( 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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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. )
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. )
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. )