There was always a risk when it came to leaving their station. Station: somehow an easier word to digest in this whole scenario than the truth of apartment, home, storefront. Those were old words. What was a home anymore? They’d taken to staying at an old house, situated a good mile or so off the main road with a length of woods tucked behind them.
Close enough to civilization to map the changes but with room to run.
J.P. was returning back from a trip to the store, scavenging what he could from the shelves. It was a weighted game each time: what they wanted versus what they needed. Take too much, hurt the others. There was already one enemy, no need making others. With a set knock against the front door, John Patrick made is presence known.
He waited for Ophelia to answer, to crack the door open before slipping through and then closing and locking it back up after himself. A small spout of safety. One less item for his brain to worry around. “Sorry,” he breathed, shoulders falling as he found relief in their not-home. “Found a new hoard in town and had to play tip-toe. Thank fuck they’re dumb.” Logic was always lacking with the zombies. Once fully functioning beings and yet here they were, unable to work a door knob. The kicker? Their speed when they got you in their sight. God, it was like a shitty game of manhunt, only now he wasn’t a kid playing around in his cul-de-sac. “I did my best but... honestly, it’s starting to get picked over.”
I.e. maybe they’d have to think about moving.
But that seemed a full-on conversation for morning. A decision that warranted thought and reason and more than thirty seconds through the door. J.P.’s immediate concerns upon returning back were to drop the bags on the counter and to disarm, gun set down behind him but in reach. “Tell me I didn’t fuck up again. I swear I gave that list a full triple-check.” ( @offcbles & @svgarella )
