Black James(!)
Location: The Hordebuster, Building 4 Parking Lot
There was blood splashed across the floor of the Hordebuster's dump body. It was expected. Actually, more blood was expected than what lay smeared below James's feet, but that was fine by him. The wet, crimson patterns and swirls were illuminated by a steadily burning hurricane lantern hanging from the wall above, flickering every once in a while. James had considered lighting a second one, Lord knew that Ash liked to keep his ride stocked with gear and provisions in redundancy, but decided against it until others showed up. Nights like this after a rough patch, the back of the 'Buster became a sort of public house.
The last time, standing members of Newnan's Leads drank fine liquor with newcomers. Stories of the dead were shared. People bonded. Those two Viking girls invited themselves in and... well, and James just made himself sad thinking about them. Suffice it to say, ever since joining up with Newnan and these people, he had grown to appreciate what this vehicle meant to its owner and to the people around here. Him taking a mop to clean out the back, that was part respect to Ash, part respect to the 'Buster. It saved lives. It brought people together. It was a home inside of a home, a fortress, a refuge. And apparently, sometimes a bar.
He was almost done. The mop has turned red with its work, and slowly washed back out to an unimpressive grey. Only a thin sheen of moisture decorated the smooth floor, soon to evaporate into nothingness. The back of the dump body was wide open, creating an awning of sorts, and the loading ramp was fully extended. It made a sort of aluminum pathway down to the blacktop, where two large couches, a recliner, and a couple of utility boxes lay neatly. James paused and removed his t-shirt, utilizing it to wipe the sweat from his brow. Nighttime usually brought a gentle breeze and cooler temperatures, but some summer evenings just refused to give up the heat of the day. This seemed especially true when one performed an act of labor. James looked down at himself, for the first time in a while taking in the fact that he was already in his forties. His body was beginning to show it, too. No matter the amount of physical labor he endured, and he was no stranger to this, he couldn't seem to shake a certain amount of girth. Not that he was prideful. Maybe a little. James was strong, no doubt, and an industrious man, but it was well known that he hated running.
A moment to stretch his muscles and adjust a strap on his overalls over his otherwise bare torso brought his thoughts back to the present. Cleanup was all well and good, necessary pretty much all the time now. Blood seemed to get everywhere, so much so that people just stopped being offended by its presence. The concept of "squeamish" died off after the first couple of months of the apocalypse, and kept getting hammered down to a distant memory. People that got nervous around gore were oddities, as far as he was concerned.
Along those lines, more dead people had to be dealt with. Be it a bit morbid, James had the odd idea to burn them all. Burn them, and sow their ashes into the fields. A person of romantic bent would say that even in death, they continued to take care of the community. A pragmatic person would say that the additional rendered carbon compounds would mix excellently with pig shit and nitrogen fixing provided by alternating cover crops of legumes, resulting in reliably awesome soil for cold weather growth. He probably should lead his proposal with the more romantic angle. Definitely.
And didn't Bridgette want to be burned anyway? Yeah... and her soul was supposed to ascend in the smoke, not the ash. Okay, okay... more ideas for the proposal.
But
first, he took a long, hard look down at the huge boxes and the furniture and various Hordebuster sundries. He removed his nigh-trademarked stetson cowboy hat, scratched the back of his head, and tried very hard to remember how he got all this crap out of the Hordebuster by himself in the first place. And more importantly...
"How the ass'm I gettin' this back in by myself, now?" James sighed. This had officially become more annoying than he wanted it to be.
Ash Holloway
Location: Building 1 (Infirmary)
That guy Beni was alright. Ash may have been a little hard on him. Yes, people did die, and though it was on a mission to help his people, it wasn't their doing. Everyone was still trying to survive as best they could, and he couldn't fault them for it. But the random, pointless death? That fucking tree that took out two people
quite by accident, sitting in the middle of the road, slathered with their blood. He needed a drink. Big one.
Night was closing over Newnan, and he still had much to do. Interviews - A couple had already taken place, but more new people were in the church they were using as a Mess Hall. It was the last responsibility he had to tend to that evening, before he could crawl into the back of his Hordebuster with a bottle of decent hooch and try to blunt the metaphorical knife that the day's events were driving into his skull. Even before the last couple of interviews, he had one more stop to make, across the way from his 'Buster. Froggy apparently wanted to give him a checkup. Fine with him. It had been a good, long while anyway.
Ash looked across the street to see light spilling out of his truck, at least the back of it, and noted James was keeping true to his word, cleaning out the back. Probably the only man who could do that unannounced that he wouldn't put a knife into (or at least consider). It was his hope that James would be done by the time he was ready to clock out for the evening.
Turning back to the building, Ash considered the reality of his situation. He was essentially just a Lieutenant who got a battlefield promotion that stuck, fixed in a war that never quite ended, living off of his environment and constantly raising a militia. Everyone he cared about was dead or missing (some missing for years), and those few that he allowed into his heart since had gone from this world in horrifying ways. Ash was tired of the fight. His often overwhelming sense of duty prevented him from stopping. People still needed him. He wasn't done.
Ashton pushed open the doors to the makeshift infirmary. He recalled when it was set up by their first Doctor, Vivian. She was a morbidly frightening lady. More than a touch offputting, but damned effective. She had his respect. This new setup by their new Doctor was a little softer, more patient-friendly. More like a hospital, less like a laboratory. He actually preferred it this way, though he would rather have both Doctors alive and working than a cheerier locale. Knocking on the now opened door to announce his presence, he adopted a "parade rest" stance and cleared his throat.
"I'm here for that checkup, Doc. I'll want the Reader's Digest version, though - I only have a little time in between duties right now. Unless you'd rather do this tomorrow." 
