( 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. )
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. )