● Location: Hoganville, Troup County
● Time: Morning-Afternoon

The sun poured into the room from three separate directions, a modest symbolization of the three men that found their way to that house. That elegant white house. It was truly a jewel of the south, tucked between the grassy hills of Troup County. An icon of what was and what will never be again.

From the bay windows came rays of sunlight thick like honey that flowed in from each corner of the living room. The sunbeams were distinctively visible as long, abstract knives that cut through plumes of smoke and dust – shining brightly upon a figure slumped into the spine of a stark white sectional in the center of the room. The man didn't move from his awkward position, his head tilted upright towards a pair of the windows.

Half of his face was bathed fruitfully in a wide ribbon of light, the bright morning sun glinting off of the soft blue color of Dexter's eye. He blinked several times now as his eyes strained and protested under the brightness, tearing up from the presence of dust in the air. A fresh cigarette hung loosely from his cracked lips, the lit end smoldering angrily as thin wisps of smoke spilled slowly from his nostrils.

Dexter tilted his head faintly to one side now, the movement looking sluggish and almost painful. He glanced down the length of the couch, making out what looked like dried mud on the floor. There was a trail of dirt and grime that led right to his boots, and beside that was his jacket and backpack resting on one of the cushions.

The cigarette shifted crookedly between his lips as Dexter took a deep drag, holding his breath for a long few moments as he sat up with a wince. He closed his eyes as smoke cascaded from one corner of his mouth, swirling around his face in a dense grey-white column. He took another breath, this one more shallow, and the smoke dispersed around him reluctantly as he exhaled.

He lifted an arm above himself as if going to stretch, straightening his back and shoulders at the same time that he made the uncomfortable motion. After doing so he retracted his outstretched arm, bringing his hand to his head and running his fingers through his hair gently. Disgustingly, the corners of his knuckles and palm were caked in dry blood that cracked and peeled as he did so – further attributing to the unwashed filth that his hair had become.

Dexter opened his eyes finally, squinting tiredly in the sunlight as he picked the cigarette from his mouth. He was stiff, and with it being morning and all, it was in more ways than one. Almost instinctively, he reached over the frame of the sectional, wrapping his hand around the grip of a pistol resting on the end table; while he balanced his cigarette between his fingers in the other hand.

" Hey! " Dexter called out in a raspy, hoarse tone. There was a pause as he brought his gun 'round, resting it against his knee for a moment. " I–.. Fuckin'. I'm awake. It's my shift now, right? " His fingers danced around the empty handgun, testing the coarse feel of the grip panel, enjoying its touch against his skin. It was cold, but felt like the most natural part of his hand.

Dexter shook his head, bringing the burning cigarette to his lips for another long drag. He held it there shortly before the smoke fell out of his nostrils in streams. Subconsciously, his foot began tapping faintly, impatiently, and his thumb kept pushing the magazine release of his Sig Sauer to the rhythm of the beat.

Unsteadily, Dexter went to a stand, " We were supposed t-to take shifts last night, right? " He called out again, his voice not as hoarse as it was before but still not normal for Dexter. He felt strangely comfortable this morning. Like he could take the day off and just relax out in the sun, have a little picnic by the pool – no matter how disgusting it had gotten over the years.

There was silence though. Uneasy silence. The kind that makes your skin crawl and grow cold. Dexter swept the room carefully, tucking the empty pistol at his back and behind his belt as he did so. There wasn't much to see. The floor was hardwood with a dark walnut stain, elegant, which contrasted the expensive white furniture. It was all trashed though from when they came in, hollering and knocking shit over a little too excitedly to draw out the two walkers they had eliminated inside the home.

That's probably what drew the horde to them now, coming from the south. Nevertheless, Dexter didn't see anything off. There was a splintered end table thrown into one side of the room with two broken floor lamps, a chair overturned, and all kinds of dirt and mud trailing the floor. There was a light storm the night before that soaked them, and upon arriving at the house they tracked all kinds of grime into the old manor. Between the kitchen and the stairwell was a streak of deep red blood where Dexter had dragged one of the walkers corpses out of the house.

Dexter sighed, leaning down and lifting his red jacket from the couch cushion as he took a sharp drag on his cigarette. Another plume of smoke poured out of the corners of his mouth, diffusing around the living room. He pulled the jacket around one arm behind him, yanking it up to his shoulder before doing the same on his other arm.

Finally, he went to grab his boots when he froze up. Was he hearing something? " Richie? Is that you? S-stop fucking around. . . " He nearly yelled now, voice cracking unintentionally as he tried to suppress a cough. " I swear if you killed–. . . You can't hide his body from me, you can smell that Mexican shit from across the county. " That smell?

It was like the smell of iron, mixed with rotting flesh and soaked linen. Dexter could barely detect it at all beneath the musky air in the living room with all the smoke and kicked up dust. Not only that, with a couple of the bay windows open there was a mixture of fresh dew and weeds thick on the air. He stood still beside the white leather couch in the living room, listening for the others.

He shrugged, lowering his guard reluctantly as he knelt down to tie his boots on and go through the 'routine' of getting ready for the day.

● Location: Hoganville, Troup County
● Time: Morning-Afternoon

Boots? Check. Gun? Check. Jacket? Check. --

In the living room, Dexter's familiar, lithe figure was knelt beside the glass nesting table in the center of the room. For some reason he liked to hold his breath when he did his laces, it added an element of suspense to what he was doing. As if instead of tying his shoes, he was pulling wires from a bomb. He'd kept the habit since he was a kid, somethin' his dad taught him.

Dexter was almost finished tightening his boots and fastening the laces inside the cuff so the loops wouldn't get caught when – “ OI, DICKCHEESE, BEANPOLE. . . ” – Dexter flinched at the sudden yelling coming from directly above his head, dropping his cigarette onto the floor beside him. He grit his teeth in an annoyed kind of way, setting a palm against the edge of the coffee table beside him. God damn, that man's voice was not easy on his ears, and that's coming from a guy who listened to all kinds of metal.

He shoved off of the table, skidding it to one side as he came to an abrupt stand. Dexter, under the alarm of Richard's shouting, immediately went to grab his backpack and cut for the stairs. However, as he scooped up the Northface pack and swung it around a shoulder he paused and looked over his shoulder. He scanned over the living room with a crooked frown building on his lips. Nothing.

But he wasn't going to forget the cigarette, and so he stepped over to the smoldering bud on the hardwood floor and stomped it out. He had to be deliberate. Mistakes weren't an option, especially during emergencies. After dealing with the fire-hazard, Dexter called up to Richard from the den, " On my way up, just one second- " He glanced at a few of the windows for any immediate signs of danger. While he couldn't see anything coming from where he stood, he could definitely hear the guttural hum of a group closing in.

Then there was a crash, and then another crash, followed by the sound of a hail of glass falling across the floor. What was a faint groan beside the house was now an audible roar of walkers as one after another poured through the shattered windows. The danger was here, it was real, and it was right around the corner. They were swarming the house.

Dexter shouldered his backpack a little tighter now. They were coming from the god damn far side of the kitchen. He turned on his heel and whipped around the back of the sectional couch. He took deep breaths between every other stride and blinked his eyes rapidly, and did these things as a method to wake himself up fully. In truth, he was near-hyperventilating. As he approached the stairwell though, Dexter slammed on the brakes – there was one in the center of the foyer, fumbling around in a trail of blood. There were others some ways behind it where the blood led from, surrounded by a mess of glass beside a large window to one side of the entrance-way.

The worst had to happen in that span of half of a second as he tried to come to a stop. He barely had any time to judge the distance between the walker closest to him and the stairs, his auto-pilot forcibly shut off. As Dexter came to a stop so abruptly, his boot went over the streak of blood that went through the foyer and to the door. The blood had congealed quickly overnight, and as Dexter's foot went over it he slid and went right on his ass.

He panicked, his arms springing back behind him to lever himself up. Dexter's eyes moved frantically out in front of him, wide with terror as the closest walker snapped its teeth together at him and lumbered forward. It wore a torn up flannel shirt, half of the shirt being ripped off on one side of his body and barely hanging on to the other side. It had suspenders that hung down off its shoulders and by its legs, which swung to and fro beside him in its awkward gait.

The walker advanced on him as Dexter's elbows bit into the hard ground beneath him, pushing himself up as much as he could. He fumbled to get his palm to the ground in time to aid in getting fully to his feet, and loosed a frightened scream as the walker towered before him. It's hands came outstretched and it clawed the air as it closed the distance, finally tumbling forward as it reached him. Dexter curled his legs back, bringing his knees in close as it came down on him. He tried to bring his boot back in order to kick the walker away from him, but it came down too fast on Dexter and was swiftly on top of him.

Dexter had the walker by its shoulders as its face spat and lunged at him, and using his knees pressed up against the walker's hips and mid-section he kept it from bearing down on his whole body. Dexter turned his head to one side as it continued to bite incessantly at his face and neck, his own teeth clenched together in the struggle and expression contorted into one of strain and panic. Drops of saliva mixed with blood and mucous or some shit splattered the side of his face each time the fucker opened its mouth. Dexter pushed the walker further up and up by the side of its shoulders, his arms extending like hydraulic pistons against several tons of weight – which was far from a proper description of his skinny ass struggling to get a single walker off of him.

Dexter pivoted onto his hip, turning over onto his side as he attempted to force himself on top of the walker. It growled and heaved in protest as he flipped them over, but Dexter's grip kept steady until he was on top of it. He glanced over his shoulder for a split-second now that he had control, and took stock of a handful of walkers getting to their feet and making their way across the foyer. Dexter grit his teeth as he locked his eyes onto the walker beneath him that kept clawing towards and tugging at his clothes, and reached down towards its head. He grabbed a hold of its long, greasy hair to get a grip of its skull and repeatedly slam its head against the floor – but as he pulled, the hair came loose in large tufts that stuck to his hand and clung to bits of its former scalp.

He moved his hand away from the walkers face in disgust, curling his elbow in the air above them both with haste. Dexter brought his arm down, striking the walker in the center of its face with the meaty part of his forearm just below the bony corner of his elbow. There was a fleshy crack as Dexter crushed its nose with ease, but it still tried to bite back. He brought his arm back again, repeating what he did before. As he slammed his elbow into the walkers face the third time, the forward-most part of its skull between the nose and eyes collapsed inwards – and its grip on his jacket loosened and it no longer continued to try and viciously bite at Dexter and growl.

Dexter pushed off of the corpse as the group descended on him from the foyer, his backpack slumping down his shoulder as he stood up. Blood and bits of the walker he killed soaked the back of his arm, but his Carhartt could take the abuse. Without any further hesitation Dexter darted up the stairs before one of the walkers could stumble within reach, taking two steps at a time, his boots rapping loudly over the marble-like steps. After readjusting his backpack as he ascended, he gripped the wrought iron banister as he rounded up the bend of the stairwell – his hand gliding across the cold metal surface as he raced up the steps . . .