THE GAMBLER.

[cardsharpconartist]

amortean.

Poke poke poke poke. And one last jab with her bat for good measure, sucking noisily (and rudely) on her bright red straw in response to his question. A long minute passes, hoping the confused sod will mosey off on his merry way to gawk at greener pastures, but he’s still standing there when she finally diverts her gaze to him, staring at her like a sideshow attraction.

The drink in her hand rattles as she slurps again. “Checking its vitals.”

In truth, she’s never seen a skunk in person before. She just wanted to get a good look at one without the risk of being sprayed or contracting rabies, and a dead, half-eaten skunk is perhaps the most harmless of its kind.

Sheila stares at him, the gears in her brain churning slowly, trying to recall faint memories associated with that dingy, god-awful splattered suit. “What are you doing?”

It’s not like he has anything better to do, really. Nick squints, half a cringe in response to the noisy slurping on the straw.

A dozen different replies all spawn at once in his head, and he sighs.

        “What do you think, genius?” Doing what everybody else around here is doing, maybe? Anyone not a zombie, anyway. “Existing in not--”

He squints again, further.

         “Hey. Don’t I know you?”

[cardsharpconartist]

amortean.

average thursday night after the end of the world … the rain stopped hours ago, the scent of petrichor mingling with rotting garbage (and other things rotting, so much putrefaction everywhere) creating a new, noxious eau de toilette called jesus christ is that a bloated skunk carcass lying in the middle of the road.

and then there’s fuckface mcgee over there, vaguely familiar with his scowl, but not instantly recognizable enough for sheila to put down her slushie and stop poking dead things in the road with her baseball bat.

He doesn’t so much as register the smell of Boomer and animal carcasses mingling together. After being covered in puke, swamp water, sewer water and what feels like a dozen different bodily fluids, the novelty of it has worn off, and his standards for what constitutes as clean are wildly different from what they were a few months ago.

Sure, he hadn’t had a shower in at least a month until the rain. But you know what? Could be worse. It could always be worse.

So he’s soaked head to toe, shivering like a wet dog but otherwise at least looking somewhat relieved for the makeshift ‘shower’... But the expression dies off into a confused squint at the figure in the middle of the road.

What is she wearing, and how is it so clean? What is she drinking? What is she doing? He swears the figure almost looks familiar, but Nick is more befuddled than anything else.

      “What the hell are you doing?”

[cardsharpconartist]

.

[cardsharpconartist]

   “Why and how haven’t I died yet?” 

[cardsharpconartist]

cacawcacaw:

Where’s Coach or Rochelle to keep them from bickering at each other when he needs them? Sure, they too never let him finish those trademark stories of his with a Witch or a Tank around — but at least they take his side some of the time. And they don’t try to shove a ‘no talking’ hour onto him, either.

He doesn’t even take a chance to mull over the thirty minute proposal before narrowing his eyes at the gambler like he’d just thrown out an insult about his mom.

    "Twenty—?"

   "Actually, never mind. Just keep doing what you're doing right now."

[cardsharpconartist]

cacawcacaw:

"I ain’t been able t’ finish one, man.” Exaggerating goes both ways, but which one of them is more closely correct? ” ‘n’ they are useful! Maybe not t’ you—” Or Coach, or Rochelle… his voice trails off at the exact moment he realizes that argument has more than likely already been lost.

His compromise, however, only nets something of a scowl (or maybe more of a pout, on that boyish face of his) from the mechanic crossing his arms. No dice. “Free pass? Th’ hell happened t’ freedom’a speech?” Because the thought of being quiet for a whole hour isn’t enough to completely blow away the deal by itself.

   "Do you have any idea when you start telling them? Or does that just fly by your head?" Nick huffs, leaning backwards. "It's like— jesus, it's like you actually try to pick the worst, most inconvenient time." Granted, when everybody is back at the safehouse, everybody is also too exhausted to put up with one. Still, doesn't mean Ellis should tell them when a Witch is around the corner. Or, god forbid, a Tank.

   Damn.       "Thirty minutes?"   'Freedom of speech' doesn't apply to Ellis while Nick is around. 

[letsgetonwithit]

Looks like there’s been a change of plans.

[misstalwyn]

the sacrifice

[combobreakercomix]

"What was I thinking coming down here?"

Dirty, busted-up Nick.

-Gers.

[lonevvanderer-deactivated202006]

↳Slim’s Endless List of Favorite Video Games → Left 4 Dead  (1 & 2)

[cacawcacaw]

Hustle to Houston [ Ellis | Nick ]

[cacawcacaw]

It may have been a less than ideal experience for Nick (and, more than likely, Coach and Rochelle too), but barreling down a plague-infested highway behind the wheel of a racecar is something Ellis could have only dreamed of before the Green Flu. Literally a man living his fantasies… living his fantasies in the zombie apocalypse. How many other men get to say they’ve done that?

Kids are always told to follow their dreams — and following his headlights right into that Hunter might have just been the best part.

Oblivious to his own reaction as ever, the Georgian continues shuffling through the glove compartment while Nick steps back to… assess whether or not that Charger from before damaged his companion more than meets the eye. ” ‘Ey — might as well take what what you c’n get, y’know?” Which is just a half-assed way for him to say ‘quit complaining, because I didn’t have to give up the chance to drive like I did’. Finding absolutely nothing else other than stale napkins, car insurance papers, and a dead flashlight under the dash, he slams the box door shut and turns back to the gambler with a grin. “Jus’ promise you’ll run over a couple’a zombies on th’ road for me, okay?” He wouldn’t even mind being woken up from his nap because of it, if that’s the case.

"Lord, it better have some gas. I don’t wanna go aroun’ fillin’ up cans again.” Not wishing to go out and siphon fuel from the other vehicles in the lot is something they can both agree on. It’s tedious, annoying, staying in the area runs the risk of alerting the horde still staggering about nearby — plus, Ellis has never necessarily been the most patient person when it comes to things. He knows they’ll probably have to stop at least once along the way to refill their ride… but a guy can wish that they get decently far off before that time comes.

When he anounces he’s ready to get the engine revved up and going, the mechanic steps away from the automobile and moves to its front — scanning the parking lot to see if any unwanted guests would show up too soon. Drawing them near when they leave is inevitable for sure, yet he still gets wide-eyed when the familiar sound of an ignition comes along with the more familiar sound of a crying horde. His buddy’s panicked shout is unfortunately drowned out in the eruption of noise, but luckily he’s already bolting for the still-open passenger’s side door while uttering a few curses of his own.

…Bolting as fast as a guy who got the shit beat out of him can bolt, anyway.

He all but leaps into his designated seat, and nearly shuts his leg inside the door when he grabs the handle to pull it closed. Immediately his attention goes to the oncoming stampede coming their way — like moths to a flame. If he didn’t know any better (read: if he hadn’t already killed a metric ton of the decomposing bastards single-handedly), he might have thought that’s the same group of zombies chasing them all the way back from the hotel in Savannah. After a while, the mass attacks made against them start to look more or less the same.

"Go! Go, man! ‘Fore s’too late ‘n’ they block us in!” Antsy as usual, Nick not taking off impossibly soon enough makes him instantly regret not taking his place in the driver’s seat. Possessing a car is going to be fruitless if they wind up getting swarmed and dying inside of it. Even if they haven’t checked the map to figure out a travel plan, anywhere is better than where they’re at right now. Does it come as much of a surprise that he’d rather floor it first and ask questions later? Because it shouldn’t.

One hand already crumpling their newfound guide, his other set of fingers wrap tightly around the magnum clipped to his waist — fishing it swiftly from its holster and holding it against it lap. Quick access for a quick shot or two… just in case.

[cardsharpconartist]

“Sure.” Is Nick’s curt, ever half-assed response; he isn’t stupid, beggars can’t be choosers, especially in dire times like this (and yet, he’d still complain about the state of his suit and the cleanliness of the next place they traverse over any physical wound), and if the only thing offered to him is the tiny, run down and decomposing car, then he’ll take it. Not without one, if not a few, complaint first, of course, but he’ll take it nonetheless.

Another uneasy glance is sent towards the horde shambling in the far distance, though he looks away as quickly as he did. “Don’t think we have time for that anyway, Ellis. They’re gonna notice us sooner or later.” More sooner than later if the revving of the engine proves to be useless, of course. And then they’re just going to have to sprint. And god, he doesn’t feel like going for a thirty minute run right now. Even if his pessimistic attitude is forcing him to expect it.

The brief moment of incredibly rare optimism that sparks up right as the engine does is incredibly momentary, so it’s quick to fade when realism rears its ugly head along with the horde, infected already sprinting towards their direction and Nick swears he can hear the shriek of a Hunter, but he gives himself no time to think back on it.

He hardly needs Ellis shouting at him to get him going.

“I’m going! I’m going!” He yells back, slamming his foot down on the pedal, his grip on the crusty (ew) steering wheel tightening until his knuckles whiten underneath dull golden rings. The car skids on the ground, and he hardly has any time to hiss a “Get going you piece of crap!” before he’s jerked backwards as it kicks into speed, plowing straight through the fence of the school parking lot.

They leave the horde and the abandoned school in the literal dust.  

[lemmyleyra]

[cardsharpconartist]

cacawcacaw:

"—‘n’ how many’a them stories have I got t’ finish, man?           Y’know, where I was raised? People stay quiet when someone else is talkin’.”

       “Too many.”   Like, maybe three?         “You wanna know where I was raised? Where people don’t give a shit.” Yeah, that sure explains a hell of a lot. “Don’t have anything useful to say, don’t say anything.” A scathing remark about ‘Southerners and progress’ crosses his mind, but he holds his tongue. For now, anyway. 

    “I just—”  Nick abruptly heaves a sigh, rubbing a hand down his face; obviously telling Ellis to ‘shut up’, whether it’s blatant or not, isn’t going to work. Why does he keep trying? “Okay—okay, let’s say I give you a free pass.” He holds up a hand. “But that’s it. After you have to be quiet. For at least an hour.”

[cardsharpconartist]

cacawcacaw:

"I am listenin’, man! I c’n hear what yer sayin’ jus’ fine!” Shrinks away.                       ” ‘n’ I ain’t gotta be smellin’ yer breath t’ do that, neither.”

    “You’re full of shit.”  This would be past the part where Coach would tell him to shut up, probably.       “I swear to god, every time I’ve tried to tell you something you’ve been in the middle of another one of your—” Cue exaggerated, slightly offensive accent, “—‘Mah buddy Kee-uth’ stories. You tell one more of those things and my damn head is going to explode.”

[cardsharpconartist]

cacawcacaw:

cardsharpconartist replied to your post .

“That’s not what I— you’re missing the point, man.”

"—Then what’s th’ point?”

   “How do I explain this to you in a way you’ll understand—”

  LOUDLY CLEARS HIS THROAT and leans forward invasively. “You’re talking, but you’re not listening.”

[cacawcacaw]

Hustle to Houston [ Ellis | Nick ]

[cacawcacaw]

…There’s a difference between really, really appreciating a very, very nice car and proclaiming love towards it, alright? It’s something a person like Nick could never understand.

It goes without saying that Ellis would always prefer the Jimmy Gibbs over any other vehicle they come across — yes, even that truck on the far side of the lot sitting atop a massive set of wheels. If he were to choose, the two of them would take their asses back to Georgia, pick up that gorgeous body of metal, and hightail it to Houston in style. In style, and mowing down zombies the entire way with a combination of unruly speed and the already scuffed-up hood. Just like before, right?

—None of those claims likely help his case of 'not being obsessed' one bit.

Sure the jokes might come, but sharing things about each other is what friends do, Nick. Because for every remark any of them have made about his ex-wives, the sorry state of his suit and his extreme distaste for all things unclean, there’s been just as many about the mechanic and his accent, his southern roots and the not-so secret crush he has with that lady they met on the bridge. But that doesn’t stop him from carrying on with socializing about himself, right? Though, arguably, he informs the rest of the group about a certain other friend more than he does of himself. Maybe. If anyone were keeping track, at least.

Hearing the word ‘smell’ instantly has him taking a deep inhale while positioned in the right-hand seat, and oddly enough his nose doesn’t pick up any rank odors in the least. “Naw, man. Nothin’s died in here. Though I reckon we prob’ly don’t smell so good ourselves.” It was a fact, but he chuckles as if he were making a wisecrack nonetheless. Guess they’d just have to hope the broken backseat window helped in airing out any potent fumes they’d be bringing along their trip.

While the other sifts the contents of the rear-end of their ride, the Georgian pops open the glove box and works his way through it. The question to drive or not has him ceasing his task for just a moment, an instance of contemplation. In the end, surprisingly enough, he simply shrugs. “I can — if y’ want me to. But I was kinda hopin’ I could take me a nap once we got on th’ road.” As well of a job as those painkillers were doing on his nerves, he hadn’t completely forgotten about the bruises forming around his torso. Sleeping off the returning aches was something he’d planned to try once they secured a way to Houston.

Guess he really only jumps at the opportunity to take control of the nice cars, huh?

"But if you do, y’ gotta make sure t’—" A folded piece of paper he spots in the storage box catches his eyes as well as his tongue. Snatching it up and unfolding it… who would’ve thought their trashy automobile would be quite the package deal? He glances back at the gambler and cocks his head towards the expansive graph he’d found. " ‘Ey, looky here. S’a couple years old, but I bet it’ll still tell us where to go." He’d located a map, thank god, and he wasn’t reading it upside down this time.

[cardsharpconartist]

Which is the truth, because it’s all the same shit to him. He can appreciate a nice car, yeah, but not to the I-love-you extent (then again, Ellis did say he would bear Jimmy Gibbs’ children if he could, so he isn’t exactly shocked?) that Ellis holds for a car that he considers to risen right out of hell itself (Christ, sitting in that thing squished to the window and Coach was not pleasant, especially when he nearly fell over when yours truly decided that running over a Hunter would be funny – even if it kind of was). Stupid, stupid.

In any case, he’s glad they’re getting a normal car now. Even if it smells like shit, at least there’ll be seats—praise the lord, actual goddamn seats, and even if there wasn’t, there’s no way he wound suffer through that shit again. If he has to sit through another god-knows-how-long car drive with Ellis telling stories about you-know-who to pass the time whilst whooping while red-black blood splatters on the windshield, he’s going to lose his mind.

So imagine his surprise when Ellis actually pretty much rejects the offer to drive the car. Nick shuffles a little, pulling away from the car to give Ellis an arguably surprised look, brows arched and then furrowed and he opens his mouth once, closes it again, opens it again and simply responds with a; “…’Kay,” like a moron. God, it’s going to be weird actually being the one driving again—when was the last time he even drove a car? Too long, probably, and if you asked him about it a month or two (or however long it’s been since he got ditched on top of that roof with those three other losers) ago, he wouldn’t have thought the next thing he’d drive would be a smelly piece of shit that smells sort of like decomposing corpses. A smell of which he is more used to than he’d like to be. After a moment, Nick scoffs. “—Tch. Leave me with the shitty car, why don’t you.” Yeah, there’s that snarky response he forgot to give.

“Seriously?” He mutters, attempting to push away his suspicion as he draws back from rifling around under the seats, wandering over to take a look. Wow. An actual map. Ellis isn’t even reading it upside down. Nick tries to muffle his relief, but a heavy sigh escapes regardless, one ring fingered hand reaching back to rub at his neck. “Jesus. This thing gonna have a full tank of gas too, or would that be too much to ask for?” The last thing he needs right now is an empty tank. He’s filled enough things-without-gas to want to do it again, and nothing ever has enough, and always takes probably a million years until it’s finally good to go; see: the stock car, the bridge.

A little nervously, he glances back towards the driver’s seat, the dashboard. They’ll have to check. Which means starting the car and potentially drawing the attention of that horde over there. Again. And he’s pretty sure there isn’t any gas around here (unless they want to siphon the other tanks, which would be near impossible with infected running everywhere) so if the horde is drawn and if there’s jack shit for it, they’re basically screwed.

Right. What a great start.

“I’m starting it up,” Nick declares rather abruptly; they can check it for more supplies later. When they’re away from here. Like they want to get in a fight in a parking lot, especially if a Tank decides to show up. The gambler trots over to the other side, sliding in the driver’s seat and reaching forward to take the keys in his hand, already stuck in the ignition.

When he starts the car up, it doesn’t quite roar to life, per se, but it still starts and it’s got enough gas to get them and for a small, fleeting moment and for the first time in easily a month, Nick’s eyes light up but then widen in slight horror mixed with realization when the tell-tale howl of the horde sounds in the distance.

“Shit! Get in, get in!”  

[cacawcacaw]

"—I know.       Messed up more ‘an them zombies messed up yer suit.”

[cardsharpconartist]

Pats Ellis’ shoulder.

      “Aww, cheer up, champ. It can’t be possibly that bad.”

     Look at him. No extra bitching about the suit. It’s almost like he’s accepted his fate.           Terrifying.