( 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. )
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. )