Realistic or Modern Haven (Main)

[queendilettante]

According to the mostly functional watch on Sybille's arm, morning had apparently crawled itself in, though the frequent cracks of thunder and tempestuous winds remained impudent in their rage across the bay area. Her sleep was about as shitty as it always was; nightmares seemed to ever favor her sleeping hours. The storm was yet one more way to keep her exhausted. In the more than a decade that Sybille had spent in the area, she'd managed to be quite fortunate in avoiding such storms; she always happened to be on Mall grounds whenever they made land. With the way the previous 30 hours had gone, it seemed only fitting that she'd be slammed in the open with one now.

Her shabby tent had kept her and Santa almost completely dry through the night though, so she couldn't really complain. Hell, even the simple fact of her awakening to something other than the sound of runners tearing through the camp was a blessing in and of itself.

Her aching muscles screamed as Sybille threw herself to her feet. She hadn't walked so much and on such little sleep in longer than she could even remember. Stepping out of her tent and into the rain, the morning looked nearly as dark as last night. She did a few stretches to help wake her body up and grabbed an only slightly torn travel umbrella from her backpack.

She needed to check in on Zana and also probably Charlie. She only hoped their luck wouldn't continue to worsen.

 

[Solar Daddy]

When Hallie was younger, her dreams had been full of what ifs. What if her dad hadn’t packed them up and moved across the country. What if they hadn’t found refuge in the mall. What if the apocalypse had never happened. Now her dreams were empty, she was lucky nowadays if the Sandman graced her with her presence.

Hal opened her eyes, greeted by the darkness and occasional flash of lightning. Had she not royally messed up the day before, she would have complained to Tom about how the storm was going to make her hair a frizzy mess.

She didn’t want to talk to Tom though. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Hallie had entertained the idea of walking back towards the mall, heck, she still might. They weren’t that far out and she could easily slip back into her old life. Perhaps Lars would agree with her on the idea as her going hadn’t sat right with him from the start. He’d be thrilled to know she wanted to go home.

Lars’ night had gone about as smoothly as all the rest. His mind raced endlessly when he initially shut his eyes, but the inevitable dozing off came soon enough. He hadn’t rigged any special traps or prepared any shoddy warning systems around his tent as he normally did. In a group of this size, he relied on the probability that he wouldn’t be the first person killed in a raid. Under this assumption, he’d let the cries and screams of the first unfortunate victim to be his alarm. Not to mention, the hell that’d break loose if one of his traveling companions hit his traps would be messy. Lucky for him and everyone else, no such warning came and the night passed as peacefully as it could, torrent be damned.

The Ashen awoke with a short stretch before checking his immediate person for valuables. Once he was sure nothing was stolen, Lars peeked out from under his strung-up tarp. His golden beard was matted down on the side where his cheek had pressed to his shoulder, which took a bit of effort to pull into a semi-symmetrical shape.

Lars hated the rain; it hid the sound of insidious beings, it disrupted sleep. But at least the bay wasn’t being baked alive in the heat of the morning sun. Little victories were important. The Thompson man would’ve remained under his shelter until his leaders made the call to break camp under normal circumstances, but he had other, more trigger happy matters to deal with.

The loner drew the hood of his poncho and stepped out into the rain. His boots kicked up water in the puddles he passed through to get to Hallie’s tent, situated not too far from his own. The Moore girl was already out in the rain herself, something Lars was trying to get used to. Few enjoyed the early times in the same way The Ashen did.

Lars positioned himself adjacent to Hallie, both facing directly outward from the opening of her tent. He admired the views of the desolate, drenched city for just a moment before producing a wrap of waterproof cloth for Hal.

“It’s days like these I feel convicted in my love of ponchos.” He stated with a hoarse voice. “Take my spare.” His words barely seemed to pierce the rain, though by now he was sure Hallie was used to his quiet nature. “You should really get some dry clothes on before we break camp. You’ll catch a fever.”

“Maybe then I could go back to the mall.” Hallie muttered under her breath as she accepted the poncho. There had been so much she wanted to say to Lars and everyone else. She hadn’t meant to almost get them killed. But “I’m sorrys” only got you so far in life, and there was no way that alone could ever justify what she did.

“Is Zana okay?” Hallie wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. The older woman hadn’t looked too well in the aftermath. But if she didn’t ask now she was sure to get her answer once the rest of the group had woken up. Hallie slipped the poncho over her already soaked body less for its intended purpose and moreso to give her something to do. “They’re gonna send me back, right?” Her voice cracked slightly at the end of the sentence causing her to fall back into silence. Hallie didn’t consider herself a crier by any means. But right now was different. Someone was hurt badly because of her actions and Hallie would have to live with that guilt.

Lars let the words hang for a bit in the air. He was a fan of absorbing meanings before speaking in response to them, which caused even the shortest of conversations to drag on needlessly. Poor Hal.

“Well,” He began. “I’m not certain on Zana’s condition. I’m no medic and I’d just crowd the space asking. The Doc and the others are better suited to her care. But the fact we haven’t just shot her and dumped her over the bridge is a good sign. Means she’s not totally lost, if I had to infer.” Lars realized his words probably did little to console Hallie.

“You’re learning. This is how you learn. Mistakes get people killed but no one’s died so far as a result of you, and Zana cracked her head from a rowdy horse, which could have happened any time. Don’t get me wrong, this was a problem that should, in no way, be repeated again. Your gun is for worst-case scenarios, where there is no other option. You’re not being sent back, not if I get any word in about it. Plus, between you and me, I have a feeling no one’s going back to the Mall anytime soon.” His final sentence was ominous, which matched his clenched jaw and steeled brow. Hallie would know he had no interest in explaining any vague mantras of his.

“It has, however, reminded me just how green you are to the outside world. I know you’ve seen a good deal of it, but not quite on the same level as the rest of us. You’re my charge, so I’d prefer if you try and keep close to Liberty, Tom, Joseph, or myself during times of crisis. The rest are either kids, unskilled in survival, or untrustworthy at this time.” Lars still needed to find a good time to get Sybille alone and talk about what happened at the Mall. But now wasn't the time. Too many busy-bodies looking out for Zana, Sybille among them. For the first time in the conversation, Lars looked over to see Hallie’s reaction.

“Right. Stay close, got it.” Hallie looked out into the distance as Lars’ words sunk in. She had been around seven when this all started. Lars was absolutely right, she didn’t know what she was doing when it came to the outside world.
When Owen was alive, he had done everything in his power to protect his only daughter. He had tried to train her to fight as best as he could, but ultimately, it was more ideal for her to stay within the Mall’s walls. All the apocalypse books in the world would never prepare Hal for the real thing, as much as she wanted to believe they would.

“I’ll be better from now on, I promise.” Hallie finally pulled the poncho’s hood over her already soaked head. “When are we going to head out?”

Lars looked down at Hal for a good while, a mix of intrigue and worry on his mug. “Soon, I’d bet. Even if we’re not, it doesn’t hurt to be ready to move before everyone else, yeah?” Lars gave an awkward and disjointed pat on the back to Owen’s daughter. “See you on the road, Hal.” The Ashen disengaged through the dreary weather like he was never there to begin with.

 

[spottednewt]

The devil worked hard, but Liberty's hunting tent worked harder. The low, oblong pop-up tent with a bug-like exoskeleton kept her dry and mildly overheated through the night's torrent of wind and rain. Getting in had always been easy, but the awkward shuffle out of her cocoon after a night of situating and re-situating her pack and bedding had never agreed with her. –Neither did stuffing away a soaking tent, but she’d pray for sun at their next stop.

This morning, there was a prize on the other side of the nylon. This morning, wrestling her tent into submission meant that she could pour herself a cup of instant coffee. Not just any instant coffee, but Nescafe; what was once the world’s worst, most morally bankrupt cup of varnish remover, but had been bumped up several places in the overall rankings by years of coffee scarcity.

A taxing wriggle and one tealight candle contraption later, and Liberty was hunched over her charred rocket stove, watching drops of rain collect at the edge of her rain jacket hood and dribble off onto the ground as she sipped.

It tasted like battery acid, but she reckoned that drinking actual battery acid would wake her up for a time as well.

As Sybille worked her way closer to the makeshift medical area, a stale, bitter aroma seemed to punch through the unrelenting odor of the storm. Shit, was someone making coffee? What was one quick cup before starting a long day of walking?

She figured Charlie could hold down the fort for a few more minutes and made a quick detour in hopes that whoever it was would offer her some.

The camp barista this morning seemed to be Liberty, who came into view about 20 feet from her tent. Sybille had spoken to the woman fewer times than almost anyone who joined them on the expedition, but Liberty had pushed her way in after putting a few visual clues together from Sybille’s shop. If Sybille’d had more time to reflect and hadn’t also doomed every single one of them were they to ever step foot back on Mall grounds, perhaps she’d have been feeling more annoyed with the circumstances. As it stood though, coffee was the only thing on her mind.

“Morning, Liberty,” Sybille waved from beneath her umbrella. She sat down without thinking, immediately regretting the cold creep of the water up her legs from the back. She cringed at the sensation and only hoped it wasn’t too obvious. “I’m glad someone seemed to remember their coffee. It looks like I left a full bag of essentials at home,” she laughed.

Home. At least, it was. She’d spent more than a decade at that mall, and essentially all of her life since the world ended. Waking up outside, in the rain, knowing there’s nowhere to go but forward was– well, it hadn’t quite sunken in yet.

“Mornin’, Ma’am. Liberty made quick work of flipping over her thermos lid to pour a second cup with one hand. “Essentials is a strong word, but I’ll be the last to argue,” She smiled, feet shuffling in the muck as she stretched to hold the battered lid of sludge out in offering to Sybille.

“You’re gonna love this, it’s truly, honest-to-god awful.” Sunny disposition beaming through the dreary morning with ease, Liberty couldn’t help but size Sybille up a little as she held out the cup. Somewhere between testing the other woman’s manners and looking for a little common ground.

Sybille nodded to Liberty and graciously took the cup from her, raising it to her slightly in thanks. She took a quick sip, careful so as not to burn herself, and nearly winced from the pungency of the decades-old cup of already shit coffee. It was, in fact, honest-to-god awful, but it was hitting the spot like a $12 latte from a boujie café used to.

“You know,” she started, trying to relax into the conversation, “this cheapo instant seems to age like fine wine – wine where the barrels have rotted, but drinkable nonetheless.” Her lips started to purse before the coffee even hit them, but she took another quick swig. “How much of this stuff do you got?”

“Maybe– Maybe more’n I should be carrying,” Liberty laughed, eyebrows drawing to her hairline as she considered just how right Sybille was. She’d seen people ready to rip each other to shreds over coffee –even before the means of production had ended. These days, the bar for violence was much lower. She tilted the cup to give the liquid a swirl before taking another sip.

“Got it off a rotter a few months back,” Liberty continued after a hard swallow, a tinge of discomfort crossing her face as a scene crossed behind her eyes; screaming, begging, gnashing teeth. “He didn’t need it anymore. Must’ve been somebody though.”

“I have two more, unopened bags on the horse,” She jerked her chin towards the animal, finally interrupting herself to offer up the information of relevance. “I’d’ve traded it for a mansion weeks ago, if I’d remembered that shit coffee was valuable.” Liberty’s laugh had a faint touch of bitterness, jaded by the conscious effort it took to keep her marbles all in one place.

“Maybe it’ll come in handy down the line, if we don’t piss it away sooner.”

Sybille downed the rest of her still-too-hot coffee like she was taking a shot. She shuddered. “Something–,” she brought her fist to her mouth to suppress a burp, “uh, I think something //this// good is worth savoring as long as we can.”

“But maybe you’re right,” Sybille stood to her feet, stretching out her aching muscles once again and wiping the wet dirt from the ass of her jeans. “Coffee’s gotta be like gold out here. Hell, even in the Mall, Bill always kept his stash separate from–”

Sybille’s voice caught in her throat. She stared, wide-eyed, for a few seconds, before coughing. “Sorry, I think the coffee isn’t done fighting me yet,” she lied, smiling. Liberty didn’t need to know Sybille’d killed Bill just yet.

For a split second, a particularly morbid part of her wondered if she should have raided Bill’s stash after killing him. After all, with coffee being so rare–

No– no, what the fuck? Of course she shouldn’t have looted him like an abandoned house. He might have been an asshole, but he was her colleague for years. Shit, he was a //person//.
But so were the infected.

She blinked a few times. She couldn’t lose herself to an existential spiral this early in the morning. There was a lot of work to do today if they wanted to make sufficient space from Mall grounds.

“Feel like coming with me to check on our injured Czech friend?”

Liberty only nodded in response, eyes still carefully, blankly, drawing over Sybille’s features for a moment after she’d collected her thoughts. Slowly at first, and then with the speed that only muscle-memory could allow her, she patted the sides of her rock at stove to test the temperature before collapsing the contraption and stowing it away - the tiny, half-liquid tealight candle left to cool under the cover of her pack.

If she was honest, she was willing herself not to look for another sergeant in the leader of their rag-tag crew. Liberty wanted annoyance at Sybille’s unease, rather than to fall into old routines. She wanted to dig for any sense of uncertainty and expose it - but she’d lived long enough to know that the only leaders who were worth a damn were the ones that stayed uneasy. The ones that remembered the danger they came from, as well as the danger they were headed into.

No one wanted to call the shots, but Lord bless the poor bastards who stepped up and did it.

“I was hoping to get a better look at that butt-ugly tent we’ve got her cooped up in,” Liberty shot with a winning smile, tossing her rifle strap over her shoulder like any old chic accessory.

“How was she lookin’, last you saw her,” Archer asked in a quieter voice, pushing away a thread of annoyance at her willingness to become yet another whispering voice. She’d had to leave soldiers behind before, but she wasn’t much accustomed to it.

“Well, you know – like she cracked her head on pavement.” Sybille shot a pained smile toward the woman and turned to walk away; she only hoped Zana looked better than both of them probably feared.

 

[kaito9049]

After his short talk with Hallie, Lars had slithered back to his tent through the downpour, ever thankful of his dry torso at the hands of his poncho. Lars inspected the state of his tent — a blue tarp strung up on fishing lines to a building's facade and the hood of a rusted out minivan — with a furrowed brow. Should he try to salvage the wire or just cut it and call it a day? Thompson tugged idly on a line until he ultimately decided It was hopeless to un-knot the wire. A pocket knife was produced effortlessly and soon the tarp was free from its bonds. Lars was slow and methodical in wrapping up his tent to fit compact on the underside of his backpack, just barely squeezing Into a canvas wrap that held it in place. Lars patted the tarp twice after finishing his job. Yeah, that wasn't going anywhere.

Lars knew no one else was ready to leave yet, so he idly placed his pack in the minivan to protect it from the rain until it was time to get going. From under his hood, Lars gazed out to the rest of the group, who all seemed eager to enjoy a slow morning. Sybille was spending time with Liberty while Hallie remained close at hand to her own tent still. Lars' eyes were glued to Sybille as she left; he intended on interrogating Liberty for anything he could conjure about their leader. Ollie's words danced in his skull endlessly. Once she left his view, Lars’ eyes darted around camp yet again. Joseph looked to be the only one interested in getting the camp work done and over with like the Ashen.

Lars held in a breath as he once again left his comfort zone to speak up. “Need help?” Lars asked Joseph with little more than a slight tilt of his head in Joe's direction. Like a sixth sense, Lars’ thoughts located his mask clutched to the side of his pack in the car behind him. Too far away to equip now, much to the momentary horror of the — preferably — faceless man. He'd be operating without his crutch for now; daring times indeed.

“Hm?” Joseph, who was crouched next to one of his grounded tent pegs, looked over his shoulder toward the voice. His eyes narrowed at the approaching man for a half-second before widening in recognition.

Joe glanced back at the iron rod, still buried a half-foot into the ground. He didn’t, of course, need help, and some yet-untamed part of him bristled at Lars’ implication that he did. But he wouldn’t make any friends by turning down generosity; Joe had experienced enough not to doubt the Ben Franklin effect.

“Sure do, buddy!” he said, mentally strangling a biting comment and stuffing its body in the closet of his subconscious. He gestured to what remained of his tent. A thin metal frame, made of an old tripod and umbrella wire, held up a tarp of shower curtain. A layer of sewn-together shopping bags from IKEA had kept him just off the ground last night, but it hadn’t kept him from shivering between a sleeping bag and a furniture pad.

The cold had kept Joe from sleeping for an hour, which he spent mourning his decision not to grab one of the Mall’s better-quality tents before he’d left. He hadn’t had a choice, of course. The quartermasters didn’t exactly hand out Colemans to just anyone, and with his injured hand, there was no way they would believe he was going out on an official excursion.

Not for the first time since he’d left the Mall — or even that morning — Joe imagined Tom falling over the Bay Bridge into the gray waters below.

“Could you help me fold the tarp?” Joe asked Lars, using the mental image of Tom’s waterlogged body to fuel a genuine smile. “The old thing’s a pain to roll up alone.”

“Of course.” Lars gave an affirmative nod while finishing his approach now that he had Joe’s approval to help. He took a minute to examine the intricate self-setup Joseph had rigged, doing his best to understand how the lines were strung so he wouldn’t needlessly complicate or tear any of their equipment. If Joseph lost his tent, Lars didn’t want to have to be the one housing him, even if he didn’t mind the fellow.

“Expertly done for the most part,” he commented once Lars felt confident enough to start undoing the tent and folding the large square of fabric alongside Joe. “Have much experience in wilderness survival?” He’d be lying if he said it was purely small talk, as Lars was curious just how adept Joseph was in Lars’ own skillset. Another person he could rely on tasks such as this would be another concern put to rest. You’d have to be fairly blind to the state of the world to have such skills underdeveloped, but he refused to assume anyone’s capabilities for the time being. They had far too much distance to travel to believe everyone was entirely competent. Even Lars knew his own weakness in communication could be a problem, one he was actively attempting to fix. Habits were tough to break though, and Lars was still less talkative than most even with active corrections to his own behavior.

“Oh, a decent amount,” Joseph replied, brushing some condensation from the tarp with his hand as he spoke. “They used to send me out fairly often to gather supplies — timber and foraging, mostly — but those were usually day trips. Nothing of the sort of intensity you’re used to. Sybille tells me you’re an awfully impressive outdoorsman.”

That was a lie. Lars was one of several individuals in the group who were big fat question marks to Joseph. But it was a vague enough compliment to be at least somewhat accurate, and relevant enough to be flattering. Joseph also found follower types worked harder when they thought their reputation preceded them. Something about the pressure of living up to it. If he could win Sybille some loyalty points with the gas mask guy, why not?

It also didn’t hurt to get Lars asking certain questions. Like what else Sybille might be saying about him. Or whether Joseph had her ear.

Joseph stood up, lifting the tent frame in one hand and half of the tarp with the other as easily as if they were twigs and paper. “I’m sure all the shooting and the smashing yesterday was just another day in the office for you, eh?”

Information was another need out in the wastes, just as important as food or clean water. Information kept people from wandering into bandit nests or droves of ghouls. Information took you to springs only mother nature could keep so pristine. And Joe had given Lars a banquet. Everything from Sybille’s talkative nature to his own reputation. Joseph was a stranger, so he took everything with a grain of salt, but strangers could be some of the best unintentional informants; someone wholly outside of your social circle. Maybe he could draw out more leads from the man with the golden eagle pin.

“Probably more so than the average survivor,” Lars noted in Joseph's mention of his skills with the wilds. It was a suitable, vaguely lukewarm answer that both didn’t shed light on his well of experience but didn’t deny Joe outright with a lie. Lars had perfected this style of stagnant conversation.

“About yesterday, though,” Lars started again. He did some strange face twitch he caught almost immediately, but turned away for a brief moment to recompose himself again. Watch the face watch the face watch the face. He continued after a short pause. “It seemed like everyone involved in the fight was well prepared. I’d put money on… the, hm. Short blond?” Lars looked around preemptively in case she was within earshot and a bat was about to slam into his temple. “And Liberty, of course. The four of us really held our own, no? I’d say I’ve spent a lot of time taking on belligerents, but I don’t seem to stand out much in capability.”

He tilted his head to Joseph. “You threw some serious punches. Guessing you do a lot of heavy lifting with your supply runs?”

“We did alright,” Joe said cheerily, taking the other end of the tarp from Lars before starting to roll it up tightly. He still carried the frame with his other hand, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “That’s, uh, Hazel, I think — the one with the bat, right? If we were still at the Mall I’d want her on my league team, that’s for sure.”

Joe looked up from his work just in time to see Lars make an odd expression that he couldn’t interpret. The other man wasn’t the most forthcoming with information, though Joe couldn’t say whether that was out of distrust or lack of interest in talking about himself.

“Something like that,” he replied to Lars' question, grinning as he tied his tarp with a smooth motion and slung it over his shoulder. He’d strap it to one of his bags later. “It’s like my dad always used to say: ‘Son, you’re about as smart as a donkey and about half as attractive, so you might as well be as strong as one.’”

That was a lie, too. Joe’s father, an attorney who worked out of the financial district in Los Angeles, would never have said something so cruel — especially not to his son. The guy would have rather cut off his arm than tell his son he couldn’t have whatever gaming system had just come out, let alone disparage him in such a way. But Joe found people seemed to be a bit more sympathetic if you implied you had a hard childhood, which he’d always found odd. Tell someone plainly that your upbringing sucked and they’d shrug it off as attention-seeking. Weave it into a joke and suddenly everyone was offering you a lollipop.

(Joe’s parents had spent a lot of time in very awkward PTA meetings).

“What about you?” Joe asked, trying to turn the conversation back to Lars. “I haven’t seen many folks know their way around a knife like you. You ex-military or something?”

“Sounds like your dad was quite the hardass,” Lars commented offhandedly. He couldn’t relate. “No, I never considered the military. But my father and I enjoyed hunting, before the world fell apart. Wilderness survival, trapping, it was all a big hobby of ours. Only reason I survived the initial outbreak was because I gave up on living in Seattle and decided to stay at a secluded cabin. Not to mention my time in the Ashfields really bolstered the need to make every action count.” Like a nightmare, Lars felt the scorching dust settling on his forearms like an old embrace.

Lars glanced around where Joe’s camp once was. “Guess you’re all set, then? Need anything else?”

Joseph tried to keep his surprise from showing. The Ashfields? He mentally kicked himself for not making the connection earlier; the gas mask Lars carried with him should have been enough of a clue. Getting an Ashen in the group was a hell of a pull. It was probably half the reason Sybille recruited him, Joseph figured. But what was he doing this far down the coast?

Lars was speaking before Joseph could ask. He paused, then decided against broaching the subject. He didn’t want Lars to think he was trying to pry — even though, of course, he was.

“Nope,” Joseph said instead, smiling. “But I’ll be sure to let you know when I do.”

“And,” he added slowly. “I hope you do the same.”