[ Five years ago, the world ended, and no one saw it coming. No one expected it to be this bad. They'd tried to fight back, find a way to rid themselves of the first infection, only to have a second spread just as quickly. Society splintered as infrastructure crumbled, and in the end, the population fell to a fate literally worse than death. In the aftermath of that fall, nature began to reclaim what humanity took from it, while the infected roamed the earth, hunting what was left of the living.
In short, this is hell, but it's no less than she deserves.
She'd tried. She'd failed. It's her fault that the cities are filled with the shambling dead, survivors scattered and clinging to what scraps of life they can find, everyone trying to simply make it from one day to the next. It doesn't matter that years have passed since all of this started, since the Hive and Umbrella's failed attempts at controlling the T-virus, since the Red Queen failed to stop the outbreak. It doesn't matter that Umbrella is truly at fault for everything that happened. Alice carries the weight of her own failure with her every day, the burden of it just as heavy as her hatred of Umbrella, because she knows she could have prevented all of this if she'd been a little more careful, a little faster, a little stronger. She is crushed by the guilt of every person she's lost and the responsibility for all the thousands of lives still out there.
(She wants to hope it's more than just thousands, but hope left her a long time ago, right around the third month of traveling alone when she's come across another school full of infected children. Those nightmares still linger with her, the children's faces inevitably morphing into Angie's.)
Saving people becomes the only way she can keep going. The only way to alleviate that gnawing guilt. One life, two. Seven, on a good day. She protects them, sees them to shelter, and moves on. Days pass without her seeing another living soul, sometimes weeks, and the only thing to break up the hours bleeding into each other are the satellite tracking alerts that help her stay off the grid.
(A small part of her clings to the possibility that Umbrella has fallen just like everything else, but until she knows for certain, she just can't risk being found by the corporation that was supposed to be the hero and turned into the villain.)
But for all the time she's spent roaming like a nomad since the world ended for the second time, she's stayed where it's safe. The wandering dead are what she knows, and even the occasional escaped experiment is simple enough to deal with or avoid, but there's more out there in the world. Large sprawling cities are the worst, becoming a patchwork of different infected zones blending into each other along the edges. It takes time to learn the signs of either, and so she prefers to stick to the smaller cities and towns where most people were evacuated early on, leaving a hope of actually finding supplies in her scavenging... and of encountering relatively few of the dead.
Where the T-virus had spread, the cordyceps outbreak happened near-simultaneously, with cities around the world falling practically overnight. For three years, she's steered clear of the areas where cordyceps reigns supreme — but nature doesn't follow clear boundaries and the lines keep moving on her. As carefully as she tries to keep track on the dozen maps stuffed in her pack, things change in the months between, and sometimes it seems like the environment in certain areas is actually adapting to better suit the new dominant organism.
It's what she faces now, a thing she doesn't fully understand and isn't as equipped to fight. She'd followed the road, weaving her bike through small town after small town, avoiding any large metropolis as usual unless her radio picked up a distress call. But night is setting in, and it's too dangerous to travel in the dark, so as the sky begins to shift into shades of red and orange, she pulls into a smaller city where she can sense only a hint of infection in the distance. Maybe it was cleared recently, or maybe the dead have just wandered off in search of better feeding grounds. There is something out there, though, so she shuts off the bike and walks it instead, not wanting the sound of the engine to garner any unwanted attention. And when she sees the beginning of vines at the end of an alley she passes, she moves a little faster, keeping her eyes open for anything moving in the growing darkness. ]
( They had decided to take the town in teams, splintering into clusters of two or three in order to complete the sweep before making any decisions one way or another, but their options have been running thin for days. With supplies dwindling and Rebecca down for the count with a twisted ankle, the unevenness of their grouping leaves Joel feeling exposed. Normally he would be part of a trio, with Tess fanning out to his left and Tommy flanking on the right, but Rebecca being laid up means that Ricardo is without anyone to pair off with, leaving them unbalanced. Even with Tommy hot on his heels, the nose of his rifle trained toward the ground but his finger ever ready along the trigger, something crawls into the pit of Joel's stomach and twists there, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end and his hands jumpy at his sides. His palm rests on the butt of his revolver, the healing gash across the bridge of his nose smarting as he squints between the buildings lining the street, and he inclines his head toward the left when his brother meets his eye, fading sunlight spilling across the pavement as they retrace their steps.
Missouri has been in their rear view for weeks, taking most of the colder weather with it, but the alleviation of the stress that particular leg of their trip had brought with it has not dissipated as the others had hoped it would. If anything, it has only grown stronger, more pronounced, as they continue to pick their way across the country. Infected have been few and far between on the trek here, away from the back roads they have used to put distance between themselves and waylaid by the cold, drawn into more populated areas by the sound of gunfire or the dull buzz of the few QZs that haven't fallen to riots in the wake of the rumored rise and collapse of some promised solution to the problem. Most of their skirmishes have involved other people, though it's ended better for them than it has for anyone else. The cut across his nose, Rebecca's ankle, the long abrasion down the back of Tess's thigh - all are souvenirs as they continue to push northeast, and all are testaments to how lucky they have managed to get thus far. Joel is not eager to see it run out, and he keeps his attention trained on the road ahead as a consequence, clocking Tommy's location without having to look back at him, ready to pull the trigger without a moment's hesitation or consideration for who or what is at the opposite end of the Taurus.
Five years has both sharpened and dulled them all. Joel does not spare even a second of time to stop and think about the person that he used to be, even though the constant reminder of that stranger digs into his wrist every time he claps his palm over the shattered face of his watch. That person could not do the things that he has needed to do in order to make it this far, and that person could not do the one thing needed in order to make sure the only person who ever really mattered made it beyond the river. Joel leaves that man on the pavement in this no-name town just as he had left him in the military triage back in Austin, trying one of the rear doors to what looks like a corner store. Peeling white letters stamped just below a window read EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Locked? Tommy calls over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping the mouth of the alley behind them. A retaining wall runs the length of the path behind them, a chain link fence stretching well over ten feet above their heads. A rolling hill of long-dead grass stretches beyond the fence, terminating in a dense patch of trees and underbrush that usher in the encroaching darkness as night begins to fall. Joel twists the doorknob under his hand but it doesn't budge. He doesn't immediately answer, but when he does, it's with a soft, sharp whistle. Having done this more than enough times, Tommy doesn't hesitate, swinging the rifle over his shoulder by the strap and bracing himself, hands folded in front of him so that Joel can step into the weaving of his fingers.
The window over the door is smashed out, just big enough for him to squeeze through, though if the break were recent, he'd end up with handfuls of jagged glass and a belly split open as he slithers through. Time has leveled the empty sill, however, and Joel only spends the moment that it takes to hold his breath and listen for anything crying or clicking in the darkness before pulling himself through to the other side. His drop to the floor is not graceful, but he gets to his feet soundly enough only to discover that the door is locked with a key that he doesn't have. Joel knocks twice on the door, signalling their current predicament, and works his flashlight out of his pack just in time to discover that he is surrounded by spiraling tendrils of sprawling fungi. )
Fuck. ( There is not a clear cut path through the network of fungus, but he knows that he can't stay where he is either. Not for the first time, Joel laments that they don't have walkie-talkies in order to better communicate with each other, but there is no point in dwelling on what can't be changed when he needs to focus on every step that he takes. The fungus spreads out from a further source like hundreds of fingers, some of the vines as thick as his forearms. Living, breathing, reaching out for another host to pull underneath the current of the infection. His throat dry, Joel takes one step and then another. Another. Another. The door to the front of the shop has been left open - more luck; it will run out - and he steps through it, keeping an eye out for the source of the spread and anything else lying in the darkness, watching him. He finds it in aisle three.
It turns, screams, mouth open, lunges, and Joel unloads two bullets into it that drop it to the ground, where it falls face first onto the winding bloom of the fungus beneath it. Joel does not wait to find out where the rest of the Infected will spill from; he pushes past the gondolas to reach the front of the store, shouting for Tommy to get out as loud as he can, his heart already pounding in his chest, in his ears. There is a rumble from somewhere near the back of the shop, but Joel does not turn to check it, shouldering the front door open just as the gasping, sobbing cries of Infected come crawling out of the back room of the corner store, spilling out into the surrounding basements where they have lain quiet long enough to connect to one another. )
[ Alice is slowly making her way through the town when she hears the sound of those gunshots nearly echo through the silent streets. Two in quick succession, meaning either a conflict between people or— A distant shout is followed quickly by the unmistakable sounds of the Infected she can't feel. And if they're sounding like that, then they're about to chase something. Someone.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Mounting her bike again, she roars the engine to life, surely drawing attention to herself but not giving a single fuck. If she's lucky, if this person is lucky, she might be able to reach them in time. Outrunning the cordyceps Infected is harder than those infected with the T-virus, so every second is precious. All it takes is a single bite... She's lost too many people to being just the slightest bit too slow. In this hellish world, even a stranger can be worth risking everything for.
It's impossible to miss the lone man on the next street over, or the increasing cries of Infected filling the air. There might be hundreds, for how loudly the eerie chorus rings out. Finding out exactly how many isn't something she has any desire to do, so she speeds toward the man, shouting to be heard over the cacophony. ]
Get on! [ If he hesitates at all as the bike screeches to a stop, she's not sure either of them will make it out of this. ]
( A marked absence of Infected along the road from Missouri to wherever the fuck they are now does not mean that that they have become any less prepared in knowing how to deal with them. They are all a long way from September 2003, when the world cracked open and spat out one long, unending nightmare that has only grown and twisted since its conception. Their aim has gotten better, their lungs more prepared to break into a sprint and not stop until a roof has been cleared or a door has been secured, and Joel himself has stopped bothering to wonder what's left of the person within the shell of plated, fungal armor and blooming stalks erupting out of eye sockets. That doesn't mean that they can't still be caught off guard, even when constantly expecting the other shoe to drop, and this is no exception.
He does not have time to worry about Tommy - or Tess, the only other member of their scrapped together little group that he actually gives a shit about; the rest of them are little more than means to an end, an alignment born out of a common goal - but that does not stop him from doing so. Rather than running, Joel puts distance between himself and the storefront and turns to walk backward, watching the glass ripple with the vibration from either further back in the shop or down below, in a cellar. The fence stretching rusting, ivy-encrusted links up over his and his brother's head is superimposed over his field of vision: a barrier that Tommy, despite his capability, might find difficult to haul himself up over, though he'll undoubtedly try as a means of putting anything between himself and what sounds like a writhing mass of Infected working its way out of the dark places left within the town. At least, that's what he should do.
Joel does not have the ammunition nor is he stupid enough to think that he has any chance in hell of handling this situation from this vantage point, at the very least. The plan, as it unfolds in real, rushed time, is to turn and book it across the street, either find something to climb on top of in order to get to the roof or beat the pavement fast enough to put enough distance between himself and what's coming to get a head start. Infected won't stop until they have no other options left - he's seen plenty of them clawing their way across the interstate, dragging themselves along, relentless in their pursuit of spreading the infection further - and he has not kept them alive this long to fuck up now. So on the second to last step that he takes backward, the intention remains to pivot and put as much distance between himself and whatever is coming up to meet him, but the sound of what Joel thinks sounds like a motorcycle cuts through the din reverberating from within the corner store, and he turns just as the bike comes roaring up along the street.
Without stopping to think about it, Joel pulls his revolver from his hip and points it directly at the rider, not willing to take the chance that this is some benevolent interloper out for an evening cruise. Days of trusting others on principle are long, long past, but it stands to reason that they are both currently in the same predicament, though what kind of lunatic willingly rides into a situation that is about to rapidly deteriorate? The split second it takes for Joel to deliberate on pulling the trigger - getting on the bike was never an option - is all that the fungus needs to capitalize on. Down the street, one of the windows in an abandoned coffee shop busts out, spraying glass all over the sidewalk and asphalt. Joel jerks his head around to watch Runners climbing over the lip of the window, snagging rotting clothing and stumbling over one another. Another window breaks further down, yielding the same, and he can hear the gondolas in the corner store slamming to the floor as they clamber out of the dark, dank shadows. )
Like hell. ( Even the rider's way back is compromised; the only way out is going to be up. Joel breaks into a flat run, cutting through the beam of the bike's headlight. He does not wait to see if she's going to follow him, heading for the open alley across the street from the one that he had peered down as he and Tommy approached the store from the rear. Pretty soon that bike is going to be useless, too exposed and open. The fire escapes along the backs of the buildings are a much better bet than trying to slice through the throng and not get pulled off or bit. )
[ The idea of the man refusing help hadn't even occurred to Alice until she watches him run through the arc of light and into the growing shadows on the other side of the street. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it makes sense — she's a stranger, and most people in this horrifying world probably wouldn't trust her or ability to navigate the bike through whatever is coming for them. The T-virus might protect her from the cordyceps infection (though she can't even be entirely sure it will), but a single bite is a death sentence to anyone else. So while a wave of frustration surges through the fear and panic within her, she pushes it all right back down where it belongs and focuses on the problem at hand.
She can't leave him. He's alive and that's all she needs to make the likely terrible decision to follow him. The bike falls onto its side as she throws herself off, one hand grabbing the bag hooked to it before she sprints after the person whose life she's tying her own too. Will this be the choice that finally gets her killed? Possibly, but when has that ever stopped her?
Her boots thudding on the pavement is drowned out by the cries of the creatures drawing closer, their pursuit as single-minded as the undead's but so much faster. Swinging the backpack's strap over one shoulder, her other hand unholsters one of her handguns and clicks off the safety, hoping her instincts and skill will give her leverage over the darkness spilling into the world while she races down the alley. Surely, the man has to have some sort of plan that isn't outrunning these things; she just has to hope it's a good one that doesn't immediately get them both killed.
What she wouldn't give for a hoard of the undead. Hell, she'd even take a nest of Lickers over these things. Anything infected by the T-virus is familiar ground — it's the nightmare she knows how to fight her way out of. With these things, the best she's come up with is shoot for the head, which at least seems to work no matter what she's come up against. But they sure as hell don't make it easy. ]
( Joel does not look back to see if she is following. Part of him hopes that she isn't. A more sinister part considers the benefit of her being pulled down into the group gaining ground on them: a bleak but advantageous distraction as he hurries to think quickly while seeing through the laborious task of breathing through a flat sprint with a group of Infected not far enough behind. Footsteps bounce off of the buildings on either side of the alley, not just his but an accompanying, syncopated rhythm that's not far behind him. The slap of the soles of their feet punch through the static noise of the crowd eagerly gaining on them, and Joel knows from experience that if they do not get off of the street fast, there won't be any street left to get off of.
He could turn and shoot her, right through the knee. His aim is good enough and it would be more than capable of drawing the attention of the Runners, buying him time to find an escape route so that he can hunker down and wait out the rest of the swarm, biding his time until he's able to get back on the ground and search for Tommy and Tess. Doing so would require stopping and turning, though, eating up precious seconds that he doesn't have. It would mean sacrificing a bullet for a shot that he isn't sure would land the way that he wants it to, regardless of how capable he's become, how proficient. And there's no guarantee that the woman currently trailing him wouldn't return his volley with a favor of her own, especially should his shot go wide. That she had pulled up almost as if in an attempt to help does not cross his mind. Extending a hand to others has rarely ended in anything other than disaster.
A dumpster has been left along one of the exterior walls up ahead, and Joel cuts his path to the right in order to climb on top of it. The fire escape dangles several feet overhead, and Joel thinks, as he presses both of his palms flat on the lid, that he can reach it if he jumps, get both hands around the final rung and pull himself up the rest of the way. As soon as he slams into the solid metal frame with a hollow clang, he hoists himself up, sparing only a moment to watch ten or so Runners barrel down the open passage with single-minded determination, hellbent on sinking teeth into exposed skin. With a sharp curse tangled up in the rapid fire pacing of his breathing, he reaches down with a hand to pull the woman up behind him.
The fire escape is too high for him to reach alone. )
[ The man in front of her doesn't turn to see if she's the one gaining on him or the infected, which gives her an appreciation for his survival skills. In a dead run like this, turning costs time, and the wrong step in a moment of distraction can lead to a stumble or fall. One bite is all it takes... Alice doesn't look back either, her mind automatically cataloging the echos in the alley and calculating how close they are behind her. She'd worked security for years before the world ended — those skills have served her well in the apocalypse.
Seeing the man climb up onto the dumpster beneath the fire escape loosens something in her chest. He might make it. It's probably stupid to find a speck of joy in the possibility of a total stranger surviving to see another day in this hellish landscape when her own death is quickly closing in, but she's seen so many die that every life left on this planet feels precious. For a moment, she considers giving up to give him a better chance at making it out. She could stop, turn and face the hoard, empty her guns into them, and try to give him a few more seconds. But then he offers her a hand as she reaches the dumpster and renewed determination grips her chest.
Taking that hand, she jumps to help with lifting her own weight, letting go of the gun in her other hand to leverage herself up. It skitters to a stop halfway across the lid. Swinging the backpack off her shoulder, she shoves it at the man before crouching, folding her hands in an unknowing mimic of what Tommy had done for him just minutes ago. ]
Grenade and ammo in the bag. I can make it up on my own. [ Her breathing isn't anywhere near as ragged as his, likely thanks to the T-virus bonded to her cells. Being grateful to the thing that's killed half the planet is more than a little complicated, but she is grateful as she readies to use all her strength to lift him once he's stepped up and grabbed hold of the ladder. If she's not overrun or pulled down by the infected, she'll follow him up, grab the gun, and vault off the wall to gain the height needed to reach the bottom rung. If she's lucky, she'll make it. If not... Well, at least he might. ]
What? ( The pack hits him square in the chest, both hands coming up automatically to grip it on either side. Joel can feel the contents shifting inside, and he stares peculiarly at the woman sharing the dumpster with him. Infected are not far, and they slam violently into the side a moment later, pushing and pulling and reaching over one another in an effort to be the first to grab hold of an ankle, snag mindless fingertips on the cuff of a pant leg. The dumpster lurches, the wheels locked in place by some not insubstantial miracle, though Joel's balance lurches with it, albeit not enough to send him careening into the outstretched arms below. He spares only a moment to look into the faces gasping and snarling up at them, echoes of the individuals lost and locked inside, ripples of fungus spreading underneath skin, their hands, delicate fibers of infected tissue lurking in their mouths.
They're secure for now, but it's only a matter of very short time before the Runners are able to scale the dumpster. In that brief window of opportunity, Joel has to weigh all the Texas born and bred manners that he has instilled within him against his own self-preservation instincts, watching the woman currently occupying this space with him fold her hands together and plate them the same way that he and Tommy and Tess and the others have so often done for one another. It's clear that she's capable, but he's no slouch in height or weight, despite the staggering impact that five years of canned goods have had on all of their body mass, and judging her on appearance alone suggests that she's only going to get him about as far as it takes for her to miscalculate and tip him sideways into the open arms in the alley. Or not miscalculate at all and tip him in there anyway.
The dumpster lurches, though, and Joel does not have time to debate the pros and cons of accepting help from a stranger in this borderline life or death situation. Using a grenade this close is out, so the instant one of the wheels shrieks against the pavement, Joel swings her bag on his shoulder and digs his heel into her hands and steps up, trying to use his momentum so that he can relieve her of his weight as quickly as possible. The metal of the rung above his head is cool on his sweat-licked palms, and he is very careful and deliberate about his grip, hauling himself up one arm after the other until he can get one foot up on the lowest bar, the other dragging close behind. A cacophony of what sounds like desperate pulls for oxygen follows him up, punctuated by the whine of the dumpster sliding away from the wall under the pressure, and once he has pulled himself up onto the fire escape's landing, Joel turns and sprawls flat on his stomach to hold his hand out again, jamming his foot around the length of a metal banister so as not to slip.
She'd said that she could make it on her own, but he has his doubts. He's taller than her, and that jump had been too high for him. Reason dictates that he continue up the fire escape, leave her to her own devices, her own demise, whether she makes it or not, and count his blessings in her pack once the assembled group of Infected have wandered off, but the part of him currently lying flat with his hand outstretched because of her intervention can't get up and walk away, and that's the part that keeps him stubbornly in place. Although, as it turns out, she doesn't exactly need his help, proving herself absolutely more than capable of reaching the ladder in a way that he has only ever seen in those ridiculous action films he'd used to watch. As a consequence, Joel pushes himself to his feet and retreats along the platform, giving her some space to get up. They're level with one another just as the dumpster is torn away from the wall, a Runner finding purchase on top of it at last. )
Keep goin' up. ( The only way to go is up, so he continues up, her pack still dangling off of one shoulder, gun in hand again. Making it this far does not mean that he trusts her not to shoot him in the back, so he is careful with the way that he walks, angling himself sideways to keep one eye on what's coming and one on the woman bringing up the rear. )
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the price i paid —
sorry this like seriously got away from me wtf
Missouri has been in their rear view for weeks, taking most of the colder weather with it, but the alleviation of the stress that particular leg of their trip had brought with it has not dissipated as the others had hoped it would. If anything, it has only grown stronger, more pronounced, as they continue to pick their way across the country. Infected have been few and far between on the trek here, away from the back roads they have used to put distance between themselves and waylaid by the cold, drawn into more populated areas by the sound of gunfire or the dull buzz of the few QZs that haven't fallen to riots in the wake of the rumored rise and collapse of some promised solution to the problem. Most of their skirmishes have involved other people, though it's ended better for them than it has for anyone else. The cut across his nose, Rebecca's ankle, the long abrasion down the back of Tess's thigh - all are souvenirs as they continue to push northeast, and all are testaments to how lucky they have managed to get thus far. Joel is not eager to see it run out, and he keeps his attention trained on the road ahead as a consequence, clocking Tommy's location without having to look back at him, ready to pull the trigger without a moment's hesitation or consideration for who or what is at the opposite end of the Taurus.
Five years has both sharpened and dulled them all. Joel does not spare even a second of time to stop and think about the person that he used to be, even though the constant reminder of that stranger digs into his wrist every time he claps his palm over the shattered face of his watch. That person could not do the things that he has needed to do in order to make it this far, and that person could not do the one thing needed in order to make sure the only person who ever really mattered made it beyond the river. Joel leaves that man on the pavement in this no-name town just as he had left him in the military triage back in Austin, trying one of the rear doors to what looks like a corner store. Peeling white letters stamped just below a window read EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Locked? Tommy calls over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping the mouth of the alley behind them. A retaining wall runs the length of the path behind them, a chain link fence stretching well over ten feet above their heads. A rolling hill of long-dead grass stretches beyond the fence, terminating in a dense patch of trees and underbrush that usher in the encroaching darkness as night begins to fall. Joel twists the doorknob under his hand but it doesn't budge. He doesn't immediately answer, but when he does, it's with a soft, sharp whistle. Having done this more than enough times, Tommy doesn't hesitate, swinging the rifle over his shoulder by the strap and bracing himself, hands folded in front of him so that Joel can step into the weaving of his fingers.
The window over the door is smashed out, just big enough for him to squeeze through, though if the break were recent, he'd end up with handfuls of jagged glass and a belly split open as he slithers through. Time has leveled the empty sill, however, and Joel only spends the moment that it takes to hold his breath and listen for anything crying or clicking in the darkness before pulling himself through to the other side. His drop to the floor is not graceful, but he gets to his feet soundly enough only to discover that the door is locked with a key that he doesn't have. Joel knocks twice on the door, signalling their current predicament, and works his flashlight out of his pack just in time to discover that he is surrounded by spiraling tendrils of sprawling fungi. )
Fuck. ( There is not a clear cut path through the network of fungus, but he knows that he can't stay where he is either. Not for the first time, Joel laments that they don't have walkie-talkies in order to better communicate with each other, but there is no point in dwelling on what can't be changed when he needs to focus on every step that he takes. The fungus spreads out from a further source like hundreds of fingers, some of the vines as thick as his forearms. Living, breathing, reaching out for another host to pull underneath the current of the infection. His throat dry, Joel takes one step and then another. Another. Another. The door to the front of the shop has been left open - more luck; it will run out - and he steps through it, keeping an eye out for the source of the spread and anything else lying in the darkness, watching him. He finds it in aisle three.
It turns, screams, mouth open, lunges, and Joel unloads two bullets into it that drop it to the ground, where it falls face first onto the winding bloom of the fungus beneath it. Joel does not wait to find out where the rest of the Infected will spill from; he pushes past the gondolas to reach the front of the store, shouting for Tommy to get out as loud as he can, his heart already pounding in his chest, in his ears. There is a rumble from somewhere near the back of the shop, but Joel does not turn to check it, shouldering the front door open just as the gasping, sobbing cries of Infected come crawling out of the back room of the corner store, spilling out into the surrounding basements where they have lain quiet long enough to connect to one another. )
never be sorry, i love novels
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Mounting her bike again, she roars the engine to life, surely drawing attention to herself but not giving a single fuck. If she's lucky, if this person is lucky, she might be able to reach them in time. Outrunning the cordyceps Infected is harder than those infected with the T-virus, so every second is precious. All it takes is a single bite... She's lost too many people to being just the slightest bit too slow. In this hellish world, even a stranger can be worth risking everything for.
It's impossible to miss the lone man on the next street over, or the increasing cries of Infected filling the air. There might be hundreds, for how loudly the eerie chorus rings out. Finding out exactly how many isn't something she has any desire to do, so she speeds toward the man, shouting to be heard over the cacophony. ]
Get on! [ If he hesitates at all as the bike screeches to a stop, she's not sure either of them will make it out of this. ]
oh good
He does not have time to worry about Tommy - or Tess, the only other member of their scrapped together little group that he actually gives a shit about; the rest of them are little more than means to an end, an alignment born out of a common goal - but that does not stop him from doing so. Rather than running, Joel puts distance between himself and the storefront and turns to walk backward, watching the glass ripple with the vibration from either further back in the shop or down below, in a cellar. The fence stretching rusting, ivy-encrusted links up over his and his brother's head is superimposed over his field of vision: a barrier that Tommy, despite his capability, might find difficult to haul himself up over, though he'll undoubtedly try as a means of putting anything between himself and what sounds like a writhing mass of Infected working its way out of the dark places left within the town. At least, that's what he should do.
Joel does not have the ammunition nor is he stupid enough to think that he has any chance in hell of handling this situation from this vantage point, at the very least. The plan, as it unfolds in real, rushed time, is to turn and book it across the street, either find something to climb on top of in order to get to the roof or beat the pavement fast enough to put enough distance between himself and what's coming to get a head start. Infected won't stop until they have no other options left - he's seen plenty of them clawing their way across the interstate, dragging themselves along, relentless in their pursuit of spreading the infection further - and he has not kept them alive this long to fuck up now. So on the second to last step that he takes backward, the intention remains to pivot and put as much distance between himself and whatever is coming up to meet him, but the sound of what Joel thinks sounds like a motorcycle cuts through the din reverberating from within the corner store, and he turns just as the bike comes roaring up along the street.
Without stopping to think about it, Joel pulls his revolver from his hip and points it directly at the rider, not willing to take the chance that this is some benevolent interloper out for an evening cruise. Days of trusting others on principle are long, long past, but it stands to reason that they are both currently in the same predicament, though what kind of lunatic willingly rides into a situation that is about to rapidly deteriorate? The split second it takes for Joel to deliberate on pulling the trigger - getting on the bike was never an option - is all that the fungus needs to capitalize on. Down the street, one of the windows in an abandoned coffee shop busts out, spraying glass all over the sidewalk and asphalt. Joel jerks his head around to watch Runners climbing over the lip of the window, snagging rotting clothing and stumbling over one another. Another window breaks further down, yielding the same, and he can hear the gondolas in the corner store slamming to the floor as they clamber out of the dark, dank shadows. )
Like hell. ( Even the rider's way back is compromised; the only way out is going to be up. Joel breaks into a flat run, cutting through the beam of the bike's headlight. He does not wait to see if she's going to follow him, heading for the open alley across the street from the one that he had peered down as he and Tommy approached the store from the rear. Pretty soon that bike is going to be useless, too exposed and open. The fire escapes along the backs of the buildings are a much better bet than trying to slice through the throng and not get pulled off or bit. )
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She can't leave him. He's alive and that's all she needs to make the likely terrible decision to follow him. The bike falls onto its side as she throws herself off, one hand grabbing the bag hooked to it before she sprints after the person whose life she's tying her own too. Will this be the choice that finally gets her killed? Possibly, but when has that ever stopped her?
Her boots thudding on the pavement is drowned out by the cries of the creatures drawing closer, their pursuit as single-minded as the undead's but so much faster. Swinging the backpack's strap over one shoulder, her other hand unholsters one of her handguns and clicks off the safety, hoping her instincts and skill will give her leverage over the darkness spilling into the world while she races down the alley. Surely, the man has to have some sort of plan that isn't outrunning these things; she just has to hope it's a good one that doesn't immediately get them both killed.
What she wouldn't give for a hoard of the undead. Hell, she'd even take a nest of Lickers over these things. Anything infected by the T-virus is familiar ground — it's the nightmare she knows how to fight her way out of. With these things, the best she's come up with is shoot for the head, which at least seems to work no matter what she's come up against. But they sure as hell don't make it easy. ]
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He could turn and shoot her, right through the knee. His aim is good enough and it would be more than capable of drawing the attention of the Runners, buying him time to find an escape route so that he can hunker down and wait out the rest of the swarm, biding his time until he's able to get back on the ground and search for Tommy and Tess. Doing so would require stopping and turning, though, eating up precious seconds that he doesn't have. It would mean sacrificing a bullet for a shot that he isn't sure would land the way that he wants it to, regardless of how capable he's become, how proficient. And there's no guarantee that the woman currently trailing him wouldn't return his volley with a favor of her own, especially should his shot go wide. That she had pulled up almost as if in an attempt to help does not cross his mind. Extending a hand to others has rarely ended in anything other than disaster.
A dumpster has been left along one of the exterior walls up ahead, and Joel cuts his path to the right in order to climb on top of it. The fire escape dangles several feet overhead, and Joel thinks, as he presses both of his palms flat on the lid, that he can reach it if he jumps, get both hands around the final rung and pull himself up the rest of the way. As soon as he slams into the solid metal frame with a hollow clang, he hoists himself up, sparing only a moment to watch ten or so Runners barrel down the open passage with single-minded determination, hellbent on sinking teeth into exposed skin. With a sharp curse tangled up in the rapid fire pacing of his breathing, he reaches down with a hand to pull the woman up behind him.
The fire escape is too high for him to reach alone. )
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Seeing the man climb up onto the dumpster beneath the fire escape loosens something in her chest. He might make it. It's probably stupid to find a speck of joy in the possibility of a total stranger surviving to see another day in this hellish landscape when her own death is quickly closing in, but she's seen so many die that every life left on this planet feels precious. For a moment, she considers giving up to give him a better chance at making it out. She could stop, turn and face the hoard, empty her guns into them, and try to give him a few more seconds. But then he offers her a hand as she reaches the dumpster and renewed determination grips her chest.
Taking that hand, she jumps to help with lifting her own weight, letting go of the gun in her other hand to leverage herself up. It skitters to a stop halfway across the lid. Swinging the backpack off her shoulder, she shoves it at the man before crouching, folding her hands in an unknowing mimic of what Tommy had done for him just minutes ago. ]
Grenade and ammo in the bag. I can make it up on my own. [ Her breathing isn't anywhere near as ragged as his, likely thanks to the T-virus bonded to her cells. Being grateful to the thing that's killed half the planet is more than a little complicated, but she is grateful as she readies to use all her strength to lift him once he's stepped up and grabbed hold of the ladder. If she's not overrun or pulled down by the infected, she'll follow him up, grab the gun, and vault off the wall to gain the height needed to reach the bottom rung. If she's lucky, she'll make it. If not... Well, at least he might. ]
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They're secure for now, but it's only a matter of very short time before the Runners are able to scale the dumpster. In that brief window of opportunity, Joel has to weigh all the Texas born and bred manners that he has instilled within him against his own self-preservation instincts, watching the woman currently occupying this space with him fold her hands together and plate them the same way that he and Tommy and Tess and the others have so often done for one another. It's clear that she's capable, but he's no slouch in height or weight, despite the staggering impact that five years of canned goods have had on all of their body mass, and judging her on appearance alone suggests that she's only going to get him about as far as it takes for her to miscalculate and tip him sideways into the open arms in the alley. Or not miscalculate at all and tip him in there anyway.
The dumpster lurches, though, and Joel does not have time to debate the pros and cons of accepting help from a stranger in this borderline life or death situation. Using a grenade this close is out, so the instant one of the wheels shrieks against the pavement, Joel swings her bag on his shoulder and digs his heel into her hands and steps up, trying to use his momentum so that he can relieve her of his weight as quickly as possible. The metal of the rung above his head is cool on his sweat-licked palms, and he is very careful and deliberate about his grip, hauling himself up one arm after the other until he can get one foot up on the lowest bar, the other dragging close behind. A cacophony of what sounds like desperate pulls for oxygen follows him up, punctuated by the whine of the dumpster sliding away from the wall under the pressure, and once he has pulled himself up onto the fire escape's landing, Joel turns and sprawls flat on his stomach to hold his hand out again, jamming his foot around the length of a metal banister so as not to slip.
She'd said that she could make it on her own, but he has his doubts. He's taller than her, and that jump had been too high for him. Reason dictates that he continue up the fire escape, leave her to her own devices, her own demise, whether she makes it or not, and count his blessings in her pack once the assembled group of Infected have wandered off, but the part of him currently lying flat with his hand outstretched because of her intervention can't get up and walk away, and that's the part that keeps him stubbornly in place. Although, as it turns out, she doesn't exactly need his help, proving herself absolutely more than capable of reaching the ladder in a way that he has only ever seen in those ridiculous action films he'd used to watch. As a consequence, Joel pushes himself to his feet and retreats along the platform, giving her some space to get up. They're level with one another just as the dumpster is torn away from the wall, a Runner finding purchase on top of it at last. )
Keep goin' up. ( The only way to go is up, so he continues up, her pack still dangling off of one shoulder, gun in hand again. Making it this far does not mean that he trusts her not to shoot him in the back, so he is careful with the way that he walks, angling himself sideways to keep one eye on what's coming and one on the woman bringing up the rear. )