In some strange way, the undead bothered her less than the wholesale invasion of privacy that was keeping an entire town inside Harry’s General Store. The former was clearly more of a threat – - and Sloan would’ve been lying if she said that she’d not lost sleep over the stench that lingered in desolate corners - – but the latter impacted the proprietress on a more personal level. Call it selfish, but she didn’t like the thought of playing the part of an unwilling host. Undead be damned.
Maybe it just hadn’t sunk in yet – - the desecration of Saint Clemens, the death of the sheriff, the goddamn dead bodies shambling after an unfortunate herd of buffalo - – but Sloan wasn’t eager to examine her feelings on the state of the world. If she didn’t acknowledge the problem, then perhaps it would cease to exist or work itself out like so many skeletons collecting dust in her closet. Out of sight, out of mind. Unlike the townsfolk who occupied the basement, the bedrooms upstairs, the rows between shelves of dry goods that would only last so long if the supply line to Harry’s was cut off.
Cold as she was, Sloan had anguished over her inventory in an attempt to figure up just how long a town could be fed from the supplies of one store. The results had unfortunately indicated that a significant portion of Janestown would be tightening their belts in the days to come. Even on her third turn about the store – - ledger in one hand, the nub of a broken pencil in another - – she could find nothing of significant comfort between cans of beans and torn sacks of flour. What she did find, however, was another soul on what might’ve been the same mission. Taking inventory, poking around, looking for any sort of scrap that could get someone through the day. Whatever the motivation, there was still a twinge of anger that plucked at her heartstrings at the idea of anyone thinking they could walk into her store – - her home - – and touch or take whatever they wanted. So, of course, she had to say something, even if selfishness was a luxury one couldn’t afford when dead bodies were banging on the doors of the Saloon or eviscerating entire herds of beasts.
“You just pilfer through things that don’t belong to you when you’re bored? Is that what this is?”
Southby had tried. He really had. He’d tried to come up with other viable locations to host the town, but given the sorry state of just about every other building, Harry’s had been chosen & he couldn’t fight it if it made sense. He’d known Sloan would be put-out by the added burden, but it was what it was & the survivors had moved their camp from the cramped jailhouse to the general store.
The night they’d moved in was the best night’s sleep the man had gotten in two weeks. Granted, it had only been a few hours, but it hadn’t been plagued by ghoulish nightmares of the undead or random starts of his heart. When he’d woken, he & the watchmen he was replacing spoiled themselves with a cup of coffee each before Southby took over the patrol. Just like that, more time had slipped by & his shift was ending.
Just like with the Sheriff’s office, Southby didn’t get tired of being in Harry’s. Most folks felt cooped & sought out reasons to be outside, Southby on the other hand felt quite at home. That was probably why, his eyes had flicked up when he saw Sloan’s blonde head go by one of the shelves. He’d been leaning against the counter, his revolver broken down into four pieces as he cleaned it. His focus returned to his work, but it lasted only a number of seconds before he was glancing up again. He pieced the gun back together, watching as Sloan moved on the other person in the aisle. Mind your business, Southby reminded himself, jamming the cloth into his pocket. Something in the way Sloan moved though wouldn’t allow him to turn face. Instead, he holstered the gun & moseyed an aisle closer.
“You just pilfer through things that don’t belong to you when you’re bored? Is that what this is?”
The annoyance was clear in Sloan’s voice & Southby grimaced. The poor fool on the other side of it probably hadn’t meant any offense. People were on razors edge recently & the shopkeeper didn’t appear to be immune from being taunt as a bowstring. “Mind if I have a word with you about that supply line due in tomorrow?” Southby interrupted, walking between the shelves. He looked from Sloan to the accused. “Sorry for interrupting,” He added, before nodding his head towards the back for Sloan to follow, hopefully giving the guy enough time to scurry off somewhere else & avoid confrontation.