[IC] Hailstorm

[SirBeowulf]

After shooing out the two deviants, Jones returned to his seat, crossing his arms as he deposited himself into the milk crate throne that was his chair. For a few moments he closed his eyes, simply thinking over things while the new arrival sat across from him. "So... What are you doing here, who do you associate with, and why shouldn't we just toss you out into the slush?" He winked, adding in, "Not that we'd do that, of course." Lucius cautiously took a seat and tried to subtly look around, wanting to take in as much information as he could. His hosts hadn't yet skinned him alive, so they were at least friendlier than the majority of individuals that one expected to meet in the wilds. Still, Lucius knew better than to let his guard down, especially when he had just been caught trespassing. "I was just looking for shelter on my way to Asylum. Got business there. I don't associate with anyone anymore, but I used to be DERB." Lucius smirked as he continued, "And to be honest I can't think of a single reason why you shouldn't throw me back out there. Kindness? If that's still a word people out here recognize?" Jones smirked slightly upon hearing the sparse used word once again. "Well you're in luck, then. I happen to have a shipment of Kindness on me right now, being delivered straight to the Lost so their black hearts will finally thaw." He waved a hand in a gesture to relax. "Of course, not that that would work, so I guess I've got a bit extra on me for the time being." He stood up, stretching his hands as he worked the kinks out of his body. The damp and the cold were getting to him slowly and the fire in front of them wasn't fixing much. He reached into a small sack, pulling out an old plastic baggy of dried meat jerky. He couldn't recall what it was, probably rat or pigeon. It didn't taste half bad, though. He tossed it across the fire to Lucius, smiling all the while. "The name's Jones Abrams, owner and proprietor of Abrams Caravan. Those two perverts in the hall that I kicked out were some of my crew. And you met Jim, our resident Hound Dog." Jones stopped to dump another folder of papers onto the fire to kindle it, watching the parchment burn as he sat back down. "And you might be?" "Lucius Fairfax, old-world detective and survivor," he replied as he caught the suspicious 'meat'. He realized that they might not have been old enough to even know what a 'detective' was, a grim reminder of how times had changed. "Detective..." Jones said, testing the word on his tongue. "Oh, oh!" he said, grinning with glee. "I remember when I was young. There was a show on the telly. 'Detective Whiskers,' I think it was called..." He frowned for a few moments. "They solved crimes, right?" Lucius couldn't help but smile at that, having grown up watching similar shows himself. "More or less, although you wouldn't believe the amount of paper work we had to do." he replied, giving a nod to the paper being thrown to the fire. It clearly wasn't the same kind of paperwork he ever had to do, but it was nice to be reminded that there were at least some mild positives to the apocalypse. Jones snorted. "I'm pretty sure paperwork is a thing of the past. Huge packs of that paper used to cost actual money but now it's just as common as dirt. And dirt at least has some value." He sighed, closing his eyes yet again. "You know, people don't get much chances to talk to their elders about the world before the Fall. Do you mind telling me about it?" ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~ ..."I can't recall much more. It's hard for some of us 'elders' to remember things before the event. You try stretch your mind back but all you remember is the Hailstorm and the shit we had to survive. Believe it or not, things are easier now than they were when this shit all began." Jones nodded, happy that he could've listened to the old man speak of his travels. "Yeah, I guess they are. And the people like me who risk their hides trekking across the wastes are the people who've contributed to things getting better. As my ma' used to say. Trade will save the world. Thanks for the tales, Lucius." He reached out his hand to shake it with the older gentleman's. It was at this point that Catherine entered the room, oblivious to any stories Lucius had told and unable to care about them even if she had heard them. Her hoodie, while doing a decent job of hiding her injuries, couldn't hide the bloodstains splattered literally all over her; and not all of it was from those Lost she killed. She dropped her backpack down on the floor. "I found some stuff," she said simply, before slumping against a wall, looking utterly drained. Jones sighed, a deep sound that conveyed his concern and annoyance. "I thought I said to stay out of trouble? Or... was that, 'get the hell out, you fiendish succubi'... Not sure." He stood up, withdrawing his hand from shaking distance. He clicked his tongue as he walked over to her, taking in the sight. "You look like you got a boat dropped on you." "More like a fridge," Catherine replied, being annoyingly enigmatic. He snorted before changing his demeanor on a dime. "All right, take off that hoodie. Doctor Abrams is here to see to your woes." He walked back to his bags, searching through them for some medicinal supplies. "Do you want pink or purple string?" Catherine, too tired to be snide, obediently pulled her hoodie off over her head, exposing her bandaged arm and her other un-injured but heavily burdened half and a plethora of bruises that were barely covered by her white tanktop. He sat back down in front of her, running his eyes over her bounty of injuries. "Jesus, you're like a walking and talking bruise," he said, eyes widening a slight bit as he placed down an old fish and tackle box that had a red plus sticker on it. "And I'm barely doing much of either," Catherine replied, barely scraping the strength together for the most important task available to her: being a sarcastic dick. Gently beginning to unwrap her hastily attached bandages, he looked back at Lucius, "Oi, you mind coming over her and lending some 'elder knowledge' of yours? That and I could use a nurse." Lucius raised an eyebrow before climbing out of his seat. Given the time it took him and the noises he made, one may have thought he was in a worse state than the battered young lady. "I was always crap at first aid, but I'll do what I can" he muttered as he gave one of Catherine's bruises a small poke. She barely flinched. Jones swatted the hand away. "No antagonizing the patient." He rolled his eyes as he slowly grasped her arm, taking a good look at the main injury. "Those buffoons always scrape their knees and get papercuts, so I'm usually the one to fix 'em up..." He sighed, "You really made a mess of yourself. But... nothing's broken, far as I can tell." He pulled out a small sewing kit and a bottle. Fishing out two pills, he handed them to her. "That's some decently powerful stuff. Take only one for now, and if it starts hurting later, take it in the morning." "Alright," Catherine said, dry swallowing one of the pills. "I'll just put this second one, uh, in my pocket I guess." "Oh, and this is gonna hurt a lot," Jones said, suddenly having pulled out a bottle of peroxide and grabbing her arm firmly before pouring it on the bite wound. In a display of her tenacity, she only reacted with a grimace as the peroxide burned and sizzled on the open wound, having felt worse before and mostly being used to pain. After having cleaned the wound, he looked back at Lucius, saying "Hold her shoulders." Catherine rolled her eyes, not really sure this was necessary. As he did so, he produced the needle, manually beginning to stitch up her wound with a surprising display of speed, the needle pushing through her flesh with a practiced skill. And again, Catherine reacted with nothing more than a small, pained look and a single, clenched fist. Once he had finished up suturing her wounds, she let out a yawn out of exhaustion. "Gee, all this pain and almost dying is making me tired." "I'm not done yet," he said as he glared at her. He went through the rest of the motions of fixing her up. First was the rusty nail wounds that required more attention lest she develop a case of Tetanus. Then came the bruises, the checking for a concussion. After finally wrapping her up with gauze and bandages, he smirked, looking her over. Somehow by this point, Catherine had managed to doze off, and let out a light snore. His eyes softened as he chuckled lightly in amusement. "She's a tough nut to crack, eh, Elder?" "Hm?" Catherine sleepily replied. "Oh, you're done? I think I'mma head to bed." Another yawn examplified her sheer exhaustion. "Go on, get. And try not to use that arm, and don't move suddenly over anything." Catherine chuckled as she stood up and grabbed her hoodie. "I can still do this though, right?" She said, flipping Jones off light-heartedly as she left the room. "Give a little respect to the guy who fixed you up or I might 'accidently' give you an overdose next time," he said, grinning. Lucius gave a little wave to say goodnight but it didn't look like Catherine saw it, or at least she didn't care to respond to him. "Definitely a tough nut." Lucius replied warily. Whilst he had no objections to burdened (being on the fringe of such a term himself), there were few amongst the DERB outposts because of the stigma and fear that followed them. As a result it was easy for him to forget how tough they could be.

[Nib]

With a groan, Arthur stretched out on the rough bed he had stayed in the night before and pulled himself into a sitting position. The thing was like a piece of slate with thing rocks for pillows. With some struggle, Arthur managed to pull himself up from the bed and got dressed, keeping his lab coat tucked away in his pack to avoid unwanted attention. The last thing he need right now was to be noticed by any thugs or other miscreants. Grabbing up his cane and shoving his medical supplies deep into his bag, Arthur made his clumsy way down the stairs and into the bar, where he found a seat facing the door. Once seated, he ordered whatever gruel the inn cook made that morning. Meanwhile, a rather large group of people slowly made their way into the run down bar that was the inn. While attracting various people's attention, their attire was that of simple traders and most paid them no mind while they nursed their hangovers with one or two drinks. This early in the morning there weren't many people who bothered to wake up. "We'll be here for only a day or two, lads" said the man who led the charge as he sat down at a round table, around five or six people sitting down next to or around him. "So, order some grub, but try to go slow on the drinks. I don't want you all tipsy if the storm clears up more tomorrow." He chuckled, looking at a woman whose face showed signs of corruption. "Especially you, Cath. I know that arm hurts like hell, but alcohol won't do your system any good." "But beer cures everything!" Catherine protested, with a chuckle that ended with a slight grimace as she grabbed her arm. "Oh, quit your whining, Catherine. I know what'd cheer you up," another well endowed one said with a wink. "Beer isn't the cure all, its s-" She was cut off as Ron sat down suddenly, the chair creaking as it scratched the floor. "Blah, blah. Can you two keep it quiet? My head's killing me." "Oh, I don't think we can. You know how loud Nova can get in the sack," Catherine said with a chuckle and a wink back at the other woman. Their conversation kept its eagerness much to the lamentations of Ron as they ordered their meals, their presence mostly fading into the background as more people walked in. The waitress came back with something a light beige color on a plate for Arthur. Barely hiding a grimace, Arthur thanked the young woman and turned to his plate. It was then he overheard the conversation coming from two tables over, the source of which was a group of people dressed as traders; the blonde-headed physician couldn't help but hear the complaints of a hangover and an injured arm. His want to help people caused him to half rise from his chair, but he caught himself and sat back down, remembering he did not want to draw attention to himself in this town. Talking over a mouthful of what were once beans before the Hailstorm hit, Jones gently unwrapped the bandages covering Catherine's arm. "Don't hit me, I'm just checking you again. It might be worse than last night." Underneath the bandages was a scary sight indeed. Compare to last night, the wounds appear to have festered and the skin around the bite wound had turned red; the wound itself just looking somewhat gnarly in general, with icky pus-like substances sticking to the inside of the bandage. "That looks... slighlty bad," said Catherine. Arthur had commenced eating his miserable meal when he heard the apparent leader of the caravan say something about checking the wound. He set his spoon down and looked over in time to see th bandage removed and the wound underneath. With an audible sigh, Arthur shoved his plate away from him and pulled himself to his feet slowly. He limped over to the crowded table. With his best bedside smile, Arthur spoke to the caravan leader and the wounded woman, "Sorry to approach like this, but I could't help but overhear your conversation from my table. Your wound looks terrible, miss. You see, I'm a trained physician and was employed before the Fall. I could take a look at that wound for you," His accent came out thick and smooth, bringing attention to his nationality. "How do I know you're not just bullshitting us?" Catherine asked with her trademark lack of tact. "Anyone can just say they're a doctor." "I'm a doctor," Ron said, grinning slightly. He had expected this; everyone was so paranoid after the Stones fell. With an audible sigh, Arthur responded, "Yes, anyone can say they're doctor like your friend there, but can anyone tell you that your infection will spread and cause necrosis if you don't get it treated soon," Arthur asked then turned to the head of the caravan," What did you use on it last night?" "Technically, yes," Catherine replied with a straight face. "Except I don't know what Neko-crisis is or whatever you just said." "Cath, its when your very cells start to die. Literally means 'death, the stage of dying,'" he said with a sigh. "It happened two days ago. The Lost that bit her probably had a breeding ground for nasty stuff in his mouth No pun intended. I cleaned the wound with peroxide and sewed her up. Mid-level painkillers that should've helped a bit. But, here she is." Catherine pondered the meaning of what he just said. "So... basically my arm is dying? Hey, it can join my other arm!" Cather said, flailing about her "good," heavily burdened left arm with a flagrant disregard for any medical knowledge someone might have. "Hm... Then I should just need to redress the wound a bit better and give her antiobiotics to take until the infection goes away. One moment," Arthur limped away, his back turned as the injured woman flapped her burdened arm around. He grabbed his pack and set it on th table and began rummaging around near the bottom to find his medical supplies. Once he found them, he looked through them to make sure he had the needed supplies. When he found them, he made his back over to the table and pulled a chair up next to the injured woman and sat down holding up the supplies so that only the table of traders could see them. Jones bit his bottom lip, going over numbers in his head. As the man pulled out his supplies, he too went through his own, pulling out various objects of value. "All right. For the antibiotics, I for one would accept this," he said as he put said object on display. The object in question happened to be a Rolex Watch, its silver glinting in the candle light. "It still works, even. Not really my style, but it looks like it'd suit you, Doc." Arthur set the supplies down on his lap under the table and looked at the watch for a moment or two before replying, "It's a nice watch and all, but I have my own," at this, he pulled his bronze pocket watch up by the chain and opened it up to show the man that his still worked as well. Jones hid the groan that built up inside his head as he simply nodded, pulling out a different thing to trade. "A box of .357 rifle ammunition. Only missing one bullet. How does this sound? Fair trade?" "I'd say that would be a fair trade, if I had a gun that took that ammunition or if I had a gun at all. I doubt you have what I want in that bag of tricks of yours, Mister...?" "Jones. Owner and proprietor of Abrams Caravan." He stowed his bag of differing valuables away with another sigh. "And its not a bag of tricks. I happen to have some valuable stuff in there. So what is it you want? Food? Parts? A new cane?" Arthur looked at the cane held in his hand, thinking that a new cane would be nice as his was becoming quite worn from his travels, "A new cane would be useful, but what I want is to travel with your caravan until I find a suitable town to settle in.I imagine you make rounds at most settlements, Mr. Jones?" "Hm, I don't think he happens to have that in his bag..." Catherine replied with a smarmy grin. "You sure you don't want the watch? I think you could probably choke someone with it." Jones glared at Catherine and her morbid suggestions. "You know, the man could always just decide not to treat someone so unappreciative of their services. You be a good patient and stay quiet. This is business." Catherine just shrugged. He turned back to the man, narrowing his eyes for a moment before smiling slightly. "Well, then. I guess having a better doctor than myself is a good pro when it comes to a caravan. Really, stitching someone up is the only thing I do well. Medical textbooks just start to confuse me after a while... But what are your terms?" "How about paying for my meals and lodging, any medical supplies found will be given to me to add to my kit and when I decide to stay at a settlement, you pay me fourty-five blues to set myself up for a while?" Jones hummed to himself while he closed his eyes for a few moments, thinking. "Fourty and I give you a new cane. I've got one I've been keeping for a while. May or may not have belonged to the corpse of an old millionaire." He shrugged. "I find those term acceptable, Mr. Jones. If I don't like the cane, though, make it fourty-two blues."

[Fat Boy Kyle]

Lucius Fairfax – Inside Gregory (the town, not the man) 2 days after meeting Jones and Co.

Lucius sat up against a wall, his legs tucked warmly inside his sleeping bag. A couple of feet to his right was the pub’s fireplace, and much to his bliss it was keeping him sufficiently warm. This wasn’t an inn, there were no rooms for guests, but many paying customers littered the small L-shaped room in a desperate bid to escape the storm and catch some sleep. From what Lucius could tell the entirety of the small village had decided to abandon their homes and take refuge in The Duke’s Head. It appeared that either their own homes lacked adequate protection against the elements, or they feared that others might try to take their shelter by force. “What the hell are you playing at Joop?” came a disgruntled patron, “You can’t just allow any old outsider in here! They could be murders, rapists, or spies!” Lucius tried to ignore the large man, but it was clear the complaint was being directed at him. “I can if they’re paying Vinnie!” came a voice from beyond Lucius’ vision. Vinnie was a youngish man and very heavy set. He had a bald head adorned with small scars. And it was clear by the black veins that ran along his forearms and circled his eyes, that he was reasonably burdened. Lucius subtly grabbed his machete beneath his sleeping bag and prepared him to roll out of it if need be; he never zipped it up in case of situations like this. “Fucking traitor!” Vinnie sorted before turning back to Lucius. His eyes drifted lazily about, unable to fully fix on his target, suggesting to Lucius that the man was drunk. Vinnie slipped from his seat and stumbled towards Lucius before taking a knee. The drunkards friends watched closely, waiting to pounce if need be. “I can tell ya know…” Vinnie let out a snarl and a burp, “You’re gonna be a pain in the arse.” Lucius tensed his arm in preparation to thrust at Vinnie through the sleeping bag, but fortunately the man just smiled before returning to his friends. “Come on Vinny, stop playing around. We need to get moving.” Grunted one his friends. It was safe to say that Lucius didn’t drop off to sleep until long after the men had packed up and left. Why would anyone be mad enough to go out in this weather though?

[SirBeowulf]

"So how's that cane treating you?" asked Jones as he kept up a brisk pace, feet crunching on the inches of snow beneath his feet. The temperature was only in the low thirties, but he still felt cold. Just knowing that there would be three months of this was enough to send a shiver down his spine. The only saving grace was that the snow wasn't thick enough to impede their carts. "And tell me if you need to slow down. We've got all day to make it around the Legus Hail Zone." Arthur turned his head as the leader of the caravan spoke to him, "Oh, it's wonderful. Thank you once again, Mr. Jones. It's much better than that old thing I found years ago. I think I"ll be fine. My leg isn't bothering me too much today, so full sped ahead then." His breath came out in clouds as the cold air seemed to close in on him from all sides. He wasn't a fan of the winters at all now that he had a metal leg to worry about freezing the skin it was connected to, but luckily it hadn't started to bother him. "Great," Jones said as he grinned widely. "I'm just glad to get out of that damn con factory they call Laketon." He stretched his arms, placing them behind his head as he walked. "Can you believe they taxed me for having more than three 'vehicles'?" He looked back at his caravan, chuckling. "Shopping carts count as vehicles nowadays. All because they have the only bridge for miles... Bah." "Oh, I believe it, Mr. Jones. If I hadn't smuggled my medical supplies past the guards, they would have taxed me like no one's business and then would have made me treat the whole damn town just to get it. They would have still made pay for my room of course..." "Y'know, we could probably hollow out that leg of yours. I'm not saying I'm a smuggler, but that'd probably be a good trick. I mean, come on. Who's gonna rip a leg off someone to check for contraband?" He scratched the back of his head. "Not that I would or anything. You probably need whatever mechanical gadgets that are in that thing." Arthur chuckled at Jones's suggestion of hollowing his leg out, "Yes, I think I do. Though, your idea has potential. Perhaps we could hollow out my new cane instead?" He shrugged, kicking a tin can out of his way. "Nah, that can of yours is too thin to hold anything significant. Sure, if you were a courier or sending messages, you could probably drill a good hole in it. Other than that, not really worth it. Besides, then you wouldn't be able to hit anything with it." "I don't think I'll hit anything with it anyway, Mr. Jones. I'm not a man built for fighting." Jones winked slightly. "And neither am I, I'm about as good in combat as a man with n-" "Jones! Hey, Jones!" Catherine shouted, running back towards the group after having been previously scouting ahead, a pair of binoculars hanging around her neck. "I found something ahead," she said, marginally out of breath from the run. "Quiet, Cath. We don't wanna attract any Lost in the vicinity with all your screeching. What did you find? Bandits? Cannibals? A hidden oasis in the midst of a desert?" "All at once! Sort of. I found a gas station on the road ahead and through the windows I saw a bunch of signs of someone having been camping. Unfortunately, the campers now would rather eat us than share their food with us, but there's probably good scavenge in there," Catherine replied. Jones stopped, holding up a hand for the caravan to do so as well. Arthur stopped next to Jones, resting his weight on his new cane. "How many of them? Three? Four?" "If there were only three I'd've taken them out myself," Catherine bragged. "There's about a good six or seven just milling about the place that I saw, and maybe one or two more hiding inside at best. Nothing a few guys with guns, and myself, couldn't handle." Jones fondled the makings of a beard that was growing on his face as he thought it over. "Hans, Mico, Jeremy! Get over here, real quick!" "Mr. Jones, if they were camping then there's a good chance they had medical supplies too. I'd like to go along to see if they did and to evaluate them." "Jumping right into danger, are you?" He snorted as the three men soon showed up, standing at a decent attention. Two of them, Hans and Mico, were guards Jones had hired. Only temporary for the most part. Jeremy was the young man with the hunting rifle. Damn good shot, as Jones knew from experience. "Right," he said, turning to the group. "The rest of you, set up to rest for an hour or two. Pick whatever building looks best." They quickly pushed the carts onto the side of the road, letting out sighs of relief for a rest. Hans grinned slightly. The man had the closest thing to an automatic weapon that existed. A semi-automatic 5.57mm rifle that packed a punch. Ammo was rare as shit, but the man used it well. The other one, Mico, wielded a feisty looking sledgehammer that had a spike welded on the top. "Think they're enough to do the job? Myself included, of course. I'm really only gonna be there for his sake," he said, pointing at Arthur. The man in question raised his eyebrow slightly at the caravan leader. "That should be fine, if you two are good shots," Catherine said, directing her sentence at the men with the rifles. "Otherwise, just try not to hit me, yeah?" Hans looked at her with a bit of a glare. "Yeah, yah. You Burdened are supposed to be bullet proof anyways." "If only that were true, it'd save me a lot of trouble," Catherine muttered as she started jogging on down the road toward the gas station. "It's about half a mile down the road, c'mon." As the three other men jogged after Catherine, Jones looked at Arthur. "You up for going at a faster pace? Or am I gonna have to carry you?" he said with a smirk. "I'll be fine, thank you. Plus, if I go at a slower pace than them maybe there won't be any Lost left by the time we get there," Arthur said as he began walking a fast pace for him, leaning heavily on his new cane. "Aww, but that'd be a little bit boring," Jones said, even though he agreed with the man fully. Meanwhile, Catherine and the other three men took position behind a broken wreck of a car that was sideways on the road about a block away from the gas station. True to Catherine's word, the gas station seemed to have a few lost stumbling about outside and if one were to look through the windows they could see a few inside as well. "Do you have a plan?" Hans said. Catherine just awkwardly scratched the back of her neck. "I know enough to know that I don't know enough to make a good plan," she replied, getting a bewildered look from the man. Arthur limped his way to the gas station, arriving some minutes later after the vanguard. At the moment, Catherine was looking down the road with her binoculars, making sure that they wouldn't get surprised by more Lost. He looked around at them and then to the gas station to see the Lost shambling around outside and within. "Wanna look?" Catherine asked, tossing the binoculars to Arthur. He snatched the binoculars from the air, pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and then looked down the road and at the surrounding area, checking for anyone else on the road. He then focused on the gas station to see if he could see into the window. Jeremy stumbled with his words for a minute before pulling out a handful of cherry bombs and firecrackers. "You know, we could probably use these to distract or pull them out of the station. I don't mind using them." Dropping the binoculars from his eyes, Arthur looked at the boy, "That's a good idea. The ones with the long range rifles should stay here behind the cars and pick off the Lost they can see while the close range fighters move in around the side or back while the firecrackers and cherry bombs do their job." Jones grinned slightly as he borrowed a few of the fire crackers from Jeremy. Pulling out a steel lighter, he flicked it open, ready to toss at any moment. "Knowing the strength of thse cherry bombs, you could probably explode a Lost's head with one if you got lucky. Weren't there stories of kids who had their hands blown up?" "Don't know, don't care. Let's go already," Catherine replied impatiently, as she started sneaking off down the road, staying to the side away from the gas station. Mico gave a confused look for a second, before shrugging and following her. Hans propped his gun up over the hood of the car, waiting for the go-ahead to start shooting. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Jones," Arthur said with a smirk. Jones rumbled with a growl as he flicked the lighter repeatedly, the fire refusing to start. "Damn it, I knew I should've picked one up at the t- oh, nevermind." He looked up over the car to see Catherine and Mico getting into position. Catherine at this point was hiding with Mico behind another car further ahead, ready to engage the Lost as they would run past them. Catherine waved back at Jones and gave a thumbs-up. The lighter lit the cherry bombs as Jones stood up, preparing to throw as hard as he could, grinning slightly. A gunshot rang out. Jones' flinched as the head of one of the Lost exploded, raining glittering parts over its comrades as they went into a rage suddenly. He fumbled with the firecracker as more gunshots starting ringing out, the Lost getting shot down quickly and effectively from somewhere other than their position. "What the fuck!?" Catherine shouted, getting drowned out by the gunfire. She was expecting gunfire, but not this soon and it was coming from the wrong direction! She popped her head over the car and saw the Lost running away from her as they were systematically getting cut down. She pulled out her revolver and aimed it in the direction of the gunshots, since she didn't quite plan on running forward and punching people with guns. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" Jones groaned as the fuse still burned. He looked around frantically before finally sticking the thing in his mouth to extinguish it, wincing again as it burned his tongue. Arthur turned from watching the Lost being shot down to look at Jones as he winced from burning himself on the cherry bomb. "Where the hell are those shots coming from!?" Jones pulled the cherry bomb's fuse out, sticking his tongue out from the pain. "Across from us, shit oww that fucking hurt, I think a hundred meters away. I can't see. Use those binos, oww." Whether it was a stray bullet or intentionally aimed wasn't clear, but as Catherine was trying to see where the shooting was coming from a bullet richoeted off the car hood she was hiding behind, creating a loud scraping noise and just barely grazing past Catherine's head, close enough for her to feel it and to snap her hood back off her head. "Shit!" she swore loudly, ducking back down for cover and rubbing the burn on her head. Arthur pulled the binoculars back up and looked in the direction Jones had indicated and scanned the area before finally spotting a group of rather heavily armed individuals. DERB. A whole squad of them counting ten all armed and armored. Behind them was a large van turned sideways, with the DERB sigil plastered on the side. Soon enough, the whole Lost population had been killed, either lying on the ground with broken limbs or destroyed skulls. A megaphone was pulled out, and a man spoke. "Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up!"

[SirBeowulf]

The man wielding the megaphone spoke up again, "I repeat, throw down your weapons or we will fire upon you!" Jones was the first to respond, automatically standing up and putting himself in the line of fire if anything went wrong. His hands were held up and he kept a calm face. "Do what he says, people. I'd prefer if this went down without us receiving a supplement of lead to our faces." He sighed, sending a quick glance back to Arthur, "We're not resisting, we're gonna come out slowly and unarmed." Arthur glanced at Jones and nodded his approval, not that he had any weapons to put down. Just to be safe, he place the binoculars down on the top of the car and limped out from behind the car before speaking, "I need my cane, gentlemen! It's not a weapon. See," he said as he lifted his pant leg to show the mechanical leg that was clearly old tech from long before the Fall. Catherine groaned, feeling cheated. She didn't have anything against DERB, except that they were all assholes. Regardless, she holstered her revolver, not quite willing to drop it, and slowly peaked her head over the car. "Try not to shoot me next time!" She shouted back, pulling her hood back up. Jeremy looked up at his leader, obviously a bit conflicted about tossing his rifle away. A nod from Jones got him to relieve himself of the weapon, as well as Hans and Mico. The megaphone man spoke up again as the group walked towards the derb men. "Keep your movements slow and don't try any hero business. You especially, Lost Bitch." "Yeah, fuck you too," Catherine replied deadpan, keeping her arms crossed. Jones ignored her as he walked to the front of the group, eventually coming to a stop ten feet away from the soldiers. Like most jockeys for DERB, the men all looked healthy and well fed. For the apocalypse, at least. Their equipment, while still effective, looked passed down and held together by duct tape and string. Most of them were equipped with a motley collection of rifles, and their badges identified them as 'Seekers'. Tasked with the elimination of Lost, most Seekers are extremely hostile against Burdened, and their ways of taking out the unfortunate mindless munchers had many rumors behind them. The one with the megaphone thankfully decided on not using it to burst the caravan's eardrums. "State your business in sector F-11c. Take out your identification too," He laughed, a wide grin forming on his face. "And maybe you could perhaps make a contribution to DERB business by donating to our cause?" "I could donate bullets to your face, if you really want it," Catherine remarked, toeing the line of common sense by taunting the much more well-armed squad of DERB. "Cath," Jones replied, smiling nervously, "You do realise that there are currently twelve rifles aimed at us right now, yeah?" Catherine shrugged. "Been shot at before." The one in charge laughed again. "Some how I doubt we would miss at this range. Make a 'donation', or he gets a bullet to the knee," the man said, pointing straight at Jeremy, who just about started pissing his pants in fear. "Now, what the hell'd he do to you?" Catherine replied, staring the man down. The man stared back with a hardened face roughened with scars by the apocalypse. "I don't like his fucking face. He's got nerdy glasses too, those piss me off. And now you're starting to piss me off as well. Drop that iron on your hip, too. Did you think I wouldn't see it?" "Nah, I just thought it complimented my eyes." Catherine grabbed the gun by the holster and quickly undid it from her hip, letting it drop to the floor. Jones sighed at Catherine's rebukes directed at the DERB man. When it came to your life on the line, it was much easier to grovel at the feet of some asshole instead of trying to provoke him. "I'm reaching for my documents, now. I think you really should reconsider this. I'm running official DERB goods on a caravan. They wouldn't appreciate one of their men deciding to ransack it." Suddenly, one of the men in the DERB group spoke up, "Sir, shouldn't we be evacuating the area? Protocol says we shouldn't stick to one place too long after firing more than twenty roun-" "Shut the hell up, Private, I know what the damn protocol is. Do you want to make extra money or do you want to let these burdened scum go,” he growled as he reached forwards to take the papers from Jones. The leader scowled as he read the contents of the documentation. “Well, well, well, Mister Abrams. It’s your lu-” he said, before being caught off guard by a sudden ear wrenching screech. As if on cue, they began tearing themselves out of the woodwork, Lost started emerging from the buildings all around them, attracted by the rapid gunfire that had occurred. “Shit, fuck, open fire god damn it!” called the head honcho as he pulled out a battered revolver. The soldiers almost began panicking at the sheer amount that were converging on their position, but some drilled reflex forced them to take up their arms, the staccato sound of guns filling the air. Catherine decided to take advantage of this distraction and reacquired her handgun. Deftly, she also darted forward while the leader was looking the other way, firing at Lost, and grabbed Jones’ ID papers and stuck them into her pockets, assuming they’d be useful, and started running the other way, past Jones and back to the caravan, waving for Jones and co. to follow. “Start running,” Jones whispered to Arthur as he reached down at his side for the lead pipe, only to find nothing there. With a nod, Arthur started limping his way back toward the cars they had left behind, only to stop short in his tracks as a Lost sprinted forward from Jones’s back. Arthur swung back around, hitting the Lost square in what was left of their face with his brand new cane; the head of the poor creature caved in and it fell away, rolling around dazed as it collapsed. Jones, taking the cue, grabbed for his left behind pipe as the Lost recovered. A loud thud was heard as he brought the pipe down on the Lost’s skull, putting it out of action as bits of gore spilled out. “Keep together, Hans, get closer to us!” Jones said as Hans fell behind slightly. Only to grab ahold of a Lost coming straight at him and suplex the damn thing. “Or not, you could do that,” Jones said as he stumbled back towards and grabbed Jeremy’s rifle, tossing it to him. Catherine , while running, managed to get football tackled from the side by a rather fast Lost. She landed rather painfully on her right shoulder and just barely turned herself to face her aggressor before the force of its fist collided with her jaw. She felt a tooth get knocked loose as her gun, still in its holster, went flying. She threw her hand up to block the next fist and started to shove it off when the sound of her revolver rang out. Arthur was seen a few feet away holding the gun awkwardly as Cather kicked the now dead Lost off of herself. “H-Holy shit... “ Jeremy said as he pointed back towards the group of DERB soldiers. Dozens of Lost bodies lay around them, filled with holes, but even more had arrived to the party. What had to be fifty of the damn things were in the process of ripping the soldiers apart, limbs being torn out of their sockets as they fought desperately to survive. “We need to leave,” Jones said, a little sick at their escape being mostly in part due to the main force. “Jesus,” he said as one of the soldiers held up something. An actual damn grenade, with three more hanging on his webbing. The pin was pulled and he was swallowed up by the monsters. The explosion was incredibly loud, ringing through ears like a thousand guns had been fired at once. Jones covered his eyes as he watched the small crowd of Lost get ripped into pieces along with the military men, body parts littering the area and a load of gore and viscera covering everything. “Fuck me... “ Jones said, out of words. In the aftermath of the explosion, Arthur limped up to Catherine, holding her gun and holster out to her. She grabbed the gun and spat out some blood and her tooth as she stood, looking at the site of the explosion. “Well, can’t say I feel bad…” “Is everyone alright,” Arthur asked the group as a whole, looking around to examine what he could of their well being. “We can deal with any injuries later, we need to grab those supplies and get the hell out… I’m not even gonna suggest searching those poor bastards. All that’s left is meaty bits and charred steel.” “I will, however, suggest searching them,” Catherine replied, rubbing her jaw. “Except maybe not right now, as that explosion will probably bring any Lost that didn’t already come.” “You know, that might’ve been all the Lost in this sector. I guess we just did their job for them,” Jones said, grinning widely.

[Fat Boy Kyle]

Fire and smoke filled the streets of Legus, seeping up the tall dark buildings like hell was rising from beneath them. In the dead of night however, the fire was the only light in an otherwise dark and complex maze. Everywhere one looked shadows and silhouettes sprinted along the walls, chasing one and other in a demonic blood bath. Above all the other sounds of chaos, it was the screams that were most clear; they promised the agonising deaths of men, women and children alike. “Lieutenant! What are your orders?” shouted Sgt. Hicks, straining his voice to be heard. Lucius turned to his squad, consisting of twelve remaining officers in full riot gear, who had formed in a protective square around a bunch of survivors. Lucius wiped the sweat from his eyes as he tried to make the on the spot decision. They could not afford to stop, yet they had been constantly redirected in their disastrous attempt at evacuation. “East leads us further into the city! South is blocked! And there’s a fucking Hailstone to the West of us!” Lucius shouted back, wanting to make his reasoning clear. He couldn’t afford for them to start judging his decisions. “North it is then sir!” replied Hicks, giving the signal for the small escort to begin jogging again. The convoy continued down a narrow street that had once housed a string of low-key nightclubs, the crimson and pink lights of which still flickered to give the street an ominous glow. The street itself was filled with corpses, or rather the glistening sludge that remained; it was hard to tell whether the bodies had been partially eaten or merely trampled to death. The escort tried hard not to trip, a task made worse by the ever thickening air. As they continued down the street the gore at their feet got deeper and deeper until it came up to Lucius’ waist. He begun to wade through it but lost his footing, plunging into the putrid pool. He desperately splashed around to regain his footing, but emerged to find his group being tore apart by Lost. They swarmed from the clubs and overwhelmed his friends. He turned and tried to run but something grabbed his ankle. “Coward!” bellowed Hicks, who clung at Lucius. “I’m sorry!” cried Lucius, kicking off his friend. He turned back to run again, but in front of him stood his wife. Charlotte’s skin was mostly ripped off, her golden locks burnt black, and in her arms she carried something wrapped in bloody dripping cloth. Her cold empty eyes locked onto Lucius and she began to scream.

Lucius Fairfax – Gregory

Lucius awoke from the nightmare with a sweat, and would have been gasping for air had he not opened his eyes to find a blade pointed at his neck. His lungs seemed to stop as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. Slowly his ears begun to register nearby sounds and he realised the screaming from his nightmare was emanating from a nearby lady, not his estranged wife. “Hello sleepy head. Have a nice dream?” smiled Vinny, who had already carefully removed Lucius’ weapons. Lucius didn’t answer him, and instead tried to look past the big man. It was clear that the room had very much divided whilst he was asleep. Near the bar the local families were huddled around, whereas the rest of the inn was filled with men like Vinny, who were holding other outsiders in a similar fashion. “What do you want from us?” asked Lucius, unsure of the man’s motives. “Us? Do you mean your fellow slaves here? Or do you mean you and your DERB friends?” he asked, motioning to the shield and the Bluebacks beside it, “It’s rare to see anyone outside DERB with those shields or that many bluebacks. Besides, you’re too fucking clean to be anything but DERB! Should’ve rubbed a few layers of shit over yourself if you wanted to convince anyone otherwise.” Lucius didn’t answer straight away, and instead focussed his thoughts on whether there was any feasible way of disarming his opponent and fighting his way out. There wasn’t. “Well!” Vinny demanded, letting the blade at his throat draw a trickle of blood. “I’m not DERB anymore…” he said, knowing it’d probably make little difference at this point. “No, you’re not. You’re mine now.”

[The Red Zephyr]

The soup was cold, and rather tasteless, he thought. The noodles were undercooked and tasted like strips of rubber, while the broth wasn't nearly salty enough and had small grains in it that reminded him of slightly muddy water. Funny, considering beside the chipped bowl of soup was a bottle full of actual muddy water. He took a drink, naively hoping to quench his thirst, but was ultimately disappointed. Begrudgingly, he dipped his spoon back into the gruel, picking out a chunk of what seemed to be too-dry chicken. Too-dry was an understatement. With a sigh, he set the spoon down and lifted the bowl to his lips, sucking the terrible soup down with a wince. The thought crossed his mind that he should really learn to cook properly. Setting the bowl down, he let out another sigh--this time one of relief--and exclaimed, "Delicious!" in a fake, child-like voice. A grin now painting his face, he stood to his feet and raised his arms above his head, stretching side to side and twisting his body. "What a wonderful meal," he continued in a tone of feigned satisfaction. Suddenly a loud noise echoed throughout the rundown apartment: A loud, violent knocking sound sounded again and again, as if somebody was thrashing their arms against the walls. He groaned in irritation before scolding the source: "Hey quit it! Can't you see that I'm trying to eat here?! Jeez!" The noise continued, getting louder and more aggressive. He continued his stretches, touching his toes, then grabbing his ankles and twisting his body a few more times. "Well then, I suppose it's time to get back to work." Lowering his arms again, his gaze fell on two items sitting in the corner of the dank, collapsing apartment kitchen. One of them was a simple knapsack, filled to the brim with various, and mostly useless, items. Inside were a collection of tin cans with dozens of old-world brands on them, each filled with interesting-looking scraps and rocks. There were one or two pieces of cloth ripped off of people's old clothes with cool logos, and a pretty wedding ring inside as well. In contrast to the first item, the second was both very not-simple and very not-useless. It was an ornate rapier, decorated with several gems and gold on the hilt, and the image of a bird spreading its wings as a pommel. If it were not for the grime the weapon had been exposed to, it would practically be glowing. He treaded over to the blade, the floor squelching under his feet, and fastened its similarly-embroidered scabbard onto his waist. Then, he lifted the clanging, junk-filled sack onto his back and secured it with the buckle on his chest. The banging sound outside continued as he made his way toward the front door, his feet continuing to splash in the red puddles and chunks on the floor. After pulling open the half-torn-off-the-hinge door, he stepped outside and took a nice, deep breath through his nose. The air smelled strongly of iron: It was fantastic. The banging started again, accompanied by a wailing sound this time. He turned his gaze to it's source: A creature with rotting, black skin. It's bottom jaw had split into four sections, all moving as individual mandibles with razor-sharp teeth. the skin on its chest had receded behind the bone, and the ribs had overgrown; twisting around the body into an almost-armor. The knees and elbows had spikes of crooked bone jutting out of them, and every other finger and toe had either a fingernail or similar bone-growth. And his favorite part was its eyes. Its pitch-black eyes were just like his: A portal into an endless void. A delicious endless void. The reason it was banging so much was rather simple: It wanted free. Several minutes earlier, he had jammed a piece of bent rebar through it's chest, impaling it onto the wall. Seeing him seemed to make it angry, so it began thrashing more and more violently. "I'm truly sorry," he said in the same plastic voice, moving closer to it. "You see, sometimes it's hard to catch guys like you alive, so when the chance appears, I have to hang you up to..." Now he stood in front of the angry monster, looking dead in its black eyes. As he placed his hand of the hilt of his blade, the beast suddenly reacted. With a screech, it's amalgamated ribcage ripped itself open, and the bones began twisting around the rebar, pulling and jerking desperately. The creature grew similar claws on its feet and hands, digging itself into the wall for support. Slowly-but-surely, the metal bar began to slide out of the wall and the creatures abdomen, inching toward his face. A smile painted his face as he drew the ornate sword. With one hand, he pointed the tip at the center of its forehead. "... To keep you fresh."

[jumjummju]

Arthur made his way through the gore-covered field and toward the DERB van the men had arrived in. He walked around the vehicle, looking it over as best he could; it seemed to be intact and working, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he tried to start the thing. After examining the vehicle, Arthur opened the driver side door and plopped himself down in the driver’s seat. The interior of the van was torn leather with shoddy repair work present in the worst spots. Adjusting the seat to suit his height, Arthur looked around for the keys, rummaging through the console between the driver and passenger seats; it held nothing but a handgun and some stale rations. Suddenly, a head peeked in past the front seats, popping up suddenly with a, “Hey! Arthur, does it work?” Jones had a grin wider than the Cheshire Cat as he peered around the cabin of the vehicle. “It’s damn big…” “I think so. I just need to find the bloody keys first,” Arthur replied absentmindedly, now having moved his search to the glove box. Jones grabbed the handgun, examining it with a keen eye. “I think it’s a Glock. Never was a gun nut. S’worth its weight in gold, though. ” He shrugged, frowning slightly at his own comparison. “Well. Not gold, gold is useless. Beans, I might say.” Catherine, meanwhile, was turfing through the remains - or at least, what was left of the remains - of a pile of dead flesh that used to be bodies to see if she could find something that hadn’t been blown into enough pieces to make a jigsaw puzzle with. She saw a glint of something shiny in a particularly gross puddle of blood and grabbed what appeared to be some car keys, covered in blood. She headed on over to Jones and Arthur in the van and knocked on the door. “‘Ey, I think I found the keys.” Arthur looked up from his search of the glove box, a screwdriver held in his hand. He turned to see Catherine standing with the keys held in her hand. He thanked her as he grabbed the keys from her and slipped them into the ignition switch of the van. He turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life with some difficulty. “We now have transportation, Mr. Jones. Before we use this vehicle, though, we may want to scrape off the DERB paint and take off any other distinguishing factors just in case.” Jones nodded thoughtfully as he listened in, slightly tapping the dial that showed the hydrogen tank, seventy percent full. “Yeah… We should do that, but the thing is… I have no idea how to drive.” “Hey,” Catherine added with a smirk, “we could use all this blood out here to paint the van red.” “If we want to look like lunatics, yes… Luckily, Mr. Jones, I am old.” Jones flicked Catherine in the forehead with a finger as Arthur spoke, grinning again. “Hooray for being old. You remember how to drive it? Man, I can’t wait to show the rest of the crew,” he said with the enthusiasm of a school girl. “I do. Though, this model seems rather old even for the pre-Hail world, but as I said I can drive it.” Jones looked at Arthur with his grin widening even more. “It needs a name. Name it, you’re the Captain.” “I want to call it Bob,” Catherine replied. “Bob seems like a good name.” Jones flicked her in the forehead again. “Owwww, stop that,” Catherine pouted like a young child. “You don’t give a ship, or a van in this case, an actual name. You give it a theatrical name, like The Queen Anne’s Revenge.” Jones tapped the dashboard for a moment before responding, “How about The Bloody Strumpet?” he said as he pointed to the bloody mess outside. “Perhaps an appropriate name to the situation it appeared to us in would be something like The Hallowed Harbinger?” “Oooh!” Catherine excitedly squealed. “How about ‘Bloody Bob’ then!?” Jones flicked her in the forehead with the power of a thousand suns, prompting the frown of a wounded child. “The Blood Stained Robert?” Jones frowned back at Arthur. “Oh, come on. I can’t bop you in the forehead.” He reclined back in the passenger seat with a groan. “You know what? Fine. The van’s name is Bob. Case closed.” Catherine let out an excited “Yay!” and hopped into the van, sitting basically on top of Jones, who let out a groan of annoyance with a muffled, “get off,” which went unnoticed by Catherine. “Good to see you respect your elders. Very well… but I’m calling it Robert.” A knock on the driver side door was revealed to be Jeremy holding a crate of supplies from the gas station, who spoke up. “Robert? Who’re we calling Robert?” with an enormous amount of cluelessness. “Apparently the van…,” Arthur replied, eyeballing the crate. “Wh… why are we calling the van Robert? That’s not even a name for a van,” Jeremy replied, still clueless. “Can you think of a better name for it, then?” Catherine indignantly replied, still on Jones’s lap. Jones looked extremely uncomfortable as Jeremy spoke up, “Well, there’s Contergan, Tin Lizzie, Gullwing, Pagoda, Adenauer, Strawberry Basket, the Rolling Egg, Magnum…” he said, going unnoticed. “Hm… What if we call it Safe Zone Robert?” “SZ Bob?” Catherine asked. “I like that.”

[The Red Zephyr]

As the Voyagers had expected, The Elm wasn't exactly bustling, despite their tall companion's insistence of the inn's quality. The atmosphere was rather subdued for an Asylum establishment, with its dozen-or-so candle-lit tables; only two of them occupied. The bottom floor was rather dark and unbalanced, since only the tables in use had their candles lit and there seemed to be more staff than guests. The woman behind the front desk and bar table--a somewhat hefty bleach-blonde--sat back in her chair filing her fingernails without a care in the world, while another slender, dark-haired woman made her way through the kitchen doors, a hint of fear in her eyes. The only man in the room--a gruff-looking muscly type-- leaned against the wall to the right of the greeter-bartender staring intently at the group of Voyagers out of the corners of his eyes. He glanced briefly at the blonde before pretending to clear his throat to get her attention.

The greeter woman sighed before standing up out of her seat. "Welcome to The Elm, weary travelers," she began, feigning enthusiasm, "find a seat wherever you wish, or pay for your rooms and retire--or not--right away. We currently have seven vacancies."

A sigh of relief swept over Ian. There were enough rooms for everyone to have their own, which meant he wouldn't have to share with Tall and Quiet. The latter obviously kept to herself, but it made Ian uncomfortable to sleep next to someone he did not know the gender of.

"Great," Ryan replied, approaching the desk, "we'll take three rooms then. Gotta save money, and we don't wanna hog all of your space."

Ian cocked his head in confusion. Again? If money was an issue, why not buy just one room?

"Absolutely!" The greeter continued to act like she gave a damn, turning around and grabbing three keys from a hanger behind her head.

Both wearing fake smiles, Ryan and the blonde haggled for a minute before trading blues for the three keys. Ian thought he heard something about their "two best lays" but didn't pay much attention.

Instead, the lone soul in the back corner of the room caught his attention. A man with sunken eyes and very blackened veins sat in the least conspicuous part of the inn, which made him seem the most conspicuous. Ian wondered if this man had been the source of the other woman's fearful look.

"Kid!" Ryan's scolding voice broke through. Ian turned his gaze back to the team leader to see a key on a chain dangling in front of his face. "You're bunking with Alex and Jean. Room 15. Don't give a damn what you guys do: Sleep, drink, fuck all night, whatever. But make sure you're down here by oh-five-hundred tomorrow."

With a sigh, the Tall One snatched the keys from Ryan's hands. "Leave the poor kid alone. He didn't wanna do anything but sleep the last few nights and he hasn't slept in."

Ryan scoffed, "Yeah but he's on cloud nine every waking minute. Maybe some pussy and discipline is what he needs to get his head on straight."

The two continued to bicker for another minute or so before realizing Ian had taken the keys from Tall and gone to the room himself.

The leader shook his head in disbelief. "Seriously what is up with him? The Voyagers take in anyone these days."

The tall Voyager glanced at the staircase Ian had taken upstairs, then replied in a lowered voice, "But you saw what he did to those 'Guards. They didn't even touch him: He acted like it was nothing. If he wasn't there, the whole thing would have turned really ugly."

"Believe me, I know Al." Ryan's voice also lowered. "His other squads couldn't handle him; said he was unpredictable. But if we can use him, control whatever the fuck he let out today, the Voyager big-wigs will notice. We'll get bigger jobs and be rollin' in blue."

"Can you really control that though?"

[Nib]

Arthur slumped back in the front seat as the van continued on down the road; it had run fine so far, which was lucky for the caravan. Their luck had definitely turned around since being held up by the DERB soldiers that had owned the van before them. Arthur turned to look around at the others shoved into the van next to one another like sardines, thanking whatever deity watched over the wastes that he was in his own seat.

Meanwhile on the other seat, Jones sat uncomfortable with a heavy weight sitting on him. Catherine had decided to take the ride on his lap instead of maybe sitting in the back. ’Not enough room.’ Even with their group of twelve, the van was very large and had shelves and you could even fit stuff under the floor. Still, ‘not enough room.’ Though he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it, he had a sense of professionalism to keep. As much as Jones complained, however, there genuinely was almost no room in the back due to the large amount of stuff they brought, and Catherine didn’t actually want to sit on his lap. She was mostly just screwing around with that.

The van flew down the empty streets, passing the wastes by and taking the caravan much further than they would have normally traveled on foot. Arthur could feel the familiar tug of fatigue on his eyelids as he kept the van straight and on the road. He looked over at the “happy couple” sitting next to him and cleared his throat to get Jones’s attention.

Jones looked up from the small project he had pulled out. A torn shirt he was busy sewing up while trying to use the most of his limited space that had been taken up by Catherine. “Yeah?” he asked, cursing as the van bumped slightly into the air, pricking himself in the finger.

“I’m starting to feel tired. I think we should pull over for the night,” he yawned.”Soon you’ll want to start playing bingo and going to the bathroom twelve times a day, old man,” Jones said with a small grin as he set aside the embroidery and pulled out a map. “Go ahead and stop at the next intersection.”

“Finally!” Catherine said with an exhausted groan. “You have an uncomfortable lap!” Jones grunted, responding with “You have an uncomfortable ass, what about it?” Catherine mocked being offended. “My ass is very comfortable!” Jones continued, “And you’d think in the apocalypse, you might weigh a little less. My legs feel numb.” In response to this, Catherine adjusted herself in such a way as to dig into Jones a bit more uncomfortably. He groaned.

In the midst of the bickering going on next to him, Arthur pulled the van over and put it into park. Opening the door, he got out and stretched his back and leg to relieve the tightness driving so long had caused. Jones basically pushed Catherine off as he got out, placing the map onto the hood of the car and taking a look. “We’re on the intersection of Tyler and Rudolph street…” he thought aloud as he traced the map with his finger. “Shit,” he said placing a finger only a centimeter above a bright red splotch. “We’re right here. We’re too damn close to the Hail Zone. We’re not in it, per say, but.. I’d like to be careful, you know?”

“As do I, Mr. Jones, but the van should get us through the Hail Zone protected and quickly.”

“While Bob has enough room for us to sit well enough, I somehow doubt we’ll all fit in there trying to sleep.” He pondered for a moment as he looked around the intersection before smiling. “And it looks like we found a good place,” Jones said as he pointed across the street. A rustic old pub named the Ace of Clubs stood, a veritable castle in his eyes.

“Hey! Maybe they’ll have booze in there!” Catherine said, a spark in her eyes. “That’s what I was hoping for,” Jones said with a grin. “That, and the fact that bars usually have pretty tight security. Don’t want all your fancy wines to get stolen, yeah?”

“Good eye, Mr. Jones. Where should we keep the van though? We probably shouldn’t just drive up in a vehicle. That could get our throats slit and the van stolen.” Jones let out a grunt of agreement before pulling his eyes up and making binoculars as he looked around. “Ah-hah! There, you see that?” he said, pointing at a garage. Arthur was looking around the area himself when Jones pointed out the garage, and looked up to see where it was. The building itself was an old mechanic shop abandoned like so many other places after the Hail. With a nod of affirmation, Arthur started the van back up and swung it around the back of the shop, stopping short due to the closed door.

“Catherine, be a dear and go open the door, and be careful. It’s hard to tell if there’s Lost lurking in there or just desperate people.” Catherine sighed. “Right, right, I’ll go get the door because you men are too scared to.”

Jones snorted, “Just open it, Cath. It’ll be good for your figure as well,”he said as he began to tug his double barrel out of his pack. “I’ll cover you.”

Catherine grumbled something about menial labor before grabbing the handle of the door. It was rather heavy, but using her feminine wiles and grace she managed to coax it up and open. Much to their surprise, nothing decided to jump out and spook them. It was just a normal garage, covered in dust. Tool racks and workstations sat looted and unused, all their valuable tools gone. Jones stooped to the floor and said, “Ooh, a penny.” The headlights of the van flooded the garage in a pale luminescence as Arthur pulled forward, past Jones and Catherine to park the mobile Safe Zone in the center of the old workstation.

Arthur hobbled out of SZ Bob and up to Jones, looking around as he went; there was thick layer of dust over the old, rust-spotted tools and the windows that weren’t shattered and busted. Jones nodded to the man and strolled to the back of the van, knocking thrice on the door before it opened. Nova almost immediately jumped out and stretched. “Fucking finally! It was more cramped in there than between my legs on a busy night!”

Jones snorted yet again. “Apologies for the stuffy environment, madam. But hey, its better than walking, ain’t it?” Jeremy let out a gasp as he finally got out, breathing in fresh air. “I think the ventilation system could use a bit of work, sir. There wasn’t much air getting in.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see about fixing it in the morning, Jeremy. In the mean time, take a break, stretch your legs, we’ll see about scouting our house for the night.” From the back, another voice popped out, Ron. “You say that about everything, Jones. ‘I’ll fix this, I’ll fix that’. I’ll believe it when I see it.” Arthur turned toward the man complaining about Jones’s handyman skills or lack thereof, and then limped over to one of the windows facing the street where the bar was, slipping the van keys into his pocket as he went. He could just make out the sign to the bar through the dirt and grime on the pane of glass; the bar seemed to be the only thing at the intersection, or at least the only place opened at the current hour.

Jones waved off Ron with a wave of his hand as he tugged on Catherine, following after Arthur to go investigate their safe haven. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Catherine grumbled as she was pulled towards the front door. The tubes that formed the playing card sign hanging above the door of the small pub had since burnt out and become nothing more than tombs of the phosphorescent gasses that once lit the sign in an attempt to draw in drunks and travelers alike like moths to a flame in the dead of night. Even without the aid of the gasses trapped in the tubes though, the pub drew in drunk and travelers. Beneath the ancient sign, the grey brick building held cracks from years of drunken brawls between patrons and even the occasional car. Set in the aged brick was a thick wooden door with a small, shattered window once used to minimise the amount of light allowed into the drunken haven to prevent the patrons from knowing what time of day it was without risking the angry glare of the sun.

The double barreled shotgun was held up as Jones tried the door. To his surprise it was unlocked, unlike seemingly every other house in the city that required a crowbar. He let out a ‘huh’ as he opened it, revealing the inner sanctum. Its condition was… so-so.

While it wasn’t a mockery, it certainly wasn’t what most would call clean. The tables were covered in dust like most places, but other than beer stains and the like, they were serviceable. As well as tables, the booths were large enough and plenty enough that they could serve as beds for their crew. The shelves at the bar were empty of course, with the remnants of smashed glasses and bottles.

All in all, it looked like a bar.

“Huh. Its a nice place, I was expecting worse,” Jones said as he walked towards the bar, taking a seat on one of the cushioned stools with a sigh. “You ever been to bars, Arthur? I can imagine they’d be nice. Then again, living life without having to scrounge for food is nice as well.”

“I’ve been to a few, Mr. J-”

Suddenly, a loud crashing noise was heard in the room behind the bar, followed shortly thereafter by Catherine shouting “I FELL THROUGH THE FLOOR AGAIN!” Jones stood up abruptly. “AGAIN?”

“Yeah, this happens quite often!” Catherine shouted back. “There’s a lot of stuff down here, though!” Arthur followed the sound of Catherine’s voice, arriving at the edge of a hole in the floor of the bar, where he looked down into the dark of the cellar below.

“Are you alright,” he asked, his mind already working on treating her, meanwhile Jones hopped down without giving Catherine a second thought as he took a look around. “Jesus was this guy stocked.”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Catherine replied, glaring at Jones. “I’ve fallen through floors before.”

“As a practitioner of medicine, I am both morally and legally obligated to warn you to not make a habit of falling through floors, as it is bad for your health.”

Jones grabbed a bottle from the shelf, reading the label. “A thirty- well, forty-five year old Sauvignon Blanc,” he said, botching the pronunciation completely. “I have no idea what it is, but, bottoms up,” he said as he gripped the cork in his teeth, pulling it out and taking a deep swig.

“...Savvy-non Blank?” Catherine repeated, going to climb back up to the first floor. “Sounds gross.” Jones scrunched his face up slightly. “Its a little aged, but not half bad. And jeez, look at all of ‘em! There’s gotta be like fifty bottles!”

“Mr. Jones, as per our agreement, I have first choice of medical supplies, and strong alcohol can be used to dull pain in the case of surgery,” Arthur called down the hole.

“So can a hammer-blow to the head, but I don’t see you complaining about any tools we find,” Catherine replied, patting Arthur on the back. “Don’t worry, doc. You’ll get your pick, there’s a ton. And while you’re at it, do you mind prescribing some of this?” Jones said, waving the bottle as he took another swig.

“Perhaps I can once I see the ‘drug facts’ on the labels.”