in June.

Nick seemed to perceive his sense of fulfillment, though he issued no praise on the matter. Instead there was something decidedly different from the man. "So then why start a shop?" he asked carefully, his green eyes illuminated in the low light.

Ellis could tell he wanted to know why he hadn't continued with his education instead. Really, that was more of a compliment than telling him congratulations for having graduated early. He scrunched up the bill of his hat awkwardly, inclining his shoulder in half a shrug. "Mah Ma needed the help… financially, a'course."

The conman presented him with a pained half-smile that said he understood and an "oh".

Ellis scratched his nose sort of guiltily, intentionally leaving out the other factor that had been involved. That Keith'd been obsessing about running an auto shop when they got out of high school for years, and that the only reason Keith didn't right-out dropout of school was cuz of the fact that his Uncle wouldn't let him. And that his relative was the one who floated them the check to get the whole operation underway in the beginning– renting the building, buying the equipment and tools– and that that was sort of a graduation present for Keith, heck, for them both really, not that Ellis knew the man all that well and it embarrassed him to accept such a large gift on the grounds of just being Keith's best friend. He just sort of got hemmed into the whole deal. But it didn't really upset him at all at the time and besides, he wasn't about to let down Keith after all that time and it wasn't like he didn't enjoy working on cars.

Nick handed back the hat and Ellis took it gratefully. "Well, it's a neat logo."

"Oh yeah," Ellis laughed, "Mah sister Emma's actshuhly the one who designed it." He smiled and touched the patch, fingers tracing the outline of the tow truck. "She was the artistic one in the family; she was good, real good. An' she painted the sign on our garage too! Full size," the hick stretched out his arms as wide as they would go to emphasize his point, "the whole twenty foot span so you could see it from waaaay down the street, an' it looked real swell I kin tell you. That twelve-foot ladder didn't scare her a bit, jus' up there paintin' away like there was no tomorrow. Had a real passion, that girl." Ellis shook his head, reminiscing. "An' she was only eleven at the time, kin you believe it?"

Nick smiled. "Kids can surprise you."

"Yeah, they sure can." Ellis blinked, thinking of all his siblings now– all his younger– and how proud he was of them as they too grew up. Thought of the weekend visits to his Ma's house, catching up, listening to and telling stories. Even as each of them moved out and got their own jobs and residences they all rendezvoused back at the little house where they grew up to visit with one another from time to time.

Not knowing where they were or how they were made his stomach churn uncomfortably. He forced the feeling back quickly before it could take further hold of him.

"I reckon I'll have a few uv'um," he said, keeping his mouth going so his head wouldn't trip him up. "You know, eventually, not like right now or anythin'," he added quickly. Golly gosh he wasn't ready for kids. Shit, he didn't even have a girlfriend.

Nick chuckled. "Yeah, I should probably have some too."

Ellis quirked an eyebrow. "Ain't'cha?"

The gambler shook his head with a smirk. "Hell no."

Ellis scratched an arm, oddly relieved but still quite surprised. It was good to know that the man's divorce hadn't separated him from any offspring; it was too often kids got left without a father figure from that sort of thing, in his opinion. "Well, I guess tha's fer the better anyhow," he half-mumbled. "On account'a… all this," he shrugged out towards the night, towards the sleepy town.

Towards the zombies.

Silence again permeated their conversation.

Until Nick drew a breath. His voice came out shallow and low. "I'm sorry, kid."

Ellis choked. It had taken the man a long time to say it– unlike Coach and Rochelle, who had offered their condolences their very first day together; though in hindsight, their quickness to offer sympathy when he had simply mentioned in passing that he didn't know where his family had gotten off to spoke more of tact and politeness rather than actual sympathy. Ellis had given up on hearing anything of the like from Nick. The guy seemed like the type to just move on, especially when it came to things in his own life, things that should've effected him greatly, that would have a normal person. Just like water off a windshield after applying a fresh coat of Rain-x. Impenetrable. That's what he was. What he seemed like.

As such, he seemed even less the type to express any form of regret on the behalf of another person.

Ellis closed his eyes momentarily, letting it sink deep. "Thank you," he murmured, touched by the words. Nick remained quiet, though his green eyed gaze stayed on him, watching him with the very mildest of concerns. Ellis swallowed and attempted to regarner his enthusiasm, staring up at the unlit sign in the parking lot. "'Sides, I'm still doin' okay, ain't I? So maybe they is too."

Nick nodded, though guardedly.

"Hell," the mechanic continued, "they prolly headed out a lot earlier than I dun did, when they got word'a the infection." He ran both hands down the fabric of his pants. Truth be told, he kind of felt like a moron for having waited so long to get out himself, but he had just sort of assumed they'd all meet up that Friday evening as had previously been scheduled and depart together as a family. But then when he got to the house and it was empty… his Ma's station wagon long gone, along with a number of her more valuable keepsakes, that had pretty much said it, he was officially on his own. He stayed the whole night through, waiting, just in case any of them showed up or his Ma came back, but not a one of them did and it wasn't terribly surprising, really. So he went to the hotel the next morning for evac, and the rest was history, if you could call such recent events that.

What he really didn't understand about the whole situation was why he never got a phone call from his Ma while the phone lines were still up, before she left. Or from Dave, who must've also fled town early from the number of messages he had left him that never got answered; Dave was sometimes pretty bad about getting back to him, but never that bad. Not to mention any of the rest of his family. But shit, someone.

He shifted. "Anyway, suhppose I won't know 'til we git to New Orleans. Maybe they'll have a list or sumthin' 'bout who made it intuh the evacs, maybe even where they been 'ported to…" he thought out loud. He glanced over at the stoney conman, realizing suddenly that he was the only one talking. He shoved away his embarrassment for hogging the conversation. "Anyone yer gonna look up when we git there?" he asked.

"'Fraid not," Nick kicked one leg out in front of him lazily, in a mannerism that added he didn't care either. Or at least that he was pretending not to.

Ellis quickly took to looking at the ground. He didn't know what he had expected from the question, but he hadn't expected that. No parents? No siblings? No other relatives? Friends? He thought there'd be someone. Everyone had someone, didn't they?

They should.

Nick should.

He briefly twiddled this thumbs. "You ain't got any brothers or sisters?" he queried timidly; he couldn't even begin to imagine a childhood growing up all alone, without any playmates, confidants.

The gambler peered at him, green eyes discerning, then set his head back against the building. "Nope. I was an only child." An eyebrow lifted and he chuckled, motioning a hand. "And an 'accident' one at that, as I was frequently reminded."

"Yer parents said that?" he asked, incredulously.

Nick nodded.

"Tha's a terrible thing for 'em tuh say…" he mumbled, stricken by the harshness. You didn't just tell your kid they were an unwanted mistake. He had been an 'accident' himself, the first of his kin, but so had all of them technically. It wasn't a matter of 'they didn't want them', it was just they had them when they had them, no particular schedule or number of them in mind; they were 'happy accidents', so to speak. It was kind of hard to explain, but he knew his Ma, and his Pa– when he had been alive– loved them all very much.

"Yeah, well, that's about how they felt about it too," Nick went on mildly, lips drawing into the smallest of sneers, "a 'terrible' thing that ruined their perfect lives." Ellis flushed at his matter-of-factness toward the subject, his overall lack of resentment. "Middle of the seventies. Three guesses how it happened," he muttered rhetorically.

Ellis felt his mouth quirk rigidly, unease settling in the pit of his stomach. He had always been taught to 'respect your elders', but he couldn't really imagine now how you could respect your parents in that kind of situation, when you were conceived as a consequence of drug use. Not only must he have been told he was an accident then, but also how said accident occurred. Ellis gave a little shudder at the thought. No wonder Nick hadn't had kids of his own yet, with that kind of experience.

But the man's parents had to have wanted him a little though, if they hadn't sought an abortion. Right? He desperately tried to justify their actions in his head. Unless they just hadn't had the cash, had spent it elsewhere on other things... but now he was just speculating– he shouldn't do that, not without good reason.

Nick kicked at a rock, sending it sprawling out into the parking lot, bouncing off the asphalt.

He wondered briefly what would Rochelle would say if she was hearing this. If this sort of thing was a good enough 'reason' to be an asshole.

He finally found his voice, though it was meek and tiny. "Man, m'sorry."

"Don't be," Nick snorted. He cast him a sidelong glance. "I'm here now, that's what I can thank them for. About all I can thank them for, but…" he shrugged, not finishing the sentence.

Ellis supposed that much was true. The gift of life or whatever. At least he didn't have any side effects from the drugs, he had been real lucky in that respect from what he heard about pregnancy and substance abuse. Still, it brought up so many questions in his mind about the conman's past, about his childhood...

And he was definitely not brave enough to ask them.

"Well, I'm glad yer here," he admitted.

The gambler looked at him.

"Ain't no one else could pull mah ass outta hot water like you did at the crosswalk," he joked with a grin, attempting levity.

Nick's shoulders gave the tiniest of slumps as his eyes fell away.

Well, he had mussed that one up.

Ellis floundered, but he was unable to find anything else to say that could possibly salvage the lost moment. "We should prolly talk about sumthin' else," he mumbled, defeated, "all this's gettin' downright depressin'…" He scratched the back of his head with an uncomfortable chuckle.

The man's response was as contained as ever. "Whatever you want, kid." Nick looked at him again, and it wasn't a mean look, nor a sad one, it was just a look and nothing more. And it made Ellis pine a little bit on the inside.

What he wanted to do was lean over and give the man a hug, but he kept his hands to himself.

Chapter Text

He didn't manage to secure a lot of sleep that night. Mostly because he couldn't stop thinking. About two things.

The behemoth that awaited them at the highway.

And the kid who was snoring on the opposite side of the booth.

Part of him wanted to warn the others about what he had seen earlier that day coming down the offramp, but another part of him said he was just being paranoid. In all likelihood, the huge motherfucker had long since wandered off, cleared out of the area, in search of… food or whatever the hell. And even if it hadn't, if they just stayed reasonably quiet and kept moving, the thing probably wouldn't take any notice of them, and there wouldn't be any sort of confrontation, much like their first passing of it. It hadn't been stirred into action like the other regular zombies had been, so maybe he had no cause for alarm. Maybe it wasn't even hostile.

But from what appeared to be eight feet and four, maybe five, hundred pounds of solid zombie, that seemed more like wishful thinking.

He shuddered against the cushion. It was not something he wanted to deal with, regardless of some of the brawls he had taken part in and come out on top off when he had had no right to. You didn't press your luck. You never pressed your luck. That was the rule to any game, high stakes or low. You only faced what you knew you could handle.

The thing had had its back turned. For some reason or another it hadn't heard them.

That had been luck. 100%.

Ellis gave a snort in his sleep and rolled over onto his side, hat nearly falling as he shifted his neck and legs, now facing him. It was somewhat amusing to watch the kid sleep with it on, one of many curiosities he had about him that, thanks to tonight, he had gotten the privilege to learn about. Nick stared at him contemplatively.

“I’m glad yer here…”

He heard the words the hick had spoken to him in his head. He let them repeat again, listening hard to the way they sounded… the way they had been said to him. Because it had rather startled him at the time. Because he hadn't known El felt that way. Sure, the kid liked to follow him around and bend his ear, but he had kind of figured that was just the way the hillbilly was, that he would've done that to anyone if they let him.

But that wasn't just a casual 'I'm glad you're here', it was more of a you-mean-something-to-me 'I'm glad you're here'.

He shut his eyes tightly. He was deluding himself and he knew it.

But the kid had really opened up that night– that was undeniable. Ellis was far from 'closed off', what with all his yammering, but there was a big difference between being told yet another Keith story and the discussion they had had about his garage, or especially about his little sister. He for one hoped she and the rest of Ellis' likely crazy family were alright, but he wasn't going to hold his breath or get the kid's hopes up. Though as far as he could tell, the crazy kid's hopes were already up just about as far as they could be– like the four of them were just making a jaunt down to New Orleans and when they got there he'd be reunited with his family and Ellis could introduce his newfound friends to them all.

Nick was unable to summon much more than figuring they'd make it to the next safehouse alive, and tonight, he was having difficulty with that much. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

All in all he found it a little ridiculous that the one of them who had the most to lose was also the one who was most optimistic about the whole situation.

But maybe those sorts of things went hand in hand. Anyway, it still kind of bothered him. All he could really do was keep the kid company, be there for him, be supportive. That was what he was doing, right? He studied the placid face a little longer then gave a sigh and returned his gaze to the ceiling, wishing he could sleep so peacefully. But his thoughts wouldn't settle down and his mind kept racing in little circles.

Not to mention a rather throbbing erection, the doubtless result of not having had the opportunity to relieve himself for the past three days. But he was alone now– Coach and Rochelle gone outside to take watch like he and El had done– at least as alone as he was going to get, so he fished it out to quickly take care of business.

Except when he curled a ringed hand around it, he found he didn't just want to get it over with.

He wanted to look back over at the sleeping hick.

Testing his tongue on his upper lip, he allowed his head to incline to the side and glanced over.

His eyes grew wide and he let them roam, hungry and intent. It was dark in the saferoom, but there was ambient light enough he could see the kid top to bottom from both their positions under the table's edge. He worked himself over, slowly, stealing his eyes across the muscular chest and down his front, coming to rest on the curved haunches contained by his coveralls.

His chest gave a flutter and he pumped his arm a little faster, imagining holding those hips in his hands, imagined pulling him close by them. Imagined untying the sleeves around that deliciously thin waist and slipping the fabric off the swell of his firm backside and down strong thighs. He teased the tip with his thumb and bit down on his lower lip.

Shit. Shit shit shit, this wasn't right, he shouldn't be doing this, but he couldn't stop himself. The fantasy had cued itself up, playing in his head like a naughty movie in a porno theatre that he'd paid too much to get in for to just get up and walk out.

Ellis was returning the affection. Was undressing him, slowly, one button at a time. With his teeth. And he imagined Ellis' lips then… thick and plump and in motion– not with talking, but kissing. Imagined them dragging over his own exposed flesh, every-little-where– his neck, his chest, his stomach… lower.

He quickly gave his fingers an eager lick to replicate the fantasy, trailing the moist pads over his cock.

And he was soon reaching for some of the shitty paper napkins the table had to offer him.

Nick cleaned up breathlessly and shoved the wad out of sight. Once he had himself back in his pants and zipped, he began to feel the effects of the release. He relaxed his back into the cushion, body tingling with that post-orgasm thrill, sleepiness already creeping into the crevices of his mind.

Chapter Text

Rochelle was kind enough to have breakfast ready for them when they awoke, in the form of freshly prepared hash browns, neatly wrapped in their paper packages. Ellis hurried forward to snatch one and took an eager bite of the potato morsel, only to end up burning his tongue. "Hot!" he yelped, fanning at his open mouth with his free hand frantically.

"They did just come out, sweetie," the girl laughed at him from afar.

Nick took a more precautionary nibble out of the side of one, lip twitching as he sat down at a booth.

Ellis managed to swallow at last, and he blinked back the moisture pooled in his corners of his eyes, taste buds a little raw and still stinging. "They's good though. Thanks, Ro'."

"No problem!" she said, chipper. She held aloft a few wrapped bundles smugly. "I even packed us lunch."

"Good thinking," Nick mumbled, his first words of the day. Ellis nodded in rapid, full-fledged agreement, mouth too full to speak, at least politely like he ought to to a lady.

"Anything else you'd like, Nick?" Rochelle asked kindly.

The conman looked up and quirked an eyebrow at her. For a while he didn't even respond. "…Orange juice…" he answered slowly, with a hint of skepticism.

Ellis swallowed the remainder of his patty. "Me too, please!" he threw in.

"No problem, I mixed up some of the concentrate this morning," she said, turning to the machine that dispensed the fluid. She quickly delivered a medium-sized paper cup to each of them. "Two cups of sunshine," she grinned and Ellis tipped his hat as he took his beverage.

Nick took a cautious sip, as if he were concerned about being poisoned by said sunshine. Then he cleared his throat and found his manners. "Thanks, sweetheart," he mumbled, taking another bite of hash brown.

Rochelle's lips drew into a smirk and she started putting the wrapped burgers into their provision knapsack.

Ellis watched her, now chewing on his second helping. He took a large drink– it was pretty thick on the pulp, but that was okay with him, it made it seem more like he was drinking actual oranges. But he could remember hating it as a kid and throwing a tantrum if he discovered even so much as a sliver of the fruit flesh in his drink. He was still sometimes a little picky when it came to food, but he never made a big deal out of it or anything. He frowned into the cup, studying the liquid, then looked back to Ro. "Mine don't have pickles, does it?" he inquired suddenly.

Rochelle laughed again. "No, hun, no pickles. I remembered your 'order' from last night." She gave him a wink; the gesture betrayed she was referring to more than just the vinegared cucumbers.

Ellis blushed and beamed. Ro was really making an effort towards being nicer to the conman, and he honestly couldn't appreciate it more. "Yeah, okay, jus' makin' sure," he smiled.

She tightened the drawstring on the sack and gave his cap a knowing ruffle.

Coach came out of the bathroom then, tucking his polo into his pants, the door gliding shut behind him. He took brief stock of the situation. "We all ready to get a move on?" he asked, pulling the fingerless gloves back on over his recently-washed hands.

Ellis stuffed the remainder of his hash brown into his mouth. "M'ready when Nick's ready!" he said around potato.

The gambler glanced over at Coach with irritation. "Gimme a second, I just started eating here." He rolled his eyes and gave a huff, taking another rather uninterested bite, not much bigger than the last, his gaze fixated on the countertop.

Ellis reached for a third patty in that case.

"You can bring it with ya," the heavyset man concluded, as if the matter were already decided. Ellis peered at him and scratched his cheek, hoping he hadn't already forgotten about the deal he had made last evening. Especially after Ro went to the bother of acting so gosh-darn nice; he didn't want the older man to ruin what she had tried to set in motion.

Nick however, reacted slightly different than Ellis expected him to. There wasn't any anger, no snap of retaliation, or even muttered curse, just a subtle pull at the left corner of his mouth. "I think it would be better if we didn't have our hands full," he said with hesitance.

Ellis wondered what was making the gambler so anxious. He munched a little faster and sipped at his drink, studying the man's body language a moment or so more. "I kin cover you," he said quickly, reassuring him, but Nick still didn't look satisfied by the suggestion; his green eyes fluttered back downward and he managed another nibble.

"We should probably get going..." Rochelle said apologetically. "Those eighteen miles aren't going to walk themselves," she attempted humor with a smile.

The conman's expression soured. "Fine," he groused, standing and shoving his unfinished portion at the hick.

Ellis took it in his free hand and blinked down at it. He guessed it was for him then. He began to nom at one and then the other consecutively. Most people he probably wouldn't have 'shared spit' with, 'cept for his Ma or siblings of course, but Nick was just so goddamn clean he didn't even think twice about it as he gobbled into every place the man's mouth had been. Besides, it was hardly the time to be picky like that, what with being in a zombie-apocalypse and the like. Food was food and you should be glad to have it; though he found it funny the cardshark had thought to even offer it to him, because he could have just of easily assumed he wouldn't care to take it. He wished Nick were more hungry, but maybe he would be later. If he was, Ellis would make sure to offer him part of his meal– he wouldn't need it after tucking away three and a half greasy hash browns and a big glass of juice– though it rather suddenly occurred to him it might not work the other direction... Nick might not be willing to share spit with him. He gave the minutest of blushes and licked his now-empty left fingertips clean.

Coach grabbed up his arms and exited the restaurant. Rochelle shortly followed him and Ellis gathered his own things, machete and rifle and knapsack, balancing potato patty in his teeth until his hands were again free.

Nick meanwhile bent to curl his fingers around his new gun, hefting it to his back with a deliberate cautiousness. Ellis had wondered at the conman's choice to arm himself with an extra weapon that morning when they woke up, mumbling something about 'evening the score'. Thus far the man had never carried anything save the single magnum, and an AK-47 was quite the step up. Ellis had no clue what the gambler's intentions for the high-powered weapon were… what was making him so goddamn edgy?

Nick downed his orange juice quickly and discarded the cup with a flick of his wrist onto the floor in the vicinity of the trash can, pushing out the door.

"Keep a sharp eye out, kid," he disclosed in a mutter.

Ellis stiffened and followed him out.

Chapter Text

Nick was quite relieved when they chose to head to the southern onramp, rather than the northern one they had come off of. They made their way up the long stretch of asphalt, and when he saw the clear open stretch of highway in front of him he breathed a lot easier.

Their feet carried them forward, Coach and Rochelle in the lead, he and El in the rear for the next twenty or so minutes. If he wasn't such a pessimist, he might have even concluded they had successfully evaded it, that they were out of the woods and safe. That the AK had been an unnecessary precaution.

So he couldn't say he was terribly surprised when the female member of their party spoke up.

"Is the ground shaking…?" Rochelle asked suddenly, worriedly.

The three others froze in their tracks as if to evaluate the claim. "Well, shoot, now that'cha mention it," Ellis wondered aloud, pushing his hat up on his head as he peered at the earth. Nick felt the small shockwaves in the soles of his shoes and, filled with dread, turned to look north.

And there it was about a football field's length away. The huge, hulking beast of a zombie from the northern overpass.

But this time, instead of having its back towards them, it was barreling towards them on its fists.

"Fuck… we've got company," he informed his compatriots with a grimace.

They all turned at his words. "Holy shit…" Rochelle whispered, her brown eyes growing wide and wider.

Ellis used the scope of his hunting rifle to take a closer look at the approaching creature. "Now normally," he spoke, not lifting his gaze, "I'd say you ought tuh be polite when you've got company, maybe offer 'em a seat or a drink or sumthin', but from the looks'a that big motherfucker, I dun think it'd be awful prudent."

Nick cast him a disbelieving glance for his overall lack of concern, a chuckle held on his lips; he quickly made to draw the AK off his back, readying the mechanism with a click of the bolt. He was well aware that at this distance, coupled with his relative inexperience with such a high-powered automatic weapon, it wasn't likely to be of much use yet, as half the bullet spray would likely miss its target, but that didn't stop him from preparing the weapon. His eyes briefly moved to Coach, who was shifting on his feet, meaty fingers gripped so tightly on his shotty that Nick had to assume the man was harboring similar considerations about his own weapon choice.

Ellis took several pot-shots at the creature then, perhaps to test its resilience; it gave a howl from afar that sounded more like mere annoyance than the infliction of grievous wounds.

Rochelle lifted her own hunting rifle to take aim and follow his lead.

"Thing's built like a goddamn tank…" Coach swore, watching as the two smallest survivors each sunk a full clip and reloaded. "How much do you think it's gonna take to bring it down?"

Nick licked his lips, getting down on one knee to steady himself as best as possible. "I intend to find out," he muttered, narrowing his eyes down.

It was getting steadily closer; if he had to guess, he would've said it had crossed the first thirty yard line. Coach would know better. The thumps beneath their feet had grown in intensity, creating a distinct audible rumble of the loose debris and spent casings on the pavement.

Rochelle reloaded a third time. "This is not good," she shook her head. "Definitely not good."

"S'like it's not even makin' a dent," Ellis added in, frustration straining his vocal chords, testing his original nonchalance.

"You two might want to save your ammo," Coach commented. They both gave him incredulous glances. But the big man's concern was valid in Nick's opinion. At this rate, they were quickly depleting their clips to the point where they would need to make a return trip back to the McDonald's, or take a chance on the amount of infected they would bump into in the next seventeen of eighteen miles.

Under the working assumption that they'd make it out of this, of course.

Ellis grudgingly lowered his weapon. Rochelle did the same.

The gap was closing.

Well, it was now or never, he supposed. Nick bit at his lip, worrying at the kick of the automatic weapon. "One of you two want to steady me?" he asked. If they weren't going to be firing, they ought to be doing something.

Ellis looked to Rochelle and Rochelle looked to Ellis, but they seemed to simultaneously make the decision. El swooped down to his rear and pressed his palms to his upper back.

The hands felt reassuring and warm through the suit coat– solid, firm. Nick shouldered his weapon and took aim down the sight, directly for the center of the raging beast, finger hesitating at the trigger.

He squeezed it down and bullets screamed from the muzzle at 2,300 feet per second– double that of his magnum. He very nearly lost his grip on the thing in the mere four seconds it took to unload the magazine. The recoil carried backwards through his body, but thanks to the kid, all the bullets found their mark, ripping into the behemoth's shoulder, sending a cascade of crimson streaming out the backside.

The tank visibly stumbled in the distance, the assault briefly slowing it.

"It's workin'!" Coach announced, his voice booming.

Nick fed in his second clip. "Ready?" he cleared with the hick quickly.

"I got'cha," he affirmed, giving a nod; Nick could see the cocky grin on his face just from the way he spoke.

The conman opened fire, sending a second barrage tearing into its flesh, stripping muscle into ribbons that clung to its body... lodging bullets deep into its musculature, creating pock-marks that surged with darkened blood. It screamed and howled its displeasure; Nick smirked, hand moving for a third. They had this in the bag.

But then the creature did something he didn't expect. It took a massive swerve and hurtled itself into the brush that served as a windbreaker to the freeway.

Rochelle and Coach both simultaneously took an instinctive step back.

Nick warily trained the gun where he had seen the tank disappear, alarm pulsing through his veins. He didn't dare waste the shots he had shooting 'where he thought it was', he only had so many; he needed to know they were hitting their mark. The heavy foot falls had ceased– it wasn't moving. But it couldn't be dead either. Not yet.

Ellis' hands didn't falter. "What's'it doin'…?" he whispered.

They all heard the creak and wrench of metal. But none of them suspected to see a Dodge Caravan come hurtling overhead, directly for their position.

"MOVE!" Coach bellowed.

They scattered to the left and right; the minivan connected with the ground all but fifty feet in front of them, bouncing, not once, but twice as it barrel-rolled over its sides, glass shattering, fiberglass shredding. Metal screeched against asphalt as it keeled past them, far too close for comfort, finally coming to rest upside-down many feet beyond.

The tank re-emerged, its intent back on them, and it had covered sufficient ground in the interim. Thirty yards, perhaps, was all that stood between them and it, and that distance wouldn't last long.

So Nick didn't hesitate to hunker back down and take his own aim, knowing their window of safety was short, and relatively sure Ellis' help was now mostly extraneous due to its proximity.

Coach came to the same conclusion; he began unloading his shotgun, furiously pumping refills in through the bottom as fast as his fingers would load them. Rochelle panicked and resumed firing her rifle, her aim spotty and inconsistent because she wasn't shouldering it correctly. Ellis whipped out his pistol to add a little more lead to the chaos, though its efficacity seemed questionable.

The tank forced them back. Nick gave up on his crouched position. They went all out, back-peddling; flesh tore from its body, blood soaked the ground in a trail behind it. Its movements became jerky and uneven, massive arms lunging helplessly, too far out of range to reach them. Finally, the creature gave a last dying roar before it collapsed face-first onto the pavement.

Nick dropped his AK; it clattered to the ground. He felt at his palms. They were soft and numb to the touch from the relentless vibration of the gun, and his ears still rang from the gunfire. For a long moment, all four of them were silent, recovering from the monumentous trial; but next thing he knew, they were all grinning from ear to ear at their triumph over the beast.

Coach folded his arms. "We have got to find a better way to do that," he said matter-of-factly, chuckling and shaking his head with a chagrinned smile that spoke worlds.

"I already gots an idea," Ellis piped up, looking rather smug. "Heavens to Betsy," he continued, "Yulee better damn-well have a liquor store."

"Don't tell me you're going to start singing again," Nick teasingly plugged his ears, in reference to their short-lived car drive the previous day.

Ellis laughed and gave him a friendly shove. "Nah, it's sumthin' Keith gone shown me how'ta make." He grinned widely, face lighting up with pure mischief. "Fire in a bottle, baby."

"Molotov cocktails…" Rochelle wondered aloud, nodding her head appreciatively. "Those things are nasty; get thrown around a lot in riots. I've done coverage on the damage." She lifted an eyebrow with a subtle pull to her lips. "Extensive, to say the least."

"Not a bad plan, young'un," Coach pitched in. "You light anything up it ain't gonna last long." He gave him a hearty clap on the back.

And then, like clockwork, Ellis turned to collect his opinion on the proposition.

"What can I say?" Nick supplied with a cavalier shrug. "The idiot's a genius."

He got another shove.

Chapter Text

The St Mary's River loomed ahead, wide and looping back on itself in numerous near oxbows. The water, which Ellis had learned years ago from his 'local geography' class drained from the Okefenokee Swamp to the west, served to separate and designate Georgia from Florida, giving the latter state its famous 'boot' shape. Distractions of intermittent zombie attacks aside, Ellis couldn't help but gnaw his bottom lip in anticipation as they approached the long expanse of bridge that would carry them across the border– he kept looking back behind him and gradually he found himself falling further and further behind his compatriots. His footfalls became progressively fewer and at the bridge's commencement, he stopped dead in his tracks altogether, staring at the toes of his well-worn work boots. Coach and Rochelle had already gotten a good sixty feet or more across the trestles, not a hesitation or falter to their steps, but the gambler, who had seemed to be pacing him ever since the tank, noticed his pause and turned to look at him.

Ellis caught the green-eyed gaze. "This's it," he informed the man, motioning at the seam that divided asphalt and metal bridge. "Soon as we cross this bridge, I'll've finally been outta Georgia."

Nick chuckled, waving at him, magnum still in hand from the last thing he had shot down half a mile back. "C'mon, Dorothy."

Ellis stuck out his tongue at the man for associating him with the fictional Kansas female. "M'comin', hold yer horses." He licked his slightly chapped lips and turned to peer back one last time at the expanse of his home state that he was about to leave behind. He'd spent all his life there, all his twenty-three years in one place, and he'd never ever thought to leave in his whole time there. It had always been his home.

He couldn't help but wonder when he'd be back again. If he would.

Nick waited, patiently, some twelve feet onto the long bridge, unmoving; he was apparently scanning the landscape as well with partially squinted eyes. The water beneath them carried with it a light breeze oceanward, not more than a lazy five or ten miles an hour, he would've guessed, and Ellis noticed now the way it fluttered the man's jacket and swept at his greasy hair, attempting to free strands from the mass that was the rest. He looked rather brave standing there all alone like that, he realized, and for a fleeting instant he had to wonder what might be going on in that contained reserved mind, if any of his thoughts were on 'home' as well.

But that was probably silly.

Ellis peered around him; Rochelle and Coach's forms were shrinking with every delayed moment, getting ahead of them. Nick didn't look terribly concerned, but when did he ever really, besides earlier that morning? Since their triumph over the tank the conman had gone back to his typical aloof demeanor, calm but cautious. They couldn't stay standing here forever though. Ellis bit his lip. With a heavy heart, he took a deep breath and stepped onto the bridge. In a few quick strides, he had joined the conman and they both resumed southward together. "'Sides," he broke the silence, "this ain't much'uva yellow brick road," he quipped as he deposited his hands to the pockets of his coveralls, shrugging his shoulders as they walked side by side.

"And New Orleans probably won't be much of an Emerald City, either," Nick carried on semi-sarcastically, his eyes to the west, toward the mentioned destination.

Ellis scratched the stubble on his cheek. "Still dun think we'll make it in time?" he asked.

The gambler shrugged, which he supposed was the answer.

They spent the next few minutes at a slightly increased pace, closing the lost distance between them and the other two survivors. As they walked, Ellis couldn't help but glance over to his older compatriot. The way the conman walked, with such a purpose to each and every step… seemed so contradictory to his pessimistic notion that there was nothing waiting for them in New Orleans.

Everything about Nick still seemed like such a mystery… Sure, Ellis knew he must've lived a good portion of his adult life in Nevada, what with working at a casino and all, but was the silver state the only place he had lived, the place he would refer to as 'home'? Where else had he been? Had he travelled? For that matter, what had he been doing in Savannah when he had… to get himself into all this mess? As far as he had seen and heard, the west was clear of the infection, at least for now.

Ellis knew he should probably save the questions for later, but it was eating him up inside wanting to know at least something more about the man he was quickly beginning to so greatly admire. So he asked the one that seemed most relevant to his own thoughts. "Where'ju grow up?"

The older male didn't seem to be caught off guard by the sudden inquiry, instead eying him briefly, before turning his chin back to face front. "Cali," he said succinctly.

The answer didn't narrow it down all that much, but he supposed he wasn't going to get much more from the contemplative man at the moment. He fiddled with the safety on his pistol in its holster.

"Foothills," Nick added abruptly, and Ellis looked back to his profile. The man's voice dropped to a lower volume, partially mumbling. "North of LA. Hated it."

Ellis would have asked why– as it was he was bursting with inquisitiveness at the hint of information– but the gap was closing and Coach and Ro were now within earshot, and he knew Nick wouldn't be comfortable carrying on the dialogue any further. He shut his mouth, having respect for the man's privacy.

Rochelle noticed when they caught up and turned to flash them a smile. "How's about lunch?" she suggested. Ellis blinked and looked up toward the sun. It was a bit early in the day for their midday meal, but the bridge was literally abandoned; they hadn't seen a single infected across its length yet and they'd only need to cover the two angles– front and back– if anything did show up, so it made a good spot to stop, rest their legs, and refuel.

"A'right," Ellis agreed, pulling the provision sack from his back and handing it to her. She began to dole out the allotment she had packed to each of the men.

They all sat and dangled their legs out over the bridge, staring at the water of the St. Marys underneath them as they consumed their lunch, listening to its gentle churning.

"Would'ya look at that?" Coach said with slight wonder; he pointed a large arm south. Ellis followed it and felt his eyebrows raise.

They hadn't seen it before when they had been on the bridge proper, but their current positions nearly overhanging the ledge gave them a new perspective. A large freight boat was caught underneath the bridge; it hadn't made the clearance. Water flowed around its hull, eastward, towards the ocean, careless of its large intrusion, though various plant life had gotten stuck on it, the current not enough to sweep it away. Apparently, the bridge hadn't raised for the fleeing vessel, and the captain had decided to try and make it through anyway, only to wedge it into its current locked position. Ellis frowned. After that the ship must have been abandoned by its occupants and crew because it was very much desolate, no sign of anyone or anything on said craft, except for a message that looked like it had been blow-torched onto the side of the hull: Freedom or Bust.

"What were they trying to do…?" Rochelle wondered aloud at the spectacle. "Weren't they headed for evac?"

"Apparently they thought they could make it their own way…" Coach trailed off.

"Dumbshits," Nick imputed.

There was a silence between the four.

Ellis couldn't help but wonder what the heck would make the passengers even attempt their own form of evacuation, rather than that provided by CEDA.

One thing the display did make clear was that the power in Florida, unlike Georgia, was out, considering the control box sat on the Florida side of the border. Moreover, it signified that the two states had handled the news of the infection differently– the more northern state endeavoring to keep electricity flowing and available within its border, the southern cutting it off, whether on purpose or accident it was impossible to divine. What it meant for them was that things were undoubtedly going to be a little less easy from here on out, that they'd be roughing it for a good long while if they were planning on following their original route– shit, it'd be until they got out of Pensacola, in the very toe of Florida, which was quite a ways off… and nothing guaranteed Alabama, or Mississippi, or even Louisiana itself– their destination– would be any different.

"Y'know, maybe we oughta jus' keep goin' south an' go tuh the Keys," Ellis joked to his compatriots, sinking his teeth into the quarter-pounder with cheese.

"It would be lovely this time of year," Rochelle nodded, motioning with a french fry, "A balmy eighty degrees, as they put it in the biz."

"I forgot my swimsuit," the conman quipped sarcastically.

"That's alright, we can all just go skinny-dipping," Coach joked back through a full mouth.

"Dear Lord," Nick pinched the brim of his nose at the thought, no doubt imagining the suggestee with a lack of proper swimwear.

"No thanks," Rochelle laughed, understandably uninterested.

Ellis just chuckled. No doubt the older male, once a minor football star, had no qualms with seeing other grown men naked– frequent after-game showers would have done that for him. The prospect didn't bother Ellis much either– it wasn't like he hadn't gone 'skinny-dipping' before. He and Keith and some other friends had done so on a couple of occasions, back at the lake when the fishing boat got too warm and they needed a quick cool-off. Of course, Keith always wanted to make a big deal out of it, make it a race, saying the last one undressed got to do the gutting and scaling on the day's catches, and then he'd stand there at the bow of the boat in the full nude, hands on his hips in triumph because inevitably he was always first to be stripped.

Ellis nibbled his bottom lip with a touch of a frown. At least with Nick and Coach and Ro he wouldn't be stuck gutting fish all the time.

He stared down at the swirling, ebbing water, letting them sweep the unwanted memories away. "Y'think they kin swim?" he asked suddenly, compelled. All three of his fellows knew exactly who he meant by 'they'.

"I don't see why not," Nick reasoned, leaning back on a palm. "If they could before getting infected."

"I guess'so," Ellis stared hard at the flowing surface. "S'jus' you don't see zombies swimmin' in the movies, so…"

"I can think of one good way to find out," the conman said, filling his mouth with a large bite.

"What are you going to do?" Rochelle laughed, "find one and throw it in?"

Nick shrugged. "Sure."

"Sounds like sumthin' Keith'd do," Ellis contributed, unable to help himself. "This one time he was playin' with a rattler, trying to git it tuh swim, cuz I guess he'd seen this segment on the tv about water snakes not that long ago an' he was curious tuh see if they all could do that– they can't, by the way," he added, "an' anyway, he had this long stick– I didn't wanna git involved, cuz originally he wanted me tuh up an' distract it or sumthin' while he made a grab fer its head– an'…"

A coughing hack startled all four of them. Ellis jerked his head right, as did Nick; Coach and Ro both looked left. But they were still alone on the bridge.

"Damn echoes," Coach mumbled in dismissal, stuffing the remainder of his meal into his mouth.

Ellis peered over the edge uncertainly, feeling nervous, his story of his friend's resultingly swollen up, snake-bitten face long forgotten. Even if the water was causing an echo, that still meant whatever had made the noise was nearby. And it didn't sound like the typical infected they had been encountering. He eyed the northerly bank momentarily, and set down his food on its paper package to grab the hunting rifle from his back to use its scope to take a closer inspection.

"See anything?" Nick inquired calmly after the mechanic had spent a moment searching.

"Nothin'…" Ellis pulled his eye away, biting his lower lip.

"What about on the ship?" he inclined his shoulder, eyes not leaving his half-consumed burger. The guy was really digging in, which was good; Ellis was glad to see him properly filling his belly since his breakfast was sparse.

The hick swung the weapon around to access the threat, his left eye– his bad eye– squeezed shut. "No…" he murmured. There was another hack and then a slick whirling noise that reminded him of a loose fan belt.

The very next instant, something long, dark, and indistinguishable had wrapped itself around Nick's shin. "What the shit?!" the man got out. The appendage went taut and instantly he was pulled right from the ledge.

Ellis' fast reflexes caused him to abandon his rifle and seize ahold of the man's arm.

He only realized how stupid a thing it probably was to do when they were both tumbling from the bridge, through air, towards the quickly approaching water below.

He heard Rochelle shout out in alarm before the crash that was their bodies hitting the surface of the river and rushing into his eardrums. The water swallowed them up in its cold maw and the world became muffled; he forced his eyes open underwater to get his bearings, to determine which direction was up– seeking out the light of the sun through the murk. His fingers were still clutched around the gambler's bicep… the man was struggling with something, kicking his legs, likely trying to get free of whatever had snagged him, and Ellis pumped his own to get them above water, his lungs already pounding in his chest.

His head breeched the surface with a gasp and he was joined by two others–

Nick and something entirely else.

Its face was covered in boils, so much so that all that remained of the person's original face was a single glowing eye and a wide open mouth from which a long muscle protruded.

The thing hooked around Nick's leg was a tongue. A couple other tendrils coiled and curled about its head, moving to find targets to wrap themselves around– least of all the conman's neck. Ellis flailed to get them away from the advancing writhing, slimy muscles.

Next thing he knew there was a loud pop! and the air around them filled with a green smokey vapor– and the creature was gone, its body sinking beneath the surface. Rochelle must have picked it off from the bridge with her hunting rifle.

"Christ!" Ellis coughed, it stung his eyes– he was already having a hard enough time catching his breath and…

"It's still got–" Nick managed to get out before his head submerged again.

Ellis' eyes widened and he dove. The weight of the dead infected's body was what was dragging the man down, its tongue still tightly wrapped around his ankle. Nick was struggling at the now-lifeless bindings with his fingers, loosening them slowly but not nearly fast enough. Ellis yanked the machete from his hip and took a slow-motion swing through the water. The dull blade sliced the darkened appendage and released him from the anchor.

Both men resurfaced sputtering.

"Shit…!" Nick spat river water numerous times, understandably still shaken by the encounter.

Ellis re-secured his machete quickly, but next his hand jerked to his head because he realized what was missing from it. Frantically he scanned the surface and gasped when he located his hat, barely floating a bit off. He made a beeline for it and managed to snag it before it went under, plopping the wet headgear back over his hair with a quick prayer to the Lord– he probably would have never been able to retrieve it from the depths of the river. He gave a sweep of his arms, turning to face back upstream.

The river had managed to carry them quite a distance from the bridge. While it was by no means fast flowing, they were quickly losing sight of the far-off forms of Coach and Rochelle– dots of concerned pink and purple standing on the edge.

"North or south??" Ellis shouted to his comrade; they needed to decide quick before they lost visual contact altogether.

Nick grimaced as he buoyed. "We don't know what might be waiting for us on the south side," he cautioned over the rush of water.

Ellis nodded his understanding.

They paddled for the north bank. It made his arms and legs feel heavy as hell. Shit, he wouldn't have guessed swimming in full clothing would be so much damn harder, though the steel-toed boots were for sure weighing him down considerably. When they finally got there and crawled up onto land, he flopped down and rolled onto his back to take a breather, not caring how much dirt would be caking onto his wet shirt later.

Nick took a seat beside him in a patch of dried grass; he was already fussing over his damp magnum, draining the water from the barrel. Droplets drained out of his hair, dripping along his jawbone and off his chin and nose; he drug a soaked sleeve across his eyes. The dress shirt underneath the jacket clung to his chest and torso, some of its opacity lost, and Ellis couldn't help but notice just how toned the man was underneath all the formerly obscuring clothing. Especially in the abdomen– shit, did it look good… damn. He flushed a little and sat up.

Coach and Rochelle's shouts sounded to their rights; they were on their way to meet them. He cupped his hands to his mouth. "We're over here!" he sounded out to them, then waved his arms. They caught sight of them and hurried their pace; Ellis could see they had his hunting rifle– he was instantly glad he hadn't lost it to the river. Nick was probably lucky his thigh holster was so tight. Ellis looked back to the wet cardshark.

"Guess that answers your question," Nick flashed him a smirk as he slicked some of his loose hair back into place with chagrin.

"Yeah," Ellis laughed humorlessly, ringing water from his hat as he shook his head, "I guess'so."

Chapter Text

It had taken he and Ellis a good few hours to dry out, mostly because the humidity prevented it. His shoes were still soggy, even as they entered the outskirts of town, but he could get over it. Rochelle had even been kind enough to take his suit coat for a bit, wringing it out as best she could and shaking it in the wind so the dampness could drain away from the fabric. Though naturally her concern for the hick had been more immediate– it was only after multiple reassurances of 'm'fine' from the thick lips that she finally relented and accepted the answer. Coach didn't have much to contribute to the discussion of the encounter, looking stoney-faced and serious, and the big man's silence certainly didn't upset him any as he surreptitiously shook off the cold that numbed his fingers and ears. Ultimately Nick knew that the older man's thoughts were hung up on the facts– that their little group had been separated within the time frame of an eyeblink, literally.

Which personally just reinforced in his mind what he had been preaching to himself from the beginning– that they all needed to keep a sharp eye out and take better stock of their surroundings. They certainly wouldn't be hanging their feet off any more ledges, that was for damn sure.

He was a little chilly at first without the extra layer of his suit coat; he just wasn't used to the climate– but the sun was warm and dried their skin quickly, bringing heat back to their bodies as they resumed their trek. Fuck if Ellis hadn't decided to physically remove his little muscle shirt to give it a quick wring out, and the display of still-wet skin and flexing muscle warmed him faster than the sun ever could; he'd honestly been that close to sporting an embarrassing bump in the front of his trousers before the kid pulled it back over his head.

He had been very careful with his magnum the first few fires, and he encouraged Ellis to ensure his pistol was free of waterlogging before he did the same, though glocks were particularly resistant due to their construction. Thankfully, neither of them suffered any misfires, though Nick was adamant about giving his weapon a good thorough cleaning when they arrived at their safehouse.

There was in fact a liquor store in Yulee as Ellis had hoped, one of those little corner-store hole-in-the-walls with iron bars over all the windows, that doubled as a bait and tackle supplier– it made sense considering the town's proximity to the river. Nick didn't have any trouble picking the thick padlock set onto the door with the provided bobby pin from Rochelle, at which point he stepped back to let Coach take over. The ex-football player took a running start at it, throwing his massive shoulder into the door. It smashed the interior bolt loose from the doorframe, fracturing and splintering wood as it flew open on its hinges, colliding with the check-out counter just inside the door with a crash. The elder man rolled his shoulder in its socket once, stretching his neck in quick recovery. So maybe his weight and background had some merit. Nick made a mental note not to stand in front of the man when he was on the move from there on out.

They split up but Nick stayed at the store entrance, just inside the door, his eyes outside, keeping watch in the off chance something tried to jump them during their raid of the small shop. But there were only a few meandering commons that came to explore the loud crash caused by their breach of the door, and he was more than happy to oblige their curiosity with a .50 cal bullet hole between each pair of searching yellow eyes.

Of course even with the supplied target practice, he couldn't stop thinking about how the mechanic had grabbed his arm as they toppled over that bridge together. How they had both taken the twenty-foot plummet into the water below, even though he had been the one to get pulled. He swore he could still feel the imprint of Ellis' fingers, the tightness with which the young man had clutched with instinctual urgency– Nick couldn't help but wonder if he had unintentionally left bruises on the skin. He briefly reached up to touch where they had been.

He wouldn't go so far as to say the kid had saved his life or anything, but the appreciation he felt nonetheless was undeniable. He honestly wouldn't have expected the other two to dive in after him had he fallen in all alone. He turned a jade eye to Ellis.

The kid swept an armful of beer bottles from the shelf and deposited them to the plastic basket in his left hand. Nick watched warily as Ellis counted them out. They had already managed to find a hardware store where they had grabbed supplies, which included, but wasn't limited to, a large gallon-sized tin of turpentine that would be serving as the flammable ingredient for their makeshift bombs, along with a pint of motor oil– for cohesion purposes– both of which had been put into his possession. He absently swung the brown paper bag at his side, letting it brush against his leg– the one he had been so rudely snagged by– gently, listening to the sway of fluid inside the containers. It was a good 144 ounces of liquid altogether when mixed, so they'd be able to whip up a full dozen of the things if they filled the bottles to their full capacity. Now, how they were going to carry them all was another matter altogether; they had to be stored mostly upright. But he supposed they weren't worrying about that just yet.

"Alrighty!" the hick lifted the basket a moment later, with an eager nod, "I think I gots what we need." He had added a small vessel of vodka to the twelve beers– no doubt what they would be soaking the cloth wicks in– trundling over to them with his spoils.

Coach had helped himself to a small bottle of chocolate liqueur, which he was practically suckling with frequent sips; he gave a hearty nod to the boy. "Good," he paused the mouth of the bottle at his lip to speak. He shrugged his shoulder to the east, "Then let's get outta here and get to that safehouse."

Nick wagered the older man was eager to get back so they could actually take some time to relax. The seventeen-mile distance had only taken them seven hours after the run-in with the tank, even with the backtracking the smoker had caused them, and as such, they had agreed on the walk to give themselves each a little time to catch an extra hour and a half of sleep, figuring the lost time on the road would refresh their bodies and benefit them in the long run. Nick had to admit, it was a rather strenuous pace they had adopted, especially for anyone who wasn't used to regular physical exertion, which he doubted Rochelle was. And Coach's prime had long since come and gone. Thankfully they were both keeping up. Though he still probably owed the reporter for plugging off that long-tongued freak before it could sink its claws into him. God had that thing been nasty to look at.

"Sounds good tuh me!" Ellis responded enthusiastically to the football player, never dampened, not even after twenty damn miles or an inadvertent swim in the river. He popped the top off of one of the beers to take a ready swig; Nick lifted an eyebrow. Oh God, he hoped to hell the kid wasn't planning on drinking too many of those to empty them out. Ellis caught his gaze and, misinterpreting it, offered him the brown bottle with a grin. "Want'some?"

Nick's mouth quirked. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't be adverse to consuming alcohol, especially something with such a low percentage because his drink of choice was primarily scotch, but he wasn't too keen on the possibility of inhibiting any of his faculties, even slightly; he needed to be on the top of his game. His stomach gave a growl, as if to remind him how little was there to dilute the drug. Ellis waggled it provocatively. Ah, what the heck, what harm could a sip do? He took it and slugged back a single quick swallow, letting his tongue linger on the twist-off glass edge before handing it back. Hick spit, he noted with a pleased lift of an eyebrow. Little had he known when he handed over that morning's hash brown that he'd be starting something. Sheesh, next thing you knew they'd be sharing everything.

The concept of 'sharing a bed' came to mind, but he roughly shoved it away as quick as it had come.

"We're not there yet," he commented cooly, "so don't get drunk off your ass." He meant it; drinking and shooting were not a good mix, and with the way Coach was sucking down that liqueur, he didn't want he and Rochelle to be the only ones left able to point a gun.

Ellis chuckled, lifting a dirty blonde eyebrow beneath the almost-lost hat. "Yer gettin' me confused wit' Keith," he said matter-of-factly. "I told'ju he was the one who liked gettin' plastered, not me. Shoot," he swore and shook his head, mouth starting, "you shoulda seen 'im this one time. He went fer this beer run in the middle'a the night, an' the manager a'the store didn't wanna sell him no more alcohol on account'a the fact that he was already so schnockered he could barely stand…"

"Good Lord, Nicolas, look what'chu gone and started," Coach mumbled over the kid, half joking, half serious. He clapped Ellis on the back. "How's about you save it for later, boy," he suggested.

Ellis' gaze dropped with an "Okay," effectively silenced. He took another drink, though more timidly under the beefy man's arm; Nick shifted anxiously in the doorway.

"C'mon, baby girl," Coach beckoned to the female survivor inside the shop, turning to head out the store door.

Rochelle was standing with her back towards them, in front of the west wall of the little building, still eying a singleton case of Mike's Hard Lemonade inside one of the formerly-refrigerated displays. She shifted on her feet before looking back to them, almost questioningly.

Nick gave her a teasing lift of an eyebrow. "Just take it," he said, flicking his wrist. "It's not going to hurt anything." He could tell her conscience was what was holding her back, eating at her. It was one thing to take supplies from designated safehouses, another to rob from an abandoned convenience store. She hadn't much liked absconding with the turpentine and motor oil either, though she couldn't argue how great a commodity having the mollies would be. She'd best get used to swiping things though, in his opinion. Who knew where their next meal would be coming from. It was quite possible they would have to resort to burglary frequently in the near future, though he wondered about the potential scarcity of provisions further down the road, depending on who all had made the same judgement call.

"Well, maybe you're used to stealing," Ro shot back at him, though good-humoredly.

"Not stealing if no one misses it," he shrugged with a grin.

She glanced back in through the glass door, considering the logic behind his statement, before opening it up and snagging one of the four, leaving the other three. She proceeded out the door with her fellow survivors, closing the broken door behind her. "Tonight's top story," she said aloud, tracing the sky with the bottle like a headline, "Yulee Liquor Store Plundered. Culprits, as of yet, unknown, but security cameras indicate one man dressed in a white suit…"

All three men laughed, Nick's a chuckle. "As if it'd be that easy to catch me," he murmured and she gave him a sharp elbow to the arm, opening her beverage with a pop of the screw-top bottle cap. He meant it though; he was not easy to catch when it came to making an escape.

Again, not anything anybody needed to know though.

They set out, goods in tow.

Chapter Text

Their safehouse turned out to be a duplex that had had its interior walls knocked out. The result was six full-sized bedrooms, and a couple of kitchens and bathrooms, though one of said bathrooms had been modified for reasons he could not discern into what they could only guess was some kind of storage room; it had been sealed off with numerous locks and upon the thick metal door were spray-painted the words 'in case of emergency' in all caps. The lettering was messy and uneven, as if it had been written in a hurry, the can discarded to the floor, though the carefully hammered nail that the keyring for the padlocks hung from didn't convey the same urgency.

None of them really knew what to make of it. And while they couldn't classify anything they had been put through as of yet an 'emergency'– zombie apocalypse of course withstanding– all four were helplessly curious as to what lie inside.

But for the moment they agreed and decided to leave the room alone and check out the rest of their sanctuary– Coach the kitchen, Nick and Ro the sleeping accommodations.

Ellis chose to scout the outside perimeter of the house quickly, to make sure it was secure. The original fencing, a rather simple design made of 2x4s and 2x8s, reaching the standard six foot height, had been partially re-engineered, reinforced with steel rebar, horizontally connecting the wooden boards. In addition, razor wire had been strung over the top to discourage the 'hopping' of said fence. All in all it looked like an effective deterrent to whatever might want to get in from the outside– he sure as hell wouldn't want to try and breach it.

There was a smallish backyard with a cute little shared redwood deck, carefully assembled with screws, and even a barbecue grill hooked up to a propane tank, which he quickly determined was still in operation; they'd be able to cook even with a lack of electricity– that was good news. There was also a large septic tank in one corner, in the other a shed, which he found to contain the typical kinds of shed items– a lawnmower, various gardening tools, a few coils of watering hose, fertilizer. A rocking seat built for two stood near the sliding glass doors that had been covered by corrugated metal panelling, welded into place and already partially rusting. Well that was sure to increase property value; Ellis gave a laughing snort.

Satisfied by the short explore, he went back around to the front to join his group and tell them the news.

He tromped in through the red metal door, kicking it closed behind him. His comrades had settled in, having set their things down on the coffee table in the center of the living room. Nick and Rochelle both sat on the couch, the former with his legs up on said table as a foot rest. "Looks like it's hooked up tuh a well y'all," he informed his two present fellows, swiping his hat quickly across his brow with a grin. "We should have runnin' water."

"You're shitting me," Nick's green eyes widened.

"Hallelujah," Rochelle exclaimed, standing in her excitement.

The man and the woman looked to one another, their thoughts simultaneous.

"Now there may not be hot water…" the hick began to warn each of them before they got in a fight over the shower. He couldn't imagine the water heater, if there was one, was operational without power, but he didn't know if that alone was enough to stop the two cleanly survivors from having a row.

"Ladies first," the conman concluded, waving his hand and looking promptly away.

The reporter laughed. "Even after the drink you took back at the river? You sure?" she seemed a little incredulous, but she was smiling, tapping her right hoop earring with a finger absently.

"Might have been a longer one if it weren't for you," the man shrugged his thanks with as careless an attitude as he could summon, intentionally not looking back at her. Ellis cocked his head with interest. The gambler gave a pert nod. "Was some sharp shooting," he admitted with a flash of green.

"Well that's nice of you, Nick," Rochelle smiled.

He shrugged, then focused his attention to getting some dirt out from under his lengthening fingernails. "I've been filthy for days… another hour isn't going to hurt," he reasoned with faux-nonchalance.

Ellis beamed from ear to ear. Rochelle's brown eyes caught his and she smiled widely at him. They shared the brief exchange of wordless mutual appreciation before she turned to go utilize the blessing of running water, snagging the backpack that contained their scant toiletries on her way.

Ellis hid his smile the best he could and took what had been her seat next to the conman, relaxing into the cushions with a sigh. It felt so nice to get off his feet he realized as he put them up with Nick's; they were downright sore from all the walking around, he wouldn't be surprised if they had swollen up so much it'd be hard to get them out of the boots.

"So… did you do that, Overalls?" the conman asked, blase.

"Do what?" he played dumb.

"Convince cupcake to be nice to me." The sly eyes tilted at him knowingly.

Ellis didn't know how the man did that. He was a card player, not a mind reader. Least, last time he checked.

He also didn't know what to say. He looked away briefly, quickly considering his response. Would Nick appreciate his attempts to create civility behind his back, or would he be insulted? Or– perhaps most likely– would he simply remain indifferent as if nothing had happened at all? If he could have predicted the outcome, it would have made the decision of what to say considerably easier, but he was plum out of luck on that one.

"Yeah," he chose to admit slowly. "I asked 'em both tuh treat'chu a little more fairly." He paused, then continued with assertion, "Y'ain't given 'um any reason not tuh trust ya." He looked up, but to him the green gaze was completely unreadable, masked by emotionlessness. Ellis bit his lip and hoped the explanation was enough.

The conman wasn't going to let him in unless he wanted him in.

Nick gave a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough, slinging one of his arms over the far-end of the back of the couch to look away again. Ellis shifted and drummed his fingers across a knee, disconcerted by the unusual silence stretching between them. He was about ready to say something, anything really, most likely apologize, when at long last a smirk pulled back across the man's maw, signaling he was going to speak. "I haven't given them any reason to trust me either," the cardshark pointed out, an eyebrow lifting tightly.

"I donno, man," Ellis shook his head, eager to prove him wrong on that note. "I think that whole thing with the tank pretty much showed ya gots our best interests in mind," he brought up the rather monumental event with a fond chuckle. "Shit, was that ever cool," he said with a mild awe. He still couldn't get the image out of his head, it kept coming back… of holding him steady as the man cooly blasted bullets into its hulking form, steadily taking it down. And though it was gruesome to watch and bore a much more striking reality than a few of the worse horror films he'd been subjected to– compliments of Keith– he savored the moment for an entirely different reason.

He had gotten to touch the man.

The gambler gave a small laugh now too. "Guess I'll give you that one," he nodded and slung his other arm over the back of the couch too. The action would have placed it around his shoulders, had it not been for the construction of the furniture. It wasn't a romantic gesture by any stretch; the man was just getting comfortable. Ellis flushed for even having thought of it.

"Man, I can't wait for that shower," the cardshark added.

Ellis laughed. "Yeah, me either. I still feel all slimy… an' it didn't even hook me!" he poked at him teasingly.

And then Nick did something he never would have predicted.

He pulled that arm Ellis had been so self-conscious about from the back of the couch and hooked it right around the back of his neck, pulling him into a firm, but gentle head lock, briefly knuckling the top of his head through his cap, grinning like a hyena the whole time.

The chummy gesture shocked him into baffled speechlessness, even as he was let go.

"Thanks for watching my back today, kiddo," the gambler relayed, still smirking that amazingly beautiful white smile, green eyes half lidded. It made Ellis freeze, time suspended for just an instant as he lost himself in it.

"No problem," he recovered, looking mildly embarrassed, but mostly relieved. He couldn't pull his gaze away, so instead he just smiled and left it at that.

Chapter Text

Coach had found a large freezer full of meat in one of the kitchens, and though there was no power to the device any more, the meat had not yet thawed completely due to the sheer amount of it and was safe for consumption still. Upon news of the barbecue out back, he opted to cook for the evening's meal with hearty enthusiasm. Since they had had hamburger the night previous, he went for grilling up a generous sampling of chicken legs, thighs and breasts for them all to enjoy, which went fairly well with the canned green beans and canned corn he discovered in the pantry. At least, Ellis certainly opted for seconds of everything.

About the time Coach had a second batch ready, Rochelle joined them, her rinse-off complete. She smelled like hotel bar soap, the oatmeal stuff they had snagged from some rooms of the Vannah before departure. Though her hair was still wet, she had already put it back up into the bob behind her head. It looked as though she had also chosen to give her pink Depeche Mode shirt a quick cleaning, scrubbed with the soap no doubt, then wrung out to get most of the dampness out. It clung to her slightly as a result; Ellis could easily make out her bra straps underneath, though he made a point not to stare. He probably ought to follow her lead and do the same to his own clothing to the best of his ability– he was certain they smelled like sweat, and as of the day's misadventure, the muddy St. Marys.

Rochelle took a paper plate from the stack and the big man motioned her over to the grill to pick out which pieces she liked best.

"Guess I'm next for the shower," Nick concluded, pushing his plate of chicken bones away and standing. He'd literally wolfed down two and a half chicken's worth of thighs and drumsticks– Ellis had watched him do it– and he had no doubt in his mind it was because of his petite breakfast and lunch cut short combined.

"Enjoy," Rochelle tittered, not looking up as she shoveled some corn out of a can and onto her plate with a plastic spork. "I left the things on the counter."

The gambler nodded and turned to go.

Ellis watched him leave from his seat in the swinging chair, rocking it leisurely as he bit at a chicken leg between his fingers, paper plate propped in his lap. He couldn't help but wonder how long the conman would be; briefly he studied his other two compatriots from afar. While he didn't have any problem spending time with Coach and Rochelle, he'd rather hang out with Nick.

Coach turned off the grill and sat down at the small folding card table they had found inside the duplex, beginning to dig into his portion. Rochelle chose to come over to him and take the second place on the rocking seat, drawing her legs up indian style.

Ellis kept up the gentle swinging by rolling his shoes from the toes to the balls of his feet, putting a little more effort into the motion so he could rock their combined weights. He looked to the girl, swallowed his food and opened his mouth to speak. "Hey, Ro', I jus' wanted tuh say thanks… again."

Rochelle placed a palm to his knee, patting it gently. "No problem, sweetie," she said with a smile. "Anything for you."

Ellis flushed, finding the statement a little difficult to believe. She was probably just saying that– a turn of phrase or something– though it had sounded genuine enough. He looked away, scratching his head with some amount of awkwardness.

Rochelle caught the gesture. Her hand pulled away from his leg and quickly went back to the spork to push the little yellow kernels of corn around on her plate. "Sorry," she said suddenly, in half a laugh.

The hick looked back at her, confused as to why she was apologizing to him. "Fer?" he asked.

She shook her head and stared down at her food. "Oh nothing," she started, clearly hesitating at her next words, whether she even wanted to say them, but she followed through. "Just… for treating you like my little brother."

Ellis laughed. "Well, I mean, in'a way we're all brothers an' sisters," he said, keeping the swinging chair going as he shrugged. "So it's alright."

"Amen to that," Coach imputed from the table a few feet away. He shoveled a sporkful of green beans into his mouth, chewing heartily at the vegetable matter.

Rochelle smiled downward with chagrin, quiet for a second or two. Finally she lifted her head. "I meant my actual baby brother. Elijah," she clarified.

"Oh," Ellis blinked with a touch of surprise, not sure what to say; he felt a little silly for having misinterpreted what she had said. "Well, shit, I didn't know ya had siblin's, Ro'." She hadn't even mentioned them until now after all, so why should he have assumed such?

The reporter laughed and shrugged. "He's the only one."

Coach leaned onto his elbows, his weight making the table squeak with mild protest. "He okay?" he asked. Obviously the information about the girl's brother was news to him as well, though the question seemed like he was wanting to make sure Ro was doing okay emotionally more than anything else.

"Oh yeah," she gave a gesture with a flick of her wrist, the bangles moving with her arm as she did so. She took a quick bite of chicken. "He and Mom are fine. Got on a plane for evac early. They even sent me a postcard."

Ellis chuckled, though the reaction was partially fake, a certain jealousy– or maybe it was worry– filling his heart at the fact that his fellow survivor had heard from her loved ones that they were safe and sound and had successfully made evac.

"You want to see him?" she asked Ellis.

Ellis blinked, caught off guard by the offer. He had never been much of one for sharing pictures or albums or the like, but he gave a shrug and an ever-polite "sure", mildly curious about the girl's family.

The reporter set down her plate and got up to spritely fetch said postcard from indoors, licking her fingers clean of chicken grease as she went. Ellis got another bone clean himself in the interim. She was only a minute or two, hoping back onto the wood deck with the card in hand; Ellis stopped the swing briefly for her so she could settle back in. "I was keeping it on my clipboard," she explained, sitting down and handing it to him. Ellis knew the one– she had still been carrying it around still when they had met her. She explained she was a reporter from WTTQ 10, and on it was her schedule for the broadcast she had been planning on doing the next day. The photograph must've been clipped somewhere behind it, Ellis reasoned. Rochelle resumed her meal, having delivered it to him.

Ellis frowned down at the little piece of mail. On the front, which had been presented to him, was a photo of Ro's aforementioned brother and mother, taken up against some backdrop or another for the snapshot; large letters stenciled in the upper left corner pronounced "CEDA, Internment #44111". He didn't turn it over immediately, studying the woman and boy in the picture a little longer. Rochelle's mom looked a lot like her– a little older, a little greyer, a little rounder about the middle, but ultimately the same strong upright woman. Rochelle's little brother, on the other hand, was decidedly only half-black, the other half white, which took him briefly by surprise because it meant Ro and her brother didn't share the same father. The kid was more gangly, and taller, than his mother too, wearing dark jeans and a tight-fitting top. Ellis had to wonder what he and the boy shared in common that so enamored Ro to him. It couldn't just be the similarity in names after all.

He flipped the card over to take stock of the more specifics of the mailing. It was 'postage paid', no stamp required, and looked to be quite strictly formatted, only a couple of lines inside a small box allowed for writing– hardly enough to fit a proper heartfelt greeting if you asked him. Rochelle's mom had succinctly written "Good luck in Savannah. Miss you lots, Mom and Eli" in a highly loopy cursive with pink sharpie. He bit his lower lip nervously, the distinct lack of a postmark making his stomach do flip-flops. Without it there was no way to tell when, or, more pertinently, where it had mailed from. Which was assuredly intentional on CEDA's part.

He swallowed hard, but didn't point it out.

"Can I see?" Coach asked, breaking him out of the silent reverie he had fallen into.

"Yeah, a'course," Ellis quickly stood to hand it to the bigger man, not upset in the slightest to have the little piece of mail out of his hands. He nervously rocked the swing a little faster, staring at his feet as he tried to resume eating.

"Aww," the football player's lips spread into a smile after just a moment. "Your mom looks like a sweet gal, Ro'."

Rochelle laughed, one eyebrow pulled high on her forehead. "Looks can be deceiving."

Coach belly laughed.

Ellis scratched his arm and politely attempted to get back into the conversation. "How old's Eli?" he asked, automatically choosing to use the shorthand as Rochelle's mother had done, hoping to glean a little more info on his 'counterpart'.

"He's a fair bit younger than you," the girl admitted, swallowing another bite of corn in order to answer his question. "Turned seventeen just last month."

Coach's interest piqued once again. "He play any football?" he asked. It was hardly a surprising question coming from Coach now that the info that the boy was in high school had come out.

"He was more into basketball," Rochelle grinned teasingly. "And cars."

Oh, so there was the connection.

"Ahh," Coach shook his head as if it were a terrible shame. "Too bad, looks like he would'a made a good wide receiver," he chuckled with good-humor, poking at the boy in the picture with a stubby forefinger. He reached for the corn to finish the remainder left in the bottom of the tin.

Rochelle stood to take back the postcard; Coach readily returned it. The reporter just stood for a minute, her lips pulled back into a smile and her eyes locked on the photograph. Ellis licked his lips, watching her enviously, wishing he had thought to grab one of the many pictures of his family off his mother's davenport before leaving; then again, he had assumed there'd be a helicopter waiting for him on that hotel rooftop, assumed he'd be seeing them all sometime that evening at the latest, maybe even Keith and Dave as well.

God, what an idiot he'd been.

"I guess I just miss him," Rochelle said with a roll of her eyes, though she was still smiling. "Silly, I know."

"Naw, makes sense tuh me," the hick reassured her. He looked into the brown pools of her eyes, but they didn't really connect, as if they were just looking past one another, beyond. To be perfectly honest, he didn't think missing her little brother was a very good excuse to use him as some kind of substitute, and though he wasn't angry at her for doing so, he thought it was important to clarify to her that he wasn't Eli. Ellis licked his lips. "We all got family we miss," he said frankly, meaning the words very much.

Rochelle's face twisted into instant sympathy. "Oh sweetie…" she swooped down to give him a hug.

Ellis took it but didn't offer any affection back.

"We'll all be back with all of our families soon," Coach asserted, sensing his upset. "Don't you worry, boy," he motioned firmly with his spork, "just keep your chin up and your eyes forward."

The hick glanced at him from under the bill of his cap, keeping his tongue pressed firmly to the roof of his mouth to avoid speaking. Slowly he put on a smile, giving him a nod to assure him he was doing just that.

And while he knew he should appreciate the older man's outlook... for some reason he connected more with the prospect presented by the male currently absent from their group.

He hoped he'd be done with his shower soon.

Chapter Text

He was eager to start immediately in on the creation of the mollies, partially to distract himself from the negative thoughts that had been trying to take over his mind; draining the twelve bottles and gathering a plastic five gallon water drum to do the mixing. He intentionally chose to sit under the eaves on the west porch of the duplex-turned-safehouse, for ventilation purposes– he didn't want to stink up the inside of the evening's accommodations with the smell of rotting pine resin; as it was the smell could carry quite a distance. He unscrewed the cap to the turpentine and poured it carefully in, watching the liquid glug-glug-glug out of its tin.

"Hey, sport. Already starting?"

The unexpected but welcome sound of the man's cool voice caused him to briefly pause what he was doing. Ellis turned to grin at his compatriot who had come out onto the stoop, freshened from his shower– the man had even shaved and re-gelled his hair, and was looking more clean-cut than Ellis had ever seen him before, the stains on his suit notwithstanding. If he was a little bit bolder, he might have actually complimented him on his appearance. Ellis nodded as he gave the can a shake, ensuring the square container was completely empty before discarding it to the side. "Yup. I figure, the sooner we gots these ready, the better."

Nick took a seat next to him, dusting off beneath where he sat– as if it mattered– first. "Probably right." He inclined his head at the plastic basket full of recently drained bottles. "How are we planning to carry them all?"

Ellis took to adding the pint of motor oil. "I figure we'll actshuhly only take one the each'a us; leave the other eight here fer other folks tuh find an' use."

The conman nodded to the idea.

Ellis screwed the cap onto the water jug. He grinned and held it up. "Wanna swirl it?"

Nick chuckled. "Not really, but sure," he took it from his hands and began to gyrate it around in a circle; the greasy liquid coated the insides in a mini-vortex.

The hick watched him a moment longer before becoming satisfied with his technique and made to ripping up strips of cloth with his father's pocket knife which he fetched from his back pocket with a flip. "We're jus' gonna have tuh keep the vodka on us," he said. "Alcohol evaporates purdy quickly, so we ain't gonna be wettin' the wicks 'til round the time we need tuh throw'um." He worked for a moment more until Nick stopped, the mixture well-homogenized.

"Stirred but not shaken," the gambler joked, offering it.

Ellis chuckled at the play on the movie reference and took the jug back.

"So your buddy Keith taught you how to make these…?" Nick said conversationally, leaning back on his palms to watch him work.

Ellis stuck their funnel into the top of one of the bottles and began to pour slowly and cautiously, eyes glued to the task. "Uh huh. He was makin' 'em out in his uncle's backyard, along with some fireworks." He shrugged. "I didn't have nothin' better tuh do that day, so I let him show me." He tipped the container away and made to grab for a second bottle; Nick intercepted and handed one to him so he wouldn't have to reach as far. "Thanks," he said quickly, resuming pouring and talking. "An' this was before I gone an' took chemistry, but he seemed tuh know what he was doin'… 'cept maybe on them fireworks, m'purdy sure yer supposed tuh use powder, not gasoline, in a firework. But anyway, about halfway through the lesson, Keith's ladyfriend of the time comes over…"

"This can't be good…" Nick shook his head.

The hick grinned. "No, it sure as hell wasn't. She was mad as piss at'im cuz I guess he'd tole her he wasn't gonna make anymore after he accidentally set fire tuh her mom's car– way I heard it, he'd been tryin' 'um out or sumthin' an' it was jus' an unlucky throw or some shit, went right through her front windshield, iono– he got his uncle tuh pay fer the damages, so'm not sure what the problem was. But anyway, she gets the bright idea to grab one'a the filled bottles an' chuck it at him…"

"Jesus Christ," the man said incredulously, handing him a third.

Ellis tipped the brim of his hat up ever so slightly. "Yeah well, Keith dodged it, but it hit the side'a the house an' went goddamn everywhere… the lawn, the patio, the whole number. About tha' time I decide I prolly oughta git goin' cuz it's not really my place an' I dun really wanna see another argument between 'um. Cuz I mean, it's like the third one that week an' anyway tha's when she decides she's gonna have a smoke tuh calm her nerves or whatever…"

Nick face-palmed. "You're shitting me."

"Nope. An' I guess when she threw the dang thing, she must've tipped it up over her head or sumthin' cuz when she flicked her lighter, woooosh!" he snapped his fingers dramatically– "her hair went up in flames faster than you could say 'Jack Robinson!'" He shook his head with a grin. "She started screamin' an' wavin' her arms– an' oh Lord, lemme tell you, could that girl scream– I mean, I hadn't ever heard her scream a'fore, 'cept at Keith, but this was an entirely different kind'a screamin'. An' Keith, well, poor Keith dun tried tuh help her out, but all he really ended up doin' was lightin' himself up too." Ellis shook his head as he filled a sixth bottle. "I left in a hurry 'bout that point tuh go an' call 9-1-1… cuz I was pretty sure they was gonna need it. Iono what happened next," he shrugged, "'cept I guess they broke up not long after that."

"Shit, why? Sounds like they were made for each other," Nick grinned.

Ellis laughed long and hard. "I guess you could see it tha' way." He continued filling and he and Nick stayed quiet until he finished off the twelfth and final bottle, tipping the remainder of the fluid from the jug into it, letting it drip before setting it aside.

Nick shifted on the porch, staring out at the road. He ran a hand through his hair. "So I get to hear plenty about Keith's 'ladyfriends'…" the green eyes flickered over to him, "what about yours?"

"Whattabout my what?" Ellis asked, face falling.

"Your girlfriends," the conman clarified.

The hick blushed. "Well, shit, I ain't ever had no girlfriends. Can't talk about somethin' you don't got."

There was a short silence. "You're kidding me," Nick arched an eyebrow. "You're telling me your idiot friend could hook himself a new gal whenever he wanted, but you've never ever had a single one?" Incredulity and disbelief twanged in the conman's voice, and rightly so.

Ellis scratched the back of his head beneath his hat awkwardly. "Well, I had a crush on this girl in the third grade…" It was the only thing he could think of that was closest without admitting more than he wanted to. His gaze drifted away from the man and he hurriedly began to stuff cloth into one of the bottles to at least keep his fingers occupied.

The cardshark shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense. Girls are stupid, but they're not that stupid." He considered him seriously, and Ellis wondered then if the gambler could see right through him with that piercing gaze. "They couldn't all miss a nice guy like you," he said, and it seemed to Ellis that he was perhaps fishing for an explanation.

Ellis bit his lip and gave a tentative sigh. He set the single completed molotov back in the basket, staring at the label of the bottle for a long moment. "I jus' didn't wanna git in a serious relationship wit' no one while I was still helpin' tuh support mah Ma." He rubbed his arm, squeezing at the tattoo that adorned said bicep. He'd turned down a dozen girls, be it for the high school prom or just an afternoon at the movies. Not that he'd ever told anyone. Not Keith, not Dave, and especially not his Ma– man, would she have had his head to have known.

So exactly why the conman had managed to loosen his tongue on the subject confused him mightily.

But maybe it was the damn apocalypse. It was part of a life he no longer lived, part of a mantra he'd adopted and stuck to for years, obliterated in the space of a week by an epidemic that had swept the entire east coast. None of it mattered anymore. There wasn't an auto shop, there weren't any pay checks, there weren't groceries to buy or mortgages to pay or any of that. He could pick up a girlfriend tomorrow– well, if there were one to pick up.

Or maybe it really was because it was Nick.

The green eyes were staring at him, but not with the sort of look he had expected. Sure, it was surprised, but it was also tentatively curious. Nick's posture relaxed, lightly clasping his own wrist as he leaned his elbows out onto his knees. "So girls did want to get with you, you just said no."

"Yeah," he responded. Ellis started on a second bottle, nervously packing cloth into the neck.

The conman was quiet, contemplative.

And he couldn't stand it.

"I mean, you understand, right?" he suddenly asked, feeling a touch desperate. "It was already a stretch… payin' the rent on mah apartment an' sendin' the rest'a what I didn't need back tuh her. There weren't really no way I could hook up wit' someone… I– I would'a had tuh git us a bigger place, I would'a had tuh git a better payin' job." He gestured with the bottle. "An' then there'd be two mouths tuh feed, an' two've us tuh clothe…" He felt silly, hot and embarrassed, half-spluttering the words, wishing he hadn't said anything at all because it made him feel stupid.

"No, no, I get it," Nick reassured him, still looking partially confused. He shook his head with chagrin. "It's just so…" the dark eyebrows raised, "selfless."

Ellis dodged the faint emerald gaze again. He resumed work under the long stretching silence, trying not to fidget too much.

"You and I led very different lives," the man wondered aloud, drawing Ellis' attention back to him with curiosity. The gambler continued. "I was always stealing my dad's credit cards." There was that mischievous twinkle again. "Not that he much missed the cash."

Ellis allowed himself to chuckle uncomfortably. Somehow it hardly surprised him to learn. A distinct part of him wanted to know more, about that childhood, but another part of him was too awkward and nervous to say anything. He poked wadded material into another bottle. "What'd'ya buy?" he settled on the innocuous question.

Nick shook his head then. "Shit," he said bluntly, "To make me feel better." He paused for half a beat– enough to make Ellis partially seize up. "Not that it ever did." The conman smirked at him, but it was a gesture filled with irony.

Ellis nibbled at his lip without a word. He didn't know what to say to such a declaration… or the honesty.

"I bet you didn't have much growing up," the gambler spoke, his voice unwavering, confident in the guess. His head tipped ever so slightly. "Am I right?"

The hick gave an involuntary shiver; memories filling his head as if summoned to the surface. Of sparse Christmases, re-used wrapping paper, hand-me-down gifts and arts-and-crafts paper tree ornaments. Meager birthdays, no parties, but a home-made baked cake and a round of 'happy birthday to you', a single heartfelt gift from the whole family, allowances pooled together, to bestow upon the birthday boy or girl of the occasion. Infrequent 'family vacations' to the beach or wherever was cheap, souvenirs coming in the form of shells or pebbles rather than those purchased from a store. Literally sliding by on what he later learned was his father's slowly dwindling reserve to pay the mortgage and bills. "Not a whole lot," Ellis admitted, only committing to generalities; he wasn't looking for sympathy from the man, not on that.

Nick's look was far-away, however, almost lost. "I bet you were pretty happy anyway." A touch of wistfulness had been added to the tone.

Ellis inclined his shoulder with a pained shrug; he felt an odd mixture of nostalgia and sorrow drift through him. "Yeah," he smiled despite the subtle pressure around his heart. "Yeah, I was."

Chapter Text

Coach and Rochelle retired shortly after the big man was finished with his shower. He and the kid chose to spend their watch in the front room where they could keep their eyes on the door, though ultimately he thought there was little reason for concern tonight. The safehouse was practically a goddamn fort; CEDA had really gone all out. Still and all, Nick couldn't claim that he minded getting to spend a rather relaxed seven and a half hours with the hick. He quickly fetched a cleaning kit for his magnum from the counter where their twelve molotovs now stood, a little shocked that he had the good fortune enough that both he and his gun were getting clean that evening. Ellis plopped himself comfortably into the couch, and rather than occupy the armchair a few feet away, Nick made the decision to sit with him, securing a proximity that was at once pleasingly close and devastatingly distant.

He applied himself to dismantling his gun to keep his mind off it.

Ellis shifted against the cushions, watching him work with a subtle curiosity. "Y'look like ya know what'cher doin'," he commented as Nick slid the bolt loose from the slide.

Nick chuckled briefly. A good observation. "Yeah. Probably ought to get into the habit of doing this every night," he said as he continued, getting the ejector and spring loose now, collecting them in his palm. "Better for the gun."

Ellis frowned a little, his hand sliding down to his glock. Nick caught the motion but didn't comment on it; the hick spoke up on his own soon enough anyhow. "Think ya could show me how tuh clean mine?" he asked.

Nick eyed him with a touch of curiosity. With the mechanic's initial skill and lack of hesitance to pick up both pistol and hunting rifle, he was a little surprised he didn't know how. "Haven't before?" he asked casually, no condescension to the question, dipping a swab into the supplied tin of solvent.

"Naw… my Pa use'ta do the cleanin'," he explained sheepishly.

Nick brought the gun close to his face, squinting at the mechanism of the gas cylinder as he started to dab the wet end of the q-tip into it, twisting a few good times. Briefly he considered pursuing the subject of the kid's father, but decided to settle for another time further down the road. "Yeah, I can show you," he told him, turning the swab around to stick the dry end in to finish the area.

Ellis nodded with a smile, his blue eyes still very much on him and what he was doing, watching intently.

Nick didn't mind one little bit.

"So why'd'ya hate the foothills?" Ellis asked a few short minutes later, segueing.

Nick regarded him carefully, unsurprised the topic from the bridge had come back. He made a reach for the lubricant and another q-tip. "Boring as shit," he summed up in three words, twisting off the cap.

"Really?" the hick asked with a touch of incredulity. "I would'a thought there'd be plenty tuh do that close tuh LA."

"Yeah, maybe with transportation," Nick cast him a sideways glance before committing himself to the piston.

Ellis scratched his head sheepishly. "I guess yer parents didn't let'cha use their car, huh?" he reasoned out.

Nick let a grin spread across his jaw. "Let me? No. Able to stop me from stealing my father's Porsche?" He tipped his head, "Also no."

"Oh man…" Ellis' face screwed up into a lopsided grin. "You stole his Porsche??" his voice twanged, clearly interested.

"About once a week. Whenever the hell I felt like it really," he shrugged, the statement quite truthful; at least, as soon as he figured he could get away with it was when he'd make off with it again. At first it had been a matter of learning where his father hid his keys in his desk or filing cabinet, after that figuring out how to pick the lock on his safebox, until finally it became a simple tactic of 'hotwire and go'. He'd tampered with the wires of the luxury vehicle too many times to count and it had given him a foundation to work from to hotwire other cars later on. He'd technically been underage as well, no driver's license to his name, though that too did little to stop him.

The hick folded his arms with subtle amusement. "So once ya had it, what'd'ya do with it?" he inquired.

Nick chuckled and momentarily studied his lap, pausing in his cleaning. Ah, now there was the interesting question. He lifted his gaze to the waiting blue eyes. "Drove it out into the Mojave desert until it ran out of gas."

Ellis face twisted with even greater curiosity, brow pulled far down over his eyes, ever so slightly scrunching that cute little nose. "The desert?" he wondered aloud, trying to make sense of it. "What was there tuh see in the desert?"

Nick smiled, his look rather distant. He could see the painted plains, still as fresh in his memory now as they had been before, spread out in front of him more than twenty years ago. The endless horizon, the sagebrush and cacti the only relief to a barren flatland. And the sunsets. Oh the sunsets. When the air was still sharp and dry and hot, but no sun bore down upon him to burn his skin, its dying rays discoloring the sky in a gradient of blue to gentle orange. He shook his head, coming out of the reverie, focusing back on his weapon. "Nothing," he revealed to the mechanic.

The hick took a quiet moment to study him and parse his response, but when he spoke again, the kid was far more perceptive than Nick would have guessed he would be. "Jus' wanted tuh git away from it all?" he more stated than asked.

He gave his chin a gentle bob. "In one, kiddo." He rewarded the kid with a pearly smile.

"So how'ja git home?"

Nick quickly touched up the barrel and slide, two of the easiest components. "My parents had a pretty good insurance policy," he shrugged, discarding yet another dirty swab. "I just called up a tow truck."

That was the brief version. He'd usually spent a good few minutes walking to the nearest callbox to punch in the number he had by then memorized– that of the AAA office. He'd spent numerous hours under the stars, waiting for the trucks to come pick him up. And when they showed up and found out he was a minor and not the owner of the car, the very next call that was made was always to his father, who by that time was hopping with rage, screaming at him through the little holes in the speaker, his voice so loud he could hold the earpiece at arms length and still hear him clearly, and then Nick dutifully handed off the phone to the AAA agent who required the man's verbal consent to tow the vehicle back to Pomona. And Nick rode in the passenger's seat, staring out the window, watching the scenery go by for the second time that night, in reverse, so familiar he knew which landmarks and roadsigns were coming a mile before passing them up, exactly how many miles were left to home, to facing his father.

The man had threatened more than once to leave his sorry ass out in the desert.

But he liked his Porsche too much for that.

"Man… that sounds like it'd get old," Ellis commented, shaking his head.

It might've. If he hadn't at a certain point met Al.

Nick wasn't sure he was ready to share his relationship with the fellow with Ellis just yet. He faltered a little as he began to reassemble his magnum, an ever so slight tremble to his fingers as the memories pooled. But it looked like he had little choice– the way the mechanic was peering at him made it obvious he was aware he was holding back on him. Nick ran his tongue over the back of his incisors contemplatively, mouth still firmly shut.

"I met a guy. Name was Al. He ran the night shift during the weekdays." He hurriedly returned his gaze to his gun.

Ellis chuckled beside him, not perceiving his awkwardness. "M'guessin' that's usually when you done ran off."

Nick pursed his lips at the phrase 'ran off', not that that wasn't what it had been, but of course he disliked thinking of it in said terms. Considering he always left with the intention of coming back, he didn't feel it really constituted classifying him as a 'run-away'. Not like he felt he would have been missed if he actually had. Perhaps that was partially why he did come back every time, to be as much of a pain in the ass as possible. He shook his thoughts loose, admitting to the hick's surmise with a "Yeah."

Ellis didn't seem to quite know where to take the conversation, then again, neither did he. He hurriedly got his magnum back together and clicked a clip back into it, and for a moment he just stared at its silver surface, contemplating how far to take this, how far to go with the hick, how much to share. He could just as easily keep to himself– it felt so taboo in hindsight that he'd never really spoken on it in any detail with anyone– yet Ellis was so non-threatening and unassuming, it disarmed his discomfort and made him actually want to open up.

Honestly, he hadn't thought about Al in a long time, a part of his deep past from a time when he was young and unstable and rebellious, and as such, he liked to keep it that way: buried. Like every other aspect of his life, it had had its ups, and its downs.

"We got to know each other pretty well," Nick murmured. "At least, as well as any two people who shared frequent car rides could." He chuckled and took a cautious glance over to the mechanic, who was patiently wordless, but expectant. "I dunno," Nick continued, his brow drawing down, "he was kind to me when a lot of other people weren't."

God, wasn't that the fucking truth. Al had recognized from the get-go that he was a 'trouble-maker' skirting the edge of becoming a delinquent, but rather than chew him out for it or try to tell him how and in what ways he was a screw-up like the other adults in his life, the man had instead gone for an entirely different tactic. His very first words to him after hanging up the telephone were so matter-of-fact and honest that it had unintentionally made Nick laugh out loud. Al had simply placed his hands on his hips, shook his head and said: 'Sounds like your dad is a dick.'. The mutual understanding between them originated from those words, a kind of common ground. Even so, Nick had been sulky and broody and rather unwilling to talk about it at first, throwing his feet up onto the dash and slumping into the passenger seat of the tow truck with a grimace. But gradually the man coaxed him out, got him to start talking about why he had run away– honestly, he couldn't even remember what it was that time, that night. Al just listened, his gaze on the road, his hands on the steering wheel, nodding the whole way. And Nick had been more than happy to spew as many venomous words as could about his horrible father and vent about his miserable home life and school life and harangue on and on until he was nearly blue in the face.

From that very first car ride, Al never once judged him for the times he chose to leave home, never once claimed he shouldn't have and stayed home. He just listened, and nodded or smiled, empathized, and often told his own stories– events and happenstances in his life that were similar, and what they meant to him, what he had learned from them. It had made Nick roll his eyes at first, not interested in being lectured, but the man's intent never seemed to be lecturing– simply sharing. It was weird at first, but Nick slowly found himself timing his 'run-aways' to purposefully coincide with Al's shift, so Al could always be the one to tow the Porsche and drive him home. The guy even went so far as to sometimes let him hang out at the shop when he wasn't feeling ready to return home just yet, and they'd chit-chat while Al worked on something or another after hours, earning his wage. Though he was fourteen and Al was clearly somewhere in the mid-to-late-twenties– Nick had never known what his exact age was– the driver treated him as an equal. Quickly Nick found he grew to respect him, and more and more he took those stories to heart and listened himself.

He hadn't deserved Al's kindness; Al had given it to him anyway.

The hick on the other side of the couch seemed to perk ever so slightly. "You use'ta talk tuh him?" Ellis asked, motioning a finger between himself and the conman, "like this?"

"Sort of," Nick frowned, studying his hands in his lap, not really thinking the two were all that comparable. After all, Ellis was neither misguided nor nihilistic like he had been in his youth, and he was considerably older than he had been at the time as well. And while Nick could truthfully admit he was a fair bit better at listening than he used to be, he was still undeniably the same selfish, self-serving jackass he had always been– nothing like Al at all. There was really only one aspect of it all that he thought bore any notable similarity.

His attraction for the other male involved.

He realized then with a deep frown that the distance between him and El now on the sofa was about the distance between him and Al had been in bench seats of the tow truck.

And he had never, ever gotten any closer to Al than that.

Nick's throat seized up, but he kept his voice even. "He taught me a lot of shit…" he muttered, going on, "about life. More than my father ever did."

"S'really good he was there for you then," Ellis spoke.

Nick rounded his green-eyed gaze on the hick, the words cutting deep in a way Ellis couldn't know and hadn't intended. He nodded, then forged a smile, motioning his hand at the kid's gun. "C'mon over here," he spoke softly, "I'll show you how to do this."

Ellis scooched over onto the middle cushion, holding the weapon out eagerly to him with the biggest smile on the planet.

His heart thrilled at the nearness.

But it hurt to not tell him the rest of the story.

Chapter Text

He awoke to the sound of insane, high-pitched laughter. And though it was muffled and very clearly outside the walls of his bedroom, outside the walls of the fencing, it didn't keep it from lifting all the hairs up on his arms and the back of his neck as he shot upright in bed.

Nick stood and quickly fastened his holster to his thigh, depositing the magnum he had kept on the bed stand to it. He slipped on his shoes, knotted them quick, and warily emerged from his bedroom. Movement caught in his peripheral vision to his right– Ellis shifted awkwardly in the hall.

"Ya hear it too?" the hick asked upon seeing him standing there.

Nick gave a nod, but not sure how visible the gesture was in the low light, also supplied a "Yeah."

Together they proceeded out into the front room where Coach and Rochelle sat up on watch, both men naturally inquisitive to learn more about the late-night nuisance. Rochelle turned in her seat, hearing their footsteps behind her.

"The heck's that…?" Ellis asked them, blearily rubbing a knuckle into his left eye as he rounded the back of the couch.

"Not a clue," Coach frowned heavily, his grip, Nick noted, tight on his auto shotgun. The maddened hysteria continued outside, unabating.

"Only started a couple of minutes ago," Rochelle informed them. "But I swear it's been getting louder and louder every second. It's driving me crazy."

All four survivors went quiet at an additional sound… of sharp scratching– claws dragging across wood– somewhere on the east side of the house.

"Kin we maybe shut it up?" Ellis suggested.

Rochelle looked to Coach who looked to Nick who looked back to the hillbilly.

Because they had all been very adamant about staying indoors during the nighttime hours, only traveling during the day. Because fighting flesh-hungry zombies in the pitch dark, when they couldn't properly see, seemed more than foolish– it was goddamn stupid.

But oh the laughter. The horrible, brain-racking, tormenting, unrelenting, demented laughter.

Rochelle flattened her palms against her ears; Ellis looked about ready to do the same.

He and Coach seemed to come to about the same decision at the same time; the big man standing from his armchair with his weapon. "Okay," Nick said, grabbing his magnum from his thigh, his expression stern, "let's just go out there quick, put whatever the hell it is down, and get back inside."

"Sounds fine to me," Coach nodded with assertion.

"Lemme git mah boots," Ellis said quickly, turning to hasten back to his room for said footgear.

"I think there was a flashlight in the cabinet," Rochelle stood to go fetch it. Once she had it she came back into the living room, clicking it on and off a few times to make sure it was working reliably and wouldn't go out on them. Coach dropped a few more loose shotgun shells into his khaki pockets. Ellis successfully secured the laces on his boots and picked his pistol up off the table. They all moved for the door.

Not knowing the size or potential abilities of their threat, they would all go together.

"Y'all ready?" Coach asked the other three.

They gave him a nod.

He pulled the bar from its mount and pushed open the red door, stepping out into the night. The creature must have heard them too because it gave a loud gleeful neigh and the banging and clawing hastened with equal measure of enthusiasm.

The thought of trying to shoot the thing through the fence occurred to Nick, but there wasn't really any good way to do that without heavily damaging their barrier. Coach unlocked the gate and they exited their little sanctuary, all eyes and ears, scanning the street for stray infected, guns at the ready. Rochelle flicked on the light and briefly waved the beacon about on the ground, getting her bearings, finding the sidewalk and the unlit streetlamp. It could have been darker; at least the moon was half full. A frown tugged at the corner of Nick's lip, unable to shake the feeling that this was a bad idea.

Carefully they made their way around the corner to the east side, keeping their footfalls silent.

And sure enough they found the culprit– throwing itself at the fence and flailing its scrawny arms, screaming girlishly. At the sudden flood of light its attention was instantly drawn to them, snapping its head around to peer at them.

It was no more than three feet tall. Nick grimaced at the sight of it. At its sickening little hunched form, jutting vertebrae, and beady black eyes glaring hard at them; maw a row of teeth clear back to its molars because the flesh had stripped away from its cheeks, exposing them in a hideous sneer. From the gaps of said misaligned teeth came the perverse cackling that had kept them awake.

With way more pep than its ugly thin back legs suggested, it leapt into the air before any of them could even get a shot off.

Its trajectory landed it right on top of Coach's head. The creature squealed with glee, immediately latching its arms about the man's neck, grotesque little body curled around his face and thighs tensing about his shoulders, tiny hips jerking back and forth into his chin.

Nick and the other two held their fire for fear that if they took a shot, they'd hit the man as well as the beast, momentarily stunned and at a loss for what to do, staring.

"GET IT OFF!" the big man yelled.

And Nick really wished he hadn't. The night lit up with screams.

Ellis' eyes went round as dinner plates. He leapt forward to make a grab for the creature on Coach; it squealed its displeasure and didn't let go, but it got them both closer to the ground. Nick settled the matter with a quick crack to the back of the little monster's skull with the butt of his magnum. It gave a dying whinny and crumpled, going flaccid as Coach shucked it from his shoulders with a disgusted grunt.

"Back inside…!" Rochelle hissed at them all, her feet already carrying her towards the gate, leading the way with the light.

They hurried after her. She bolted inside, followed closely by Coach and Ellis; Nick took a few shots at indistinct forms moving in the night, eyes darting to and fro in attempt to detect movement, backing himself into the gate. Coach slammed it shut and bent to bolt it.

Which was when an arm shot through the bars of the wrought-iron gate and curled its fingers into the larger man's forearm. He gave another shout as he was grabbed and they all gave a jump of surprise. Nick's instincts caused him to react first, but before he could pull the trigger, Ellis had blasted a hole into the zombie's chest, eliminating the threat for him. He blinked back minor surprise. "Getting dangerous with that little thing," he commented offhandedly and the kid gave half a snort.

The football player got the gate locked and they took a number of steps back to watch the horde amass, arms and limbs reaching and stretching through the bars, swiping at the air, fingers coiling, searching for purchase; to listen to the banging and thumping at the wooden planks, the screams of protest, unable to get through to them.

Coach took the honor of training his shotgun at the throng of undead and reducing them to a bleeding mass on the pavement, and in some way likely exacting his revenge. As corpses fell, more came to replace them, crawling over their dead compatriots for their own chance at swift death. A few limbs stretched up and over the fencing, clinging at razor wire, cutting their own flesh in maddened rage to attempt to reach them, and he and the other two took it upon themselves to plant a bullet in any that managed to peek its head over the top.

As the night became still once more, the four survivors shifted, waited, and surveyed the damage.

The iron gate hadn't taken any injury, like it was designed to, and the heavy mechanism of the lock was intact as well. A pool of blood, inky and black for the dark that surrounded them, was leaking out from underneath the littering of bodies, slowly crawling across the pavement, filling the cracks between the concrete slabs to run into the grass on either side. It sank through the blades, the ground gradually absorbing it, but the smell of the fresh carnage was already beginning to waft up at them– it was growing all too familiar.

"Back inside," Coach ordered, and none of them were about to disagree with him.

Nick came in last and took it upon himself to get the heavy red metal door back shut behind them. He put the horizontal restraint back across it with a frown, now rethinking the former 'impenetrability' of their safehouse, his mind on the way the creatures had crawled up and over the fence… yellow eyes glowing with phosphorescence in the night. Jesus Christ, that shit was enough to give a person nightmares.

"You're bleeding!" Rochelle's voice rang out suddenly with alarm.

Nick turned on his heels.

The big man had his arm held out level with the ground. Four distinct gashes decorated his appendage, on the whole shallow but the flesh was torn and freshly bleeding. "Yeah," he mumbled, looking frustrated but not overly upset, "son of a bitch got me."

"Shit, man, we got's'ta patch that up," Ellis said seriously, peering around his shoulder at the wound.

"With what?" Coach grumbled.

Nick's eyes darted to the little 'emergency' room. Rochelle followed his gaze. "Think that's what they meant?" she asked perceptively.

"Whether they did or not, we're about to find out," he mumbled, striding over to it. They had waited long enough to discover what was inside. He snatched the little keyring off its nail and made for the padlocks, turning each key into its respective lock. Rochelle and Ellis joined him, waiting as he clicked each one loose. Finally he got them all undone and aside.

He swung the door outward.

And his eyebrows climbed up on his head.

Supplies all right. Medical supplies, specifically. And loads of them.

"Shit…" Ellis blinked, blue eyes scanning the shelves. There were medical kits of all sizes, numerous bottles of various kinds of pills, mostly painkillers of differing strengths, some anti-depressants and anti-inflammatories; there were plastic packs of morphine, ready for drip injection, packaged blood of all blood types for transfusion, and tubes of adrenaline in 'shot' form; sprints and braces for broken limbs, even a couple of defibrillators. If you wanted his opinion, it looked like disaster waiting to happen, because Nick couldn't hardly imagine the average person having anywhere near enough medical knowledge to use half of what was presented to them there. The assortment made it feel like they had walked into a mini-hospital for Christ's sake, minus the stuffy staff and ass-less paper gowns.

And he didn't much like it. Sure, it made some sense, not everyone was bound to make it to evac without a few scrapes and bumps, they'd need medical attention for whatever wounds they had incurred on the journey. Any of them could've been in need of some serious patching up had that tank gotten any closer. Or if the tongue-freak had managed to get the bite of him it had apparently so craved. Coach had just gotten to be the unlucky guy in their party to sustain the first injury.

It was just the sheer amount of supplies that caused dread to pool in the bottom of his gut... thick, heavy and sickening.

"Why the heck they need so much'a it?" Ellis voiced his opinion out loud for him, holding up a full bottle of Advil and shaking the contents.

Nick swallowed uneasily, setting his jaw. "I donno, but I think we ought to stock up before we leave here in the morning," he advised.

Rochelle quickly darted in past him to grab what was currently needed. Her brown eyes caught on his and the reporter gave him a tight nod. "There were lots of reports of injuries when the flu first started cropping up, before people knew they needed to defend themselves," she shared. "A lot of people getting bitten or scratched by loved ones; that's one of the reasons attributed to this thing spreading so quickly…"

The way she trailed off made Nick slightly uncomfortable.

Ellis' voice dropped to a whisper inside the small room. "Coach ain't gonna…?"

"I don't know," she said, her bottom lip stiff. "There was also a lot of talk about some people being 'immune' to the infection. People who got bit but nothing happened. CEDA started recruiting as many of them as they could to aid with the containment process in the first couple weeks or so, since they knew they weren't going to 'turn'. But most of all this is speculation anyway," the girl frowned as she recalled the little information she knew. "The facts aren't certain."

Nick gave a grunt. Leave it to the media to turn disaster into full-blown panic. 'Immunes', 'non-immunes'… way to create a schism.

He was liable to bet that the four of them fit the first category. But until 24 hours had been put between Coach's injury and now, he wasn't going to make any assumptions. He grimaced.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Rochelle said, reading his expression. He nodded.

Their brief conversation at an end, Rochelle promptly turned to head back and attend to Coach, who had reseated himself on the couch, arm still aloft to discourage blood loss. Ellis gave a worried fidget as he followed her and Nick couldn't blame him, shutting the door to the supplies behind him, not bothering to re-secure any of the padlocks until after they pilfered it in the morning. Wearily, and feeling more stressed out than before, he made his way back to his bedroom, magnum close at hand, hoping to God he wouldn't have to use it to reduce their count to three.

Chapter Text

"Ellis, sweetie… go get some rest, Coach is fine, we're all fine."

Ellis nodded at the threads in the rug and gave his third "Yeah, okay." to the floor.

Even though he had agreed to the female survivor's words, he didn't move from the armchair; he didn't feel tired at all. He knew by every right he should be, tromping around all day, shooting zombies and shit, and only having had three hours of sleep, but he just wasn't. His thoughts were keeping him awake and in half a panic and they refused to settle. Ellis frowned hard at the softly smiling reporter. He wanted to ask Rochelle how she could be so sure, so confident that Coach was okay.

Or if she was just saying it to try and get him to stop worrying about what she had said in the storage closet.

Ellis fiddled with the brim of his hat. He just couldn't shake the feeling that because of him, because of his moronic suggestion to go outside and try to shut that little piece-of-shit, face-humper up, Coach had gotten scratched. Sure, Coach had been the one to yell and summon the horde… maybe Rochelle could've been a little quicker about leading them back to the gate… and Nick had been slow about getting inside at the end before it was shut, but none of those things would've happened if they had all just stayed inside and toughed the noise out; it came back to him. Not to mention he had seen that approaching zombie before it had stuck its hand through the gate; Nick may have complimented him for his quickness to kill it, but he knew he'd shot too late, that if he had just raised his gun a second earlier, it might have been avoided.

But for all they knew now, the oldest member of their party could soon be turning into one of the mindless fuckers, hungry for flesh, by morning...

How long did it take for a person to turn anyway? Ellis' eyes riveted on Coach with mild distress, pupils constricting, unable to blink or turn his gaze away. He seemed okay. It had been over an hour, almost two. Maybe Ro was right. Ro would know, wouldn't she? She'd seen reports, stories.

It was racking him with guilt that was far too much to bear, but he didn't dare bring it up with either reporter or football player.

He furled his hands into his hair.

"You're no use to us tired, boy," Coach said, adding to the girl's line of reasoning that he should go back to bed.

If he didn't go back soon, three hours would be all the more he'd be getting, he'd already burnt through the 'extra' time they'd permitted themselves. They'd be heading back on the road in the next three hours or so– dawn was fast approaching.

Ellis rose to his feet. "Alright, I'ma gettin'," he relented, giving a small sheepish grin that fell from his face more quickly than he had meant for it to. He holstered his pistol and wiped the palms of his hands on his thighs quickly before proceeding around the back of the couch. "See y'all in the mornin'," he tipped his hat at them both as he left the living room, praying he wasn't jinxing it.

"See you then," Rochelle smiled.

"Night, youngin'," Coach returned.

Ellis nodded and left them. Honest to God truth, he wasn't particularly happy about leaving Rochelle alone with Coach– which was partially why he was still up in the first place. But he reminded himself forcefully that the girl could handle herself– she'd proven it out on the road numerous times; Ellis just had a natural inclination to be more concerned about 'the gentler sex', that was just part of being a gentleman, how he had been raised. But Rochelle knew what to look out for– perhaps better than the rest of them when it came to this infection shit. If Coach started to turn…

Well, she'd find a quick solution.

He traipsed his way down the hall as quietly as his heavy boots would allow, not wishing to disturb the gambler who, by now, was likely sound asleep once more, unlike him. Nonetheless, Ellis paused at the door to the man's room to listen a quiet moment outside it. Of course there was no sound from within– he'd found out that the gambler's slumber was silent from times he had woken in the middle of the night, either to sounds outside or his own restlessness. Nick didn't snore, or mumble, or shift around, or any of that, he just slept breathing through his nostrils, slow and steady, regaining strength.

Ellis nibbled at his bottom lip and pressed his fingers to the wood of the closed door longingly.

Oh what he wouldn't do to talk to the man now. To let him ease all the fears and troubles away with that soft voice of his. Nick would know just what to say, and how to say it. Reassure him all this wasn't his fault. Distract him from all the shit going on around them. They'd just talk about something from their lives before... memories, family, hobbies, it didn't really matter, it never did.

Ellis let his hand slide away from the door. Nick had shared so dang-awful much with him today, so much he couldn't scarcely believe it. Yet here he was, at his door, insatiably wishing for more, wanting to knock… wanting the man to accept him into his bedroom… sit and talk the rest of the goddamn night away with one another like they didn't have somewhere to go in the morning, like they weren't fleeing for their goddamn lives to be evacuated to God-knew-where. And he knew he was just being selfish, to want so much of his attention, that he probably ought to give the guy a little more space… but he just couldn't help it… he was irrevocably attached.

He'd clung to the first thing– the first person– that had had meaning to him in a long time. He wasn't altogether sure what all Nick meant to him, just that he meant a lot, and that every day he seemed to mean a little more. Sure, he looked up to him– he was so fucking talented, who wouldn't?– sort of like a big brother he'd never had– Dave, by blood his half-brother and seven years his senior, hadn't gotten together with him frequently enough to fill that place once their Pa died. And he felt like he could tell Nick just about anything, what a best friend ought to be– a role Keith had never been particularly good at filling for his alleged claim of the position; whenever he wanted to go to the bar, it wasn't to talk, it was to feel a buzz and Ellis always ended up dragging his ass back home; they'd never had a heart-to-heart conversation the way he and Nick seemingly had on more than one occasion now.

But even still those two things combined didn't account for everything he felt for the conman…

Ellis glanced down the dark hall, at the white-washed door of his own bedroom, waiting for him at the end of the house. He dropped his gaze to the floor, not wanting to return to the space that was his for the night– it felt far too secluded, all alone and separated from the rest like that. Sure, he ought to appreciate the privacy it offered after so many nights in shared spaces with his fellow survivors, but the thought– the thought of being actually alone– that it resultingly culled into his mind was far from pleasant.

Probably because he was finally coming to grips with how frightening of a reality it truly was. Even if they made it to evac, his family might not be there waiting for him. He hadn't gotten a postcard like Ro did. Of course, he couldn't even remember if he had checked his goddamn mailbox before leaving either.

His three compatriots might be the only family he had left. And of those three, now one of them might not make it.

He clutched at his own shoulders, hugging his chest with mild despair.

Ellis gave a shake his head, snapping himself out of it. He leveled his eyes at the door again, shifting his weight between his feet. Part of him hoped that if he stood here long enough outside of Nick's door, somehow the man would awaken and let him in, but he knew how ridiculous that was. Nick was asleep, and unless he committed his knuckles to the wood, he was going to stay that way. And Ellis wasn't the type to be rude and wake someone up in the middle of the night just because he was having trouble sleeping; Nick certainly didn't deserve that sort of mistreatment. He huffed a little sigh and pressed his back against the door, moving to sit leaning against it, removing his hat to squeeze the bill absently.

Well, Nick may not be conscious to hear it, but he supposed he could talk to him anyway, sort of.

Though he was out of earshot of Coach and Rochelle, Ellis felt a little silly when he struck up a conversation with the piece of wood that separated him and the dozing cardshark. "M'really worried, Nick…" he whispered to the darkness. "This whole thing's so goddamn crazy, I can't hardly believe it. People gettin' sick an' shit…" he prefaced with a shake of his head, letting the words flow. "I mean, what the hell? Ain't none of it right, none of it." He drew in a deep breath and contemplated his lap, realizing the things he was saying probably weren't things he would have said to the gambler's face, that the fact that he was talking to no one but himself were bringing out words he might have otherwise repressed, kept hidden. "Guess that's not really for us tuh understand anyway," he dismissed it quickly. "It's jus'… m'scared we're gonna lose Coach…" he hung his head, "all cuz'a me." He blinked back tears that were threatening to fill his eyes. "Ya think he'll be okay, right? We all been exposed tuh all this infection shit fer like a week now an' ain't nothin' bad happened." He heaved a sigh. "I jus' dunno, man."

He paused and gave a weak chuckle. "Y'know, it reminds me'a mah buddy Keith– m'sure yer tired'a hearin' about him. Y'see mah younger brother, Emmett, he got the chicken pox at school, an' me, well, I dun already had the chicken pox years ago when I was in grade school, so naturally I didn't catch 'um." He smirked and shook his head. "But Keith, see, I dunno how he managed it, but I guess he missed it when he was young, an' a'course I was carryin' it around without knowin' it, so when I dun went tuh visit him, I ended up givin' it tuh him! An' since he was older an' all, it ended up turnin' intuh the down-right nastiest case'a shingles I ever seen mah entire life. I swear tuh God– no exaggeration– chicken pox over ninety percent'a his body. I tole him not tuh itch 'em, but a'course he wouldn't listen tuh me an' tha' jus' made it worse…"

Ellis blinked rapidly, realizing he had divulged the entire story, and rather exuberantly, to absolutely no one.

He gave a heavy sigh and deposited his hat back to his head, standing to head back to his room. He trailed his fingers over the smooth wood one final time, imagining– though he couldn't explain why– the sheen of white paint as the gambler's silky jacket, and he pawed his palm down the imaginary pane of Nick's left breast with the smallest of warbles in the back of his throat.

He retracted his hand, furling it into a tight fist. "Night, Nick," he mumbled, trudging away.

He closed his door and sat to bend down and loosen his laces before kicking his boots to the side. He slung his cap over the far bedpost and peeled off his socks, draping them over the footboard in hopes of airing out some of their stink before he had to commit them back to his feet in the morning. Honest to God, he ought to do it with all of his clothing, but he wasn't much one for sleeping in the buff. He relinquished his baggy coveralls, then considered the bed wearily.

Ugh. He could already tell he wasn't going to get any sleep like this.

He sat and pressed his forefinger and thumb into his eyelids, massaging his eyeballs gently though them. They felt so heavy… and yet having them closed brought no sleep.

Maybe he wasn't closing them for the right reason.

Ellis dropped to his knees, pressed his elbows to the mattress and bent his head, clasping his hands together. "Dear Lord," he started in a meek whisper, "I know yer doin' what'cha can… that'cha've got an awful lot tuh look over right now, an' an awful lotta people prayin' fer yer help right now… but please, Lord, would'ja look over Coach tuhnight?" He shook his head with conviction. "He's an awful good guy, awful good– been good tuh us all– an' he's got a lot more tuh do here on Earth a'fore ya take him; I think ya'd agree."

Ellis licked his lips, eyes still firmly shut, though they had suddenly threatened to pool with tears once more. "An' please look after mah Ma, an' the rest'a mah family… i-if they're okay…" He swallowed firmly, with conviction, moving on. "I wanna thank'ya fer lookin' after us as we been on our way tuh New Orleans… s'long way, but I think we kin make it wit'cher help. An'…"

Ellis hesitated hard, fumbling over a dozen different ways to word his next sentiment, the possibility of not even following through or mentioning it crossing his mind, but he continued resolutely. "Thanks fer bringin' me Nick– I… I dunno what I'd do wit'out him. I really don't." He swallowed and hastily made to finish up his prayer. "Tha's it, really… In Jesus' name, amen."

He opened his eyes and lifted his head. His heart beat a little harder, but his body tingled with a renewed feeling of hope from the simple action. Feeling significantly better, he crawled back under his bedsheets and soon found himself drifting off into peaceful, uninterrupted slumber.

Chapter Text

He awoke when the light of dawn came filtering through the cracks of the boarded up window of the bedroom, falling across his face. He grimaced as he sat up, holding up his palm at the window to block the light.

Morning. Already.

Nick grumbled to himself as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed, not all that pleased to be woken, a dull ache throbbing in the back of his skull. He had sort of been hoping the 'extra' sleep would be beneficial, but apparently his body had grown accustomed to the shorter nights, and he was now experiencing the 'grumpiness' that came along with only partially sleeping in. He muttered under his breath as he reached for his magnum holster, bending over to strap it back to his leg.

And then he remembered something.

They had a shower.

He cast the gun strap aside, securing his magnum instead as he rose from the mattress to quickly stretch and hasten for the washroom. It occupied the space between El's bedroom and his own and he gave the door a light rap with one of his knuckles just to ensure that the hick was in his bedroom and not using it. When he got no response from inside, he turned the knob and let himself in.

The tiling of the floor was cool on the bottoms of his bare feet and he rapidly made to undress himself, setting his gun on the counter and hanging his clothing on the supplied towel rack to keep it from wrinkling excessively. Ultimately it was a ridiculous concern in a zombieapocalypse and he knew it, but he couldn't help but hold onto the little things like that– shit, if he ever found a working iron and an ironing board, he could guarantee he'd be flattening the lapels on his coat in a heartbeat. He knew it didn't all chalk up to habit either– there was something about the illusion of normalcy within chaos what was psychologically integral to it all, that made him want to sustain routine rather than surrender it.

Goosebumps prickled up over his skin in protest to the cool surrounding air. They weren't about to get much better either. Nick bent and turned the faucet, releasing a downpour of frigid water, which he readily stepped into– shocking his system into waking alertness.

Fuck that was cold. He shook it off.

His hair continued to stand on end as he rubbed himself down from neck to toe with soap, keeping his head out of the spray so he wouldn't have to re-gel it. Though he couldn't decide if he wanted to take the time to shave again… he ran his palms over slightly roughened neck and jaw and cheeks that had accumulated just a ghost of stubble in the night's hours, gauging its severity. Inexplicably he wondered if Ellis liked stubble, only to laugh at himself for the very thought. Why should the redneck even give two shits about whether or not his jaw was clean?

He dropped his gaze to the bar of soap in his palm, lifting an eyebrow with chagrin. Seemed he was keeping up appearances in more than one way with the kid.

Ellis hadn't shaved however, despite the option when he had taken his own shower. Not that what little the mechanic was seemingly sporting was at all objectionable. It had taken the kid three days to accumulate what he was now sporting overnight. He rubbed his jawline again. It was sort of cute really.

And Nick had to admit, he liked stubble.

He could only imagine what it would be like to prick his fingers on El's, feel the blondish nubs against his skin, against his own jaw, against his lips, against his neck...

Despite the cold shower, he felt stirrings in his groin.

He frowned a little, but didn't bother to stop his body from doing what it was doing– quickly stiffening as he now imagined Ellis standing beneath the shower's spray, wet curls slicked over his face, damp ends dripping; water running off those brawny hairless pectorals, cascading over the blush of semi-dusky nipples standing pert in the midst of the cold mizzle…

Oh, the kid should not have taken his shirt off yesterday.

Nick gave a moan and pressed his erection into his palm, rocking his hips as he pressed his back to the wall. Shit, he had no self control. Not when it came to thinking about the younger man… Ellis smirked knowingly at him from across the shower, stepping closer to take Nick's unused hand and press it firmly to the side of his face. Nick's eyes widened as the kid closed his eyes and dropped his head back, purring, guiding his palm down the thick bar of his throat.

The circle of his hand and the whim of his mind gave him plenty enough stimulation to find release within a couple more minutes.

Nick gave a shudder as he committed his seed to the porcelain of the bottom of the tub, watching breathlessly as the viscous substance swirled the drain and disappeared from sight.

He soaped and re-rinsed his crotch before shutting the shower off, choosing to forgo the shave after all.

There wasn't anything to towel off with, so he slicked off what water he could with his hands, and waited for the air to dry most of the rest. It was freezing, but the cold– and the orgasm– had drastically aided in waking him for the day ahead.

Nick slipped on his clothes when he was dry enough they wouldn't cling to him and exited from the bathroom.

"G'mornin', Nick," the hick's voice sounded to his right. He turned his head; Ellis had been waiting for the bathroom, leaned patiently against the wall while he showered.

"Morning, sport," Nick smiled, tempted to reach out and ruffle the hair that so infrequently escaped the confinement of his cap as it did now. "She's all yours," he inclined his head back at the room.

"Thanks," Ellis said, starting to move for it before a grin cracked across his features. "Ya always take yer gun wit'cha tuh the bathroom?" he teased.

Nick fiddled with the device in his hands, suppressing a laugh. "Hey, be prepared, right?"

The little spoken motto seemed to throw the hick off a moment, causing him to falter. He shook his head and chuckled. "Yeah, I reckon yer right." He gave him a smile before continuing into the bathroom and Nick took his leave, going to fetch the rest of his belongings– suitcoat, holster, and shoes– from his bedroom. He wandered out to the front area, fully put back together, and Rochelle greeted him with a pleasant "Morning."

Nick pulled up a seat at the dining table where Coach was already sitting and returned a "Morning, sweetheart."

The reporter plunked down a couple containers of canned fruit in front of him for him to choose from– he went with the pears over the peaches and mandarins. Ellis joined them just a short while later and was supplied a similar assortment, but readily went for the oranges. Breakfast ended up being short and mostly wordless, consumed quickly to keep mouths full and avoid too much conversation.

Nick suspected he knew why because, like he, both Ellis and Rochelle kept glancing to the larger man's bandaged arm. Nick studied the football player cautiously. The rest of the night's hours hadn't seemed to change anything about him– certainly outwardly the pallor of his skin hadn't changed, his eyes were just the same, anything telltale they had noticed about the infected wasn't present in the man. Coach didn't seem to detect their added gazes, nor anything out of the ordinary, adamant about 'setting out' and 'hitting the road' and 'getting a move on', even as he finished his third tin of fruit cocktail.

Same old Coach, which was relieving.

They rounded up their belongings and readied for departure.

Ellis found some twine, which they used in conjunction with their emptied tin cans to create makeshift 'holders' for their molotovs– rinsing out the sticky interiors and puncturing holes in the sides with a nail to string the cord through and onto their belt loops. That way they would each have one, and they wouldn't tip excessively, and they'd be at the ready in case shit went down again. The others they lined up neatly on the kitchen counter in plain view for later survivors, though personally he couldn't imagine there would be too many behind them following in their footsteps. But if there were, they'd need all the help they could get.

Rochelle also scrounged up an old travel duffel in the closet of her bedroom and made to fill it with medical supplies from the emergency closet before they left, mostly medical kits with gauze and antiseptic and pain relievers and a splint or two– not enough to weigh them down any, but enough to treat minor injuries like Coach's own. They relocked the storage room, which, after thinking about it a little while, was no doubt under such heavy guard as an extra precaution to keep infected out. Coach offered to carry the bag for her, despite his injury, saying 'it weren't nothing', and she thanked him politely for being so considerate.

Probably better they have their arms free anyway, Nick thought. Just in case. He wasn't willing to drop his guard of the older man just yet– that twenty-fourth hour was still a while yet in coming.

They left the duplex as they had found it, minus some provisions, plus a few explosives. A fair trade in his book. It felt like a bit of a shame to leave, considering how vastly superior it was than all their previous safehouses, both in fortification and comfort, and Nick hoped subtly, though far from expected, that they might be blessed with more like it further down the road– he could use a few more good showers like the one he had just taken...

Getting the exterior gate open after the night's previous carnage turned out to be an ordeal. The blood had congealed like a glue and the mass of twisted shredded bodies was sticky and didn't want to budge from where it had started to meld with the concrete overnight. And the smell it exuded as they finally forced the gate open with their combined weights… Nick hadn't been sure if he'd ever stop gagging. Not to mention he thought he might have stepped in some internal organ or another, because the smell carried with them for a good couple miles down the road.

Rochelle sought to take the lead the moment they hit the street; Nick couldn't tell if the extra rest was what had bolstered her conviction, or if perhaps there was something else he was unaware of affecting the reporter, and he certainly couldn't discern it from the back of her bobbing head as they retraced their steps to the freeway. He of course couldn't help but draw worrisome connections between it and Coach's injury– that perhaps her desire to move quickly was to gain as much ground as they could while the man remained lucid and 'on their side'– but as Nick subtly watched the heavyset football player from afar, keeping perfect plodding pace, steady and unwavering, his concerns lessened. Seemed the big guy was going to make it just fine.

Ellis, naturally, hung back loosely with him, relatively quiet considering his usual propensity to get some sort of dialogue started, either musing out loud or looking to have some casual conversation. Though when they were clipping along at a goodly pace like this it made it more difficult, so perhaps the kid had simply caught on to the unspoken desire for haste. Nick would have preferred Ellis say something, he honestly found the southern drawl calming– well, except when it got all high-pitched and excited, on the verge of cracking. He frowned. Something about the kid just felt 'off' today.

It all caused Nick to wonder if he was out of the loop on something else between the three, besides their little 'peace treaty' Ellis had mentioned. A discussion perhaps, while he was in the shower last night, or after he had gone back to bed. What had El's tongue?

He didn't have a whole lot of time to continue to spend studying his compatriots or mulling it over in his head though because by the time they had gotten off the little residential strip of road, he was kept more than busy plugging off zombies ahead and behind and to the sides of them as they made their way back towards the freeway. Ellis dutifully aided him, the smaller handgun firing beside him with even more than usual unfaltering accuracy. He certainly wasn't wasting any shots to sloppiness that morning, and it made Nick all the more curious about the behavior of his younger compatriot.

The overpass loomed ahead. The big man stretched his limbs out into the cool morning air, duffel balanced on his good shoulder. "So, anymore surprises we oughta know about before get too far out, Nick?" Coach asked, his question decidedly somewhere between light-hearted and serious, his gaze training on the conman.

Yeah, definitely the same old Coach. Apparently it hadn't escaped the older man's attention the prior morning when he had carted along an AK– like a little red flag of bad omen. Nick couldn't even blame the guy for asking– in his place he would have been just as inquisitive.

Rochelle laughed. "Yeah, I'd rather not have any more 'holy-shit-that's-a-big-zombie-am-I-gonna-live-through-this?' moments." She gestured with an arm, bangles jingling on her forearm. "One's enough for me."

Nick allowed himself a grin, actually rather happy to be maligned by the older fellow if it meant he wasn't one of those zombies. Better to be bossed around than be gnawed on. He flourished his magnum show-offishly. "Hey hey hey, I saved your guys' bacon. You ought to be thanking me," he grinned coyly.

"What I wouldn't do for a couple strips'a that," Coach shook his head with a smile, momentarily not acknowledging the rest of his words in favor of daydreaming of the thinly-sliced, grease-covered pork. His expression hardened again, not unkind but serious. "But we need to work as a team."

There was a brief moment of silence, Nick mulling over a possible retort, and then the kid finally spoke up.

"Nick had it under control," Ellis drawled, nodding his head cooly. He shot at something in the distance. Nick studied his affect carefully. The hick wasn't necessarily defending him, so much as seeming to comment in order to douse the potential flame war waiting to happen between football player and card player.

"He seemed to know what he was doing, I'll give him that," Rochelle said, siding with the remark; her brown eyes settled on Coach– Nick could perceive the curious hint of warning in that glance... as if reminding him to 'keep the peace'. It was an interesting dynamic to witness from the outside, now that he knew to look for it.

The older man remained serious however, unwilling to back down, even to the girl. "All I'm sayin' is, a little forewarning might be nice in the future, so the rest'a us can know what we're doin'." His chin bobbed as he made his point to the conman. "If you see anything," he added.

"You'll be the first to know; how's that?" Nick settled. He aimed his magnum off to the west and buried a bullet in the skull of a drooling common.

"Sounds fair," the man agreed.

Ellis looked to him semi-questioningly. Nick was quick to supply him a lazy smirk that conveyed 'after you, of course'. The mechanic lit up with a grin and gave him a quick punch on the arm. He resumed his vigil of their surroundings.

"Hey, Nick," the mechanic re-sought his attention almost as soon as he had looked away; Nick glanced over. "I bet'cha I kin git jus' as many headshots as you today," he boasted, still wearing the grin as he gestured his gun over at the prone infected whose brains were slowly spreading out across the sidewalk in a pool.

Nick scratched the scruff overtaking his jaw, amused at kid's sudden interest in being competitive with him. "You're already about six behind," he smiled in gentle reminder.

It didn't deter the kid in the slightest, his grin only broadening. "S'okay, I kin catch up. Plenty'a zombies to go 'round," he laughed.

Nick grinned, brightened by Ellis' change in attitude back to his more enthusiastic, carefree self. "Alright, kiddo, let's play," he agreed. Being a gambling man, he sought to suggest a prize for the bet– no point in betting if there wasn't something to gain after all. "Winner gets the better sleeping arrangements, whatever they happen to be."

Ellis snorted. "Sounds good tuh me." He grinned a second longer before quickly plugging off a couple more distant infected, both clean and efficient headshots. "Hope ya dun mind sleepin' on the floor!" he joked.

If it weren't for present company, he would've grabbed the scampish hick and knuckled his head again for the jibe.

Chapter Text

Ellis was, naturally, the first one to start up a conversation to fill the silence as they went along the major road. They were passing a nice eight car pile-up when his mouth was spurred into action, triggered by the spectacle. "So what'd y'all use tuh drive pre-infection?" he asked the entourage.

Rochelle chose to be the first to reply to the question. "A silver Jetta," she smiled.

"Tha's a good car, tha's a good car," Ellis gave a bob of his head; Nick watched the tousled curls beneath his hat mirror the motion.

She laughed as she fiddled with the mechanism on her gun. "Aren't they all good cars to you, Ellis?" she asked with just a hint of teasing.

The mechanic eyed her. "Well yeah, but some are still better than others, Ro'," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "A Jetta's a decent car. Reliable."

"I never had trouble with it, it's true," Rochelle went on with a smile. She paused for a second to consider her statement more deeply. "Well, except for the rear defroster never seemed to work."

"I bet tha' was a pain," Ellis continued conversationally. "Don't Ohio get a lotta snow in the winter?"

It seemed he and Coach had fallen out of the loop on the discussion. But that was okay. Nick turned to scan their rear in case anything was trying to get the drop on them, his gaze shifting lazily between North and East as he shot off a couple dazed commons in the distance, tallying them in his head.

She nodded. "Yeah, we do." Nick rubbed an arm casually, lowering his weapon. He found it curious that the female survivor had chosen to speak as though her former Ohio residence was still home, as though she would be returning, and possibly soon. He wrinkled his nose and briefly wondered how Vegas was holding up… if any of this shit had managed to cross the Rockies yet… if they were evacuating people in the west just the same as they were here. The maps in the stations hadn't indicated as much, but who knew how far out of date they might or might not be. Rochelle continued to converse with the hick. "Unfortunately it wasn't until my warranty expired that it broke, and I wasn't willing to pay the full cost to get it fixed; they wanted an arm and a leg for the job."

Ellis chuckled. "Well a'course. You try takin' it to the dealer, they'll stiff ya." He set a hand on a hip matter-of-factly. "Tell ya what, ya bring it tuh me," he poked his chest with a finger, "I'll fix it fer free. An' I'll even throw in a set'a snow tires, on the house, jus' cuz I like ya." He gave the girl a wink.

She tittered with amusement at the offer. "Thanks, sweetie. I'll get right on that. After I survive this apocalypse."

Nick gave an amused snort.

"Whatta'bout you, Coach?" Ellis now turned to address the elder fellow, apparently intent on polling each of them.

"A rust-bucket, that's what," Coach laughed, lifting a thick black eyebrow. "Just an old station wagon, was losin' her paint pretty bad towards the end. I kept meanin' to replace her, just never had the heart to do it. She got me around just fine though, so it weren't nothin'." He shook his head and scratched at his beard. "I hate to say it, but I already miss ol' Betsy."

"You seriously named your station wagon Betsy?" Rochelle laughed.

"Previous owner did," he explained, "I just kept the name. I remember the day I picked her up off the used car lot… sittin' there, all alone. Another couple weeks an' she would'a been sent off to the scrap heap– no one wanted the poor girl."

"Aw, always feels good to rescue a vehicle like that," Ellis nodded. "I bet she was a fine car in her hey-day."

"Oh, for sure," Coach agreed immediately. "Weren't actually nothin' wrong with her, just outta 'style'." The big man reached up to wipe an eye that threatened to suddenly weep. "Aw, now look what'chu've done, boy, ya got me all teared up."

Ellis laughed and scratched his head. "Sorry, Coach."

"Nah, don't be," he waved him off with a gloved hand, "they's good memories."

A small silence followed.

Nick could sense that it was now his turn to share with the group.

"An' you, Nick?" Ellis peered over at him.

The gambler licked his bottom lip slowly, decisively. He let his eyes scan the horizon once before dropping his guard to enter the conversation. "A mustang," he offered.

"Aw man, yeah…" the mechanic grinned, eyes half-lidded. "An American classic!" he responded exuberantly, obviously taking more immediate interest in his vehicle over the other two's. "Trucks ain't the only thing Ford does good, they sure as hell kin make a real nice coupe too."

He could feel enthusiasm literally oozing off of the hick; Nick decided to reel him in a little harder for fun, to see his reaction. "Wasn't a coupe," he corrected off-handedly. "It was a hard top convertible."

The hick's eyebrows rose with further pleasure. "What year?" he became inquisitive, leaning forward.

"1990."

The mechanic's eyes defocused briefly, no doubt counting out the years to figure out what his age would have been at the time of purchase. Which was sixteen. Nick remembered the day distinctly– the compromise he'd had to strike with his parents, which included, but wasn't limited to, never stealing the Porsche again. "You git it new?" Ellis asked.

Nick nodded. "Yeah, my parents didn't believe in buying used cars."

Coach gave a derisive snort but kept his mouth shut.

Ellis just laughed. "I can't say m'surprised." He flashed him a crooked grin. He blinked an instant later. "Almost a good twenty years old now…" he wondered aloud, "ya still drive it?"

Well of course he had kept it. Fuck. Could he ever sell his first piece of true freedom? The car that had granted him personal responsibility? Supplied him an escape from that hell hole that he was forced to call 'home' for eighteen years of his life? Yeah, no. It was safe and sound in the storage garage, under lock and key. Shit, if he managed to squirm out of this zombieapocalypse thing alive he'd be going back to repossess it. Nick tested his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Sometimes," he responded, "for old time's sake."

"Oh, so ya got a new car," Ellis followed up.

"Well… yeah…" Nick faltered briefly, not really having even stopped to think about his other vehicle in comparison to the older one. "For commuting and shit," he shrugged because it wasn't important. He drove the stupid thing where he needed to go and that was that. And when he went traveling he got a rental car– though admittedly he usually sprang the extra for whatever was fanciest on the lot.

Ellis' jaw was cracked in a delighted smile, apparently keying on to the fact that he'd stumbled upon a discovery in the conman's past. "But the 'stang," he spoke reverently, knowingly, "she was yer baby."

Nick seized up uncomfortably. He did the reading of people, not the other way around, and Ellis' insight on the matter was uncanny. Coach and Rochelle, thankfully, weren't paying terribly too much attention to what had become a discussion solely between he and the hick. He relinquished the tiniest of nods to the southerner's statement.

"Tell me more about her," Ellis insisted, his eyes practically shining. His grip had loosened on his weapon, no zombies to take aim at to up his count– which was impressively close to his own as it turned out– and all his attention was on Nick. "What was the interior like?"

Nick obediently let his eyes close… sitting himself in the driver's seat in his mind's eye… leaning back and rolling his shoulders into the cushioning, soothing his hands over the wheel a couple of times before taking a firm grasp, fingers sliding into the supplied notches– the smoothest ones worn by his grip over the years. "All leather," he murmured. "White. Heated seats. Climate control." He ghosted his left hand over to the door in his mind, pawing at the little inset tabs. "Power windows, power locks." His right drifted to the dash, petting towards the center until his hands fell upon the dial of the radio and cassette deck. "Full sound system," he opened his eyes to grin smartly, "including a sub-woofer." He could feel the subtle tha-thump of base now, of all the shitty 80's music he'd listened to, though his tastes at the time were typical of the era and someone his age.

The hick was practically drooling now. "Shit, yer car was decked! What was under the hood?" he begged.

"Well, V-8 engine, of course," Nick swept out a hand as if it were a matter of the obvious. "5.0 liter. Manual transmission."

"Must've been a dream," he drawled in amazement, no doubt partially at the concept of owning such a joyride at the tender age of 'sweet-sixteen'. The hick only had one remaining question for him, positively intent on wringing every last detail out of him. "An' the color?"

Nick bit his tongue awkwardly. Ellis waited, positively beaming, and he couldn't deny the face the information it sought. "Baby blue," he admitted under his breath.

That got the other two survivors' attention again. Rochelle turned to give him an incredulous, wide-eyed look; Coach outright laughed aloud. "Nick drivin' around in a baby blue convertible..." the man said, considering it, eyeing him up and down as he scratched his chin. "Somehow that seems right."

"Oh mah God…" Ellis did a motion that could only be described as a swoon; Nick lifted an eyebrow. "Like yer shirt?" he pointed quickly to confirm the color of the paint job.

"Sort of…" he mumbled, trailing a couple of fingers down said button-up. "A little lighter, and brighter."

"Oh, so like mah eyes," the mechanic clarified, practically batting his eyelashes over said pools of vibrant blue.

Nick stared at him. His response was slow. "Yeah."

Ellis tapped his lip. "I didn't think mustangs came in that color," he wondered aloud. "Least, I can't ever recall seein' one."

Nick was quick to reassure him that his memory was correct. "They didn't, it was a custom paint job." A number of things about the car had been. It was unique. One-of-a-kind. And his. He'd earned the money to make those modifications himself. He'd even hung a pair of those chincy fuzzy dice of the same color on the rear view mirror.

The mechanic gave a whistle. "Hubba-ding, the ladies must've liked that ride," he grinned and gave him a teasing elbow to his arm.

Nick supposed they would have, if there had been any. Certainly all the girls attending his high school had immediately gotten more flirtatious with him– as if they weren't already a nuisance in that regard– and he'd gotten a ridiculous number of offers to go to the prom, even from the upperclassmen, but seeing as that wasn't what he was interested in at the time, he didn't take the opportunity. And his wife– arguably the 'only' woman in his life– had held a mild interest at very best while they had been together.

"I'd take a spin in it," Rochelle threw in her input as the available female representative. She yanked her thumb at him. "Even if I had to sit next to Nick to do it."

Nick dropped his eyes with a mild grin. "Thanks, sweetheart."

"No problem," she chuckled, folding her arms.

"Well, yeah, you'd hafta be puh-urdy crazy tuh turn down a ride in sumthin' like that," Ellis said, grabbing for the brim of his hat. "Goddamn would I like tuh git under the hood'a that. Or behind the wheel," he added. "Shit, jus' callin' shotgun would be good 'nough fer me."

Nick chuckled. He would love to take Ellis for the spin he desired in it. His mind filled in the blanks of the memory with smooth ease.

...Pick him up from the garage just as his work shift ended. Drive him out to the desert, shifted all the way to the fifth gear, pushing ninety-five, the hot wind ruffling their hair. When they were far enough out… pull over and park somewhere on the shoulder.

Climb into the backseat together. Share a little glass of white wine he'd stolen from his father's liquor cabinet, toast to the night that they had met. Kiss him softly as the sun went down.

Slip off one another's clothes. Throw them rumpled to the dash. Tangle into one another arms.

And make sweet passionate love together under the dark cover of night, under the blanket of the stars...

Nick blinked. He'd planned that 'date' out nearly twenty years ago, only to have it shattered in a single agonizing heartbeat. He'd been rejected before even completing step one. But it wasn't Al in that little broken fantasy now. It was El. He let his gaze drift to the hick curiously. He never would have guessed at the beginning of all this that he'd be re-living those old memories ever again. He shook his head with chagrin, almost laughing at himself with the utter ridiculousness of it. What was he? Sixteen all over again? Crushing now like he had crushed back then?

It had taken him almost a year after getting his mustang to even summon the courage to ask Al out, their visits together less frequent after the bargain with his parents, but his infatuation stronger than ever– the old 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' shit playing with him, pulling his strings. And he should've known better, he should've, except he was young and dumb and romantic, so when he finally fucking outed himself, Al hadn't even been surprised… the kindest, most sympathetic and apologetic smile dancing on his lips.

'I love you too, Nick. But not like that.'

He'd driven further than he ever had before that night– all the way out of California– until he hit the Strip. Inadvertently he discovered a few new 'passions', mainly for gambling and high-quality Scotch– a couple of extra bucks here and there solved the troublesome age-restrictions– but also for the city itself. The first time he had seen those lights– flashing, blinking, sparkling, shimmering, glittering– he'd known he'd one day live there, in the city of sin. Not that it filled the gap; It took him years to get over that man, even when he thought he had left it all far far behind.

Dimly he realized that maybe he never had. Nick blinked, focusing his eyes on the mechanic trodding along beside him in dutiful pace. Did he somehow think that Ellis could repair what Al had broken...?

His original feelings for the kid had been almost entirely motivated by lust– a simple physical reaction to the hick's good looks… because shit were those lips plump and that waist thin and those muscles… oh, don't even get him fucking started. But he couldn't deny that over the past couple of days, those feelings had deepened into much more than physical desire.

"Nick?" the mechanic's voice broke the stretching silence.

The conman visibly faltered and looked back up to him. How long had he been lost in thought? Ellis took a couple of shots at something; his eyes snapped back to attention, tilting at the horizon rapidly to assess for a danger that was no longer there, that the hick had already eliminated. His nerves gave a jitter as he relaxed again and shook off the feeling.

"You okay, man?" Ellis asked, concerned, pressing a new clip into his pistol.

"Yeah," he let a grin form its way across his features. "I was just getting nostalgic and shit. I have a lot of memories attached to that car."

"I bet," Ellis nodded understandingly. "S'the same way with me an' mah truck."

Coach chuckled. "Well, I ain't used to agreein' with you, Nick, but you have that one dead-on. We all got good memories attached to our cars." Nick nodded, actually giving the larger man a heartfelt smile and nod.

Rochelle shook her head, shouldering her weapon with a roll of her eyes and a large smile. "Boys."

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, the brief good-will amongst them was short lived.

He should have known the argument was coming before they even left the safehouse that morning. Should have known better than to think they were possibly done with the hang-ups, the snags, the bickering.

Of course, they had to have saved it for the junction of highway 200 and I-95 too, right there in the middle of the goddamn road, open and unprotected and sitting ducks to anything that might be interested in a nice juicy meal of four survivors. The former road would skirt them around the large city of some million former inhabitants, branch them over to I-10 through a couple smaller bergs like the ones they had been hitting, and take them on their way west towards New Orleans– towards their goal.

The latter would take them straight into the heart of Jacksonville.

He stood firmly, resolutely, unmoving at the divider of the offramp, his magnum clenched hard in his palm. Ellis stood nervously off to his side, Rochelle directly in front of him, Coach floating somewhere in between, all four balanced carefully between the white lines on the asphalt in blaring standstill. The road sign above them proclaimed "Junction 200 West to Callahan" and that it was only fifteen miles to said destination.

Honestly, the path they should take was so fucking obvious he couldn't even believe he was having this conversation with the reporter who had been leading for the good first hour.

"The red X's meant those cities had fallen," he attempted to explain again to the woman, growing very short with her very quickly.

"It was just one map," Rochelle contended with him, crossing her arms.

"It was two maps– two." Nick held up index and middle finger to emphasize his point. Savannah and Brunswick. They had both had the same map. And on both those maps, Jacksonville was definitely crossed out.

"And they could have easily just been speculating," she continued.

"Speculating?" he hissed, losing his cool. "Speculating what? That the world's going to go to hell? Because I'm pretty sure it already has." He swept out his right arm, indicating the wreckage around them that stood as solid proof.

The reporter was unphased by his gesture. "You really think the Jacksonville Naval Air Station– the third biggest naval installation in the United States–" she rattled off the statistic readily, "has actually 'fallen'? You think they'd actually abandon four thousand acres of military space??" Her hands folded over each other on her chest, her jaw set. "There's going to be evac there."

"The girl's right, Nick," Coach threw in from the sidelines, though it hardly seemed necessary ganging up on him like this.

He could have frothed at the mouth. Or torn out his hair. Something.

Even Ellis had forsaken him.

"We really oughta go check it out, man," the hick imputed, though the blue eyes flashed with apology for saying the words. "If there ain't nothin' there, we'll jus' keep headin' fer New Orleans."

He pinched the bridge of his nose painfully. Yeah, and that detour would cost them a day. If not two. Or, you know, their lives.

Nick tried to calm himself, tried to shake the feeling that they were all about to be brought to their doom simply because three morons couldn't read a fucking map. But he had agreed back in Savannah that they should check each of the evacs along the way, regardless of X's; they had detoured in Brunswick to find it empty, Jacksonville was just the same, except, in his opinion, far more dangerous a look-see, not worth the time, not worth the effort, not worth the goddamn risk.

"There's going to be an onslaught of infected," he argued, his last ditch effort to get them to understand, to get it through their thick skulls. This was why there had been that little room stockpiled with medical supplies, he was sure of it– there wasn't any other feasible explanation. You didn't supply people with things they didn't need, that would be wasteful and an unaffordable expense on the military's part– he could only imagine how big a check must have been cut for all the munitions, and he knew well enough that packs of blood were never cheap. Anyone in Yulee was bound to be expected to head to Jacksonville as their evac, thus the stockpile to prepare them for braving the larger metropolis. Nick pointed north. "You thought what we encountered up in Kingsland and Yulee was bad, but you ain't seen nothing yet. I guarantee you. A million people don't just vanish."

"We're going to have to keep our wits about us, it's true," the heavyset man admitted rigidly, though it clearly didn't change his opinion in the slightest. "We been good this far. I think we got it in us."

Nick frowned, the gash on the older man's arm seeming to indicate otherwise. Enough cuts and scratches like that and it wouldn't matter if they were immuner than shit, they'd still be lying in the road fucking dead while the crows and bugs picked out their eyeballs, assuming the zombies left that much on their corpses to be had by the filthy scavengers.

"We'll be good, man," Ellis nodded, "we'll watch each others' backs an' all keep an eye out; don't'chu worry, you'll see." The dirty blonde eyebrows lifted with a kind of optimism that could never be doused, a smile gracing his features. Nick wanted to agree with him that it would be that easy, but he couldn't bring himself to.

"It could save us… days," Rochelle chipped in again, throwing in her two cents, trying to convince him. "We could be home-free by tomorrow morning."

"God willing, baby girl," Coach reminded her. "God willing."

Nick frowned, giving a sigh. The NAS could truly be their way out, he supposed he was willing to admit that much. It was difficult to believe such an immense set-up could possibly have been over-run, even with the maps and X's as evidence. They might have to fight through horde upon horde to get there, but whether by airplane, helicopter, boat or whatever the hell else, a government-run naval airbase was sure to have something to transport them out; the only real question was if there were personnel still stationed to pilot said crafts, or if they could find a way to get in touch with someone who could, via a long-distance radio or something. And to be fair, New Orleans was just the same, their one-way ticket out of zombie hell, albeit a more long-term goal that still loomed a couple of weeks down the road.

He hadn't stopped to think about that aspect until now, that their journey may well be approaching its end– it was difficult to think much further ahead than a few hours to what your next meal might be or whether you'd be the meal of something else. But it was with that realization that he suddenly realized something entirely else.

Once this was over and done with, he may never see Ellis again.

His gaze dropped to his feet as the thought took over his mind. It had to end at some point, didn't it? He'd enjoyed their short time together, the week and a half that their paths had crossed, but he'd have to say goodbye, and they'd both resume the lives they'd led before this point. He'd always been decent at 'moving on', casting aside old feelings and emotions– thirty-five years plus a failed marriage had, to some degree, made him a master in that regard.

Just once he wished he didn't have to.

Ellis seemed to internalize his quiet distress from afar. He shifted back and forth on his feet once more before speaking up assertively. "Hey, could'ja guys give Nick an' me a minute?" Ellis asked the other two survivors, hitching his rifle to his back.

Rochelle's face quirked but she gave a nod, likely knowing as well as Ellis did, and as well as Nick himself knew, that the hillbilly would be the only one able to 'sway' him. "We'll wait for you," she confirmed; both she and Coach turned to move further down the I-95, weapons at the ready.

Nick wondered subtly what the mechanic planned to say– obviously he'd already been defeated and all the more he could do now was drag his heels all the way to Jacksonville; they locked eyes briefly, waiting to be out of earshot.

Once enough distance had been established, Ellis addressed him. "Nick, man, what's wrong?" he asked honestly. "I kin tell sumthin's really eatin' ya."

He winced. His hands began shaking; he pinned them aggressively to his sides to stop the involuntary movement. He drew a deep breath and gathered his wits before attempting to speak. He needed to ask. He needed to know. Nick regarded the young man seriously. "Ellis… what happens after all this?"

The mechanic tipped his head with confusion. "Ya mean once we git evac'd?"

"I guess…" Nick licked his lips cautiously, meaning just that.

"Well, I dunno…" Ellis scratched the side of his face, digging his nails into stubble, considering it for a long moment himself. "I reckon it'll take a long while fer things tuh go back tuh normal… An' who knows about them internments…" He frowned a little, clearly not sure what he was getting at by bringing it up. "Why d'ya ask?"

He chuckled with chagrin and let his cards fall to the table. "It's no big secret. I'm gonna miss you, kid," he admitted with a pained smile.

"Well it's not like we ain't gonna keep in touch!" Ellis reassured him with a grin and a slap on the back. "What'chu think, man– m'gonna up an' forget about'chu after all we been through??"

He could have lied and said no, but even his poker face wasn't that good. Nick dropped his gaze to the ground wordlessly, biting his own tongue for fear it would betray him somehow, that he'd say something he'd truly regret. Like he'd done eighteen years ago.

Ellis faltered for two blinks, registering that he had accidentally hit the nail on the head. "Shit, Nick… no way. No way," he reaffirmed with a shake of his head. He removed his hat as if to reinforce his sincerity, placing it to his chest, his other hand settling against his bicep tenderly– the touch made him look up into the young man's blue eyes.

"Nick, I dun think ya know this," he spoke, his voice soft, "but… ya mean a helluva lot tuh me, man."

No, he hadn't known that.

Nick blinked, struck dumb by the words.

Ellis seemed to hesitate himself as he continued uncertainly. "I wanna… I wanna keep up our relationship." His face quirked awkwardly at his use of the term, seeking to clarify immediately. "I mean– like, we've gotten real close…" he laughed uneasily, "real fast. An'…" He swallowed, drawing his hand away to fiddle with the hat at his chest, eyes downturned. His voice became small. "I dun wanna lose that."

His heart hammered like a piston. Nothing had given him a reason to expect he'd receive reciprocation to his own admittance, or furthermore, that the mechanic had any real desire to… further their relationship beyond the apocalypse. After a few moments Nick allowed himself to breathe. "Me neither," he spoke; Ellis gave a nod.

They stood there for an inordinate amount of time, not speaking, a mere arm's length between them. Everything made him want to close that gap, to reveal his feelings towards the hick, but he resisted. He wasn't going to fuck this up. Not this time.

Ellis chuckled sardonically, kicking at a rock. "Ya never know, ya might be right, Jacksonville may be closed. Like Brunswick was. Like Savannah was…" he seemed to trail off.

Nick blinked at him, trying to discern what he was saying.

"We might be stuck out here a real long time yet," Ellis elucidated. He gave him a weak smile. It was a very bittersweet sentiment on the hick's part.

"Kid, I…" he opened his mouth to apologize.

Ellis held up a hand and shook his head. "S'alright, Nick, I understand."

And Nick knew that he did. But furthermore, he knew their ways didn't have to part when all this shit was over. That they'd still have a relationship. Whatever kind of relationship that was.

And that was important.

He wasn't going to ruin it this time. He wasn't going to sever ties, run away. He wasn't going to lose him like he had lost Al.

"Let's get to Jacksonville," Nick asserted, shouldering his weapon and setting his jaw.

A warm pressure descended upon his shoulder. Surprised, he looked up to a smile from the mechanic, one that pulled either side of his lips equally– not that lopsided maneuver they typically pulled– curling them delicately upward without the display of teeth, a smile that could have melted the heart of even the hardest of people. The fingers squeezed reassuringly… lovingly.

His lips parted staring into that gorgeous face.

"M'real glad we met, Nick." The hick plopped his hat back atop his head with a genuine smile. "An' I jus' want'cha tuh know… there ain't anyone else I'd rather be goin' through this with."

"Thanks, El," he murmured, grinning.

"Mah pleasure," he tipped his brim.

Chapter Text

The day's trek was blissfully uneventful in terms of zombies. Ellis had no trouble keeping up with Nick in terms of the bet he had made that morning, mostly thanks to his hunting rifle which was far more accurate for the long-distance shots than the conman's long-barreled handgun. He still utilized his pistol for the closer targets, and in that respect the man definitely had him beat, but it didn't discourage him any, especially since Nick so readily supplied little tidbits of advice to help him out. Don't yank the trigger, squeeze it gently. Don't anticipate the recoil, keep the muzzle up. If your target is moving, try to track it slowly, not snap to where you think it will be.

It was interesting because he had never been a bad shot, even as a kid, but the pointers helped. Ellis could only dimly remember the last time he and his Pa went out to the range just for fun– shit, he could have only been nine or so, certainly not in the double digits. Mostly they had shot at coke cans and coffee tins, a few fancier targets too for precision practice with the little .22 rifle that had been bought just for him, so he could have his very own gun. He knew that shooting at zombies wasn't supposed to be fun, that what they were doing was an act of self defense rather than a fun day at the range, but he couldn't keep the nostalgia from creeping up on him as they went along. Ellis tried to keep all of Nick's suggestions in mind as he practiced, eager to improve and, to an extent, hoping to impress as well.

As it was, there were few commons to even really headshot, making keeping track of their counts easy– Rochelle had even gotten into the action, offering encouraging words at his better hits, which made him practically beam. Ellis made sure to as precise as he could each time because if he missed, Nick usually managed to pick it up for himself. The gambler's aim was still faster than his own, but Ellis was deadset on refining his gunmanship after what had happened the night before; next time an infected got the drop on one of them, he was going to be prepared– nothing would lay hand or claw on his friends, he'd make sure of that.

They didn't meet with anything 'special' either, like the tank, or the smoker, or the thing, that after a random, and lengthy, discussion about horse-racing and why a person shouldn't sink half a month's pay on a 36:1 odds thoroughbred past her prime as Keith had done in the spring of 2007 in hopes that with the winnings he could buy his own horse and feed and stable her for racing, they decided to call a jockey. It's midget-like diminutive stature and awkward hunch seemed to fit that bill right fine and would make it easy to identify if they ever happened across one in the future.

Meanwhile, the man beside him was actually smiling, something that filled Ellis with elation greater than his steadily improving gunmanship. It seemed that since their talk, Nick's mood had drastically lifted. Shit, if the man had just let on earlier that he wanted to stay close friends after the apocalypse, he would have reassured him sooner how willing he was to do so. He had never been one to reject friendship when it was asked for, and considering how much quality time he and Nick had been spending with one another it just felt right. In fact the opposite applied even better, not doing so would feel down-right wrong.

Honestly, Ellis was flattered Nick thought enough of him to want a friendship with him. If nothing else the class difference between the two of them was enough to make them an odd pair, not to mention the difference in age. And after all, what did he really have to offer the older man, besides a kind ear and an open heart? But maybe that was all Nick needed, why he wanted that friendship. The guy had obviously had it rough growing up, in a completely different way than Ellis himself had, and it showed in his demeanor, the way he acted and spoke. The more thought Ellis put to it, the more he realized how much he had meant the words he had spoken to the gambler, and he solemnly resolved to himself that he'd be the best damn friend he could, he wouldn't let Nick down, no matter what.

All of that, along with the fact that Coach was still trucking– like his prayers had indeed been answered– had him in excellent spirits, and their journey south was swift and harmonious, and multiple times he and Nick exchanged smiles and conversation while they kept tally.

Nothing, however, had prepared them to find a twisted, broken rubble heap, half-submerged, in place of the I-95 bridge into Jacksonville.

At least, Ellis couldn't say he had seen it coming.

After winging their way swiftly through the northern outskirts of the city, small clumps of infected the only resistance to their progress, they had made it to the river that divided the Florida metropolis into neat thirds: north, west and east. And they had all been feeling pretty good about their progress too, the sun still a good few outstretched hand lengths away from the horizon– about three hours from setting, plenty enough time to settle in to whatever provided safehouse there was waiting for them when they made it over to the west side as recent signs along the road had proclaimed there would be. They'd eat, restock their ammunition, bunk down, and finish the remaining five miles to the Jacksonville NAS in the morning– and maybe, just maybe, there would be evac.

The lack of bridge had quickly sunk those plans however. No part of it remained intact for them to attempt to clamber across. And swimming across the wide cove, especially with their supplies and guns, certainly wasn't a viable option. It didn't look all that far to the other side… but distances on the horizon like that could be awfully deceiving– what looked like half a mile could be more like a full mile. And he didn't know about his other compatriots, but he had never been much of a swimmer– he could, he just wasn't all that great at it, too much muscle mass gave him the propensity to sink rather than float and he certainly hadn't gotten any formal lessons growing up. Drowning in a zombieapocalypse would be one of the lamer and less glorious ways to go, Ellis had to admit. They all four stood wordlessly on the bank, lost in their own thoughts, staring into the formidable churning waters of the St. Johns lapping at the wreckage below.

"Well shit," Ellis frowned, a touch flabbergasted by the set back.

"Fucking assholes bombed our bridge," Nick spat.

The conman was right. The destruction had clearly been caused by deliberate human means– not the work of mindless zombies what with thousands of tons of steel and concrete shredded and crumbled into ugly clumps that stuck up out of the water– not even a dozen tanks working in conjunction could do such a thing, nor would they have a reason to do so. Most likely, if Ellis had to wager, heavy explosives had been involved. Nothing else could have done such a messy, though admittedly effective, job.

He wondered briefly if it had been detonated on site with TNT or if the bridge had been bombed by aircraft missiles. He tilted his chin to briefly glance at the clear sky above. It wasn't discernible from the way the wreckage had settled. Or maybe it was. A specialist on the subject could probably tell them, but he sure as hell didn't know. No number of bad action movies supplied enough factual representation of debris and explosions to give him the credentials, he was pretty sure, especially when it was all CGI and shit anymore. Shit, he'd watched a bridge be destroyed in X-men III on an IMAX screen, but it sure as hell was no comparison to actually standing before the wreckage itself. He gave a whistle, touching the brim of his cap.

"I can't believe this…" Rochelle whispered, her posture incredulous, brown eyes wide.

"Yeah well, you better, sister, because it's right there in front of us," Nick scowled. His ire wasn't directed at her, but rather the display before them, at what had been done and was keeping them from what have should have been an easy checkpoint. Ellis chuckled wryly. And after the two of them had spent the time arguing about going this way too. It was more than a little ironic in his opinion.

"This ain't the only way into Jacksonville," Coach reminded them gruffly, his own irritation apparent though he tried to keep it at bay and put a stoic face on the situation. But he wasn't really succeeding any better than Nick this time around. "We'll just have to go 'round to the next one," he asserted. "We sure as shit can't stand here gawkin' all day."

Ellis pondered the situation. Highway 17, a decidedly lesser road, ran basically parallel to their current route just a few miles east. But if one bridge to Jacksonville was blown out, the rest were sure to be as well. There wouldn't be sense in leaving a job 'half finished'. If the military wanted to lock off an area, they were going to lock it off. He shook his head at the big man. "I'm'a bettin' there ain't gonna be any bridges fer us tuh take," he said solemnly, though he didn't like being the bearer of bad news. They'd be stuck going the long way round, backtracking up to 295, which they had passed a couple hours before. The only problem with that was that it would press them for time in terms of daylight– the only other safehouse was at the international airport another mile or two northwest of the freeway. If last night had taught them anything, it was that the dark was not their friend. Ellis frowned.

And even after they had spent the night there, it would a full nother day making it the long way round into the west side where the NAS lay. Maybe Nick was right, maybe they just ought to skip it. Lay course for New Orleans and not look back at the 'what if's of the X'd-off city.

Staring at that destroyed bridge made Ellis incredibly uneasy about the original plan to go to Jacksonville himself. Sure, they hadn't had any trouble getting to this point– the days skirmishes had been easier than pie, certainly easier than their original escape from Savannah. There hadn't even been any rush of horde to deal with– but maybe this was the explanation why. If the infected were trapped, partially water locked by the St. James, and unable to spread out of the city, of course they wouldn't have much to come across besides what wandered out of rural areas. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. The military would have to have a pretty good reason to start bombing their own major cities, their own multi-million dollar bridges; there weren't many feasible explanations. His forehead wrinkled beneath his cap. It didn't make sense.

Ellis' throat constricted, wondering if Savannah, at this point, had received a similar treatment. God, he prayed not. He shivered at the thought of the destruction of the Talmadge memorial bridge… or the worse the 100-year old city hall that overlooked the river just a short distance away– both landmarks, monuments of his hometown, ones he had visited, that he was proud of. He frowned and shouldered his hunting rifle to peer through the scope towards the landscape in the far distance, but unfortunately he couldn't make out much on the other shore even with the magnification.

"Well, it's a naval air station, sitting on the banks of a river," Rochelle wondered aloud, a couple fingers rested on her chin in thought; the reporter clearly hadn't given up on the idea of getting there herself. "We should be able to boat in," she suggested.

Coach grunted. "We'd need a boat for that," he said, not rejecting the idea, but pointing out the fact that they had no such vessel to do as such.

"Well I reckon there'd be a marina or sumthin' further upstream," Ellis imputed; though he was undecided on the issue of actually continuing into Jacksonville, he couldn't help but be helpful regardless. The numerous coves the St. Johns offered were excellent for boating from what he had heard– one of those trips Keith had taken that Ellis had had to politely decline tagging along for, funds not allowing. Keith had spent part of his visit at the section of the river that was apparently a designated manatee refuge, managing to get thoroughly mauled by one of the angrier seacows when he had decided to go swimming with them, regardless of the strict prohibition against doing just that; all of which made Ellis wonder if his friend had any clue how ironic it was that he'd nearly been killed by 'endangered' creatures. The mechanic scratched his head, leaving the story unspoken to return to the conversation at hand. "We kin maybe find one there."

"Good thinking, sweetie," Rochelle nodded smartly. "We'll head west and see what we can't find."

"Sounds good to me," Coach nodded, clapping the action of his shotgun.

Nick couldn't help but interrupt the cute little dialogue, his tongue thus far withheld as the rest of them threw ideas back and forth. "Did any of you stop to think that maybe the bridge was blown out for a reason? Like, we're not supposed to go there? Or that they're trying to keep something locked in so it doesn't get out?"

Glances passed among them. Ellis rubbed an arm anxiously. They'd all thought of it, just none of them had wanted to voice it out loud quite so frankly as the pessimistic conman had done. The air felt heavy for two long beats.

"It's a risk we're gonna have to take," Coach asserted.

Nick's eyes rolled dramatically. "Fantastic. Fine." The man was apparently beyond arguing by now, and Ellis couldn't really blame him. He shifted a little closer to him. "So let me just get this straight: we're going to look for a marina that may or may not exist to boat into an evacuation center that may or may not be open?" he summed up.

Coach gave a snort to his attitude. "Get your ass movin', Nick."

The conman shot him an angry glance, but they all did just that, racing the descending sun.

Chapter Text

Ellis was relieved when his instinct turned out to be right. They'd chosen to use Broward Road, a little two-lane that skirted close to the St. James its length, figuring sticking close to the body of water would be their best bet. And not even a mile down it they stumbled across a little joint whose sign out front proclaimed their saving grace as 'Beck's Outboard Inc'.

"Well, it ain't no marina," Coach nodded, placing his hands on his hips as he admired the sampling of boats fenced in behind an outdoor lot, a mixture of motorized and not, "but it'll do just fine."

The four of them were quick to fan out and explore the store and surrounding area. Ellis, of course, kept close to Nick as the conman meticulously made a couple rounds. From the way he seemed to measure his steps, his green eyes darting back and forth, Ellis wouldn't be surprised if he was constructing a little map up in his head, putting it into temporary memory for use later if need be. He wasn't quite as diligent himself, but he helped his elder compatriot clear out the commons that infested the place, continuing to add to their tallies that at this point he was slowly lagging behind on.

Really all it amounted to was a small independent boat sales shop, but since they didn't need anything fancy, that worked. Beck's was composed of a little brick front office for customers to make their used boat purchase in comfort, a larger metal shed no doubt for storage and repairs, and the boat lot itself, which was surrounded by chicken-wire fencing. The lot still housed quite a selection of little vessels that they would be making their own choice from, even if the weeds overgrown in the cracks of the concrete tried to suggest poor Beck's might have been put out of business before the zombieapocalypse had even hit. A small inlet of water ran alongside the shop and under the road, granting access to the larger St. Johns. Convenient would have almost been an understatement.

There were a couple of other run-down looking window-front stores next door to Beck's as well, namely a cigar shop, laundromat and 'food store', though unfortunately the latter turned out to be heavily pilfered. He and Nick took stock of what was left on the shelves– they'd be able to make due for dinner that night and breakfast the next morning, and that was all that was really important, though lunch for the next day might have been a nice commodity as well.

The conman picked up a stray can of ravioli, weighing it in his palm. "We spending the night here?" he asked the hick carefully.

"Can't boat in 'til morning," Ellis reasoned, "so I reckon so." He eyed the affect of his compatriot warily– he seemed to be lost in thought. "Nervous?" he wagered a guess.

A grin slowly spread across Nick's face. "Well, it's not a safehouse," he neither confirmed nor denied, leaning up against a waist-high shelf.

"Too late to find one; it'll be dark in another couple hours," Ellis scratched his head, grabbing another couple cans to gather them on the counter. It would be nicer if they had found one of the government-modified safety rooms, it was true, but he doubted it was going to be much of an issue with as little infected as they had come across. As long as nothing swarmed– or anything bigger came along– the fortification of a ordinary shelter should suffice. "'Sides, this way we kin set straight out in the mornin', not lose any time," he reasoned.

Nick nodded. "Yeah."

Ellis flushed suddenly, feeling a little bad for bringing up the subject again, but he was just anxious to know whether or not his family was okay. Though part of him didn't want to find out, too fearful of potential bad news as much as he was excited for good news.

In that case it would almost be better not to know. His heart gave a little palpitating flutter.

Nick remained silent. Ellis guessed the man really had meant it when he said back in Kingsland that there was no one he'd be looking up when he got to evac. He hadn't really believed him at first, chalking it up to a desire on the conman's part to appear and remain solitary. But he and Nick had grown much closer since that talk, he'd learned a lot about the guy, and he'd slowly come to realize that he really was pretty much alone. Except for that Al guy he had mentioned the night before– what had happened...? Had they lost touch? In fact, did that have anything to do with Nick's desire to remain friends with him?

He stared at the older fellow across the narrow aisle with mild curiosity and solicitude.

Ellis had his entire extended family and a few friends and co-workers he'd be checking the charts for. And while he really truly hoped that they were all alright, he also acknowledged that in all likelihood, a few of those people might not have made it, that he'd probably be missing a few relations who he'd be upset to learn were gone. Nick, however, simply didn't have the worry, the burden of all those people's lives weighing on his shoulders– and to be honest, that was somehow even more heartbreaking.

What was the old phrase? 'Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? Getting to Jacksonville was the same as not getting there for Nick; the only difference was the company Ellis supplied him on their nightly shifts.

Nick needed him. Now and after the apocalypse.

Neither of them moved from the inside of the shop, preferring the brief respite from their other two comrades, preferring each other's presence. Ellis peered at the cardshark under the brim of his cap, testing his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "How ya doin', man?" he couldn't help but ask; it was probably a stupid question, but he asked it nevertheless.

The gambler laughed. "I'm fine, El."

"Jus' makin' sure," Ellis chuckled back, looking away.

Shit, why did he suddenly feel so awkward? They'd just agreed to be friends was all; that didn't change anything. Or was he just looking, hoping for some way to console the older fellow? Let him know he was there for him? He did want him to know that. He felt his eyes wander back to Nick involuntarily and the relaxed, half-slumped position he had taken against the shelf.

The urge to wrap his arms around the man's waist... slip himself between his legs… press his body up against him… was both overwhelming and unexplainable. His breath hitched and his eyes lifted, and for a fraction of a second blue met green met in curious exchange.

The door rattled, breaking the moment in half sharply. Ellis gave his head a violent shake as Rochelle's voice followed, calling into the confines of the store. "You boys in here?"

He opened his mouth, vocal chords waiting for the air to give him speech, but it refused to come, rendering him dumbstruck.

The man folded his arms, turning his head towards the entrance. "Yeah, we're in here, sweetheart," he responded, easing her concern as to their location.

"Oh good," he heard her say. "They're in here!" she called back, no doubt out to Coach. The bell chime hanging on the door sounded as she pressed inside and quickly found them between the aisles. She eyed them both expectantly. "Find anything?"

Ellis grabbed for the canned pasta, holding it aloft. "Dinner," he surmised succinctly.

"Well, that's good!" Rochelle smiled, offering to take the tins from him which she then cradled in an arm. "We're going to stay in Beck's overnight," she informed them– apparently she and Coach had explored that section a little more thoroughly and therefore made the decision. "The office has a couch and a couple of armchairs, probably as comfortable as its going to get. Plus we figure we can prop the door closed with the desk so we don't have to worry too much overnight. The walls are all brick and cinderblock so the door is the only real vulnerability." She paused a moment, looking back and forth between them, obviously weirded out by their overall silence and lack of comment to all her information. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" she asked suddenly, voice already semi-apologetic.

Ellis opened his mouth, half a mind to tell her that she had.

But Nick responded first, shaking his head. "Nope. Overalls here was just telling me about the time his buddy Keith filled a bathtub with ravioli."

Ellis felt an eyebrow tweak on his forehead. Interesting cover. Not that they had needed cover for what they had been doing, talking about… did they? And uncannily close to something Keith had in fact done– though it was with tomato juice after a run-in with an entire family of skunks roaming his uncle's property. When he'd been advised to bathe in it, he apparently hadn't been told he didn't need an entire jacuzzi's worth to get the job done. His uncle had nearly killed him; it took forever to get all the juice out of the spa's bubbler pumps, not to mention the size of the grocery bill he brought home.

Rochelle laughed out loud. "It would be." She smiled and reached out to give Ellis' hair a doting ruffle in the back, which he allowed her to do. "Want to help us pick out a boat, sweetie?" she asked, a large white smile spreading across her lips.

He reckoned they should probably both be in on that decision, so he gave a nod. "Sure, Ro'."

They made their way to the lot, dropping off the cans of pasta inside Beck's before meeting up with Coach. The large man had managed to lever the gate open with an oar and his own brute strength to gain access to the locked lot and now had his hand tucked under his chin, studying their options. Ellis contorted himself through the gate to come to Coach's side; the big man's brown eyes immediately locked with his. "What'chu think, boy?" he asked, no doubt wanting his mechanic's expertise on the subject. Boats weren't really his forte, but as long as it had an engine, it was basically all the same.

Ellis rubbed an arm, eyes quickly scanning the lot, his initial sweep hasty. "Well, we got two options, y'all. We kin motor it in, or we kin take a couple'a canoes."

"Oh great," Nick rolled his eyes, "now not only can my legs and feet be sore, but so can my arms and shoulders."

Ellis snorted at his sarcasm. "I guess tha's one vote fer a speedboat."

"Normally I ain't one to shy from a little physical activity," Coach said, giving his top half a flex with the words, "but ten miles is quite a row. We had a rowing team at my University, but I weren't on it. I think it'd be best if we went with something with an engine."

Ellis nodded in agreement. Not only was it a good ten miles, but there were other factors involved with paddling in that needed to be taken under careful consideration. While the first half would be easy, traveling with the current, once they rounded the bend and headed south, they'd be fighting upstream. Last thing they needed was the potentiality of getting caught and swept out oceanward. And if there was wind, it would only make it worse. Sure, navigating the debris from the destroyed bridge would be easier, less perilous in canoes, but that was the only thing really 'going' for the latter option. The canoes would be more prone to tipping and losing their precious cargo as well.

"I'm with Coach," Rochelle made known.

"Alrighty, lemme take a closer gander then at what we got," Ellis nodded and he moved to make his determination on which vessel would be their best bet for the excursion. It didn't take him too long to narrow it down, culling out what was obviously a beefed-up speeder designed to make a hell of a roar, along with a few of the lesser sea-worthy looking vessels with little puttering engines meant for relaxed fishing trips and didn't have enough spunk. He finally settled on a medium-sized water skiing boat, capable of going fast if they needed it to, but also fairly maneuverable if they needed that too. It seated four– and an optional fifth– but had a goodly sized storage compartment for all their supplies, so it seemed just about perfect. Plus it was open on all sides, save the windshield, much like a convertible, so if they needed to defend themselves, they'd be more than able– though hopefully they wouldn't need to.

"This baby should glide over the water," Ellis determined, patting the side of the engine with his palm.

Nick's green eyes darted the length of the runabout twice. "Quiet?" he immediately asked.

"She won't do more than purr," the mechanic assured him, completely understanding the voiced concern about volume.

"Then that's our boat," Coach nodded firmly, chin bobbing. "Don't need to bring any more attention to ourselves than necessary."

Ellis smiled, relieved the football player and card player were seeing eye to eye for once. They could stand to have that happen a little more often. Nick seemed to catch that his gaze was lingering upon him and grinned before folding his arms and leaning back on a hip. The pose immediately resulted in an odd shiver that Ellis had a bit of difficulty shaking off, the weird feeling he'd had in the mini grocery returning if only for a couple of fleeting moments– almost like a little flutter in his gut.

"Well, we have a boat and food," Rochelle summed up, placing her hands to her hips with satisfaction. "Pretty good."

Nick frowned at the ground. "Now if only we had more ammo," he muttered, pointing out the deficiency.

Ellis shifted. Reporter and conman both had good points; they'd had luck in every other respect, but Beck's was not a safehouse, and as such there was no supplied ammo dump for them to replenish. Ellis found himself wishing that he had grabbed another gun from that McDonald's in Kingsland– sure, it would have been a bitch to carry another eight or so pounds this entire way, but somehow he acknowledged that having the extra rounds now could be a life-saver.

From the grimace on Nick's face, Ellis was pretty sure he was feeling the same way about his discarded AK he'd left back in Georgia.

Thankfully, they all still had a decent amount of ammunition left. Especially Coach and Rochelle since he and Nick had taken the brunt of the infected that day. Ellis could bum a few extra rounds off the reporter for his hunting rifle considering they both wielded the same model, and if need be they could all fall back a little more heavily on Coach's shotgun. If worse came to worst there was always his machete, dutifully hanging from his hip. Ellis pondered the situation a little longer in his mind, nibbling at his lower lip. Since their destination was a military space, it ought to have munitions galore, so as soon as they hit the shore and found the cache, he reckoned they'd all be stocked and fine. Just getting there was the trick.

"Let's get a little food in our bellies; I am starving," Coach said, supplying a distraction from the troublesome thoughts, which was more than welcome.

Rochelle nodded and they all followed her back to the front office.

Chapter Text

They searched high and low for a way to heat their dinner besides the old-fashioned possibility of lighting a fire, but unfortunately, there weren't any other options.

Rochelle frowned, picking up one of the cans with resignation. "Looks like it's cold Spaghetti-Os for dinner…" she murmured.

Nick scrunched up his nose with distaste. "Fine dining," he commented sarcastically.

"Food is food," Coach asserted, making it clear he wouldn't tolerate any of his complaints.

Ellis made a quick glance over at the little shared company microwave next to the coffee machine. They may not have electricity from the plugs, but that wasn't the only place to get power. A car battery should be enough current to run a microwave, at least for the short time it'd take to heat macaroni. Might have to run the thing in spurts, seeing as that's what car batteries were more designed for, rather than a constant draw of power. He chewed at his lower lip, still in thought. Of course, the battery would be DC and the microwave ran on AC, but if he just found an inverter that wouldn't be a problem. More likely than not he could scrounge one of those off of one of the boats– lots of people liked rigging up their crafts with accessories that required such a device. He addressed the female survivor. "It don't hafta be cold," he said matter-of-factly.

Rochelle turned a can over in her hands, lifting an eyebrow with curiosity as she absently peeled at one of the torn labels. "Oh?"

"Well, if ya jus' give me a few minutes, I should be able tuh whip us up an operatin' microwave," he nodded with a jerk of his thumb at said device.

"Really?" the girl perked. "That would be amazing, sweetie. You could really do that?"

Ellis' face rearranged into a large grin, a touch of pride filling him. "A'course I can! Jus' lemme assemble a toolbox from the garage an' I'll git right tuh work," his bobbed his head with enthusiasm at his proposed task. "Shouldn't be anymore than half an hour, tops," he estimated.

"Well, damn, that sounds good to me," Coach said, obviously impressed.

Nick shifted on his feet. "Want any help?" he offered.

"Sure, y'kin help," Ellis smiled at him. He wasn't sure what, if anything, the conman would or could do to help him out per se, but he sure as hell wasn't about to turn him down, eager to have him at his side and… alone… again. "If nothin' else y'kin keep me company. Or watch mah back," he laughed.

Nick nodded; Ellis was sure he intended to do both of those things.

They proceeded out the door and to the shed. Ellis bent down to unhitch the large metal entrance, standing and pulling with his arms until it got a little momentum going and rolled itself the rest of the way up above them. Both men stepped inside warily. Nick quickly began casing the joint, magnum at the ready; Ellis peered about as well, a little more cautiously than his elder. Obviously the large hutch was where all the boat repairs were done at Beck's– a dismantled vessel stood in one of the corners, looking as though its hull may have been damaged due to an accident of some kind. Ellis turned his gaze to the rafters. It was fairly dark inside, the only other source that allowed light to filter in besides the large door was through the segmented pane window glass well above their heads towards the roof. Still it only took a couple minutes of scrounging for Ellis to find all the tools he thought he needed– mainly a couple of screwdrivers, a couple wrenches and some wire, collecting them on the workbench in the lid of an old cardboard box. Naturally, all the while, his thoughts were on the man behind him still exploring their surroundings.

He was still trying to sort out up in his own head why he had wanted so desperately to press against the older fellow. What made him crave such an... intimate kind of closeness to him. Absently, he reached up to open a cabinet, forgetting to be cautious, and a paint bucket full of screws, which had apparently been leaning up against the door, tumbled right on out.

Ellis managed to snatch it mid-air, but that didn't stop a number of the fasteners from tipping out of their container; he winced as the little pieces of metal rained down onto the workbench in an awful din. Nick peered at him once the noise had finally stopped echoing and all the screws had come to rest. "What are you trying to do, sport? Wake the whole neighborhood?" the man teased him playfully, no alarm or malice to his tone.

"Not if I kin help it," he chuckled, hefting the heavy bucket back into the cabinet– less precariously than it had been left. He scratched his head with a touch of embarrassment for having caused such a ruckus.

And then they both heard a muffled sob.

Ellis seized up momentarily. "Shit," he blinked rapidly, "maybe I did wake someone up. Where's it comin' from?" he asked his compatriot.

Nick looked distinctly uneasy. "Further in," he mumbled. Ellis followed him as he led the way, finger tight on the trigger of his weapon, his dress shoes click-clacking on the hard concrete. They trailed the subtle crying, the volume increasing as they proceeded deeper into the hutch. The cry was definitely feminine; Ellis couldn't help but wonder if a girl had decided to take refuge inside the little shack– though why she would choose the deepest, darkest corner the little river outpost had to offer he couldn't quite fathom. Wouldn't she have boarded herself inside the store proper where the food and a bathroom was?

The sounds led them to a broom closet. Whoever was crying was most assuredly inside from the forlorn weeping muffled inside. Ellis gave a nervous shift on his feet. A distinct red glow emanated from the cracks in the doorframe, its cast most visible on the floor in front of their feet.

That was really fucking spooky, no two ways about it.

Maybe the girl had found a flashlight? One with one of those little red filters that weren't as harsh on your eyes so your night-vision wouldn't be inhibited? Dave had brought one of them along when he took him stargazing once a long, long time ago in Crawfordville– man, had that ever been a beautiful clear moonless night. They'd managed to identify at least a dozen different constellations in the night sky. It'd been just a few short weeks after their Pa's death, and he could remember lying flat on his back in the grass, Dave a couple feet away, as they both reminisced on the father they shared. They'd bonded significantly that night, but whether it was awkwardness about only being half-brothers or Dave being kept suddenly busy by his job, get-togethers were few and far between afterwards.

Which made Ellis even more thankful for Nick's request for continued friendship. And the nights they had spent together, sharing.

Ellis shook his wandering thoughts loose. "You okay in there?" he tried in his gentlest accent. He didn't want to frighten or disturb the girl in case she hadn't heard them yet, but at the same time he wanted to communicate their presence and that they weren't hostile.

All he got in return was a louder sob.

Beside him Nick was obviously growing impatient. "Listen, sunshine," he said to the door, and Ellis wondered if the conman could have used a more ironic term of endearment, "we'll give you to the count of three to come out on your own."

"We ain't gonna hurt'cha none," Ellis tacked on, hoping to ease his fellow survivor's harsh words.

"One," Nick started, drawing it out like a parent might to a child, motioning his magnum in a lazy circle. "Two…"

"Two an' a half," Ellis threw in an additional count for the girl to take advantage of, but it didn't help because the door remained closed.

"Fuck it, three," Nick grumbled and seized the doorknob. He opened the door outward and they peered into the tiny enclosed space. The female had her back to them and was rocking back and forth as she cried, clutching to a sack of something. Her clothing was torn and tattered from what had originally probably been a nice little mid-thigh length skirt and matching halter top. It was difficult to discern in the low light, but it looked perhaps like her hair had been bleached blonde– though it was clumped and messy without recent care or washing. Granulated– was that sugar? it smelled sweet– was scattered about the floor underneath her. At their breach of her space, she gave a gasp and quickly jerked her head around.

The wide glowing red eyes explained that former mystery to the hick and conman. She raised to her feet with a low growl, baring her sharpened teeth and flexing enlongated fingertips. Shit– Ellis felt his eyes widen– each was near a good nine inches long.

"Of course," Nick rolled his eyes. He raised his magnum lackadaisically to plug her off.

She gave a wild scream and lunged. Neither man had expected the sudden burst of frenzied energy from the infected.

Perhaps she was a little more intelligent too, because she batted the magnum right out of Nick's hand before he could even get the shot off. The gun went literally flying and landed somewhere in the cockpit of the craft under repairs, out of quick retrieval. "Fucking shit!" the gambler exclaimed as he just narrowly dodged a swing of those sharpened talons aimed for his unprotected torso; the girl screamed again, pissed that she had missed.

Ellis backpedalled lickity-split, whipping his pistol free of its holster. She hissed at him, sensing he was a greater threat and turned for him, arms extended and swiping the air as she ran at him full tilt. Ellis took aim and fired, but he found that in her crazed, flailing, unpredictable pursuit she was virtually impossible to target, and all he ended up doing was unloading, the only resulting inflictions a few nicks to her wire-y frame, not enough to slow her down any and only adding fuel to her apparent rage.

He dashed around the front of the boat, hoping to buy a little time as his fingers frantically worked to get his machete loose, silently cursing the way he had attached it. He wasn't looking forward to going toe-to-toe with those claws, but he didn't have time to reload and– shit!!

Ellis sped his heels into the pavement as she rushed around the vessel at break-a-neck speed, missing a rake of claws down the length of his back by a whisker. He darted past the aft of the boat, scrambling to keep some distance on her.

And out of nowhere, Nick– shit, he had practically forgotten the man in the frenzied seconds he'd spent engaged with the bitch– jumped out, and Ellis practically collided with him, managing to duck and roll as the gambler took a forceful horizontal swing of his own impromptu weapon.

The side of the oar smashed dead-on into her face and stopped all of her momentum. Her body crumpled instantly on the spot, legs knocked out from under her, and her skull slammed into the pavement with a second sickening crack.

Ellis caught his breath while he watched blood ooze from her head.

"Well, that was unpleasant," Nick commented. He threw the oar down. "What was that you were saying about watching your back?" he grinned. Was it just him or did Nick seem to always be doing that after close encounters together?

"Thanks," Ellis heaved, still a bit winded, "that bitch was really out tuh git me, I tell ya." He laughed and drug a wrist across his forehead, wiping away the thin sheet of sweat that had collected just under the brim of his hat. "Goddamn. S'what I git fer showin' a little courtesy, huh?"

Nick was climbing up into the boat to reclaim his lost weapon. "I'm the one who held the door for her," he backhanded; Ellis laughed again at the joke. The man shuffled around for a bit and managed to secure his magnum once more, committing it to his holster with a flourish as he clambered back down.

There were the sounds of two pairs of rushing feet. Ellis turned towards the entrance to the work shed. Coach and Rochelle both paused in the entry, weapons raised; no doubt the sounds of gunshot had beckoned them.

"Are you two alright??" the female survivor asked, though clearly from the way they were both standing there unharmed, they were. Her wide eyes darted about the inside of the garage to access if any threat level remained.

"Yeah, we're okay," Ellis nodded anyway.

"Just had a run in with little miss PMS," Nick gave the girl's body an unceremonious kick with his shoe.

"She dangerous?" Coach seemed to ask with a bit of incredulity, leaning down to inspect the body. Yeah, it seemed like two full grown men ought to have a bit of a leg up on an emaciated teenage sugar-high freak-show, no matter how hormonal. Ellis gave a small cough. He was already feeling bad about wasting fifteen shots.

"She's a little more quick on her feet than she looks," Nick informed him; the football player gave a grunt in response. The conman folded his arms and gave a slight tilt of his head. "For future reference," he conveyed deadpan, "she was bawling her eyes out in the closet over there. I'd suggest leaving anymore crying women we hear alone."

"Noted," the big man gave a nod.

Rochelle hunkered down by the body. "Look at those nails!" she admired aloud. "I know a couple of women back in our receptionist's office that would have killed to get those 'did'." She laughed and Ellis felt himself snort along with her.

"If only we had some polish and pajamas," Nick seemed to slacken with a sneer. "We could have had one great big sleepover and gossiped about our boyfriends."

Ellis laughed a second time, Rochelle following suit. "Yeah, an' we could'a played Truth or Dare," he added to the growing list of jokes. He'd always been partial to 'truth' on those at-home drinking nights with friends that led to such games, himself lucid and not afraid to reveal truths that his friends surely wouldn't even remember in the morning anyway, but hell if Keith had ever picked anything but 'dare'. That was how his friend's head ended up stuck in a toilet once… while he was wearing the beer hat that had gotten him drunk no less, and after numerous swirlies, Ellis had to mess with the bobber inside the tank to keep it from filling up and drowning him until they finally managed to get him loose of the porcelain trap. What a way to spend forty minutes, with your head in the john.

"Or Spin the Bottle," Nick leered.

"Ew, no!" Rochelle laughed harder, even in protest.

Ellis flushed. Was he the only one who began to imagine where such a game could possibly lead them?

What… what would it be like to kiss Nick…?

His heart gave a pitter-patter.

Coach's belly laugh brought him sharply back to reality; even the big man unable to keep from cracking a smile at long last. He shook his head with his arms folded. "You crazy, youngins. I swear it's like I'm back at Freedom High all over again. Can't keep no peace for even two minutes."

Ellis chuckled sheepishly. "Alright, well, m'gonna git back to it, y'all," he said, turning to go grab his box of tools. Nick obediently made to follow him; Rochelle, Coach.

"Holler if anythin's the matter," Coach said in departure.

"Will do," Ellis responded, willing the blood in his cheeks away before Nick's sly green eyes could discover it.

Chapter Text

Nick had watched the young man work at first, prying loose his desired 'inverter' from the clutches of one of the many boats sitting in the lot, before Ellis set him to the task of getting their chosen vessel fueled. His only tool for the job was a long length of coiled hose, which he dutifully strung from the parking lot to the tank of the boat. It wasn't a lot of fun knocking on the bottom of cars to determine if anything remained, nor was sucking on the end of the damn hose to get a siphon going between either tank, but he did it out of partial responsibility– after all, he had volunteered to help, though he ended up distinctly regretting it the time he had very nearly gotten a mouthful of gasoline.

Only two of the seven vehicles sitting in the lot had anything to offer them in the ways of fuel, and it would have to do. He didn't really know what kind of mileage Ellis' little runabout speedboat got, but the distance they'd be traveling couldn't be more than ten miles to the air station, so with any luck they'd make it.

Nick just wasn't a big fan of leaving things to luck.

He added a couple of paddles to the storage compartment of the boat just in case, though it was the last thing he wanted to resort to. Job complete and obligation fulfilled, he recoiled the hose, returned it to the shed and traipsed out to where the mechanic had his head under the hood of a Dodge Neon. He lifted a supple eyebrow at the momentary glimpse of bent-over tush, admiring cautiously and redirecting his eyes to more appropriate heights when Ellis pulled the battery loose of its mount. He sauntered over as the mechanic placed it on the asphalt next to the inverter; Ellis noticed him. He pushed the bill of his hat up and wiped his hands quickly on his pants. "Ya git her fueled?"

Nick nodded. "She's ready to go."

The hick gave a reciprocated bob of his chin and hunkered down, immediately committing to getting the two components wired together. It was a process Nick couldn't say he understood, even as he watched. Sleight-of-hand was his forte, not minute manual labor such as electrical wiring.

Between the way that the mechanic currently worked with meticulous swiftness and their conversation earlier back on the road, Nick found himself compelled to ask something he had been wondering for a while. He leaned into the side of the compact, folding one leg over the other. "So, how'd you get 'into' cars?" he questioned.

Ellis brightened rapidly at the initiation of dialogue, his mouth happily and eagerly taking off. "Oh! Well, a'course I took autoshop e'ry semester it was done offered at mah school, but really, s'Keith's uncle who I'd hafta thank fer the most part." He paused to motion his screwdriver at him. "See, he was in the renovatin' business– like, classic American cars an' shit from the 1950s an' 60s. He'd buy a fixer-upper an' convert it tuh a thing'a beauty, I tell'ya, inside an' out." Ellis whistled and shook his head, committing to twisting one of the screws back into a panel of the inverter that he was done with. "He was goin' tuh various car shows an' whatnot almost e'ry weekend, all around the country–" he swept his hands out suddenly to indicate the man's distant travels, but they immediately returned to their task. "He'd go wit' one car an' come back wit' another, that was jus' the way he was. Never kept a finished car too long– didn't wanna git 'attached' so tuh speak."

Nick nodded his understanding.

Ellis continued, briefly tipping his hat upward to keep it from falling over his vision as he bowed over his work-in-progress. "Made a pretty penny off'a the whole deal too, I reckon, judgin' from his house…" He lifted an eyebrow. "Big. Real big. Big as they come in Savannah. Though ya can't say he didn't have his priorities, what with it bein' attached to a five-car garage. A'couple'a those ports even had hydraulic lifts built intuh the floor," he pointed at the ground, "so he could jack 'em up an' work underneath easy– was purdy slick really."

"Yeah, sounds like he was fairly well loaded," Nick commented, recalling other tidbits the mechanic had given him about his buddy's uncle. Not a guy he would have felt bad about swindling in all likelihood.

Ellis chuckled and shrugged. "Well, he was doin' what he loved. An' what he loved was fixin' up cars. Guy didn't have no kids though– or a wife," he added quickly, "so tha's prolly why he dun shared his hobby wit' Keith an' I. He used tuh let us help him on various projects– lesser ones a'course. Taught us how tuh do everythin' from body work tuh suspension tuh fuel injection– you name it!" Ellis gave an absent scratch to his chin. "Acshuhly, it was 'bout the only thing he ever trusted Keith wit'," he laughed loudly. "Sometimes I think he jus' wanted tuh keep him outta trouble. Definitely wanted tuh make sure he got himself a respectable job, tha's fer damn sure."

Nick gave the statement a moment's pause. "Thus the auto shop," he guessed with a flick of an eyebrow.

Ellis paused to nod very slowly. "Yeah… thus the auto shop," he murmured. He gave a thinly veiled smile.

Nick hesitated, catching the expression that seemed a little off for the hick's usual effervescence. He gave a cautious lick of his lips. "You did want to run that auto shop, didn't you?" he asked with seriousness.

"A'course I did!" the hick proclaimed cheerfully, perhaps a little too much so. His face seemed to hitch briefly, but he shook it off, tightening the battery's left bolt over the wiring with a couple of quick full arm motions, re-distracting himself effectively.

Nick drummed his fingers across the metal of the hood, considering leaving the subject alone. He was unsure if his line of questioning would be breaching the young man's privacy or not, but by now it stuck out like a sore thumb. He swallowed and chose to follow through regardless. "What did you really wanna be, El?"

Ellis seemed to seize up from head to toe and he actually physically fumbled his screwdriver to the ground. He gave a somewhat hoarse chuckle, avoiding his gaze for a number of long seconds, shaking his head, not responding, pretending to concentrate on his project.

Nick waited a couple of ticks.

Eventually Ellis caved, unable to hold back. "I… I wanted tuh be a doctor," he breathed, daring to look back up at him– the blue eyes were ever so slightly glassier than usual, a thin sheen of wet coating the surface. "Surgeon, spuhcifically," he tacked on. Nick considered the answer impartially. It certainly wasn't the most surprising answer he could have expected from the hick– actually, pretty far from it. Ellis swallowed hard and grabbed his tool back up from the ground, setting his jaw and returning to his task. "But it ain't like I don't still git tuh help people as a mechanic. S'all the same really."

No, not really.

Nick's lip quirked rigidly at the mechanic's odd form of denial. How long had he been telling himself that? Or had someone else eventually convinced him of it? Obviously studying to become a surgeon would have been a financial impossibility– but Nick had to wonder if anything else been an issue as well, holding him back from that career, or if it was just the money? Surely he could have applied for some loans or borrowed from the bank or something to get through. Nick bit at his bottom lip, trying to reason it out. But becoming a surgeon required more than just going to college for four years– shit, kid would have had to go to graduate school too, not to mention the internships and other related hoops to jump through; he'd probably still be studying now. And his family situation was probably what made that unrealistic, completely out-of-the-question. Nick licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak. "I bet you'd make a great surgeon," he said honestly, gently, "you're really talented with your hands." Not to mention the eye-hand coordination the kid possessed, and his warm, friendly demeanor. Yeah, there was no doubt in his mind that the kid could be a literal life-saver with proper training and education. Though he had his cynical doubts about what good a degree would be now, in the aftermath of a zombieapocalypse.

Ellis stared at him speechlessly. Nick was well aware that he had phrased his words in such a way as to suggest the occupation was still a possibility. The hick didn't respond, he just dropped his gaze again and made sure he couldn't be seen beneath the brim of his hat, his body language rigid and stiff.

He sensed he had indeed crossed a boundary. Or at least, trodden into territory the southerner did not want to discuss with him. Nick turned himself away, frowning hard, leaning against the car with his hands folded, listening to the sounds of Ellis' work, a little rueful he had brought it up.

The wrench faltered against a bolt.

And then the mechanic stood and hurtled it at the side of the building. The tool made a loud clang as it hit, reverberating in the still air like a note of finality.

Nick blinked with minor shock at the outburst and glanced to the hick.

Ellis' shoulders heaved with rage. He quickly brought a hand to pinch the brim of his nose, glowering into his palm, trying to calm down amid pent-up emotions. "M'sorry," he spoke lowly. His eyes fluttered open. "Thank you, Nick. Fer sayin' that." His voice was a little shaky. He lifted his gaze and gave a weak, apologetic smile.

"Yeah, no problem," he said, not wanting to make any big deal out of it. He wouldn't have guessed he'd strike a hot button in the kid– that one even existed.

"I mean it," the hick insisted. He reached over and Nick stiffened as his hand descended upon his own, the mechanic's rough palm brushing the bumps of his knuckles gently. Ellis looked him straight in the eye. "Ya always know jus' what tuh say, an' I appreciate it."

Which was kind of fucking ironic, because he certainly didn't know what to say at that instant in time. He managed to release the breath he had been holding in when Ellis pulled his hand back away and re-bent over his project, severing eye-contact.

"S'almost done," Ellis informed him. "Jus' gotta tighten a few last things, then we kin take her inside, plug in the microwave, an' eat."

"Sounds good," he said gently, nodding. Internally, he wondered what else the hick had given up for his family and friends, what else life had unfairly denied him.

Chapter Text

They each heated up their meals individually– Ellis took to breaking open the can lids with his pocketknife, careful not to cut his fingers on the sharp edges the metal left, plopping each serving into some microwave-safe tupperware they had scrounged up around the office.

Ellis watched as his meal of beef wrapped in pasta and tomato sauce turned round and round inside the microwave, the device humming complacently as it drew power off the car battery. The set-up had worked even better than he had hoped it would– he barely had to pulse the system at all to serve their needs.

His three compatriots had gathered themselves around the large desk, drawing up whatever they could find to sit on– for Nick a rolling chair, Coach a crate, and Rochelle a stool. When the microwave gave a ding, Ellis was quick to remove his dinner and join them, pulling up a folding chair and sliding himself quite comfortably between Nick and Rochelle, nearly close enough to the conman to bump elbows with him while they ate. Coach quickly blessed the food– even though he was a good halfway through his own can and Nick and Rochelle had both started eating as well– but Ellis supplied a swift, spirited 'amen!' and began digging in himself.

They didn't share much in the way of conversation– perhaps there wasn't a lot to say, each knew what the next day held in store for them, in terms of travel, or maybe they were afraid that if they spoke they might end up in another argument, but Ellis didn't altogether approve of the silence that hung over the desk that was their dinner table. His blue eyes fell to Rochelle, who had removed her clipboard from their travel bag and was absently rifling through it. Coach and Nick paid her motions no mind, but he watched her subtly. Her fingers paused between two pages, and Ellis knew then that she was yet again staring at her postcard.

He decided to use the topic to break the silence. "Ro', why didn't'cha evac wit'cher family?" he asked. It had been something he had been asking himself from the moment she had mentioned them being safely evacuated– why, if she had had the opportunity, would she have skipped out on going with them? Why would she be here now?

The reporter looked up at him with a sort of chagrinned smile. "I got offered a huge advance," she consigned, thin black eyebrows arching over her eyes. "By the news company I was working for."

"Money," Nick lifted an eyebrow of his own. "I can relate. Hard to pass up a good gig."

Coach mumbled something and stuffed another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Ellis gave a little frown, slightly incredulous that the catch of wealth would be the only allure for girl, her reason for hanging back. There had to be more to it than that he was sure. He glanced back to her inquisitively.

Rochelle gave a subtle shake of her head as she swallowed another bite, continuing to give explanation. "WTTQ actually even covered my expenses for airfare and put me up for a nice room at the Vannah so I could do the story on CEDA and what was going on in the area. If I did well enough I was also going to get a full-blown promotion to full-time producer. I couldn't hardly say no; I was working my ass off back in Cleveland and not getting anywhere." She frowned, studying the tabletop before giving a shrug. "The infection was essentially my big break."

"Tough break," Nick commented with a hint of snarkiness.

"Ha ha," she responded with a roll of her eyes and a small laugh. Her eyes fell as she shuffled through her papers again, a little melancholy, though understandably in Ellis' opinion. Here she had just been trying to get ahead with her career, only to have it backfire in the most spectacular and unexpected of ways– he could somewhat relate. No wonder her ma had wished her luck on the card, it made sense now. Shit, now that things had escalated, he reckoned Rochelle's mother and brother were very worried about her, and why she hadn't shown up and joined them yet when her gig was over and there was nothing more to report. Ellis felt a frown tug at his lips. Sure, the severity of the infection caught everyone off guard, but…

Rochelle shifted on her stool, wondering aloud. "I guess I know why they sent an underling like me now. All the big-wigs pussied out and packed their bags, got clear." She sighed. "I was really looking forward to doing that scoop..."

"Well, yer probably gettin' about the most up-close scoop'a anybody, when ya think about it," Ellis was quick to try to cheer her up, a smile on his features. "Maybe ya kin do one'a them documentaries later, y'know, that'cha see on the tv."

A large smile pulled across the girl's lips.

Coach laughed at his suggestion. "The boy does got a point, girl. You got more facts than you can shake a stick at– and we ain't hardly been outta Georgia." He leaned back a little, the crate underneath him creaking in mild protest as he folded his arms. "Just think, by the time we get evacuated, you'll have loads to report on. All those big-shots, they won't have nothin'; they'll get their dues."

Nick chuckled. "Bastards are probably hiding with their tails between their legs, scared shitless."

"I guess I ought to be taking notes," Rochelle tittered, obviously enchanted by the whole proposition. Ellis didn't think it was a half bad idea– people who lived through and wrote about this kind of thing always got famous, didn't they? Like that one book he'd read in high school– what was it called, Alive? Though thankfully they weren't stuck eating one another like in the nonfictional account. He popped another ravioli into his mouth, mulling over how cool it would be if his friend were to become renowned. Wouldn't that be something?

Coach scratched at the gauze around his forearm– no doubt the wound was getting itchy, a good sign considering that meant it was healing.

Rochelle noticed the motion. "Oh, here," she said, bending down, "I'll change that out for you." She plopped their medical duffel on the desk, unzipping it quickly and pulling out more supplies. She reached across the table to start unwinding the dirtied material on the football player's arm, casting it aside. Ellis watched her work, cleaning out the scratches and applying antiseptic; within just a few minutes she had the man redressed with fresh bandage, lickety-split.

"Thanks, baby girl," Coach nodded appreciatively.

"Oh, don't even mention it," she smiled and waved his thanks off readily. She brought a hand down on his gloved one. "We're… just really glad you're okay," she breathed.

Ellis nodded in steadfast agreement.

Something seemed to flash in the elder fellow's eyes, perhaps it was the realization of the depth of their concern or maybe it was something else altogether. Still and all, the oldest member of their group seemed genuinely touched, studying them over the table with gentle affect.

Nick shifted, almost uncomfortably. Not because he disagreed with Rochelle's statement, Ellis was certain, but more likely because it revealed that they had been worried about the possibility of the older man becoming infected. Because each of them had steeled themselves for the possibility of losing him, of being down a teammate and a comrade, of continuing without him. Nick's mouth opened at last. "Yeah, we'd be pretty boned without you kicking our asses into gear," he admitted, semi-begrudgingly.

The bigger man chuckled, looking the gambler up and down. "Well, Nick, I imagine, if forced, you could do an okay job yourself."

The respect that had just been swapped between either man was practically palpable; Ellis held his breath, the two men's gazes remained locked for a long while before Coach broke the line of sight, shifting on his crate and looking back to he and Rochelle. "Thanks, y'all. But don't'chu worry, Coach's doin' just fine." He bobbed his head. "I ain't gonna leave you all behind."

Ellis felt his heart swell, the comradery between the four of them stronger than he had ever felt it before. Really, together they were all like the transmission on a car. Coach was the engine, their driving source, supplying power and locomotion; Rochelle was the driveshaft, connected to the wheels, to look ahead at what lie beyond and move them forward towards it; Nick was the brakes, just as important, slowing them in warning of obstacles, keeping them from running headlong into danger; and he himself was the clutch, what connected those pieces together and allowed them to mesh and work as a single unit harmoniously. Maybe it was a silly comparison and assessment, but Ellis couldn't help but think that as a team like this, they were strong. They all spent a couple more minutes in surreal silence, chewing their meals.

Coach was the first to finish, naturally, clunking his can down on the table, empty. "Time to hit the sack," he concluded. "Thanks for the dinner, boy."

"Ain't no problem at all, Coach," Ellis grinned. "Anytime." The big man pushed himself from the desk, rising to lumber off towards the back room.

Rochelle stood as well a moment later, leaning down to give him a quick peck on his forehead underneath the brim of his hat. Ellis took the affection with a smile. "Thanks, sweetie," she spoke, brown eyes locked on his, though he knew perfectly well she didn't mean for the food. The girl gave a squeeze of his shoulder and departed, clipboard clutched tightly to her chest.

Nick gave a cough and shifted, the rolling chair giving a squeak.

And Ellis realized that they were finally alone again. His heart pumped a little harder as he shifted in his seat, turning sideways to look at the man.

"Just you and me again, huh?" Nick asked with a half-smile.

Ellis nodded. "Yup. You an' me."

The gambler just sort of nodded, a brief silence hanging between them. He shifted his thighs, pivoting the rolling chair back and forth a couple of times. "Listen, I'm sorry for bringing up what I did earlier," he said, sincerity in his voice.

"Naw, man, don't be," Ellis assured him, laughing it off. Emotions had gotten the best of him at the time, caught off guard by Nick's ability to dissect his past with seeming ease, but since he had calmed drastically. "Ya know, good things an' bad things happen tuh a person– s'all part'a life."

Nick grinned sardonically. "Ain't that the truth."

"Honestly…" Ellis chuckled again rather breathlessly, giving the subtlest of shrugs, "I'd rather share both wit'cha."

The former grin on the gambler's face was replaced by slightly parted lips. He didn't know if what he said had just come as a surprise, or if Nick just didn't know what to make of it. Ellis quickly took to studying his hands in his lap– the butterflies in his stomach had returned in full force, despite the nice warm meal within it, stirring up emotions.

So he couldn't help but ask another question that had been tugging on his brain.

Ellis licked his lips cautiously. "Why don't you look up Al when we git to evac?" he suggested in a whisper.

Nick was quiet for a long moment, lightly drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "He won't be on the list," he stated simply, giving a flick of his wrist.

Ellis nibbled at his bottom lip, scratching the side of his arm absently. "Oh, cuz he lives on the west coast still, ya figure?" he inquired further, not sure how Nick could be so unequivocally certain of the other man's absence from the charts.

The gambler seemed to steel himself; it took him a while to open his mouth to reply. "No," he eventually murmured, his tone almost without emotion, "because he's dead."

The hick recoiled. "H-he… what? Nick–" his voice took on a distinctly higher note, throat restricting as he spluttered. All the things Nick had told him about Al, about how important he was to him came flooding back in a wave. He shook his head. "M'sorry, I– I didn't know."

"I didn't tell you, why should you know?" Nick lifted an eyebrow, neither offended nor upset and apparently seeing no need for Ellis to be either.

"Well, shit… no reason really, but I didn't mean'ta bring it up like that when… when..." he dropped the words mid-sentence, guilt wrenching his insides. "Nick… m'so sorry, man," he apologized again, wishing to convey his consolations.

Nick's affect remained unchanged, calm in spite of the dialogue. "It happened a long time ago. It's okay," the gambler reassured him.

Ellis seized up for a second time, nearly hitting his knee on the desk. A long time ago…? How old had this Al guy been? For some reason when Nick had described him Ellis assumed he was perhaps mid-thirties or so, maybe around the age of Nick's own father as a maximum– not that he had any way to actually know unless he asked Nick straight up. Still, for such a thing to have happened 'a long time ago', it seemed unlikely that it had been a… natural death. Ellis swallowed. "How did… he pass?" he asked hesitantly, his voice slightly meek for how personal a question it was.

Nick frowned and dropped his head a little. "Car accident," he murmured. Something in the pale green eyes seemed to flicker and change, but the man didn't look up from the hard stare he had on the desk's surface, right under where his left hand lay. "He was towing some asshole's sports car off a freeway median in the rain and some fucker in the oncoming lane hit his SUV into his truck, head-on."

Ellis felt his mouth drop open. "Oh… oh mah God…" he breathed, eyebrows knitting, at a loss for words. Keith had gotten in a hundred-fold accidents, half of which landed him in the hospital, and half of those which had resulted in surgery, but Ellis had never lost anyone close to him due to a sudden accident.

"Yeah…" Nick's voice was tight, partially strained.

Ellis stared at him, chest slightly aching– he could only imagine how much worse the conman felt, regardless of his stoicism. Sure, it may have happened a good while in the past, but that didn't make it any less tragic. Garnering his courage, he slowly slipped his hand over to rest atop Nick's where it sat on the tabletop, clasping it lightly.

The older man looked down but remained close-lipped, offering no comment to the physical display of consolation.

Ellis gently caressed the oddly smooth knuckles, hands that, until the whole zombieapocalypse thing, had obviously been well pampered. He blinked. It was weird how Nick's hands sort of felt like a woman's… save their large size and thickness, of course, but in every other respect feminine. He eyed the two rings on his fingers– pinkie and middle– gold bands inlaid with jade and he had to wonder now if they had any significance to the gambler, or if he simply wore them to wear them. Ellis didn't know many guys who wore rings– at least not on their fingers, after all Keith was sporting one in his lower lip for a while before it got torn out by a rather angry chihuahua. Maybe it was just flair to add to the rest of his fancy get-up, for show. He'd never really looked at them closely before, acknowledging their existence, sure, but beyond that little more. The bigger of the two bore resemblance to a wedding band, but considering its location on his middle finger, it clearly was not. He imagined whatever Nick'd had from his previous marriage was long gone, pawned off along with the memories. Funny how little he talked about that.

Ellis' forehead wrinkled a little while he continued to pet the man's hand gently, his fingers lightly tracing the webbing between his fingers and those rings. He found distinct pleasure in the touch, and Nick didn't draw them apart, didn't flinch or shrink away though Ellis half expected him to. Instead the gambler chuckled and smiled at him somewhat sorrowfully.

"I... never really got to say goodbye to him…"

In that instant, it finally made sense why Nick was so frightened of losing their friendship.

His other hand joined the first, both now cupping the gambler's hand. The older man looked up, joining their gazes, and Ellis blinked, seeing the dampness ever so slightly ringing the lower lashes of the pale green eyes. He had never seen Nick like this, so close to tears, so melancholy. Flashes of it at very most, various slips in his countenance, glimpses of what lie beyond the cool collected exterior he exhibited. Ellis almost… almost… reached out his hand to touch the older man's face, but before he could, Nick let his eyes drop.

"I went to his funeral," he said. "Played hookie to do it because my profs wouldn't give me a pass. It was closed-casket, because, well…" he trailed off with a shrug.

Ellis swallowed hard and nodded.

"They had pictures though." The corners of Nick's lips tugged upward. "Lots of pictures…"

Ellis shifted, noticing the flicker that crossed the conman's features. "What'd he look like?" he prompted, hoping the rememberance of the man's appearance would cheer him if just a little.

Nick closed his eyes and tipped his head back ever so slightly in recollection. "He had this beautiful smile." Ellis watched as the gambler's face was overtaken by one himself, sort of lop-sided with chagrin. He continued. "The kind that was infectious. That made you want to smile too, even if you were unhappy." The man paused, opening his eyes again, seeming to study him for an extended moment. "He had brown eyes and brown hair– kept it short." The way the man's eyes danced over Ellis' own face made the hick wonder if Nick was comparing him and Al. "He was tall though…" he murmured, "well, taller than me. Almost six foot, and slender– he didn't look like he had put on weight since high school or something," he reminisced aloud. Nick chuckled sardonically, shaking his head as his gaze fell to his lap. "Sorry, I must be boring the shit out of you."

Ellis lifted one of his hands to look at the gambler's hand beneath it. "Naw. If… if it's important tuh you, s'important tuh me," he admitted.

Nick at last withdrew his hand out from under the mechanic's. A grin tugged at his features as he folded both his arms across his chest and threw his legs up onto the table, crossing them neatly at the ankle. "The good and the bad, you said?" he murmured; Ellis nodded.

And like that the ghost of mourning that had hung over the gambler dissolved and Ellis sat looking upon his confident elder, as if the dialogue had never passed between them– his affect and air so drastically altered that Ellis had to wonder if it actually had, or if he had just simply imagined it.

Chapter Text

Nick scrubbed at his molars with the miniature toothbrush, making sure to reach it as far back as he could to get at every enamel surface and plump of gum with undying diligence– he was not about to lose his teeth to the apocalypse, thanks. If he ended up dead on the side of the road somewhere, he wanted to be found immaculate and in fine fashion.

Ellis had finished the same chore quite a bit more spritely and surrendered the bathroom to him to wash up before bed. It definitely wasn't the nicest of restrooms– only a toilet, a sink, and a rather dulled mirror that only gave him a view of about a third of his person, ignoring the graffiti that had been carved into the lower half of it. The walls were naturally a little grimy, the soap dispenser was cracked, broken, and empty, and a spent air-freshener lay on its side near a well-used-looking plunger. He wasn't very happy about it, but at the same time he counted his blessings for having that much– the water was running after all, thanks to being right next to the bay so at least he could freshen up.

No shower though. Which was a goddamn shame but he'd deal with it as he'd dealt before.

He spat in the sink and twisted the faucet to rinse out his mouth, gargling the liquid.

Of course he wasn't looking forward to crossing said bay tomorrow. Abandon land briefly to head for uncharted territory, with no way to retrace their steps or retreat, and with a shortage of ammunition no less. He supposed he ought to have a little more faith in his compatriots, and himself, after all they had faced so far– but his fatalism was good at second-guessing his egotism, keeping one another in check.

Nick caught his own green-eyed gaze in the mirror, oddly… Coach's words being the ones to ring through his head. He wondered now if the big man had been lost to the infection if he truly could lead the other two… if he could take that responsibility, to make end-all decisions, to be held accountable when they walked into shit, avoidable or not, to risk, not just his skin, but all of theirs.

Gambling was his thing, but the analogy held no place here; money could be made back, lives could not, and the 'game' was all skill, luck non-existent because in the real world, outside of mathematical contexts and principles, everything impacted something else, almost deterministically. Nick ran his tongue over his lower lip, still staring at his reflection contemplatively. He'd lived his life to the rules– for the most part– and done well enough for himself– though truly, it was just himself; he hadn't carried anyone up or drug anyone down during his time on the world, not more than a few shady cons and scams. Leadership was one job he definitely didn't want, not now, not ever, and in a way, he admired the football player's gruff aloofness that came with his command, that he could distance himself and not get hung up on fears and regrets.

And he wondered, way in the very back of his mind, what qualities Coach had seen in him that made him think that he could possibly ever take such a role.

He sighed thoughtfully, dismissing the judgement on his character, as he stowed all their toiletries away and zipped the bag shut.

Nick wandered out of the bathroom, closing the door behind himself, and lifted an eyebrow when he saw Ellis setting up to sleep on the rough carpeted surface that was the ground of the office. The end tally had been a close 64 to 59, granting him the couch as the victor. He smoothly made his way to the slightly ratty piece of furniture, sitting and beginning to unlace his shoes, watching the hick with a touch of amusement. "You don't actually have to sleep on the floor," Nick chuckled. "We agreed the winner gets the better sleeping arrangements, not that the loser gets the worst arrangements."

Ellis shrugged sheepishly, setting cap and glock on the nearby coffee table. "I can't really sleep sittin' up so well," he said, explaining his reasoning for not occupying one of the armchairs as he kicked off his boots.

Well fine, he'd take one of the armchairs and let the kid take the couch then; screw the bet, he just wanted El to be comfortable. He shifted to get up.

"Unless ya want me tuh sleep wit'chu," the mechanic said suddenly.

Nick stiffened at the words, sure the hick hadn't meant them that way, that he really meant offering to share space on the couch with him, so they'd both get the comfort of the larger piece of furniture. Nonetheless, it took him a couple seconds to find his voice and to slow down the blood pumping through his system at the suggestion. "Yeah, sure," he cleared his throat and rolled onto his side, scooching his back into the backrest of the couch, making room for the smaller male on the limited surface. He waited with bated breath as Ellis grinned and stood to move to the sofa. He rather quickly made himself comfortable, resting his neck on the crook of the armrest, his front pointed towards the ceiling. He wriggled his shoulders into the cushioning beneath them, bumping them unintentionally into the conman's chest a number of times.

Well, so much for the old 'head-to-toe' maneuver that typically got pulled in this sort of situation.

They lie for what, to Nick was, a few heart-pounding moments. Ellis cracked open an eye. "Y'alright?" he asked, "Ain't crowdin' ya none?"

"No, this is fine…" he responded breathlessly, thinking that the kid could physically crush him into the backrest of the couch and he'd be more than 'alright' with it. Holy fucking shit, they were pressed so close that they were touching most of the length of their torsos. He moved as if to settle in, savoring the friction it created between them. Shit. So many things… so many things that he wanted to do… that he shouldn't do. Ellis closed his eyes again, looking for all the world as comfortable and at-ease as could be, like sleeping next to the gambler was calming, natural even. Nick squeezed his eyes shut.

But it didn't help. If anything it made it ten times worse because his imagination blossomed with about a dozen different ways he could 'make his move'. He just wanted to sweep Ellis into his arms… seal his lips over him and press hot, needy kisses deep into his mouth… slip his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tilt his head to wrap their tongues together with slick desperation… grind his hips and body against him… roll him over on top of him, body bucking, arching, keening up at him…

Oh God, he wanted it so bad. Only sheer force of will kept him from developing a hard-on right there next to the kid. Fuck, it really was like he was sixteen again.

He re-opened his eyes to stop the images. He cursed himself for not having found some chance to rub one out after their shift before bunking down– in that bathroom… something. But it was too late now. Nick swallowed. He'd taken care of himself in the shower just that morning, but fuck it all if he wasn't already horny again. He exhaled slowly, hushed so it wouldn't be heard by the mechanic beside him as he desperately tried to quell the thoughts. It was beginning to get irritatingly inconvenient to be so easily aroused.

Though, with the kid lying there right next to him, having offered– no, asked– for the proximity, could he really be blamed?

He was lying right there… that muscular chest rising and falling, just the hint of nipple poking through too-tight shirt… Fuck… and lying on his back like that, his normally baggy overalls did nothing to conceal the bulge that was the hick's sizable package…

Nick nearly groaned aloud, biting his bottom lip to stop the noise from escaping as he smothered it in his throat.

He couldn't lie there and do nothing though. He needed to do something, even if it was just some form of minor contact. Nick licked his lips, recalling the way Ellis had touched him the past couple of times… the way he had simply put his hand over his own in soothing, yet oddly intimate, gesture. He could replicate that, though to a slightly greater degree… just offer a friendly touch in return to what the hick had offered him… that couldn't be taken wrong, right?

Nick bided his time with measured breaths.

He waited a good couple of minutes before he dared to place his arm over the southerner's rising and falling chest.

The kid gave a purr, a smile tugging his lips. Nick didn't know if the reaction was made in his sleep, or if El was fully conscious, but the mechanic lifted his own arm, formerly folded at his side, and wrapped it snuggly over his, ensuring that the jacketed appendage couldn't slip away from where it lie on his chest, wriggling ever so slightly once again with a blissful sigh.

His breath hitched slightly and Nick had to force himself a second time to calm down and stay cool. He forced his gaze away from lower parts of the kid's anatomy and instead made to admire the face lying so near to his own.

He was so warm and beautiful. Nick ran his eyes over the peaceful face with reverent countenance, wishing he could dislodge the arm he had pinned beneath himself to run his hands through the curly hair that stuck up at all kinds of odd angles from the arm of the couch disrupting it. Ellis' face was so close, so near to his own that he could appreciate every little detail, every little feature– his cleft chin, the stubble upon it, his thick lips ever so gently parted in sleep, revealing the hint of white incisors lying teasingly beyond… his eyebrows two dirty blonde sweeps that complimented the jut of his brow, completely relaxed and free of any possible wrinkle of worry or doubt, eyelids folded neatly underneath them in the recess of his skull, eyelashes thick like the rest of his hair… the round of the end of his nose, his nostrils gently flaring as he breathed in and out, the dip of the bridge, his little scar notched so cleanly across the skin between his currently folded eyes… a little gouge of flesh that would never grow back and always be lost.

Nick wanted to kiss it.

Wanted to purse his lips, lean over, and kiss the little mar that graced an otherwise 'flawless' face…. though Nick thought it made him all the more beautiful.

He could probably study Ellis all night long if he let himself. But they had a big day tomorrow and he needed coherency, needed his rest. It wouldn't do him much good to pour over the mechanic now if they died tomorrow. But the longer he lie beside him, the more worry melted away, replaced by…

Hope.

Nick licked his lips. Maybe… if they did evac tomorrow… maybe he would get to bunk with the kid in the internments, get to share a living space. Maybe he'd get more nights… like this one… to talk to him, be close to him.

Yeah, and maybe the military would have a shortage of twin beds.

Fat chance.

Still… he could pray for something like that.

He pressed his face a little closer, his lips near to brushing El's ear. "I never want to lose you…" he whispered to the sleeping hick; the young man didn't so much as twitch in response. Nick closed his eyes, savoring the warm body against him, beneath his arm, and slowly drifted off into the comforts of contented sleep.

Chapter Text

When Ellis awoke, he was a little surprised to find himself alone on the couch.

Moreover, he was also disappointed.

He blinked a few times as he sat up and knuckled his eyes before scanning the room for his AWOL compatriot. His ears found him first though, detecting the purr of his voice in the front room, muffled behind the closed door.

He immediately sat up the rest of the way to stand. He rushed to the door, but stopped just short of turning the knob to enter into the main office where he knew his comrades were. He'd heard Nick's voice– that meant he was talking to Coach and Rochelle. Ellis wrinkled his brow, finding it unusual that the gambler was conversing with the other two in their party. Overwhelmed with curiosity, he pressed his ear to the wood to listen through it.

"I can't believe you made him sleep on the floor!" Rochelle laughed. "You're such a jerk."

"He knew the risks of betting against me," Nick responded cooly. Ellis felt both his eyebrows lift. So the subject of their headshot competition had come up, alright, that wasn't altogether odd. But the facts about the outcome seemed screwed up considering he hadn't actually spent the night on the floor as the reporter believed him to have, and rather next to the man, snugly beneath the weight of his arm. He lifted his hand to touch the spot where it had been, but kept listening.

"Still, what kind of role model does that sort of thing?" she went on, voice still gentle with levity despite her apparent badgering. Ellis forced his ear harder to the wood though it was growing quickly red and sore, intrigued by the dialogue, curious where it was going…

"God, I hope not," Nick mumbled, a touch of chagrin working in his voice, "the kid could do a lot better than me."

Well now why would he think that? Ellis frowned. He was a little temperamental at times, negative too, but everyone had their flaws. If Nick didn't think he could see past a little thing like that... to what truly lie on the inside...

"Won't argue with you there," Rochelle practically tittered.

"Oh, bite me," the man responded playfully; the girl laughed harder, and Ellis wondered what had put Nick in such a seemingly good mood as to be getting along with her so well this morning after yesterday's heated altercation.

"…Probably ought to go wake the boy up," Coach interrupted. "Time's a'wastin'; we got places to be."

Nick chuckled beyond the door. "I'll go get him."

Ellis' eyes widened, and for a moment he seized up, riveted to the spot, unable to move. He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping. So he did the only thing he could think of. He rushed back to the couch, tumbling onto it, and re-took his former position before he had awoken. He shuttered his eyes just in time, the squeak of hinges reverberating across the small room as Nick entered.

Ellis waited, falling back on his hearing to gather what was going on, listening carefully as he breathed as quietly as he could. There was a slight pause before the door clicked back shut, and a moment later he heard Nick's shoes scuff across the threadbare carpeting, stopping a couple feet before the couch. "Right where I left you…" he murmured over him. The gambler knelt down beside him– he felt pressure descend on his arm, giving the lightest of shakes. "Hey, kiddo, rise and shine."

Ellis fluttered his eyes open in feigned awakening. "Oh, there ya are," he said as if in allusion to his knowledge of the cardshark's absence at his side. "Ya snuck out on me," he accused teasingly; he had hoped to wake up right there beside him...

The man laughed gently. "Well, it wasn't hard," he smirked, "you were out like a rock."

He had conked out fairly quickly after coiling his arm about Nick's. In fact, he couldn't recall waking once the whole night through– a first since the whole apocalypse thing had started, since the night he'd found his Ma's house empty and abandoned. Ellis frowned subtly. "I didn't sleep in none, did I?" he asked concernedly, thinking that perhaps his short hours the previous night had gotten the best of him and delayed the group from setting out.

"Not much," Nick shrugged, setting him at ease. His green eyes sparkled briefly. "You know Coach. If we'd been out on the water an hour ago he'd still be telling us to keep rowing faster."

Ellis laughed now too. "Yeah, ya got tha' one on the money."

Nick reached out and ruffled his hair. Ellis practically purred at the affectionate touch, savoring the blunt fingertips as they worked his scalp in a delightful and all-too-short tousle. He almost protested when the man removed his fingers and set them back on his own thigh with a patient reserved smile. Ellis returned it, locking gazes momentarily with the older man, their eyes level with one another; his mood soared.

"Reckon I better git up then," he said with a smile, swinging his feet over the edge of the couch.

"Breakfast is instant oatmeal," Nick informed him, standing. "We boiled some water with that cute little contraption of yours."

Ellis grinned at the compliment as he stuck a foot in a boot. He looked up at the conman from lacing his shoe. "Please tell me ya left me the brown sugar flavor."

Nick folded his arms and tipped his head. "How did I guess that would be your favorite flavor?" he smirked, implying that yes, the variety had been saved for him.

"Prolly cuz yer smart. An' ya know me," Ellis summed up, bowtying the lace and yanking his pantleg over the ensemble. He completed the process for the other side; Nick waited for him. He stood and grabbed his glock and baseball cap from where he had left them on the company coffee table, committing the gun to its holster at his hip and the hat to his head. Nick turned for the door.

Ellis interrupted him before he could twist the knob and reunite them with the other two survivors. "Hey Nick?"

The man hesitated, looking back at him. "Yeah, El?"

Ellis scratched the back of his head sheepishly, flitting a glance to the couch where they had spent the night close together. "Thanks fer… lettin' me sleep next tuh ya." He felt a blush start to creep up on his cheeks, trying to drum up a suitable expression of his gratitude. "I was kinda cold the last two nights."

Nick chuckled. "No problem, kid." He lifted an eyebrow and smiled that amazing white smile. "Good to know I make a good space heater."

Ellis laughed at the joke, but internally he felt sorry for not having the stones to correct the man, let him know the gesture had meant so much more to him than than simple warmth or even proximity. That he looked up to him more than anyone in the whole-wide world. That he was his best and most trustworthy friend in this crazy new world.

That being by his side… physically… left him practically breathless.

Chapter Text

Coach was willing to be patient for Ellis to have his morning meal, saying it was important that he have his strength up for the day ahead of them. He stirred in the oatmeal mix with the hot water, watching it puff up before his very eyes into a delectable semi-sugary goop. He ate fairly quickly nevertheless, reckoning the other reason Coach wasn't in too much a hurry was because they didn't have too far to go.

And who knew, maybe Nick's words from the night before had even had some effect on the eldest survivor.

His heart partially leapt up into his throat with anxiousness. They were going to get there today. Shit, who would've thought? He was a touch beside himself, unable to really believe it. Evac was just ten miles away! Ten!

Nick was cleaning his gun again across the table, expression, for the greater part, blank, deft hands working calmly and unwaveringly.

Ellis worried his lower lip and stuck in a bite of oatmeal to stop the nervous motion. He needed to keep a level head like Nick. Needed to be wary of the possibility that they wouldn't make it out today.

Though with Rochelle practically humming away under her breath, completely absorbed by her writing, he couldn't help but entertain positive thoughts. The girl had scrounged up a thick pad of lined paper around the office, likely once hers and Coach's shift had begun, and since then she had filled numerous pages– front and back, not wasting a presented blue line– with material. Ellis looked over from time to time curiously between bites, not really reading but catching little snatches of sentences here and there. Her handwriting was slightly loopy like her ma's, but it also definitely had a more manish scrawl to it– though perhaps that was due to hurry, the way her pen flew across the paper– but one thing was for sure, she was clearly inspired. Ellis smiled happily, overjoyed that she had taken his suggestion so enthusiastically.

He finished scarfing down his oatmeal and scooped clean the bowl, rinsing it quickly in the sink before committing the tupperware to their knapsack. He also severed the connections on the battery and packed the inverter along with a few tools. It was the more scarce piece of the configuration that would be hard to find down the road– car batteries were everywhere and in abundance, and also ungodly heavy, but the inverter wasn't so bad. He'd be able to construct an identical device to supply power for whatever their needs might be later.

They left a few short minutes after Nick reassembled his magnum.

Since the conman had already prepared the boat, all it took was loading their supplies into the back hatch and maneuvering the craft out to water. Though that proved to be less than arduous. First they had to nip a large enough hole in the chicken-wire fencing to get their boat through with a wire-cutter. They chose to keep the boat propped on its trailer hitch– he and Coach lifted the front end together while Nick and Rochelle each took a side of the back end to guide the vessel along. It was easy enough rolling it off the lot and through the fence on the two wheels, but once they hit the uneven terrain and gradient down to the inlet, things got a little more complicated.

Coach's face was furrowed, huffing as they went along, slightly hunched over because Ellis, being much shorter, couldn't heft it as high as the football player would like. He was actually a might concerned the older man would sprain his back or something with the maneuver– it sure as hell looked awkward and uncomfortable– but neither of them could lift the whole front end and guide it down the hill all alone, so he just tried to go slow and easy as they approached the bank.

"Almost there…" Ellis informed them all between his own little well-concealed pant. The boat threatened to roll away from them suddenly, but he muscled his forearm tighter around the metal hitch and planted his feet firmly to force the issue of control.

Nick and Rochelle apparently both caught the lurching motion. "Still doing okay?" the girl asked. "We can stop and take a break," she offered.

"We got it," Coach barked back in reassurance.

They endured a few more feet before Ellis found his boots starting to stick in damper ground, sinking a good couple inches from the extra weight of the hitch. He frowned, trying to get them loose from the muck; the boat nearly slipped again from his grip.

"Let her go," Coach commanded.

He and the older man simultaneously did just that, stepping quickly out of the way. The front end of the hitch dug into the mud, but momentum and gravity kept the wheels rolling and they all four watched as the whole kit-and-kaboodle fell into the inlet with a loud, large splash.

The trailer quickly sank to the bottom, leaving the boat floating placidly on the surface.

"Whew…" Ellis wiped an arm across his brow, doffing his hat to do so. "S'really a lot easier wit' a boat ramp…" he chuckled hoarsely, still trying to catch his breath, a little self-conscious he had become quite so winded from the physical task.

"And a truck," Nick added, arching a dark eyebrow with a subtle grin.

Ellis laughed. "Yeah, well, tha' too." If he had had his truck, the whole procedure would have been a lead-pipe cinch, he knew that for a fact. Nothing would probably ever compare to the time he had used his darlin' to wrench Keith's truck out of the levy he had somehow accidentally driven it into– something about a speed race between friends and three hundred dollars… Keith had explained a little too quickly for him to really catch it all. But that sort of procedure was all about keeping the motor in a low gear and pulsing the engine, letting the wheels grab the ground rather than spin in place and create a rut. He saved his buddy from having to call an actual tow truck, something his uncle probably wouldn't have been none too happy to hear– though the older fellow did question why the upholstery of Keith's truck began to mold at a certain point. Ellis dug into his right pocket, fingers finding the buoyant key fob buried in it. "Who wants tuh drive?" he grinned, holding up the keys on a forefinger.

Rochelle looked to Coach looked to Nick who shrugged.

"Well now don't all jump at once," Ellis teased with a little roll of his eyes.

"I think she's yours, sport," Nick said.

"Fine, fine," he chuckled, quickly pressing towards the edge of the bank, leaning down to snatch the end of the rope lying in the mud and grass that connected to their boat. He pulled it by the length of cord, getting it partially back onto land so everyone could step in without getting their feet too wet. "All aboard, y'all," he grinned, motioning at their gently bobbing vessel.

"Don't want to christen her?" Nick joked as he stepped in cautiously, rocking it as little as possible. The man plopped himself into the front passenger's seat, immediately folding an ankle over a knee and resting a calm elbow on the supplied armrest in chilled posture. Ellis admired him an extended moment, glad to have him as shotgun again.

"All we got's a bottle'a vodka," Ellis stuck out his tongue at the grinning conman. "Yer s'posed tuh use champagne."

Rochelle clambered into the right backseat carefully. "Well you could name her something Russian," she pointed out.

Ellis lifted an eyebrow. "Ain't a red boat."

"I don't care what you call her," Coach said, "as long as she ain't the Titanic." He fell into the boat, nearly losing his footing and rocking the craft.

Ellis chuckled and pressed the heel of his boot to the bow. He gave it a firm shove to get it loose from land and leapt across the water and into his seat before it could get too far away from shore.

"Show-off," Nick murmured, a thin grin creeping across his maw.

Ellis showed the man his tongue a second time and stuck the keys in the ignition, firing up the engine. "You say that now. Jus' wait 'til I show you mah boatin' maneuvers." He twisted the steering wheel back and forth, grinning widely in joke and Nick snorted a laugh, not fooled for an instant where Coach and Rochelle wore slightly worried looks until he reassured them otherwise that he wouldn't be doing any stunts– at least, not with their limited gas supply; if they had been blessed with a full tank, that would have been an entirely different matter– he'd be roaring up and down the bay and spinning donuts most likely.

He pressed his foot to the accelerator and angled the boat around, setting out towards the larger bay, good feeling in his heart.

Just ten miles away.

Chapter Text

A few minutes of driving east brought them to the former site of the I-95 bridge. It didn't look any different than they had left it the previous afternoon, still as broken and mangled, making the waters treacherous with wreckage and broken pieces. Ellis frowned as he began to tool around the jagged protrusions with careful patience, not wanting to scrape or risk damage to the hull. It was like an ugly labyrinth and it forced him to go far slower than he would have liked, the engine chugging in its lowest gear.

Nick was squinting at something, one hand raised to his brow to shield his eyes from the sun. He raised his arm to point. "What is that?"

Ellis took his eyes off the water a moment to take a glance at what Nick had spotted.

Something was crouched, both its knees stuck out to its sides, body hunched over, high up on a spindly piece of the destroyed bridge, maybe a good fifty or more feet above them. It was decidedly humanoid– likely zombie as well– keeping perfect balance on its precarious perch. How it had gotten there was completely beyond him, and how it would get down, besides falling into the water below, also evaded him. He paid it little mind as he went back to driving, maneuvering the boat about the wreckage, putting a little distance between them and it– it was kind of creeping him out.

Coach's thoughts must have been about the same place as his own. "Better question, what's'it doin' up there?" he asked.

Ellis shrugged. "I ain't got a clue," he responded.

"It looks like it's watching us," Nick commented. The creature's gaze seemed to track them as they skimmed along.

A growl resonated above them then, from the zombie, bouncing off the water in an eerie warning echo.

"Hold up, I'll give it something to watch," Rochelle said, lifting the scope of her hunting rifle to her eye, taking aim. Ellis took his foot off the gas pedal to slow the boat to a halt so she'd have an easier shot at the distant infected, lifting the bill of his hat to watch her pick it off.

From underneath the hood he saw a row of jagged yellowing teeth crack across its jaw.

And then it leapt.

And Ellis had watched frogs in his backyard when he was younger, the ones that had crawled inland to get away from the flood of the rainy months– he and his youngest sister Emma were even guilty of using a poking stick to get them to jump, trying to get them to leap into Elliana's lap, who would squeal if they ever succeeded because she thought they were slippery and gross– but he had never seen something so downright massive take flight. For just a few moments, time seemed suspended as its lean muscular body uncurled, arms splayed out in front of it, legs streaming out behind it, flying through the air in a magnificent arch.

All of them barely had time to react as the creature screeched through the air, its trajectory timed perfectly to the slow speed of the boat. Ellis stomped his boot onto the gas and yanked the wheel, but it was too late. Rochelle's rifle went off but the shot was a miss– its movement too fast to readjust her precision weapon properly.

Coach's shotgun went off next and a spray of red filled the air. The body followed shortly after, slamming into the center of the vessel with a sickening snap. The entire boat gave a sideways lurch with the impact of at least one hundred and fifty pounds of lifeless weight, the sound of several vertebrae breaking accompanying it from the sheer height of the fall. Its entrails began spilling immediately into the bottom of the boat, its midsection blown open by shotgun pellets.

Ellis' eyes were wide with awe. "Shiiit…" he drawled, "that was one hell of a skeet, Coach!" A grin entirely overtook his features, thoroughly impressed by the older man's quick reaction time.

The football player gave a stiff nod and a "Thank'ya." reloading a shell to replace the single spent one.

Rochelle stared from her chair, nearest to the now lifeless body. It had been aiming for her– any more to the right and it would have landed right on her, but she had jumped away in the nick of time in reaction. Coach had killed the monstrosity before it had landed, before it had gotten a chance to use those razor-sharp claws, but even so, the force of the collision alone likely would have resulted in grievous injuries to her person. She quickly regained her composure, seizing the creature by its hoodie and hefting the carcass unceremoniously overboard. The organs snaked over the side with it, like some kind of sick zombie-anchor, disappearing with a ploop beneath the water's surface.

"What do we want to call that?" she asked with disdain, wiping her hands off on her jeans.

"Hunter," Ellis readily suggested. He felt the others' eyes fall to him. "On account'a the fact that that's what it seemed tuh be doin'. Huntin' us– watchin' an' waitin' fer jus' the right moment tuh spring."

"Hunter it is then," Rochelle agreed, procuring her pen from her jeans and scribbling the name on the back of her hand, no doubt to remind her later when she had her notepad and they were stopped and safe.

Nick lifted an eyebrow to contest his choice of wording. "I'd say it picked exactly the wrong moment to spring."

Coach gave a mildly appreciative chuckle, the gambler's words as close to a compliment as any.

"Ya kin say that again," Ellis nodded, corrected.

"Let's just hope they don't come in packs," Nick continued. "Scrawny little bitch looked like he was a member of some punk-ass gang gone wrong."

Ellis snorted a laugh, seeing the resemblance what with the dark hood and all. The only thing missing was some bling or maybe a couple of spiked wristbands or something.

Coach grunted. "I don't care where its from, if I see another one, I'm gonna shoot the shit out of it."

Ellis revved the engine and continued down the bay.

Chapter Text

"Ho-lee shit, look'it 'em all…" Ellis breathed aloud.

He had been, for the past several minutes in fact, as they had scanned the shore with their runabout, looking for the clearest spot to put in. But there was just no two ways about it… the southern side of Jacksonville was infested with infected– like cockroaches, Nick thought, all roaming and wandering about, practically crawling over one another as they ambled mindlessly, aimlessly, animated only by the instinct for basic survival… and hunger.

He cringed briefly as he watched an infected woman on shore wrench a limb off a fallen compatriot and tear into it with her teeth.

There was just no break to the properties and houses that decorated the coastline, all pressed up against one another to each get their little 'slice' of the bay, numerous of them having their own docks in various states of rickety disrepair and upkeep. Many had watersheds attached to house their boats, though a few others were tied up and left bobbing on the waves, squeaking against the buoys between the hulls and wood. The combined presence of infected and still anchored boats made Nick frown all the harder. People living in such a location should have had potentially the best chance of escape… and yet...

Ellis kept the throttle low as he angled their craft around a small jut of a peninsula in the landscape, keeping the chug-chugging of the vessel to a minimum. After all, they had no desire to discover whether the 'commons' could swim as well as the smoker had, especially with the sheer number that stood on the coastline. The idea of them each grabbing an oar to beat the creatures off their vessel was not one he personally wanted to explore in any depth.

Nick kept his gaze focused on the shambling forms and the passing docks that once belonged to said husks of people, his hand tight on his magnum. Coach and Rochelle maintained a similar vigil.

Ellis' voice came again, a note of apology working amid the drawl. "We're gonna hafta moor her somewhere, y'all," he spoke, "we ain't gonna make it much further wit' our fuel supply…"

Nick glanced over to the dash and grimaced at the little red needle that hung on the wrong side of the 'E'.

"I guess this is as good as it's gonna get," Coach determined, even though it wasn't the truth and all four of them knew it. Because it had been clearer five minutes ago, because they had gotten hopeful and assumed it might get better the closer they got to the airfield. But it had only grown progressively worse and it was far too late to go back.

Ellis gave a nod. "M'gonna pull her in then. On tha' there dock." He lifted a hand off the steering wheel to point a finger at a T-shaped dock not far in the distance. "Git it ready for me." He wriggled the strap of his hunting rifle off the back of his seat, pressing the weapon quickly into the gambler's hands; Rochelle had already trained her scope and was picking off the creatures that stood on his designated location. Nick raised the gun to his face, shouldering it in the crook of his arm. He wasn't a fan of scoped weaponry– he liked to keep both eyes open, another symptom of his ambidexterity cropping up– but he understood it was the quietest option available to them. He trained the barrel at the distant infected, systematically aiming, releasing a breath, and pulling the trigger, repeating until he had to feed in a new clip; Rochelle doing the same beside him as they both worked from opposite ends in towards the middle. Admittedly, it was slightly more challenging working with the pitch of the water underneath them, but he aimed torso-height so if the shot went a little low or a little high it would still complete the job. His and Ellis' little headshot game was long over and there was no room for error.

Ellis drifted the boat steadily closer, approaching the dock at a slant so that the two snipers could aim off the side, and so that the waves lapping back from the beachfront wouldn't rock the boat too severely– he couldn't steady it altogether, but he was doing fairly well. The engine gave a brief splutter as Coach shifted his weight, no doubt upsetting the level of the gas tank just enough to momentarily disrupt the injection of the fuel– they were that close to the bottom of the tank. Ellis gave a nervous fidget of his own as he eased off the gas pedal, letting the vessel coast, and Nick set his jaw as he continued his task.

Rochelle paused, lowering her rifle with trepidation. "Are we gonna make it?" she asked the southerner.

"We'll make it," Ellis assured her, giving the engine another pulse, milking it gently over a cresting wave.

Nick reached for the last clip Ellis had supplied him. He held it up at the boy. "You got anymore of these?"

Ellis' tongue flicked out to trace his lower lip, eyes not leaving the trajectory of their path. He patted his overalls briefly with a hand then shook his head. "M'out," he informed him with a downward twist of the corner of his mouth.

"Here," Rochelle said, handing him another over his left shoulder.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Nick spoke, as if the girl's contribution were more a kindly gift than a frightening actuality of their rapidly diminishing ammo supply. He clicked the magazine into the bottom of the rifle.

Thankfully he didn't have to shoot all of the second clip. The shore lie before them, 'clean', the downed infected scattered across the ground, bleeding out slowly into the ground from the fresh wounds in each of their chests.

Nick handed back the rifle. "You've got nine left," he informed the kid. "Make them worth it."

He watched the mechanic's adam's apple bob.

The side of the boat bumped against the dock and Ellis sharply cut the engine. Coach lunged forward out of the side of the vessel, snagging the dock. He grabbed the length of rope attached to the boat with a gloved hand and quickly tied it around the hook made for doing such, before lifting himself out to stand.

"Thanks," Rochelle said as he extended a hand to her and she disembarked. "I can't say I'm sorry to be off of that thing."

Nick hopped himself onto the dock. Ellis opened the compartment area and began handing off their supplies to him. When he finished emptying it, he moved to get off the boat as well.

Without thinking, Nick held out his hand.

Ellis' eyebrows tweaked hard on his forehead and Nick almost retracted it, mentally kicking himself for the slip that betrayed a little more than he meant to. But the southerner took it firm in his own palm and used it to steady himself as he put his boots to the wooden planks.

The touch didn't linger, but Ellis gave him a quick tip of his hat and a "Thank ya."

Rochelle was studying the land to their south, eye in her scope. "The air station isn't much further," she said. "We're maybe… a dozen houses from it? I can see the fencing around the runways. There…" she seemed to hesitate before continuing her report, "there are a lot of infected on the inside too."

"Great," Nick mumbled with a roll of his eyes. He'd understood the infected on the outside of the NAS. But Infected on the inside didn't bode well for their 'escape'.

All four of them seemed to note it.

Coach rose a hand to shield his eyes, squinting them as if to evaluate the information himself. "You see any out buildings that might have ammunition?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No… just lots of runway. We must be on the wrong side for outbuildings. Probably further in…"

Nick glanced over to Ellis, catching the hick worry his lip between his teeth, fingers playing at the handle of his machete. He picked up their supply knapsack to throw it over his own shoulder, rather than burden the kid with it– if they needed Ellis to utilize his melee, they wanted him to have as much freedom as movement as possible. The hillbilly gave him a tight nod, aware of his decision. "What about airplanes?" Nick issued his own inquiry to the reporter. Even if the place was overrun and no military personnel remained, if there was something, maybe they could get it running– or rather, Ellis could, though the hick's expertise likely didn't extend that far. He hated wishful thinking, truly the enemy to logical reasoning, but at the moment it seemed like all they had, so he too stuck to it.

Rochelle dropped the scope from her eye to frown at him remorsefully. "I don't see any of those either…" she breathed. "Maybe they're inside the hangars or something, rather than sitting out on the airfield unprotected." She swallowed with some difficulty.

"Well, hangars are fer housin' airplanes after all," Ellis pointed out readily and she gave a small nod and a hopeful smile.

Coach bobbed his chin. "Let's get a move on," he said gruffly. "We should check a couple of these houses for supplies first. Ammo, food, water."

All three of their gazes turned to him.

Because by saying it, the oldest man had admitted that he no longer believed their journey would end here in Jacksonville, that they would need provisions for the road ahead.

On their way to New Orleans.

The football player bent for the medical duffle.

"Here," Nick held out his hand for it suddenly.

The oldest member of their party seemed to do a double-take, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"So you can shoot," Nick explained promptly, not wanting the man to read too much into it. He was impressed– he couldn't lie to himself– that even though they had all been likely set back to square one, the big man wasn't regarding it as such, that this, like the destroyed bridge, was just another obstacle to maneuver around to get them to the goal line. But that didn't mean Nick was going to admit it out loud either. He was running low on ammunition; Coach was not, it made an easy ruse for the small gesture of taking some of the weight off his big shoulders. The football player gave a stiff nod and handed both it and backpack over. Nick burdened the two extra pieces of baggage to his back with a slight grunt; though he had volunteered for the job of pack mule it didn't mean he was happy about it.

They paced down the dock towards the shore house directly in front of them, guns lifted and ready for what might lie ahead.

Chapter Text

Getting inside wasn't too much of a difficulty. The face of the back of the house was mostly glass, made for viewing the bay, and the sliding glass doors were extremely easy to force the lock on, considering said lock was fairly weak. After all, who in their right mind would attempt to force entry through the back when it was waterlocked?

Only four refugees of a zombieapocalypse crazy enough to boat in, apparently.

They each slipped inside and slid the door closed after themselves, breathing deep the air that greeted them– all the hints of what made a home comfortable flooding their senses… of fabric softener, of leather and wood furniture, of plush clean carpeting, of air-fresheners plugged into the wall…

All four of them stood motionless for a good while at the entryway, their eyes scanning the home they had chosen to invade.

Nick noticed the way Ellis gave a shiver as his blue eyes graced over a number of family photos in decorative picture frames over the fireplace. Pictures of faces that meant nothing to any of them– just some random schmucks– but had meant so much to someone else whose lives had been touched by those people's former existence.

Nick frowned deeply, the lines on his face increasing as none of them moved, too stricken to do so. He naturally recovered first, never the emotional type, though he couldn't say it wasn't a little creepy to be standing in a previous family's home when they'd all left their own far behind. He wondered where Ellis was thinking of– if he was thinking of his mother's house, if his thoughts were on his family once more. Nick licked his lips before speaking. "Fan out?" he suggested, breaking the silence that had seemingly descended upon them all.

The three nodded subtly in response. Rochelle found her voice. "I'll check out the kitchen," she asserted, motioning for the provision knapsack; Nick handed it off to her.

"I'll get the garage," Coach volunteered. "Maybe they'll have an open gun safe," he forced a chuckle. Unlikely and Coach knew it, but worth a check, Nick supposed. A locked one would be useless without a combination– he had been nothing more than a petty theft as a kid, so he certainly as fuck wasn't going to get it open.

"I'll case the upstairs," Nick settled.

Ellis' eyes were still locked firmly on those family photos on the hearth, unresponsive.

"El?" Nick spoke the young man's name gently, "where you going?"

The hick blinked twice and lifted glassy eyes to him, hesitating a moment. "Wit'chu," he answered succinctly.

"Alright then, c'mon," he said, motioning, eager to get the mechanic's gaze away from those picture frames and his pensive thoughts.

Rochelle and Coach moved for their respected targets; Nick led the way towards the banister of the half-spiral staircase. Ellis was drifting a little further back than the usual 'right on his heels' tendency; Nick licked his lips as he listened to the southerner's palm skim soundlessly over the wooden handrail as they alighted.

The kid was hurting– he knew it. It was tearing and eating him up to be inside these peoples' home, to see their faces smiling on the walls, to see the remainder of what they had left behind and abandoned in addition to their homestead, where memories had been formed and children had grown up… all the reminders of their once– presumably– happy life scattered across the floors.

Ellis had asked him the question less than twenty-four hours ago, but he supposed it was his turn to ask it. "You okay, kid?" he asked without looking back as his foot hit the top step of the landing.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he responded emotionlessly.

Lying, but Nick would allow him it.

He proceeded without hesitation into the master bedroom, aiming for the master bath. An impressive four-poster bed lay in the center of the large room, draped with a silken canopy, a fluffy down comforter and an excess of pillows. A flatscreen was mounted to the wall opposite the bed for late-night viewing. The furniture was all mahogany, from dressers to wardrobe to nightstands, and a couple of nicely upholstered armchairs were angled to face the large step-out balcony that pointed towards the bay.

"Man… sure had some nice stuff these folks did…" Ellis commented if a bit shyly, scratching the back of his head.

Nick himself didn't pay it much mind. Of course anyone living on water-adjacent property was loaded with enough to blow it on all sorts of fancy things. The people on the walls had probably been snooty as fuck and sent their kids to a private school and went on annual summer vacations to the Bahamas or something. Still, the kid had probably never been in a residence quite as extravagant as this one– at least it seemed unlikely– so he guessed he could understand why it gave the less well-off hick temporary pause.

He plopped down the two bags he was still carrying on one of the armchairs and proceeded into the bathroom, immediately beginning to search the drawers for wrapped soap bars, tubes of toothpaste, toilet paper and whatever else he could find for their hygiene needs; what they had left from the hotel was significantly depleted. Ellis toddled about the large room, lost in thought, coming to rest finally behind the empty armchair, delicately setting his hands on its backing as if afraid his very touch would destroy the expensive fabric.

The mechanic stared out the window of the bedroom at the backyard, but his quietude at last lifted. "Why the heck do they need a swimmin' pool when they got property on the bay?" he wondered aloud.

Nick pushed a drawer shut, quickly placing the floss and razorblades he had found in their toiletry tote and opening the drawer above it. "Because they're rich," he explained with a wave of his hand.

The hick scratched his head. "Tha' still don't make sense."

"My parents had an outdoor pool, a spa, and a jacuzzi," Nick lifted an eyebrow with the statement, no hint of bragging in his tone as he switched to a more rhetorical one. "Think they ever used them? No. It's all show, kid. Can't live a lavish lifestyle without things you have no intention of ever using," he delivered sarcastically. He pawed through a bunch of washcloths, grumbling when it yielded nothing of use to them. What, had the bastards taken everything plus the kitchen sink with them?

"Jus' seems like… such'a waste…" Ellis said a little sheepishly.

Of course it would to someone who had started working full-time at seventeen to help support his family who had struggled for years to make ends meet. Nick's eyebrows furrowed. Personally, he understood the mindset Ellis was questioning a little too well– it was all about feeling good. Taking pleasure not in the use of whatever worldly possession or trinket that was purchased, but just in owning it and being able to say 'that's mine; I bought it'. He eyed his reflection briefly in the mirror and flattened down the lapels of his well-worn coat. Though he had never quite partaken in excess as much as both his parents had, he was guilty of avarice too– certainly most when he was younger, when he had forged out into the world alone to make himself, to prove that he could succeed on his own.

When he'd been trying to impress that bitch of a wife.

Nick held back a snort and swallowed the bile that rose in the back of his throat at the mere thought. "Yeah, well," he shrugged, "it's just human nature, sport." He stuffed a bar of Ivory soap into the bag.

The young man chuckled. "I reckon yer right." His gaze dropped, looking suddenly guilty. He shifted back and forth upon his feet and pulled the bill of his hat down a little lower over his eyes. "I hafta admit… sometimes I was a little envious'a the set-up Keith done had fer years– his uncle payin' all his expenses an' all, always gettin' tuh do things he wanted tuh go do whenever he wanted…" he gave the gambler a sort of shame-filled smile as he trailed off, too humiliated to go on.

Nick felt his gut twist a little with anger. Ellis felt bad about being envious of Keith? Fuck, what about the fact that Keith apparently never lent Ellis a hand? The guy could have floated El a loan or chipped in when times were tight– he was a friend, wasn't he? Of the two of them, Keith should have been the one who felt bad, not Ellis. Nick nipped his lower lip with his teeth to keep himself from saying something terribly nasty and out of place about his jack-ass of a friend, groping instead for something that would work as consolation to the forlorn hick. He moved to the threshold of the bathroom, placing his hands on the doorframe. Ellis looked up; he made sure to lock eyes with the mechanic before speaking– the blue pools were unsure and timid, as if waiting to be judged by him.

"Listen, El, we all want the best for the people we care about. There's nothing wrong with that."

The young man's eyes went even wider with brimming emotion. "I want the best fer you," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out of plump lips, his face contorting with a little shock when he realized how easily and quickly it had slipped out.

Nick very nearly tipped his head with curiosity, the hick's words hitting home in a way he couldn't know. It sent his mind into a flurry of flashback– of the first time he'd seen Al after being rejected, many months later. The mechanic had been relieved beyond words to see him, worried sick he had done something rash after being rejected. But Nick had gone to see him, though it hurt, to ask for advice– because that had always always been Al's strong point, what he could never get from his real father; being spurned didn't change that. It had been Al who suggested college. So Nick went to college. It had been Al who suggested mathematics, both his strong point and passion through highschool. So Nick majored in mathematics. It had been Al who suggested he find a girl and marry her.

So Nick did that too.

The gambler licked his lips and recovered rapidly however, chuckling at Ellis' statement. "Well, the zombieapocalypse is kind of putting a damper on that right now," he said matter-of-factly. "But thanks, kiddo."

Ellis swiveled on his heels then, turning his back to him. His hands lifted to travel up his own arms, hugging himself gently, his head tipped downward towards the floor.

And Nick thought– heck, maybe he knew– he should go out and wrap his arms around the kid at that moment.

He dropped the tote to the counter and walked out to where the hick stood curled up on himself in maudlin affect. Swallowing hard past a throat that had gone drier than cotton, he reached an arm out and set it across the young broad shoulders, his hand rubbing affectionately and comfortingly at the curve of his upper arm.

Ellis responded to the touch, leaning ever so gently into him as he lifted his head to resume staring out the window; Nick swore his heart rate doubled for the action. The hick sighed against him. "What'd'ya think it'd be like tuh jus' live here?" he seemed to ask out of the blue.

Nick cocked an eyebrow, confused. "I don't know what you mean."

"Here. In this house. Us," he explained haphazardly, raising as many new questions in Nick's mind as they answered– settling down? The four of them? In Jacksonville? What in the world was Ellis talking about?? The hick's lips didn't stop moving long enough for him get off a question. "Holdin' out 'til… 'til all this blows over..."

He tried to get a bearing on Ellis' sudden expulsion– it couldn't be a serious suggestion, he was just worked up, over-wrought by the house and what he'd seen in it. His fingers continued to massage at the firm shoulder with automatic tenderness. "El, you want to evac... get back to your family," he reminded him, so baffled he barely knew what to say to attempt to calm the kid down at this point.

Ellis swiveled in his grip, causing his arm to fall from his shoulders. They stood maybe a few inches between them, Ellis' face a mere gap from his own. He opened his mouth to speak, tongue working though nothing came out; Nick froze up, watching the parted lips with longing– desperate to press them together– but as their gaze connected, the boy snapped his mouth shut and turned again to grip at the armchair, his fingers digging into it harder than before.

"I'm sorry," he said over his shoulder. "I– this–" he trembled a little, "…I wasn't expectin' this." He shakily pulled off his hat to run a hand through his hair. "We… we should see if Coach an' Ro have found anythin'."

He wasn't sure if Ellis meant he wasn't expecting Jacksonville to be over-run, or if he meant he hadn't expected to feel this way upon entering the house, or if he simply meant he hadn't expected to be having this conversation. Nick gently clapped the mechanic's shoulder, giving it a small reassuring shake. "Hey, relax, kid," he murmured in an attempt to be consoling. He swallowed. "I'm here for you, okay?" he displayed a offering of his white teeth.

Ellis nodded and smiled back and they went downstairs.

Chapter Text

They finished casing the joint a few short minutes later. Rochelle had managed to find them some old bagged cereal in the pantry, like Raisin Bran and Mini Wheats, even a small amount of Lucky Charms– which pleased Ellis to no end as it was one of his favorite cereals, despite the fact that his family always bought the cheaper 'Marshmallow Mateys' that came in a bag instead of a box… but that was alright because the pirate theme was cooler than the whole over-rated leprechaun thing in his opinion anyway. The reporter also dug up a few granola bars and a hunk of very sharp cheddar, all of which she stuffed away in their knapsack for what would presumably be their lunch unless the next house on the block yielded anything more fruitful.

Coach meanwhile, though he hadn't had the luck of discovering any firearms, did secure each of them a melee weapon to help defend themselves– himself not included, of course, since he had been carrying his machete since he had found it in the empty evac of Brunswick. Coach kept the aluminum baseball bat for himself, joking that "It weren't his game, but it'd do." before handing Nick and Rochelle each a separate driver from a set of expensive golf clubs. The gambler proceeded to take a few practice swings in the living room; Ellis had watched him intently. He had only ever been miniature golfing himself for some of Keith's notorious birthday parties– one of which involved sticking a row of firecrackers in hole 18 that blew up in his friend's face– but the conman's slice looked pretty professional he thought, just like the guys you saw on tv out on the green. Though what didn't? Ellis was beginning to be convinced that there wasn't a thing Nick wasn't good at. Either that, or he hid the things he wasn't good at quite well.

Mind, the thing Nick was best at seemed to be cheering him up. His heart had swelled upstairs the moment Nick said he was there for him– which he had known anyway really, but there was something about hearing it like that… so close and near to him, that made it… real– and after that the man had been very attentive, looking his way to give him passing smiles and saying small witty things that made him laugh.

And touching him… oh Lord, touching him.

Ellis hummed as they made their way down the sidewalk to get the adjacent house, mind fluttering down-right pleasantly even as he aimed his glock to plug off sluggish zombies gnashing their teeth at them from the street. Shit, he could still feel that gentle weight of Nick's arm across his shoulders, the strong hand caressing his arm, his chest pressed against his shoulder blades as they leaned into one another… Ellis gave a purr.

Closer than they'd been last night, though not for nearly as long.

He couldn't help but wonder at where they might be bedding down for the night tonight– well, assuming evac here in Jacksonville was a bust… they were still going to check it out just in case, that's why they had come here after all– but also if when they did, he wondered if he could manage to find a way, an excuse to… cuddle up to him again.

He couldn't explain it; it just felt so good to be near to him. It felt… protective. It felt… right.

As if reading his mind, Nick spoke up. "What are you daydreaming about, sport?" the gambler shot him a half-smile.

The word 'You' formed on his lips but Ellis left it unspoken, despite how true it would have been to say. "Oh, I dunno," he said with a shrug, turning his head to admire the front yards of the many houses on the block. They were all well manicured, or at least, he could tell they had been– the grass was getting a little long by now and a few weeds were poking up without the gardeners to take care of them– and a number had large, well-established trees growing up out of the lawns, providing lots of shade for the summer months. Ellis scratched his chin. "Y'know, walkin' along this here street reminds me of the time Keith an' me went TP'ing houses."

"Well, I did find some of that, if you want to really re-live the memories," Nick said with a curl of his lip and the lift of an eyebrow.

"I'd rather not," Ellis chuckled. "We ended up gettin' caught an' havin' tuh take it all down the next mornin'. Lemme tell you, s'not half as much fun removin' it as it is throwin' it around. Especially when it's all soggy cuz the rain came in an' all ya've got is a rickety old cherry picker wit' a wobbly leg."

Nick laughed now too. "Lemme guess…" his mouth tweaked slyly as he hitched the backpack he was carrying a little further up onto his shoulder.

Ellis grinned, knowing exactly where the man was going. "Yeah, Keith found a way tuh fall off'a it. Jus' a sprained ankle though, nothin' serious, he jus' had'ta stay off'a it fer a week or so." Ellis eyed one of the particularly high trees– its top branches a good thirty feet in the air, he'd wager– quite the challenge to chuck a roll of single-ply over, if you asked him. He rubbed his chin. "Coach, I bet your throwin' arm would be real good fer TP'in'," he commented.

The football player laughed as they started up the winding driveway of the next large residence, his shotgun sounding out as he took care of a couple fighting zombies. "Believe me, youngin, back in the day, Coach's name was feared on the streets the teachers lived on for just that reason."

Ellis snorted a louder laugh. "I kin only imagine." He wondered briefly what name it was that the teachers had 'feared'... for though they knew him as 'Coach', the older man was speaking of days long before he'd chosen that title and profession. Ellis turned in place, his eyes sweeping the street one last time to make sure nothing was getting the drop on them from behind.

His gaze caught and hung on the fancy bronze mailbox standing on the lawn.

"Jus'… jus' a sec, y'all," he spoke and hurried back towards the sidewalk.

His three compatriots gave a slight pause but didn't question his sudden activity, probably used to his sometimes easily-distracted nature by now. He heard Coach give a quick "Keep an eye on him." to Nick, not unfriendly or condescending in manner, before he and Rochelle proceeded into the house, the front door of which had been simply left open– either that or broken into prior to their scrounging. The gambler took a seat on the porch to wait and watch over him from afar as asked, momentarily relieving himself of his extra baggage. It was really nice of the cardshark to offer to carry most of the things, and Ellis had to subtly wonder what had compelled him to make such a gesture. Ellis felt the green eyes on him as he holstered his pistol and opened the little door to the post container, beginning to scrounge around in it.

There was a lot crammed into the little thing. Whoever lived here had probably evacuated early, and the mail had been continued to be delivered with no one to take it out of the box. He pawed through numerous catalogues to expensive clothing stores, political mail from candidates seeking donations, travel magazines, and credit card bills galore before his fingers finally found what curiosity had compelled him to seek out.

A postcard.

He hastily poured over what little specifics were there. Internment #32099. No postmark– just like Rochelle's. He snagged the mail it had been sandwiched between, examining the postmark on the pieces directly above and below it. They were both a good three weeks old. He grabbed the top letter from the entire stack and noted that it was almost two weeks old, likely signaling the termination of the US delivery service– at least here in Jacksonville– around that same time.

He frowned at the postcard once again, his eyes defocused from the well-dressed couple and their young smiling daughter who held a plush giraffe by the neck. Amusingly enough he recognized the stuffed toy, a prize from the Whispering Oaks amusement park up towards Atlanta; he knew because he had won one just like it for his youngest sister Emma by hitting a gong with a hammer… shit, what had it been… five years ago? It had to be, he reasoned, because he had taken her with the allowance he gave himself on his very first real paycheck– rather than the 'under the table' work he'd done the first year in the garage before he'd turned eighteen. She'd kept it on her bed ever since, along with a scarce few other treasured stuffed playmates. Ellis doubted the silly giraffe had made evac with his sister like its counterpart in the photograph– after all, Emma was seventeen now and would likely have packed more 'essential' items to take with her rather than silly mementos from an old theme park.

He looked at the little girl in the postcard picture again, holding tightly and bravely to her father's hand. This had clearly been sent to the couple's parents/in-laws because what lie in the small writing area was the poorly shaped letters of someone new to handwriting, the words 'LOVE YOU GRAMMA AND GRAMPA' barely kept from overflowing from the allotted box, the last word cramped to fit. He fiddled the edges of the piece of mail around in his fingertips, closed the box and began back up the walkway to join the gambler.

Nick looked up at him. "What'cha got there, killer?" he asked, a smile pulling at his features. "You know digging through people's mail is a federal offense, right? Could land you in the big house," he joked.

Ellis awarded his humor a small laugh and handed the postcard to him to alleviate his curiosity.

Nick's eyebrow lifted as he studied it a moment. "I recognize this," he said and it was Ellis' turn to lift an eyebrow, "Ro' has one of these."

"Yeah, you knew that?" Ellis asked, a little surprised to learn; Nick had been in the shower when she'd shown him her postcard afterall.

"Saw her fiddling with it this morning," the older man explained. He handed the piece of mail back, pausing with a frown. "I hope she isn't too broken up about this."

"'Bout what?"

"Eh…" Nick gave a shrug, "The NAS." He was quiet another moment, studying the ties of his shoes. Ellis blinked, realizing the gambler could be onto something– Rochelle hadn't said much of anything since they had landed on the dock and she'd studied the awaiting horizon. He had interpreted her quietude for busyness, how she immediately and quickly set into tearing apart the kitchen and pantry to find them much needed supplies, much like her typical efficient self. He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts back in the house that he hadn't considered hers. Nick shifted, his gaze southward, and continued. "I don't think there's much waiting for us there," he murmured.

Ellis dropped his rump to the porch next to the conman. "Yeah… me neither…" he admitted, though he hated to. He played with the postcard in his hands, turning it over and over so his eyes wouldn't catch on the people on it for too long at a time. But the little girl still smiled up at him.

Nick licked his lips, green eyes focused on the card. "Did you…?" he started carefully.

Ellis was quick to cut the question off before it got too painful. "Nah. Didn't think tuh check mah P.O. box before I left. Didn't know they were even sendin' 'em out tuh folks."

Nick frowned.

And then he touched him again.

Ellis looked down as Nick's palm patted the top of his thigh. Automatically his cheek found the gambler's shoulder, nuzzling into it as he closed his eyes with a sigh, allowing the man to resume comforting him. Part of him wanted to be sad, to be disappointed– heck, even to cry– but another part of him was just content, thankful. He couldn't really explain it. The pat turned into a gentle rub just over his kneecap and he savored the warmth it brought and the shiver it quivered up his spine. God was he glad to have Nick…

He could have sat there beside him like that forever.

"C'mon, kiddo, let's go help Ro' and Coach," the man's gentle voice urged him to get up. "Don't want them to think we're lazy-asses, sitting on our laurels out here."

Ellis lifted his head and quickly made to fiddle with his semi-displaced hat, blushing deeply in realization that the conman was right, they shouldn't stick their two compatriots with all the work. Nick bent to collect the supplies and moved to go inside, and he was glad for the fact that Nick's eyes weren't on him to see the color that had tinged his cheeks. He glanced down at the card and stuffed it into one of the deep front pockets of his overalls, safe against the curve of his right thigh. The postcard wasn't his, the girl wasn't Emma, but looking at it gave him hope.

And right now he could use a little hope.

Chapter Text

They spent perhaps a couple hours more raiding houses at which point they abandoned the residential street for the service road that ran along the NAS, skirting the fencing that surrounded the complex. After seeing just how far it spanned they decided not to bother trying to find a gated entrance, but rather just hop the fence. There were security cameras previously meant to dissuade such an attempt, but the devices were of little concern in light of the zombieapocalypse. Nick could only imagine the amount of trouble a person would have landed themselves in by breeching a government-run national air station like this, but here they were doing just that– on top of breaking into houses. Anarchy at its best. Nick absently plucked up a rock and bounced it off of one of the several cameras just for a chuckle.

Coach helped boost Rochelle up over the top of the fence first, offering her his conjoined hands at knee level. She stuck her right boot in it and he easily hefted her weight up with his strong arms. The reporter clambered over the top and landed on the other side, quick to pull her hunting rifle from her back to keep guard while the rest of them made their way over. Her expression was stern and her demeanor brooding as she picked off a few of the creatures in range.

Coach's brown eyes wandered to him and Nick was quick to give him an "I've got it." before dropping the supplies from his back. Sure he could let the big guy boost him over like he had Rochelle, but pride dictated he complete the task himself. Nick curled his fingers into the wire and stuck the toe of a dress shoe into one of the diamonds, hoisting himself up before following suit with his other leg. It had been awhile since he'd done the maneuver last– sometime in his high school years when he'd been somewhere he shouldn't have been– but the motion came back to him quick enough and he soon joined Rochelle, eying the other two still left on the outside.

"Not bad," Coach chuckled at him, at least reasonably impressed with his spryness.

Ellis didn't look terribly surprised, a small smile playing about his lips. He leaned down, grabbing up the bags he had left. The mechanic tossed them one at a time; Nick caught them and reshouldered each as they came over.

Coach rubbed his gloved palms together, looking the obstacle before him up and down. "Well, here goes nothin'," he said, taking a hold of the fencing.

The metal was uncooperative, bowing and groaning, but the big man's grip was strong and unwavering and he hauled himself over with a deliberate slowness. Ellis stood behind him, ready to offer help if needed, but Coach made it to the top just fine. The football player gave a grunt as his knees took the shock of the fall to the other side, nodding at Ellis to join them.

The blue eyes caught on his green ones and Nick could have sworn they said, "Jus' watch this."

The hick couldn't exactly get the wide steel-toed boots into any of the loops the fence awarded, but it didn't seem to hinder him in the slightest. Nick stared with slight wonder as the southerner gave a hop, his fingers curling about the top of the fence, and his upper half flexed in a single strong pull-up fashion– his arms and shoulders compensating for his lower half's inaction– and he practically vaulted right up and over it in record time.

Fuck was that sexy.

Ellis grinned and readjusted his hat, looking to each of his companions, least of all Nick who was still having trouble prying his gaze away. "Well, what're we waitin' for?" he spoke, "Let's go find us a way outta here!" He coasted a hand through the air, palm down, mimicking an airplane taking off.

His enthusiasm at least managed to bring a small smile to the reporter's otherwise downturned lips.

And it impressed Nick because he knew Ellis was just as, if not more, disappointed than Rochelle that evac wasn't looking good, and, even in spite of that, he was the one trying to cheer her up. Was there any time he wasn't being selfless?

They proceeded deeper into the naval air station, Coach in the lead, followed by Rochelle and Ellis, with him taking the rear. They could see buildings now– hangars and flight control towers on the horizon– and the runway they were on led almost due-south, straight to them. He could also make out a number of temporary CEDA tents more to the west, erected likely for shade and to help keep some order during evacuation proceedings– they had seen similar white canopies up in the abandoned Brunswick evac. He squinted at them in the distance. And if it weren't for the fact that these too seemed to be unoccupied, no sign of anyone milling about beneath them, it would have been a welcome sight.

Instead it was more like a dull form of deja-vu.

He wondered how many people CEDA had even managed to get out for all their disorganization and failure to keep an evacuation center open for any length of time. Had to be run be either idiots or assholes, and probably both.

Ellis nailed a zombie in the forehead, sending brains cascading in an arch as the body hit the pavement, momentarily causing him to pause his brooding. There weren't as many infected as he had feared there would be inside the NAS, which was good, but there were still quite a number. Maybe CEDA had done a decent job getting a decent portion of Jacksonville out before shutting down after all. Nick held his fire, saving his remaining three magnum magazines– the one clicked into his gun and the two jingling in his left pocket, the eight empties doing similarly in his right. But it didn't stop him from spotting as they went across the blacktop over the course of the next few minutes, calling out the o'clocks to his diligent companions. Ellis took most of his calls while Coach and Rochelle kept surveillance up front– honestly, Nick had to admit they were doing pretty good without his gun. He'd taken a good portion of the heat prior to now, and more recently Ellis had started chipping in as well, but practice had helped all of their form, not just the mechanic's; they were all better shots than when he'd met them up in Savannah. True that out in the wide open like this allowed them to see everything and gave them plenty of time to aim and shoot, but it also allowed everything to see them and come rushing at them. As such there was quite a lot of scurrying of feet and reciprocal gunfire to put a hasty halt to said scurrying. Nick noted the hick's reaction time was impressively quick and getting quicker; he seemed to be 'in the zone' as they trekked the runway.

A stray zombie flailed to his far right and he announced a "Four", watching fixedly as Ellis performed a little spin on his heels and nailed the creature from a good twenty yards. Nick let a smile crawl across his features, enjoying the excuse to have his eyes on the mechanic, admiring his little sharpshooter.

His? Nick quickly chastised himself for the word choice. The kid may look up to him as Rochelle had pointed out earlier that morning, been teaching him shit about his gun and firing it; and Ellis may have himself assured him of continued friendship, and yeah, sure, fine... they'd slept awfully close last night, sharing each other's warmth. But none of that made him 'his'.

Did it?

The wind coming off the bay ruffled the dirty blonde hair under his cap– Nick blinked, slightly mesmerized by the motion of the locks on the breeze, which had been growing steadily longer since meeting him, covering up a little more of his forehead each day. God he wanted to ruffle it again like he had dared to that morning. Just wanted to flick off Ellis' baseball hat, press his fingers into the hick's scalp and catch those dirty blonde curls in the webbing of his fingers, massaging until the younger man moaned beneath the manual ministrations. Ellis caught him staring and before he could even snap his gaze away, the young man flashed a smile that Nick could've sworn was practically done slow-motion– thick lips curled with a gentle mirth, blue eyes shining from the reflection of the sun off the runway– before he turned back to face front.

Well… maybe in some way it did make him his. He was his friend, his companion.

His obsession.

He licked his lips. "Six o'clock…" he murmured.

The boy duteously spun the required 180°, glock raised. He blinked with slight confusion when he didn't see any zombies behind them to shoot, just Nick standing calmly before him. The gambler gave a smile. "Made'ja look," he teased.

Ellis grinned. "Yeah, ya did," he said with a light guffaw. He gave him a teasing shove with his elbow for having done so.

Nick cast his gaze to the asphalt. His eyebrow tweaked with curiosity when he realized that part of what they were standing on was colored red. He immediately scanned the runway more closely– lettering… it was lettering… it spelled something. There was at least one or more letters they had already walked past without him realizing it, and quite a few in front of them yet to traverse over. It was far too large for him to figure out what it was here so close to the ground like this– just that it was a blockier letter without curves– but the whole thing must have been made to leave a message to pilots cruising above the station.

His gut churned. What kind of message would have been left at an abandoned evac?? 'Turn back', 'Keep out', 'Over-run'?

Whatever it did say he sure as hell didn't have a good feeling about it.

He kept close-lipped and they remained on-target, towards the number of smaller hangars, meant for storing biplanes and propeller planes, and hopefully still did. All the doors to the large enclosures were shut, and as they grew closer the air seemed to grow heavier… rancid, almost… the former breeze carrying over the NAS blocked by the tall buildings now standing before them. It reminded him of the rotting corpses they had found in the cars out on the highway– it stank like death. Not too surprising, he supposed… since the NAS had been abandoned there were sure to be a few dead people or dead infected lying about stinking up the joint, probably for the last couple weeks, plenty of time to grow ripe. Nick's nose wrinkled but he ignored it as best he could, keeping his gaze wary for attacking infected.

"Ugh, smells downright awful over here," Ellis commented, waving his hand about in front of his face.

Thank God he wasn't the only one to have noticed.

"It is pretty bad," Rochelle gave a small cough, pinching her nostrils briefly to issue her own distaste.

"Reminds me of mah buddy Keith," the mechanic began. Nick lifted an eyebrow, wondering what was in store for them this time, though with any luck it would keep his mind off the stench. "Y'see, he had this cat– well, it weren't actually his cat, was jus' a stray 'round the neighborhood tha' he used'ta feed… his uncle didn't want him keepin' pets on account'a the fact he sometimes forgot to take care'a 'em an' they died– but anyway, one day this cat got hit by a car. Broke its spine an' spilled all its guts out– was acshuhly real gross lookin', poor little thing, bunch'a crushed bones an' fur was about all tha' was left– but Keith decided tha' he was gonna git it taxidermied, jus' fer the hell of it, cuz he did really like tha' cat– reckon it was one'a the only animals tha' didn't try tuh bite him an' give him rabies or whatnot. But anyway, I guess he didn't have no clue that'cha were s'posed tuh take dead animals to an actual taxidermist fer that sorta thing, cuz he tried tuh do it himself wit' a whole lot'a hot glue an' packin' peanuts an' some Jack Daniels."

"Eww!" was Rochelle's comment, followed by a laugh.

"I bet that was a real masterpiece," Nick snickered, his nose crinkled with slight disgust, but amused nonetheless by the tale.

"Oh yeah," Ellis chuckled. "Smelled tuh high-heaven too after a couple'a days or so, I tell ya. Jus' like this." He motioned at the ground with a finger and shook his head. "Naaas-ty."

Coach frowned, putting his hands to his hips as they came to a halt in front of the looming hangar– no. 487 as proclaimed by the large number stenciled far above their heads. "We're gonna have to get these doors open if we want to search the inside," he said, keeping to the business of trying to get them out of here. His brown eyes fell to Ellis, and the mechanic nodded spritely and knowingly, not needing a spoken prompt. He hurried to take the opposite door of the sliding entrance, gripping the handhold in his fists.

"Weapon up," Nick said to Rochelle, who took his lead in shouldering her armament. He aimed down the barrel of his magnum, trained and ready for whatever new and crazy infected might pop out and try to eat them once the doors were opened.

Coach and Ellis tugged back on the hangar doors, the noise of metal grating against one another filling the air.

Nick felt his insides churn, a gag rising in his throat as the stench that he had thought was bad before immediately hit his nostrils in full force, wafting from the crack that had been made in the enclosure in a huge rush of putrid air. He threw his arm over the lower part of his face, covering his mouth and nose as he fought back a wretch, his eyes wide, unable to stop the right one from twitching. "What the fuck was going on here??" he spoke through the fabric, his eyes powerless to rip themselves from the carnage before them.

It seemed to take a while for all of them to regain the capacity to speak on the horrors they had discovered inside the hangar.

"These bodies ain't infected…" Ellis murmured.

And they weren't. Regular people lay in crumpled heaps, arms on top of bodies on top of legs on top of more arms and bodies… They didn't have bites or scratches or open wounds of any kind– save that of bullets… a firing squad their likely demise, Nick had to surmise from the way each and every one of the corpses displayed clean efficiency– the entry and exit wounds all the same: through the chest, out the back, left to bleed out if the single shot didn't complete the task. Men, women, children, elderly, all were there in the heap. He gave a shudder but he didn't look away, his green eyes continuing to try and piece the puzzle together. Quite a few of the people, he noted, were wearing CEDA 'staff' uniforms, the logo of the government agency emblazoned on their backs. Nick's forehead wrinkled in thought, trying to fend off the revulsion of the grotesque massacre before him. He turned to Rochelle. "Didn't you say CEDA was hiring immunes?" he asked seriously.

Rochelle's eyes were too riveted upon the corpses, unable to speak for a few moments, lips working silently as she tried to get her voicebox to catch up. "I did… they were…" she seemed to grasp at straws, voice strained. "I don't understand… These people were helping… why would they kill them…?"

Coach gave a loud grunt. "I don't like this."

Well no shit. Nick held his tongue.

"This is so horrible…" Rochelle's voice was quickly choking with emotion, or perhaps that was the possibility of throwing up, one of her hands cupped over her mouth, her body shaking. Coach quickly came to her side and clasped her into a one-armed bear hug, making the sign of the cross over his chest with his other hand.

"I think we should keep movin'," Ellis advised suddenly. Nick glanced to him; there was distinct worry in those blue eyes.

"Let's get further west," Nick agreed, taking control of the situation.

They fled the scene, and didn't bother to close the hangar doors.

Chapter Text

Nick led them west, towards the white CEDA tents and away from the hangars, his gait swift and almost mechanical, giving them a wake to follow. It almost seemed as though the standoffish conman had been unphased by what they had just seen, that he had already put it out of his mind and gotten back to the business of getting them out, but Ellis noticed the way his back was rigid, making his walk stiffer than normal. No, Nick too had been affected by the sight, that was for damn sure, his reaction was just different. Ellis tried hard to not think about it himself, about those hundreds of people stacked unceremoniously on top of one another– likely to never receive a proper burial– who had been shot… why had they been shot, why?? He shook his head harshly, trying to focus, not to dwell.

They didn't try opening any more of the storage sheds, all too revolted by the fact that the military had converted one– if not all of them, hell, who even knew how many they had to convert to accommodate the mass homicide– to a place for dumping bodies. It was probably smart to check out the former evacuation zone anyway, Ellis thought– maybe they could find an updated map, more open evac centers still under operation by CEDA, or– dear Lord, please be merciful– some information on where individuals had been deployed, listed by name, letting him know– though he was still stuck out in hell– that his family was alive and safe somewhere.

Not that he could shake the crushing feeling that one or more of the people he loved was lying under a heap of corpses inside a hangar, discarded and decomposing.

He tried to keep a stoic face and a stiff upper lip as they proceeded to the grouping of white tents.

The evac part of the NAS was as much a ghost town as the rest, deserted save for a few mindless wandering commons they were quick to put down. There were lots of placards and little metal signs and paper flyers around, affixed to poles and the sides of buildings, proclaiming safety regulations to 'wear supplied masks at all times' and 'wash your hands thoroughly' and a dozen others that seemed like no-brainers in his opinion, all stamped with CEDA's logo. Proceedings had been separated by zip code, groupings of tents erected for each respective postal area, and a large banner strung up overhead read: "Form an orderly line." All of the zip codes, he noticed, were Florida codes– at least, he certainly didn't see any that he recognized as Georgian ones. However, way over on the far end was a more down-trodden looking set-up marked 'OTHER'. Ellis had no doubt it was for stragglers like themselves who had accidentally missed their own nearest evac centers and had to go to a more distant one.

Obviously, however, they had missed this one too, like all the rest.

And from the pile-up of bodies… hell, maybe that was just as well...

He scratched his arm, wandering slowly around the dismal site, scuffing the soles of his boots against the pavement as he continued reading the various printed instructions on the CEDA-issued signs.

There sure were an awful lot of rules to follow. He supposed it made sense to have so many– to be efficient and take as few risks as possible there would have to be a strong regimen in place, dictating both the actions individuals should and shouldn't take while at the NAS waiting to be evacuated. Ellis scrunched up his nose as he eyed a 'Photography prohibited' sign that had a picture of a camera circled and crossed out in red. In smaller font read that anyone found with one would have their device destroyed immediately by personnel. His eyes moved to a different, though similar one: Place all and any remote devices and electronics, such as cell phones, digital media players, PDAs, and pagers in the supplied bin– though he didn't see any such bin any longer. He frowned. Shit, CEDA must have wanted to keep a tight lid on things with no possibility of a leak to outside sources. And yet… hadn't Rochelle been scheduled to do a news report on the agency…?

A sound broke him out of his thoughts. He had been wandering closer to the 'OTHER' tents and it had caught his ear… it was a buzz… electrical, like white noise and it didn't let up. "D'ya all hear that?" Ellis asked his nearby compatriots.

"I do," Rochelle confirmed he wasn't just hearing things.

"Well, let's find out where it's comin' from," Coach asserted and they all nodded, fanning out to set to the task of isolating the origin of the sound. Working together it didn't take them long to narrow it down– a radio set for long-distance communication had been left on, now lying upside-down on the ground from where it had fallen off an over-turned table in someone's careless haste. Holding his breath, Ellis reached down and picked it up, motioning the other survivors over.

"I can't believe this thing's still workin'," he commented as they gathered, setting the device back on the table right-side-up carefully. He reached for the mic that had too fallen, plugging it hastily into the first input of many in the back.

"That's great. Next question: is there anyone even out there?" Nick said, his tone a mix of seriousness and sarcasm, arms folding on his chest.

"Well…" Ellis began fiddling with the frequency knob, "I reckon we'll jus' hafta find out, won't we?" he said, his hopes not so easily dashed. He frowned at the configuration then, realizing he really didn't know what he was doing with the contraption because it weren't like any car radio he had ever seen or worked on. He pushed the bill of his hat upward and eyed Rochelle, wagering her journalism background might have spanned to radio. "Ya know how tuh use one'a these?" he asked and she nodded.

"Yeah, it's just like a really big walkie-talkie," she assured him. "Here, I'll show you." She leaned over onto the table, and Ellis let her take over. She tapped the head of the mic with her finger to quickly ensure there wasn't any echoing interference running through the system– after all, it could've taken a pretty hard fall– before depressing a button on the radio proper, speaking into it the microphone with clarity in her voice. "Hello? Is anyone there?" she asked hopefully.

They all waited on the edge of their seats a few seconds, Ellis even held his breath, but nothing came back but the lonely static as before.

"Give me another frequency," Rochelle requested, undiscouraged. Ellis made to turn the knob for her and she tried again. A few more failed attempts had Coach shaking his head solemnly and Nick folding his arms impatiently. But neither he or the reporter was willing to give up until they had tried them all and made absolutely sure no one was out there who could help them.

Ellis gave the dial another click over and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard voices crackle to life out of the speaker. Nick's head snapped to the device, as did Coach's, and Ellis felt like he couldn't move, petrified and momentarily rooted to the spot at the sound of other people… how long had it been since they had heard the voices of people other than their own? His heart pounded wildly in his chest, making him feel very suddenly lightheaded as he listened to the conversation going across the radio. There were two of them, both male, exchanging military codenames and many other things that didn't make sense– coordinates in the form of long strings of numbers and status reports. They all listened a while, wide-mouthed and baffled.

"Memory Alpha-three, thirty-two, twenty-one north, eighty-six, sixteen west has received cleansing."

"How long after termination?" the other asked spritely.

"Eight-hundred hours, sir. There was no incident."

"Affirmative. Time and date has been logged."

"Oh my God…" Rochelle breathed, trying to compose herself. "Okay. Okay, I can do this," she steeled herself quickly and depressed her 'talk' button. "H-hello? Excuse me, I'm sorry for using the radio, but–"

"Who is this??" was sharply barked back, interrupting her. Ellis nibbled his lower lip, hoping the conversation wouldn't be immediately terminated by the no doubt important and busy men. If they could just explain themselves, explain their situation...

"This is Rochelle Layton, of WTTQ 10," the girl responded professionally, using her credentials to buff her own authority. "There are four of us here at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station. We are looking for evac."

There was a short pause from both soldiers on the other end, neither immediately responding to her. Finally the one who had been reporting to the other spoke up. "The Jacksonville Naval Air Station is closed to civilians."

Nick rolled his eyes, throwing his arms out at what lie around them in shambles. "No shit," he spat, face twisting with disdain.

Rochelle looked equally frustrated by the self-evident response, but she held her cool in deference to the men in charge. "Yes, we know, sir. But we've come a long way. Is there any way we could arrange a personal pick up?"

"Have you encountered the infected?" the first soldier interrogated.

"Well yeah, we been fightin' zombies the whole way down here! Shit, man," Ellis shook his head, chuckling. How couldn't they have? Honestly, the damn things were all over the place. What a ridiculous question.

"Yes, we have," Rochelle responded in the affirmative. "But I assure you, we are all four immune, we cannot contract the infection."

A static-y silence followed.

Ellis sucked in a hard breath of air.

"Hello?" Rochelle asked, her eyebrows knitting with worry as she pulsed the 'talk' button. "Hello? Can you still hear me? Hello??" But the frequency had gone dead.

"Fucking assholes," Nick hissed, kicking over a table.

"Apparently 'yes' weren't the answer they were lookin' for," Coach grumbled, folding his meaty arms grouchily.

Goddamn it, they'd been so close. Ellis rubbed his left arm. He'd really thought the soldiers would have been willing to help them out. At least maybe… have given them some direction where to go next… How could they just cut them off like that?

Rochelle let her forehead fall into her arms, covering her face. "We're immune. Those people CEDA hired were immune…" she said with exasperation, her hopes falling.

Ellis flicked off the radio, certain it would be of no further use to them, and placed a comforting hand across her back, rubbing gently with the blunts of his fingertips in attempt to ease her. "They got their reasons, m'sure…" he reasoned sadly. "S'prolly too much'uva hassle tuh come down fer jus' four people like us…"

"Easy for them to decide," Nick snapped suddenly and Ellis found his eyes drawn to him at the words. The conman stood a good couple inches taller than he usually did, anger visibly coursing through him as he spoke. "To decide who's worth it and who's not." He pointed east towards the hangars. "Who to condemn to death and who to save. They can make their fucking excuses, but in the end, they're not doing their job!" he fumed, throwing his arm out to send a signpost clattering to the ground noisily in his rage.

Ellis blinked, agreeing wholeheartedly with the conman's statement– it was unfair to be left like this, left to die. He worried his lower lip as Rochelle buried her head ever deeper.

"We just have to keep goin'. Find somewhere else," Coach said, once again taking charge, though even his voice held a hint of a quiver in it, his own conviction slipping.

Rochelle shook her head forlornly, earrings wobbling. "This isn't happening… this can't be happening…"

Nick obviously hadn't vexed his anger completely yet, as he became decidedly physical next, yanking the golf club from his back and striking it sharply against an empty five-gallon water dispenser nearby; Ellis lifted an eyebrow and Coach didn't utter a word to stop him as he actively set about destroying it, denting both the metal and plastic, sending the taps and other pieces flying. "Fucking assholes!" he yelled with each consecutive swing, "fucking FUCKING FUCKING assholes!!"

None of them could agree more.

Chapter Text

It took a good deal of coaxing to get Rochelle to move from the seat she had taken in front of the radio. Her mood, which had been quiet before climbing over the NAS's walls, had become even more maudlin and apathetic, and Ellis, for one, was genuinely worried about her.

And kind of angry at her too, actually.

He could understand she felt bad about pushing the issue of them coming down here when it turned out to be abandoned like all the rest. He could also understand the let-down of the radio conversation, like escape had been dangled in front of them and just as quickly snatched away. And he could sure as hell understand being upset that she wouldn't be seeing her mother and brother yet as a result.

But goddamn it, at least she knew her family was safe.

Ellis felt his right hand move down to caress his leg, over where the postcard he had pocketed was kept safe and hidden. Ro had a postcard, a real one from her family. He yanked his hand away from the reminder with a scowl, fisting it around his glock instead, refusing to let the anger get the better of him as they moved on towards the west gate, focusing it instead on each and every infected he took down with a steady pull of the trigger, slowly counting down the number of shots that remained.

Far too few he reckoned, especially since they were headed back out into the city where the greater populace would lie. They could only pray for a nearby saferoom with guns and ammunition. So far they hadn't seen any signs going out of the evac that said where the next one was.

The exit was easy to find at least. A booth sat in the center of the multi-directional road, little metal barriers attached to it on either side for the operator inside the booth to lower and raise for incoming and outgoing traffic. As they got closer, Ellis realized a large, swollen carcass still sat in the small folding chair inside the booth, barely supporting the once-living weight– likely at one point the operator who collected the clearances of those going in. Flesh covered in boils and bloody pustules were folded over one another, a nasty mix of fat from the original person and bloating that came with rotting. He– shit, at least Ellis thought it was a he, at this point it was disgustingly difficult to tell– was practically bursting out the top and bottom of its uniform, which may have fit before but certainly didn't any more. Ellis quickly made his way past, eyes not lingering as he followed conman and football player. He looked back to make sure Rochelle was following as well, and that was when he realized that the carcass was moving– breathing in sudden heavy heaving rasps.

Their passage had roused it, and lethargically it leaned forward, its mouth opening to make a number of dry heaves, body jiggling with each pulse. Rochelle, unfortunately, was the one nearest to it, lagging behind the rest of them and she hadn't yet noticed its motion.

"Ro'! Watch out!" he yelped, lifting his gun to point it at the once-comatose zombie. But it was too late– before she could react and jump out of the way, she had been coated with a stream of chunky yellow-ish green vomit that arched from its mouth and out the window of the booth. Ellis shot a couple of rounds into it instinctively, hoping to stop it from continuing to spew its bodily fluids onto her.

It did stop it, but it also had another effect he hadn't seen coming.

Apparently the creature hadn't been bloated for nothing, the pressure and build up of gas inside it stretching the skin, and as soon as his bullets pierced its massive gut, its whole stomach ruptured open in an explosion of gore.

The reporter managed to cover her face with an arm before the thing 'popped', a mist of blood and green bile coating her already puke-soaked side. "Oh God…" she blanched, holding her own arms out away from herself as she looked down at the mess that was now her clothing, literally dripping off of her onto the ground, pooling around the soles of her boots. "Oh God, ew…!"

"That's fucking disgusting," Nick commented, though somehow there seemed to be relief in his voice that he hadn't been the one to be covered in zombie barf.

"M'sorry," Ellis started to apologize to the girl, feeling horrible that he hadn't noticed and warned her sooner, or at least thought about the possible side-effects of shooting a bloated zombie before committing to it. The reek of acrid puke was already stinging in his nostrils– hoooly hell did that raise a stink, stronger than anything his younger siblings had ever ralphed up, and once the contents of Emmett's stomach had been the greater part of a past-its-expiration-date package of Oscar Meyer wieners and a hell of a lot of similarly spoiled OJ. Shit, they'd been lucky they didn't have to replace the carpet, but a whole lot of his Ma's baking soda had taken it out. Ellis scratched the back of his head, continuing his apology despite his lingering malice towards her. "I didn't know it was gonna–"

"Shhh!" Nick hushed him suddenly. Ellis glowered, annoyance arching through him, not understanding why the gambler would treat him as such, but then he heard it too.

Footsteps. A lot of them.

Those green eyes darted back and forth, the swift fingers unholstering his Deagle as he took three large backwards steps to press close to he and Rochelle. Coach did the same, grip tight on his shotgun as he aimed it left, then right, seeming unable to decide where to point. Ellis quickly snatched his pistol and trained it out in front of him, alarm coursing through him... waiting, waiting and then…

His eyes widened with horror. Zombies began flooding in from places he hadn't even known existed, little crevices and cracks between buildings, small out-croppings he had glanced over and didn't know could house so many of the hysterical things, even vents– they were spilling out of goddamn air ducts! Lord in Heaven, what had drawn them so suddenly?? They hadn't made any loud noises. Nick's magnum cracked out beside his ear, firing the first shot. It snapped him out of his daze and soon all four of them were firing into the crowds advancing upon them. But they were fighting a losing battle, the creatures were invading from everywhere, drawn like sharks to blood. Most of all they rushed in from in front of them, the exterior parking lot and greater Jacksonville that lie before them.

"Get back!" Coach yelled, his shotgun wiping out the next wave that was already trying to clear the yellow-and-black striped gate.

They retreated from the west exit, forced back into the NAS by the distribution of horde. Ellis yanked the trigger of his glock over and over, but the bodies kept coming, even as he shot them down. A zombie would fall only to reveal another zombie following right on its fallen comrade's heels, tripping briefly over the body before resuming pursuit. Nick fired right alongside him; Ellis watched as the high caliber bullets pierced two and sometimes even three lined up zombies, dropping them dead to the pavement. Rochelle was firing too, un-scoped from the shoulder; and Coach was blowing chunks out of clumped throngs of infected. They all were firing, zombies were falling... it just didn't seem to matter.

His glock clicked empty. Nine shots, he remembered, remained in his hunting rifle. Just nine. He could count more than nine bodies in front of him easily.

His fingers hastened to remove his machete.

"We need to get somewhere more defensible!" he heard Coach shout over the screams of the horde and his own shotgun fire. They were still caught out in the open, unprotected. Ellis took his eyes off the zombies for just two seconds, to turn his head to find that somewhere that would grant them an edge over the swarm of infected.

A flight control tower stood tall just some fifty yards away. "There!" he yelled and pointed with his weapon, the blade catching the sun's rays. They all glanced at it and acknowledged, beginning to move for the target, but the going was slow.

Ellis took it upon himself to run ahead, swinging his machete at any creature that got too close, removing limbs at the elbows and shoulders, sending bursts of blood from severed veins all around him. He received a number of nicks and scratches to his forearms as he flailed, cutting a path for his teammates to follow, ignoring the pain of the claws and teeth of the infected, mind focused on getting them to safety.

Some glass on a nearby building burst outward, zombies pouring out the windows in droves.

He looked over when he saw the gambler slow down in his peripheral vision; Nick was digging through the backpack on his arm mid-run, a scowl engrained on his features until his fingers found what he had been searching for. He lifted one of their precious pipe bombs aloft, depressing the little red button on the side. "Chase this you zombie bastards!" the man shouted, chucking the device out towards the west gate. A number of the creatures went scrabbling for it, hissing and screaming furiously as it bounced away beeping.

The distraction gave them a window.

They bounded for the control tower, feet pounding against the asphalt to put as much distance between them and the oncoming horde as possible.

Coach threw his weight against the entrance to the tower– it had been locked but it was no match for the surge of adrenaline running through the large man's system. "Inside!!" he bellowed; they all hurried to follow his command. Ellis looked back, hearing the explosion from the pipe bomb, wanting to see what remained from the detonation.

The answer was plenty.

He dropped his gaze to his hip where his molotov sloshed from their run. He yanked it from its constructed holder and yelled at Nick before the man could disappear inside. "Gimme the vodka!"

The gambler seemed shaken at first, but when he saw what he was gripping tightly in his palm, his eyes glistened with both understanding and mischief. He dug into the bag again, securing the bottle of alcohol and it quickly exchanged hands. "Fine time to decide you need a drink," he joked and even in the rush of conflict, Ellis couldn't help but laugh.

His fingers fumbled and faltered, but he poured the vodka over the wick, losing a good deal to the ground in his haste, and grabbed for the little lighter that Nick deftly provided next. He struck it with his thumb and the small flame caught the alcohol-soaked wick in a rush right before his very eyes. He froze up for an instant with the explosive still in his hands, his eyes wide before he realized what he was supposed to be doing and threw it hard upon the ground in front of him. It burst into flames, igniting the ground with leaping, growing, bounding fire that quickly encompassed the area– he had mixed it well. The zombies didn't seem to care, nor hesitate, running at them through the inferno and lighting themselves. Their hisses turned to screeches of pain and agony as they thrashed their limbs above their heads. Ellis watched as their bodies blackened, eventually curling up on themselves to die, the sound of skin crackling and the smell of burning flesh overwhelming his nostrils. He hurried inside and slammed the door shut.

The others quickly barricaded the portal with everything and anything they could find.

And then, breathlessly, they waited.

Chapter Text

The molotov eventually burned out, and when it did, there were still infected that started thumping and clawing at the door. Not nearly as many, but that wasn't much of a consolation when all of them were this close to being out of ammo.

Nick nervously twirled his magnum in his hands. Six shots. He'd called the count, tallying the other three's numbers in his head solemnly.

Ellis still had the nine in his hunting rifle, glock empty. Rochelle had two shots and a last clip for a total of seventeen. Coach somehow still had nineteen shells.

Fifty-one zombies, that was all– less than they had encountered on their uneventful trip down from Yulee. Unless he could manage to line more than one up and pierce multiples again, and the football player was able to get a few at once as well with the spray of his weapon, then they could maybe pull off seventy or so. But after that it was down to their respective melee weapons and how well they could beat heads in. Nick frowned. There were probably a good dozen waiting outside he'd wager from the sounds of the screams muffled by the door, though perhaps eventually they'd stop, or forget, and shamble away or whatever the fuck zombies did when their meal managed to hide and elude them for long enough… if they did anything at all.

From the pounding, they seemed pretty persistent about getting their dinner.

Nick shifted on his feet. The good thing was that, for the moment, they were technically safe. Not in a great position, no, but plenty alive. He combed his fingers through his greased hair, sweeping it back, losing its stick from the morning's application of gel. Ellis had sustained a number of small cuts and scratches to his forearms while bravely leading them to their little sanctuary, but beyond that there had been no injury from the flight they had been forced to make. The young man had resisted Rochelle's desire to patch the wounds at first, claiming they might need the supplies down the road for much worse, and with the way things were looking, Nick was sort of inclined to agree with him. But the girl made a good point about the cuts getting infected and requiring more supplies as a result and at last Ellis relented.

Of course, still covered in vomit as she was, she wasn't going to be the one to do it.

So Nick pulled out a kit from the duffle and got to it before Coach could step up to the plate and offer.

Ellis took a seat on the stairs leading up further into the control tower; the room that made up the base of it was rather open and large, but the space gave them a little privacy and he was glad for the mechanic's choice. Nick hunkered down in front of him, sweeping off his coat to fold over one of the steps and rolled up his blue sleeves before taking out the necessary supplies for the task. The mechanic smiled softly– almost wistfully– at him, extending his right arm first, which had done all the swinging and thus found the most abrasions. Nick procured the bottle of iodine and twisted off the cap to start eye-droppering the dark brown liquid sparingly into each of the incisions that decorated the mechanic's flesh. The task took his mind of the relentless pounding that went on behind the barricaded door, thudding with reminder that it was the only thing separating sanctuary from hell.

Ellis winced at every administration of the antiseptic; Nick watched his cute little nose scrunch up, but he stoically withheld any further evidence of pain– iodine had a notoriously unpleasant sting, but infection didn't stand a chance against the powerful chemical. Nick stoppered it up and began to wind gauze snugly around the hick's forearm, not enough to inhibit bloodflow, but tight enough to hold fast to the appendage. All the while Ellis remained wordless, and Nick found it a little eerie the southerner seemed to have nothing to say– he yearned for one of his cheery grins or ridiculous stories, something to cheer them up, but it simply wasn't there. His mind struggled to find something to fill the gap between them.

"Quick thinking on the molotov," he complimented the younger man, tying the knot on the gauze, the dressing finished.

Ellis' small smile became a brief grin, his gaze averting to the ground for just a second in bashful gesture before he gave a little toss of his head– removing those dirty blonde curls from his eyes– and extended his left arm. "Quick thinkin' on the pipe," he shot back, blue eyes shining back at him.

Nick chuckled sardonically. Yeah, after they'd been practically surrounded on all sides. Ellis' gory trail-blazing was still fresh in his memory, machete glinting as it swung back and forth, growing more and more flecked with blood, and if he hadn't been so goddamn mesmerized by the sight, he would have thrown the damn thing earlier; he was still kicking himself for that mistake and it was El who had paid the price. He shook his head with the smallest of scoffs and a shrug of his left shoulder. "Eh, if I had thought of it sooner, I could have saved you some of these," he murmured, letting his hands linger on Ellis' un-bandaged arm. There was quiet between them a long moment as he caressed the undamaged flesh between the cuts with the blunts of his fingertips.

Their eyes lifted and connected again; Ellis seemed to register his apology and concern. "S'alright, they're jus' scratches," the mechanic assured him. "They won't take too long tuh heal. Maybe a couple'a days."

A couple of days, sure. And in that time, how much more could happen to the four of them? There was no guarantee of safety anywhere, especially not in greater Jacksonville, not until they were out on the highway away from residential areas, and even then... Nick's breath caught harshly in his throat and he had to swallow down the resulting lump. "I just don't like to think about what could happen–" he cut himself short. Now wasn't the time to talk like that. Not with the banging. Fuck, couldn't those zombies give it a goddamn rest??

Ellis' eyebrows both gave a tweak at his words, temporarily knotting just above his nose before readily smoothing back out again. "I told'ja before, don't'cha remember?" he spoke in an almost forced sounding laugh. "We're gonna be fine, we got one another's backs."

Yeah, he remembered, before the destroyed bridge. When Ellis had acknowledged that Jacksonville might be closed like the other evacs, that they'd get to spend more time with one another if it was.

Oh, this seemed a bittersweet paradox.

Nick squeezed his eyes shut and angled his face toward the floor.

He opened them again when he felt a rough calloused palm skate across the side of his jaw, catching on every whisker that adorned it as Ellis lifted his chin and gaze. Nick froze. Ellis' blue eyes blinked, cupping his face. "It don't look too good right now," he spoke, "but I know we kin do this."

There was so much strength and bravery in those words… in that touch. Ellis' bandaged arm seemed to lift him up, lend him that strength; a sigh nearly escaped his lips before his brain registered how intimate the touch was, and as he looked up at the mechanic seated on the stair, he imagined Ellis directing his lips to his own plump ones, gliding his tongue between them and into his open mouth… imagined the southerner sliding his fingers into his hair, gripping him tight around the back of his skull to pull him into a heated but tender embrace.

But no amount of imagining could make it come true.

Ellis drew his hand away at last and tapped his noggin through the cap with a forefinger. "After all, we're a heck'uva lot smarter than them mindless zombie motherfuckers," he tacked on with a grin.

Nick laughed, recovering from his flight of fancy. He set his jaw and gave a firm nod. "Right you are, kid."

Ellis leaned back against the step, holding out his left arm as Nick began to take care of it like the first. His fingers worked hastily, but nimbly, discarding his former thoughts, putting them out of his mind for more important things, concentrating on his task. Ellis rubbed the underside of his nose. "Ya reckon we should search upstairs?" he asked.

"Might be something useful up there," Nick wondered aloud as he wrapped the bandage. "Plus it will give us a good viewpoint of the airfield."

"That's what I'm thinkin'," Ellis agreed.

"Well, I'm almost done," Nick said. The mechanic nodded and he quickly finished up the second bandage and put all the things neatly away as they had been before. He snatched up his coat, sliding his arms into the sleeves and quickly adjusted it on his shoulders. Ellis rose and stepped around the corner of the stairwell. "We're gonna check the upstairs," he reiterated as the other two survivors likely hadn't heard, "Y'all comin'?"

"You youngin's run along, I'm going to keep an eye on the door," Coach asserted, steadying his weight with an arm on the table as he made to sit at it. His brown eyes fell upon Rochelle, who had taken a seat on top of some seemingly abandoned luggage stacked haphazardly alongside the wall not too far away, postcard held in her fingertips; she didn't move and Coach's brow furrowed. "Ro', go with them," he commanded.

The reporter looked up at him, obviously a little surprised by his sudden order, but she nodded wordlessly and stood, tucking the piece of mail away.

Ellis turned, almost huffishly, jogging up the steps.

He wasn't sure what was up with that.

Meanwhile, Nick had to wonder if the big man hoped the two of them could pull her out of her funk– if he thought Ellis was seeming melancholy, she was at least three times more so, and appeared to be growing worse and worse. Not that the incessant banging on the only exit was helping any of their nerves. Nick grumbled. Regardless, he put on a clever half-sided smirk. "Ladies first," he said, standing aside and motioning his palm upward towards the stairs so she could follow Ellis. Rochelle gave him a smile and a playful shove to his chest for the out-of-place chivalry.

Her feet found the steps. "Wait up, sweetie!" she called up at Ellis as she moved to catch up, a little more energy already evident in her manner for the short interaction.

Nick's eyes flicked to the football player and the man gave him a single approving nod that confirmed his suspicion.

He returned it and made to climb the steps.

Chapter Text

It was a long way up.

Like looking up at the top of the tower from the ground outside, it had looked tall. But taking all those steps made it seem a whole hell of a lot taller.

Ellis gave a slight huff as he paused, hand on the rail, his right foot a step higher than the left, turning to see how Nick and Rochelle were doing behind him. He could have gone faster himself, but there wasn't really any need for that– he'd probably already shown off enough back at the fence.

Not that he could really explain his recent compulsion to show off. Nick already liked him. It wasn't like he was going to suddenly 'like him more' or something just cuz he could vault a fence or scale multiples stories in a few minutes. He chuckled to himself.

But then those green eyes as the man had so tenderly bandaged his arms… Shit, there'd been love in that touch, he could have sworn...

'Course, they were close to one another. That just made sense.

He waited long enough to see them both round the curve of the staircase before resuming his ascent, setting his mind to getting up the stairs the rest of the way.

This was definitely the hard way to do this, that much was sure. The elevator was an invaluable commodity, not available to them– unfortunately, as the burn in his thighs was telling him. At least they were getting their exercise, he supposed. Though that could have been just as easily attributed to the sprint across the airbase they had taken to get here just a short while ago, or the lifting he and Coach had done on the front end of that boat trailer, or the day-long treks they had been making on a daily basis for a week and a half. Shit, by the end of this apocalypse, he was easily going to be in the best shape of his life, he could guarantee that, and he'd never been lacking thanks to his job in the garage and the heavy lifting it sometimes required of him– yeah, they had a winch, but how satisfying was it to pick up a crankshaft over his shoulders and carry it out to the scrap heap? Keith could never do that– he was too gangly, and the time he had tried, he dropped it and broken five bones in his foot.

There were a few other levels to the control tower that had access to the stairwell, but for now, Ellis headed straight for the very top.

"We made it, y'all!" he called down.

"Oh thank God," Rochelle panted back, her relief echoing up the steps. "Now I think I know why Coach wanted to stay and watch the door," she laughed breathlessly. Ellis chuckled; he'd thought the same thing, both in terms of the older man's weight and his bum knee, but hadn't voiced it. "Whew…" she fanned herself as she joined him on the top step. "Going to be fun going back down too."

Nick trailed shortly behind her, taking the steps methodically and deliberately. Ellis' eyes skimmed over the cardshark– he'd removed that suit coat again, sometime mid-way in their climb, no doubt overly warm. Ellis knew he sure would be, hell, he would be just standing still in a get-up like that, but then again Nick was from Vegas, the middle of the desert, and he was used to wearing that much clothing.

But he couldn't say he minded seeing the gambler in less, odd as that was. His eyes unfocused and refocused, sizing up the width of his shoulders without the coat, and the trim of his waist, experiencing a shiver despite the precipitation threatening to well on his skin from the climb.

"I can't wait," Nick responded to Rochelle with a grin, his tone loaded with sarcasm.

Ellis stuck his tongue out at him and put his hand to the knob, swinging the door open.

The smell of death hit them again.

It wasn't as strong this time, just for the fact that were significantly less bodies. Ellis' blue eyes flashed over the scene, his lips parting with mild shock.

More uninfected people, shot. Some lie facedown strewn across the floor, others fallen out of chairs, blood had pooled and dried in dark patches across the worn linoleum. A few corpses were still clutching guns in their death, clear that they had put up a fight before going down. They weren't dressed like the sort of people you'd be expecting to work in a control tower… they were clothed like regular people, civilians. Ellis strode over to the nearest man slumped against the wall and pried the gun from the fingers curled with rigamortis. He frowned, pointing the M16 at the ceiling and clicking the trigger several times. Empty. Rochelle followed suit, checking another man's uzi, but it held just the same results. They slowly spread out, searching the aisles of dysfunctional computer equipment, stepping over bodies.

"It looks like they were… holdin' out up here," the mechanic summarized, unease eking through his tone.

Nick nodded solemnly beside him. "And not just against zombies," the older man bit the tip of his tongue pointedly between his incisors. Almost all the casualties had scratches from infected, but none themselves were showing signs of contracting the infection. But the common denominator across the littering of bodies was that each had met their end to gunfire, though sloppier than what they had seen in the hangar. Last time he checked, there weren't any gun-wielding zombies out there.

Ellis set his hands on his hips, all at once puzzled and disgusted. "Were they resistin' the military or somethin'?" he conjectured, "Not followin' procedure?" There had to be some reason these people had been mowed down like this.

Nick clicked his tongue. "Seems a little extreme," his eyebrows leveled.

"Hey, boys…" Rochelle's voice stirred them from their dialogue, sounding slightly excited. Ellis blinked and hurried over to her, past the computer equipment she had skirted around to the north end of the tower room, Nick following him.

She had found a map. Not just a map, but a desk of maps.

Ellis' eyes widened and he hastily leaned over the desk and flattened his palms against the top one. It was a bird's eye of the entirety of the Jacksonville NAS.

"Well damn," Nick commented, "looks like we hit the jackpot."

Yeah, no fooling. Ellis studied the diagram carefully. The map had been written on with red sharpie, denoting their current location, a couple of buildings circled, lines drawn between them, numbers over the circles. It looked like a plan. An escape plan, he reckoned from the looks of how the final line jerked off the edge of the paper on the west exit and big capitalized letters spelled out: FREEDOM.

Freedom. Why did that seem familiar? Ellis worried his bottom lip, mind churning.

"These people were trying to get out," Rochelle spoke, filling the silence. She began to reason out the scenario to them, pointing on the map. "They were low on ammunition, and they were going to get more…" her fingers skimmed over the first circled building– an armory specifically– tapping it with a forefinger. "They were going to take it to another control tower," she pointed to the second circled target, a hexagon much like the one they stood in, "probably had more refugees– and then they were going to leave the NAS fully armed."

"Back out wit' the zombies?" Ellis asked incredulously, disbelieving that anyone would chose the outside over internments. "Or was the station already over-run an' they was jus' like us, lookin' fer supplies? Holdin' out in the towers fer safety until they could?" But that conjecture didn't make sense and he knew it; they hadn't been killed by zombies, this was the work of people, people with guns and the intent to kill. Maybe Ro was wrong. Perhaps the other folks in the second tower had been enemies instead of friends? Maybe each group had been planning to kill the other to steal their armaments and supplies, and this was the group that had lost. He shuddered at the thought, at the desperation that would cause good people– people who should be rallying together– to turn on one another.

Nick rifled the edge of the map, pulling it up to get a look at the ones underneath it. His mouth quirked downward in a frown, the lines on his forehead deepening with concern. "I think there was something a lot bigger going down here, sport," he delivered, yanking one of the maps swiftly out to lay it on top with a flutter.

"What the…?" was all Rochelle got out.

It was an exact replica of the map of the country they had seen in both Savannah and Brunswick, blown up to detail the southeast. Except it had one extreme and notable difference.

Not only did it have the red X's, it also had green circles. And those little circles pock-marked the landscape of the nation in the oddest of places– far-away, obscure little towns and bergs that couldn't possibly be supplying evac to thousands upon thousands of people. In fact, some were marked for tiny islands off the coast.

They weren't the interments were they? The places people had been shipped to to get them away from the infection? Ellis felt his heart start to hammer in his chest at the possibility– the thought that his family might be there, in one of those many dotted places, safe and contained from the spread of the infection. Safe and waiting. Waiting for him to join them.

"Lord, we gotta check one'a these places out!" Ellis blurted to the other two survivors standing beside him, over-exuberance literally flowing out of his system. His eyes narrowed down on the green circle nearest to Jacksonville– Starke– just a hop, skip and a jump away, practically, out on I-10 just a little ways, then south off 200. Okay, so maybe it was more like twenty-miles off the beaten path, but what was that if they could actually find an internment themselves, rather than going through the evac in New Orleans? Shoot, they could evacuate themselves!

Nick looked decidedly uneasy and he had gone very silent. "We should be careful how we proceed," he murmured. "Nothing says what these circles point to– the modifications to this map aren't government approved, they've been added. Likely by the people in this room."

Ellis didn't like the words, nor the man's tone of voice, but he quieted himself and nodded, trying to stay rational. Nick was right, they could be anything, or they could be absolutely nothing at all.

But what else would people trying to escape have a map like this for? People who were looking for 'freedom'? He furrowed his brow.

Rochelle looked torn. "I wish they had left more information…" she murmured, no doubt craving more pieces to the puzzle. She folded her arms. "But first thing's first, we need to get out of here. Right now we're in a building surrounded by zombies. And we, like these people, don't have a whole lot left to defend ourselves."

Nick turned from the table and walked towards the windowpanes, the heels of his dress shoes click-clacking on the linoleum floor. He stuck his chin in a hand, rubbing at the stubble decorating his neck as he pondered the scenery below. "Yeah." Ellis slowly came to his side and peered out at the air station as well. There were still plenty of zombies hammering away at the door underneath them, showing no signs of boredom or fatigue. His nose wrinkled, wondering how they could be so god-awful persistent.

"Kill the fucking carriers…" Nick breathed, seemingly out of the blue.

"What?" Ellis tweaked an eyebrow at the man, but his gaze followed the conman's out to the north where they'd come in... out to the runways.

Big red letters had been drawn onto one of the long strips of asphalt and it read just that.

KILL THE FUCKING CARRIERS.

Rochelle joined them in staring at the curious runway message. "The carriers?" she spoke with confusion. "I never heard that term used for the infected. Isn't that kind of obvious?"

Yeah, seemed pretty obvious to him too that zombies ought to be killed, hardly something that needed to be spelled out. "Maybe it was some kind'a code word tuh bomb out the bridges surroundin' Jacksonville," Ellis reasoned, his stomach doing full-on flip-flops– shit, all the carnage around them had him about ready to heave his small breakfast.

The reporter shook her head, clearly not in agreement with the explanation but not having another to supplant it either. She moved off to their rights, gazing east, squinting her eyes. The girl pointed suddenly, sweeping out her arm. "I think that must be the armory they were going for. Maybe it's still stocked. It's probably our best bet right now."

"Then as soon as we get out of here, that's the first place we're headed," Nick concluded.

Rochelle nodded. "I agree. I'm sure Coach will too."

Ellis scratched his arm, still frowning down at the zombies beneath them. They were almost like ants with how small they were from all the way up here, and the way they seemed to loosely follow the trail he had cut for them across the NAS to the control tower. It was as if they were following dropped pheromones or some shit though he was certain that couldn't be the case– they were attracted to the scent of living flesh and loud noises, not one another. His blue eyes followed the trail backward, brow furrowing.

A number of the creatures were coagulated at the west exit where they had fled from still, milling about agitatedly, beating on one another as if they were arguing over something... which was weird seeing as there was nothing there for them to snack on. It was incredible just how fast they had swarmed after Rochelle had been vomited on.

At last he put two and two together. "Ro', it's yer clothin'."

"Huh?" she vocalized, lifting a thin black eyebrow, his words out of context.

"Tha' explodin' guy done threw up on you an' covered ya with its scent or some shit," Ellis explained, "an' it's attractin' the zombies right to us." There was a pause and he glanced back and forth between man and woman as his words sunk in.

"Shit, I think the kid is onto something," Nick said, looking the reporter up and down.

She pinched her now-more-green-than-pink top between a couple of fingers, lifting it off her skin. "So wait… you think if I ditch these all those zombies will go away?" She seemed a little incredulous, and hell, Ellis was slightly so himself considering how simple an answer it seemed to be. But they certainly hadn't had this problem ever before now and the only difference was the puke.

"I'd burn them personally," Nick advised, throwing in his own two cents. "But yes."

"I guess that's what I get for wearing my favorite top on my big day," she laughed, a bit of sadness in her voice. "Some fat-ass hurls all over you and attracts the entire populace of mutated zombies to your doorstep so they can eat you and your friends' brains out."

"Yeah, sounds about standard," Nick joked back. "Trust me, this is only my second-favorite button-up for that exact reason, I left my silk one in my garment bag."

Ellis gave a little amused snort at the rather lame attempt at a joke.

But it still seemed to make Rochelle crack a smile. "Thanks, Nick," she said with a roll her eyes.

Chapter Text

Nick rolled up the two relevant maps they had found on the table and brought them with them on their way back down. His arches were fucking killing him by the time they hit the bottom step– there was no way in hell he was making that trip up and down again, what had it been? twenty, maybe twenty-five flights? On top of all the goddamn walking. He was developing callouses. He'd never had callouses. God, what he'd do for a pedicure. He sat and pulled off his dress shoes to give himself a foot rub, pushing his thumbs into the tendon of his foot with a grimace as he tried to work the muscle into relaxation.

"You youngins find anythin'?" Coach asked. The big man was still sitting where they had left him when they had gone upstairs, though he had dug out a bag of cereal and started munching, pouring mouthfuls out into his cupped hand to pop into his mouth. It was well after noon by now and none of them had eaten since breakfast at the boat shop… too preoccupied with zombies and everything else going on around them. Food was probably a good idea, not that Nick himself was feeling terribly hungry, but stress always did that to him.

And with all the events that had been playing out before them, he was plenty stressed.

Ellis stuck out a hand at him and Nick, understanding the wordless request, handed over the maps. The hillbilly took a seat next to Coach to fill him in on what all they had seen upstairs, rolling out the large sheets across the table's surface. Nick didn't pay too much attention to their exchanged words, more zoning out as he rubbed his feet and watched the hick's mouth move and the older man's face grow lined with deeper and deeper countenance.

Rochelle meanwhile began her search for new clothes to replace her vomit-soaked ones, rifling through the lost and discarded luggage against the wall, unzipping rolling bags and pawing through their contents to find something suitable for her person. He was glad because who knew how long it might take for the effect of the puke to wear off, even once the clothes were burned and no trace remained. If they had any hopes of leaving the NAS tonight, they needed to get on with it. On the other hand, they had already lost so much time… They had no clue how far out the next designated safe room was, and in a choice between losing ten miles of progress or getting caught out in the dark, Nick would readily chose the former.

Coach's gaze followed the reporter's motions with curiosity, temporarily pulling his attention away from the newly acquired diagrams Ellis had been discussing with him. "What'chu doin', baby girl?" the older man inquired gently, obviously still concerned about her.

"We're thinkin' the zombie puke on her clothin' is what's attractin' the horde," Ellis explained for her.

Nick chuckled at the mechanic's use of 'we' when it had been his own logical deduction, but it didn't surprise him El wasn't taking credit for it.

The football player stroked his chin thoughtfully at the news. "Well, now that you mention it, the banging did let up a little once you all went upstairs. Started up again just before you got here," he informed them, pretty much confirming the suspicion that it had something to do with the 'scent' of the bile. None of them could really smell it any more, but the zombies likely had finer-tuned olfactories than them.

"Sounds like you were right on the money, kiddo," Nick complimented the hick, awarding him the credit where it was due. Ellis gave a short-lived little grin, readjusting his hat and returning to the maps and filling Coach in. Nick moved his gaze to Rochelle, who was still questing for clothing, a pair of dark blue jeans much like her current ones now slung over an arm.

God was he glad he hadn't been the one to get barfed on though– despite what he had said upstairs, this was easily one of his favorite and most expensive suits, burning it would be a fucking shame. And yeah, it was looking a little worse for wear for all of the running around they were doing, but where was he going to find another hand-tailored outfit in an apocalypse? Or hell, after it, assuming they survived. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of his own socked feet wafting up at him. They probably all should see about changing at least some of their clothes if they could– at very least their undergarments. Nick wrinkled his nose. He couldn't decide which skeeved him out more… wearing the same pair of boxers for a week and a half, or wearing someone else's.

"You think black or brown is more my color?" Rochelle asked then, holding up two different tops she had pulled from a suitcase– one was a chocolatey color, a souvenir from the Hershey's factory in Pennsylvania as the embroidered front proclaimed, the other was a band tee apparently acquired on the 2009 tour of the Midnight Riders– whoever they were.

"Oh mah God– that is so cool!" Ellis exclaimed, eying the second shirt with delight and envy. "Man, I went to their show in '06 when they came to Atlanta– well, mah half-brother Dave took me since he's a fan of the Riders too an' he done managed tuh get the tickets on discount, two fer the price of one. But we didn't get no souvenirs– they really want too much fer some'a those things." His voice took on a slightly higher pitch as he switched gears, longing in his eyes. "Ro', kin I have it?"

The girl tittered. "I don't think it will fit you sweetie, it's a women's small," she said, fiddling with the tag on the inside.

"Aw…" Ellis' nose wrinkled with disappointment.

Well, Nick wouldn't mind watching the hick try to wriggle his way into the small shirt… even if he ended up ripping the sleeves with those biceps of his. Hell, maybe because he would. The gambler gave a surreptitious lick of his lips, imagining the way the fabric would stretch around his slender frame and muscles on the verge of tearing. Not that the current faded yellow t-shirt he was wearing didn't seem a good size too small for the kid and he'd been appreciating that ever since he met him, for better or for worse.

"That's a tough choice," Coach piped up. "The Riders may be a good band, but nothing beats a bar of solid milk chocolate." He seemed to pause at his own thought. "What I wouldn't do for one right now, or even some of those little foil-wrapped Kisses, mm mm…" his voice rumbled with longing.

Rochelle's brown eyes turned to him since the vote seemed to be tied.

Nick relaced his shoe and leaned back against the step, folding his hands behind his head. "You asked which color was better right?" he asked, getting back to her original question which the two other survivors seemed to have bypassed in lieu of personal preference on logo. "Hold them up."

She did so, putting the black tee to her chest first, then swapping it for the brown. She repeated the action a second time, just to remind him of the difference between the two. Yeah, so, he had an eye for this kind of thing– it was why he stuck to light cool colors that matched his skin and eyes, like blues and greens and greys, and the infrequent purple if it wasn't too vivid. Nick gave a nod, his decision made. "I like the black one," he concluded; the brown, though it was nice, was too close to her own skin tone and washed out her face, whereas the black both brought it out and complimented her hair.

Really, what did it matter in a fucking zombieapocalypse anyway, but it was a good distraction. Something to take his mind– all of their minds– off the lingering death.

"Alright, I'm going to go change," Rochelle informed them, her ensemble picked out, including a new belt and boots. She walked over towards him and Nick stood up so she could get around him to the little second floor room right above them.

She disappeared up the winding steps, and Nick sat back down, contemplating removing his other shoe to massage the other foot, only half satisfied with the job he'd done on the first.

Only moments later he heard Rochelle give a surprised yelp.

Coach and Ellis' eyes snapped up from the table, but Nick had already spun on his heels, tearing up the stairs two at a time, his magnum out and ready.

The reporter stood in the threshold, unharmed, a hand over her mouth, but she pointed a finger inside and Nick's gaze followed it.

He gave a little jump himself at the dangling body not four feet from them. A woman– formerly a nurse judging from her attire– hung lifelessly from the rafters, a small stool kicked out from under her legs.

Well that was fucking cheery.

Ellis pushed in close behind him, spying a glance in. His nose gave a violent wrinkle at the sight. "Aw man… that ain't right…" he mumbled with mild disgust. Coach meanwhile towered over his shoulder, bowing his head solemnly in reverence to the deceased.

Rochelle seemed to regain her composure, and Nick was a little surprised when she stepped forward boldly into the room, skirting to get around the body. But her eyes had spotted something, as she bent down towards the ground, snatching up a little bound book with a plain brown cover.

Nick lifted an eyebrow. She cracked it open, brown eyes exploring the insides. "A diary," she breathed, turning her gaze back to the woman. "I bet it was hers."

The gambler gave a shift on his feet, not particularly interested in the memoirs of a suicidal person. The whole thing was grim and morbid enough without added narrative. "You still going to change in here?" he asked. He sure as hell wouldn't want to share a dressing room with a corpse.

Her nose was in the book, distracted by her discovery. "Yeah, yeah," she nodded, giving the three of them a wave of her hand in dismissal.

Nick shrugged and turned to go back down the stairs.

"Thing's were so bad people was hangin' themselves…?" Ellis wondered aloud, taking the steps beside him as they three descended; he sounded incredulous and a little fearful besides.

"Eh," Nick gave another shrug, "you're always going to have people who crack under pressure like this. People who are weak-willed," he reasoned. That was the way of it, survival-of-the-fittest, and some people selected themselves right out of the picture.

Ellis seemed to accept the explanation with a slight hum, drawing subtly tighter to his side.

"She's with the Lord now, son," Coach rumbled in front of them, undermining his words; Nick frowned. The back of his bald head bobbed before them as he plodded heavily down the steps. "That's what matters."

Chapter Text

Rochelle returned not too long later, fully dressed and looking nice. She had cleaned up the residual film on her skin with a few disinfectant wipes she must have snagged from someone's luggage as well, and now set all the dirtied things in a neat pile on an empty place on the floor, off in the far corner of the room.

Nick chewed at the hunk of cheese Ellis had cut him off of the larger wedge with his pocketknife. Each of them had decided to at least snack while they waited things out, and the mechanic had taken to a half-box of Wheat Thins, crunching the squares between his teeth noisily. The girl came over to grab the backpack from the table, unzipping it and setting down her acquisition from upstairs; Nick eyed the small book distrustfully. She dug the vodka out of the bag, rummaging around until she looked up. "Who's got the lighter?" she inquired.

Ellis yanked his thumb over at him wordlessly.

"That'd be me," Nick confirmed, flipping the little device out of his pocket. Ellis had hastily returned it after setting the front step ablaze, and he simply hadn't thought to put it back in the bag yet.

Rochelle extended a hand and he pressed it into her fingers. She started to move away, back to her pile, hips swaying but affect bitter. Nick watched her a moment longer before he decided to stand, pushing away from the table to join her, figuring his company couldn't hurt.

The reporter seemed a little anxious, needlessly moving strands of hair back onto her ear that weren't displaced, spying glances back at him.

"Sorry, am I–" he started, about to apologize.

"No, no. It's fine," she reassured quickly, setting him at ease. She bent down to pour the alcohol over her discarded clothes, not using too much of the flammable liquid, but making sure it was evenly distributed. Lighting a fire in an enclosed space wasn't the greatest of ideas, but it would mostly burn clean and likely not for too long. The reporter hesitated as she put the stopper back in the bottle. "I just…" she shook her head, closing her eyes that had threatened to tear. "This is stupid," she berated herself.

Nick gave a little grunt and shifted on his feet, moving to prop his back against the wall. He was just as tempted to leave it alone as ask, but he was still in some way hoping to make her feel better. "What?"

Rochelle gave a sigh. "I guess its just, these clothes were one of the last things I had left." She paused. "Does that make sense?" she half-laughed, obviously not sure of herself. But he understood. It was a sentimental value thing, belongings that had memory associations attached to them. Getting rid of those things was like getting rid of the memory itself, discarding it.

He should know what it was like to leave everything behind. After all, he'd already done it twice– in leaving 'home' on his eighteenth birthday… only thing he had kept was his 'stang… and in leaving his wife, though she had already technically 'left' him months before he packed his bags and hit the road. The apocalypse would be his third time saying 'sayonara!' to a former existence in order to forge a new one. Hell, who knew, just maybe it'd be the 'charm'. He lifted his eyes, peering across the room, his gaze settling on the mechanic still chewing on crackers with his back towards them. He re-hung his head.

"Yeah," Nick mumbled in response, "leaving things behind isn't easy."

Her brown eyes focused on him, seeming to catch the depth of his words. She laughed again now, more genuinely, but also sardonically. "Well, it is for some people," she sniped.

Nick lifted an eyebrow, confused by the comment, was it addressed to him? Sure, he was practically a drifter at this point in his life, but to say the lifestyle was 'easy' for him was an incorrect judgement, unless she was talking about someone else. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, indignation pricking at his vocal chords, not sure if he should be offended or not, but ready to become defensive.

"Oh, my dad was an asshole," she rolled her eyes, waving a hand at him with a smile of her plump lips.

Not him then. Nick gave a hum, backing off. He was a touch surprised Rochelle had chosen to share something quite so personal like that with him, of all the members of their group. But maybe he gave off 'bad dad' vibes. "Yeah, I had a dick for a father too," he chose to respond, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks and shrugging. No need to go into it any further than that.

Rochelle tittered and fiddled with the lighter. "Well, Mom picked right the second time at least."

The gambler considered her words, recalling the glimpse he had caught of her postcard that morning– he certainly didn't remember seeing another man on there besides what was obviously her brother. "Oh yeah? Where's he?" he asked conversationally.

"Germany," she readily supplied, then lifted a thin black eyebrow with curiosity, undoubtedly for the fact he had guessed he was in a different location than her other family members. "Month-long business trip."

"Good timing," Nick chuckled. As far as he knew, none of this had spread outside of the country… yet. All the airports had been canceling flights after the first thousand or so reported cases– he remembered that much from watching the news reports in his hotel bedroom, only to be stranded in Savannah with an non-refundable voided ticket back to Vegas and boy had he been pissed.

Considering how quickly things had degenerated around him in the Georgian town however, it had been for the best. He could only imagine the damage flying a 747 full of soon-to-be-zombies cross-country and releasing them into the casinos and bars would do. Shit, in the city of sin, it'd spread like wild-fire, there was no doubt in his mind about that. But perhaps this way it had been spared, the same going for the rest of the world.

Ha, yeah, what were the odds?

"Tell me about it," Rochelle laughed herself. "Some people have all the luck, huh?"

"Not us," he muttered before he could stop himself.

Her brown eyes fell away from him, melancholy once more settling over her like a dark cloud. It hadn't been his intention to bring her back down, just a symptom of his cynicism and he now cursed himself for letting it slip. Rochelle gave a long sigh and regarded her clothes again. She gave a flick of the lighter and the small flame sprung up past her thumb. "Well, here goes," she said forlornly. Nick nodded and she dropped the device to the pile.

The little flame leapt to the alcohol and took in a rush.

The reporter stood, sidling up next to him, so close he could feel the warmth of her proximity. He bit his lip and reached out the couple of inches between them to give her forearm a reassuring stroke. She flinched at first in reaction to his touch, but then relaxed, shifting to stand on one hip, and they both just stood and watched it burn.

"I should have listened to you…" she said suddenly, on the verge of a sob.

Nick quirked an eyebrow. Part of him was surprised to hear the words, figuring the girl was far too proud and stubborn to actually admit she might have been wrong. But another part of him was immediately apologetic himself, because though he had fought hard not to come down this way, something deep down in the pit of his stomach told him it had been the right decision and he had been the wrong one. Nick hesitated, not sure what to say, letting his hand fall away from her arm. The light of the fire began to burn purples and greens into his vision, his gaze so unwaveringly upon it.

He shook his head. "No, I think… it's important we came down here."

Her head turned, brown eyes blinking up at him. He didn't reciprocate the look, made a little awkward by it, and after a while she too returned her gaze back to the fire. "Thanks, Nick," she said in a small voice.

"Don't mention it, sweetheart," he returned with a careless shrug, and then there was silence once again. Nick stared down at the pink top as the last of it charred to black, swallowing up the figures on the front icon. "Depeche Mode, huh?" he commented, trying to alleviate some of the tension still strung between them.

She laughed gently, rubbing her arms. "Yeah…"

"I used to listen to them," he shared, not sure why.

Interest perked in her brown eyes. "Oh yeah? You have a favorite album?" she asked with immediacy.

Nick felt himself form an automatic chuckle to the question. He'd listened to a lot of songs, lots of artists, not just Depeche Mode, on those car rides back to Pomona; he just wasn't ever really the type to collect cassette tapes to fawn over a particular band and its works. "Nah, I was never that into them," he shrugged. The girl frowned slightly. He hurried to keep going so as not to disappoint her. "But 'Enjoy the Silence' really… struck a chord with me, I guess you could say." He swallowed, hating how much that seemingly small amount of information opened him up to her, as she was undoubtedly very familiar with the lyrics of the particular song.

The first time he'd heard it had been over the radio in Al's truck. It had been a huge hit and the stations did what they always did with a new popular song, they played it and played it and played it some more. But that very first time he could remember not paying too much attention when it came on, just barely hearing that first chorus before he leaned forward and turned up the volume to hear loud and clear the next lyrics that sent shivers down his spine: "Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm."

Al learned to turn up the radio for him when it came on after that, even though it was overplayed for easily a couple months. Nick just wished Al would have also figured out why he loved the song so much, that he was all he ever wanted, all he ever needed…

But Rochelle didn't pry. "I can see where it might," she said, keeping it at that; he was thankful.

They stood in continued silence as they watched the flames start to die down at last, their job of consuming the fabric complete, leaving nothing but charred remains. "Ellis was right about you," she murmured.

Nick felt his brow pull downward.

"You're not so bad of a guy," Rochelle said.

His poker face completely dropped, disarmed by the girl's sentiment. She paused for a beat, then grinned at him impishly. "Not that I'd ever date you."

He laughed, a smirk cracking across his maw. "The feeling is mutual," he shot back and she laughed all the harder.

But in the back of his mind, his thoughts raced because it had been an awful long time since he had been told he was a good person, since he had honestly felt like a good person.

Maybe the third time was the charm.

Chapter Text

They waited. And waited. And while they waited, they found new clothes to replaced soiled ones, ate a dinner of much-too-dry cereal, and waited some more.

A more thorough search of the baggage revealed a second Midnight Riders tee, a men's small– just how he liked them– and he had wasted no time in yanking his Bullshifters shirt off his head to don the new piece of clothing. It fit him like a glove, conforming to his pecs and showing off his muscles through the fabric– he gave a few flexes just to make sure. That'd scare those zombies into thinking twice about messing with him. Coach meanwhile, found new khakis and a polo as a replacement to his current ones, though Ellis did notice the big man seemed reluctant to part with his school uniform, eventually popping the seams around the FHS patch that had adorned the left breast to tuck safely into a pocket. And Nick, unsurprisingly, only sought clean boxers and socks. Ellis had to wonder if he'd ever see the gambling man in anything other than that pressed white suit. Goddamn, he'd bet a hundred dollars the man would look good in just a plain cotton t-shirt and a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans, and if he let his hair down…

Okay, he'd admit, it was a bit of a weird thought, but there wasn't a whole lot to do while they waited.

One thing he had done was he had tried, repeatedly, to get Coach on his side about checking out the green circles on the southeastern map. But like Nick, the older man was leery about the idea, if not more so, and seemed to avoid his dialogue on the subject. The gambler hadn't spoken a word about it since upstairs, staying on the sidelines so as to not get involved. And Rochelle hadn't voiced any strong opinions either.

Ellis drummed his fingers anxiously on the tabletop where the four of them sat. Besides the excursion to the armory on site, they didn't really have much of a game plan. Get out of the NAS. Head for New Orleans. Check Tallahassee and Mobile on the way. A continuation of the original plan back when they left Savannah. Yet they had been thrown this new map, a potential boon– this new source of information. And though none of them knew what it necessarily meant, he was desperate to find out. He spoke up again with a casual tone. "Cuz ya know, if they were internments, we could pretty much–"

"Boy, I told you," the football player rumbled, cutting him quickly off, "we'll look if we have time, but our priority is gettin' to Nawleans. We ain't need some wild goose-chase that's gonna land us knee-deep in shit."

Ellis frowned hard and hid behind the bill of his hat, a hint of animosity eating him up around the edges. The older man had never been this gruff with him before and rightly he wasn't used to it. In fact he was downright angry because it felt like Coach was just blowing him off rather than hearing him out. He swallowed and stubbornly continued. "M'jus' sayin', I dun see no harm in lookin', we wouldn't lose more than a couple'a days at the very most an'…"

"That's another couple days we fight not knowin' if we'll have ammo, another couple days we eat not knowin' if we'll have food. How many bodies we seen today, youngin'?" Coach laid into him, "You wanna end up as one of 'em?"

Ellis stared hard at the grooves in the table, jabbing his pocketknife into the wood absently, knowing he had been silenced. "No," he said, though the admittance was forced. Being reminded of the massacre and their helplessness only made his mood more bitter and brooding, and he drug the blade across the table's surface, watching it notch the wood. Coach had a good point about their supplies; circumstances had landed them where they were now, with little of each, and every consecutive day they spent out in the apocalypse was essentially a gamble. But going to one of the locations on the map could be a chance to learn… well, who knew all what! Maybe they'd learn why CEDA had abandoned so many evacs, maybe they'd learn why the military had gotten involved or what was happening with the rest of the country. There was just no telling.

Of course the one thing that stood out clearest in his mind was the possibility of learning the whereabouts of his family. He understood the desire for haste– especially after they'd lost a good day and a half here in Jacksonville when they could have detoured around the metropolis– every day was one more that New Orleans might not be open, when it too, like all the rest, became an ugly red X on the map. But he refused to settle for disregarding this. Those green circles had to mean something. He was sure of it. He tried to maintain an agreeable voice. "I know it could be dangerous," he prefaced, "but there's a lot we don't know, an' I… I have a good feelin' about this."

And then Coach laughed at him. It was a sardonic laugh, his lips pulled back into a toothy but sad grin, and he shook his head back and forth slowly. "Boy, when don't you have a good feelin' about things?" he asked, almost wearily.

Ellis recoiled, hurt by the words. He'd always tried his very best to maintain an optimistic outlook on life, even when things were rough or looked like they might never get better– the zombieapocalypse couldn't even change that. The hurt quickly became anger, sparking up inside him like someone had struck a match against his heart. He regarded the eldest man across the table with unwavering determination. "Mah family's out there somewhere," he said sternly. "And if there's any hope, any way at all fer me tuh find 'em, m'gonna."

Rochelle's hand came out to touch his forearm. "We'll find them, sweetie," she whispered. "Don't worry, it'll be okay."

But he didn't want to hear her patronizing words. Because they were empty; she was just saying them to get him to calm down, to make him forget about it. He leveled a glare at the reporter. "Well that's mighty easy fer you tuh say, now ain't it, Ro?" he snapped back.

She faltered, her face twisting with a mix of confusion and hurt. "I don't… what do you…?" she started.

"Cuz yer family's fine, now ain't they?" Ellis continued, unable to stop, his frame now coursing with ire as his jealousy spilled forth. "An' ya know it. Ya ain't got a thing tuh worry about, cuz they're waitin' for you jus' as safe as could be in an internment somewhere– hell, they even sent you a well-wishin' card!"

The football player rose to his full height, towering over them as he jabbed a finger into the table, voice booming. "This right here is what we got. You'd best accept that, the both of you."

The words struck him like a betrayal. Rochelle slunk back as well, her brown eyes falling to the floor. Ellis kept his own hard on Coach. Of all the things the big man might have said, he hadn't expected those. What happened to 'chin up, eyes forward' Coach? How could he even speak to them like that– tell them to forget their families? Ellis shook his head. "I can't believe what m'hearin'." He scoffed disbelievingly. "What the hell, Coach? What happened to yer faith, man??" His voice rose, volume increasing. "That we'd be a'right an' make it through this, see our families again? What the hell happened tuh the man I been followin'? Heck, that we all've been followin'??"

"El," the crystal clear conman's voice brought him out of his tirade. He peered at the man, lost and forgotten for his silence in watching things play out. The green eyes didn't waver or blink; there was warning in them– not a harsh warning, but a gentle one that reigned him in, told him he had gone too far. He looked back to Coach, who seemed visibly effected by his words, still standing, but speechless. Guilt rushed into him, embarrassed that he had lost his temper at his friends, that he had lashed out at Rochelle and then snapped at Coach. Damn, what sort of friend was he?

Ellis pushed himself from the table and mumbled an "M'sorry." as he stood. He began to head away from the table to give them some likely much needed space, pulling his hat from his head to run his fingers through the curled mess, hating himself for the way he had just acted.

He could remember a time years ago, back when Emma had been not more than seven years old, just a year after their Pa had passed away. She'd been playing on the sidewalk, and as kids always seemed to do, she rushed without looking to chase after a little toy race car that she'd rolled out into the street. And if he hadn't have been there to snatch her by the wrist and yank her back, she might just have been hit by the pickup rolling down the little residential street too fast for its own good. Instead of just scolding her, warning her to be more careful next time, he had yelled– and sure, he'd been under a lot of stress that first year without his Pa, but that didn't excuse the way he had acted… because he had practically screamed at her, about what could have happened to her, about how their Ma would feel if he had to bring her little limp crushed body home. He had made Emma cry so hard with the words, and it hadn't been meant to make her feel bad, it had been meant to let her know just how much she meant to their Ma, and to him…

In a lot of ways, what had just happened was similar. Not that he expected any of them to realize it. They all wanted to rush out to New Orleans without looking both ways– at all the options. He pressed his shoulder into the wall and took to staring at the laces of his boots.

Coach spoke up only a moment later. "Ellis," he said to the young man's turned back.

Ellis swallowed with a touch of anxiety and looked back at him.

"You got a good heart in you, boy," Coach delivered with sincerity. His large frame seemed to sag with weight as he sat, running a hand over the top of his bald head. "I think… I think this apocalypse is startin' to get to me…" he admitted.

Rochelle gave a small pained laugh. "I think it's getting to all of us…"

The big man nodded solemnly, as did Nick.

Ellis leaned against the wall and shut his eyes, feeling the weight of his words, but a moment later he opened them, noting the absence of something. "Is it... quiet?" he asked suddenly.

The other three survivors went silent, wide-eyed and listening. Sometime during their back-and-forth, the banging had stopped. Praise the dear Lord in Heaven, it had stopped.

"They're... gone?" Rochelle asked.

Well, there was really only one way to find out. He stooped to begin moving the blockade, and soon Nick and Coach and Rochelle got up from the table and joined him, all of them working together to push and pull the furniture and boxes away, haste and hope in their motions.

Ellis grabbed the handle and yanked it inward, breath held.

The airfield lie before them, the scattering of burnt corpses from the molotov, but no living infected remained; without the scent of bile to attract them, they had wandered off in search of food elsewhere.

They were alone at long last. They could finally get a move on. Though probably not towards Starke. He decided he wouldn't press the matter any further. Not yet anyway, not now.

"Pack up," Coach asserted.

Chapter Text

Ellis took it upon himself to go scope things out while the others were busy inside, saddling up.

In spite of recent events, he found himself grinning smartly to himself, touching the brim of his hat with a prideful nod as he quickly scouted the area. He had started to doubt himself, that he had been right about the whole 'bile-attracting-zombies' thing at all, but now it was clear his inference had saved them the remainder of their ammunition and a messy– and potentially hazardous– exit from the tower. He may have only gotten a few scratches, but hell if he wanted more cuz the ones he had were already starting to itch like a son-of-a-gun under the gauze. He fussed with the bandages, trying to scratch through them with his short nails but had little luck finding much relief.

"Fuck," he heard the curse before anything else. Ellis turned in place. The older man had come out from the control tower behind him and now scowled at the skyline, forehead wrinkled with the grooves of annoyance. "Nearly sundown," he elucidated.

Ellis frowned at the west and lifted an arm; the sun a mere hand length away from the horizon, less than an hour to setting. It should be enough time for them to check out the armory, but they were not getting out of the NAS tonight, that was for damn sure. The control tower had already proven itself to be a safe hideaway, though he was god-awful sick of it, so he could only assume they would be staying until morning. It was frustrating how one single misstep at the gate had cost them the entire day, forcing them to bunker down rather than make progress. "Guess we're gonna hafta spend the night here," he mumbled.

"Not what I wanted to do," the older man groused, echoing his thoughts. Ellis watched the gambler comb his hand through his hair. Though the gesture was made in irritation, he couldn't help but admire how the strands swept back through the webbing in those talented fingers, at how dark and thick it looked– damn, did he want to touch it. "At least now I can finally take a piss though," he commented and Ellis couldn't help but laugh, now understanding why he had been joined outside.

"Been holdin' it awhile, huh?" he poked as the man strode past him to stop in front of the nearest planter box. He stuffed his hands in his coverall pockets as he heard his fly being drawn down, averting his eyes politely so the cardshark could do his business, though he doubted Nick cared one way or the other.

The man gave a sigh of relief as the stream of urine began to leave him, hitting the spoil in soft pats. "I was just about ready to hose down the room upstairs," he joked with the hint of seriousness.

Ellis snorted a laugh. They'd all been slightly dehydrated in their week and a half, simply because carrying too much liquid with them was a burden, but considering how they had all more or less 'tanked up', so to speak, while searching the houses earlier that morning, it sounded like an awfully good idea to him now too. He waited for Nick to finish up. "Mah turn," he announced.

"Be my guest," Nick chuckled and motioned his hands at the shrub.

Ellis sauntered over to it casually and dropped his hand inside his coveralls and the jeans beneath them to fish himself out. He let his body lax so his bladder would release its clutch on the liquid waste, watching as it arched into the planter box. He peeked a glance over his shoulder, looking to see if the man had gone back inside yet after relieving himself.

He hadn't however. The cardshark had taken up a place against the wall of the building, leaning into it as he chewed at a hangnail on his pinkie, looking for all the world bored, or maybe contemplative, he couldn't tell which, but he hadn't gone in yet. Anxiously he wondered if the man was going to bring up what had gone on inside or if he was just keeping him company. He hoped for the latter, because he certainly wasn't ready to discuss the former.

Ellis shook off quickly and tucked himself neatly away before turning back to face him. He dug into his repository to fill the silence. "Ya know, this one time Clayton– who was one'a our mechanics back at the shop, new at the time acshuhly, we'd jus' hired him on a couple'a weeks before– he went wit' us tuh the bar after work, an' he bet Keith a'hundred dollars tha' he couldn't hold it fer twenty-four hours."

He watched Nick's lips curl at the corners, but the man couldn't hold it back and gave a laugh. "Was that before or after drinking?" the conman asked.

"After," Ellis readily supplied. "I reckon he'd tossed back a couple, maybe even three, beers a'fore that. I mean, wouldn't'a been all that sporting if he hadn't, now would it?" He gave a laugh at the memory. "You should'a seen him at the shop the next day, tryin' tuh work. All'a us agreed tuh leave all the fluid-related tasks tuh him… pressurizin' the brake lines, replacin' windshield cleaner, refillin' the radiators, addin' antifreeze, all'a that." He shook his head with grin. "But the worst was the oil changes. Drainin' all that oil intuh the pan. Oh man, he was squirmin' around under them cars like a worm stuck out on the sidewalk in a rainstorm. It was huh-larious."

"And?" Nick seemed to hang onto his words. "Did he make it?"

"Oh, he made it the twenty-four hours, he did," Ellis assured him. "Last hour was torture though, I reckon. We went back out tuh the bar again that night, an' a'course Clayton offered tuh buy him a drink an' Keith wouldn't touch it, jus' left it there sittin' on the bar, sweatin' an' gettin' warm. He was jus' there on his stool, starin' at the clock, fidgetin' an' wrigglin'– dunno why, tha' only makes it worse, he should'a known that. But his mistake was when ol' Clayton wagered double or nothin' tha' he couldn't hold it another two– just another two, tha' was all. Easy, compared tuh the twenty-four, right?" He paused to give a chuckle. "He soiled hisself not one hour later, right there in front'a God an' e'erybody– oh Lord was that a hoot!"

"Sounds hilarious," Nick commented, the grin still held on his features.

Ellis nodded. "Yeah, we had some good times, we did." He stared out at the lowering sun, nostalgia creeping over him. Yeah, he and the guys from the shop had had lots of boyish fun, but of the things in his life pre-apocalypse, it wasn't one of the things he missed. In fact, he was almost a little glad to be rid of it. The immaturity and the rowdiness. It had never quite suited him, though of course he participated from time to time and enjoyed it well enough once involved. It was weird though… just two weeks ago he'd been down there at the bar, tossing a couple back, yukking it up, but it felt so distant now… like it hadn't ever even been, just some figment of his imagination or maybe something he'd seen in a movie rather than actually lived. He looked over to the gambler who hadn't yet spoken in response, pulling his hat from his head to fiddle with the edge of the bill. "Ya ever feel like ya didn't quite belong?" he asked out of the blue.

The green eyes studied him a moment, obviously piqued by the change of subject to a more serious one. The man shook his head, giving a small chuckle, "Oh yeah, plenty."

"Really?" Ellis couldn't help but ask now, a little surprised by the answer, curiosity bubbling up inside him, wanting to know more. He subconsciously leaned forward. "When?"

The older man's nose wrinkled, seeming to choose his words ahead of time before saying them. "Mostly when I was younger," he said, remaining vague.

"Oh," Ellis responded, rubbing at his arm that held his hat anxiously. He had been hoping for a little more than that, but he wasn't going to press the man any further than he wanted to go.

But Nick made to continue the dialogue. "I take it your buddies at work weren't really your type?" he asked, placing the conversation back on him.

"Ah, well, y'know, yes an' no," Ellis admitted. "They were fun tuh clown around with, but it didn't go a whole lot deeper than that. I reckon I grew up a little faster than they did is all… Can't really blame 'em fer that." He gave a shrug.

"Well, they probably weren't trying to support an entire family," Nick clicked his tongue pointedly.

Ellis felt his eyes widen as he looked to the other man. Talk about hitting the nail on the goddamn head. Nick actually understood. Where his coworkers– especially Keith– were always trying to get him to 'loosen up', take a risk here and there, stop scrimping with his cash so much and enjoy himself, Nick seemed to be able to see that the reason he had ditched a few of his luxuries, skipped out on a few likely fun outings, worked a couple extra shifts, and been that way hadn't been because he wanted to, but because he had to. For the good of his family, he had to.

He felt his body take on a sudden shake, wrestling with his emotions as he stared at the logo on his hat. He'd done everything and more for his Ma and siblings. His Pa had left him with that responsibility before he died, told him to look after them, that he was the man of the house, and he'd taken that responsibility, upheld it to the best of his ability.

And now… now he didn't even know if they were alive.

His body trembled. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be with them, by their sides, looking after them, supporting them, protecting them. None of them had the temperment for this kind of thing– an apocalypse. He just couldn't imagine them wandering the country, scavenging and gunning down hordes of undead to stay alive. Even if they had gotten to evac in Savannah or somewhere else, had they actually been sent to an internment where things were safe, or would they have been lined up against a wall and shot?

He couldn't hold it back any longer. He finally broke down into tears, collapsing to his knees right there in front of the older man. He buried his face in his hands, his cap flung aside as his breath came in gasping pulls.

Nick was by his side in an instant, those arms wrapping around him tight.

"I can't– I can't believe…" he sobbed, "e'erything I ever did… fer them… was all for nothin'…"

"Jesus Christ, kid, don't talk like that…" Nick murmured, shaking his shoulders slightly, trying to snap him out of it, genuine concern in his voice.

Ellis turned and dug his face into the gambler's neck, clinging to him frailly. He ground himself into the stubble there, finding its sharp bite consoling. "S'so h-hard…" he hiccuped, "tuh keep hopin' they're a'right…" He felt the soft hands skim up and down his back, but the man remained silent and impassive, issuing no words of reassurance or comfort.

"I'm sorry, El," he finally spoke.

Ellis curled up tighter into himself and let the tears flow, rolling down his cheeks and catching on the white jacket beneath his chin. He watched as the droplets soaked into the expensive fabric and vanished, and gradually he became calmer, his breathing returning to normal as he regained control of himself. Coach's words reverberated in his head. This right here is what we got. And he was right. This was what he had, at least for now. For now, he needed to let his family go, focus on the one he had– Nick and Rochelle and Coach. He needed to protect them. That's what he had been put here for.

Eventually he pulled back away from the gambler, composed, looking at him with placid, but still damp eyes. "Yer always gonna be here for me, right, Nick?" he asked.

The older man nodded without hesitation. "Absolutely, Ellis."

Ellis felt a smile crack across his face despite the pain in his chest. "Then that's all I need…" he breathed. He dug into his pocket, finding the postcard he had picked up just that morning. The girl with the giraffe still smiled up at him, encouraging him to be brave, to keep going, to have faith. But he couldn't accept it– her bravery was meant for someone else, meant for her grandparents, not him. Ellis swallowed. He couldn't bring himself to tear it up, so instead he held out his hand and let the wind sweep it away, and with it, his false hope.

Then he got up, lifting his chin as he readjusted his hat.

Time to go kill some motherfucking zombies.

Chapter Text

They made good time to the armory, the retreating sun behind them adding haste to their steps, like a ticking timer in the sky… each shifting, lengthening shadow a countdown from safety to peril.

He slugged off a couple of growling, hissing approaching infected, barrel of his magnum smoking with three shots remaining as they stood at the door to the arsenal.

"Damn thing is padlocked," Coach grumbled, said lock firm in his meaty grip. He gave it a couple of tugs, proving it wasn't going anywhere without extra 'convincing'. Nick glanced at it. It was a combination lock. He might be able to pop it with his ear if he was given some time and quiet–

Rochelle's rifle sounded.

That clearly wasn't going to happen. He glowered and the football player got the message.

"Gimme some room, youngin's," Coach instructed. They all took a good step back. He brandished his aluminum bat, rolling it in his hands to get a firm hold between his gloves, and began swinging, hammering away on the metallic clasp one loud thunk at a time.

Nick wet his lips, watching the descending sun. He could almost hear the seconds ticking by in his head, but he was sure it was his imagination inventing unfounded concerns that they didn't have enough time for this 'quick' excursion. They needed ammo, sure, but if they got surrounded in the dark and couldn't see where to shoot, all the ammo in the world wouldn't help them.

Ellis stood tall beside him. Since his breakdown there had only been diligence and determination in both his stance and eyes, a more somber side that Nick wasn't used to seeing from him. He was amazingly beautiful that way… his jaw set, brow drawn down just a touch… he stared a while longer at his profile, admiring how strong he looked. Still and all, he was worried about the kid, feeling like he was the one who had accidentally set him off again. Experimentally he reached out, giving Ellis' arm a friendly squeeze, a 'relax, kiddo' conveyed but unspoken on his lips and the mechanic's baby blues softened a touch. He smiled in return, putting his palm over Nick's hand and squeezed back.

It was so weird how they had established this deep bond between them, how they shared touches that were so intimate yet non-sexual. God, he loved it as much as it drove him crazy, because he longed to be closer, but he was so afraid to lose what he had.

Which sounded about as asinine as the stereotypical school crush suffered by people less than half his age.

The lock popped loose then suddenly, shattering against the pavement. Coach drug the back of his hand across his brow, having worked up a sweat; Nick turned to clap him on the back. "Nice lock-smithing, big guy." The football player gave a chuckle and they all quickly filed inside, shutting the door closed behind them so nothing could get the drop on them.

"Whoa, shit, look at this stuff…" Ellis murmured in awe. Large belt guns and turrets, meant for mounting to the ground or large vehicles were scattered about the room in droves, strings of bullets fed into their mouths, ready to go. There were even some bombshells and missiles hanging around for loading into the guns on ships and anti-air cannons. It was kind of humbling, but they were in a military airbase after all. Nick moved past the heavier equipment, further in, his discerning eyes locking on a number of storage cabinets against the wall. Ellis and Rochelle and Coach all hurried after him.

He stopped in front of a dull green locker and readily pulled it open, greeted by a literal row of SPAS-12s, their surfaces a black luster and gleaming in the light.

At the sight, his compatriots began doing the same, opening each and every crate and cabinet, revealing row after row, cache after cache of guns upon guns upon glorious guns.

Nick dropped to click open a safety box he had found in one of the cabinets, kneeling. His green eyes glimmered. "Jackpot," he grinned, propping the lid of the box up. He wrapped his fingers around the shiny magnum that had been stored neatly inside, lifting it up to admire it. Not only was there the handgun, the case held another leg holster and five more clips, two of which were 'extended' magazines meant for housing ten shots each instead of the typical seven. They'd stick out the bottom of the grip when inserted, but function had finally trumped form in his book. He honed in on the ammo next, grabbing the appropriate square packages and opening them up– he'd load a couple magazines now for the trek back but save the rest of the loading for when they were safe in the control tower once again.

"Oh. Mah. God." Ellis exclaimed, pronouncing each word on its own, his eyes gone wide as he held up his prize. Nick looked over; the mechanic held a .50 cal military sniper rifle, cradled in his arms almost as if it were a small child.

Yeah, he could see where the kid would really get a kick out of that.

"Oh Lord, this's so cool…" he said reverently, hands gliding over the notched black surface. Ellis hefted it up with ease, the extra weight not even a trifle in the muscular arms, pressing his eye to the scope, and only a second later he started chuckling merrily. "Oh ho ho… those sons'a bitches ain't gonna know what hit 'em!"

The mechanic shucked the nearly empty hunting rifle from his back and secured the strap of the new weapon across his chest. He caught Nick's eyes on him and proceeded to grin. "How do I look?" he joked, striking a pose with the gun.

Nick secured the second strap around his left thigh, mirroring the one on the right. He holstered his own new acquisition before speaking. "Like a badass zombie-killing machine," he grinned and Ellis literally beamed.

Coach went for one of the SPASes while Rochelle replaced her rifle with an M-16. It was a gun that probably would have been too heavy for her to lift just two weeks ago, but now she shouldered it easily, the muzzle held out unwaveringly in front of her as she aimed it experimentally around the room.

Nick contemplated her switch from scoped to assault rifle– there was quite a bit of difference in the way each handled and he didn't want her choosing something that she would find awkward in the middle of a firefight. A constant barrage of bullet stream would be far more difficult to keep steady and accurate than something that fired one pull of the trigger at a time. He stepped up to the reporter. "Give it a shot," he said, motioning over at the far wall where a number of half-blown out targets were pinned up with tacks.

She lifted a thin black eyebrow at him before lifting the gun, humoring him in his suggestion. Nick stepped back and watched her stance as she emptied a quarter of a clip, her earrings moving with the kick of the gun, but the rest of her remained solid and each bullet found its mark somewhere in the target's torso.

Well, maybe it was a better choice; he'd take it back. He gave her a half-sided smirk. "Nice."

She smiled confidently at him.

A sharp shot rang out beside them unexpectedly, a large bullet hole appearing dead center in the target's head. Nick cast a sideways glance at the mechanic who had done it.

"Oh ho… that kicks like a son-of-a-gun!" Ellis grinned merrily, then seemed to notice their eyes on him. "Sorry, were we done practicin'?" he asked as he lowered the sniper rifle, unable to hide the mischief curling his lips and wrinkling his eyes.

Damn, he wanted to just pin the southerner against the wall and french those smirking lips for the words. What a scamp.

"We got everything we need?" Coach asked, reminding them of the need to get a move on back to the control tower. Dark was falling.

"Just about," Nick responded, returning to the submachine gun cache. No more taking chances, no more scrimping with ammunition. He went ahead and threw a few light uzis into a gun bag, along with several clips for them and ammunition, slinging the extra weight over his shoulders with the rest of what he was hauling. They weren't fantastic weapons by any means, but in a bind they'd be glad to have them, that much he knew.

"You guys want to take a handgun?" he recommended to both football player and reporter, holding out two pistols he had found towards them. They were the same model as Ellis' pistol. Every little bit could help.

Rochelle nodded and fastened it and an accompanying holster to her right hip. Coach did the same, the handgun almost comically tiny in his large hand before he slid it into its carrying case. They both grabbed clips and Nick stored away more ammo in the gun bag for loading.

"Alright," the football player nodded, "let's get a move on." And back out they went, a new sense of security to their steps.

Chapter Text

Dusk was falling right as they got back to the tower, hardly any light to spare. They barricaded the door as before and re-settled in. Nick immediately set to filling his now sixteen magazines with rounds, Coach and Rochelle following his example with their new handguns; and Ellis took out the cleaning kit to go over his new baby, teaching himself how to dismantle and reassemble the military weapon with quick ease. Nick watched him from afar, just glad to see a smile on the kid's face again, whatever the reason. Within the next few minutes they all four headed towards 'bed', each finding themselves a place to lie down inside the room.

Rochelle was kind enough to pull some blankets out from the luggage that she had stumbled across in her earlier search, what would serve as their 'comforts' for the night. Lot of comfort they were– too thin to really supply much additional warmth, or serve as proper padding either. Nick gave a grumble, fiddling with the hem of his in his lap. The fucking thing was kind of scratchy too.

Since the control tower had proven itself against the bombardment of infected for several hours beforehand, they didn't choose to establish a watch, all laying down to catch a little extra sleep they probably all sorely needed. The plan was they'd all awaken at the same time in the morning, refreshed and refurbished, and make tracks out of Jacksonville.

Now if only he could get to sleep. Nick sat propped against the wall, wide-awake, unable to get his eyes to shut despite the darkness now overwhelming the room in the night hours. His eyes had fully adjusted though, able to see through the pitch. Coach was sawing logs in a chair a few feet away, his large chest rising and falling in lumbering breaths, and Rochelle seemed to have found sleep as well, curled over a suitcase to rest her head. No doubt the fact that the two had gotten up six hours before either he or Ellis had something to do with their ease in falling unconscious. He peered over at the mechanic. Ellis repositioned again, wriggling against the hard linoleum floor. Poor kid was probably attempting to find some way to lie comfortably– Nick had already given up that futile quest himself, resigning himself to his current semi-reclined position. He watched as Ellis tugged his blanket higher on his shoulders, but doing so left his bare feet to stick out the bottom. He nearly laughed; you'd think with how short he was it wouldn't be an issue, but apparently he wasn't short enough even for crappy airplane blankets. He heard the southerner give a wearied sigh.

"You're not sleeping either, huh, sport?" he spoke up, his voice still carrying a slight amusement at his plight.

Ellis gave a chuckle, sitting up. "Nah, not too well," he admitted. Nick merely nodded. The blue eyes seemed to flash as they met one another's gaze through the dark. There was some hesitation, but Ellis moved closer… joining him against the wall, until their sides were nearly touching; Nick had to repress the urge to throw an arm over his shoulders… though at this point, he didn't know why he did. Ellis wouldn't protest the action, hell, he'd probably even welcome it. But maybe he just didn't want to delude himself…

The mechanic reached out, scooping his hat up from the floor to put it back over his hair. "We didn't really get our talk tonight…" he pointed out in a murmur, propping his elbows on his knees and sort of absently twiddling his thumbs.

Nick was quiet a moment. It was true, they hadn't. And it had become commonplace, something… cathartic, to look forward to when the day was done, when they had survived another day. They'd have to keep it down so as to not disturb the others, but a quick chat couldn't hurt, maybe they'd both get to sleep better afterwards. "Well, what did you want to talk about?" he asked.

"Shucks, man, it don't matter," Ellis gave a quiet laugh, leaning his head to the side so it rested on his jacketed shoulder; Nick's heart responded with a couple of fast beats. "Not tuh me anyhow," the mechanic continued, "I jus' wanna…" he stopped himself short.

"Want to what?" Nick picked up on it.

"Get to know one another better…" he added shyly, drawing his blanket back up on his lap.

Nick felt himself grin in the low light, beside himself. "I'd like that too, sport."

There was a short silence before Ellis seemed to finally settle on what to talk about. "I heard'ja mention yer dad tuh Ro'…" he opened quietly.

Oh, yeah, he had. A frown tugged at Nick's lips. He wasn't surprised Ellis had overheard, though he was a little leery of discussing the subject even now. Sure, he was comfortable with Ellis, but he still didn't like to think on, let alone talk about, the man that had been the bane of his existence the majority of his childhood. "Yeah," he merely confirmed, not sure where this was going.

"Was he…" Ellis started, then stopped, as if second-guessing himself. "Was he abusive?" he asked in a meek voice, clearly quite worried.

Nick couldn't help but give a little chuckle, his gaze at the ground. "That depends on how you view it," he admitted, wetting his lips before clarifying. "He was disciplinary."

"I see," the southerner nodded.

Nick flattened himself against the wall, straightening his spine. "Not saying that I didn't sometimes deserve it. I did a lot of shit I shouldn't have."

The young man paused in thought. "Well, there's a big difference between punishin' someone an' well… like, tellin' them what they done wrong an' why… tryin' tuh help them out, give 'em guidance…"

"Different era, kid."

"S'pose…" Ellis trailed off.

Nick blinked, the dialogue culling up memories in his head. He could remember the first time he had stolen one of his father's credit cards. The man always kept his wallet on the nightstand beside the bed– it wasn't habit, it was rule– and Nick had nabbed it during one of his mother and father's more violent sexual nights while they were plenty distracted from his entrance and exit of the master bedroom suite. And he'd thought he had been being rather smart, choosing one of the lesser used cards, as his father would be less likely to notice its absence over the course of his day. Nick had taken it to school, showed it off to a few peers– who were quite in awe considering it was fifth grade– and on his way back home, stopped at the record store which had just started stocking CDs and CD players– the new thing!– and bought a few that struck his fancy. The manager of course questioned him, but he lied smoothly that his father had said it was okay to use his card and presented him with a forged note and signature as proof. Plus it was easy to believe a kid in a blazer; he probably looked like he was from the fancy private school.

He thought he'd gotten away with the $300 some dollar purchase for about a month, successfully having returned the card without his father's knowledge that it had ever been gone and keeping his prize tucked away except when doing to and from school. He'd just neglected to remember the bill would say where the purchase was made and that his father rarely shopped there.

He'd been dragged out of his bedroom by the ear and belted severely. And then his father searched his room until he found the device and CDs hidden away in his backpack, and rather than return them to the store, he'd smashed them all to pieces right there before his eyes on the living room floor. Fuck he could remember how angry he'd been, still smarting from the punishment that had raised welts on his skin and seething at the unfairness of it all. If he wasn't going to take it back and get his money refunded, why not let him keep it?

Nick guessed that it was supposed to be a lesson of some sort, not to steal and then lie about it, but it hadn't worked all that well.

The next time he stole the card he went to the hardware store and bought himself a sturdy bolt lock and the tools necessary to install it into his bedroom door. And ever after he hadn't had to endure his father's physical punishment again– unless the man was waiting for him after school at the front door… Either way, he kept wearing those blazers.

Nick moved to put his arm around the kid at last, giving him a reassuring smile. "It was a long time ago, I'm past it. Don't worry about it."

Ellis didn't look entirely convinced, and he probably shouldn't be, but he nodded. "Yeah, alright." The mechanic gave a small wriggle against him. "S'too bad ya couldn't meet mah Pop," he wondered aloud. He gave a firm nod of his head. "He worked hard, but he was always there for ya if ya needed him tuh lend a hand or whatever. To his family, us kids, friends, neighbors, acquaintances, didn't matter, was all the same tuh him. Well… in a way, y'know, obviously he done cared about Ma an' us kids more than anyone else, but ya know…" he rambled slightly.

Nick nodded, just glad to be off the subject of his own family. "Yeah, I get you."

"I guess m'sayin' that I bet he would'a been willin' tuh be there fer you too…" Ellis scratched the back of his head, looking a touch awkward as he peered up at him.

The gambler gave a small laugh, amused at the southerner's odd, impossible offer of sharing his father. At the same time, it was a bit touching, and he appreciated the sentiment. Another father, any other father, would have been more than welcome at the time, shit, that was for sure. "Sounds like he was a good guy," he spoke.

"Ain't the half'a it," the younger male shook his head, staring forward into the darkness. He took a brief pause before speaking again. "I keep tryin'… tuh be like him, y'know? Tuh do what he taught me, live by his example, but I…" He dropped his head, looking upset. "I always feel like I fail."

Nick's eyebrows knotted, a little surprised by the admission that had popped out of seemingly nowhere. "How's that?" he said with some incredulity. "You're like the nicest kid I know, El."

"Well, thanks fer that," Ellis chuckled, moving underneath his arm to kind of hug at himself. Nick rubbed his back gently with his palm as the southerner went on. "He was more than jus' nice though. He was patient, an' dependable, an' charitable... An' I dunno if he ever had a bad thought about anyone."

"Pssh," Nick scoffed. "I'm sure he did, he just might not have ever let on," he said sneakily, lifting an eyebrow.

The mechanic gave a laugh. "Yeah, ya prolly got that one right." He gave a sigh and fiddled with his hat. Nick studied him, trying to puzzle out this new well of information. The kid sure must idolize his old man. And from what El was describing, probably too much; he sounded impossible to live up to. He wondered at the younger man's need to imitate him, not sure what would have made it so strong within him. "I jus'… I feel so bad about what I said to Coach an' Ro'…" Ellis breathed, going on. "Mah Pa, he wouldn't'a said those things… he wouldn't'a been insistin', tryin' tuh get his way like I was." Oh, so that's why this had come up; he was feeling guilty for earlier. The blue eyes looked at him forlornly.

"Well, maybe not," Nick said. Not knowing the man himself of course he couldn't know, but that didn't matter for the point he intended to make. His voice was firm as he delivered his next statement. "But you said them, El, and why did you say them? Because you meant them. Because that's the way you saw things."

Ellis tugged the bill of his hat down a little further, as if shameful of the words being spoken on his behalf. But slowly he gave a nod.

"And honestly, you convinced me," Nick went on, motioning his other arm. "What's another couple of days? New Orleans can wait that long. Let's go see what's down there." He chuckled and shook Ellis playfully. "Worst thing we could find is more fucking zombies."

The southerner turned his head to look at him, wetting his lips. "Yeah?"

He nodded.

Ellis smiled softly, quite obviously a little beside himself that his words had actually swayed him, seeing as he had been pretty against it initially when they'd discovered the map upstairs. Nick honestly just hadn't put much thought into it, but the youngest member of their party kept bringing it up, causing the gears to start churning in his head. Though El's methods hadn't been as smooth as they could have been with the other two, the southerner had put up a reasonable argument, and Nick had never been one to put much trust in the government anyhow. In the case that they had found a map the government didn't want people to have– thus posing a possible explanation for their brutal execution– it could be valuable. Dangerous, but valuable.

Hell, it could even serve as a bargaining chip. His expression momentarily turned grim. From the littering of bodies they had seen today, they just might need one.

In any case, curiosity had gotten the best of him too. And Nick figured that by joining El's side, the idea would hold more weight with their compatriots. Ellis' thoughts seemed to follow his own as they sat. "Still gotta convince Coach an' Ro' though," the mechanic pointed out as he shifted anxiously again.

Nick gave a shrug. "You know, after a good night's sleep and once we're back on the road, maybe it'll be easier," he suggested. Sometimes timing was everything. He was willing to bet both of their fellow survivors would be more receptive to the idea after thinking over what Ellis had said to them overnight. If not, well, he'd have a word with Coach himself.

"A'right, sounds like a plan." The mechanic's head returned to his shoulder, issuing a deep contented sigh. "Thank ya, Nick."

"No problem, kiddo." He pressed his mouth to the top of the baseball cap, but stopped short of a kiss, instead just shutting his eyes.

Ellis went silent, breathing methodically against him and Nick just held him close. They spent the next several minutes in the position, unmoving from one another; Nick savored every second.

"Guess we oughta get some sleep now, huh?" Ellis stirred with a chuckle, lifting a hand to knuckle some of the sleep out of his eyes, obviously almost having dozed off there beside him in the interval.

Nick nodded. "Yeah."

He expected the mechanic to pull away from him then, go back to his spot on the floor and his too-short blanket, but Nick was surprised when he stayed instead. "Ya mind if I stay here by you?" Ellis asked, cozying up to him further, snuggling right up into his armpit.

"Not at all," he understated with a smile.

There was another couple of minutes of silence until the southerner broke it again. "Kin I…?"

"Hm?"

"Well," Ellis sounded sheepish, "I was gonna pray, that okay?"

Nick blinked. "Yeah, sure, of course," he assured him. No skin off his nose.

"A'right. Ya… ya wanna bow yer head?"

This new part of the request put him into momentary shock, freezing up in response. He couldn't remember the last time he had done this, actually participated in prayer. Fuck, the last time he had he'd probably been drunk off his ass, thrown out of a bar after-hours into the street, desperate and pleading for some kind of forgiveness. He winced. His faith had been broken into pieces and reassembled so many times in his life. Accepting as a child, rejecting as a teenager, accepting again after Al passed on, rejecting after the dissolution of his marriage… and those were just the flip-flops that composed his first twenty-five years on this God-forsaken planet, saying nothing of the last ten.

Hell, he didn't even know where he currently stood.

Nick swallowed his shame and did as asked.

Ellis' voice took over the painful stinging silence, clearing his mind of anything else but the softly-spoken words. "Dear Lord," he began, "thanks fer bein' with us today, keepin' us safe from harm an' keepin' the each of us healthy an' able'ta fight," he breathed; Nick felt himself tingle as the southerner went along. "M'sure ya got a lot on yer hands at the moment, lotsa people tuh help, not jus' us." The gambler gave his lower lip a nip, Ellis' expressed thankfulness despite their ugly situation pooling guilt in his gut as if he had drunk lead. How many prayers had he made just begging for a favor, not a single thank you spoken nor in mind? The boy's voice only seemed to gain confidence. "But please give us all the strength tuh keep goin', tuh stay solid, together. We got a long road ahead'a us yet."

The younger man hesitated, but Nick waited with his eyes still shut, his head bent in full reverence. "Keep mah family safe, if they're out there anywhere." He took a large breath of air, his next words obviously hard to let go of. "They're… they're in your hands now. An' Ro's family too, an' Coach's, an'…" his words trailed off, coming to an awkward halt as he was forced to leave off what would have come next had Nick not been sitting right there next to him.

Nick drew a deep breath. "And my parents too," he whispered, barely vocalizing the words that fought against an entire childhood of contempt and unforgiveness.

Ellis' hand found his thigh and squeezed tight.

"In Jesus name, amen," the mechanic finished.

"Amen," Nick followed up, allowing his eyes to flutter open. That hadn't been… so hard.

Ellis wriggled into his side again with a happy hum. Though the formal prayer was over, he found himself hugging the younger man tight, thanking God over and over for the blessing of having the southerner in his life.

He guessed that clarified where he stood.

Chapter Text

It was dark.

It was dark but it was hot. Humid. The air was thick with the reek of blood, yet there was another smell too, a softer one, hard to discern from the bitter taste of iron permeating the rest of the air, but it was there. It was sweet, almost like… candy.

Except he didn't know of any types of candy that turned him on.

He was moving in the darkness, no, more like groping because he couldn't see all that well and he was searching for something and goddamn it was hot– he could feel drops of perspiration welling up on his skin. Hell, he wasn't even clothed, but he still felt like he was boiling like a lobster in a stew pot. He drug an arm across his brow. It wasn't just the heat… someone was near him, pressing in close… rubbing against his sweat-slicked body.

A shudder ran up his spine.

His hands finally found what he had apparently been searching for all this time… and it was lengthy swept-back hair, tangled ever so slightly in the back where it met the nape of neck. It was greasy, but that wasn't something he minded what with all the lubes and greases that came with tinkering on cars. He pawed through the strands over and over, loving how they melded to his fingertips, making furrows and rows and then smoothing them back out again. He rut his hips upward again and again against the firm body above him. His brow knotted at the stimulation, growing a little breathless, a tingle added to the oppressive, suffocating heat.

Lord… ah, it felt good. Oh man.

A deep voice groaned. "Yeah… El…"

He sucked in a sharp breath and finally registered who it was on top of him.

The very same man he had fallen asleep against. His mind whirled, trying to puzzle out how they could have ended up like this, tangled up in one another, unclothed and hard and humping, but the arousal coursing through his system quickly overrode the many confusing thoughts, sweeping them away. Ellis hummed as he drug his palms down the rough, unshaven cheeks… skated them over his neck and collarbone– Nick was still wearing his dress shirt, the starched collar inhibiting his fingers from wandering further down his chest to weave into the chest hair there.

Oh, so that's what the sweet smell was… It was his old cologne lingering in the collar of the garment. He leaned forward and buried his nose against it, inhaled deep. Shit, shit… it was driving him wild. The friction of the older man's body on top of him was driving him wild. Nick had him practically pinned against the wall, his thighs straddling his lap so they could work their passions out against one another. He gripped the gambler's hips suddenly, forcing their hard lengths to rub, heat blooming in his lower abdomen.

He tried to get words out, tried to say something to the man, but his throat was constricted, his body tensing as climax hit him. No, hit them both… coating each other in sticky satisfaction.

Nick leaned down… to kiss him, silky-soft thin lips melding with his.

Everything was dissolving. The weight in his lap lifted, the smell dissipated, the heat dispersed. Only the darkness remained.

He awoke with a startled gasp and a choke.

His body was still trembling as he ran a hand through his curly locks, hurriedly glancing to his left side. Nick was sleeping soundly beside him, unmoving and uninterrupted from his slumber by the sudden movement, and furthermore, fully clothed.

Ellis sagged against the wall, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. What… what had that been? Shit, where had it come from? He shifted and his nose immediately wrinkled upon the discovery that the inside of his underwear was now wet with his ejaculate.

Ugh, well that answered question one. He supposed it wasn't too surprising considering there hadn't been a heck of a lot of opportunity to discreetly relieve himself.

But still. With Nick? His eyes darted over to the conman again. Damn… He didn't even know he swung that way.

He recalled the stubble against his fingertips, the look of broad shoulders and thin hips, the mat of wavy chest hair.

The raging hard-on against his own.

Another shudder quivered up his spine and he shook himself out of it. Regardless, he now needed another change of boxers. He fumbled for the flashlight and stood once he had the beacon, going to locate the suitcase he had found his last pair in. He swiftly procured a new set from the baggage. Ellis clicked off the light for privacy and began to strip off his coveralls, changing as quickly but as quietly as possible in the darkness.

At least he had woken up now. Shit, he couldn't imagine the embarrassment finding out in the morning might've incurred. He shook his head as he re-zipped his coveralls up to his neck and went back to his place against the wall. He paused, staring at the dozing older man contemplatively.

He couldn't make heads or tails of it. Yeah, he liked Nick, a whole hell of a lot he liked Nick. But like that? He frowned slightly. Or had his body just been reacting to the amount of time he had spent around him, near him? That would make sense, wouldn't it? His mind just picked the person he was currently closest to emotionally.

Then again, he'd been having a lot of confusing thoughts in relation to the gambler lately. He recalled the moment in the food store that had seemed so bizarre, like a compulsion he'd narrowly resisted. And then his musings at what it might be like to kiss Nick… hell, the way they had slept last night… practically wrapped up in one another… like lovers! Ellis felt blood rush to his cheeks. And he'd been so awfully chagrinned, but pleased when Nick had given him a hand out of the boat… the other times Nick had touched him too. Like the squeeze he had given his knee on the porch, the hug he'd given him when he'd broken down, and those hands… those soft, tender hands on his arms, bandaging him up… Ellis touched the wraps on his arms thoughtfully. Nick had been so gentle, so wordlessly concerned. He could still see those pale green eyes, looking at him, pleading for reassurance, reassurance he had tried to give, to tell him it would be alright… that he was there for him, no matter what, he was there…

He could've kissed him then.

He sat and stared at the thin lips just barely parted in sleep.

He could kiss him now. His little heart thumped wildly.

And then he reminded himself it had been a dream– a wet dream no less!– and nothing more. Goddamn, the last thing he wanted to do was plant one on the man and try to explain that. 'Sorry, man, I was jus' thinkin' about'chu tonight, an' I thought, well heck, how about we go all the way with one another? I mean, I like you an' you like me, bumpin' uglies could be fun an' mutually beneficial an' whatnot! What'chu say?'

Great, now he was internal-monologuing. He gave a little huff and rubbed his eyes through the lids. How much longer was it 'til dawn? It was impossible to tell in the bottom of the control tower. He hoped it was either soon or still a few good hours off, otherwise he'd end up groggy as hell. He gave another sigh and looked over at the conman, not sure if he should keep his distance or pretend nothing had happened...

Well, there shouldn't be any more harm in snuggling against him now. He wasn't going to have another nocturnal emission after all. He hesitantly placed his cheek on his shoulder, nuzzling slightly into the fabric.

Nick purred in his sleep.

And Ellis had to question whether it was really such an impossibility because the noise made his ears burn right out to the very tips.

Chapter Text

As soon as they all four awoke, they left the control tower without remorse nor hesitation. The early daylight hours stretched their shadows out in front of them almost like compass needles, guiding them to the west exit of the NAS. It was a little chilly oddly, probably because of the breeze that had picked up overnight; Ellis kept his coveralls zipped up all the way for extra warmth. The unexploded portion of the Boomer carcass lay in a heap, buzzing with flies that had no doubt decided it made a good place to lay their eggs. It made the mechanic cringe, wondering if the infection could spread through small insects– the world was screwed if it did, cuz cockroaches and 'skeeters got everywhere and it seemed you couldn't kill the suckers even if you wanted to.

They got back to the interstate without a hitch, nothing much to impede their progress, which was a boon. A few patches had clumps of common infected, but it wasn't anything the now-trained gunmen and woman couldn't handle. Ellis kept a watch up front himself, save the casual glances he couldn't help but take back at Nick, admiring him in short inconspicuous intervals. He was able to peck off distant infected with more ease than ever before, finding the military sniper to have a much more consistent accuracy– it was built to do its job and adjusted correctly on top of that. He peered through the scope again to take a cursory look over the stretch of asphalt beyond them, scanning it with a minute horizontal sweep. His eyes however caught on a billboard on the side of the road. It was advertising the Orange Park Auto Mall, proclaiming FOURTEEN DIFFERENT DEALERS in big bold lettering, along with 'Best Selection in Jacksonville!' and 'Stop in and visit, get a great deal, guaranteed!'.

Moreover it indicated said auto mall lie on the next exit, Blanding Boulevard, Hwy 21, which was what stuck in his mind most. Ellis had studied the green-circled map intensively– Highway 21 could take them southwest right towards Starke. Getting off on the exit wouldn't get them there, but it would be a good segue, a good opportunity to ask again… like Nick had suggested. He just needed to be more confident this next time.

He dropped his scope. "Any of y'all wanna go car shoppin'?" he asked conversationally.

Nick chuckled beside him. "Fucking zombieapocalypse and the kid wants to browse for a new ride." Ellis showed him his tongue.

Coach however, who was hauling the majority of their baggage once more since Nick had filled his stint yesterday, looked intrigued by the comment. "What we got comin' up, boy?" he huffed.

"'Fourteen dealerships, huge inventory, everything in stock, Acura to Nissan Z-car'," Ellis read off from the ad copy, a hint of sarcasm in his voice from the promises made by the sign's hyperbole; Nick and Rochelle both laughed.

The reporter became more serious as she thought more deeply about the notion. "You think they have anything left?"

"Dunno," Ellis shrugged, finding it not improbable that dealerships would have been heavily plundered by anyone who'd run their own vehicles out of gas and were desperate for a few extra miles granted by the tanks that were always left partially full for test drives. His gaze moved over to Nick, attempting to convey to the other man wordlessly that he had more in mind than just trolling for cars– that getting off here would give him an excuse to ask again about the detour to Starke. The green eyes flashed, understanding what he was trying to do.

"It's right off the road, isn't it?" the gambler asked nonchalantly, playing him off, working to tip the scales.

"Reckon so," Ellis answered quickly.

The football player grunted, hitching the heavy gun bag up higher onto the shoulder it had been slowly slipping off of, seeming to consider the weight. "Let's give it a look," he agreed; Ellis kept from jumping up and down in triumph, though Nick was well aware of the cheeky grin that spread across his face as he went back to his scope.

They came upon the exit only a few minutes later, and Ellis could see through his scope that the Mitsubishi, Cadillac, and Honda dealerships that lie closest to the freeway were decimated, their lots empty and barren. His nose wrinkled with worry. Further up though… he squinted through the device… he could see glints off windshields and shiny paint, shimmering in the sun that dotted the ground through the cloud cover. Huh… he hadn't noticed before now that it was starting to cloud over… He blinked and moved his gun. Up on a pole that stuck out from the ground was the familiar blue oval logo that had proudly stood on the grill of his own baby, the white cursive font a testament to over one hundred years of good engineering.

Thank the Lord, apocalypse and all, there were still good ol' American cars. Hell, maybe this was a better plan than he had guessed! He gave a whoop. "Oh, there's cars alright!" he announced to his compatriots, a greater bounce in his step as he hurried down the off-ramp. "Hurry, y'all!" His enthusiasm seemed to rub off on the others; Rochelle even issued her own "Woohoo!" after him, her plump lips pulled into a smile.

The eldest man shook his head. "Sometimes it kinda seems like we're babysittin', don't it?" he divulged to the conman, giving a chagrinned chuckle.

Nick gave him a sly smile in return. "Only sometimes?"

They had to pass by the other blocks in order to get to the dealership; Ellis' eyes were already round with the selection of gas-guzzling F-150s and Super Duties as they walked up, the larger four-to-five passenger trucks gleaming with chrome and sitting suspended on thick, tall black tires making his old little Ranger seem insignificant in proportion. Still, a truck, though Ford's speciality and his own personal preference, wasn't what they would be looking for. He moved on in search of a more suitable choice; Nick and Rochelle and Coach trailing along beside him.

Just stepping further onto the lot made him grin like an idiot. He weaved in and out between the vehicles, looking them over, quickly losing the others somewhere behind him. His friends became captivated in their own ways– Nick in the numerous Mustangs that had been left, again likely for their fuel economy, Rochelle in the few remaining compact Focuses in the more vibrant greens and yellows and magentas no doubt left for their eye-catching colors. Only Coach seemed to keep a wary eye, placing himself equadistant from them, shotgun up and at the ready.

"Let's try not to get ourselves too split up," he cautioned them gruffly.

"Ain't nothin' tuh worry about; don't seem tuh be many zombies around," Ellis said casually, focused on the features proclaimed on a sticker tag. He pushed his sniper rifle around to his back and pulled up the hood on the vehicle to start poking around. He had to admit that the lack of zombies so far today was a little weird; he screwed off the oil cap to remove the dipstick, checking the level of the fluid purely out of habit. A single droplet landed on his hand from out of the sky, causing him to look up. Those clouds were starting to get more and more oppressive… darker too. Could be a quick shower or a big storm on the way. Maybe it was the weather that was driving the zombies away? Either way, it was a lucky break for them, unless it really did start to pour… it was definitely known to flood down here.

He readjusted his hat and shut the hood, catching the reflected glint of Nick's white suit in the smooth paint. He licked his lips. When he looked up and over to the conman, his eyes caught on a small SUV parked beside him, particularly the indication on the side that claimed it to be none other than an Escape Hybrid.

The mechanic rushed over, shocked at their luck. "Y'all," he announced with a hint of pride, "I think I jus' found us our new escape vehicle."

Nick was by his side first, green eyes scanning the selection. "It's even called an 'Escape'," the gambler seemed amused, his arms crossed but his chin rested on a couple fingers, "how apropos."

"Oooh," Rochelle eyed the sticker, "Thirty-four city, thirty-one highway? That's not bad for an SUV." Ellis nodded in agreement; fuel was in short supply, their feet would thank them for every extra mile they could get per gallon.

"It'd certainly hold all our supplies," Coach chipped in with a grunt, readjusting the straps on his shoulder yet again. Ellis hurried around to the back, lifting the hatch open so the football player could confirm the fact. He set the baggage down with a relieved sigh, lots of space to spare even with the guns and medical supplies and all the rest. Hell, if they had known this was down the road, maybe they would have taken one of those belt guns from the cache and welded it to the side of the vehicle– or maybe a flamethrower or two to the grill. Ellis gave a snort of laughter to himself at the very thought of such a modification; he had obviously spent too much time watching bad action films and James Bond flicks.

"Yougin'," Coach clapped him on the back, driving the air out of him ever so slightly, "I think you're right. We just got ourselves a new car." Ellis felt his hopes lift, pride tingling within his chest.

"Gonna name her Betsy?" the conman shot, meandering around the right side to open the side door.

The big man only laughed. "Don't see you comin' up with any names, Nick."

The conman had settled into the passenger seat, reclining it fully to put his scuffed soles up on the dashboard as he rested his hands behind his head. "This is nice," he commented aloofly. "I think I could stand a few miles in it."

"Try a few hundred," Ellis spoke through the back of the vehicle at him. "If we kin fuel her tank tuh capacity, she'll go a heck of a long way." He paused, then tacked on loud enough for Coach to certainly hear. "Maybe even to New Orleans, or further."

The football player visibly paused, turning to give him a somewhat stoney, tight-lipped look. "What you tryin' to say, boy?"

Ellis sucked in a breath. Well, now or never, do or die. "Well," he began stoically, standing up straighter to deliver his words, "Starke's only thirty miles south'a here on this here road. I reckon a little detour by car'd only take an hour or two an' we'd be back on the highway– assumin' there ain't nothin' there fer us, a'course."

Rochelle's earrings jingled as she glanced between them both; Nick turned around in his seat to oversee, the cushion giving a squeak. Everyone seemed to have gone quiet.

Coach sighed, relenting. "What about the rest of ya?" he polled.

Nick gave an absent wave of his hand, facing back towards the windshield. "I say we go," he said as he folded his arms.

Rochelle pushed some hair back behind her ear, looking slightly nervous about voicing her opinion. "I have to admit… I am a little curious… if only for journalistic purposes," she added. Her brown eyes gained a determination. "If there's a story, I want to get to the bottom of it."

The eldest man gave a slightly wearied nod. "Then we go. Ellis, I'd like a word with you, boy." His voice gruffened. "Alone."

The mechanic blinked rapidly at this. "Wit' me?" he asked, confused.

Nick tilted his chair upright suddenly; Ellis caught the flicker of puzzlement on his features before his face melded back into an unscryable state. Coach nodded.

"Well, a'right," Ellis shrugged, not meeting the older man's eyes directly. He fought the nagging in his stomach, already worried at what the big man wanted 'a word with him' about.

"Y'all start siphoning. With whatever you can get your hands on," the football player ordered Nick and Rochelle. He looked at Ellis as the other two moved to fulfill the command, and those hard woodened eyes bearing down on him softened to the consistency of melted chocolate.

The fear he had formerly felt instantly dissipated at the change in their leader's affect. And he had to wonder if his rash words back in the control tower were still affecting him in some way, or if there was something more going on.

Coach motioned him towards the showroom of the dealership with a gloved hand; Ellis followed obediently, determined to try and set things right between them.

Chapter Text

As soon as they were inside the little dealership showroom, out of both earshot and eyesight of the other two, Ellis felt his heart start to thump in his chest again. He wasn't sure if he should apologize now or let Coach have his 'word' as he had requested first. He stared at the linoleum floor with uncertainty, letting the soles of his boots scuff across it absently. The football player was across the room; he'd found a goodly sized cardboard box and was pillaging the snack machine which he had broken open with the butt of his shotgun. Mostly it was chips and candy bars that were left, nothing of any real substance that would provide them the nutrition they needed, but it would keep them from outright starving; they hadn't had a proper supper the last couple nights. Ellis' belly gave a rumble at the thought.

"Could'ya help me with this, boy?" Coach asked, hooking his thumb at the soda machine beside him.

Ellis stepped up to it, giving it a once-over. "Yeah, I reckon," he said, pulling the brim of his hat down. He unhitched his machete and thrust it into the plastic covering towards the top, using his arm strength to muscle it to the corner, cutting a long jagged line in the sheet. He yanked the weapon loose and then switched directions to make a cut from top to bottom. Before long he had slashed a square, and he peeled the plastic away, exposing the mechanism and the many bottles of beverages inside.

"Good work," Coach nodded, starting to load them into the box. "I figure, if we got somethin' to haul with, we oughta damn well use it. Don't you agree?"

The mechanic gave a nod and stepped back. They'd been traveling light, but with the car they could actually keep a backlog of items. He watched the older man stack the plastic bottles of water and cola, working quickly and with a purpose. Ellis wrung the back of his neck, wondering when and if Coach was actually going to talk to him about whatever it was he wanted privacy for…

The football player finished and seemed to pause, still stooped over, giving a large exhale. Apparently he wasn't much looking forward to their conversation either from the way he was stalling. Slowly, he rose and placed his arm over the mechanic's shoulders suddenly, causing Ellis to nearly jump in surprised response. It was a friendly gesture, though, almost fatherly; as if the older man was huddling up with him to discuss a play out on the field.

"Ellis, boy, neither of the other two put you up to this, did they?" he inquired.

The southerner tipped his head to the side, then quickly shook it. "No, sir. I didn't even know Ro' wanted tuh go. Or Nick… 'til last night anyway," he scratched his forearm.

"So Nick brought it up?" the older man followed up, sounding suspicious.

Ellis scrunched his nose up. "No," he immediately denied the claim, then thought about it, trying to recall. "Well, shit, I guess he did, but he was jus' tryin' tuh make a point."

The thick black eyebrows came together in the middle. "What point was that?"

"That I should follow mah instincts. Trust myself. Least, I think tha' was what he was gettin' at…" he chuckled nervously. It felt a little… weird to be telling Coach about the conversations he and Nick shared in the middle of the night. They were… private, almost.

Coach nodded beside him; Ellis could feel his form bob against his whole side with the gesture. "Alright," he said, letting him go.

"Is… is that it…?" Ellis blinked, feeling a little let down by the short exchange, watching as the man leaned down and hefted up the snack-filled box, lumbering toward the door. He'd been expecting… well, shoot, he hadn't known what to expect, but he'd figured it would have been more of a discussion than a couple of questions about their fellow survivors.

"I just wanted to make sure you wanted to go 'cause you wanted to go," Coach said, glancing back at him.

"Well… yeah, a'course…" Ellis got out, slightly befuddled at the concern; the football player turned again. He nipped his lower lip gently, knowing he would get away if he didn't stop him. "Coach, man, I wanted tuh say…"

His footsteps halted and the big brown eyes met his gaze slowly, but questioningly.

"M'real sorry 'bout what I said back there. In the tower," he fessed up quickly. "Ya been an inspiration tuh e'ery single one'a us, an' I lost sight of that, jus' cuz ya turned me down. I shouldn't'a snapped." Ellis swallowed and hung his head, hoping the man could forgive him.

Coach chuckled and shook his head, the liquid in the box sloshing with the motion. "Boy…" he let out in a large sigh, "there's probably something you should know."

Ellis shuffled his feet. "What's that?"

The football player walked around him, finding a table to set the box down on and pulling up a nearby chair. He sat down in it and Ellis joined him, sensing he ought to, a dialogue finally opened up between them. His bright blue eyes settled on the older man, waiting patiently for his response.

"When this damn thing hit," Coach began, "my wife and I were at Freedom High." Ellis' ears practically perked up on his head at this tiny tidbit; Coach hadn't ever gone and mentioned he was married! Shoot, that opened up so many other questions, like how long they had been married, if they had kids... Ellis had to fight to keep his tongue in check. The older man went on, "I coached for the football team, she taught Economics to the freshmen. Third period the alert went out over the sound system about a student bitin' another one, about security takin' down the youngin' with a taser." He shook his head regrettably. "Lockdowns went on over the entire school, evacuation started a couple periods later. Buses got jam-packed with kids leavin' for 'internments' without their folks even bein' notified."

Ellis' nose wrinkled with distaste.

"But they were in immediate danger. They'd been 'exposed'. An' when there weren't enough buses left, more came in from all over to take 'em away, haul 'em off to God knows where." The older man's gaze was far-away, regret swimming in his brown pools; he slowly drew the emblem he'd removed from his polo from a pocket, studying it in the meat of his palm. "The principal ran off, along with a large portion of the staff, but some'a us stayed. Leanor and I helped as much as we could, tryin' to make sure they were all accounted for, that no one got left behind. Didn't think about where they might be goin', so long as they were 'safe'." His face had pulled into a hard stare again, focused on the tabletop as he squeezed the patch tight.

Ellis wasn't sure why he was being told this, but he did know the older man needed his support and sympathy. He reached across the table and squeezed his large shoulder. "Don't beat'cher self up, man, you was doin' what'chu could." Honestly, his actions sounded truly admirable.

Coach chuckled again, turning away from him. "I helped all them kids to their deaths," he delivered deadpan.

The mechanic swallowed roughly. "Ya don't know that," he argued, though the pile-up of bodies stacked in the airplane hangar burned in his memory as he said it, and no doubt Coach's as well. He kept speaking to fill the void. "If ya hadn't've, well, shit, all'a 'em might'a been infected. They'd be zombies by now. An', ya didn't know, how could'ja have? Hell, tuh the best'a yer knowledge, you was doin' right."

The man was impassive, unaffected by his words.

And then it dawned on him very suddenly that if Coach and his wife had been both helping that day and she wasn't with him now… that only left a couple options. He swallowed roughly. "Coach… what happened to yer wife?"

"The students weren't the only ones I let go on them buses," he murmured lowly. "I told Leanor to get on the second to last bus without me. I was gonna round up the stragglers, meet with her on the other side, when we got to it," he explained. His face was pained and angry, twisted with revulsion and anger. "But there weren't no 'last bus'. Damn thing never came. Hers was it." Silence stretched out between them.

"Ya… ya don't have any idea where she is…" Ellis whispered, realizing he and the older man were in the same plight all along and he hadn't even known. A new wave of guilt coursed through him and he was about to open his mouth and apologize a second time when Coach spoke again.

"I know where she is."

The mechanic froze up at that. "Ya… ya do?" he asked incredulously, the questions spewing out of his mouth. "How? Where?"

Coach repositioned himself in his chair, giving a grunt. "Well, it took me a damn long time to make the walk back to our house, seein' as someone gone and stole Betsy, but when I got there she'd left me a few messages on the answerin' machine."

Ellis leaned forward. "And? What'd they say?"

"Well at first she was en route to Jacksonville," the older man rumbled as he divulged the story, "bein' as it was the next biggest evac center in the southeast, an' part of the reason I was hopin' it might still be open when we got there." There was a pause. "But she got re-routed towards New Orleans when the station got over-crowded. Damn good thing she didn't make it, otherwise I'm sure they would'a taken her cell away from her."

"So… she is in New Orleans?" Ellis ventured.

The big man's jaw shook from side to side. "Tallahassee. Her sister lives down there, with her husband and two kids." He chuckled softly. "From what I heard, she made quite a scene by stoppin' the bus, somethin' about tellin' the driver it was 'her funeral an' she could go if she wanted to'. Girl always had a way with words."

Ellis' brow furrowed, trying to picture where in the country Tallahassee was, when suddenly it came to him– it was about in the middle of Florida, right along their route, and about halfway between Savannah and New Orleans. And then he further realized that Coach's steadfast determination in making haste to their destination all this time might not have been as entirely selfless as it had originally seemed.

Ellis drummed his fingers on the table, but he couldn't keep from asking, he had to ask. He looked the older man straight in the eyes. "When we get there… to Tallahassee…" he led in, taking a deep breath, "were you plannin' to jus' leave us? Split off an' make us go the rest'a the way ourselves…?"

Coach leaned out over the table, staring at his own gloved hands. He inhaled and let it back out. "Leave is a strong word, boy…"

"So, yes," Ellis finished for him.

The older man didn't deny it, shutting his eyes.

The mechanic gave a flabbergasted chuckle, feeling a little hurt, even injured having learned this. Should he have even apologized for what he had said it the tower? All this time had they been following someone who was determined to get them to safety, or just someone who needed bodyguards to get him close to his own destination? If Coach had been upfront with them from the beginning, it would be a different matter, but Ellis couldn't help but feel used and a little deceived.

"Listen, Ellis, I've grown attached to ya," he said, putting a gloved hand upon his shoulder and squeezing it firmly, "all of ya. Even Nick. But my family needs me, you of all people gotta understand that, boy."

He felt his heart practically stop in his chest. But there it was, that old saying, blood was thicker than water.

"She's waitin' for me, along with my little niece an' nephew," Coach said, a slight waver of emotion to his voice. "The last message she sent before her phone battery went dead said she had found 'em and was waitin' for me before goin' on."

Ellis squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to yell at the man again. Yell at him for being such a hypocrite, telling he and Rochelle to forget their families when he was clearly thinking of his own. Wanted to yell at him for planning to abandon the three of them and not even warning them it was going to happen until now!

His body tingled with anger, but he thought of his Pa, how he would have handled the situation. He knew that his Pa would have been the bigger man, calmed down, seen it from Coach's eyes, and let it go.

It was his chance to do the same.

Ellis straightened up, standing from his seat. He spoke his next words with sincerity. "I hope ya kin join 'em, Coach, I really do. We're all gonna miss ya when ya go. But thank you fer tellin' me."

The football player sat unmoving, distrustful. "Don't be tellin' the others, okay, youngin'?"

"Naw," Ellis shook his head, "I won't. S'your responsibility tuh let 'em know. Even if it ain't more than five minutes ahead'a time." He readjusted his hat firmly, taking the situation into his own hands. "Let's get goin'." He swept the box of supplies up in his arms and made for the showroom door, leaving the oldest survivor in his wake.

Chapter Text

Lady luck had smiled upon them today, that Nick was sure of now. He and Ro had ventured into the service area of the dealership in search of a hose or some piping to help their efforts in pumping the tanks of the other vehicles on the lot, and in their exploration they stumbled across an entire cache of full, bright red two-gallon gas cans.

Or well, mostly full. Some of them were a little short by a pint or so...

They had been stacked hidden behind a large plastic green tarp, alongside two foldable camping chairs and a couple discarded pump shotguns. Several empty and loaded shells alike rolled freely around on the smooth concrete, along with a medley of smashed beer bottles of various brands. It looked a shoddy set-up at best. He didn't know who had done it, or what happened to said individual or individuals that caused them to leave it all for the taking, but that was a-ok with him since they were the ones benefiting from having discovered it.

He and the Ro had taken turns carting the numerous containers to their vehicle, keeping watch for one another as they poured the gas into the tank until it reached capacity, placing the three extras in the back beside the medical supplies that served to separate them from the loaded guns. No need to test Miss Luck.

A small mizzle had turned into a steadier light rain, and Nick found himself even more thankful for their acquisition that would shelter them from the errant weather. Nick chose to take one last perusal of the garage while Rochelle sought refuge in the hybrid, wanting to see if he could grab anything else of use that might be hanging around. He made thorough search, finding a case of Bud that would likely make the kid happy and a couple boxes of shotgun ammo for Coach. Even found a couple packs of Marlboro cigarettes; he decided to take them though he wasn't quite sure what he'd do with them… he'd quit about the time most people started, eighteen, and hadn't touched one since. He was just about to depart with the supplies when his eyes caught on a little metal box shoved under a refrigerator-sized standing toolbox.

The cardshark set down his newly-found possessions and kneeled to pry it out from underneath the heavy roller. It was a lockbox, made for stashing paper currency, and it was quite hefty. His curiosity piqued and he stuffed it under an arm to grab back up the other things; he'd pick the lock on it later.

A shotgun cocked behind him and Nick froze as a rough, grating voice followed the threatening sound. "Drop it, pretty-boy."

Nick turned slowly and set everything back on the floor, fairly certain the command was in reference to the lockbox, but better safe than sorry. His green eyes flitted over his captor quickly, sizing him up. He was a middle-aged white guy about like himself, only significantly more scraggly around his jaw and ears, slightly taller but more hunched; he had a wild-eyed and broken appearance, a large bloodied mess on his forehead, a limp in his right foot. The apocalypse, it would seem, had not been good to him. Figures the first person they came across in two weeks had to be half-dead and half-crazy to boot. He eyed the double-barrel pointing his direction.

"Right then, I seen you an' yer woman stealin' cans from me," the fellow drawled. Apparently when it had been the two of them, they had been too much a threat, but now that it was just him, the native had decided to 'come out of hiding' and get the drop on him. Nick couldn't help but chuckle at the concept of Rochelle as 'his woman'. The man obviously didn't take kindly to his laughter however, rattling his shotgun to get his attention. "Hey. Gas's eighteen bucks a gallon. You got enough to cover that?"

The conman's face curled into a wide grin, now piecing together the little 'operation' that had been going on in the back of the dealership garage. Rip desperate people off, sell them cans short the amount they actually 'paid' for. Charming. Though apparently not well executed, considering there were two camp chairs and only one man. "Of course," Nick smiled. "You take plastic?" he joked with casual air, reaching for his back pocket.

"Greenbacks, or ya get a stomach full of buckshot," the straggler snarled, waving his weapon, the gambler's flippancy obviously going over his head.

"You know," Nick mused, "if I were in your current position, I'd probably be bargaining more for medical supplies and a couple decent meals." He motioned his head at the scattered beer bottles. "I don't think you're going to last long with your injuries and nothing to drink but piss-water," he stated with calculated logic and a raised eyebrow. In the back of his mind he wondered how long it would be before Ro came looking for him; he wasn't too keen on the muzzle still aimed at his torso.

"Jimmy went to go git food," the man snapped argumentatively. He trembled slightly, still looking furious, but a hint of fear had settled in the frenzied blue orbs.

"Yeah… how long ago?" Nick frowned.

The native clutched his gun tighter, finger playing about the trigger. "That's none'a yer business! Now gimme e'erythin' ya got! I won't be toleratin' no more stallin'!"

"Everything?" Nick chuckled. "That's a bit of a step up from the three hundred and twenty-four I owe. Or more like three hundred and six, since all nine cans were short about a pint." If you wanted to be really precise, it was actually only $303.75 since there were eight pints to a gallon. But either way, he'd lost his wallet in the drink when 'smokey' decided to take him for a swim.

That, though, set the man off. He gave a yowl of rage and Nick detected the flinch of his trigger arm, throwing himself to the side just in time to avoid the shot that fired where he previously stood only a split-second before. He was probably lucky as fuck the asshole had been drunk. He quick-drew his right Deagle and nailed him clean in the forehead before he could turn and fire off the second round in the other barrel, no remorse to the action at all.

The commotion of the two fired shots, however, did get attention, and he was shortly joined by all three of his compatriots, looking alarmed as he holstered his smoking gun.

"Holy shit!" Ellis commented, stepping back away from the dead man's body as soon as he'd looked down and seen it.

Coach gave a grunt, brown eyes slowly examining the situation. "Nicholas, did you just shoot someone who weren't infected?"

Nick felt his lips pull into a tight line at the accusation. "Had just about the same intent to kill as one," he muttered.

Ellis' blue eyes went round as dinner plates. "He shot at'cha…?" he stated incredulously. "Goddamn, man, yer lucky ya ain't dead as a doornail instead'a him!"

Yeah, thanks for that Lady Luck. He gave a small snort, folding his arms.

"Where the hell did he come from?" Rochelle wondered aloud, her head shaking incredulously. "We searched every corner of this garage."

"Beats me, sweetheart," Nick shrugged, not particularly in the mood to re-live the moment to make any guesses. He turned to pick the lockbox back up from the floor, but before he could, Ellis rushed forward and threw his muscular arms around his middle.

The resulting squeeze just about crushed his ribs and drove all the wind out of him, but the implication of the southerner's gesture was appreciated nonetheless. Nick gave a cough to regain his breath as Ellis let him go, and there was a moment of silence between all four survivors, along with a few passed glances.

"Guess it weren't quite as safe 'round here as you'd hoped," Coach said sternly to the younger man. Nick lifted an eyebrow at the odd put-down as the football player turned to lumber off towards the car through the rain.

Ellis dropped his gaze, frowning hard, little brow wrinkled into a knot. Nick would have mistaken it for hurt had he not been able to see the fire in his blue eyes, the younger man repressing anger rather than holding back sadness. "Said there weren't no zombies…" he mumbled, only Nick close enough to catch it past the pitter-pattering on the asphalt.

"Come on, sweetie…" Rochelle said softly, extending her hand to the youngest survivor, bangles jingling and expression kind.

The mechanic nodded and took it, offering her his cap with his other hand. A thin eyebrow lifted on her head and he quickly explained with gentlemanly charm, "So yer hair don't get messed up."

She laughed and took it, plopping it over her head. "Thanks, Ellis."

"Hey, what about my hair?" Nick quipped.

The hick shot him a look with an overly-large grin.

They headed back to the hybrid at a jog to keep from getting too soaked. Ellis even held the door open for the girl before hopping behind the wheel and snatching the keys out from where they were lodged between the roof and sun visor. "Don't even hafta hotwire her this time!" Ellis laughed, giving the fob a little jingle. And Nick was glad to see the kid already returned to his beaming self, but he had to wonder what had been said inside the dealership between football player and mechanic that had them at one another's throats.

Chapter Text

Ellis squinted through the windshield and turned the wipers up another notch.

"I wonder how bad this storm is gonna get…" Coach murmured gloomily from the backseat.

The southerner shook his head. So far the rain had only gotten worse and worse. It wasn't in a downpour yet, but the young man had no doubt that it was only a matter of time.

"Just thank God we found this car," Rochelle said. "Ellis, honey, you're a genius."

"Amen to that," Nick inputted, his feet still propped up on the dashboard.

Ellis felt himself flush a tad at the compliments. "He's lookin' out for us yet," he nodded, his gaze forward, concentrating on the stretch of soaked asphalt ahead of them and the double yellow line that ran down the middle of it.

He turned the wheel, banking around the slight curve in the road. Progress hadn't been quite what he would have liked; because of the weather conditions, he had been driving twenty miles under what he really wanted to. But it beat all hell out of ending up spinning out onto the side of the road. Keith had done that once, in one of his uncle's fixer-uppers– a powder blue 1955 Thunderbird no less. What he'd been driving it for in the first place was a mystery, his story to his uncle that he was 'giving it a test-drive' wasn't particularly believable considering he had a girl with him when he'd come to pick him up from the whole mess. Ellis was fairly certain his friend had suffered some sort of minor concussion in flipping the vehicle, what with his equally wild claims about eloping and buying the girl a pretty blue dress to match the car and getting wed in a little upstate chapel and raising half a dozen kids in Birmingham, Alabama– Hell, Ellis had never even seen the girl before, and for that matter he never saw her again after he dropped her off at the bus stop she requested she be returned to. Though she did ever so faintly bear resemblance to a cousin that showed up one of Keith's family reunions a year or so later, he thought, only real difference was the cut and color of her hair…

Nick leaned his seat up and looked out the window. "How much further, sport, or do you know?" the conman asked, glancing to him.

Ellis took one hand off the steering wheel to scratch at the back of his head. "Well, we passed up Middleburg a few minutes ago… so I know we're at least more than half'a the way there."

Rochelle unfolded the map behind him– he could hear it crinkling as she smoothed it out over the back of his seat. "Looks like we've got a lake to pass up first… and a junction with highway sixteen," she elucidated, running her finger across their road. "Starke's only a couple miles after that."

Ellis shifted in his seat, the destination's closeness making him both anxious and excited. Next thing he knew, the conman had placed a reassuring palm on his thigh, and Ellis just about melted at the touch. "Almost there, kid…" the man said quietly. The hand squeezed and it struck a match against the inside of his skull, bringing last night's dream roaring to the surface. Lord, his hand was so close... It was all the young man could do to keep focused on the road, his grip on the wheel involuntarily laxing.

"Ellis, I think that's our junction!" Rochelle blurted, pointing.

The mechanic snapped out of his little fantasy and yanked the wheel to the right, just in time to make the exit. The other three survivors instinctively grabbed for whatever solid part of the SUV was nearest. The tires made a small squeal, but held fast to the wet pavement; any faster though and they might have slipped. Ellis chuckled with chagrin as he recovered the vehicle from the sharp veer. "Sorry y'all, guess I missed the sign fer the rain."

"Christ," Nick looked shaken. "Where'd you learn to drive like that, NASCAR?" he joked, trying to regain his cool.

"Hey now, I'll have you know I like NASCAR," Ellis said, lifting his chin.

"What about it? Being packed like sardines into the nosebleeds or the mind-numbing boredom? It's like, how can anyone honestly be entertained by watching cars go around in a circle for hours upon hours?" Nick went on, upturning his hands in exasperated gesture, clearly trying to rankle him.

"I dunno, how kin anyone be entertained watchin' a little white ball go 'round on a roulette wheel?" Ellis shot back snidely, playfulness returned.

The gambler grinned a large toothy grin.

"Are we gonna have to separate you two?" Coach asked, unamused.

"Nah, we's jus' playin'," the southerner allayed his concerns.

"Well then maybe you oughta be in the backseat," the football player said gruffly. "Where you kids can 'play' all you want an' not get us killed."

Ellis shrunk into his seat a tad guiltily, averting his eyes from the rear view mirror and the elder man's stern gaze.

"Hey hey hey," Nick interrupted, mediating, "he just didn't see the sign, okay? If you want me or Ro' or you to take over the driving, we can pull over."

"Yeah, m'fine wit' that…" Ellis mumbled in agreement to the conman's words, perfectly willing to back down if it would get Coach off his back. He wondered subtly if this was what he had to look forward to until Tallahassee... His throat clenched with distress. The very thought… that they'd be without him soon… Ellis still couldn't believe the older man's plans to separate from the group, even though he'd been told that was what was going to happen. A part of him just refused to believe it.

"How about you boys all just relax, we're literally three miles from being there," Rochelle said, crossing her arms and legs, the voice of reason. She pointed out her side of the car. "See? There's the lake."

Ellis shook his head out of his brooding. He had to squint a touch to see the landmark, what with the heavy rain. "Sure is a weird lookin' lake…" he wondered aloud, "bein' completely round like it is."

"Is it man-made?" Nick asked.

"I think it's a 'sinkhole'," Rochelle interjected. "I'm no geologist, but most of the lakes in Florida are made up of them. Lots of soft soil, susceptible to water erosion, and the whole thing just eventually collapses in on itself. Forms a pocket for the water," she explained.

Ellis tipped his hat up to look at the girl in the rear view mirror, impressed by her display of knowledge on the subject. "Shoot, ya could'a fooled me, Ro'."

The producer smiled back at him almost bashfully. She shrugged her shoulders, "I dated a guy in college from the earth sciences department for a few months."

"Was he 'rock-solid' in bed?" Nick punned shamelessly, turning around in his seat to flash her a smirk.

"Oh sweet Jesus," Rochelle laughed, mildly embarrassed. She put her hands on her hips. "Well, wouldn't you like to know, Nick."

The man laughed and turned to face front again, but oddly, he didn't confirm or deny the claim.

Chapter Text

The next landmark that caught his eye was a large white steeple. Ellis leaned over the steering wheel slightly, pushing the bill of his hat up to peer out the windshield up at it. The spire stuck out against the dark sky like it was reaching up towards the heavens, and he lifted his foot from the accelerator pedal, letting the SUV coast to a slower speed as they rolled up towards the Baptist church on the side of the road.

"Why are we slowin' down?" Coach inquired.

The southerner pointed.

The large double arched doors had been barricaded shut with several long planks of wood, making entry impossible without a crowbar or possibly a fire axe. Interesting, Ellis thought, that the barrier had been constructed on the outside, rather than inside. It was the same for the stained glass windows on the sides of the church. Out in the lawn were several impromptu crosses, which were stuck into the ground, each near a respective mound. Closer to the church the crosses were made of good wood, and painted white too, the graves neat and square. Further out however, it was clear less time had been spent in burial, as the crosses were unpainted, or simply made of two found tree branches and a nail, and the mounds were sloppy or only half finished. Additionally, they were all packed much closer together, barely any room between the 'plots'.

Rochelle pressed against the window, reading from the sign out front on the lawn. It was missing a few letters that had fallen off, but not so many were gone that the message wasn't legible. "Carriers: go to Shands Med Center, south Saint Clair…"

Ellis sensed it as Nick went rigid in his seat beside him, and his own gut gave a little churn at the word they had last seen emblazoned on the NAS runway. An uncomfortable silence filled the cabin. "So… do we go there…?" he spoke up, hovering his foot over the gas indecisively. The engine idled.

"Well, we haven't gotten any other directions so far…" Rochelle reasoned uneasily.

"Are they directions or instructions?" Nick spoke up, his green eyes dark and wary, staring at the sign. "Sounds like they turned the medical center into a slaughterhouse." Ellis wriggled, watching the wipers go back and forth across the slick windshield in rapid cadence. The thought of rounding up stray infected to send them to a particular area seemed a daunting task, though perhaps before the infection had become an epidemic and had still been more or less a small outbreak, quarantining might have been a viable option. Well, until it came to outright extermination, as the runway had commanded.

"Possibly euthanasia," Rochelle said; her notepad had seemingly materialized in her lap, scribbling something down. She tapped her lower lip with her pen, "If they were being humane."

"What we oughta do is go back to Ten and on to Nawlins," Coach advised sagely, offering the alternative.

"Not yet," Ellis snapped a little more aggressively than he had meant to.

The pitter-pattering on the windshield became audible once again as everyone fell silent. He leveled his vision on the steering wheel, gripping it tight to the point where his knuckles began to turn white; he was well aware that all three sets of eyes were on him. By now it was probably painfully clear to Nick and Rochelle that there was something going on between he and Coach. He took a deep calming breath, returning to the situation before them. He wasn't turning back yet– hell, they'd just gotten here, and he wasn't leaving until he found out why this place had been circled on the map.

A streak of lightning lit up the sky, a loud rumble following shortly after. Ellis frowned, the bolt causing him to look up and notice something he had missed before about the church. Something was spray-painted up beneath the church bell. He squinted his eyes at it– the rain made everything so damn difficult to see. But more lightning arched across the sky and this time he saw it: FREEDOM, with a large arrow pointing down the street the direction they were headed, into town.

That tore it. The deceased men and women of the control tower had been aiming to go here, to go to 'freedom'. Freedom from what, that was a mystery, but perhaps soon enough, they would see.

Wordlessly he started the car forward again, the back wheels giving a little spin on the wet asphalt before they engaged.

"You okay, kid?" Nick asked a few moments later, looking suitably concerned.

Ellis risked a glance in the rear view mirror, at the football player in the back seat. He'd promised the older man he wouldn't tell either Nick or Rochelle of his plans, but it was getting harder and harder not to the longer he kept it bottled up inside. "I'll tell ya later…" he murmured back quietly. If nothing else he could just think up some other reason he seemed so distracted.

Well, assuming Nick didn't see right though that. He made a point to avoid the gambler's eyes.

He took Saint Clair south, just as the sign had said; the severity of the rain almost made him miss the exit and double back. The lower surface road was practically flooded by the constant downpour, a couple inches underwater in a number of places. The deep puddles sent water cascading up from the wheel wells as Ellis drove through it at a decent clip.

There was no apparent life in the town, infected or otherwise, and it was making him anxious. Subconsciously he drove a little faster. He couldn't puzzle it out. Sure, you'd expect folks to be gone, they would have evacuated their homes a long time ago, but no zombies either? That shit just didn't make sense. There had been zombies everywhere else they'd been, Brunswick, Kingsland, Yulee, Jacksonville… Why the heck not here?

A lot of buildings looked to be in severe disrepair from the snatches he caught every time the wipers cleared the windshield. He studied them. Many of the stucco or concrete domiciles were cracked, some had collapsed walls and even roofs, a few looked like they had been the victim of fires… as crazy as that sounded for all the water around them, burnt blackened tips and edges of former structures sticking up from the ground. The severity became more and more pronounced as they progressed. Over and over he asked himself... what had happened to this place…?

The car gave a bump, the shock absorbers taking the majority of whatever uneven surface they had just driven over. Ellis grunted, unable to identify where in the road the potholes were since muddy water obscured it, and the car jostled a second and third time as he hit a couple more.

An overhead stoplight was bowed at a forty-five degree angle ahead of them. Ellis frowned at it, squinting to discern why. The metal wasn't bent, the concrete underneath it was half unearthed, as if the ground had sunk beneath it and it stayed on the precipice.

Which was when he realized the intersection he was speeding right towards was the edge of one of Rochelle's 'sinkholes'.

He slammed on the binders with his boot, the SUV screeching to a halt, throwing all the survivors forward. The seatbelt around his torso locked up, forcibly knocking the wind out of him as he was kept from being thrown forward. His back slammed against the seat when the car abruptly stopped moving. "Holy shit, you guys…" he gasped, trying to catch his breath, pulling his hands rapidly away from the steering wheel, as if he had been bitten by it, "M'sorry."

The other three seemed to be in a similar state, thanks to the seatbelts constricting their chests. Rochelle coughed. "Why d-did you…?" she started.

The car gave a lurch.

The right front tire was sinking, the weight of the vehicle causing the ground beneath it to crumple. Ellis' eyes widened in alarm and he threw it into reverse as fast as he could, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal and hoping to hell the SUV was the four-wheel drive model.

The tires slipped a little, the car pivoting around on the now stuck wheel. He grit his teeth and eased up on the gas a little. There was another lurch and they descended deeper, the earth giving out around them, pavement cracking, tipping the front end of the car downward. Nick and Rochelle both pressed against the glass to watch with wide-eyed concern, looking ready to bail out the doors if need be.

"Ellis, boy, get us outta here!" Coach barked at him, his gloved hand digging into the shoulder of his seat.

"I am!" he snapped back. "If I gun her, we're only gonna get stuck deeper!" he shouted in explanation– he'd run an autoshop and towing company for shit's sake. It was the same exact principle as quicksand, the harder you struggled the quicker you sank; the faster he spun the wheels without traction, the deeper and more inescapable the rut would become. Goddamn he did not deserve this kind of attitude and disrespect from the elder man. He knew what he was doing. It was bullshit!

He tried again, pulsing the accelerator pedal gingerly. The SUV gave a bump as something finally caught and it lifted out from the submerging asphalt. He straightened out the wheel and hurriedly drove them a good thirty or forty feet back, far enough away to be sure the sinkhole wouldn't expand out to them and try to take them into its maw once more.

There was a communal sigh of relief about the cabin.

Ellis lifted his blue eyes. He stared out the windshield with disbelief as the enormity of what lie before them hit him. The land had been swallowed up, east to west, nothing remaining of the town known as Starke besides the few residences on the outskirts they had been barreling past. All of it had literally been sunk into the earth, leaving nothing but a soupy mess covered by the rain of the storm. He wasn't naive enough, however, to think all this was the result of natural disaster.

"Looks like green circles mean 'drop bombs here'," Nick said scathingly. He hooked his thumb.

Ellis' eyes followed the gambler's indication. Beside them on the side of the road stood a population sign, proudly declaring the town's former inhabitance. And tacked beside it was another word that was numbingly familiar, from the radio conversation they had overheard in Jacksonville:

Cleansed.

He felt his forehead touch the top of the steering wheel, eyes shutting sorrowfully. He had insisted they come out here for nothing. Absolutely nothing. The military had already been here, destroyed everything, no doubt because the medical center had become irreparably overrun. The bombs had certainly fixed that– there wasn't a zombie in goddamn sight.

And here he had been hoping for something stupid like an internment.

Christ, he was an idiot.

He sighed and frowned out at the expanse of water. But what about those people who had been searching for 'freedom'… had they been sunk along with the zombies and the town? Had some of them escaped? Or had they never existed at all? Nothing made sense. Nothing made any goddamn sense. He sent his fists down on the steering wheel suddenly; the car issuing a loud honk amid the still pouring rain. He gave it three more good pummels before folding his arms with irritation.

Only one thing was clear. They had to turn back now, go back to the original plan. And it ate him up inside knowing it would only get them that much closer to losing their compatriot.

Chapter Text

He had opted to take over the driving.

After narrowly avoiding a plunge into a leveled, government-purged city, Ellis was in no mood to drive. Or talk. Or much of anything really.

Not that he could blame him. Nick felt bad himself; he could only imagine how the poor kid was feeling. And after he'd encouraged him so much to push the journey to Starke… goddamn it, he felt like an ass. If he'd left it be last night, instead of trying to use it as some way to 'get closer' to the kid… He ran a hand through his hair with frustration.

He guessed he shouldn't have expected any good news to befall them from the map, which Ellis had angrily crumpled up in his hands and thrown somewhere under the seats before curling into an miserable ball in the passenger's seat.

God the kid was taking it hard.

At least Rochelle seemed happy. Or busy. It was difficult to determine the difference, with as frantically as she scribbled at her notepad and the hasty flipping of pages as she went through the little diary she'd found in the control tower.

And Coach… well, Coach seemed a little too… okay with it for Nick's tastes. And he had a pretty strong hunch there was something the older man wasn't telling them. From the way Ellis had been acting ever since they'd ducked into the dealership to 'have a word', there just wasn't any other reasonable explanation.

He didn't dwell on it however. He had to keep a sharp eye on the road. Or… what he thought was the road. A few times the banks and curves had him momentarily with the wheels in the mud, and he'd been quick to correct it. Nick had never driven in conditions as severe as this– to be honest it unnerved him, used to the tame climates offered by Southern California and Nevada– and he kept an unnecessarily tight grip on the wheel as result. Eventually he pegged out the speed of the wipers, which bat back and forth so frantically he swore they'd snap from the stress. The engine, too, was suffering– the extra exertion of driving the wheels through over a foot of water was gradually causing it to overheat, the temperature gauge on the dash slowly creeping towards the H. However the vehicle remained stalwart in the face of the brutal environment.

Nick tried a few times to roust the young mechanic during the drive, patting him on the back or asking him how he was feeling. By the time two o'clock rolled around, Nick forced him into sharing a couple bags of Cheetos pillaged from the snack machine, warning him of the punishment that would befall him should he touch his suit with the orange-coated fingers– that at least cracked a smile on Ellis' features, and he became a little more responsive afterwards.

The drive, however, was far from fun. It took them three times as long to get to I-10 as it should have. And when they did, the sight that met him made his jaw hang.

"Fucking shit!" Nick exclaimed, bringing the SUV to a halt on the onramp.

The freeway was packed solid with zombies, shambling, crawling, pushing past one another in the most gruesome form of gridlock anyone had ever seen. It was like rush hour… for the living dead. Infected scrambled at the steep inclines of the raised interstate, climbing through the muck and weeds in attempt to join their counterparts at the top. Some were even pushing one another off the embankment to assert their claimed positions jostling for a dry patch. His brain buzzed. It had to be because it was the most elevated area around for miles… shit, the whole state was practically at sea level, and with the flooding rains all the infected had sought higher ground– no wonder they hadn't been coming across any zombies all day! They were all here, wandering the major interstate, keeping their goddamn feet dry.

"Mother of Christ…" Ellis whispered, leaning forward onto the dashboard, practically pushing his bulbed nose against the glass. Rochelle and Coach did their own double-takes, in a state of awe at the spectacle and the sheer number of zombies before them. They'd never seen this many in one place at one time– it made the horde at the NAS seem paltry.

And their little SUV a lot less safe.

Nick quickly cut the headlamps before they were noticed. He licked his thin lips. "Well, now what do we do, lady and gents?" he said, cynicism dripping from his voice.

Ellis was, naturally, the first to speak. "Well, I sure as heck don't think we're gonna roll down the windows an' start gunnin' 'em down," he said with faux-seriousness, shaking his head from side to side. Nick gave a short-lived laugh at the imagery, despite their predicament.

"Maybe we could drive alongside the freeway?" Rochelle offered a little more helpfully than the youngest survivor.

Ellis shook his head. "She ain't made fer off-roadin', least not in this much mud, I reckon anythin' short of a Jeep'd wouldn't make it; we'll get her stuck."

"I'm inclined to agree," Nick mumbled, eying the slippery banks.

The girl nodded her understanding.

"There's gotta be more surface roads further up," Ellis said, making the second suggestion. "At least one of 'em has tuh go west. Might have tuh deal wit' a few switchbacks, but…" he let the statement hang.

Nick grimaced. "I can't drive on something I can't see. I barely got us up here. The visibility is shit." He didn't really want to shoot the kid down, but they were just as likely to end up stuck in the mud driving on windy road as they were to saying screw it to roads entirely.

The southerner stroked his stubbly chin. "Yeah, an' we been stressin' her engine purdy hard… dunno how long she'd go doin' what we been doin'. So scratch that, sorry," he apologized, tugging on the brim of his hat anxiously.

"I don't see what the problem is," Coach spoke up, motioning an arm. "Drive through the bastards."

Nick lifted an incredulous eyebrow, even turning around in his seat to look at the big guy. "You want me to 'drive through them'? Are you even listening to yourself?"

"You ever watched a football game, Nick?" the man shot back. "Anyone who don't wanna get steamrolled don't try to take on the biggest linebacker on the other team."

The gambler remained unconvinced. He had seen football games, mostly playing on flat-panel televisions at sports bars and other places he could earn a quick buck. And from what he had seen, there was a lot of colliding and chaos and definitely not a lot of progress to the goal at the end of the field. Not to mention injuries galore. He squeezed the wheel, eying the mass of bodies in front of them so solid it was like a wall, imagining all those linebackers waiting for the whistle to come at them with a lot worse in mind than tackling.

"They'll either get outta the way, or get run over," Coach went on. "An' it ain't no never mind to us which they pick."

"What other options do we have?" Rochelle asked quietly.

Nick ground his teeth. They could find somewhere safe and dry to huddle up for the night, wait for the storm to pass and the water to recede. Though, of course, who knew how long that could take in 'Swamp City, USA', home to the world's largest mud puddle. It wasn't even done raining. He shook his head. "I'm not doing it," he settled the matter.

"Then I will," Coach asserted, unclicking his seatbelt. "Move over."

He hesitated his hand at his own seatbelt release.

Ellis spoke up beside him. "I dun think that's such a good idea…"

The football player narrowed his eyes at him. "Boy, I don't wanna be hearin' one word from you what is or isn't a 'good idea'."

Nick was about to issue a retort, tired of hearing him rag on the younger man, but Ellis turned out to be faster. The mechanic twisted around and his fist shot out from his shoulder, clobbering the eldest man right in the face.

"Ellis!" Rochelle shouted, throwing her hand over her mouth in shock; even Nick blinked a few times with disbelief at the southerner's reaction as Coach fell back into his seat, now bleeding freshly from the nose. Ellis' form was literally swelling with rage, shoulders rising and falling, and he pointed an accusatory finger at the man he had struck.

"Yer leavin' the decisions tuh me, Nick, an' Rochelle from now on," he swore. "We'll get there when we damn well get there! An' tha's final, ya hear??"

And despite what Nick would have expected out of the big guy, Coach didn't argue back, falling into stoney silence.

He didn't know what the hell was going on here, and he was nearly inclined to make the both of them come clean right now because he was pretty fucking sick of being left out of the loop on whatever shit it was. His eyes flicked back to the ambling horde on the freeway.

But it would wait a few minutes longer. Now was not the time or place to talk. He put the SUV in reverse. "I'm finding some place to stay for the night," he established, voice rough.

And since no one objected or punched him in the face, that's what he did.

Chapter Text

The place he found was actually a little two-story motel on the side of the main road, back the way they had come in Lake City. Since everything was flooded a good one and a half feet high, it had a couple benefits– they'd have rooms above the water…

And they could have separate rooms to keep mechanic and football player from kicking one another's teeth in.

Thankfully, the ten-minute ride to the little lodge calmed both parties down to a low simmer– Coach with his head tipped back and nose pinched to stop the flow of blood, and Ellis cock-eyed in his seat, arms crossed and a boot stuffed up onto the dash.

Nick parked at the stairwell that led up to the second story as close as he could reasonably get, driving up onto the curb to get that much more out of the water. The car seemed to sigh with relief as he turned off the engine, finally getting some well-deserved rest for its stint. He pushed open the car door and popped his jacket up over his head to shield him from some of the brutal downpour as he went around back to open up the tailgate. Each of the survivors hurriedly and indiscriminately grabbed their supplies and Nick slammed it shut as they made their way upstairs, under the eaves that protected them from the majority of the storm. The doors of the rooms were locked– as one would expect, they required programmed key cards from the motel lobby– but Coach made short work of that with that impressive shoulder of his that never seemed to quit.

Ellis and Coach were more than happy to occupy rooms apart from one another. However, before he and Rochelle could naturally sort into their established watch groups, the big man placed a hand upon his shoulder. Nick frowned at its size and weight momentarily before flicking his gaze to the older man's face. "We need to talk, Nicholas," he delivered solemnly, thick lips pulled down into a frown.

"Yeah, we do," Nick agreed. It had been his full intention to go over and talk to Coach to hash out this bullshit, whether the eldest or youngest of their party liked it or not. But his invitation to speak would make the whole thing a hell of a lot easier. The football player bobbed his head and lifted his hand away so they could part for the meantime to settle in. Nick shut the door after himself.

The rooms were decent for shitty motel rooms, especially in the middle of a zombieapocalypse. The sheets weren't full of cigarette holes and the carpeting didn't smell like piss, and really, besides that what more could you ask for? He'd slept in worse pre-infection. Ellis plopped onto the singleton bed, still made and a mint on the pillow, which the hick was quick to pop in his mouth to suck on. Nick removed his coat and wrung it out into the bathtub before hanging it, though he had little hope it would actually dry, along with his goddamn shoes. He frowned at how limp and sad it looked; the garment could probably never be returned to its former glory.

Ellis must have noticed the way he was staring at it, because the southerner spoke up in a casual tone. "Ya want I kin try an' hook up the blow dryer an' iron tuh the inverter," he offered, inclining his head at the backpack beside him on the bed that held the jerry-rigged device.

Nick felt the corners of his mouth tug upward appreciatively. "You'd do that for me, sport?" he asked.

"Well sure, ain't got much else tuh be doin', may as well," the mechanic mused, swinging his feet a couple inches from the floor. That was true, Nick thought, considering they were mired in for God knew how long. Fucking storm. Fucking zombies. Ellis shrugged. "If Ro' wants any'a her things ironed, she kin bring 'em over too. An' I reckon all'a us'd like tuh get our feet dry." He lifted his foot momentarily to display his sopping steel-toed boots.

The gambler chuckled, noting Ellis' exclusion of their eldest party member from the picture. He sat beside the mechanic, regarding a picture frame mounted on the wall. "What if Coach wants to re-pleat his khakis?" he led in, trying some humor.

Ellis snorted and rolled his eyes. "Coach kin do whatever the heck he wants. I dun give a damn."

Nick let the statement hang a minute, doubting the kid really meant that. It must have been a pretty big disagreement between them however. Nick went on. "What's up with you two anyway?" he asked as off-handedly as possible.

The young man's face cracked with ready chagrin. "Knew I couldn't hide nothin' from ya," he said, shaking his head. "I was a mess the whole damn ride down tuh Starke. An' then back up too, only worse." He was flashed a small smile before Ellis bent to stare at the carpet, chin propped up in his palms, elbows on his knees. He gave a derisive snort. "Promised him I wouldn't tell though, so ya'll hafta be askin' him, I s'pose."

"Well, I intend to in a few minutes," Nick replied, leaning back.

Ellis merely nodded. "Good. He an' I ain't really on the greatest speakin' terms right now."

"I kind of noticed," the gambler chuckled gently.

They sat beside one another quietly, lost in their own thoughts and broodings. Outside the rain poured and the wind buffeted against the windowpanes, but it didn't eclipse the silence. He could hear the hard mint clacking against the southerner's teeth as he moved it around his mouth with his tongue absently. Nick clapped him gently on the back, rising to stand. "These any good?" he asked, nabbing the little plastic-wrapped mint off 'his' pillow, twirling the edges.

The mechanic stuck out his tongue, displaying the half-consumed candy to him in playful answer. Nick couldn't help but imagine pressing the younger man back against the bedspread and frenching the fuck out of that minty-fresh mouth, playing hockey with the sugar-striped puck.

He silenced the growl that threatened to rise in his throat, returning to reality. He tucked the mint away in a pocket and hooked his thumb at the door. "I'll be back in a tic, alright, kiddo?"

Ellis nodded. "Sure thing. I'll have yer stuff hooked up in a jiffy."

"Thanks, El," he smiled warmly and gave the dirty blonde locks a ruffle. He turned and headed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Nick paused, fixing his lapels before rapping the back of his knuckles against the adjacent suite. A moment later Rochelle opened the door. He and she exchanged glances, seeming to communicate unspoken that they were 'trading' rooms for at least a few minutes. She stepped aside to let him in, touching him briefly on the arm– he could read apology in her eyes– and then left herself. Nick folded his arms as the door clicked shut.

Coach was sitting in the supplied armchair, looking as stern as ever. At the gambler's entrance, his expression seemed to change to one of business, the brown eyes lifting to connect with green. "Nicholas, at first I weren't so sure about'chu, an' sometimes, I still ain't."

The cardshark allowed a single controlled eyebrow to lift, unmoving from the place he had chosen to stand within the room. "Thanks," he delivered sarcastically.

The bigger man went on without skipping a beat. "But Ellis and Rochelle both seem to think there's a good man in there," he said with a humbled rumble, bowing his head ever so slightly as he gave a nod. "I think the both'a 'em'll stick with ya to the end, no matter what."

His brow furrowed at the words, perceiving their implication. "Yeah, and what about you? Where are you going?" he accused.

"Well," Coach shifted in his seat, "I reckon that's what your boy is all in a fuss about." He placed a hand flat to the side of his nose in consideration. "Throws a damn good punch too, that boy does, I'm proud of him."

Nick scowled, all his features wrinkling. "Cut the crap, Coach."

The older man seemed to frown at his forwardness, but obliged him. "I been meanin' to have this conversation wit'chu for a while now, but no time ever quite seemed right to do it." Nick waited as Coach took a deep breath. "I ain't goin' with you all to N'awlins. I ain't goin' no further than Tallahassee."

He couldn't lie, he was slightly floored. But his expression didn't reflect it. "Tallahassee?" he repeated, "Florida?"

The football player nodded solemnly.

No wonder the kid had snapped the way he did, told the big man to stay out of the decisions from here on out. Now it made sense. It all fell into fucking place. "Well," he said shortly, still not bothering to unfold his arms, "I guess that's all I need to know then."

Coach looked up, eyes creasing at the corners, clearing having expected to be told to explain himself. But Nick wasn't going to ask what his motivation was. He was curious, sure. But ultimately, there was no reason to ask; it wouldn't change the fact that he wasn't continuing with them. It would be a major detriment to lose him– Christ, would they have even been able to get into these hotel rooms without him? (they better invest in a crowbar, asap)– mentioning nothing of the extra gun by their sides. He, El and Rochelle would just have to get along as best they could, and be thankful to have Coach as long as they did.

Honestly, it almost made him chuckle. Here he had been the one in the beginning threatening to leave the group and make out on his own. And now he would be the one leading the rag-tag group of survivors to the end. It was funny how things shook out.

"I'm leavin' 'em with you, Nick. You understand me? You better damn well take care of 'em," Coach rumbled.

"Yeah, sure," he shrugged, as if it were only of secondary concern. His mouth pulled into a pessimistic half-sided grin. "What's the worst that can happen?"

The eldest survivor didn't answer that question.

The conman turned on his heel, pausing as he took the doorknob in his grip. "Oh, El's setting up a blowdryer in the room, if there's anything you want to have dried we can send it over," he mentioned over his shoulder with as careless an air as he could muster. Because as sure as he was that he and the other two would miss Coach…

He was more sure that Coach would miss them.

Chapter Text

As soon as the gambler had gone next door, Ellis busied himself in fixing up the appliances. There wasn't any sense in being anxious like he was. Nick would set things straight. Or, at least, he'd get all of this out in the open.

And then, he supposed, they could all move on. In whatever directions that may be.

His ears perked up when he heard a light knock, turning to face around as Rochelle let herself in.

"Oh, hey, Ro'," he greeted before bending back over his project, screwdriver in hand.

"Hey, sweetie," the girl returned, closing the door before walking over. She stooped, pausing to watch him for a bit as he tightened the stripped wire of the blowdryer to the connection point. "Well, aren't you being industrious?" the producer tittered, putting her hands on her hips.

The mechanic nodded. "Well, tryin' ta be, at least." He needed to go fetch a car battery from one of the vehicles down in the parking lot, but he was getting everything else hooked up first so then maybe he could get his own clothes dry. "Nick's got dibs but ya kin use it after him," he went on. "I'm settin' up the iron too, an' I reckon a microwave since we got a couple more packs'a oatmeal an' whatnot. Hopefully we kin divide e'erythin' up so we all get enough tuh eat, I know we ain't got much…" He was rambling aimlessly and he knew it, but he just didn't know what else to say to the girl that wasn't in regards to the conversation he knew was going on next door. "'Course maybe when the rain lets up we kin see if there's a grocery down the street or somethin', restock a'fore we head out again, be nice tuh have some real food again. I dunno 'bout'chu, but I been real hungry all day…" He forced his mouth to stop and went silent.

Rochelle took a seat next to him, crossing her legs. She ran her palms up and down the thighs of her jeans absently, sighing. Ellis listened to the rain coming down outside. "Kinda sucks about Coach, doesn't it?" she asked then, smiling at him a touch sorrowfully.

Ellis turned his blue eyes to her, askance. "He told'ja?"

She nodded, fiddling with some top stitching that was coming loose on the comforter. "Just a couple minutes ago." She shook her head, hooped earrings swaying. "I can't believe he didn't tell us earlier..."

"Me neither," the southerner mumbled unhappily, tossing his screwdriver aside, momentarily abandoning his work. "Tallahassee ain't that far off… Ain't gonna be easy without him, I kin tell ya that." His stomach gnawed with anxiety.

"We'll just have to make do." She smiled then, putting a hand to his shoulder and squeezing tight. "I'm not too worried, what with you and Nick around."

The mechanic chuckled, feeling a small swell of pride in his chest; he tugged the brim of his cap. "Thanks, Ro'. Jus' doin' what we can, I reckon." A few seconds passed. He wriggled a little, realizing then he still owed the girl an apology like the one he had tried to give Coach. "Y'know, I meant tuh say…" he led in, locking gaze with her again, "M'sorry for done blowin' up at'chu back there, 'bout'cher family an' all. Weren't real nice'a me…"

"Oh, honey," Rochelle said, the pitch of her voice rising with emotion, "Come here." She wrapped her brown arms around him and gave him a tight hug. The southerner flushed a little at the affection, caught off-guard like he usually was. "I'm not upset at you. At least, I couldn't be for long," she pat his knee and gave him a big-sisterly grin.

Ellis laughed. "Sure, ya say that now," he joked back.

The producer squared her shoulders, putting her hands back to her hips. "If I can get over Eli using my prom dress for a finger-painting canvas, I think you're safe."

The mechanic's eyebrows lifted on his head, issuing a guffaw. "Oh shit, ya didn't murder him fer that?" he asked– he knew just how important a dress could be to a gal, especially a prom dress or wedding dress. Whereas guys could go and rent a tux or whatever, a girl could spend upwards of three hundred dollars for a real nice looking get-up; he'd seen the price tags. Heck, for his own prom he hadn't even gotten his own suit– it was well out of his Ma's price range– instead he had borrowed his grandfather's old wool jacket and slacks, a remainder from the 40s era, a kind of ugly tan and brown tweed mixed with bits of red and blue. It hadn't looked awful, but he didn't think it had looked all that great either. Not to mention he pretty much stuck out like a sore thumb at the dance proper, his unruly hair that refused to lie flat only accentuating matters. Somehow the girls kept asking him to dance though. Must have just been his 'charm' because he also had a pretty notorious couple of left-feet.

"I was tempted…" Rochelle admitted, still smiling as she recalled her story. "He didn't like the boy I was dating." She winked. "He cut into brother-sister playtime."

"Aw… tha's cute," Ellis said. He shook his head. "Yeah, Emma didn't much like it when I started workin' at the shop fer the same reason. We used'ta do things all the time together."

The girl seemed interested, leaning an arm on the bed. "Emma? Is that your sister?"

He nodded. "Youngest, yeah. There's four'a us: me, Elliana, Emmett, and Emma."

"Wow," Rochelle laughed suddenly, her reaction making the springs underneath them squeak slightly, "your folks really liked names that started with 'E', didn't they?"

The southerner flushed a little, always feeling a touch silly whenever someone noticed and pointed out the fact. "Yeah, sometimes makes me wonder what they would'a named the next few," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. A certain sadness temporarily stole over him. He actually knew what the fifth one's name had been supposed to be. When his Pa got diagnosed, he and Ma had decided to have a fifth child, and agreed upon 'Elliot' on account of the fact it worked for either a girl or a boy, because of course that early on they couldn't tell which it would be and the man wouldn't make it to his or her birth. His Pa had passed and not two months later came the miscarriage. Nearly tore out his Ma's heart.

"Anyway," Ellis shrugged, hurrying to push away the difficult memory, "I was always closest tuh Emma. It was hard tuh keep her outta trouble sometimes. Then again, I encouraged her sometimes," he admitted with a little laugh, nostalgia growing inside him.

"I guess that's the difference between being a big brother and being a big sister. I can't count the number of times I wanted to skin that boy alive." The reporter wagged a forefinger; Ellis laughed.

The doorknob turned, the cardshark returning from next door. Ellis blinked in shock; he hadn't expected that conversation to go quite so fast. The man was very solemn as he entered the suite, like he was carrying a great deal more weight than when he had left, and his very presence seemed to drain all the positive energy right out of the room.

"Well, guess I'll go back now..." the producer said a little disenheartenedly.

"Ya don't hafta," Ellis readily offered, touching her arm. "Ya kin stay wit' us a little longer if'n ya want."

She shrugged. "I probably ought to keep him company. It wasn't exactly an… easy decision for him either, you know?" her brown eyes threatened to mist. "I think any of us in his place would chose to do the same thing."

Ellis felt his head hang with a slight bit of guilt at the claim; as much as he wanted to deny it. "Yeah. Well, was good talkin' to ya, Ro'."

"Yeah, it was fun," Rochelle said. "We should do it again sometime."

The southerner's head bobbed. "Absolutely."

He watched from the bed as the female survivor proceeded to the door and out. He frowned to himself, looking down at his crossed legs before peering towards Nick. The gambler had taken a place in front of the bathroom mirror, both palms flat on the counter, head hung towards the sink, his whole body sagged with despair. Ellis was just about to stand, to go over to him, to ask if he wanted to talk, when the older man gave a yell and wadded up his fist, striking it against the mirror.

The glass shattered and rained down upon the countertop.

Ellis swallowed and picked his screwdriver back up, wordlessly going back to his project.

Chapter Text

Furious didn't begin to describe it. The longer he spent thinking about it, the angrier he got.

The bastard was leaving them.

Leaving them in the hands of someone who'd spent his entire life running away from responsibility. Good going, big guy, bra-fucking-vo. He deserved a round of applause for that one.

And yet the dark-haired man staring back at him in the mirror wasn't the same as the one it had been several weeks ago, that life had made him. The one who'd get out of town quick if he scammed a few too many folks and made enemies out of the wrong people. The one who'd let another man move in on his wife and didn't bother to pull the plug until months upon months later even as it went on under his nose. The one who had moved out on his eighteenth birthday with all his belongings stuffed into the back of his mustang to seek out work and education in Vegas. The one who had hid in his room from his father as a child, sometimes under his pillow to try and muffle out the angry shouting.

He'd been born out of irresponsibility, and he embodied it.

Nick had gotten so sick of his reflection that he lashed out and destroyed the mirror casting it.

It wasn't like him to lose composure like that, not quite so violently, to the point of physically breaking things… and it only sent him into a deeper spiral of doubt and uncertainty about being able to handle this. He wanted to say that something about the apocalypse had changed him… perhaps because there really was no running away– couldn't very well leave town when zombies had the entire country by the balls. And yet he didn't feel any different.

When Coach had said he'd 'make a good leader', what the hell had the older man actually meant? Had he just been trying to convince him then so that when they hit this snag down the road he'd just accept the role without a moment's hesitation? Or had there truly been something deeper, something he himself couldn't see? That could only be seen from the outside in?

The conman battled himself. Why couldn't he have picked Ellis? Or fuck, Rochelle. Anyone, anyone before him. He furled his hands into his hair, fuming in his self-loathing.

Ellis ambled behind him, setting something down on the desk. Nick took a deep breath, the southerner's movement bringing him partially out of his internal breakdown, and he turned to regard the boy. "You'd stick with me, no matter what?" he asked, needing to hear the answer.

The mechanic paused at the unexpected question, peering at him almost curiously. "Well shit, Nick, ya tole me once, I dunno if ya were listenin' tuh yerself, that'cha'd always be here fer me. What the heck kind'a friend would I be if I didn't return the favor, huh?" he reasoned, the epitome of simplistic logic.

Nick chuckled, running his hand through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, I know," he said. He had made that commitment to the young man, hadn't he? He hadn't hardly given it a thought at the time, but it was a kind of responsibility. "It's just… something Coach said…" He shook his head, trailing off.

Ellis' face drew into a frown. "What'd he say?" he asked, looking suddenly very irritated, voice rising. "If he done gone an' said I wouldn't, then he's got another thing comin', cuz I ain't like him," he spat.

Well, at least someone thought this was as much bullshit as he did. "No, he didn't mean it like that," Nick quickly amended, hesitating on telling the rest of what had been spoken between them. He fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves.

The southerner shifted on his feet, seeming unconvinced. "The heck did he mean then?" he asked, folding his muscled arms in an aggressive, yet defensive manner.

Nick hesitated. "That I ought to be 'leader'." He paused, then added, "Because you and Rochelle really... trust me."

"Well a'course we trust ya! Shit," the younger man shook his head as if it were the most ridiculous thing he had heard.

"See?" Nick couldn't help but point out, "That's it right there."

"What's what?" he asked, blue eyes filled with bafflement.

"Well you trusted Coach too, didn't you?" Nick began to explain. "He was leading us. You thought he'd always be there for us. He even said himself 'he wasn't going to leave us behind'. And now look," the gambler threw out his arms. "Hell, kid, I trusted him. I did," he emphasized.

The mechanic fell silent. Nick frowned, feeling awkward that their dialogue had all but turned into a heated argument at this point. He slowly walked over and took a seat on the bed, giving another sigh as he set his elbows to his knees. Ellis sidled up closer to him. "Nick, man, what's really wrong?" he asked gently. "I know yer angry at Coach, so'm I. But there's somethin' else." Nick winced and averted his gaze. "I hate seein' ya all bent outta shape like this."

"I just… I don't know if I can do this…" he finally admitted, shutting his eyes.

He felt pressure descend on his shoulder; the southerner's palm squeezed. "A'course ya don't," Ellis spoke. "But'cha can."

Nick scoffed, averting his gaze with a roll of his eyes. "How do you figure that?" he asked sarcastically, disbelieving.

There was another pause before Ellis reached across him to the little bedside drawer. He pulled it open and took from it the motel-supplied copy of the Bible.

Nick came this close to laughing, but stopped himself. First prayer, now what? Bible readings?

He didn't interrupt as the more religious of the two of them flipped through the pages; he was obviously in search of some verse or another that the situation had reminded him of. The conman waited a little impatiently, finding it difficult to put his question on hold, but at last Ellis' forefinger stubbed down onto one of the pages. The thick accent began to read aloud, blue eyes scanning from left to right. "'For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.' Tha's Luke twelve, forty-eight."

Nick felt himself pause at the scripture. He certainly hadn't expected it to strike home quite so… well, well. 'Men who have committed much'. Yeah, that fit him like a glove. 'Of him they will ask the more.' Redemption, or some shit, he could only assume. He had to make up for past grievances. The big guy upstairs was 'testing' him. Nick wet his lips, not sure how to respond, chuckling softly, incredulously. However the mechanic spoke up before he could.

"The reason ya think ya ain't the best fer it is the reason ya are," Ellis concluded, shutting the tome and returning it to its place of safe-keeping.

He hadn't thought about it that way.

The southerner licked his lips a little nervously before the blue eyes raised to meet his gaze. "I know there's a lotta stuff ya ain't really… proud of, maybe. Stuff ya ain't ever even tole me," his voice sounded a little tight, "but nothin' matters 'cept the person ya are now." He gave a stiff nod and smiled. "An' tha's the person I know. The person I trust."

Damn, how did the kid manage to make so much fucking sense? He looked at him appreciatively, his eyes lightly misting as he spoke. "Thank you, Ellis," he delivered.

The mechanic put his arms around him then, squeezing him tight. "Ain't no one I'd rather be behind," he assured. Nick felt his own arms wrap around the younger man's middle, letting his face bury partially in the kid's wide shoulder. It was damp still from the rain, but nothing could have been more comforting to him at that moment than just having him close and hearing those words.

He'd never felt this… forgiven in all his life.

Chapter Text

Ellis sat on the bed, leaned up against the headboard, staring across the room at the blank television set as he munched on the box of Wheat Thins. He dug his hand deep into the cardboard container, the plastic crinkling; he was nearly to the crumbs and he was still hungry. But it was one of the highest protein things they actually still had, besides the oatmeal which he had let Coach and Rochelle have. He gave a small little sigh, eying the remote control on the nightstand that had once operated the television set, back when there had been power in the state. Shoot, he couldn't even recall what the last thing he would have watched on the 'tube' was before the infection had swept the country. Probably some race or another. Or one of those documentaries on machines or building shit. All he knew was that he wished he had some sort of distraction to keep his mind off the gnawing hunger in his stomach that wouldn't go away, regardless of how much junk food he consumed.

He emptied the last of the broken corners of crackers into his palm and put them in his mouth before chucking the box across the room at the trash can, where it went in with a thunk.

Nick was standing near the bathroom, the mini ironing board out across the counter. Ellis had successfully hooked up both the blowdryer and iron to one of the car batteries, and the older man had since removed his jacket and dried it. Now he was working the iron across the lapels in slow, meticulous strokes.

"Man, ain't'chu hungry?" he asked sort of incredulously. He hadn't seen the guy touch food since the car ride.

The older man gave a shrug, lifting the iron to inspect his garment. "I dunno. I guess I'm kind of used to going hungry."

Ellis quirked an eyebrow at the statement. "Used'ta goin' hungry? Shit, how kin anyone be used'ta goin' hungry?"

"Well, if you've done it before," Nick responded matter-of-factly.

The mechanic shook his head. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, stomach growling even now. His family hadn't always been all that well-off, but they had always had food on the table. They ate well. His Ma made damn sure of that above all else. Ellis chuckled slightly, thinking of all the pies she used to bake up, all sorts of flavors– apple, cherry, coconut creme, pecan, and of course, peach cobbler. And Sunday dinners. Holy hell, those were the best. More often than not she'd whip up something huge, like a whole turkey or a spiral ham so there'd be leftovers throughout the week. And that was just the main course to the heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and numerous ears of corn on the cob and the basket of fluffy golden-brown biscuits. He began to salivate, mouth growing wet with the memories. It was like Thanksgiving every weekend! He could recall just how hard it was to wait through the Blessing with all that delectable food wafting its aroma through the air, straight to his nostrils.

Oh what he wouldn't do for a whole leg of lamb right now. Or an entire filet of trout. Shit. Everything sounded good. Lord, was he ever hungry.

Ellis laid down on his front, hoping that applying some pressure to his stomach would make some of the hunger go away. He drummed his fingers against the mattress and peered at the gambler, who had gone back to pressing his jacket. The man lifted the iron again and this time seemed satisfied, grabbing one of the motel-supplied hangars to put the suit coat on it. Ellis' eyes drifted up and down his turned form, hanging particularly, as it turned out, on his ass.

Normally the cut of the coat went down past the area on the conman, obscuring it. Without it though, there was only the slacks and where his blue shirt tucked into the waist, the curved muscle well defined by the white fabric.

The southerner was a little chagrinned when he poked the mattress beneath him.

He averted his eyes a moment, but ultimately they returned to the older man and his jacket. Yeah, it looked real fine on him, he was probably the nicest dressed feller in the apocalypse, but damn it looked good off him too. Or rather he looked good without it– he was mixing his prepositions. Nick certainly hadn't been wearing it during that dream of his last night, and that had sent him for a loop. Ellis wet his lips slowly. "Ya don't always hafta wear yer coat, y'know…" the mechanic spoke up in a murmur.

Nick turned to tip an eyebrow upward at him, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right.

"Ya look… good without it," he admitted.

The gambler stopped to laugh. "Next you'll be telling me I look good buck naked," he joked as his fingers popped loose the buckle on his belt.

Ellis laughed uneasily. "Well, prolly." He watched with keen eyes as Nick slung the leather through the belt loops, removing it from the slacks to coil it on the counter. Oh hell, he was losing more clothing? He willed his cheeks not to redden as the man took off his suit pants one leg at a time. "I ain't exactly seen ya 'buck naked', so I wouldn't really know, now would I?" his mouth took off, invoking even more embarrassment. He tugged his hat down over his eyes, wondering why he sometimes didn't have the sense to keep his big mouth shut.

"I guess not," Nick merely chuckled, turning to flick on the blowdryer, the loud noise preventing any further dialogue between them, which was probably a good thing.

The mechanic braved another peek towards the man who now stood in only dress shirt, boxers and socks.

Shit, if he lost any more, he'd be fit to burst.

Well, at least he'd forgotten about his hunger.

Chapter Text

Once Ellis had finished drying his coveralls and shirt– which he had been painstakingly careful to not shrink the ridiculous logo on, the gambler noticed– the mechanic took the device next door for Rochelle and Coach's use. In the brief period of the younger man's absence, Nick took the opportunity to relieve himself in the sink, considering the motel didn't have running water and the toilet was non-operational. His urine was fairly yellow; despite how much water had been pouring down around them, he hadn't had put much down his gullet that day. He hmm'd as he tucked himself back into his boxers.

The door squeaked on its hinges as Ellis stepped back inside the room. The kid must have been on about the same damn track as he was, because he was now holding the six-pack of Budweiser Nick had picked up at the dealership, along with the lockbox.

Nick chuckled. "What are you doing with those?"

The southerner shrugged, a grin tugging across his plump lips. "Figured I'd crack open a cold one."

He laughed a little harder. "You can't really call them 'cold one's if they aren't cold, ace," he pointed out.

Ellis stuck his tongue out at him, sitting down on the bed and quickly kicking off the boots he had put on to go over. "A'right, m'gonna crack open a room-temperature one," he amended as he lost his coveralls as well. Nick watched with interest as Ellis lounged back onto the headboard, removing one of the cans from the plastic rings. He held it out with his tattooed arm. "Ya want one?" he offered.

When it came to alcohol, Nick had never much been one for beer. He lifted a sleek eyebrow, but took the invitation. "Why the hell not," he reasoned, striding forward to accept the can. After all, last time he'd turned down the younger man's offer to share his beverages, way back in Yulee; he'd be remiss to do so again, especially now that they were somewhere safe and not out on the road. He sat down next to the kid, putting his back against the wooden head of the bed before pulling the tab in his fingers. The can gave its signature pssht! as the gas within was released, and Ellis' sounded beside him as the mechanic followed suit.

The gambler lifted the aluminum rim to his lips, taking a couple large swigs to start off before he tilted it away again. His expression soured slightly at the aftertaste. "Ugh," he commented, "this piss-water doesn't taste any better in a can." His taste buds could pick up on the very slight metallic flavor that wouldn't be there had it been bottled instead.

The southerner snorted a laugh. "Tastes fine tuh me," he said as he drank deeply, adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

Nick purred under his breath as he watched him throw the beverage back. In his head, he evaluated the situation. Two men, chilling in their underwear, consuming alcohol together. How could this possibly go wrong?

Or rather... how couldn't it go right?

He shook his head, casting the thought from his mind.

"So, were ya gonna open this, or what?" Ellis asked, nudging the lockbox with his foot.

The conman frowned at it. "Yeah, I guess I could try," he said as he leaned forward to heft it up. He turned it around in his hands a couple times– the hinges of course were all on the inside, the only way to get into it would be to pop the key lock. "Where'd you put that screwdriver?" he asked.

Ellis made a noise, as his lips were currently attached to his drink. He motioned with his other hand at the television set. Nick stood up to go fetch it, sipping his drink and setting it aside for now on the nightstand.

The mechanic watched with keen interest as Nick began toying with the slit meant for the key. He angled the flathead, twisting at almost imperceivably different depths, feeling for the small amount of give that rotated parts of the mechanism at a time. His lips turned downward at the corners; the damn thing was actually being a little obstinate, resisting his adjustments. He paused to take another drink before resuming.

A few more little clicks and turns and the box finally sprung open.

"I ain't got a clue how ya do that," Ellis shook his head with slight awe. "Ya must have magic fingers, man. Little bit of finaglin' an'…" he snapped his middle and thumb. The southerner tipped his head way back to drain the rest of the beer from his can before crushing the aluminum in his hand. He tossed it into the waste bin and yanked a second free from the remaining four.

Nick chuckled and lifted the lid. The first thing that met him was several newspaper clippings, some cut neatly, others haphazardly out of the flimsy newsprint. An eyebrow lifted on his head as he rummaged through them quickly– most were recent stories, detailing attacks and disappearances, or suggested 'survival' preparations, though nothing was more than two months old as the printed dates gave away. Nick scoffed sarcastically as his fingers idled on a particular headline that read: 'What the Coming Zombie Invasion Means and What You Can Do To Protect Your Family'.

"Some good reading material this guy has," Nick commented.

Ellis leaned over his shoulder, blue eyes flickering across the many scattered cut-outs. He picked a different one up, reading from it. "'Life in the Apocalypse: 100 Things You Need to Know'." He frowned. "Man, all'a this sounds like some real bullshit."

"Yeah, and he bought into it, hook line and sinker," the gambler mumbled, pushing the rest of them aside. Underneath it was a polaroid of a woman, which hadn't been taken at a terribly flattering angle, nor was the lighting much good. But the depicted woman was smiling a gap-toothed grin and rooting for some sports team or another from the looks of her numbered jersey. The name 'Martha' had been scribbled in pencil on the bottom margin.

"Wife, ya reckon?" Ellis said a little sadly.

Nick grunted, remorse starting to creep up on him. "Yeah, probably." He set it aside and went for the next thing, which, perhaps unsurprisingly, was one of the CEDA-issued postcards. The mechanic fidgeted noticeably beside him as he lifted it from the lockbox. There was a young man and woman on the front with several young children, but the conman didn't let his gaze linger on the people as he flipped it over to read from the back. 'Pa, I hope you're not planning to do something crazy and hold out with Ma. Zombies will kill you dead. GET TO EVAC. See you soon.' Well, as it turned out, zombies hadn't 'killed him dead', Nick had been the one to do that instead. His gut churned; he chose to reach for his beer and chug the feeling down.

"Guess he wasn't such a good listener, huh…?" the southerner commented, rubbing at his muscular bicep.

The gambler found the bottom of his beverage too soon and grabbed for another. "Idiot is what he was," Nick muttered, casting the piece of mail away irritably as he clicked open the pop-top. His mouth quirked quizzically at the small sheet of Christmas-themed wrapping paper staring up at him, decorated with pine trees and snowmen, but when he lifted it, he finally came upon what he had been expecting to come upon all this time.

A whole shit-ton of bundled bills.

Nick began to shuffle through them with his thumb; they looked to be properly accounted for, secured by the proper ABA currency straps and everything. There were a couple $10,000 stacks of Benjamins and several $2,000 stacks of Jacksons, accounting for over thirty-two thousand dollars in total, as a few bills floated around loose in the bottom of the box.

The gambler sat back. Wow. He'd had his hands on more a few times in his line of work as a croupier in Vegas, of course, but still. Damn. The guy must have been really making bank with his little impromptu gasoline scam. Too bad none of it meant anything any more.

Ellis' eyes looked nearly ready to pop out of his skull at the wads of cash. "What was he hopin' tuh do with it, I wonder?"

Nick chuckled. "Well, what would you do with it?" he asked offhandedly as he began to stack everything back inside the lockbox the way it had been arranged originally, though a little more neatly.

"Oh, tha's easy," the younger male responded, shaking his head before taking a swig out of his beer can.

He paused, looking back at him as he shut the lid; he was honestly pretty curious about the southerner's answer to the question. A new truck? Backstage passes to a Midnight Riders concert? Several new tattoos? "Well… what?"

Ellis settled back, scratching the scruff protruding from his chin. "Put it in Emma's college fund." He motioned at the box. "Reckon that would'a doubled what I had in there, easy."

"Wait, you were saving up for your sister?" he said with some slight incredulity.

The mechanic blushed and wrung at the back of his neck. "Yeah, I was. Put a little in e'ery paycheck. Figured eventually it might amount tuh somethin'. Y'know, by the time she was eighteen an' lookin' at art school." He shrugged his shoulders; Nick let him continue, sipping his drink in place of speaking. "She didn't know about it though– none'a mah family did. Was s'posed tuh be a surprise fer her… y'know, tha' she actually could go an' all. Cuz she figured she couldn't, tha' she'd be startin' work jus' like the rest'a us, movin' out an' all." He paused; the blue eyes glimmered with determination. "But I didn't want tha' for her. I wanted her tuh make more'a herself than the rest'a us were, tuh take her talent an' really soar, ya know what I mean?"

The man sat in quiet contemplation, Ellis' selflessness shining through yet again. "She must have been really good, huh?"

"Good don't even come close tuh describin' it. I wish I could show ya some'a the stuff she done. Was absolutely amazin'…" he marveled as he drank. "After school sometimes she'd walk tuh mah shop an' sketch the different cars tha' done came in in her binder. She drew lotsa other stuff too, like horses an' dogs. But man, did she ever have an eye for it, I tell ya." The mechanic issued a little sigh as he sucked the second can dry, looking a little more somber for it.

Nick lifted the remaining two, dangling them from the loose plastic rings. Ellis turned his head to the side with a chagrinned chuckle, but he recovered and plucked his third from the loops. "Thanks," he said, cracking it open to begin drinking.

The gambler nodded, looking down at the last one that was presumably his. He sipped at his current one, which he was reaching the bottom of. Thanks to his lack of anything to eat for the past several hours, he could actually feel a small amount of fuzziness invading the back of his head. It was a fairly welcome feeling, dulling out his previous compunction about shooting the assfuck at the dealership. Ellis, meanwhile, seemed to be drowning out his old recollections of his family and sister, consigning himself to the bitter liquid.

So it seemed the alcohol was serving its purpose.

A few minutes later Ellis was tossing his third can at the trashcan on the other side of the room– and he missed even more horribly the third time than he had the second. Nick meanwhile had collected his on the bedside table, standing upright, pristine and uncrumpled like trophies. The southerner sagged against his shoulder sleepily, mumbling under his breath. Nick felt himself put an arm around the broad shoulders, and without thinking about it much, his other hand settled on the mechanic's thigh, stroking it softly up and down, moving the thin fabric of the boxers with the motion. Ellis didn't seem to mind much, if at all, his calloused fingers seeking out the gap in his dress shirt so they could weave into his chest hair.

The older man's brow furrowed, but he didn't get too much time to wonder at the motivation of Ellis' chosen action as unconsciousness crept up on him and slowly swallowed him up in the darkness of his inner eyelids.

Chapter Text

Ellis stirred slightly. He blinked the blurriness of his vision away as he came to, a yawn stretching his jaw wide. It was still quite early; he could tell from the low angle at which light was coming in the window, practically shining into his eyes. He rubbed his knuckles into one as he stretched his other arm up above his head– one thing was for sure, his body had appreciated the evening on the soft mattress; he felt more rested than he had the past couple nights spent on the floor and couch. As he moved, his bladder twinged; three beers plus several hours had resulted in a rather uncomfortable pressure in his lower region that, now that he had noticed it, was impossible to ignore.

He quickly stood to go take care of it, beelining for the bathroom.

As he fished himself out of his boxers, his brow drew down in silent contemplation. He could have sworn he remembered Nick touching him last night, very close to his groin but just on the top of his thigh. His fingers drifted over the spot gingerly as he gave a little shiver. And he could have sworn he'd acted on it as well, but hell if he could actually trust his memory through the slight inebriation. Ellis shook his head; it had probably just been another damn dream. Like he needed more of those.

Leaving the bed must have woken Nick, because he heard the man issue a long sigh from the larger room a moment or two after his departure.

Ellis finished up his business and proceeded out, quickly locating his coveralls where he had left them rumpled on the floor. "Sleep okay?" he asked as he picked the article up and stepped into them a leg at a time, taking care not to trip on the baggy material pooled at his ankles.

The gambler nodded, the grey-green eyes watching him carefully as he dressed. "Yeah. You?"

"Purdy damn good," the southerner agreed, tying the knot firmly about his middle with the sleeves.

"You look like you're getting ready to go somewhere," Nick commented, eyebrow lifted on his forehead like it usually was.

He bobbed his head in response. "Rain seems tuh have stopped, or at least there's a gap in the storm," he explained as he stooped to acquire his boots. He hooked his thumb toward the window. "We oughta take advantage of it an' go check out the mini mart we saw on our way in, see if we can't find somethin'."

The conman chuckled. "You mean see if we can find something," he corrected as he rose to walk over to the closet where his things were hanging.

Ellis paused thoughtfully. "Yeah, tha's what I meant. What'd I say?"

The older man slipped into his slacks, a crooked smile on his face. "Can't."

"Aw, well, shucks," the mechanic laughed at himself– double negatives had always tripped him up, a symptom of the region he grew up in. He tugged his laces tight over his ankles, tying them at the top. "Ya know what I meant."

"Are we going to knock and let the other two know we're going?" Nick asked, inclining his head at the wall that separated their suites. He stuck his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

"I don't wanna wake 'em if they're still sleepin'. I'll jus' put a note on our door," Ellis settled; after all, he sure as heck wouldn't want to be woken. He grabbed the motel-supplied pen and pad of paper off the nightstand, tapping the end of the former against his lip thoughtfully. He began to scribble down his note to the other two members of their party, though he and Nick might be back before they even got the chance to see it. The gas station was just across the street, it shouldn't take more than a few minutes to scope out.

"Remember to tell them we're seeing if we can find something," the older man teased again, leaning over his shoulder to peek at what he was writing.

Ellis stuck out his tongue at him. "Watch me write it wrong, then put yer name at the bottom," he threatened, finishing the message with the dot on the i of his name. He tore the page from the sheet.

"Neither of them would believe that chicken-scratch is mine," Nick boasted. His eyes narrowed down as he grinned. "You, on the other hand, ought to be careful."

"Oh yeah, how's'at?" he chuckled, intrigued.

"Here, let me see," the conman motioned him to hand over the note he had just written. Ellis did so. Nick set it down beside the pad and then began to write, glancing frequently to the supplied reference. Ellis set his hands upon his hips, waiting patiently, curiously, tipping his head to the side as he watched the talented fellow slowly but surely compose a message that appeared, for the most part, as if it had been written by the southerner himself. Nick dotted the i and smirked, handing it over with a flourish.

To his own eye he could easily spot the small differences that told each character apart, some letters more accurately rendered than others– in particular, the man had nailed the way he crossed his t's and curled his e's. But to anyone not as intimately acquainted with his handwriting as himself, Nick's forged note would likely be mistaken for being written by him. He guffawed at the post script Nick had surreptitiously added to the end, something that had not been on his composed note, which read: 'Nick looks good buck naked.' Lord, he really shouldn't have agreed to that last night; he got the feeling he'd be regretting it for several days.

Not that he hadn't meant it, and not that he didn't want to know, to see with his own two eyes, just… well… He swallowed.

"Tha's purdy impressive, man, I gotta admit," he said as he crumpled up the forged message in his hand and delivered it to the trash can.

"Aw, not going to put that one on the door?" Nick feigned hurt.

"Only if ya wanna explain tuh Coach an' Ro' how it is that I came tuh know," he grabbed up his sniper rifle. "Now let's get a move on, I'm so hungry m'wearin' a hole in mah belly!" Nick holstered both his magnums and they proceeded out of the motel room, closing the door behind them.

Though the rain had stopped, the water level hadn't had much chance to drop yet. They descended the stairs into the knee-high water ruefully, made to trudge through the murky, unclean rainwater towards the exit and out to the road. Ellis shivered– the coolness of the air combined with the cold water was effectively raising goosebumps on his skin. He tried his best to ignore the feeling and lifted his gun to squint through his scope in the direction of the freeway that was fuzzy in the distance, confirming that there were still a hell of a lot of zombies camping out on top of it. He gave an exasperated sigh.

"Still there?" Nick guessed.

The mechanic nodded; he received a grunt in response.

They crossed the street and continued past the deserted gas pumps to the mini mart. The door was already broken open, glass shattered inward, which made Ellis frown; it likely meant they had not been the first to search it for supplies. There was a notice of closure on the building's front, declaring that a health inspector had deemed the store's conditions unsanitary. Honestly, with as filthy as the apocalypse was, Ellis didn't care what the inside of the store looked like as long as it was stocked with food. The little bell at the top tinkled as he walked through and Nick followed in behind him, both of them waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness inside before starting their search.

Unfortunately, it wasn't fruitful. The shelves were emptied, the only thing that remained was several cartons of spoiled milk and other dairy product left in the inoperative cooling units; Ellis' stomach gnawed at the sight. A few stray boxes of cereal and candy were also wastefully spilled across the grimy floor. His eyebrows drew down curiously as he examined the linoleum closer, noticing an odd discoloration to the flooring. He bent down to get a better look, utterly baffled at the way it seemed to be scorched or in some places melted. The blotches were all over the tiles, he realized.

Nick hesitated to his right. "Do you hear that? What is that noise?" he asked in a hush, looking alarmed.

Ellis went silent, slowing his breathing to listen. It sounded like mice, their little nails scraping in the ceiling above them. Keith's apartment had had a rodent infestation once, the first year he'd moved in after his uncle kicked him out. He'd tried everything to get rid of the suckers too– spring-loaded traps, glue traps, D-Con– but they'd alluded his every attempt and eventually chewed through the hosing in his hot water heater, which meant the whole place flooded and ended up causing extensive water damage on his floor and the one beneath it. Unsurprisingly, he was evicted shortly thereafter, though it weren't really his fault.

Just then, something dripped beside him, hitting the floor with a hiss and startling him out of his recollections. Ellis' eyes widened at the bright green color of the substance, watching it spread out and eat the tiling right before his eyes. He glanced up to see where it had come from and that was when he practically jumped out of his skin.

A long-necked monstrosity peered out from a lost tile in the ceiling, her jaw missing and oozing with the acidic green spittle. Besides her gaping throat, long once-polished pink nails curled around a plank in the exposed rafters, and barely-contained breasts swung in her glamrock tank top. Ellis fumbled for the pistol on his hip as she made a loud hawking noise, firing a couple shots upward. The creature gargled and went limp, but not before releasing a giant spit-wad the size of a grapefruit, which splashed down onto the floor next to him.

"What the hell??" Nick stumbled backwards as the acid pool began to immediately spread, covering the ground beneath their feet. Ellis was already in it, his boots sizzling at the soles, and he hurriedly backpedalled out of the goo. The floor bubbled up, the stench of burning linseed and rubber wafting into their nostrils, heavy and putrid.

"Shit! Shit!!" Ellis cried out as his boots continued to melt, despite the fact that he had gotten out of the acid, leaving charred bootprints on the linoleum. Nick's face was panicked as the southerner steadily grew shorter before him, and Ellis knew he didn't have much time before it ate through his boots completely and would begin through his feet next. There wasn't time to get the laces undone and abandon the shoes. He threw open the door and ran out of the store, jumping into the floodwater in hopes of diluting the acerbity.

The hastily-made plan saved his feet. He let out a breathy sigh of relief, thanking the Lord repeatedly for the blessing of the rain he'd been cursing just moments earlier.

"Jesus, are you okay, kid?" Nick asked, his voice tight.

Ellis nodded, lifting a leg up to inspect the bottom of his boot. The sole had almost completely been melted off, none of its former deep tread remaining. It had all congealed into a smooth mess perhaps a fourth of an inch thick– far too close for comfort. "M'fine, but goddamn, tha' spittin' whore destroyed mah favorite pair of steel-toes!"

"Be glad you still have feet," Nick muttered, shaking his head. "And that you're not wearing Giovannis."

The redneck snorted a laugh. "Yeah, tha'd be a real shame." He ground his teeth. "Where the heck am I gonna find another pair in mah size?" Size seven and a half weren't easy to come by pre-apocalypse.

The gambler frowned. "We'll just have to keep our eyes open."

"Y'know, might'a been worth it if we'd acshuhly found some food," Ellis grumbled, finding his attitude worsening for his hunger. He kicked at the gas pump, the metal clanging hollowly, and his stomach gave a sharp pang as if in payback for his negative display.

"Let's go up the road," Nick suggested. "The further we are from the highway, the more likely we are to find something." Ellis nodded and they set out, slogging through the deep water.

Chapter Text

They had to go a couple blocks to get to the next grocery, which was less than pleasant considering just how waterlogged everything was, but Nick tried to remind himself that there was the comfort of both warmth and dryness awaiting them upon their return to the motel. He felt chilled practically to the bone thanks to the combination of cold water and cold morning air, and he knew his own body wasn't producing much of its own heat what with how long it had been since he'd last eaten properly.

The parking lot of S & S Food Store was practically indistinguishable from the rest of the land, with one notable exception. Shopping carts left abandoned, either standing or on their sides, were strewn about the front of little store– ordinarily the sign of a lazy cart return attendant, but in today's apocalyptic world the disorder seemed ordinary.

Hell, disorder was the order.

The two of them weaved through the tangle of metallic carts to the entrance. It had formerly been the kind of mechanism that opened when the pad on the ground was stepped on, but the double doors had been forced open as was meant to be used 'in case of emergency'.

Nick chuckled privately to himself, though it was humorless.

The store was at the same level as everything else, so it too was flooded, forcing them to wade even indoors. They chose to split up, Ellis taking the right, starting at aisle one, and he the left, starting at aisle twenty. Together they bore up and down each and every row with care and a scrutinizing eye– Nick didn't find any food, but he did find a good amount of cleaning supplies like mops and sponges and detergent. He didn't hesitate to grab a package of lemon-scented disinfectant wipes to stuff under an arm and take with him, because hell, the apocalypse was filthy, and even if he was immune to the infection, he wasn't immune to catching a fucking common cold.

When he met the kid in the middle, Ellis was even more empty-handed than he was. The gambler threw up his arms with irritation. "It's like the whole damn shop has been gutted top to bottom!" he complained. "What, did they just put 'Food' in the shop's name to fucking taunt us?"

The southerner scratched at the back of his head. "Well… acshuhly…" he chuckled softly.

Nick lifted an eyebrow. "Did you find something?" he asked, wondering why Ellis wouldn't have picked it up if he had.

"Sorta," he replied. He motioned with his hand. "Here, c'mon, I'll show ya." Nick followed curiously behind the kid as he led the way, glancing up at the signs above the aisles, passing 'baking supplies' and 'snacks' and 'foreign cuisine'. When Ellis finally rounded the corner for the aisle in question, the cardshark understood why he had phrased his answer 'sorta'.

They were headed down the pet section.

"Oh Jesus Christ…" he blanched, feeling a little sick to his stomach as he watched the hick heft up a bag of dry dog chow over his shoulder. "You are not seriously suggesting…"

"Well, there's a lot of this stuff, but I reckon we'd be better off takin' the Alpo 'Prime Cuts'," he made the quotations in the air with his fingers. "It's more like what we're used to."

"I am not eating dog food," Nick stated, as if that were that. What was he supposed to do, pour it out into a big plastic bowl with the name Fido on it? Next the kid would be suggesting he drink out of a fucking toilet bowl for crying out loud.

"Honestly, man, they don't sound too bad…" Ellis continued to attempt to persuade him. He set the bag down and took a couple cans off the shelf to read their labels. "Like this'un says its turkey and bacon in gravy. An' this'un, lamb and rice in gravy. Dunno about'chu, but tha' sounds real damn good…" The mechanic licked his lips.

"I think you're missing the point that this is dog food," Nick stressed.

"Well shucks, there's Friskies too if yer wantin' fish…" he began to say. When Nick gave him a look of utter exasperation, he abruptly quieted. They stood in silence for a moment before Ellis dug into his coveralls to get out his pocket knife. "I'll show ya," he said. The young man flipped it open and plunged the sharp end into the can's top, wedging it open. The smell of meat by-product wafted through the air and Nick watched with disgust as Ellis stabbed a hunk and brought it to his mouth.

His revulsion increased tenfold when the redneck swallowed with a "See?" and eagerly went back for more, as if it were the best meal he'd gotten in days. Three more bites disappeared, just like that.

"You're seriously going to eat the whole damn can in front of me?" Nick asked, trying desperately to ignore the way his thick lips smacked– which normally might have been a bit of a turn-on, but under the current circumstances…

"Mm," Ellis made a noise between mouthfuls. "We should get a basket."

The response hardly answered his question. "You honestly think you're going to convince Coach and Ro to eat this shit?" Nick spoke incredulously.

A skampish grin lit up the features. "Well, shouldn't be too hard tuh convince Coach," he teased the absent member of their party. "Stick this inbetween a couple'a hamburger buns an' he won't know the difference between it an' a Sloppy Joe, I bet'chu anythin'."

Heaven help him, he laughed. Hard. It took him a moment to recover, but when he did he shook his head with small wonder. "Christ, El, you were made for this apocalypse shit."

The kid paused, tipping his head questioningly.

"You've got survival instincts, kiddo." He gave him a light punch on the shoulder. "The rest of us will be dead in a ditch somewhere, but you'll still be trucking, zombies and famine be damned."

Ellis grinned. "Is'at mean you'll try a bite?" he extended a piece forward on his knife.

The conman groaned internally, eying the piece of meat dripping with 'gravy'. But he knew the kid wasn't going to let this go until he had at very least tried the supplementary food. He took the knife handle and just got it over with, popping it into his mouth. He didn't chew for long, swallowing the fatty room-temperature hunk before his inclination to gag could kick in. The taste wasn't as awful as he expected, but still nothing like the advertised 'beef and vegetable'. Damn was he glad he had a breath mint still in his jacket pocket.

"What d'ya think?" Ellis asked, putting a hand on a hip and seeming rather amused.

"I think I want a refund," he joked. Nick frowned and took a can off the shelf to read the 'nutritional' information on back. It was nearly 10% protein, which was way better than anything they'd had recently, and there was no doubt their bodies needed the compound with all the running around and shit they were doing. Each can even had a full serving of vegetables in it. His logic battled his OCD a little longer before he sighed in surrender. "Okay, I'll go grab a cart. But before I decide to make my entire diet dog food, let's see if there aren't any other stores nearby."

"Sounds good tuh me, man," the mechanic nodded, seeming well placated by the can in his hand as they moved towards the registers.

Nick bent to grab one of the little plastic baskets that was stacked high enough to be out of the water, setting the disinfectant wipes inside it. The conman paused as he caught something out of the corner of his eye. There was cork board beside the exit, several brightly-colored notices posted up onto it. Curiosity getting the better of him, he walked the short distance over to check it out. Ellis noticed the detour and travelled along beside him. Nick indiscriminately tugged one of the neon xeroxes off its thumbtack; his eyes skimmed the text and he frowned. Apparently around the time of the official announcement of the outbreak, the mayor of the small berg had released a town-wide proclamation that all households within the city limits were required to stock up on six month's worth of rations, and that those not in accordance who could not present dated receipts as proof would lose ownership of their homes.

"Well tha's a load of shit," Ellis commented, reading the flyer over his shoulder as he munched. "This Ralph Stevens guy sounds like a big dick."

"When have politicians ever been anything else?" Nick added snidely. The gambler was fairly certain that the mayor's power didn't extend so far as to kick people out of their homes, but it had worked as a scare tactic well enough considering the lack of food on the shelves.

The mechanic grabbed something else off the board, a front-page article from the local newspaper. "Lake City Safeway shut down for selling contaminated poultry," he read the headline aloud, giving his head another scratch. "The fourth incident within the district… Says here that the city authorities linked acquiring the infection to the sale of chicken and turkey." He looked up from the account with concern. "Tha' can't be true, can it?"

Nick frowned harder, pacing in consideration. He eyed the black and white photos framed on the wall, taken more than sixty years ago when the store and town had apparently been brand new. From the looks of it, there hadn't been too much around yet, buildings scarce, though a few smiling people stood within the frame, likely the owners of the shop. But the grocery hadn't been abbreviated S & S back then, the storefront bore 'Stevens and Sons Family Market' instead.

It clicked. He peered down at the notice in his hand, at the signature at the bottom that bore the same last name. "This asshole monopolized the whole goddamn town," he murmured.

"Huh?" the southerner asked.

"You said it was the fourth incident of 'food contamination'?"

"Well yeah," Ellis ruffled the newspaper to look back at the proper paragraph. He squinted at the small text, bad eye narrowing down more than the good one. "After the Stop N Go, Save-a-Lot, Foodland, and Winn Dixie." The machinist seemed to pause. "But even that little food mart we went to was closed fer somethin' or the other," he remembered. "You tellin' me he went orderin' folks tuh buy food, but then the only place they could buy from is here?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Because the bastard's family owned it," Nick pointed at the picture.

Ellis stared almost with disbelief. "Well I'll be a son-of-a-gun. Tha's rotten. Real rotten." His features contorted into a grimace, nostrils flared and brow knotted. "Takin' advantage of desperate folks in the middle of a disaster… I hope he got what was comin' to him."

"We can only hope," Nick muttered, folding the neon green flyer into his interior pocket– Rochelle would get a sick kick out of this information, he was sure, add it to the records she was keeping. He grabbed the basket back up and hooked his thumb. "Let's go grab our shit and get out of here. I'm freezing."

Chapter Text

They arrived back at the motel a few minutes later after collecting hygiene supplies and pet food, each carrying a full plastic basket with them from the store. Rochelle was on look-out sitting up on the balcony, feet dangling over the parking lot below her, and she waved to them upon their approach. Ellis smiled and returned it with a jaunty wave.

Nick took the lead up the stairs, and the girl hurried over, extending an arm in offer to take the basket the older man had been lugging. "Glad to see you boys made it back safe and sound," she said as he handed it over to her.

"Yep!" Ellis replied, his mood so so much better now that he had tucked away 13.2 ounces of high-protein meat product. No, it hadn't been his Ma's cookin' like he had been daydreaming about, but it had been damn good and just what his body was craving; he had one happy belly. The southerner nodded. "We had'ta go a little further out than we thought, but we made it there an' back jus' fine."

Rochelle didn't seem to be entirely listening however, shuffling through the items in the basket. She blinked in askance, then looked back up to them as if she didn't understand. "You guys brought back… dog food?"

"Kid's idea, not mine," Nick said shortly.

Ellis coughed into his curled hand. "Yeah, uh, about that. Well, ya see… there weren't any food other than this here, an' really, it ain't too bad tastin'," he tried, hoping she wouldn't be as hard to convince as the conman had been.

Her thin eyebrows crinkled, looking rather concerned. "What do you mean there wasn't any other food? We are going to get more food aren't we? Real food?" she clarified. She didn't sound too interested in opening up a can of Alpo for her breakfast.

"Well, I suppose once we get up the road, yeah…" Ellis rubbed the back of his neck.

"There aren't any other stores in town?" Rochelle asked.

Ellis was about to answer that question as well when the older man interrupted. "You like mysteries, don't you, sweetie?" Nick said.

The reporter glanced at him. "Well yeah, one of the things I read growing up was the Hardy Boys," she laughed. "But what does that have to do with…?"

Nick produced the flyer, handing it over. The producer's brow drew down as she took in the information. The conman let her read a minute before speaking. "This Ralph Stevens guy? His family owns the S & S Mart, it's the 'Stevens and Sons Mart'," he emphasized. Ellis watched as Rochelle's eyebrows elevated. "Every other place in town that sells food? Shut down. Cleared out by city ordinance."

"That's some really underhanded shit," Rochelle said with some shock.

"Yeah, pretty damn impressive scheme, if you ask me," Nick said. "But what it means is that as long as we're stuck here in Lake City, all we've got to eat is Rover's Best here." He inclined his head at the basket she was holding.

The female survivor frowned. "We need to get out of here," she summed up. Nick nodded.

Ellis bit his lip, peering at the north horizon. His gaze dropped down to their little 4-wheeler. The gears in his head were slowly churning away. He could puzzle out some way to get them out of this mess, he knew he could. He just needed some time to think.

"Anyway…" Nick mumbled, "El's right, the stuff isn't so bad. At least we have something– we may not be happy, but we won't starve. And, it's not like the zombies are on our asses; we've got plenty of ammunition." Ellis smiled to himself upon hearing the words, proud of the gambler for having a relatively positive outlook on the current situation, in spite of it not being the cheeriest of circumstances. Maybe the guy was warming up to this leadership thing, trying to inspire confidence and assure them that they'd all be alright in the long-run.

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to try it," Rochelle wondered aloud, selecting one of the varieties with bacon. She tittered. "We'll see how Coach takes this; his stomach was rumbling all night, I swear to God, I could barely sleep!" The girl turned and headed back for the room, basket in hand.

Ellis followed along, but Nick entered their own room, so he altered his course to match the conman's. He shut the door behind himself and set the basket of hygiene supplies on the tv stand so he could begin to sort through it and add it to their wash kit. He grabbed out the toothpaste– his teeth could actually use a brushing. Even though the dog food tasted fine, it kind of left a gross coating in his mouth. The mechanic moved to the sink to start the task.

Nick had slipped off his wet slacks once more and gone to the bathroom, but when he got out he moved to take over putting the supplies away. His hands had a slight quiver to them as he did so. Ellis paused, only now noticing how the man was shivering. "Ya cold, man?" he asked through the lather of toothpaste in his mouth.

"Y-yeah," the cardshark got out, rubbing his arms with his hands to supply friction. He looked irritated to admit it. "Slogging through that damn freezing w-water," he explained, teeth ever so slightly chattering.

It had been pretty damn cold, he had to admit. And the rooms weren't a lot warmer, they were sheltered from the wind but that was about it. "C'mon, let's get'chu under the comforter," Ellis insisted, suddenly very concerned for the other man's welfare. He spat into the sink, no water to gargle with. "I'll warm ya up, m'not cold."

Nick laughed. "What are we going to do? Snuggle?"

The southerner unlaced his ruined shoes and kicked them into the corner of the motel room before taking off his sopping coveralls and socks as well, so that nothing wet remained on his person. "How else're we s'posed tuh conserve warmth?" he reasoned. "It's how they do it in all them survival shows."

"Yeah, I guess that's us right about now, isn't it?" the conman responded with slight amusement, though he still seemed hesitant about the proposition.

"C'mon," Ellis encouraged, sliding underneath the sheets. He opened up the blanket for Nick to join him. "An' take yer jacket off, ya'll warm up faster."

Nick snorted, but obediently pulled the garment from his shoulders and folded it over the foot of the bed. "By that logic, we both ought to strip naked," he said calmly.

Ellis felt his heart begin to hammer. It was as if the opportunity that there had been so much teasing about was being openly presented to him. The very thought… of being close to the man, unclothed… the dream came flooding back– but it was just a joke, one of Nick's sarcastic quips. He was letting himself get all worked up over nothing.

"You're a sweet kid, El. Worrying about an old guy like me so much," a chuckle fell from the smooth lips. Nick's grey-green eyes seemed to sparkle with appreciation as he walked over to the side of the bed.

Ellis lifted the covers once more as the gambler climbed in next to him. "I guess it's kinda mah job. Tuh worry 'bout folks, that is. The people I care 'bout," the mechanic pondered with a tiny laugh. He wrapped a muscled arm around his companion's shoulders to bring him close, and Nick moved eagerly into his side in ready acceptance of his body heat. The intimacy caused Ellis to breathe in with excitement, but it was rapidly quelled. The poor guy was still shivering slightly and he didn't radiate hardly any of his own warmth at all. "Here, gimme yer hands," he urged.

Nick obeyed wordlessly, clasping his hands around the one Ellis had extended. They were like ice in comparison to his own. "Damn, man, ya weren't jokin'," he said as he pulled the comforter higher to get it up to the older man's scruffy chin.

Thankfully, his own heat quickly permeated the air underneath the blanket, creating a nice toasty place for the two of them to occupy. Soon the chill that had plagued the gambler was gone, but neither of them moved away from the other as the minutes ticked by. Nick sighed and relaxed beside him, eyes fluttering shut as his head tipped into the hick's shoulder. "Thanks, El…" he murmured.

"Hey, ain't no problem, man. No need fer ya tuh suffer," he chuckled gently.

"No, I mean… for being who you are," the conman corrected, "for being everything you are."

Ellis was taken slightly aback, chest fluttering at the sincerity of the words. His smile returned and he nuzzled against the man. "Well, that ain't no problem either."

Chapter Text

The kid had been pacing back and forth across the room for the past half an hour. Nick's green eyes lifted from the crossword puzzle he'd found in an old newspaper on the stoop to follow him as Ellis reached the bathroom and turned on his heels to head back toward the front door to repeat the path over again. He was obviously deep in thought, evidenced by the way his brow was drawn down above his eyes, and until now, Nick hadn't sought to disturb him.

"I think you're wearing grooves in the carpet, El. What, do you miss walking?" he joked, tapping his ballpoint pen against the tabletop.

The mechanic was somewhat slow to respond, but when he did pause and look over his way, he cracked a smile. "Nah, it's not that." He seemed to cogitate another second. "Ya think maybe we could find some sort of scrap metal place 'round here?"

An eyebrow lifted on his head at the question. "Like a junkyard?" Nick clarified. He filled in column twenty-four with the word 'soprano' before searching for another he could answer. Funny thing, an answer key for this crossword probably didn't even exist because the next day's newspaper had likely never been printed.

The younger male nodded. "Yeah."

"Probably," Nick shrugged, not really seeing any reason why such a thing wouldn't exist somewhere nearby. The next question followed naturally. "Why?"

"Well, I been thinkin' about it," Ellis led in, scratching the accumulation of scruff that had grown on his chin, "an' I think maybe Coach is right."

The gambler froze partially at the mention of the eldest (for now) member of their party; the youngster's change of heart making him dubious. He folded the newspaper up and set it aside. "About what in particular?" he asked, wanting Ellis to explain.

"Jus' about the zombies," the southerner motioned, holding both his hands out in front of him vertically. "I mean, we got too much mud tuh drive on nothin' but roads, an' we ain't got no good roads a'sides the freeway tuh get us where we mean tuh be gettin'."

Nick listened to Ellis' words with a grain of salt, thrumming his fingers on the tabletop. It was a fair summary of their conundrum. "Okay, and so a junkyard is going to help us how?"

"Well," the machinist set his hands on his hips, "m'purdy good at weldin'. I know the car ain't gonna hold up tuh drivin' through a horde'a zombies as she currently is, but if I could rig up some kind of upright scoop tuh attach to the front of her…"

The conman laughed. "Jesus, kid, how many bad zombie flicks have you watched?"

"Few too many, I reckon," Ellis responded with minor amusement. He readily continued. "But if ya think about it, all'a them survivors in those movies was missin' one crucial thing."

"Oh yeah? And what's that?" he indulged him, still chuckling slightly as he returned to his puzzle.

"A good distraction. Somethin' tuh take the attention off'a them an' put it ontuh somethin' else. So the zombies don't notice 'em."

The kid really had been doing a lot of thinking during all that pacing. This plan was beginning to seem less hare-brained and more and more concrete. Nick hmm'd and shifted the way he was sitting in his chair. "Go on," he encouraged, all ears and attention fully on the mechanic.

"Well," Ellis did as told, "so far we know two things that really attract the suckers." He held up his fore and middle finger, counting them off. "Puke an' loud noise." The southerner chuckled to himself. "An' we ain't got any puke, so I guess it's gonna have tuh be the noise."

Nick deliberated this. He hadn't focused on it too much before that the infected were drawn to loud sounds, but it was a fact they themselves had confirmed, both accidentally and intentionally. The crosswalk, the pipe bombs, both instances had proven it. He knew they had one more pipe in their backpack. A single pipe bomb wasn't going to do them too much good, but something louder might have more of an effect. He motioned off his hip. "So first we're going to turn our SUV into a bulldozer and then we're going to set something off for the zombies to chase after so we have less to push through," he summed up.

The mechanic gave a nod, looking pleased as punch. "You got it, man."

Nick shook his head, allowing himself to muse now that Ellis had detailed his scheme. Hell, where would they be without this kid? He'd been a God-send since the very beginning of all this, by far the most useful of their party with that handyman's knack of his. And yet he pulled it off with such humility and… charm. He made his mistakes, sure, all of them did, but it was Nick's firm belief they wouldn't have made it this far without him.

He sure as hell wouldn't have. He would have set out on his own, gotten smoked and that would have been the end, less than a week in.

Which spoke nothing of the late-night heartfelt talks, his returning faith despite the crippled husk of a world around them. The southerner gave him strength and hope, comfort and resilience.

God, he wished he could get it across to Ellis just how much he really meant to him.

Instead he just put on his tried-and-true wolfish smile. "You know... I kind of like it," he said and the boy lit up.

"I jus' need supplies is all." Ellis' mouth took off a mile a minute. "Primarily a blowtorch an' some scrap metal– the thicker the better. We don't want them zombies dentin' it. If I could get some rivets, that'd make it all the more secure, but I dunno how much luck we'll have on that'un… ain't yer typical thing ya jus' find lyin' around. Oh, an' a tarp'd prolly be nice too, so I kin have somethin' tuh work under in case it starts rainin' again, cuz I reckon it will– sky's still lookin' awful dark."

"Alright," Nick nodded, putting his brain to the task of considering how they were going to make this all happen, despite the younger man's chattering. "We should go down to the lobby. They might have some maps of the town for travelers. That would save us some gas if we don't have to drive around looking for the scrapyard."

"Good thought," Ellis snapped his fingers excitedly. He moved to grab his boots. "I'll go down there right now. If we kin get e'erythin' collected right quick, I might even be able tuh start makin' the modifications a'fore the sun goes down," he spoke as he laced his footwear.

It sounded a bit ambitious, but Nick was up for the challenge if El was. He wondered briefly what their sport utility vehicle would look like when Ellis was done with it. Maybe it would be a ZUV instead of an SUV. He gave the mechanic a nod. "I'll tell Ro' and Coach what we're up to and meet you at the car." He grabbed up his jacket and found the car keys that he'd stashed away in the inner pocket, tossing them to the young man.

Ellis caught them with a twinkle in his eye. "This's gonna be jus' like the time mah buddy Keith an' I went on a treasure hunt lookin' for stuff so we could make our very own BattleBots an' battle 'em in Clayton's back yard."

Nick laughed aloud; he wasn't even going to ask.

Chapter Text

"Yeah, take a left here."

The mechanic nodded to Nick's directions and rounded the corner through the four-way stop– an action that likely would have definitely gotten him pulled over pre-infection. Ellis chuckled silently to himself, imagining how many traffic violations this circumstance would have saved his buddy Keith if there had been a zombieapocalypse back then– seemed like every other week the guy was going into court to contest a new ticket he'd gotten pulling some crazy stunt or another. Though, the worst to his knowledge was a triple doughnut through the interstate median.

He'd found a pretty detailed roadmap in the motel lobby as it turned out, which greatly helped their journey, and the gambler was acting as his navigator on their jaunt through the province. The rain had resumed, but not so drastically as to impede them. In fact, so far they'd already had great success; a stop at a hardware store had gained them a large plastic blue tarp and some rope to string it up with, along with a depressible air horn– he had not tried it out– wire-cutters, a tape measure, and several C-clamps that would be a boon during construction of the vehicle's new fender. Ellis had also stopped them at the grocery store once more to grab a couple of the better-looking shopping carts from the parking lot, tossing them up on the top of the car and fastening them down with the rope for the trip. Nick had given him a pretty funny look but the mechanic had his plans.

He whistled a little tune to himself as they went down the road.

"It should be coming up in just a sec," the conman looked up from the map and then back down to it as if to make sure before glancing back up again. "Yeah," he pointed out in front of him, "there it is."

Ellis slowed as they came up on the large sign surrounding the gated enterprise, faded but reading 'Sapp Salvage'. There were lots of jumbled heaps lying about, organized into their various distinctions– steel, aluminum, iron… and probably plenty more fancier metals that were more difficult to come by.

"Guess I better go open her up, huh?" the southerner said, eying the chain-link fence that stood between them and their needed supplies, seeing no way to get around it. The gambler nodded. Ellis quickly zipped up his coveralls and grabbed their newly-acquired wire-cutters for the task, leaving Nick in the car with the heater running. He slogged through the frigid water, pulling his hat down lower over his eyes as droplets plinked down upon him. It had cooled down further since the morning thanks to the wind that had blown in, so he didn't want the conman setting foot outside if he didn't absolutely have to.

Because although he had enjoyed the 'cuddling' required to get Nick warm earlier, he didn't think it would altogether do to repeat the circumstance, whether by accident or on purpose…

His nose wrinkled as he tediously nipped each link to cut the linkage from bottom to top; rainwater began to run down his back, finding its way down the collar of his overalls, dripping off his elbows, shirt sticking to his front. Maybe they should have taken the time to find an umbrella or a rain poncho– he chuckled under his breath, then gave a little shiver, trying to hurry for the numbness settling in his fingers.

The last one relented to the tool and Ellis pulled back on the fencing in a fashion almost like opening a can of sardines. He returned to the car, shaking off what rainwater he could before getting back behind the wheel. The toasty compartment was immediately soothing on his damp skin that was now riddled with goosepimples.

Nick eyed him. He probably looked like a drowned rat. "Rain's getting pretty bad again, isn't it?" he commented.

"Yeah," Ellis mumbled, driving into the premises cautiously. "I was hopin' it wouldn't." Construction out in conditions like this would be miserable.

"Maybe you should be building an ark," the conman joked.

Ellis felt himself laugh at the biblical reference. "Seriously." He squinted at a pile of scrap, spying a few metal diamond plates among it, trying to determine if they would be a suitable size and thickness for what he wanted to do, but he couldn't really tell from the car as he was. Ellis put the vehicle back into park, then pointed out the windshield. "Those there might be jus' what m'needin'. I'm gonna get out an' check." Momentarily he rubbed his hands in front of the heating ducts, encouraging blood to his fingertips with the friction. As he went for the car door handle, he felt Nick's hand settle on his arm, stopping him.

"Hey, hey, I know you're in a big hurry to play hero, but you can sit here with me and warm up for a few," the older man smiled, his green eyes dancing.

The mechanic tilted a shoulder, made a little embarrassed by the words. "Aw heck, that ain't what I was tryin' tuh do. I jus' figured m'already cold, an' I'll jus' be gettin' cold again, so ain't much point tuh warmin' up inbetween, don't'cha reckon?"

Nick chuckled, retracting his hand to prop it on the window sill. "I guess. But I feel bad watching you work so hard while I just sit here."

"Well, I dun feel bad about it, so neither should you," Ellis returned, giving the man a small sock on the arm. "A'sides, ya helped get me over here," he attributed credit where it was due– sure, he could have done it himself, but it had made his life easier and he appreciated it, to mention nothing of just having the older man's company. "I'll be back quicker than two shakes of a lamb's tail."

He exited and hurried over to the tread plates half buried under other scraps– girders and rebar and old hoods and siding from cars. Taking the tape measure from his pocket, he began to evaluate the dimensions– it couldn't be too tall or it would obscure visibility out the front; the length was slightly less important, it could slop a little beyond the width of the car itself and be fine. He squinted at the numbers and notches on the yellow tape before nodding and giving Nick a thumbs up; the man returned it, plus a grin, and Ellis turned back to figure out how he was going to unbury it from the heap. One at a time he hefted the smaller things aside, letting them fall where they may, splashing mud up onto the legs of his trousers.

A particularly stubborn piece of metal refused to go. Ellis readjusted his cap and tried again, and the second pull it dislodged, but the result was a cascade-effect, sending a number of things toppling down. He jumped out of the way of danger, not wanting to meet his end in the zombieapocalypse by being crushed by falling junk, thank you very much, waiting for everything to settle before resuming. The metal clanged, pieces banging together and scraping as it all came to a halt, and as it so turned out, he was able to get at his desired metal slab easier now. He grinned as he tugged it loose and balanced it on its thin edge, which was a good inch thick, admiring the simplicity of the raised diamond pattern on the surface. Now just to find another piece that was fairly similar so he could combine the two in the middle of the SUV's grill…

The sound of Nick's deagle made him jump. He looked back. The man had rolled down the window and his head and arm were sticking out into the rain in order to fire the weapon. "We've got inbound!" he shouted to the southerner as he popped off another couple shots.

Of course. The sound of the metal falling. Ellis could have kicked himself for being so careless. He grabbed for the pistol on his hip as he let the steel diamond plate fall to the side. Then again, why hadn't they been with their brethren up at the freeway?

Oh right, they'd been fenced in, probably too stupid to figure a way over and out.

The creatures hissed and howled at them as they ran and stumbled as best they could through the high water, quite a few of them in uniforms and wearing hardhats as was likely required for their job at the scrapyard. Ellis worked together with the gambler to eliminate them, the corpses going limp and splashing into the water to lay prone, back up, floating on the surface. It was a gristly sight, dark blood seeping out of each of the bodies and mixing with the murky mudwaters. It took a couple minutes for the zombies to finally stop coming, and they both waited a while just to make sure there weren't any more stragglers before holstering their weapons.

"I didn't even hear the bastards comin'," Ellis said as he drug his plate towards the car, intending to hitch it to the side. "Guess it's a damn good thing ya got a sharp eye," he complimented appreciatively.

"Don't mention it, I like you better alive," Nick joked, and with that he rolled his window back up to preserve the warmth of the vehicle's compartment.

The young man chuckled under his breath as he went back to locate his second matching piece before he turned into a goddamn redneck popsicle.

Chapter Text

It took some convincing, but eventually Nick got the southerner to agree to staying inside the remainder of the day and letting the storm roll over before 'zombie-proofing' their 4-wheeler. The weather had just been getting progressively worse again and the parking lot of the motel offered no cover to keep the elements at bay. Hypothermia wasn't an added battle they needed to fight and the car could damn well wait until tomorrow.

Ellis pulled into the parking spot near the stairs and they both hurried up to head to their room to get dry yet again.

It was a few minutes later when a knock issued upon their door– Rochelle, Nick could tell from the musical nature of the tapping; he would have expected a much harsher knock, like a metronome, from Coach. He got up from where he was sitting and walked over to the door, wondering what she could be coming over for as he opened it.

The forlorn affect sagging her normally strong shoulders and pooled in her brown eyes made Nick's gut churn and he had a very distinct feeling he was not going to like the conversation ahead.

"I need… I need to share something with you guys…" the reporter breathed.

Ellis was by his side in an instant, welcoming her off the damp porch and into their suite. "What is it, Ro'?" he asked, concern tugging his vocal chords.

She shuddered as she walked inside. Nick's first thought was that it had something to do with Coach, but then he noticed Rochelle was clutching something against her chest. The cardshark shut the door, his eyes narrowing down, and he realized then that it was the small leather-bound journal she had found with the corpse in the control tower. His gaze stayed on it as the mechanic placed an arm around her shoulders, guiding her towards the table. "Sit down right here now," he said gently and she took a seat as directed, still keeping the small bound book tight in her fingers. "Let it all out now, nice an' slow," he advised as he kneeled in front of her, keeping light contact with his palm upon her knee.

Rochelle pulled a deep breath, her eyes closed. "Alright." She blinked them open. "Are you both ready for this? This is… difficult news." She clarified. "For all of us."

"We're all ears, Ro'," Ellis reassured her with a hearty nod. Nick kept his distance.

"It's about this…" Rochelle said, at last managing to pull the booklet from her chest and flatten it against the table. "The woman's journal."

Nick flicked his tongue over his incisors, wondering how the suicidal girl could relate to them… though it also occurred to him that perhaps he didn't want to know.

"At first it just started out describing her days and her work at the airbase," Rochelle explained, rifling through the pages, shaking her head. "She was a nurse, one of the ones conducting health inspections on the people bound for evac, before they were deported to the internments. So she did a lot of blood work and other testing…" Rochelle seemed to trail off, then took another deep breath, staring at them each with apologetic eyes. "But I guess after a week or two of working there… well…" she swallowed, "let me just read it."

Nick frowned and folded his arms tightly across his chest.

The reporter flicked through a few pages, her forehead crinkled with worry, fingers trembling. She found what she was looking for and read from the little journal. "'Everyone I try to help gets sick. I'm don't know what I'm doing wrong. I'm following every regulation put forth by CEDA, all the things the doctors say I should do.'" She took a breath to go on. "'But all my patients always get sick. They always turn into… those things. Is it my fault? What am I doing wrong?? I don't want to hurt anybody.'" Rochelle bit her lip and moved a couple pages inward to another entry, pausing a moment to look up– straight at him. Nick shifted slightly, feeling edgy. "You remember what I said about CEDA hiring immunes…" she asked, her voice on the verge of shaking.

Nick glanced to Ellis before nodding, remembering quite well.

"Well, she was one. Or… she thought she was…" she breathed.

"Thought…?" Ellis fidgeted in his crouched position, his motions distinctly uneasy.

Nick bit on his tongue sharply, waiting for her to explain what she was getting at.

Rochelle nodded sadly and looked down to the journal to resume reading aloud. "'The scientists discovered today that there are no immunes.'" she read off, lifting an eyebrow ever so briefly. "'The virus is an airborne transmission that, through lung oxygenation, attaches itself to the hemoglobin of its host, resulting in immediate and complete contamination. In most cases it triggers physical mutation, in greater and lesser degrees. However, for some, no mutation is present.'" She stressed the words and Nick felt his mouth go dry. He was no fucking biologist, but he could see where this was going. They'd all been running around, breathing the same goddamn air as those mindless bastards– Christ, both Ellis and Coach had suffered injuries out on the battlefield, and Rochelle had been fucking puked on.

"'The infection is in my blood… my breath. It's what makes my patients sick." Rochelle hesitated, drawing a deep breath. "I am the one making them sick, turning them into monsters. We all are. CEDA hired us to help, but how can we help if we are what infects them? We cannot help them. They thought we were immune but we are not. There are only those who have not been exposed and do not carry the infection yet, and those who have and do– I am a carrier.'"

His mind immediately latched to the word. Carrier. The word printed out on the runway. And on the church sign. He should have fucking figured this out earlier. It didn't mean the zombies, it meant other people.

It meant them.

Ellis' blue eyes flashed, looking up at him as if seeking confirmation he'd heard correctly, that they were on the same wavelength.

Rochelle's voice was growing more and more strained. "Apparently she was a part of the group we saw upstairs, they were holding out. Against the military… because they knew they were responsible for spreading the infection and were ordered to... put them down." She swallowed uncomfortably, finding yet another spot to read from. "'They've condemned us to the firing squad, but we deserve no less. Gregory says we need to fight back, that we are 'our own race'… a better race. Heirs to a new age. He rallies the others to join him in an escape… to fight for our own new world– a carrier's world. But I cannot be a part of this. I will not.'"

Nick frowned. Damn passivists. And yet, hell, a 'better race'? That was the kind of bat-shit crazy stuff that started fucking world wars. It was too goddamn much for him to process all at once.

The reporter flipped the page over. "This was the very last entry," she explained. "Made quite a few days after the one before it. Apparently she… tried to board herself up in the room, isolate herself from everyone in the group." Rochelle spared the details which were likely quite unpleasant, just shaking her head instead. "'I have killed hundreds of people,'" she began, "'who once had a chance at life. Infected them and condemned them to death because of my very existence. I am as horrible as the monsters themselves– worse, because I am a monster in disguise.'"

They were the ravings of a woman going mad. With guilt, with stress from the calamity around her. Premonitions leading up to her suicide.

Rochelle closed her eyes, composing herself before quoting the next two lines from memory, the journal held loosely in her hands. "'I cannot live with myself any longer; I do not deserve life.'" Her eyes fluttered open, wet and nearly overflowing. "And then… in big letters…" she couldn't bear to get the words out, instead picking up the book and turning it to them, opening it wide to show them.

Scrawled harshly and violently across the page, underlined twice in strokes that had physically torn the page, read: 'Kill all the carriers.'

It felt like his body was plummeting in free fall, his head spinning uncontrollably. Nick drew a deep breath and uttered a single word.

"Fuck."

Chapter Text

The rain and clouds shrouded the daylight; it had been impossible to discern the passage of time. But when the sun did set, it got even darker, even more foreboding, to the point where he couldn't even see the little diving board out at the motel pool area that had been clearly visible an hour ago. Or down to their car parked by the stairs. There was no telling how high the water had gotten now, save for the occasional and brief flashes of lightning as they cracked overhead.

Nick had never been one to be afraid of 'the elements', not even as a child. But somehow in the zombieapocalypse, when there were shit-tons of undead milling about, it made it a little freakier than your average run-of-the-mill thunderstorm.

Which was probably why he decided the best place for his two magnums wasn't on the bedside table, but tucked underneath his pillow.

Mind, it was more unnerving still to know now that the each of them was more closely related to the zombies than 'people'.

He stared down at his hands, turning them over and over again, examining his digits from every angle in the darkness. Because he was infected. Ellis, Rochelle, Coach... all four of them were infected. They just weren't 'showing' physical traits of it.

Nick snorted under his breath. Well it wasn't just physical. They weren't trying to gnaw one anothers' brains out either, so fuck what the girl in the journal had said about all that shit. They weren't monsters, they were human and they did deserve life.

Now convince the military of that.

The mechanic lie huddled up under the sheets and comforter, having removed his boots and socks and coveralls for sleep. And hat, of course, which had been slung over one of the bed posts to wait until morning to return to his head. If it hadn't been for his ceaseless nagging ruminations, Nick might have been eager to get in bed alongside him. God, it had been so nice to curl up beside him earlier in the day. He couldn't believe the kid had offered, but he supposed 'personal space' wasn't as significant to someone who'd grown up with three other siblings.

Hell. His siblings. Who the fuck knew how this fucking infection decided who to mutate and who not. If Ellis was unaffected, did that make his siblings more likely to be so as well? Assuming they hadn't been gutted and eaten as a snack, assuming they hadn't been gunned down by military assholes, the list went on and on, the odds growing slimmer and slimmer that the poor kid would have anyone in his past life to ever hope to see again.

He ran a hand through his hair dispairingly. And what the fuck were they supposed to do now anyway? Their goal had been New Orleans, but now… was New Orleans even the right place to go? If 'evac' was open, was there any chance they would be given safe refuge or would they be executed upon arrival for the simple fact that they were carriers? He thought of the bodies piled up in the hangar, the corpses strewn atop the control tower. They'd cursed their 'bad luck' in arriving to the NAS late, but had they gotten there while it was still operational, their four corpses would have been added to the body count. Hell, no wonder the military men had 'hung up' on them when they found the long-distance radio; they'd been speaking to the 'enemy'. They'd left them to die.

Nick exhaled slowly. And then there was the large indent in the earth that had once been Starke, a once-safe haven, he could only assume, for carriers like them. Who knew how many people had been massacred by the bombing there, and in the other locations circled green on the map. After all, it seemed the military had been doing a good job of 'cleansing' numerous locations. He wondered how many carriers were left...

Nick couldn't pry his eyes away from the window, watching as the rain came down on the pane, pooling into larger and larger droplets on the glass before running down towards the sill. It had felt somewhat hopeless on occasions before. Now it felt… pointless. There wasn't even a point to hoping. There was nothing out there for them. Except death. By zombies, by 'non-carriers', by hunger. They could go ahead and take their fucking pick. He bowed over his knees, holding his head in his hands.

He felt Ellis' palm press against his lower back, a touch he hadn't at all been expecting. The gambler gave a grunt and opened his eyes to briefly look back at the younger man in the dark.

His angel. His very own little personal savior. He stared into the depths of those eyes, the pupils dilated wide in the darkness. But Nick didn't think even Ellis could console him this time.

His voice was soft and gentle and full of concern. "Hey, c'mon tuh bed, Nick. Ya need yer rest, an' ya can't get it sittin' up all night like this."

"Rest for what?" he asked a little snidely, returning his vigil toward the window.

The mattress shifted and squeaked as Ellis sat up behind him. "Well fer tomorrow, a'course."

Nick let out a hoarse chuckle. He knew the kid well enough by now to know he wasn't being clueless but rather 100% down-to-earth. He motioned exasperatedly with an arm. "I just… we're pretty screwed, El."

Ellis nodded stiffly. He only spoke one word in response. "Yeah."

"Christ…" he cursed, shaking his head, his hands quavering as he ran them through his hair yet again, unable to stop the nervous motion. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I don't mean to be like this–" his throat pinched tight unexpectedly; he swallowed with difficulty.

And then something he really wasn't anticipating happened. Both of the mechanic's arms wrapped around him from either side, drawing him into an embrace from behind. The tone of the southerner's voice changed. "You remember what I told'ja back at the tower?" he asked, the heat of his breath beside his ear sending the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

He'd been told a lot of things by the southerner then. He tried to parse through them quickly, to determine which one Ellis possibly meant. Nick shook his head. "I don't…" he started; Ellis turned him around, so their gazes met, facing one another in the low light.

"I told'ja yer all I need in this fuckin' world. An' I still mean it."

His brow drew down, about to open his mouth to question what exactly he meant by the statement, but before he could get words out, Ellis had leaned forward and sealed their lips together.

For a moment he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe– there was no way this could possibly be real, that it was actually happening. His mouth responded regardless of his disbelief, opening and closing in time with Ellis' lead. Those plush velvet lips encouraged his head to tip slightly to the side, their noses bumping gently as the heat of the moment flared.

It lasted a few seconds longer before dimming and their mouths slowly fell apart, sombered by the reality of their situation. Nick sat in a state of complete slack-jawed awe, rendered momentarily speechless. Ellis looked down at the mattress bashfully, before glancing back up. "I figured I couldn't wait on that no longer, considerin'…" he trailed off.

"Goddamn it, Ellis," he could have laughed and cried at the same fucking time. The southerner actually had feelings for him; he wondered how long the kid had spent hiding it, if it would have ever come out without dire news such as this, faced with their own imminent mortality. His eyes misted over as he gave a chagrinned, "I love you too, kid."

The mechanic chuckled, seeming to understand his quandary. He extended an arm out to him and Nick came, letting himself be lead into bed to lie beneath the sheets. They stared up at the ceiling of the little motel room together, their fingers entwined at their sides, holding on for the reassurance that the other was there.

Ellis spoke up softly; Nick turned his head to watch the silhouetted profile of the young hick's face as his lips moved. "Mah Pa tole me somethin'… when he was on his deathbed, jus' a couple days a'fore he dun passed away."

The gambler snorted at the irony of the parallel, reclined as they currently were. But he wanted to hear Ellis words. "Yeah, what was that?" he inquired.

"He said 'Live life tuh the fullest.'" The mechanic paused. "Guess I finally know what he meant."

It felt like all the breath had been knocked out of him by the solemn words. What a thing to hear the kid say… Jesus fucking Christ, he was just twenty-three years of age. Nick shuttered his eyes painfully, squeezing the younger man's hand as if he could somehow channel all the courage he had left into him through it, and if it could possibly be enough to make a difference. Ellis squeezed back.

He thought back to Al in that moment. To all the funeral pictures of the machinist caught mid-smile, with his family or friends, at work, on vacation; it seemed like wherever he went or no matter what he was doing, Al had had that smile. Nick's brow furrowed. He could remember hundreds of those smiles, given to him privately on nights when they had been alone together... like little gifts he'd always treasured more closely than any worldly possession. He recalled the eulogy spoken over Al's casket, how words like 'joyful' and 'energetic' had been attributed to him. 'Passionate about life'. All of it had been true, painfully true, and Nick remembered at the time all he could think, all he could feel, was how cruel and unfair it had been that his life had been snatched away from him.

And yet Al epitomized living every day to it's fullest. Nick felt wetness prick the corners of his eyes.

Even lives cut short could be happy.

He hugged Ellis close and closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

When he awoke, he found himself alone in the bed.

Nick startled upright, heart hammering in his chest. His head snapped from side to side, immediately fearing the worst. "El?" he asked the empty suite, throwing the covers aside to stand when he got no answer. "Ellis??" Blood rushed to his head, having stood up too quickly from being reclined, and it almost knocked him right back off his feet. He caught himself with the wall, stumbling forward. Fuck, where was he?? The bathroom door was open and the room unoccupied; Nick sprinted to the window and cupped his hands over his forehead on the glass to peer outside.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief when he spotted the coverall-clad mechanic under the blue plastic tarp, a blowtorch in hand and attending to something on the bumper of their 4-wheeler.

God, well, that wasn't a scare he had needed that morning. Nick ran his hand through his hair, trying to slow his still slamming heart. He chuckled at himself. Christ, honestly, what had he thought? That Ellis had set off alone or hung himself like the air station nurse or blown his brains out now to save the military the trouble?

He swallowed the bile accumulating in the back of his throat and moved to get his clothing back on.

When he was put together and freshened up as well as the apocalypse would allow, Nick exited the suite and proceeded down the motel stairs to join the southerner where he was working away, hunched over the materials they had spent yesterday afternoon gathering. The gambler paused on the bottom step, leaning onto the banister to admire him for a moment, his presence not yet noticed by the hick. Ellis had removed the bandages from his forearms, Nick realized then, the sleeves of his coveralls rolled up to his elbows and the appendages bare of their former wrappings. He could just make out the faint white marks scarred into the skin from the encounter– they would probably always be there.

Despite it, Ellis worked diligently and with a purpose. Already, it would seem, the kid was bouncing back. Nick shook his head. There didn't seem to be anything that could douse the young man's spirit entirely. No matter what he had strength left, even if it was just a flicker.

"Never deterred, are you, kiddo?" he marveled, rather than issuing a good morning greeting.

Ellis looked up, a smile dancing across his features at the words, or perhaps the sight of him. He removed his cap to wipe at his brow, then returned it to his head with a look of determination. "We gotta get Coach tuh his family."

"Wait, he has family?" Nick asked incredulously, a little baffled by the news– not that Coach had family, but that he still had family. Or something like that. Nick shook his head; he had a nagging feeling he knew why he hadn't been privy to the info. He licked his lips. "In Tallahassee, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah, he didn't tell ya?"

"No… he must have… skipped that part…" Nick lied awkwardly.

The mechanic didn't seem to be listening too hard however, immersed in cutting off the side of a shopping cart with the torch. The metal glowed with a faint yellow-orange. "They're holdin' out, waitin' for him, least tha's what he said," the younger man filled him in as he toiled. "Honestly, I dunno if they would'a held out this long or not, might've moved on ya know? Figurin' they lost him tuh the apocalypse an' shit. But," he shook his head, "we won't know unless we go."

The conman nodded. Of course in the off-chance Coach's family hadn't gone on without him, the question still remained whether they too were carriers. But Nick left that thought unvoiced, sure the kid was well aware. "We certainly don't have anywhere better to go."

Ellis made a small noise of confirmation and they lapsed back into silence; the southerner flicked off the torch and picked up his chopped piece of cart, positioning it over one of the back windows to make an impromptu mesh of bars protecting it. Oh, so that's what he'd been up to in grabbing those. Nick rubbed his chin and chuckled at the novelty. "Hey, you need my help with anything?" he offered.

"Well, if ya'd be willin' tuh hold this here while I weld her down, I'd be mighty appreciative," the hick shrugged his shoulder at it.

"Yeah, sure, no problem," Nick agreed as he came down off the steps, slogging into the deep water. He came to the younger man's side and lifted his arms to take a hold of the cart and keep it in place.

"Thanks," the mechanic said quickly, snatching his blowtorch. "Ya might wanna look away, ya ain't s'posed tuh look directly at it without eye-protection," he cautioned as he hunkered next to him and got to it.

Nick obediently did as told, though he was compelled to point out that the kid wasn't following his own rules in the usage of the device. His gaze wandered down the youngster's back, enjoying their proximity as Ellis meticulously went around the window, melding the metallic bars to the siding of the vehicle. There wasn't a hint of awkwardness as their limbs and bodies brushed, working together to fashion something that would hopefully grant them safety on their upcoming journey. It was weird to think, now that it was morning, a new day lying before them, that Ellis had kissed him last night… It had been an impulsive move to say the very least. Fleetingly he wondered how far the kid's affection for him went. A small grin tugged the corners of his lips– knowing El, he wouldn't start a job without intending to finish it.

When Ellis was done, he began cutting the next piece free from the pillaged cart and they repeated the steps to mount it to the rearmost window. Nick had never much had the patience for manual labor or anything that didn't somehow stimulate his faculties, but somehow engaging in the simple actions required to help the southerner brought him solace and calm sense of accomplishment.

"Now tha's what a zombie-proof vehicle oughta look like!" the mechanic said proudly some minutes later. He stood back with a grin to admire their work, bars now protecting every window with the exclusion of the windshield.

Nick felt himself laugh in response. "I don't know, kiddo. It kind of looks like something made for prisoner transport now," he joked in regards to the addition of the barred windows.

Ellis stuck out his tongue, ignoring the comment. "Last thing she needs is the scoop on front, an' that ain't gonna be easy tuh mount. M'prolly gonna need both you an' Coach's help tuh do it." He set his hands on his hips and gave a firm nod. "But as soon as we get it done we kin hit the road an' finally get ourselves outta here."

Nick stepped forward and ruffled the dirty blonde hair inside the southerner's cap. "You've done good, kid," he spoke.

The action drew a merry laugh, hearty drawl reverberating from Ellis' chest almost lyrically. His twinkling blue eyes crinkled at him challengingly. "A'course I have."

Chapter Text

"So how are we going to do this?" Rochelle asked, her fingers coiled around the air-horn, gaze pointedly on the southerner who had rigged up the device. Ellis had designed it such that once the button was depressed, it would stay depressed until the thing ran out of juice. That would mean plenty of noise for plenty of time, which should mean plenty of time to escape.

At least that was his hope.

"Well, I reckon we oughta set it off somewhere close by," Ellis spoke certainly, putting his hands to his hips, "tuh make sure them zombie son's a'bitches kin hear it loud an' clear. But I'd say we wanna already be in motion when we do so they dun mob us a'fore we kin make a get-away."

Coach gave a grunt from his seat behind the wheel of the ZUV. "Shouldn't be too hard; this baby's got a lot of pep. More than old Betsy." He gave a little private chuckle, patting the dashboard. The eldest survivor at least had been favorably impressed with his modifications.

"You can never be too careful," Nick pointed out as he loaded the last of their supplies into the backend.

"I'm with ya on that one," Ellis agreed, helping himself to the gun bag. His sniper rifle– while he loved it to pieces– wasn't the right armament for the close-range fire they might soon be involved in. He pulled out an uzi and several extra clips. "E'eryone got what they need?" he asked the group before shutting the hatch; they all responded in the affirmative. Ellis slammed it closed and proceeded around to the side so he could hop in the vehicle himself.

All the doors shut; Coach fired up the ignition. The mechanic gripped his SMG. They were ready to go.

"Alright," Rochelle nodded across to the football player, earrings bobbing, confirming their plan. "As soon as you gun up that onramp, I'll lean out and toss this, and we'll be 99.99% 'zombie-free'!" she said jokingly, making quotes in the air as if it were some kind of television commercial. She could be the spokeswoman in an ad for 'Zombie-B-Gone'.

"Alright, baby girl," the big man agreed, setting the car in motion, heading back towards the interstate.

Ellis watched out the grilled window, his eyes on the looming mass of undead creatures milling around on the raised road. He hoped to God his modification of the front end would stand up to the onslaught if need be. He shook his head, assuring himself that he had designed it sturdy. He'd welded it in a dozen different places to the chassis of the vehicle and tested the structural integrity of each with his machete. He'd even mounted additional supports from the hood. Nothing short of a tank would be stopping them.

Lord, he really hoped there wasn't one of those somewhere up there. He swallowed roughly– that would a real bad. He recalled the way in which the one they had encountered before had picked up and lobbed a minivan with such ease. That could be them being hurtled through the air...

A hand reached across and shook his shoulder gently. "It's fine," the conman read his mind so well Ellis wondered if he'd been speaking his rampant concerns aloud without realizing it. "Jesus, fireball, have a little faith." He took his knuckles and bumped the mechanic's chin. Ellis gave a self-conscious little laugh at the turned tables and smiled back at Nick appreciatively.

Coach brought the ZUV to a halt at the bottom of the offramp, the engine idling lackadaisically, unaware of the action about to take place. "We all ready for this shit?" the former football player asked, a rough edge in his voice. Rochelle held up the air-horn, Ellis and Nick both nodded. "Then hold onto somethin', cuz I ain't slowin' down," the big man commanded. He stomped on the gas and the 4-wheeler began to accelerate up the incline rapidly, losing some rubber to the pavement.

A few zombie heads turned at the sound of the roaring engine, their senses awakening to the presence of noise. By the time they were a third of the way up, Rochelle opened her door and gave the air-horn a heave. It blared loudly as it bounced from the speed of the car and landed in the marshy grass.

The greatly increased noise did more than turn a few heads. Enraged undead began to rush towards the source of sound, stumbling and tripping over one another in their haste to each discover it first. All the while Coach drove further and further up the ramp, gaining more speed, the vehicle now going over fifty. The only problem was that the zombies weren't clearing out the way fast enough. They were interested in the air-horn and going towards it, that much was for sure, but the sheer multitudes of them kept them from being entirely out of the way.

"Uh… Coach…" Ellis mumbled with uncertainty, his eyes getting wider the faster they sped towards the throng. "Coach…"

"Told'ja," the eldest man shook his head gruffly, dark determination in his brown eyes, "Ain't stoppin'."

After the football player's words just two days ago, they probably should have known better than to put the man behind the wheel. The mechanic braced himself for impact.

There was a thud and the first infected body went hurtling over the roof of the ZUV to land some distance behind them. A second thud jolted the vehicle, sending a limp form sprawling to the right side. Coach let out a loud belly laugh and Ellis almost couldn't blame him with how comically the zombies went flying to and fro as they were systematically hit and ricocheted by the frontal scoop.

"Jesus Christ," Nick commented with a look of shock on his features. More bodies flung through the air as they tore through the mob which was still focused on the air-horn sounding more and more in the distance. Hell, this was actually working. Not that he'd thought it wouldn't, otherwise he wouldn't have set them up to try it, he was just surprised something hadn't gone wrong. Ellis felt himself chuckle despite the intensity of the moment and the continual bangs and thumps upon the metal surface on the front of the car.

A few of the creatures were starting to catch on to what was happening, that the loud noise was merely a deception and that the real item of interest was the vehicle now rushing past them. Not that they could do much at the speed the vehicle was now going; it had built up momentum and wasn't going to be stopped easily. A few infected tried to latch on, but their limbs were torn from their sockets in the process. Others were able to find momentary purchase jumping on, but they quickly lost their grip as they were drug over the asphalt. The occasional one somehow ended up underneath the car, crushed by the spinning tires and weight. Ever more tumbled away from the bulldozer-like action of the front end, leaving a wake of carnage behind them.

They were untouchable.

"Oh hell yeah, baby, woo-hoooo!!" Ellis cheered enthusiastically, pumping his arm. He and Rochelle exchanged a high-five. "We are going, going, gone!"

Which was true. The coagulation of zombies was dispersing the further they got from Lake City, and eventually the open road stretched out before them once more. A few zombies chased after them as fast as they could on foot but were soon lost in the distance. It would be another twenty miles to Live Oak, the next nearest populace along I-10 and therefore the next potential hazard for dense zombie populations, but with as well as the ZUV had performed, Ellis was no longer worried.

Chapter Text

It turned out he should have been. Murphy came to pay a visit. Just as they were reaching the outskirts of Live Oak, the fuel gauge lit up, dinging in warning.

"Boy, how far did you say this thing could go?" the big man rumbled, looking befuddled by the indicator that had just lit up on the dashboard.

Ellis leaned forward incredulously. "There's no way she kin possibly be out of fuel. We ain't even gone a hundred miles yet!" He pushed up the brim of his hat to examine the indicator himself, not willing to believe it. But the needle hovered over the E, plain as day. His frown deepened; something was wrong. Not even the extra weight now attached to the vehicle could be factoring into the economy that greatly. "Pull over," he insisted.

Coach gave a grunt but slowed the 4-wheeler to do as requested.

As soon as it came to a stop, the mechanic threw open his door and stepped out. The problem immediately became apparent. "Ya gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!" he threw up his arms. A trail of gasoline lay behind them, stretching who knew how many miles back; Ellis bent down and despaired when he saw the fluid plinking down onto the asphalt, already making a pool underneath the vehicle. He got onto his back, scooching underneath to get a closer look. The gas tank had been damaged, a thin slit cut in the metal and it was steadily eking the precious liquid they had been so desperate to get their hands on.

He wriggled back out from underneath the car, dusting his hands off on his coveralls.

"What's the scoop, kiddo?" Nick asked calmly.

"Fuel tank's fissured, leakin' like hell," the southerner wrinkled his nose as he made his diagnosis. "Prolly happened durin' our escape when we was runnin' over shit."

"Can you fix it?" Rochelle inquired, looking concerned but hopeful.

Ellis let out a wearied sigh, removing his cap briefly to run his hand through his hair. "Can I fix it?" he mumbled rhetorically. "A'course I kin fix it." What kind of mechanic would he be if he couldn't? Ellis tried not to let his irritation show. "But we gotta drain the tank completely empty. An' I mean completely. The blow torch'll seal the crack no problem, but a gasoline fire ain't what we want on our hands. It'd mean all mah hard work, up in smoke!" He fumed, cursing under his breath quietly. Couldn't they get just a few goddamn miles without something going wrong??

A hand squeezed his shoulder. "How can I help, El?" Nick offered gently, his grey-green eyes soft in a way Ellis was coming to appreciate more and more every day. At the very sight of them he felt his blood pressure lower.

"There should be a jack under the rear seats. Grab it fer me," he instructed the conman.

Nick nodded. "Sure." He moved to do as asked.

"An' do we happen tuh have anythin' we kin put the remainin' gas into?" the mechanic spoke up in afterthought, rubbing his stubbly chin. "I don't wanna lose none if we dun hafta." Lord, if they'd been paying any goddamn attention, they could have noticed the leak fifteen minutes ago, before over half their tank had been spilled onto the road. They'd be lucky to make it as far as Pensacola with what they had left.

"Uh… let me look," the older man responded uncertainly.

Ellis turned his attention to the other two. "Ro', Coach, ya both keep an eye on the west," he directed.

"Don't worry, boy, we got it," the football player assured him, his SPAS already in hand. "Anythin' comes this way, we'll shoot the shit out of it."

"Good, cuz it's gonna take me a few minutes at the very least," he informed them. Nick handed him the jack; he gave a terse, "Thank'ya," and stooped to get it under the rear axle to hoist the left half the vehicle up. As he immersed himself in work he felt his irritation lessen to a simmer, able to focus on the task at hand and just getting them back up and running. Just another day on the job, he reminded himself. Minus the paycheck.

To his surprise, the conman joined him underneath the vehicle a few moments later– sans his white suitcoat, no doubt to keep it from getting too dirtied. He bore several plastic bottles from their vending machine stash, which had been drained, as well as the funnel he'd used a while back to make their mollies. "I hope these will work," Nick said, offering them out to him.

"Not unless they're fluorine-treated HDPE," the southerner chuckled softly, appreciative of the older man's attempt to bring him something suitable; he probably should have been more specific with his original request. An eyebrow lifted on the gambler's forehead at the technical term. "Most plastics dun hold up tuh gasoline fer more than a few minutes," Ellis sought to explain, face scrunching up as he removed a bolt that was keeping the tank in place. It was too bad none of the bottles had been made of glass, and that they were out in the middle of nowhere where nothing like that could be found. "Even as temporary storage they're a no-go. Trust me, Keith found tha' out the hard way," he gave a little laugh as he remembered the event that resulted in his friend being drenched head to toe in gasoline.

Nick gave a grunt. "I guess you learn something new every day," he mumbled, then the side of his lip quirked. "Did he end up lighting himself on fire that time too?"

"Does a chemical burn count?" Ellis turned his head to grin at the cardshark.

"Jesus," Nick muttered, shaking his head. He studied the still-dripping unit with a frown. "You know, we might be able to fit a little more into the three extra cans we have in the back," he mentioned. "That asshole was selling them short after all."

"Go get 'em," Ellis nodded, agreeing right away to the plan. They might only be able to salvage a few pints, but every drop counted.

He managed to get the tank loose about the time Nick had lined up the three cans and removed their caps. Ellis hefted the heavy metal container out from under the car and got to work pouring; Nick helped by holding the funnel steady. "You know," the gambler spoke up, his tone conversational, "Coach may have put me in charge, but I think you're taking to it better than I am."

Ellis laughed with chagrin. "Yeah, I guess," he shrugged his shoulders, not really having stopped to think about it. He had been making a lot of decisions lately, for the group. "I didn't really mean'ta or nothin'," he went on as he tipped the tank away and set it down. The machinist licked his lips, feeling suddenly sheepish; he turned his head to shadow his eyes with the brim of his baseball cap. "Sorry 'bout that…"

"Don't apologize to me," Nick laughed, holding his hands up so the palms showed. A sleek brown eyebrow curved over an eye. "I didn't want the job, remember?"

"Sure, sure," Ellis waved him off. "I know that. But tha' don't really excuse me actin' like I'm the boss of e'eryone all'a sudden." He shifted on his feet. When his Pa had died, he'd been forced to step up to the plate and be the man of the house. He had to make money and he had to fix shit. As a result, he'd also been the one to make decisions on occasion, some important, others not as important. It had never been his choice, just a necessity. Perhaps this was just the same. Necessity.

The gambler laughed at his words. "I'm hardly offended, kiddo." He reached over and shook his shoulder again. "You know what you're doing. And God only knows, I'd follow you to the ends of the earth."

Ellis paused. "Ya really mean that?"

Nick smiled. "I do." He leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek.

The gesture made him warm on the inside, and the spot the thin lips had graced his flesh felt hot, even to the touch. His eyes flit over towards Rochelle and Coach, but both still had their backs to them, keeping their vigil to the West, the gesture unseen. He let his fingertips run over it a moment longer. "Yeah, well, I'd follow you jus' the same," Ellis recovered with a half-sided smirk. "An' fer all we know 'the ends of the earth' is about where we're goin'." He bent down to pick the gas tank back up again so he could pour the remainder that didn't fit into the grass on the side of the road.

"As long as there's no zombies or military, and there's plenty of blackjack and poker, I'm all in," the cardshark quipped.

The machinist laughed as he shook the tank empty. "Throw in some beer an' bad rock n' roll an' it sounds like paradise for sure."

Chapter Text

The repair didn't take more than an hour; Ellis made short work of it and they were back on the road in no time, proving there wasn't any curve ball the apocalypse could throw that the southerner couldn't handle. But this was hardly a surprise to Nick at this point.

He affixed his gaze outside, watching the scenery as it went by through the meshed windows.

"Well," Nick muttered, "it's been a while." The others looked where he was pointing. The sign for the next turn off into Live Oak was spray painted with the signature pictograph of a safehouse, letting them know the location wasn't far.

"Huh, what'd'ya know?" Ellis wondered aloud, pushing his hat up.

"Should we check it out?" Rochelle asked what each of them was thinking. She looked down at the can of Alpo currently in her hand. The conman had been able to tell she'd been hungry all morning, and that eventually she'd had to give in to consuming another can of dog food, mostly from the way that she had been picking at it very slowly as they rolled down the road. The producer continued her line of reasoning. "They might have real food…" Her brown eyes settled on Coach hopefully.

It was true that the safehouses they'd stayed in before had had provisions, though they'd also had methods of refrigeration. Not that canned or dehydrated foodstuffs weren't a possibility as well, but there was no way of knowing unless they stopped. Nick hmm'd under his breath. He wasn't particularly fond of their current stock either, he could agree with Ro' on that note. He'd been eating the slop for the past couple days since they'd found it and it was tasting more and more like shit.

The big fellow gave a grunt to her question, not taking his eyes off the road, meaty hands firmly gripped around the steering wheel like turning off was out of the question. "M'leavin' that decision to Nicholas," he muttered.

Nick lifted an eyebrow. From the sounds of it, Coach didn't want to waste any more time in getting to Tallahassee– understandable, if selfish, though gambler couldn't cast stones. He chuckled privately to himself that the older member of their party would insist that he make the decision, making good on his 'passing of the torch' mentioned in the hotel, despite the fact that he was both with them still and driving. On the other hand, maybe he just didn't want to be the recipient of another one of Ellis' sucker punches. Nick couldn't help but smile a bit at the memory, though he felt a little guilty about doing so.

He supposed then that he ought to make the choice as if Coach weren't with them and he was acting in benefit of the rest of the group. "Yeah, go ahead and turn off," Nick spoke with a firm authority, "we'll take a peek and if there's nothing there we'll keep going." Simple as that. He hoped it would be a reasonable compromise to the bigger man as well as the other two.

Coach nodded and did as he said.

He followed the signs to a little shopping center off the highway, comprised of a desolate-looking Walmart and ransacked Taco Bell, both looking like they'd gone up in flames at some point considering their caved-in rooves. There was even an over-turned semi sticking out of the front of the mexican restaurant. The building that had been modified by the government, however, was across the street, formerly 'Southern Sportsman, Gun & Pawn' as proclaimed by the outdoor sign. Oh the good ol' South.

"Why didn't they just name it Redneck Heaven?" Nick delivered sarcastically, unable to help himself from making the poor-taste wisecrack.

Ellis snorted. "Cuz if it were actual redneck heaven, they'd have RV an' trailer parkin', an' kids'd shoot free on Tuesdays," he went along with the joke and Nick felt himself laugh harder.

Honestly though, it just fucking figured that before they'd had food and needed ammo and couldn't find it, and now they had ammo and needed food and the safehouse standing before them was a goddamn gun shop. They couldn't very well eat lead, though no doubt the military would thank them for their cooperation in removing themselves from the gene pool.

"Well, they might still have something…" Rochelle said optimistically, setting her half-finished meal in one of the cup holders.

The football player drove into the lot and cut the ignition. "Look alive, people," he said as he retrieved his auto shotgun. They all took his lead and secured their weapons before stepping out of the vehicle. A few scattered zombies were milling the general vicinity, roused by their presence; the four survivors took them out with practiced skill before the hungry creatures could so much as swing at them, each securing a direction for several meters. The floodwaters weren't quite as high here, Nick noticed, though still a few good inches deep, so it was probably less of a deterrent to the infected population than Lake City had been. He slipped a fresh clip into each of his magnums as they proceeded to the barricaded door and entered.

For the most part the place was heavily pilfered, empty shelves and glass cases that had once held long and short range weaponry alike missing their former stock. A lot of ammo was missing too, unsurprisingly. They spread out; Nick cruised the aisles in search of nothing in particular. He chuckled at the amount of camouflage gear hanging on racks, something for practically every occasion save formal evening wear. He spied a camo-printed tie. Take that back.

When his eyes fell upon the selection of hiking boots, he paused, recalling Ellis' earlier upset when his had been ruined. "Hey El," he called out to the youngster, who was somewhere prowling the store. "What size are you in women's?"

The hick emerged shortly, a dirty blonde eyebrow lifted on his head. "Huh?"

The gambler pointed to the remaining selection of footgear, which, for the most part, was women's.

"Oh!" Ellis exclaimed, looking immediately interested. Nick watched as the younger male pulled a couple different boxes from the shelf, readily sitting on the floor and going through the packaging to start trying them on. Ellis looked up at him as he pulled off one of his boots. "Ya know, at first I didn't know ya meant shoe size," he laughed.

"What did you think I meant?" Nick folded his arms with subtle amusement. "Dress size?"

The southerner guffawed.

"What's all the commotion over here?" Rochelle asked, wandering over to where they were conversing. "Did I hear someone mention sho–" she paused in mid-sentence, her brown eyes wide at their discovery. "Oh my gosh." The reporter began hastily pulling boxes off the shelf as well.

Nick chuckled. "I never pegged you for a female obsessed with shoes," he commented at the sudden impulsive behavior invoked by the wall of footwear.

"Well if it's sandals or pumps or tennies I won't wear it, but I have a love-affair with boots," she explained, kneeling down with Ellis to try on some pairs as well. "Daddy bought me my first pair when I was ten, and I've never worn anything else since. Well, except a few pairs of heels on really special occasions, but that's it."

He was amused by the girl's brief backstory. "Then I guess you can get started on your new wardrobe," Nick joked, content to lean back against a hangar and watch the other two try on footgear.

"You ain't gonna join us?" Ellis asked with an inviting smile.

The conman peered down at his somewhat sad-looking dress shoes; they'd been through hell and back these past couple weeks. "I don't know…" he answered softly, rather fond of this pair– they'd always been comfy and the wingtips gave him a refined-looking toe. Eventually he'd have to retire them, he acknowledged, but not today. Besides, a pair of boots would look awfully silly with his suit. Then again, who really cared?

"Well one thing is for sure," Coach approached now, "There ain't no food. Even the freeze-dried shit is gone." He studied them all a moment, but didn't question what they were doing with all the boxes and paper wadding strewn around.

"Least we ain't leavin' empty-handed," Ellis said as he stood. "Or should I say empty-footed?" He grinned at his own bad pun and Nick shook his head while Rochelle laughed out loud. The hick paced back and forth a couple of times, making sure the pair he had on fit snuggly and would work for him.

"You checked everywhere?" Nick confirmed with the football player.

He grunted, folding his arms. "Yeah."

The conman gave a 'hm' and decided he'd double-check while the other two were still occupied by their 'shoe shopping'. He thought it was kind of weird that this safehouse, save for the typical red metal door, was fairly gutted in terms of what the military had done for modifications and left for supplies. He would have at least expected to see some sleeping bags around or something. The gambler paused at the door that led to the indoor shooting range. He chuckled softly at the sign beside the door that said eye and ear protection were required before entry and that the room was under heavy surveillance by camera. Funny to think before the outbreak people had been so overly protective when it came to shooting, handling, even owning a gun.

After a moment's more hesitation, Nick decided to scope it out for the sake of being thorough. He entered the range and quickly cast a glance around; there was the typical row of shooting booths and several targets whose distance could be controlled via each kiosk, but certainly nothing out of the ordinary. No extra supplies, no nothing. His mouth drew into a tight line and he wandered up to booth #2 to gaze down the range. Someone had apparently at some point set up a target to shoot at, crudely drawn on a large piece of dirtied cardboard. It was easily recognizable as a military man from the helmet and uniform, though it had been defiled with X's for eyes, a little Hitler mustache, and an arrow though its head. But the cherry on top was probably the little talk bubble that bore the catchphrase "Kill all the carriers! Sieg Heil! LOL".

Well, at least someone had a sense of humor. Sick as it sort of was.

He considered turning away and going back to the others, but honestly the ridiculous expression on the drawn military man's face made him want to add a couple more holes to what was already there, even if it was a waste of ammunition. The conman unholstered his magnum and took careful aim down the sight, lining up the shot right between the two X'd eyes. He slowly let out his breath and squeezed the trigger and the gun issued its loud rapport, the entry point appearing in the cardboard only milliseconds later.

And then he heard the weird sound of gears churning. He blinked, taking a step back as he tried to determine where in the echoey room the sound was coming from, what the sound fucking meant. His grip tightened on his magnum, heart pounding in his chest; he didn't know if he should bolt or stay rooted to the spot. All he could think was that he had sprung a trap.

Until a little trapdoor popped open in the floor.

Chapter Text

"Give me the flashlight!" the conman demanded.

Ellis lifted an eyebrow as Nick came barging back. "I think it's out in the car still," he said, a little baffled by the older man's behavior and wondering what the heck he needed it for. He moved towards him. "Why do you–" he started to ask.

"Because this place has a fucking basement," Nick responded, already disappearing out of the shop to get the required device.

"A basement?" Ellis scratched his head and he turned to the other two, but they looked equally out of the loop. Since when did gun shops have basements? A second floor sometimes if it was a really big shop and had other equipment too. But Ellis had never been to a gun store with a basement. When Nick came back, in just as much of a hurry as he had left, the mechanic scurried after him, Coach and Rochelle following in his tracks. The conman took them into the indoor range and pointed at the little door that had dropped down in the floor, not more than three feet wide on each side.

"This weren't here when I checked," the football player said with obvious confusion.

"I shot old Adolf over there in the head," Nick motioned his hand at a target hanging down-range.

Ellis eyed it, seeing the several bullet holes in its torso as well as a few in the head, but one clean one dead between the eyes. Three guesses whose that was. "Nice shot," he commented.

"Easier when they're standing still," Nick chuckled.

"And it opened this?" Rochelle asked with incredulity.

"Uh huh," Nick mumbled.

"Well shit, what're we waitin' for? Let's see what's down there!" Ellis said, taking the lead. He took the flashlight from Nick, clicking it on to peer down into the hole, crouching down by it. The smell of dank earth wafted up at him. "It certainly don't look big," he evaluated– by the looks and smell of it, it had all been dug out by hand with a shovel, certainly not originally part of the store's construction.

Coach gave a snort. "Jus' what I love. Small spaces."

"Dun worry, I'll scope it out," Ellis assured him, sitting down to dangle his new boots into the hole.

"Be careful, we don't know what's down there," Nick said, his face lined with concern.

The mechanic grinned lopsidedly at him. "I got it. I doubt there's anythin' livin' down there, otherwise it'd already be nippin' at mah ankles," he teased. He oriented the flashlight to illuminate beneath him and dropped down.

It was actually a little deeper than he had been expecting, stagnant water sopping his coveralls halfway up his thighs. He took a moment to recover from the unexpected shock, though he was inwardly glad it hadn't been any higher because cold water up to his balls would have been even less pleasant; he was experiencing shrinkage as it was. Ellis chuckled. Considering the water level outside it was hardly surprising that the small dugout was waterlogged as well. He lifted the beam of light and slogged forward, even he with his shorter stature forced to crouch a bit with the low ceiling.

"Ya know…" he began to speak to the others above him, so they wouldn't be left in suspense while he searched, "this kinda reminds me of the time mah buddy Keith went spelunckin'." The earth seemed to swallow up the volume of his words, so he spoke a little louder to compensate. "Now I don't think ya know it, cuz I don't think I told'ju, but Keith's a purdy tall feller, over six feet," he nodded to himself, "an' the tour guide, she tole him, she said he was prolly too tall fer this alternate route in the tunnels. Both paths led tuh the same place, y'see, but this path was considerably tighter– they made'ja turn 'round this pillar'a rock an' squeeze through a little hole all at the same time." Ellis squinted into the dark, waving the beacon, but he continued to tell his story. "Well a'course ol' Keith, he had'ta try it anyhow, cuz what's the sense in havin' a little adventure when ya kin have all of it? So anyway, he tried it an' a'course he got himself stuck an' couldn't get out. Couldn't go forward, couldn't go backward– tour had tuh leave him there an' go back up tuh go get help." The southerner shook his head. "I guess he was stuck down there fer sixteen hours in the pitch dark a'fore they got him loose with a jackhammer. Got a mad case of claustrophobia. Tuh this day he pisses hisself any time he drives through a tunnel."

Just as he concluded his tale, he found himself at the far end of the dugout, and pinned to the earthen wall with tent spikes was a map.

A map with green circles. But not the same green circles as before– he was damn sure of it. Starke was not circled, and nor were a few of the other nearby locations he had remembered.

"Y'all, y'all I think I found somethin'!" he shouted back.

"What is it?" Nick and Coach asked simultaneously.

"Another map!" He placed the end of the flashlight in his teeth, fumbling slightly. "Jus' lemme get it down!" He tugged the tent stakes out of each corner, casting them away. Very carefully he took the diagram down, folding it neatly so it wouldn't get damp. While making the final crease, the flashlight decided it would be a fine time to leap out of his mouth; his hand shot out to catch it, but it escaped his save and made a ploop! as it sunk beneath the water's surface.

"Aw hell…" he cursed, now without any light.

"You okay down there, sweetie?" Rochelle asked.

"M'fine, I jus' dropped the damn light!" Ellis relayed with irritation. He bent over and reached down into the murky water to fish around and find it. The undersides of his fingernails filled with silt as he groped blindly, but at last his fingertips grazed it and he lifted it out. It didn't seem any the worse for wear for the dampening it had just received thankfully, and the mechanic turned a 180° to head back towards the hole where he had entered, map in hand.

"Here," Ellis said as he clicked off the flashlight, handing it and the diagram up to Rochelle's waiting hands. Nick offered another hand and Ellis took it, allowing the conman to help hoist him up and out of the muck.

"Jesus, you're filthy," Nick commented, his nose wrinkled.

"Well what'd'ja expect? That they'd have a full maid service down there?" Ellis shot back, giving his shoulder a playful shove. He opened his arms up. "D'ya wanna hug?"

"God no," the gambler laughed softly but seriously, "Get away from me."

He might have started chasing the older man around the range if Coach hadn't spoke up. "So this is all that was down there?" the football player asked him, pointing at the large piece of paper Rochelle was curiously unfolding.

"Tha's all I saw, man," Ellis shrugged. "That an' a whole lotta mud. Though I think maybe they had some supplies or somethin' until it got soaked."

"Are these circles in the same places?" the producer asked, her thin eyebrows pulling downward as she studied the new acquisition. "Where's the other one? Can we cross-reference them?"

"Uh…" Ellis tugged on the bill of his cap, remembering how he had crumpled it up in his anger. Thank God he hadn't torn it up or burned it instead. "Lemme go find it," he said, moving to exit the gun range. He held the door as the other three survivors traipsed after him, no reason to stay inside.

He did manage to locate the map underneath one of the back seats of the ZUV, rumpled and looking a bit worse for wear for its time there. He popped into one of Nick's plastic containers of sani-wipes to get his dirty hand clean before carefully un-crumpling it as he returned to the gun shop.

Rochelle was eager to see it, her hand out-stretched, and Ellis gave it to her. Her brown eyes flicked back and forth to the two similar but different maps, the rest of them peering over her to do the same. No doubt about it. None of the green circles were in the same spot. All of them were either several miles further north, further east or a little of both.

"So what, they relocated?" Nick broke the studious silence.

"That certainly seems possible," the reporter agreed, gesticulating with her hand. "If they had any sort of quick communication between locations, they would have known when the first one was 'cleansed'."

"And that they were gonna be next," Coach mumbled broodingly, folding his arms.

"Exactly," Rochelle's gaze flashed to him. "Of course there is the possibility that this is an even older map than our first one." She tapped at an earring in thought.

Ellis spoke up. "I doubt it," he said, looping a thumb into his coveralls and motioning with the other. "We found that one up in the control tower where the military was callin' the shots. An' this'un here tha' we jus' found was safeguarded," he referred to the target in the range. "Yer a military man, ya ain't gonna shoot yerself in the head. Only a carrier who's damn pissed is gonna do that." Honestly, it was a pretty slick strategy, if you asked him. It was good luck indeed Nick fell under the category.

The gambler chuckled. "I am damn pissed," he agreed.

"Then I guess it would be in our best interest to go check a few of these out," Rochelle advised. "And hope the military hasn't found them yet." Her words invoked the imagery of more craters in the mechanic's head, bombs dropped from jet craft, holes torn in the landscape, burnt and destroyed buildings that would once have offered shelter and refuge. But they were the outcast– the ones that had the most to fear, safe from neither the military nor the infected. And this, he recognized this time, could be as much of a wild goose chase as Starke.

"First thing's first," the conman spoke up, "Tallahassee." He nodded his head at the football player, who nodded back appreciatively. Nick had it right, their first obligation was to Coach and reuniting him with his family, but at least now the three of them had a solid plan to follow after they'd accomplished such.

Ellis looked back down at the map. "Seems like Georgiana is the nearest circle tuh Tallahassee, don't it?" he wondered aloud. Not that it was all that 'near'… the little Alabaman berg was more than twice as far away as Tallahassee was currently. "Reckon we make tuh hit it afterwards, sound good, y'all?"

Nick and Rochelle both nodded and Ellis scooped up the two maps to refold them. "Then let's get on gettin'; time's a'wastin' an' we ain't gettin' any younger."

"But we are getting older," the gambler pointed out as they headed out of the shop. "And for once I can say I'm goddamn thankful of that."

Chapter Text

They arrived in Tallahassee with less than a hundred miles left in their gas tank, which in Ellis' eyes meant one of their priorities while in the city was locating more– whether that meant pilfering from gas stations or siphoning from abandoned cars, he didn't care, as long as it got done. They couldn't go galavanting off into less inhabited territory where resources were even more scarce without enough to ensure they'd make it back out.

Coach turned off the highway at one of the inner-city exits. Obviously the football player knew his way to the residence at which his wife and extended family was holding out, which made it just as well the eldest survivor had been driving, as it took unnecessary confusion over directions out of the equation.

Nonetheless, Ellis made sure to observe the different turn-offs Coach took so he could navigate them back to the freeway. It was difficult to keep all the lefts and rights straight, even as he tried to take in various road names and landmarks. Though from the way the gambler's green eyes twitched back and forth, he was fairly certain Nick's memorization skills would back him up if he got lost or confused.

There was a considerable amount of infected prowling the city streets, unsurprising for the former population it once had been home to. Ellis had to say one thing, he was glad the four of them weren't coming in on foot– it would have been both dangerous and time-consuming to take out the monstrosities one by one, whereas with the car they drove right past them with nary a thought.

The former football player turned into one of the wealthier subdivisions Tallahassee had to offer, the residences along the street offering spacious yards and multi-car garages. The architecture of many of the houses was quite elegant, ranging from pillars and colonnades to dozens of paned-glass windows, many of which were now boarded up on the grandiose edifices. The once groomed yards were overgrown, left unattended for more pressing tasks, such as the sandbags that had been stacked to block off floodwater and act as barriers to individual homes. Some of the houses had razor wire installed along the rain gutters, no doubt to try and keep infected off the rooves and protect the second floors against unwanted entry. The area had definitely seen its skirmishes, that much was clear. Ellis could only assume that those owning nicer homes like this would be less inclined to leave everything behind, regardless of the risks associated with the choice. He just wondered how they had faired…

Nick gave a low whistle. "Guess your family isn't doing half bad, eh, big guy?" he commented, breaking the quietude.

"Brother-in-law's a personal injury lawyer," Coach mumbled, not wasting a lot of time on explanation as his eyes scanned the street they were driving down. He probably didn't want to talk about it, or more likely saw no reason to.

"Too bad we can't take the zombies to court," the conman jested, though Ellis got the feeling his humor fell upon deaf ears, save for a brief titter that fell from Rochelle's lips. The southerner was more concerned by the possibility that, though the area seemed prepared for the dangers of the apocalypse, there didn't seem to be a lot of life– at least of the uninfected kind– around. He scratched at an itch on his arm that wouldn't go away, his fingernails that needed a trim digging into the skin. Honestly, he was nervous as all get-out; he could only imagine what Coach was going through in the driver's seat.

A few more bends and banks in the residential road and the eldest survivor pulled the ZUV up to the curb. "This here is it," he announced, and all three heads turned to the two-story domicile facing the street. 20013. Stucco with an adobe roof.

It looked quiet.

The big man cut the engine and tossed the keys to Nick, who caught them and deftly tucked them into a pocket. He lumbered out of the car, his shotgun rested over his shoulder as he wordlessly traversed the driveway towards the front door. Ellis tried to convince himself that quiet was good. That if it looked uninhabited from the outside, it would throw off the zombies as well, that that was part of the point. After all, it wasn't like he'd expected to drive up and see Coach's brother-in-law washing a minivan with the garden hose while the two children laughed and played Slip-n-Slide on the lawn. If they were here, they'd be laying low, playing it smart. The mechanic hurried to exit, grabbing his sniper rifle and a few spare clips that he prayed were an unnecessary precaution. Nick and Rochelle followed after him.

The three of them joined Coach on the porch, where he was hammering his knuckles against the front door. He waited a moment, and after receiving no response, he repeated the action, this time accompanying it with a "Leanor! Joanna! Rodney! Open up, it's me, Harold!"

That itch started up again. Ellis shifted anxiously on the stoop, surveying the street as they all four waited for something… anything that would tell them there was life inside.

He tried the knob, but of course it was locked. Coach leveled his shotgun at the mechanism and blasted a couple of shots into it– Ellis nearly jumped in surprise. The wood splintered and metal yielded to the shots; a single push from the eldest survivor and the door swung open on its hinges.

Immediately he called out again into the foyer. "Leanor! Leanor, baby, I'm here!" But he hardly stopped to listen for a return call, bounding further inside, caution thrown to the wayside.

"Jesus Christ," Nick cursed, unholstering one of his magnums and making haste to attempt to follow the big man into the labyrinthine home. Ellis and Rochelle were right on his heels; the southerner tried to keep his bearings, keep alert. Barging in like this, who knew what could jump out at them when they weren't expecting it… they didn't know the design of the house. They could turn any corner and be confronted with just about anything they'd seen out on their travels… or something new altogether...

"Coach! Slow up, man!" he cupped his hand around his mouth, but Ellis was afraid they'd already lost him. The three of them wandered aimlessly, not sure where to go, if they should navigate back to the front door or search for their companion. The moments ticked on.

His breath hitched when he heard a high-pitched garbled growl. The other two had heard it as well from the way they both went rigid. They three turned about in place, listening for it a second time, to identify its location. It sounded again, angrier this time, but no closer or further away. It was coming from upstairs and down the hall, presumably towards the bedrooms. Ellis took the lead with rifle raised as they each ascended, but the door at the end of the corridor stood open, undoubtedly the source of the noise. They tread through the threshold of the master bedroom cautiously.

What met his eyes made the young man's jaw drop.

A corpse lay slightly covered by a thin sheet on the bed, soaked through with stained blood, brown with age. It was an African American woman, though her skin had gone ashy and bore the blemishes of infected skin– obviously she had turned before she had been 'laid to rest'. Pieces of her were… missing… an arm had been hacked off above the elbow… flesh missing from her thighs like it had been torn away from the bone. It gave Ellis the immediate and instinctive urge to vomit, but he held it back.

A man sat in the armchair next to the bed, his body slumped in death. There was a bullet hole in his right temple, the resulting exit wound blown out through the other side of his head, the mist of blood and brains splashed across the wallpaper in a pattern the backrest of the chair hadn't blocked. The weapon that had been used lay on the floor, a simple 9mm Ruger, beside it a bloodied kitchen knife large enough for carving a turkey.

But beyond the clearly tragic murder-and-suicide scenario before them, more disturbing was the source of the noises they had heard. Because trapped inside a sturdy cage more meant for wild dogs were two infected children, their yellow eyes flared wide and sharp triangular teeth bared at the sight of the three survivors that had just entered the room.

Coach's niece and nephew.

"Fucking shit…" Nick breathed.

"Oh… oh my God…" Rochelle just barely got out, her free hand covering her mouth, the corners of her big brown eyes pricking with moisture.

It only took a little longer to piece together the horrific scene. Bones that had been picked clean were scattered in the bottom of the pen, some recognizable as the ribs from pork and legs of chicken, even a t-bone steak. But a much longer set of bones also accompanied the standard butcher shop fare– solving the mystery of where the woman's missing arm had gone.

She had been fed to her children. Ellis glanced back at the body lying in the bed, and the one in the chair. That was four family members accounted for. Four family members… three infected, one not. Two dead, the others… not quite living. But the fifth, Coach's wife, was unaccounted for.

The two youngsters rattled the bars of their confinement, not to be forgotten. They reached out, flailing and swiping their taloned limbs as if in some hope of reaching the survivors on the other side of the room, or luring them in closer for a bite. Their tooth-rimmed mouths were frothing with spittle as they continued to wail and hiss and scream. The former tikes were probably starving without the sustenance provided to them by their father.

"Offed himself but couldn't do the same for his brood," Nick muttered with contempt.

"Nick," Rochelle looked appalled. "This is Coach's family you're talking about…"

The gambler interrupted her before she could further guilt him. "No, it's some bastard who didn't have the balls to shoot his zombified monstrosity-offspring I'm talking about. Feeding them? What the fuck."

"They were his children, Nick. He loved them," she argued, looking all the more emotional at the callous nature the conman was exhibiting. Ellis kept his lips firmly drawn tight, not stepping into the middle of it. On one hand he knew exactly where the producer was coming from… if faced with the 'necessity' of shooting any of his infected younger siblings… he just didn't know if he could have done it, if he'd have the resolve. On the other hand he understood Nick's angle, because allowing an attachment remain to a creature that was no longer who you used to love was only setting one's self up for madness. The reporter's vocal chords pulled tight. "Can you really be so heartless??"

"It's okay, Ro'," the big man's voice rumbled.

All three of their heads snapped to the eldest survivor as he sagged against the doorframe.

"Coach, are ya–" Ellis started to ask, but the man silenced him by lifting his gloved hand. It was probably just as well he had, because asking if he was 'okay' was just about the stupidest damn thing he could do right now.

"Leanor ain't here," he mumbled forlornly, his words conflicted; clearly he had already swept the rest of the large house by himself. "Ain't clear if she ever was or if she left." His breath caught in his throat even as he tried to hold back his suffering. "She could still be out there…"

Ellis shut his eyes and whispered a silent quick prayer that she was.

Rochelle went forward to place a reassuring hand upon the eldest survivor's arm; Coach accepted it neither gratefully nor begrudgingly.

"Guess you're stuck with us a little longer then, huh, big guy?" Nick stated, not meanly but matter-of-factly, as close to comfort as was going to come from the cardshark.

The football player let out a deadened chuckle in response. "Yeah, guess I am." His brown eyes scanned the room slowly, painfully. "I want to bury their bodies," he spoke up, looking to the each of them to ascertain their permission.

"Of course," Rochelle breathed. Ellis nodded, as did Nick. None of them were going to deny him that before they left, even if it would take some time. Another hiss and gargle came from the duo in the cage, obviously irritated by the conversation and lack of meal.

"The youngin's too," Coach clarified, his low voice threatening to waver as he bobbed his head at his turned niece and nephew. His gaze fell to the conman. "Ya might call me a sissy, but I'd ask ya to please do it for me, Nicholas."

The gambler seemed to pause as if slightly stricken by the oldest member's request. His face pulled into an unreadable visage and he cocked his unholstered deagle back into double-action. "Out then. I'm making it quick," he informed them tersely as he turned on his heel to approach the caged children.

Rochelle and Coach both exited for the execution. Ellis stayed, his blue eyes riveted on the two biracial zombies as they stared down the barrel of Nick's magnum with their bright yellow eyes. At his nearness, their voices raised to a screaming hiss.

Which was quickly silenced by two blasts in quick succession.

He'd never hated this apocalypse more than he did now.

Chapter Text

Coach had found a couple of shovels out in the shed with which to make four graves in the backyard by the gazebo. Ellis had offered to help him with the task to save the older survivor's back some work and keep him company during the grim duty. He and Rochelle meanwhile, had been tasked with bringing the bodies out to be committed to the earth, and the producer had located the linen closet and several clean white bedsheets with which to wrap the deceased.

Honestly, black plastic trashbags would have been more sanitary, but Coach probably would have skinned him alive for the very thought.

The conman blanched as he picked up the limp carcass of Coach's brother-in-law, now swathed in linens, carrying him bridal-style out the backdoor. He smelled fucking terrible– he'd thought the zombies were bad… ha!– and Nick reminded himself repeatedly with every step he took to never come into this close of contact with a dead body again. And to liberally rub himself down with disinfectant wipes the soonest opportunity he got. Rochelle managed to carry the sister-in-law, who wasn't much bigger than herself (especially without the missing limb), and the gambler returned inside to fetch the two 'youngsters' from their death-crib.

He stooped, slinging one, then the other over each shoulder. Had they been alive, it probably would have been a fun 'game' much the likes he had seen Al play with his own children, Stephanie and Jason… swirling and twirling them about the living room until they all almost fell over. Nick hadn't interacted with either of the youngsters all that much beyond a couple of odd times that he actually babysat for his heartthrob. They were nice enough kids really, not that Nick had ever had much patience for children. Stephanie loved Barbie and was always delighted when he could assemble a new outfit for her doll, saying he was 'so good' he ought to be a 'fashion designer' when he grew up. God, that made him chuckle to this day. Jason had been a little more of a handful than his older sister, but there wasn't anything Nick couldn't respect about making some trouble, if anything he encouraged him. Though he probably shouldn't have taught them both how to play Poker…

The old memories were strong… and slightly disturbing to be experiencing while carrying Coach's niece and nephew; Nick tried to dismiss it with a firm shake of his head. These two had been children no longer; there had only been thirsty blood-lust in the two pairs of luminescent eyes.

But part of him couldn't help but wonder what Al would have done if placed in the same situation as old 'Rodney' who had blown his brains out.

God, it was just about the stupidest thing to be thinking about right now. Al had been dead for over ten years now, and his 'little boy and girl' were both over twenty-five, Nick knew that for a fact. He wondered… he wondered where they were in this apocalypse. If they'd made evac… if they'd been infected. He hitched the two bundled sacks higher as he trod out of the house, wanting to get them off his hands as soon as possible to rid himself of the troubling thoughts.

Thankfully their little twin four foot by two foot graves were ready, compliments of Ellis– though none of the graves had been dug the standard six feet in the interest of time and exertion. Thank God these weren't the kind of zombies that 'came back'. Nick crouched and carefully laid each child down at the bottoms of their respected pits, making sure they faced upward, towards Heaven, assuming there was such a thing for them to go to.

The football coach– Harold, as they'd learned at the door (though it was odd to think of him by name now)– momentarily stopped his digging and trundled over, his head bowed. "Goodnight, Jules. 'Night, Gwendoline," he spoke solemnly to each of them before lifting his shovel to start filling in the holes in the earth, covering his niece and nephew with wet dirt. Ellis picked up his shovel once more to help, but the eldest survivor indicated it was fine with a wave of his gloved hand. "Thank you. All of ya. I got it from here," he spoke, and they all respected that, returning inside the house to conduct a search for any supplies that might have been leftover by Coach's family.

Waste not, want not and all that.

As good luck had it, the larder was stocked with a good number of canned fruits and vegetables, ranging from pears to green beans, peaches to kernel corn, fruit cocktail to beets. "Well shoot," Ellis commented, his eyes scanning the shelves as he pushed the bill of his hat upward on his head. "This takes care of a couple other food groups in the pyramid," he laughed gently.

"No kidding," Nick agreed. Beside him, Rochelle's eyes went wide as dinner plates and she immediately pushed past him to snatch a can of fruit for herself before frantically rifling through the drawers for something to eat it with. Ellis and he both chuckled at her behavior. She and dog food just hadn't been getting along.

"Who in God's name organized this kitchen??" the producer complained as she slammed shut another drawer. "Aha!" she exclaimed the next instant, holding up the stainless steel utensil triumphantly and she used the pull tab to tear off the lid of the can.

"Are you going to wash your hands before you eat that?" the conman asked with a little disgust, his OCD kicking in, unable to shake the fact they'd been handling corpses. Clothed corpses, but still. That was gross shit.

The redneck tried the faucet and shook his head when the spigot didn't so much as gurgle.

"I'll get some sani-wipes," Nick settled quickly, already headed for the front door. He'd wanted them himself anyhow. "You're welcome," he stressed.

"Thank you, Nick!" he heard Rochelle call back with a lyrical note to her voice.

A few minutes later they were all three properly 'disinfected' and were able to enjoy a can of fruit each to their own liking. It was a welcome and wholesome sweetness, and Nick relished every bite of pear segment until he reached the bottom of the tin, drinking the syrup as well– something he'd never been known to do pre-apocalypse. Rochelle even went back for a second after she finished her first.

"I guess I'll pack up the pantry then," the girl offered herself for the task as she came back with her next selection.

Ellis nodded, leaning back in his chair and scratching the accumulation of whiskers on his chin. "I oughta check the garage, see if their vehicles have any gas in 'em we could siphon out fer ourselves," he proposed.

"Sounds good," Nick agreed. They needed to replenish after the leakage; no sense in letting easy gas go to waste.

"It might be nice to have a few more changes of clothes too, now that we're not traveling light," Rochelle pointed out, motioning with the peach on the end of her fork.

Nick glanced to her. "Hopefully Coach's sister-in-law liked Depeche Mode," he teased the female survivor.

She didn't skip a beat, brown eyes flashing. "Hopefully his brother-in-law liked suits."

Ellis reached down and scratched his crotch through his coveralls. "Hopefully they both didn't like goin' commando," he commented, and all three of them laughed.

Their merriment didn't last however, though each tried to hide it behind their smiles. There wasn't a thing about the situation that was funny; they should feel bad for even having the gall to laugh. If it had been their families, they wouldn't have laughed.

They were taking all of this too well. All three of them.

Nick just kind of hoped Coach– Harold… was okay. He shut his eyes, once more thinking of the children they'd found in the room.

"Guess I'll see about that gas," Ellis was first to break the silence, something he was best at. He stood, the legs of his chair scraping along the floor with the motion. Rochelle nodded.

The gambler tested his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Mind if I come with?" he asked quickly.

"Nah, a'course not," the southerner responded with a polite smile.

Nick made to follow him out to the garage, and once they were there he didn't hesitate in asking the young man the question that had been eating him up on the inside. If anyone could put him at ease, it would be El. "Do you think I'm heartless?"

The southerner seemed to realize he was referencing what Rochelle had said back in the bedroom. "Nah, jus'… what would'ja call it…?" he searched for the word, "practical." He inclined his shoulder in a shrug before crouching down to shimmy under the blue-green minivan parked in the enclosure.

"So, heartless."

Ellis laughed. "Well, maybe a little." He paused a second, regarding him from the concrete floor with those soulful blue eyes. "But it's not like it was easy for ya. I could tell it weren't."

The conman gave a grunt, looking down at the weapon strapped to his thigh. He was impressed Ellis had been able to discern the mere moment of hesitation he had had before plugging off the two little monsters. After gunning down hundreds of infected, what was a couple more? And yet he had given that short pause just before he pulled the trigger. The machinist disappeared under the vehicle. "That's because it was more like slaughter than self-defense," Nick mused with a mumble. They'd been caged, helpless, not even a threat; it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

"Then I think ya answered yer own question," the mechanic said matter-of-factly.

He supposed he had. Nick sighed, leaning against the vehicle and sweeping a hand through his hair, trying to wade his way through his mixed feelings. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just jealous."

"Jealous?" Ellis re-emerged, a dirty blonde eyebrow tweaked.

"I don't think my father would have kept me in a cage and fed me my mother to keep me alive," he chuckled sarcastically.

The younger man seemed to give a shudder. "That's kinda twisted, man."

"Yeah, well…" Nick trailed off, not able to justify the direction his thoughts had turned thanks to what he had seen inside the domicile. He hugged his arms slightly, feeling bad for having even brought it up.

Ellis came to his side though, leaning up against the van as well, their arms brushing as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Y'know, mah family had this dog when I was younger, a li'l russell terrier," he shared.

The gambler lifted an eyebrow at the change of topic, but didn't disallow Ellis from continuing, figuring why the southerner had been reminded of this piece of past history would make itself apparent shortly.

"She was a good pup but I remember her gettin' real sick," Ellis nodded solemnly. "I was prolly only eight or so at the time, 'course mah sisters an' brother were even younger– hell, Emma was only two. We couldn't really afford the vet or nothin' tuh get treatment for her… shit, I dunno what was even wrong wit' her, but ya could tell she was sufferin' towards the end there; she didn't get up tuh play or go on walks like she used to, an' sometimes she shit on herself instead of tryin' tuh go outside. Awful sad really."

Nick's nose wrinkled. Two things pets were good for: eating and shitting. But he could already see where the younger man's tale was headed and where the moral lie.

"Anyhow," Ellis drew in a deep breath and let it out, "one day mah Pa took her out tuh go huntin' with him. He wasn't gone long. Didn't bring her back a'course." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "I knew he wasn't gonna the moment I saw he only took one gun wit' him, cuz who takes only one gun when yer goin' huntin'? But mah sisters an' brother didn't know that. He came back an' tole 'em she got lost in the woods an' tha' he couldn't find her, that she wouldn't come when he called her name."

"Yeah, and what did he tell you?" the gambler couldn't help but ask.

The hick's lips pursed. "That it needed tuh be done."

Tough break for an eight year-old. "That kind of sucks," he admitted.

"Yeah. I was mad at him fer a bit, naturally," the southerner spoke. "But he loved that li'l terrier as much as any of us did, an' he watched her gettin' worse e'ery single day a'fore he jus' couldn't take it no more." He gave a stiff nod of his chin. "What he done was the right thing."

Nick chuckled gently at his companion's philosophism over a family pet. "So… did I do 'the right thing'?" he dared to ask, wondering if Ellis' words were supposed to set him free of his remorse.

"I s'pose that depends on how ya interpret it," the younger man conceded. His blue eyes met his gaze. "D'ya think they suffer?"

"If they do, they sure as hell don't make it obvious," Nick snorted. The infected seemed perfectly happy shuffling around and trying to kill them whenever the opportunity presented itself. On the other hand, it seemed unlikely they possessed the ability to register such things as happiness and suffering. They'd been stripped of human emotions; all that was left was primal instinct.

And yet somehow… somehow, when it came to those two damn kids... he couldn't completely convince himself.

"Well, if there's one thing I know fer sure," Ellis spoke up once more, turning to place his hand firmly on his jacketed shoulder, "it's that ya've done right by Coach."

Nick let his gaze drop. "Yeah," he acknowledged softly, allowing the southerner's words to permeate and bring him a small amount of solace.

"Yer far from heartless, darlin'," Ellis reassured him tenderly, rubbing his arm. The pet-name caused the gambler to raise an eyebrow, but he was unable to stop a hint of a smile from tugging across his lips upon hearing it. The mechanic moved a little closer to place his palm upon his left breast; gazing up at him meaningfully. "Hell, I'd wager ya got one of the biggest hearts of anyone I ever met."

He laughed at the southerner's sweetness. "Well, hearts has always been my favorite suit," he joked back.

Ellis guffawed. "Nice one," he leaned up and pecked him on the lips.

Chapter Text

As much as Ellis would have liked that quick kiss to turn into a full-blown make-out session with tongue included, they did have a job to do and they returned to it. They were able to pull approximately four gallons out of the minivan, another six out of the commuter car, and about that time Rochelle had all the canned goods packed and put into the ZUV as well.

Ellis watched her a moment, then wet his lips to speak. "Coach still payin' his respects?" he inquired of the producer.

Rochelle nodded wordlessly, pushing some hair behind an ear.

The information sat uneasily with the young man, but he merely gave an "Okay," and continued back inside. Their last task before heading out would be to change their clothing once more, and maybe pack some to take along. Considering they didn't know how long their 'stay' in the apocalypse was going to be, it seemed wise to think more than just a couple days ahead anymore.

And yet at the same time it seemed wise to not think too far ahead either.

Ellis shook his head and headed down the hall to the bedrooms. Upon stepping back into the master bedroom, a shiver brought all his hairs standing on end; he eyed the bloodstained wall and bed as if through a new lens. Now that the initial shock of finding Coach's decimated family had worn off, all he could feel was a deep and painful guilt. He'd prayed for the safety of Coach's family along with Rochelle's and Nick's and his own. He done that and yet…

"Find anything, sport?" the gambler's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Ellis realized then that he was standing in the walk-in closet staring into space, not even knowing he'd traveled there.

He shook his head a second time, harder. "Uh… well," he vocalized, looking around– the closet had been divided up into 'his' and 'hers', with his on the right and hers on the left. Mostly there were dresses and blouses and skirts on the left… hardly utilitarian clothing for a zombieapocalypse; Rochelle would not be interested in any of it, Ellis could guarantee. But on the right there were a number of button-up dress shirts, slacks and even a few suit coats. Coach had said his brother-in-law was a lawyer– his wardrobe certainly supported it. A well-dressed man to the end.

His well-dressed man was already eying a garment, pulling it off the hangar. "Nice," Nick commented, smoothing his fingers down the inside of the lapel, testing its starchiness. He held it up in front of himself at the mirror, determining if the shoulder length was acceptable.

Ellis searched for something a little less formal. For the most part that included an odd polo or bowling shirt and a few Hawaiian-print shirts. He chuckled at the thought of wearing such a bright-colored and gaudy piece of clothing during a zombieapocalypse. He managed to find a couple pairs of boxers and white socks, but beyond that there wasn't anything that really suited him. Of course he knew that in times like these he shouldn't be picky… clothing was clothing, but he'd just as soon keep on what he had, even if he'd been slogging around in the rain and mud in them. He lifted his arm to smell at his armpit, simultaneously catching a whiff of his own BO and gasoline. Maybe that was stupid. Hell, he didn't know.

There was so much he didn't know.

He cleared his throat and spoke up to the man standing beside him softly. "So what're we gonna do if Georgiana's as much a wash as Starke?" Ellis asked his companion casually, trying to hide his internal worry.

Nick shrugged as he folded a shirt into the small duffel bag they had found to share. "Just keep going as long as we're able, I guess. Hit up the next one. And the next one. Pray we find the end of the rabbit trail. That's all we really can do."

The southerner studied his feet, wincing at Nick's choice of words. "Yeah. Reckon yer right," he said quietly.

The older man paused in his collection of garments, setting the bag down to regard him. "Something's bothering you, El," he observed. "What is it?"

God, he felt so silly. Here he'd just been reassuring and comforting Nick in the garage, and minutes later he was fraying at the edges himself. It was almost pathetic. Shouldn't he be strong enough to handle this on his own? He'd feel guilty involving the gambler. Those green eyes gazed down at him, inviting him to open up. Ellis swallowed roughly, bowing his head as he swallowed his pride. "It's jus'… I prayed fer Coach's family…" he breathed. "I prayed fer 'em. Ya heard me, ya were there." He shook, shutting his eyes. "An' look what ended up happenin'…"

The cardplayer stuffed his hands into his pockets, giving a gruff grunt. For a while the man didn't speak; Ellis perhaps thought he didn't have a response. "He doesn't always listen, you know," Nick mumbled, craning his neck upward. "In fact, most of the time He probably doesn't."

Ellis' eyes misted over. Yeah, he guessed deep down he kind of knew that. After his Pa had been diagnosed, his entire goddamn church had prayed for him religiously every Sunday, asking the Lord to return his strength so he could return to his family, to give him more time on Earth to spend with his children and be a part of their lives. But a whole lot of good all that had done. He'd gotten weaker and weaker until not even a miracle would have been able to save him. Their breath would have been better spent some other way. Towards the very end Ellis had given up on his words of prayer, knowing they were useless.

Nick leaned against the closet threshold, lost in thought. "He certainly didn't spend a lot of time listening to me… that's why I could never believe in Him long." He frowned and shook his head then. "Sorry, that's… probably not what you wanted to hear.

Ellis gave a little laugh. "No, it really ain't," he admitted. Sure, in a perfect world, the gambler would have had just the right words to make everything hunky-dory, but this was far from a perfect world. He wet his lips as he gazed at him. "But, it's understandable, I mean… lotsa folks have trouble keepin' faith when things ain't goin' their way so much." He couldn't hardly blame Nick for that.

The man looked at him pointedly. "Are you?"

He hadn't expected to be asked that question. Ellis opened his mouth, faltering a moment with the answer. He'd be lying if he said this misfortune hadn't shaken his conviction at least somewhat, yet at the same time they were talking about something he'd firmly believed in his whole life, and he couldn't turn his back on that. His head spun, heart clenching. Finally his lips parted and he confessed a very soft and very ashamed, "A little."

He felt Nick's palm on his back, the touch causing his eyes to flutter back open. "It's not a weakness, kiddo," the conman imparted meaningfully, gazing deep into his eyes. "You said it yourself, everyone struggles with the same exact feelings you're having sometimes. No one's a rock. Though, you do a pretty damn good job sometimes," the man smiled, giving him a light punch on the shoulder.

Ellis chuckled gently. "Thanks," he took the compliment, rubbing at his elbow as he drew away to let the man go back to his former packing. Intellectually, he knew Nick had it right. Like everything else in life, faith too had its ups and downs, periods where it was strong and times when it was nearly exhausted, on the verge of being extinguished. Instead of despairing over unanswered prayers, he ought to be counting his blessings where they remained– that they had found more food, that they had a car and were well supplied, that they were all still able-bodied and uninjured.

That he had Nick to even be having this discussion.

He swiveled about and threw his arms right around the older man's middle then, squeezing him tight.

The gambler made a surprised noise as he clenched. "Easy, Overalls, you're going to crush my fucking ribs…" he got out teasingly.

Ellis ignored the words and buried his face deeper into the man's chest, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. "M'jus' so fuckin' thankful tuh have you…" he spoke, letting his emotions pour forth.

Nick reached down to lift his chin; Ellis followed the direction so that their gazes met. "Ditto," the older man spoke before taking his lips in a passionate joining.

And though there were things that still needed to be done, places to go, zombies to be killed, worries and fear and pain to be had, this time Ellis felt all that strip away from him; because for that moment there was only he and Nick.

Chapter Text

The cardshark tossed his duffel bag into the backseat. He hadn't bothered to don any of the new formalwear he had scrounged from the closet yet– he'd probably get to it next time they stopped. For now he just wanted to get back on the road. He looked up to where the sun hovered over the horizon… afternoon slowly but surely slipping away from them. He hummed as he tipped the last of the bottle of water he'd gotten from their stash into his mouth, finishing it; he was trying to remember to keep hydrated today, unlike the day before. Stupid how something so basic was so easy to forget in times like these.

Pssh, now he was sounding like an old man.

Nick gave their supplies a quick once over, ascertaining it was all there: guns, food, liquid, gas, clothes… They had everything they needed, set to embark to Georgiana.

With the exception of one member of their party.

Nick re-entered the domicile and trod up to where the other two survivors were standing inside. Their gazes were both affixed out the sliding glass door of the backyard on the large man who was hunkered near the ground. Neither looked willing to disturb his mourning.

"We need to get going," Nick stated matter-of-factly.

Rochelle shook her head, her big brown eyes moist. "I'm so worried about him…" she whispered, cupping her hand over her mouth as she tried to hold back a small sob. "Is he going to be okay…?" she asked, looking to him for an answer.

Nick frowned and studied the football player crouched beyond the glass. He hadn't observed this sort of behavior from him before; it didn't exactly bode well. He didn't say anything.

Ellis reached for the door handle.

"Wait," Nick put a hand on his shoulder, restraining him. "I'll talk to him," he decided. If he was the 'one in charge', it was his responsibility to get the older man moving again. Or try.

Besides, he was pretty sure the situation called for a jackass.

The southerner licked his lips and bobbed his head. "A'right," he agreed softly, standing aside. Nick gave him a pat on the back and proceeded out, sliding the door back shut after himself so that the conversation ahead would remain private. He stepped up to where Coach was stooped, securing a distance that was at once 'close', but still giving him room.

"We're all packed up and ready to go," he expressed calmly.

The eldest survivor responded with a mere grunt, his big shoulders slouching with the sound.

The conman was hardly surprised by the way he was barely acknowledged; he hadn't expected those words alone to get the big man to his feet. So he tried again with a little more firmness. "We're all waiting on you. Come on, Harold."

The usage of his first name caused the other man to stir and speak up. "You don't have to call me that," he rumbled, still not bothering to face him. "In fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't." His body language was stiff and closed-off, clear that he didn't wish to be spoken to.

"Well, I did and I'm going to," Nick said with resolution, and he folded his arms over his chest. He eyed the mounds of upturned earth, thinking of those beneath it and clicked his tongue softly. "I know you didn't want any of us getting too close to you, and hell, I'm pretty sure you didn't want to get too close to any of us either," he said, his forehead furrowing with grooves as he called the older man's bluff. "It would have made splitting up even harder."

Coach gave a rumbling, deep sigh, the kind that confirmed his words. "Tell me ya would'a played it any differently, Nicholas," he mumbled.

Nick's gaze shifted back toward the house, if briefly, considering the fervent kiss he and Ellis had just exchanged, how close the two of them had become, emotionally and now physically. The football player had him pegged wrong, but that wasn't what was important right now. "I'm telling you we need to get moving," he re-stated once more.

Coach's head drooped. Nick knew he was coming off as an uncaring son of a bitch, that there were much nicer, more consoling, things he could say, but those could be reserved for later; he didn't think he was going to be able to get through to the older man now otherwise. He set his jaw and pulled out the big guns. "This right here is what we've got," he quoted Coach's very own statement, his words having a sharp edge. "You'd best accept that."

There was bitter, angry silence for at least another couple minutes, but the gambler waited it out. Harold took a deep breath and slowly rose to his feet. Finally he turned around and showed the conman his red-rimmed eyes, puffy and swollen around the sockets. There was nothing easy about being told to forget your family, much less finding them dead and being told to forget them. Nick met his gaze expectantly, betraying no sympathy with his hard grey-green stare. The older survivor shouldered his shotgun, expression pulled into an unreadable frown. He glowered at the conman. "Guess I gone and picked the right person for the job after all."

His face gave a twitch, poker face broken, caught off guard by the out-of-place statement of praise.

"Let's get a move on then," Coach said, voice haggard, tromping past him.

Nick glanced back to the four graves for only a second, paying his own quick form of respects. "Ciao," he whispered, "and thanks for the shit." With that he spun on his heels, jacket billowing slightly as he followed in Harold's footsteps.

Chapter Text

"How are we all doing?" Rochelle asked from the driver's seat, turning her head slightly with the question, but not taking her eyes off the road.

"I'm okay," Ellis spoke, shifting his position slightly to give his feet more wiggle room.

A lone grunt fell from Harold's lips. "Well 'nuff, baby girl."

"Yeah, I'm good too," Nick said with a flick of his wrist. In all honesty, sitting cooped up in a car for the majority of the day wasn't his idea of a good time (though neither had walking twenty miles been) and his legs could really use a stretch, but he didn't want to stop and slow their progress. They were making good time. He glanced out the window at the landscape rolling by and the sun as the last sliver of the golden orb dipped beneath the horizon.

They'd been traveling west of Tallahassee for the past two hours or so, with the producer taking her turn behind the wheel of the ZUV. They had turned off I-10 to cross the border into Alabama not too long ago, going north up a smaller and much less traveled two-lane road. Sunlight was quickly draining from the sky, but it seemed that despite the fact night was now approaching they were continuing. Rochelle clicked on the headlights, illuminating the road ahead.

Of course it nagged at him, because goddamn it worrying was one of the things he did best sometimes. They'd never traveled during the night before, mostly he supposed because they were on foot and couldn't see, and that posed a direct threat to their health in the chance they happened across something flesh-hungry. But the car gave a false sense of security, even if Ellis had rigged it up with grating and all. Something could still break through.

He sighed and attempted to relax, telling himself he was worrying over nothing. He reached down to grab the lever and recline his seat.

"Gonna take a nap?" Ellis asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Nick closed his eyes and hummed softly. "Yeah, I guess." He wasn't convinced he'd really get any sleep while they were still on the road, jostling around, but it wouldn't hurt to shut his eyes a while. It would be another two hours or more before they'd find themselves in Georgiana; he didn't know if the intention was to keep on until they got there or if they'd stop somewhere along the way, but it seemed more likely the former than the latter. He settled lower into the seat, finding a comfortable position for his neck against the headrest.

It wasn't too long before he was able to doze lightly, still aware of the car's movements around him but at relative ease, semi-conscious. His right foot gave a small twitch and he extended it out somewhat.

That didn't last however, when Coach shouted a "Ro', watch–!", but before he could get anymore out there was a sudden bang, car tires screeching as impact from the front left sent the ZUV spinning counter-clockwise at speed. Ellis yelled beside him and Nick attempted to sit up, but the centrifugal force and the seatbelt constricting his waist kept him plastered in his seat as the world spun around them. His own voice raised– he hadn't even realized he'd been screaming like all the rest of them– as suddenly the vehicle tipped in an entirely new direction.

Apparently the car had spun off the embankment, and now they were rolling head-over heels down to the bottom. The supplies in the back, which had not been strapped down like they four were, went flying. He heard the sudden expansion of airbags as they went off in the front seat, smothering his two fellow survivors in attempt to cushion them during the crash.

Everything seemed to spin, even as they came to a stop on their sides at the bottom of the hill.

"Oh shit," Ellis got out. His hat fluttered off his head and landed beside him.

Nick rubbed at his hip that he hadn't even noticed until now had gotten badly bumped. "Ahh… are we all okay?" he asked, pain betrayed in his voice. He couldn't remember another time he'd been thrown around quite so hard, and that included a wreck he'd been in several years ago. He blinked, still trying to orient himself, and he realized the ground obscured his window, while there was nothing but the dark sky outside of Ellis'.

"Still kickin', but I ain't too happy about it none," Harold mumbled, his meaty arms attempting to ward off the oppressive white airbag and deflate it back into the dashboard it had popped out of.

The cardshark waited for Rochelle's reply, but when it didn't come, his apprehension grew. "Ro'?"

"Rochelle?" Ellis' voice was pinched tight; he struggled with his seatbelt that was the only thing keeping him suspended above the gambler, trying to free himself so he could see to the girl in the seat in front of him.

"She's unconscious," the football player determined, his voice serious. Nick felt his heart leap into his throat. Ellis managed to get loose from the restriction and he forced open his door against gravity, crawling out.

"Careful," Nick warned, quickly locating where the southerner's gun had fallen and handing it up to him. Ellis took it and notched it into his shoulder, spying around with a quick 360° to determine the relative area was clear of infected. The gambler licked his lips, uncertain of how far the younger male could see into the dark without any other light but the headlamps that shone sideways in front of them. But perhaps the kid was more relying on his hearing– he sure had gone quiet.

"We're good fer now, but we oughta hurry. Somethin' might've heard the wreck, an' if it did, it'll be on its way," Ellis spoke, glancing down at him. The hick offered him his hand and Nick took it, the strong arm lifting him as he found footing on the seats. As soon as he was out he moved to get down from the topsy-turvy vehicle and set his feet back on solid ground. He checked his gun holsters, finding both magnums still reassuringly secure against his thighs. Harold was next to be lifted up and out of the wreckage, Ellis helping him to exit the available side door. Meanwhile Nick strode around towards the front of the ZUV, squinting his eyes and lifting a hand to block the harsh light of the high beams as he tried to access the damage.

"What the hell hit us?" he asked, eying the twisted metal that had once been the fender surrounding their front left wheel well. The wheel was bent at an angle, but he couldn't tell much more beyond that– for one, it wasn't his expertise, but he also couldn't see hardly at all.

"It was infected," Coach informed him, and Nick felt an eyebrow lift of its own volition. "Couldn't tell much more than that. Came in too fast." He grunted and quickly thanked Ellis before dismounting as well.

"Well it hit like a fucking battering ram," the conman commented. People hit deer and had the creatures crumple their hood or fly through the windshield all the time, but whatever Coach had seen caused much more extensive damage. It had hit at just the right goddamn angle too, avoiding the frontal scoop. He wondered if the body was anywhere around– no way it could be living after something like that.

"I got her," Ellis announced, carefully lifting the limp body of the producer from the front seat. Nick strode forward and opened out his arms, and the mechanic readily handed her down so he could disembark himself.

Nick frowned down at the girl's face, her head tilted back, neck caught in the crook of his elbow. Without a doubt she was out for the count, but he was concerned why– he didn't find it likely that she of all people would faint, which left more dire options. Still, she was breathing, there was that much, and Harold came forward to have a look at her as well. Nick carried her towards the front of the vehicle so they could make their inspection in what little illumination they had, kneeling before the piercing dual beams of artificial light. The eldest survivor began carefully and thoroughly examining her cranium, running his large fingers over her skull; Nick waited and watched, breath held, keeping her cradled upright in his arms, neck supported. If anyone knew about head injuries, it would be the former football coach.

There was the sound of scraping as Ellis managed to force open the back hatch of the ZUV, and he began rummaging around through their spilled supplies in search of something. After a few moments he came around to them, their medical supply bag in tow, which he set down beside Coach in the dirt.

"Thanks, boy," the oldest man rumbled his appreciation, "but we don't need it. Ain't no bleedin' on the outside, I assume she's got a minor concussion. We won't know any better until she wakes up, but it'll be a few minutes." He took her from the gambler in his own arms.

The machinist looked antsy, shifting on his feet. "How many's a few?"

"Could be five, could be thirty," Coach diagnosed.

"Well we sure as hell can't hang 'round here fer thirty minutes," Ellis' lip quirked; Nick noticed his grip subconsciously tightened around his rifle. "If there was one'a those things then there could be more. Considerin' what it kin do to a car, I dun wanna think 'bout what it could do tuh one'a us if it got the chance."

Nick wet his lips, in full agreement. Not that he had any idea where they were to go. The landscape was open and uninhabited, and since he had shut his eyes he wasn't even sure if they had passed by any homes or even rest stations recently.

"Then I suggest we keep headin' north on foot, see if we can't find shelter for the evenin'," Coach determined gruffly, but as soon as the words left his lips, his gaze turned to Nick.

The cardplayer ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds fine." Well, not so fine, but none of their options were so good. It was the best of the lot.

"I'll get the flashlight," Ellis said, hurrying towards the back of the car to locate said device in the wreckage. It wouldn't be a lot of help, but it was the only portable light they had, so they'd have to make do.

"You ah… think we should take any of our supplies?" Nick spoke up, asking the difficult question of how much they wanted to be weighed down during their trek versus relying on finding things as they went.

"Well…" Ellis grunted as he dug through things, "I reckon we'll be back here come mornin', so whatever we'll be needin' fer the night, plus the med kit an' our guns." He hefted the gun bag over his back, the weapons shifting inside.

Nick clicked his tongue. It was a lot to carry with only three of them and at least one disposed carrying Rochelle. He opted to take the medical tote and came to help Ellis sort out the mess in the backend.

The mechanic had found the flashlight, but he was striking the butt of it against his palm, flicking the switch repeatedly. "Turn on you son of a bitch!" he swore, growing frustrated. "Ya dun go quittin' on me when ya get a little soak, but now yer gonna act up?" Nick frowned. Ellis struck it another time and finally it flickered to life, but it wasn't the most encouraging of things to know that it was on the fritz since being dropped in water.

They quickly threw some bottles of water and cans of fruit and vegetables into their old provision knapsack (as taking a box would prove unwieldy), and Nick added it to his shoulder. Ellis stopped him before he could walk off, stuffing their new map into the bag alongside the food. He zipped it up and gave it a pat. "Jus' in case," he said softly. Nick nodded his understanding. Good on the kid thinking ahead. For all they knew, by the time they got back the vehicle could be pilfered. Of all the things they could afford to lose, the map was not one of them.

Ellis cut the lights on the ZUV so it would retain its battery life, leaving the three of them with only the small beacon cast by the flashlight and what little the crescent moon cast down around them. Nick felt the hairs on his neck instinctively stand on end underneath his collar, his other senses heightening to make up for what his dilated eyes could not.

"A'right, let's head 'em out," Ellis announced to the two men, his boots crunching on the loose ground. "Coach, you lemme know if ya wanna break an' I'll carry Ro' fer a while."

"Don't worry, youngin', she's 'bout as light as a baby," Harold chuckled, as if he weren't inhibited in the slightest.

And on that note they set out into the formidable dark.

Chapter Text

The darkness turned out to be more of a nuisance than they reckoned. Nick had taken the lead while he fell behind to head up the back, with Coach carrying Rochelle between them to cover him. The configuration probably would have been alright if it weren't for the damn flashlight, which had decided it would only stay on for short intervals of time of only a minute or more before flickering out. Eventually Nick had just given up on it and stuck it in a pocket; Ellis couldn't blame him, he probably would have gotten frustrated with it sooner in his place and thrown it.

Still, they had stuck to the two-lane interstate, figuring it was their best bet for finding civilization, or rather former civilization so they could get out of the dark and gradually increasing cold. The first chance they got to follow a turn-off they took, one Grant Line road, under the assumption that it had to go somewhere, right?

Instead it just seemed to go on and on, and Ellis glanced about the darkness uncertainly as the road underneath them became less and less maintained. Weeds sprung out of cracks and the dotted yellow center line was faded to near obscurity. His eyes had adjusted as well as they could to the dark, pupils wide, and he held his gun at the ready, but he still felt like they were sitting ducks. "Guys?" he spoke up softly to the two men walking in front of him. "Maybe we should turn back, find another road," he suggested.

Nick stopped, as did Coach behind him. After walking this far it seemed a shame to backtrack, but if this one hadn't gotten them anywhere yet it didn't make sense to keep going either. There was just nothing out here between the state border and Georgiana; that was the problem. Well, that and the fact that their map was too large of a scale to show anything but the interstates that connected cities. "God damn it…" Nick swore, dragging his fingers through his hair. "I knew we shouldn't have turned onto this road."

"We had no way'a knowin'," Coach pointed out, trying to calm the gambler down.

"Yeah, well, we'll have 'no way of knowing' on the next road either, or the next one, or the one after that." Ellis could feel the older man's anxiousness rubbing off on him as well. They couldn't very well spend all night walking, nor could they camp out under the stars without some form of shelter to keep warm.

A howl pierced through the air, causing all three of them to stiffen in alarm.

"What the hell was that?" Nick asked in a hissed whisper.

"Just a coyote," Ellis reassured him, identifying the common call. "I reckon there's a bunch of 'em out here in the brush like this." As if to prove his words a whole chorus started up, the creatures yipping at one another across the plains in woeful song.

"That's great," the conman said, dripping sarcasm and concern equally. They hadn't come across much wildlife in their journeys so far, nothing more than a few birds flying overhead and the occasional insects. Perhaps they really were a ways out from humanity, where the wild was still just that, wild. The infection may have taken out whole cities and metropolitan hubs, but what it would never touch was the wilderness. Ellis nipped his lip with worry.

"Don't worry, Nicholas," the football player said, "they don't come after humans none. Stick to smaller critters, like rabbits and mice." There was another long yowl, considerably closer.

"Yeah, you're so sure about that??" Nick asked, obviously on edge.

The noise roused Rochelle somewhat, causing her to stir in Coach's arms with a little groan. "Baby girl?" the eldest survivor peered down at her, excited to see movement from her. Ellis hurried forward as well.

"Coach?" she sounded confused and definitely disoriented. She started to shake her head.

"Now, now, none of that, baby girl," the bigger man stopped her. "You hit your head pretty bad, you gotta be takin' it easy."

"I did? Where… where are we?" the producer asked; she clung closer to the football player, her arms wrapping around his thick neck, causing the little chain necklace he wore around it to jingle. She was probably chilled by the night air– after all, she hadn't been walking like the rest of them to keep the blood moving.

"The goddamn middle of nowhere," Nick served to illuminate her.

"But how did we…? Where's the car?" her next questions came, just as befuddled. It was the reporter's nature to be inquisitive normally, but she was probably suffering from light amnesia. Ellis could remember the dozen or so times it had happened to Keith, and the lengths he had gone to to explain to his friend what stunt had gone wrong and why he was waking up in the emergency room that time.

There was another howl and the sound of lightweight feet skimming across the ground towards them. Nick whipped out his two magnums, but the swift creatures were already upon them. His first few shots were wasted trying to aim too quickly at blurs of fur and glistening canines in the dark. Ellis tried to pry loose his machete, figuring the only defense might be a close-range weapon. He gave a yelp as he jumped clear of one the first in the pack of scraggly coyotes. He expected it to double back to take another lunge at him, but it kept bolting in the same direction. Ellis felt his eyebrows knot in the middle. Three more coyotes all dashed past them, as if the group of four survivors were of no concern to them.

Hell, they weren't attacking at all. They were running away from something. What would a pack of predators be running away from? Ellis felt his blood chill. Bigger predators.

That was when they heard the growls and screams of infected barreling down the road. No doubt coyote had been on the menu originally, but the four of them were destined to become the appetizer if they didn't do something quick.

"Run run run!!" Rochelle yelled. And being unarmed, who could blame her? Of course Ellis had the gun bag, but they didn't exactly have time to distribute weaponry to make a stand. Nick's guns were already firing again, emptying the remainder of his dual clips. The loud cracks filled the air with noise; Ellis didn't even hear as Coach turned to run back the direction they had come, carrying Rochelle with him. He unhooked his machete and did a double-take when he didn't see the other two.

"H-hey! Wait up!" he yelled after the retreating football player– who knew the big man could pour on like that, holy hell, he was headed for the touch-down. "Nick!" he yelled at his companion, who was hurriedly reloading both guns. Ellis had to wonder if he'd even hit anything at distance in the dark.

The conman afforded a glance up at him. He hooked his thumb quickly to communicate their retreat. "C'mon! Hurry!"

"We can't–" Nick started to protest; he swore loudly and they took off. The soles of their shoes slapped against the asphalt, supplies jostling against their backs. The man yelled at him as they ran. "We can't out-run the undead! We don't even have anywhere to run to!"

"Then what's our plan?!" Ellis yelled back– at least this was buying them time to think of one.

"We've got to take them out!" His breath came in longer draws.

The mechanic felt apprehension pierce through him at the knowledge that Nick was right. They'd grow out of breath far before any of the zombies had broken a sweat– assuming they did that much. "How many are there?!" he dared to ask.

The cardshark shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted.

It sounded like a whole lot. Ellis swallowed. "Okay, on the count of three! We turn around, gun 'em down, best we can!" he communicated. "Sound good?"

"Rodger that, ace," Nick got out a little haggardly.

Lord, it was all up to them. The southerner gave the count. "One…! Two…! Three!" he belted out the last number, turning on a dime. He lifted his rifle and began firing into the bobbing slew of yellow eyes barely illuminated by the moonlight. Some of the blurred figures fell and he pulled the trigger faster, counting down the thirty shots housed within his clip.

Nick turned as well, but instead of beginning to fire his deagles as Ellis had expected, he found the older man unzipping the gun bag on his back. He stayed still as could be– though his gun recoiled– hoping Nick would hurry and find whatever he was looking for. The creatures were getting closer, perhaps a hundred feet and no more between them. Within just a few more seconds the gambler was holding a couple of uzis, and he crouched and pointed them forward to begin spraying bullets into the crowd, the rat-a-tat echoing from the muzzles out across the flatland.

Nick was out of bullets before he was, but Ellis wouldn't be surprised if the conman's volley hadn't been more effective at thinning the approaching horde. The accuracy of his rifle was useless in the dark, any shot could be hit or miss, so the rate of fire was vastly more important. As soon as his gun clicked empty, he threw it over his shoulder and snatched his two pistols from his hips to begin rapid-firing them. He tried to count the pairs of eyes, access how many were left, but they were running out of space between them and the zombies. "There's too many!" he shouted at his compatriot.

The gambler shucked another couple clips to the ground, obviously not intending to give up. "I'll be damned if I'm going to die out here," he uttered gutturally. "We'll split them up," he said as he stood.

"What?" Ellis got out, time running preciously thin. Nick didn't mean–

"I'll run right, you run left," he commanded, clicking his new clips in place.

"But–!" he started.

"Go!" Nick shouted, bolting away from the road.

Everything within him screamed to run after the man. He turned and ran the other way, swearing his heart was pounding as fast as he was firing his pistols. Their separation did cause group confusion among the zombies, several tripping over one another as they each decided upon a different target, he or Nick. It bought them more time, but at the cost of losing sight of one another, and fear overtook him.

"Over here, ya goddamn motherfuckers!" Ellis shouted at them, hoping to draw a greater portion of the crowd his way. He shot his freshly-loaded glocks into the thong that had followed him, several more corpses falling lifeless.

By the time he found himself empty a second time, the remainder of undead were practically on his heels. He holstered the guns and drew forth his faithful machete; with a battle-cry, he swung it in a devastating arc that lopped off several appendages, bringing it back again with alarming speed in his adrenaline rush.

The monsters tried to surround him. He kept swinging and turning circles, kept fending them off, pushing them back, severing limbs that tried to claw him, heads that tried to get a bite in. In the distance he could still hear gunfire– that alone gave him strength, even as all the muscles in his body screamed for oxygen in his furious flurry.

None of them even stood a chance.

Ellis gave one last cry as he cut down the final infected, burying the dull blade in its neck. It gave a gargle and collapsed among its dead brethren, outstretched fingers twitching. The young man's shoulders heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his machete lowered at his side. Dark blood ran down from the handle along the sharpened edge, dripping onto the earth, the weapon more blood-soaked than it had ever been. The air was still. No sound of gunshot.

Nick...

Chapter Text

Ellis stood, motionless as the air tugged softly at his hair and rustled the scraggly brush around him. His heart slammed against his ribcage, pulse pounding in his temples as the seconds clicked by without sound. Had Nick managed to kill off his half too or had the man fallen to the horde?? Ellis leapt over the massacre of disembodied corpses at his feet, sprinting back towards the road as fast as his feet would carry him; he cupped his hand around his mouth to call into the darkness, desperation in his voice. "Nick! Nick!!" Oh God. Oh Lord. No no no, if he had lost the man… if he had fucking lost him–

"Ahh… I'm here… I'm here…" he heard the conman rasp, and he spotted the white of his jacket walking his way– thank God he hadn't changed into one of the darker outfits he'd picked up at the house yet. Ellis ran out towards him, noticing the way the older man was clutching at his chest.

He took hold of his arm as soon as they met. "Shit, are ya hurt?" the southerner asked; he was indescribably glad to see the man was in one piece, but also scared the injury underneath the suit coat might be serious. Nick cussed and lifted his hand to show him; Ellis' eyes widened– three large gashes had been torn into his right pectoral, the shredded blue fabric now staining dark with blood.

"I had to fall back on my magnums," Nick hissed in explanation, the injury obviously stinging quite a bit. "You know, they really aren't the greatest in close quarters," he gave a rough chuckle. "I'm lucky this is all I got."

Ellis bit his lip. While the injury wasn't critical, it was bleeding profusely and needed to be taken care of as soon as possible. One thing he did know was it couldn't very well wait until morning came and brought light with it; he'd just have to work with what he had. Silently he prayed their flashlight would cooperate, because he really didn't want to attempt first aid by moonlight. "Sit down," he instructed, digging into the medical bag on his back.

"On the filthy ground?" Nick joked, lowering himself to the dirt and letting the bag slip off his shoulder.

The redneck just shook his head.

Soon he had everything he thought he would need– the suture kit, the disinfectant wipes, gauze and tape, and Cepacol. He held his breath and flicked on the flashlight; it shone bright and Ellis briefly thanked the Lord for at least being with them for now.

"Here, could'ja hold this fer me?" he asked the gambler. Nick obediently took it in his left hand and oriented it to illuminate where the injury was on his chest. It was a little uglier than he thought; whatever had gotten in a swipe at him had done a damn good job, though thankfully the cuts were clean instead of being jagged– they'd heal a lot faster that way. "Thank'ya," Ellis said quickly, moving to guide the older man's arm and shoulder out of his jacket so the lapel wouldn't obstruct his work.

The cardplayer gave a visible shiver as Ellis fingered open the buttons on his dress shirt and exposed his upper half to the cool night air. He'd hurry as much as he could, but he wasn't going to sacrifice getting the job done right. He popped open the box of sanitary wipes and tugged one free. "Now this might sting a li'l bit, darlin'," he warned as he used the first one to get his own bloodied hands clean and germ-free; there was alcohol in the wipes that would assuredly prove unpleasant but do its job against infection.

"Already stings," Nick said. "Go for it."

Ellis gave a nod and set to work, sopping up the blood that had drizzled down the conman's chest, cleaning carefully around the open wounds. He kept a slight pressure with his fingers on the ends of each wound to ensure they wouldn't gap open as he worked the wet cottony cloth between them. Nick winced several times but was stalwart about keeping still, ensuring the flashlight stayed trained on his own body. It took several wipes in all to prep the area and Ellis wadded them all up and used one last one to wipe his own hands down again, all the way up to the elbows.

The gambler gave a soft sigh now that Ellis had stopped, shifting somewhat.

"Dun worry, I got somethin' for you fer this next part that should help," the youngster assured and he picked up the box of sore throat lozenges. He pushed one up through the foil with his thumbs and popped it into his own mouth. Nick lifted a questioning eyebrow, and Ellis explained as he crunched the tablet into fragments between his teeth. "Trust me, this works, I done it on mah brother Dave a'fore, this one time we was out backwoods campin'. He gashed his leg purdy bad tumblin' down this hill, but we were miles from humanity an' all so I had'ta sew him up right there on the trail." As he spoke, he coaxed the pieces to melt, swishing them around in his mouth as he created a mixture of the medicine and his spit. He could feel the benzocaine in the capsule starting to numb his tongue. Ellis leaned forward to let the liquified topical anesthetic dribble around the wounds– he didn't want it to get into them, just near enough to create anesthesia for what he was about to do.

Nick's chest rose and fell softly. "I remember you mentioning him before," he made conversation, probably to keep his mind off his injury. "Half brother, right?"

The youngster nodded. "Yeah, tha's right. Related on mah Pa's side," he elaborated, plucking the small curved needle from the suture kit. He quickly ran a disinfectant wipe over it. "He had him with his first wife, a'fore he ever met mah Ma."

A light chuckle emitted from the older man. "First marriages." He said with a shake of his head, as if that were commentary enough.

A somewhat impish grin pulled over Ellis' features, unbidden though he didn't try to hide it in the dark. "Tha's right, you said ya were married before, didn't'cha?" Ellis feigned recollection as though he'd forgotten, "Awful shame that didn't work out." He plucked the hemostatic forceps from the kit so he could get to work.

Nick seemed to catch his tongue-in-cheek humor, a quick smile flitting over his features. "Yeah, shame."

Ellis hunched over, close enough so he could see what he was doing. Gingerly he pinched the flesh of the first gash together– the benzocaine had to be doing its job, as the conman didn't flinch too badly at the action– and pierced the needle through either side of the laceration to make the first stitch. He pulled until the knot in the nylon caught in his skin, then went back for another, making sure to angle his stitches slightly.

The gambler surprised him by speaking back up after a moment. "You know… I knew she and I weren't going to work out from the day we stood on the altar," he said lowly, sounding pensive.

Ellis risked a curious glance up at the man before making another stitch. "If ya knew that, why'd'ya go through with it?" he asked seriously.

Nick was studiously silent a moment. Finally he gave a little nervous chuckle. "It's funny… I've never actually told anyone this before…" He shrugged (with the shoulder opposite the one Ellis was currently working on). "But, ah… sometimes you do things because they're expected of you."

The confession made the hillbilly's heart pine. It was probably one of the most personal things Nick had ever revealed to him. Ellis worried his lip between his teeth as he made a fifth stitch in the upper gash; it was over halfway closed now. He wasn't sure if he should pursue the subject, but heck, they were pretty open with one another nowadays, asking couldn't harm anything. "Did'jer parents…?" he asked, trailing off.

The older man hesitated again, clicking his tongue. "Only in part."

Ellis thought as he continued to stitch, coming to the end of the wound. He knotted it and cut the excess with the scissors, grabbing another needle and thread from the kit so he could repeat the process on the middle laceration. Good thing they had a lot of them. Nick had described his childhood machinist friend as being 'more of a father than his real father'… could that be who had pressured him to marry? "Al?" he made the guess.

The grey-green eyes slid shut painfully, an almost heartbroken smile flickering across his face. "Yeah…"

The southerner's already aching heart felt ready to rip in two for the man. "Y-ya loved him, didn't'chu…?" he deduced then, though he hadn't made the connection before now, but the look on the conman's face revealed it all. Ellis spluttered softly. "Ya told him ya loved him an' he told'ja tuh find someone else…"

Nick shook his head, but didn't deny it. "It wouldn't have worked out. He had his own wife. Kids." He spoke the words but he almost didn't sound convinced though they were his own. "And he wasn't gay."

He knew he was supposed to be concentrating on the wounds on the gambler's chest, but in that moment he was most concerned with the ones that had been left open and bleeding for years in Nick's heart.

Ellis clasped his free hand tightly in both of his own, looking at him meaningfully. "That don't mean it didn't hurt."

The man's eyes became downcast.

The mechanic lifted his hand to place it on his cheek, rubbing his thumb along the stubble. "He meant a lot to ya. Honestly…" a little chagrinned smile pulled across his lips, his heart sinking, "I dunno if I kin even hope to hold a candle to that."

Nick's head tilted upward, catching his gaze with mild amusement. "I think the fact that it's not unrequited is enough to say you already are, ace."

The hick smiled earnestly, bolstered by the sincere words. They shared a moment before Ellis fiddled with the needle in his fingers. "I oughta get back to fixin' ya up."

The grey-green eyes sparkled in the low light of the flashlight. "You're doing a great job."

From the way he said it, Ellis was pretty sure he meant on more than just on his recent injury.

Chapter Text

By the time he had finished the stitches and gotten a crude bandaging job wrapped around the man's upper body, he heard footsteps and Coach calling out to them. "Thank the Lord," Ellis murmured under his breath; they hadn't been separated irrevocably. "We're over here!" he returned, waving his arm; the football player spotted him and started over. Rochelle had apparently insisted she be put down, despite the need to avoid physical exertion after sustaining a concussion, as she was walking beside him, moving slowly but keeping up. Ellis was glad to see her able to move on her own, in any case.

Harold's eyes fell to the bandage around the conman's upper half. "You okay, Nicholas?" he asked.

Nick slipped his blue dress shirt back over his shoulders with a single quick motion, his fingers already fastening the buttons with lightning rapidity. "Oh, I'm fine," he delivered as dismissively as if he'd gotten a papercut. Ellis knew it was hurting him more than he was letting on, but he wouldn't undermine his bravado in front of the other two survivors.

"That was really brave of you two boys," Rochelle commented appreciatively.

"We didn't have much other choice, sweetheart," Nick said as he stood. He shot her the smallest of smirks as he dusted off his pants. "'Brave' didn't factor into the equation."

She gave a snort, arms folded and smile on her lips. "I guess not, but still."

Coach nodded in agreement, clapping his hand onto Ellis' shoulder but purposefully not doing the same to Nick (on account of his new injury). "You both done us a service. But we should try an' get a move on before anythin' else comes."

"I'm all for that, trust me," Nick said. Ellis caught the flicker of a wince on the older man's face as he lifted his right arm to stick it through the arm of his suit jacket, but he shook it off. "El, do you think you could…?" he trailed off, motioning at the two bags he had been carrying prior to injury.

"No problem," the mechanic nodded quickly, relieving him of the extra weight. He definitely didn't want Nick straining himself with the current condition of his chest or risk popping the stitches; Ellis grunted as he shouldered them along with the gun bag. He was just about to follow Coach back down the road towards the highway when Rochelle spoke up.

"Did you guys notice what these zombies are wearing?" the reporter asked, pointing down at one of the corpses nearby. She wandered over to it and crouched to get a closer inspection.

"We were a bit preoccupied with trying to stay alive," Nick said sarcastically, fussing with the way his lapel laid over his bandage.

Ellis however, plodded over to take a look. The infected's ashy skin was decorated with ink, a bandana tied over its head, a black leather vest around its portly middle and fingerless gloves from which its claws extended. The southerner tilted his head and moved over to the next one, noting the similarity in dress. "They were a bike gang?" he said with some surprise. Well, that explained what so many of them were doing out in the middle of nowhere like this; they'd obviously turned while they were on a cross-country ride.

"If they was a bike gang, then where's their motorcycles?" Coach asked.

"Can't be too far away," Ellis said, feeling his excitement rise. If they could find the hogs they could tear down the road, find a place to stay in no time at all! He motioned at his fellow survivors. "C'mon, y'all!" His feet carried him back to the asphalt, the other three following along swiftly behind him.

Within minutes they located several dozen two-wheeled conveyances laying in the street, fallen over onto their sides– after all, zombies wouldn't have known to put down the kickstand. A few looked a little worse for wear, but for sure they'd be able to salvage a couple to use. He selected one of the V-rods, hefting it upright and admiring the piece of machinery, from the long handle-bars to the flame-job on the chassis. And all that sleek chrome glinting in the moonlight– it really was a sight. And then it occurred to him. "Y'all know how to ride?" he asked.

"Man… been a while," Coach grunted as he too lifted one of the bigger bikes. He patted the leather seat fondly, eyes fogging nostalgically. "Least… twenty years?" He chuckled and shook his head as if a good memory had come over him. "Bet'cha Danny would be laughin' seein' me now, boy."

The conman and reporter exchanged glances.

"Well, shucks, it's alright if ya don't," Ellis assured them both, taking their silence as answer.

"Well, I had a boyfriend who was into Motocross," Rochelle mentioned. "Yamaha and Kawasaki specifically. He had posters up on every square inch of his dorm room."

"This your same Geologist boyfriend?" Nick asked readily, not missing the opportunity to tease her.

"No, this guy had a much smaller paycheck and was a much bigger low-life," she tittered with amusement, not afraid to reveal the tidbit from her past.

Ellis shook his head. The girl sure seemed to have had her share of the dating sphere. He glanced Nick's way, heart giving a little flutter. The conman might be the first person he'd ever been 'involved with', but in his opinion, it had been worth the wait.

Hell, he'd even go so far as to say it had been worth this whole damn apocalypse, with the running and half-starving and uncertainty.

"Sounds like he was a real winner," Nick chuckled in response.

Rochelle shifted how she was standing, arms crossed loosely. "Yeah, so I know plenty about dirt bikes– waaay more than I want to, believe me– but I don't have a clue how to ride one," she concluded.

"Well tha's a'right," Ellis spoke up once more. "Ro', ya kin ride wit' Coach, Nick, ya kin ride with me," he hooked his thumb at his bike. The choice was far from arbitrary.

The producer put a hand on her hip, cocking it and an eyebrow. She smiled at the cardplayer retributively. "Enjoy the bitch seat, Nick."

"You're going the same place, sister," he rebutted, tone playful.

Ellis removed the bags from his back, slipping the supplies (and his hat) into the storage compartment on the rear of the harley. He swung his leg over the motorcycle, steadying it with both legs as Nick got on behind him. The older man fidgeted, clearly a little unused to the positioning. Coach and Rochelle got ready the same way. Ellis reached down to grope around in the dark, finding the key fob that was still dangling from the ignition; he gave it a twist. The bike roared to life and after flicking on the single headlight to illuminate the road in front of him, he moved his hand to the throttle to give it a couple revs just for kicks, enjoying the crisp sound.

Nick's arms slid around his middle, knees squeezing to either side of his hips, and Ellis felt a pleasant warmth spread throughout him. The man didn't have to get that close to ride safely, he could sit back and merely hold onto his waist for balance if he wanted and he'd be just fine. The mechanic gave another testing rev of the two-cylinder engine, and Nick's arms squeezed that much tighter around his mid-section. A wide grin stole over his features at the discovery.

The gambler's face came to rest beside his ear, close to burrowing into his neck. "God, I hate motorcycles," he mumbled.

Ellis chuckled– he didn't know if it was the wind, the noise, the danger, or all three the man objected to. He turned his head to give the older man a quick peck on the lips before kicking back the stand. "Hold on tight, darlin'," he said, and he took off, Coach following along behind him.