Ash Holloway
Location: The Bus -> Quarantine (Showers)
Skills: N/A
Ash gave Beatrice the human equivalent of a confused dog's facial expression. While not a man of exceedingly few words, perhaps he hadn't used enough to fully articulate his meaning. It happened. Probably a curse birthed of his background with the Army, where everyone pretty much knew what was intended, the few words used merely confirmation of what was expected. Alternately, Beatrice wanted nothing to do with him while they were in quarantine. For that matter, maybe
he didn't understand the exchange. Best to broach the subject in brief as soon as they had some "settling in" time before jumping to conclusions.
His thought process to that matter was stymied by the Chaplain handing him back his tags. And Thana's.
"Thank you." he responded, carefully taking the small, steel identification plates. They were courteous enough to return Thana's as well, bringing a series of questions to the forefront of his brain. Was she there, and they were giving him the opportunity to personally fulfill his promise? Was she not there at that time, and they wanted him to hang onto them until she returned? Or did they know something that he didn't - something gearing to the absolutely negative, for which he had been bracing himself all this time? Again, wait for more information before conclusions. He was here to make sure that the former Newnan residents had a home. Safety. Food. Purpose aside from bare survival. Everything else was secondary.
He heard the instructions of their hosts and felt honorbound to oblige. The assault weapons on standby were, at least in theory, an excellent motivator. It wasn't as if he was going to suddenly launch himself at the nearest person with a rifle with the intent of snatching it away and stepping on the guy's neck before putting a bullet between his eyes, clearing the way for him to partially empty the clip into the local authority, thusly giving him unrestricted access to the shower area and all of their nifty soaps. Oh, and disposable razors. Those were important. But he was being silly to entertain those thoughts.
Stepping into line with the rest of the survivors from the bus, his people and the others, he looked to the hazel-eyed girl with one abbreviated arm and noted that she looked in his direction as well. They shared a nod. Apparently she wished to speak to him as well. Or he was misreading something again.
The trip to the locker room gave him some perspective of the size of Camp Mexico Beach. From the outside it looked huge. From the inside, too. Such size gave him a moment of consideration. Was three hundred enough to secure such an area? Did they have any problems with other people? Hostile, less organized communities that wanted what they had? More and more questions for later. Right now, the lure of hot water and soap was absolutely drawing. Ash took to the shower with gratitude that he kept inside. Ever the situational poker player. He was fast and thorough washing himself, tipping his hand yet again to a background in the Service. Hot water was a commodity, and as massively thankful as he was to have it, he wasn't going to stand in it and let it cascade about himself because of the sheer pleasure of being able to do so, regardless of how much he wanted to.
Likewise, the shave he gave himself was fast and thorough. A safety razor, rather than a scavenged blade honed on the edge of a pane of vehicle glass, was damn near a novelty. It even took him a second to remember the proper way to hold it again. After he was done, he looked to a mirror and proclaimed in distant voice,
"I remember you." For a moment or two, he half-expected a response from somewhere in the back of his mind. All he got was a mildly exteriorized sense of acceptance.
Clothes in bag (minus dog tags), hospital gown and slippers replacing them. It was an interesting look, one that he probably would have fit into nicely back when he was borderline suicidal and heard voices inspired of grief. Another look to a mirror prompted a mumble of,
"Add a black tie, this makes a passable Nuthouse Formal." in his mild Virginian accent. He pulled a robe on, then looked to Wayne and Hank. They looked a little too comfortable in their new clothes. Ash was also vaguely aware that he had new people to meet and figure out.
"Any military in here?" he asked to the room. Might as well start somewhere.
Thalia Carmichael
Location: The Bus -> Quarantine (Showers)
Skills: N/A
The preacher surprised Thalia. From the sound of it, that Atticus guy knew something. She sure as hell didn't want to wait for the unknown and unknowable time of "later" to talk to someone who might know about her father. Ever since this goddamned Apocalypse started, all she wanted to do was reunite with her family. It had been a fruitless pursuit for over five years now. It might not have have been, if she hadn't been too late finding Newnan. She had an uncle and a cousin who had called that place home. Both were dead now. The remaining options to her involved San Antonio or the family compound in Monterrey, Mexico. Though it would be a shame to travel all that way, risking life and limb (another one, anyway) for absolutely nothing. But she couldn't even try for it
now.
Thalia was physically compromised. Weaker than she had been a year ago. She needed this place in a way that was similar to how she needed the help of the Shieldmaidens back in Fairburn. She was weak then, too. Malnourished, unable to survive for any stretch of time in the wilderness. Now that most of the world (including the cities) were essentially wilderness, her former life as an urbanite was a massive hindrance. She was so utterly different in that regard anymore. More comfortable up a tree or in front of a fire than in an air conditioned house. Better with the dark than florescent lighting. Yet, she needed this point of civilization to take a pause from the rigors of just surviving. Thalia had to adapt to her new reality,
again. She had to become stronger.
Her mind switched back to the present. There was someone else who knew about her family on this bus; the man who reminded her of Thana. He was the guy in charge of the settlement that some of these people came from. Also, Thalia caught him looking over in her direction a few times. Maybe he needed to say something. She risked a look in his direction, only to see that he was doing the same. He nodded, she nodded back. Okay, he
did want to talk. She thought, anyway. Or he was just a creeper with an amputee fetish.
Fine. Later. Whenever this mystical "later" occurred, she was going to have that talk.
And the one with that Army Captain. Oh, there would be talks aplenty, but first, that shower seemed like a good way to pass the time. She stripped down, mostly without the modesty that used to accompany taking her clothes off around people. She had gotten used to doing it one-handed by now, and almost had the whole balance thing down pat, too. But so much more was required before she was back to her best.
For those who hadn't seen what lay underneath her clothing of convenience (because the stuff she was wearing was
not her preferred style by a long shot), one might be surprised to see the amount of physical scarring packed onto her body. It looked like she had been painted upon by an abstract artist going through a "knife fight phase" in places, what hadn't been marked by the difficulties of living away from people during an undead uprising. There were marks birthed of gunfire as well; a couple of grazes, one in her side, and another, older one in her chest. And the hand missing from the midpoint of her forearm, down. Her life had not been gentle thusfar. Again, a wave of self-consciousness took her. It quickly evaporated when she smiled at Beatrice,
"Yeah, take it off, Killa Bea!" Her expression quickly turned to the serious, even empathetic, when she glanced in the direction of Tatiana. That girl had some scars. And she didn't get them the same way that Thalia did, from the looks of it. She wasn't ready to get all buddy-buddy with the new people yet, but something in her wanted to hug the woman. Preferably after they were all fully dressed again. Still, the lady with the Russian accent looked like she could use a friend. But first, shower!
What Thalia hadn't considered was that she wasn't accustomed to hot water anymore. The big shock of her day (aside from the helicopter) was the jolt to her system that happened when heated water nailed her skin. Her first instinct was to turn the heat
way down. She really had been outside for too long. Like a cat preferred the alley to a heated apartment. One thing she didn't have a problem with in the least was the application of a razor.
"Geez, I'm a friggin' sasquatch ovah here... Ey Bea, gaht any shaving gel?" The Boston was strong with her just then.
Clothes bagged, and burned for all she cared, hair shampooed for the first time in ages, and a fluffy robe to cover her ass. She couldn't help but feel a little silly when she noticed the sleeve of the robe flapping about, covering the stump of her right forearm. It even brought a little chuckle out of her. Laugh, shower, and shave aside, Thalia was not exactly trusting nor comfortable right then. She found a spot on the wall and leaned against it, waiting for what was going to happen next.
Hank Wright
Location: The Bus -> Quarantine (Showers)
Skills: N/A
He considered it for a second,
"Yeah, don't worry about it. This is something I have got to get ahold of. I know someone who is going to just absolutely love this. Really. Whole lot." The faux innocent look on his face was punctuated by his eyes moving in Nigel's direction.
In contrast to his usual grumpy demeanor, Hank was seriously okay with what was going on. He was a man of creature comfort and simple tastes, and the basest of these had been stripped from him for a long time. He would take what he could get when he could get it. Usually it was something along the lines of a bag of pork rinds here, a warm and flat beer there, possibly the joy of finding a few functional shotgun shells. Days where he found all three made him as satisfied as a kid on Christmas. Those were few and far between. The idea of a shower, seafood, and clothing that he hadn't slept in (for a month or two) was almost too much. Hell, these people might mistake him for a cheerful guy if this kept up. They'd figure it out one way or another in time, provided that they were allowed to stay. That was,
both of them. Hank wasn't going to have a piece of a normalish life if Wayne was left out of it. Friends didn't abandon each other like that. Especially not after going through what they had for the last few years. Even before dead assholes started eating live ones.
The plan was simple: He wanted to sit down someplace comfortable and be generally left alone, aside from the occasional manly thing stated so that he might grunt in agreement. If a beer was involved, great. Before that was going to happen, there was some food to get through, and by "get through", he meant attack with wild abandon. It wasn't a steak, but who the hell cared? Maybe his visions of a crab boil would pay off. Yay food. But before
even that, there was a shower. This might be a hurdle between he and his dream of sitting the hell down, but it was one he was very happy to jump.
To see him clean himself up, you might think that Hank was attempting to fully sand the top few layers of his skin off. At one point toward the end of his vigorous scrubbing session, the soap popped out of his hands and landed a couple of feet away. He looked at the bar laying on the tile, to the people around him, and back to the soap.
"Nope! No sir, I've seen this movie. I'm not that pretty, but I don't know how long some of you have been out in the sticks. Yeah..." He looked suspiciously at the other naked people in the room, and stepped on the soap. Clenching it with his toes, Hank slid it across the floor until it found the wall, then made the less steady move up the wall. When he was about ready to lose his balance and break something internal, his hand whipped downward and snatched it back up.
"Not the type to judge anyone's lifestyle." He shrugged, and made a quick retraction,
"Okay, I am, but I need a little romancing first. And a lot of booze. LOT." Effecting a subject change,
"Where's that razor again?" A clean shave was not his preference. He was a sideburns and 'stache kind of guy. Not a foray into manscaping, mind you, but he was set in his ways as the option was given to him. It took a little longer to pull off than the others who were ridding themselves of all excess facial hair. He didn't care. This was his own personal ritual of hygiene and grooming, and damnit, he was going to do it his way. Afterward, he looked himself over. Not bad for a man in his 50s. Not great, but not bad. The get-up he had to wear was really damned familiar, too... a little too familiar. He got a smile out of the younger man's comment about "Nuthouse Formal", though he wasn't about to let on how close the guy was to the truth.
Wayne did that for him.
"Yeah there, Maldonado. Deja fucking vu. Those were some good times, huh?" The sarcasm was palpable.
"Got your reference there, but isn't it a little early in the day for Charlotte's Web? I would have gone for a Jonathan Swift work instead... Eh, each their own." Looking to their hosts, Hank gave an offhand inquiry.
"Hey! Any chance you figured out cable TV? I'd fork over a big, shiny nickel for some History Channel action." 
