We All Fall Down

[DotCom]

We All Fall Down
.:.MrMystic & DotCom.:.

You see this crazy, fuckin' awesome banner? You want one? YOU SHOULD. Lillian Thorne will HOOK YOU UP.

Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.
~Dalai Lama~
...

She'd been tracking him for three days. Ever since he'd left the quarantine zone, which, since supplies in the area were growing scarce, was becoming more like a prison, and less like a home. Ellie thought life in what remained of the Dylan Master's Boarding School for Orphaned Children had been rough--but it was nothing compared to life in the Delta-Omega quarantine zone--or what had once been greater Boston.

Breaking out of the 'school' itself wasn't difficult. Most of the students were down to two meals a day, so it wasn't like the warden was looking for extra mouths to feed. Really, Ellie supposed she ought to count herself lucky she was only fourteen. Two years later, and she would have been trying to survive on the street by law, and not by choice. Things were rough as it were. Her status as 'child' meant nothing any more. The fact that she had a mouth and two hands and working legs meant she would need food and water, could use a weapon, and had the means to get any of the above. And if she had them, no one else could. Two weeks before she'd found the boarding house, a man in his thirties had attacked her for a piece of fruit she'd been stupid enough to eat in the open. Fruit was a luxury these days, on par with ammo, nearly, and Ellie had been saving the single segment of orange for two whole days until she was so hungry, she couldn't stand it. She'd barely sunk her teeth into the first bite, when a lead pipe over her shoulders sent her sprawling.

Ellie was a tough kid, but damn, that shit hurt. Worse than that was the fact that three or four other people passed her before anyone decided the help. The woman that finally chased the man off (with a loaded gun) then demanded everything Ellie was carrying on her at the moment, which was just a flashlight and some batteries.

But that's how it was now. Ellie had grown up with it, in the Boston quarantine zone, and didn't really see much of a way around it. Her earliest memories were of the boarding school. She'd never asked about her parents, and had no interest in doing so. Parentless children showed up on the steps daily, maybe left by parents who couldn't or didn't want to care for them, maybe just because they'd heard the place could afford to give a meal or two. It was in exchange for some awful things, though.

For the younger kids, it just meant foraging for anything useful in the streets in the early hours of the morning, leaving the school in teams of ten, which made it difficult to avoid detection, but safer on the whole. For the older kids, like Ellie, it could mean anything from prostitution to thievery at knife point.

So, she ran. If she was going to swindle and lie for her livelihood, it would be on her own terms, and the man she was tracking now, if poorly, looked like he knew where he was going.

She'd been watching him for some time before he left, thrown out or kicked out, or perhaps just fed up with Boston, like she was. In any case, he was making no friends, not that anyone was these days. He was a drug dealer, and he traded weapons, too, for ammo, food, water, medicine, whatever. She would follow him into the shady alleys where what was left of 'the law' didn't dare venture, and watch him beat the tar out of anyone who tried to go back on a purchase. He was big and mean and ruthless, and Ellie knew if she was going to make a run for it, it'd be behind him. If nothing else, he'd take some of the heat off her back.

She'd packed up her bag, an old canvas rucksack, with some food an water, her switch blade, and a roll of bandages. She didn't have much else on her to carry, and if she was running, she wanted to stay light. She wore only her jeans, an old, nearly ruined pair of Converse, and some old band tee over a long-sleeved thermal. Ellie had red hair that was more often in her face than not, and big, green eyes surrounded by about a million freckles. Big, Mean, and Scary didn't seem to have much of a destination, but she didn't mind that. Neither did she. It was dangerous beyond quarantine zones, where you didn't just have to worry about the brutality of survivors, but the Infected as well. So far, she and her unwitting guide had been lucky enough to avoid detection.

But it had been three days, and she was beginning to doubt her luck could hold.

[MrMystic]

The highway stretched endlessly in both directions, bathed in the harsh late-summer sun. The stretch of road was empty, an unbroken line of blacktop marred by no other visible traveler, human or otherwise. Malcolm’s worn boots clicking across the deserted road broke the idyllic silence that hung heavy in the warm air. The unforgiving sun shone on his face as he walked, causing the man to squint behind his mirrored sunglasses. A gentle breeze cooled his sun-browned face and rolled playfully through his short, dark hair. He had gotten a shave and a fresh haircut in Boston just before skipping town – as much a survival precaution as a fashion statement. The man preferred his hair short – it stayed out of his eyes and was more difficult to grab in a fight, a problem common to his line of work specifically and the world generally.

Despite his relatively recent grooming, Malcolm’s hair and skin felt like it had been greased with motor oil, and dark stubble was already spreading across his face. The man scratched at it absently as he continued his unceasing and unhurried pace westward. A battered and faded backpack bounced cathartically against the small of his back as he walked. It was loaded heavily with supplies, though the bulk of the weight was not due to good strictly necessary for survival. A pound and a half of hash, two kilos of heroin and a liter of pre-infection whiskey filled the majority of the pack; a small fortune that tugged at his shoulders and slowed his pace. A stolen fortune, taken as a parting gift from his associates in Boston. Associates that one would not want to see again, if one were inclined towards one’s survival.

As the miles increased and the hours dragged into days, Malcolm had allowed himself to quit worrying about what trouble he left behind him and began to wonder about what may lay ahead. There were few options in directions for travelers leaving Boston these days; East was ocean; to the south lay New York – a sprawling death trap of terror; Canada to the North, a frozen wasteland where small groups huddled together, fighting over scraps and waiting to die. So he walked west, approaching the first major obstacle of his trip and the end of his immediate planning.
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The soft gurgling of the Hudson flowing past its banks drifted lazily through the warm late-summer air. Empty highway stretched in either direction, and trees lined the blacktop right to the edge of the water; a setting peaceful enough to be printed on a post card. Not that there were such things as post cards, not any more. And Malcolm had never cared very much Kevin Costner. These were the thoughts that drifted through the man’s head as he leaned against the front bumper of an abandoned car, looking across the highway bridge that spanned the murky water. It was the only crossing for fifty miles in either direction – a fact that made it a prime spot for a raider ambush. And so the man sat and watched, his battered boots resting on his worn pack, arms crossed over the chest of his brown leather jacket, waiting and searching for any sign of trouble. Raiders, however, were not the only thing he was waiting for.

The sound of her steps, steady and confident yet light, was the first sign of her approach. Malcolm had noticed the person following him late this morning. His first thought was an assassin, sent from Reese to kill him and return the shit he had stolen, but a hired gun would have no such tact, no need for stealth; they would have chased him down and shot him like a dog. And so Malcolm had slipped behind the car knowing that, like so many of life’s mysteries, time and patience would reveal the answer. As she approached, Malcolm slipped his revolver from its holster on his right leg, straining his ears to guess when she would pass the front of the car and be visible. ‘Uh... Strangers... I hate this. Do they want to share what they got or take what you got? Do you say 'hi' or do you blow them away?’ he thought, bringing him back to a different world, where heroes still existed, if only on the big screen.

She was startled when he rose up beside her from the cover of the car, his calloused thumb working the hammer of his revolver as he stood. Time seemed to slow as took stock of the girl in front of him. Malcolm’s dark eyes studied her as they stood on the empty highway, the cool summer breeze tossing her red locks about her face. The man decided to open with a customary greeting of travelers meeting on the open road under such circumstances. “What the fuck do you want?”

[DotCom]

To her credit, Ellie wasted only about two seconds being taken aback by her would-be guide's sudden appearance. She'd lost him about a quarter mile ago, and decided to hang back, just in case he'd gotten lost. Or in trouble. Or was trouble.

As it turned out, the third time was the charm, and Ellie froze as the man revealed his hiding place--and his weapon. The girl tensed instinctively, feeling her heart began to pound faster in preparation for the chase that was likely to take place. She wasn't scared, quite, not yet. It took a lot to scare a kid like Ellie, who was born into this hellhole. But she was definitely...concerned. She eyed the gun carefully, then raised green eyes to his dark, hooded ones, carefully snaking one hand into her back pocket where she held her switchblade. It would be useless in a fight--even three decades after the adage 'never bring a knife to a gun fight' stopped meaning anything--but it was better than nothing against a man like this. She didn't know much about him, but pity seemed even less a part of his psyche than most of the crazed survivors left.

"Nothing," she said even, keeping her voice light. "Just looking for a way out of quarantine. Just like you. That's it. Not interested in anything you have."

The truth was just one way of handling people you met on the road. It wasn't one you got to use often--even for a child on her own, most people would have shot her, knocked her out and robbed her blind, or just kept walking, if they were bleeding-hearts. Stopping to ask questions was generally followed by theft, or worse. Someone older than Ellie, or with a more impressive weapon, or something to trade might have lied or bargained. But this man, she'd seen, was nothing if not shrewd. Lying would only get her into deeper trouble, and she was treading on thin ice as it were.

She took a careful step back, simultaneously raising her free hand in supplication. "I don't have anything you want, either. Trust me. Just some bandages and water. So, let me go on, or you go on and I'll give you a few days' head start. There's no need to get messy."

[MrMystic]

“So, let me go on, or you go on and I'll give you a few days' head start. There's no need to get messy." Malcolm allowed himself to relax minutely. The skinny child in front of him was obviously not a threat, no matter her thoughts to the contrary. His calloused thumb carefully dropped the hammer on his revolver. He only had a handful of shells, and dropping one into the girl would be a waste.

Still, she stood there, her body coiled like a cat, ready to spring, to attack or flee at any moment. Her green eyes glared up at him attentively, further enhancing her feline resemblance. Malcolm was suddenly transported to a different time, a different world. There was another stretch of deserted street, and another young girl had stood looking up at him, waiting for him to tell her what to do, trusting him to decide her fate. The man’s hand wavered slightly as he lowered his pistol and returned it to the well-oiled holster on his hip. With a subtle shake of his head, Malcolm re-focused his eyes on the girl standing in front of him, shaking off the memory to return to the problem at hand.

Without a word, Malcolm turned and picked up his bulging back pack and slung it onto his broad shoulders. His first intention was to simply leave the girl and continue his trek – if she had anything more dangerous than a pen-knife in her back pocket, he’d be surprised. Of course, he’d seen men killed with less.

As he turned to face the girl who had been trailing him for days, a new plan occurred. Malcolm’s hand slid back to his handgun, his fingers tapping the wooden butt ominously. “Ladies first. Get moving down the road before I change my mind.” The man’s head tilted in the direction of the bridge, followed by an emphasis from his dark eyes. If there were any danger on the far side of the water, the poor girl standing in front of him would be an irresistible target. He would simply follow behind her at a safe distance, insulated from any attack or trap that she may encounter.

The sun continued its slow descent into the west and the Hudson river continued its endless trek to the ocean uninterested and uncaring as Malcolm waited with bated breath for the girl’s reply.

[DotCom]

Ellie swallowed hard. She'd given her ultimatum, made her bed. Now she was to lie in it. It was no less than what she'd been expecting--she wanted her back to this would-be brutal killer about as he wanted his back to her. Of course, he had the obvious advantage, both in size and weaponry, but the fact that he hadn't just attacked her spoke well enough. Or better, at least, than some others Ellie had met in the past. Not that she'd had a whole lot of experience. Life in quarantine was different than life in the open. Both were ruthless and unforgiving in their own ways. Her age wouldn't buy her any more sympathy out here than it had in there. But at least here, she was living for herself. Still on her own, perhaps, but with her only responsibility being keeping herself alive.

Then again, given the situation this man had just offered, she might be pushing her luck a bit earlier than intended.

Still, she said nothing as she moved past. There was nothing to be said. She merely shrugged her pack onto her shoulders, tightened her grip on her switchblade, and worked on putting a safe distance between herself and her former guide and ticket to pseudo-freedom. At this point, she could only really count on him being tread-heavy enough for her to pick up if he rushed her.

The walk over the water would have been serene if not for the stakes. The murky river tides threw back the unadulterated tangerines and pinks of the evening sky, a perfect and unblemished mirror in a land strewn with the evidence of what had been among the encroaching fingers of what was to come. The humidity of the day was broken by the cool breeze, tousling Ellie's strawberry locks as she continued inexorably onward, her eyes on the broken horizon, her blade at the ready.

But the only thing she could hear was the Hudson under her feet, pleasantly oblivious to the carnage around it. This, she knew, was prime local for an ambush, especially now, especially her. It dawned on her suddenly the man was likely using her as bait, but she'd gone too far to turn back at this point. Her safest bet, aside from no one lying in wait at the far side of the river, was that anyone who saw her coming would assume the large man behind her was part of a trap, and avoid attacking her to focus their efforts on him.

Or else they would assume that the two knew each other, especially given their terse exchange, and they'd hold her ransom. Ellie almost laughed at that.

"Hell of a surprise for them when he keeps walking," she muttered to herself.

Two hundred yards ahead, the pile up of rusting cars bespoke a twenty-year-old accident, likely the result of a mass escape from big cities where the infection had first broken out. There had been a raid, or an attack, or a carjacking. Everyone had panicked, then everyone had died. If Ellie had known anything about cars at the time, she might have discerned that the apocalypse stopped for no one--the Porsche nestled beneath the Civic, next to the Ford and the BMW. But she didn't, so she approached the mass of cars and heaved herself up over them, listening carefully for sounds of movement in any direction.

As it were, the first sound was a gunshot.

Ellie dropped immediately, seeking cover inside one of the abandoned cars.

She pulled out her knife and sank into the passenger's seat of the Civic, squinting through a shattered window. She couldn't see anyone yet, but hell if she was heading out there until she could at least figure out where the shot had come from.

She let out a frustrated sigh. This was going to make things a bit more difficult.

"Aw, fuck me."

[MrMystic]

Malcolm froze at the sound of the shot. He hadn’t heard a gunshot for months and the sharp report reverberating against the pitted concrete bridge startled him. Even as the echoes died into the distance, Malcolm was moving. His long legs quickly covered the distance to the only source of cover in sight, an abandoned car that had been trapped by the wreck at the far end of the bridge.

The wind continued to blow, hiding the direction of the shot. Malcolm peeked carefully over the slowly rusting hood of the vehicle. It may once have been an attractive shade of midnight blue, but the sun and the rain and the years had faded and cracked the paint, turning the previously handsome car a molted shade of gray lined with streaks of blood-colored rust. Malcolm’s dark eyes squinted against the rays of the setting sun, searching desperately for the source of the gun shot. Another sharp report shattered the stillness of the early evening, causing the man to flinch. To be honest, he couldn’t even be certain the shots were placed in his direction. Malcolm cursed softly to himself. He really, really did not want to get shot on this empty highway by an adversary he couldn’t even see, but his pride refused to let him cower in a corner when there were other options. With a grunt he hoisted his bags and levered himself upright, sprinting around the car and down the bridge.

The trip took less than a minute, but seemed an eternity to the man who made it, expecting each moment to be struck down by a bullet. He dropped to his knee beside the Civic his new ‘friend’ was crouched inside. He couldn’t help grinning when he saw the firey red-head clutching her switch blade. “Cute.” He muttered as he dropped his bag beside the car and readied himself for the next step in his plan. “Would you mind watching these for a minute? Thank’s kid.” Without waiting for, or expecting, a reply, Malcolm rose and dashed the remaining length of the bridge, throwing himself down the steep bank at the end and into the tree line, flinching as yet another shot was fired, though he didn’t hear the bullet strike anywhere near him.

Long, tense minutes later Malcolm waded carefully through the trees, his calloused right hand resting upon the worn wooden grips of his revolver. He had ducked deep into the trees and moved quickly, hoping to flank whoever had been firing at him. The stillness of the woods no longer disturbed him, though he could remember when it did. The long nights spent crouched in a corner or buried under a blanket, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. It had taken him weeks to figure out the most disorientating part of the new world: the sounds. Cars and trucks and people and keyboards and radios were replaced by birds and wind and silence. The constant hum of people and society had disappeared, leaving a disquieting vacuum in its place. Now Malcolm was a part of the silence, moving quickly through the thick trees, hoping to re-emerge on the highway behind a position whose location he didn’t know.

The thick, wild cover of the tree line disappeared quickly. A small town had once resided on the banks of the Hudson, less than a hundred miles west of Boston and about the same distance north of New York City. Malcolm waded out of the trees and into the overgrown town, feeling less comfortable and more insecure than he had while trudging through the forest. The highway was easy enough to find; it had probably been the only road in the town that really mattered. His target was almost as easy to find. A small, two story motel fronted the highway, offering a view down the road that would include the bridge. A perfect location for a sniper post. Malcolm slid his pistol from its home on his hip and quickly circled the small building. The upper floors were only accessible through an exterior stair case, and the room was easy enough to spot - it was the only one with an open window and a clean door knob.

Malcolm burst into the room, gun drawn. He was fully prepared to use his precious ammo on a band of raiders. If he ran out of ammo, the would find his fists just as deadly. The scene he happened upon was nothing he expected. An old man crouched by the window, clutching an old rifle in his shaky arms. Two small boys, maybe ten years old, huddled in a corner, playing with a pair of ragged G.I. Joes and a dented collection of matchbox cars. Malcolm hesitated only a moment before rushing the old man, kicking him in the chest even has he turned to level his rifle. The lonely drifter bent down and picked up the dropped weapon as the man lie on the floor, wheezing through his bruised ribs. It was an old rifle, rusted and pitted from years of neglect and disuse. No wonder the old man couldn’t hit anything, he was lucky it even fired when he pulled the trigger.
Malcolm stood over the man for a long moment, reading the fear in his watery, clouded eyes. The man had only been providing for the young boys. Maybe they were his grandchildren, maybe abandoned toddlers he adopted years ago. Malcolm pitied them. Taking their rifle was almost the same as shooting them down; maybe even crueler. With a curse he released his frustration on the cheap bed frame, kicking it hard enough to upset the thin mattress. Still clutching the rifle he turned and left the shocked boys and bruised man, trotting down the staircase and back along the highway towards his bags.

The rifle was remanded to the depths of the Hudson for the remainder of its time on earth. Malcolm approached the Civic carefully, hoping the girl, and his bags, were still there.

[DotCom]

Ellie's instincts were right now screaming two different things, both with potentially very bad--or very good--outcomes. And for as much as she followed the old adage 'no risk, no reward', she also followed a very new one: 'Don't get eaten, don't get killed.' Both the ideas in her head set up swift failure on at least one of the aforementioned goals.

Part of her was screaming: Run.

Another part of her--a large part of her was screaming: Steal. Then run.

Whether the man's plan had worked or backfired, she couldn't say. In any case, he was out there now, taking at least some of the heat off her, which meant if she bolted, she might be able to hit the forest before the gun fire started up again. It had fallen silent for the moment, which could mean any number of things: ideally something like the shooter had run out of ammo...or hit his target, and would no longer be gunning for Ellie any more.

Then there was the issue of the pack the man had left with Ellie. She'd tensed when he'd showed up again, trying once more to read his face--was he in on this ambush? But he seemed just as cautious as she was trying to be, if not more, and even though he'd called her 'kid', she doubted he'd left her with a live bomb or anything. Though she'd pressed her ear against the pack as soon as he left, just to be sure. She didn't know what she was listening for. Anything sinister, and she'd bolt, anyway.

The idea brought her to a second crossroads--what was in the bag? Was it valuable? And more importantly, could she steal it and get away before the man returned? Instinct said it had to be a trap--no one just left their valuables in the hands of people they'd literally only just met on the road, especially when they'd been pointing guns at said people only moments before. So, it was either that, or the man didn't expect her to get far if she did run.

She snorted idly to herself. "Yeah, well, he's in for a surprise." Ellie was not a fighter. She was too small for that. She was better off sneaking, stealing--and running. It was how she'd managed so far, and how she planned to make her way down to the road to whatever sanctuary seemed fit. Even so, the pack was heavy, both tantalizing and dangerous. The man dealt in weapons and drugs. If that was what he was carrying in this bad...if she could get away this, she could buy passage across the entire country, and a veritable mansion once she got there. Or else, she could get herself killed as soon as someone found out some scrawny kid wore a fortune on her shoulders.

She sat there for some time, just staring at the bag, thinking, each second growing tenser as she tried to figure out whether she should run, steal, hide, or any combination of the three.

She had just resolved to 'peek' inside the bag--when a sudden movement caught her attention. The man was back. She swore under her breath, and made to zip up the sack again...but not before a glass bottle full of a dark amber liquid rolled out of the sack and over her leg, clinking the the ground in her lap. She blinked at the bottle and her eyes drifted back to the sack where are large, dense brick of some dark substance sat on top, triple wrapped in plastic.

Ellie recognized all of it, and knew none of it. She stared at the trove in her lap, then at the man coming toward her. She had no idea how he would react. She laughed anyway.

"Guess someone's pretty fucking pissed at you, huh?"

[MrMystic]

“Guess someone’s pretty fuckin’ pissed at you, huh?” Malcolm stared back at the young girl who was elbow deep in his precious ruck sack. His dark eyes could have turned carbon steel to liquid, but they didn’t seem to so much as faze the girl. “Guess they should take a number.” He grunted. The man stood above the young girl, feet spread, one hand resting on the butt of his pistol as he stared down at her. “See anything you like?” he asked, motioning to the bag with a tilt of his head and a jerk of his dark eyebrows. With a snarl curling his cracked upper lip away from his teeth Malcolm leaned down and snatched his pack from between her legs and tossed the bottle of liquor back into its depths. One fluid move slung the worn pack onto his broad shoulders and the middle-aged drifter turned to face the setting sun. There wouldn’t be much time to find a place to hide for the night. Despite the crazies and the raiders and the animals that prowled during the day, the night was even more dangerous, full of its own terrors.

With another deep sigh he cast his eyes down at the girl crouched beside the ruined car. In spite of her bravado, she wouldn’t last long out here on her own. Her pack wasn’t stocked well enough, she wasn’t strong enough and, no matter what she might think, she wasn’t smart enough. An old leather-making saying almost brought a grin to his worn face. “Just enough brains to tan her own hide.” In spite of his better judgment, or perhaps because of it, Malcolm stuck out his calloused hand, offering to pull the girl from the car to her feet. “It’ll be dark soon. We should find somewhere to camp. It’s dangerous out here, and it’ll be safer if we stick together.” Keeping his sun-browned face perfectly straight, Malcolm added “I’d feel safer traveling with you, and that pig-sticker you’ve got in your back pocket, than traveling alone.” Leaving his offer to hang in the quiet evening air, the man turned and began to pick his way through the mess of cars at the end of the bridge. Looking back over his shoulder at the girl, he introduced himself. “I’m Malcolm, by the way.”

[DotCom]

Back at Boston Q-Zone, there'd been some crazy wino, maybe a little older than this guy--Malcolm--who always sat outside the orphanage, begging food off the little kids and offering to fuck the older ones for money. If you refused, he'd go off on this tangent--something she'd heard was a reference to a thing called a 'video game' from pre-infection times. He'd see girls like Ellie preparing to creep off into the night, looking for anything from food to drugs to love, and he'd called after them, "It's dangerous to go alone! Take this." And then he'd flash his dick and giggle for a while before returning to a wine-soaked coma.

Ellie studied Malcolm cautiously for a long moment. He hadn't liked her poking around in his stuff, that much was obvious. But then he hadn't killed, or even threatened her, and that was a good sign. Most people didn't fuck around when they meant to kill you these days. No time for that. Wait too long, you lose your victim to another bottom-feeder...or worse. Even the smart guys never had cons that went beyond a few seconds. If this man had wanted her dead, he'd had at least three opportunities to make her that way, and he hadn't yet. Of course, she wasn't about to go telling him her life's story, either, but it couldn't hurt to have someone like him around, at least for the night. She'd been effectively following him for three days and seen the benefits of that.

But ultimately, he made her laugh. Maybe not on purpose--his gruff face certainly didn't show any signs of humor, and she doubted whether he knew the drunk the kids at the orphanage had taking to calling 'Link'. But in this world, even back in the Q-Zone, people didn't laugh anymore, and Ellie was sick of it. Sure, things were shit, and no, laughing was shit at fixing problems. But it sure as hell didn't make 'em any worse. And she'd heard somewhere it was good for your heart or something.

She grinned at him coy wryly and stuck out her hand to let him pull her up. "Ellie," she said. "Alright, Mal. I'll give you a chance. See if you can't keep up."

As she stood, she, too, turned toward the sun. His romp through the woods had been brief, but not brief enough, and he was right. The fact that they'd avoided the nasty creatures nighttime brought for three days was dumb luck--the sort that fell out from underneath you without any warning and left you stranded and blind with your pants down around your ankles.

"So, maybe we should get off the road."

[MrMystic]

'Thanks, kid. Hadn’t thought of that one.’ Malcolm managed to keep his thoughts to himself, however, as he and his new companion picked their way through the mess of cars and once again reached open road. It was always a compromise between speed and safety when taking a road. Raiders were a big problem, merciless hunters that prowled the road in packs, looking for weak and easy prey. Traveling off road was slower, harder, and one ran the risk of getting lost. Not to mention wild animals. Or infected. Malcolm would much rather meet a group of infected on the open road where he had room to fight and run than be chased through a stretch of dark forest where he would only die tired. Malcolm figured they were fairly safe from raiders this far from a settlement, but infected were always a threat.

The man tried to ignore the small prattling girl walking beside him. He needed to think, and her name calling and constant chatter did little to assist his concentration. In the end, their best bet for shelter from the rapidly approaching night would be a random house along a side street of the small city they were walking through. Their odds were as good as not that it was abandoned, and no one would be searching through them for scavenge at night. Malcolm led the way down a side street, turning off of the barely discernible path of pitted and cracked cement of that had once been a neatly poured sidewalk and trudging through the overgrown lawn that was doing its best to consume the sagging front porch.

“Home sweet home.” Malcolm muttered as he kicked down the back door. The warped and rotted wood of the frame gave way quietly and without fuss. The stale smell of decay was strong, an obvious sign of the emptiness and neglect of the building. Still, Malcolm placed Ellie by the door as he moved quietly through the house, searching for squatters. With the house clear of obvious threats, Malcolm made camp in the living room. One of the mattresses had long rotted to only springs, but the other was usable, if a bit smelly. A pile of dining room chairs were reduced to kindling and the small brick fire place that had once been used more for decoration than heat was pressed into service for its original purpose. The damp wood smoldered slowly and gave off a strong odor but the heat and flickering light kept the worst of the cold night at bay.

Malcolm had kept quiet through most of these proceedings, occasionally grunting orders at his new companion when necessary. The man was used to carrying out these duties alone, and having another pair of hands with him hindered his routine as much as it helped. Another pair of hands also meant another mouth Malcolm realized grimly as he took stock of his pitiful supply of food. They would have to find some more soon, but that was a problem the man preferred to solve in the light. “Maybe there’s a nice steak joint down the road.” He joked softly. It took a moment of Ellie’s blank stare for him to realize that ‘steak joints’ had ceased to exist before she was born. Malcolm suddenly felt old, and exhausted. “Well kid, dig in.” He said gruffly as he laid out their meager supper.