"You should go to the front corner of the store, put your back to the walls, shoot anything that isn't me, I'll be back." He flashes a smile, one that says he might not be entirely sane-- of course this wasn't the smiling sort of situation to begin with. He takes off toward an aisle, pacing himself-- if they couldn't keep up they would surely go after Charles-- and making quite some noise with his footsteps.
"Come on you ugly motherfuckers-- I know you're out there!" He hit the nearly empty clip of the gun against the shelf as he slid it out to check his round and then back in-- usually he would go by weight, but right now didn't seem like the time to take chances. He continued banging on the shelves as he sped toward the back of the store-- so long as he was fast enough to load his gun he wouldn't have too much trouble-- he only hoped his friend would fare as well on his own. Wesley couldn't think about that too much, not right now, instead he was sliding back behind the camping equipment to the half-broken ammunition case-- slamming into it with his shoulder and then yanking the grate forward. Grabbing a box of rounds and sliding his clip out again he began to load it with abnormal speed.
"You better not fucking die!" He calls out, half to alert him that Wesley was still functioning and half to draw more of them backward, a shot rings out and then another shortly after. "If you do, I'm going to be really fucking pissed I have to talk to myself again." Two more shots.
"Wait," There wasn't enough time to protest before he was watching Wesley disappear, hoping for the best, expecting the worse. He had no qualms with staying far away from the death trap, watching the unusual antics of his new companion only briefly, before his attentions flew to the door.
He moved to the front, supplies forgotten in favor of the shotgun's reassuring weight, eyes wide and alert. Every slam and crash drew a reflexive cringe. He focused, instead, on Wesley's mind, keeping a thin connection, just enough to know that the other man was still there, still thinking, still alive.
Half-tempted to cut corners and reply straight to the other man's mind, he keeps his mouth shut, the only sound of reply two shots from the shotgun. Distracting Wesley sounded like a deadly dangerous option, if the gunfire from the back was anything to go on, but whatever he was dealing with sounded worse than the shambling duo of curious killers setting off the all too familiar chime of the door sensor on his half. It still took him two shots to stop the first one, pausing to aim more carefully for the first.
Fortunately for them both, Wesley does return, a backpack stolen from the small section of camping gear and stuffed with a few things (mostly ammunition and some canned goods) he raises his hands up over his head as he steps out of the end of the aisle; making sure Charles wasn't startled and wouldn't pop off and shoot him on accident. He could dodge and deflect a bullet or two but a shotgun blast was still a big danger. He lifts his gun and wiggles it a little bit to put the now fully loaded pistol on display. "Backs clear, got ammo and some canned crap on the way back up--" He gestures to the pack, swinging it off his shoulder and dropping it onto one of the register counters, the thing was obnoxiously heavy but he could handle it in favor of having ammo and not starving to death.
"If you want me to carry anything back, throw it into the bag, I figure you're not gonna do so well firing that thing with one hand if it comes down to it." He's glad to see the other in one piece though, and he'll give him credit for that much-- but that didn't mean he was ready to go off firing one handed shotgun blasts.
"Where are you sleeping anyway, I know it can't be outside with that damn... thing, right?"
Charles does not hesitate to add the few cans he had picked up to the collection, inquisitive blue eyes drifting now and then from the door to studying his near twin. It would have been lying of him to claim he was not intrigued, though this was neither the time nor the place to spend contemplating that particular topic.
"Erik is quite effective at alerting me to approaching danger. Even in the darkness, I can trust his eyes and ears, or perhaps more accurately, his nose, to warn me well ahead of the danger." The calm neutrality with which Charles mentioned it could have proven a fair warning to most that his mental stability was not entirely intact, if the fact that he had the infected canine at all was not enough.
"There is a place near here, though, they have not yet found a way inward, as far as I am aware." He had cleared it of the few unfortunate infected that had been locked in, but it seemed the barbed barrier of the fences had proven enough of a difficulty to deter them from actively seeking out entrance. An old store house for some company or other, long since abandoned, but the double fences were miraculously still secure. It had been Charles' 'home' before the others had fallen victim to the zombies one by one. Ever since he had avoided the familiarity of dead memories in favor of the open air.
"Right," And he stare at Charles for a moment; inwardly debating the pleasure of having someone to talk to against the chances Charles might loose his mind and feed either of them to the dog should he fall asleep. He's not entirely sure yet, but a bit of arrogance keeps him from popping off a shot or taking flight-- and secretly, Wesley doesn't see the point in continuing on with life if there's no one else, anyway, it was boring and he was just spending days killing shit-- days and days-- but it was always with the hope of finding someone else.
Snagging up a pack of bubblegum from behind the register he tosses it on the top of the pack and zips the overstuffed thing closed. Throwing the strap over one shoulder his knees bend slightly at the sudden additional weight, then throwing the other strap over his back he shifts from side to side to make sure the fucking thing doesn't press on his spine before his attention is back on Charles. "We should head back then," He murmurs as he heads toward the door they had came in, pistol lowered to point at the floor, both hands gripping firmly ready to take aim with a moments notice.
"I'm going to find somewhere inside to sleep-- not sleeping outside with that fuckin' animal, you can do as you like."
Worrying his lower lip with his teeth, Charles followed Wesley out of the store, reloading his shotgun carefully. He catches pieces of the doubt in Wesley's thoughts, frowning slightly, but latches on, instead, to the familiar need to not be alone. You are not alone anymore, my friend His mind whispered the words back to Wesley as Charles glanced up and down the streets, listening for the shuffle of feet over his breathing.
"If you are interested I can take you there. The other buildings around here, I've locked most of them, trapped them in one way or another." Weeks of terrifyingly close calls as he lured them in and trapped them within the buildings to starve, if they could even starve. He knew the science of decomposition; knew without a doubt that they had to deteriorate eventually. He clung to the hope that he could outlast them, but every day, more zombies appeared, and would there ever really be an end to it all? Someday there would be no more bullets, no more stores to raid for food. Just running, fear, and the stench of death on the air. Rotting, putrid and terrifying.
"Come on you ugly motherfuckers-- I know you're out there!" He hit the nearly empty clip of the gun against the shelf as he slid it out to check his round and then back in-- usually he would go by weight, but right now didn't seem like the time to take chances. He continued banging on the shelves as he sped toward the back of the store-- so long as he was fast enough to load his gun he wouldn't have too much trouble-- he only hoped his friend would fare as well on his own. Wesley couldn't think about that too much, not right now, instead he was sliding back behind the camping equipment to the half-broken ammunition case-- slamming into it with his shoulder and then yanking the grate forward. Grabbing a box of rounds and sliding his clip out again he began to load it with abnormal speed.
"You better not fucking die!" He calls out, half to alert him that Wesley was still functioning and half to draw more of them backward, a shot rings out and then another shortly after. "If you do, I'm going to be really fucking pissed I have to talk to myself again." Two more shots.
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He moved to the front, supplies forgotten in favor of the shotgun's reassuring weight, eyes wide and alert. Every slam and crash drew a reflexive cringe. He focused, instead, on Wesley's mind, keeping a thin connection, just enough to know that the other man was still there, still thinking, still alive.
Half-tempted to cut corners and reply straight to the other man's mind, he keeps his mouth shut, the only sound of reply two shots from the shotgun. Distracting Wesley sounded like a deadly dangerous option, if the gunfire from the back was anything to go on, but whatever he was dealing with sounded worse than the shambling duo of curious killers setting off the all too familiar chime of the door sensor on his half. It still took him two shots to stop the first one, pausing to aim more carefully for the first.
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"If you want me to carry anything back, throw it into the bag, I figure you're not gonna do so well firing that thing with one hand if it comes down to it." He's glad to see the other in one piece though, and he'll give him credit for that much-- but that didn't mean he was ready to go off firing one handed shotgun blasts.
"Where are you sleeping anyway, I know it can't be outside with that damn... thing, right?"
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"Erik is quite effective at alerting me to approaching danger. Even in the darkness, I can trust his eyes and ears, or perhaps more accurately, his nose, to warn me well ahead of the danger." The calm neutrality with which Charles mentioned it could have proven a fair warning to most that his mental stability was not entirely intact, if the fact that he had the infected canine at all was not enough.
"There is a place near here, though, they have not yet found a way inward, as far as I am aware." He had cleared it of the few unfortunate infected that had been locked in, but it seemed the barbed barrier of the fences had proven enough of a difficulty to deter them from actively seeking out entrance. An old store house for some company or other, long since abandoned, but the double fences were miraculously still secure. It had been Charles' 'home' before the others had fallen victim to the zombies one by one. Ever since he had avoided the familiarity of dead memories in favor of the open air.
Reply
Snagging up a pack of bubblegum from behind the register he tosses it on the top of the pack and zips the overstuffed thing closed. Throwing the strap over one shoulder his knees bend slightly at the sudden additional weight, then throwing the other strap over his back he shifts from side to side to make sure the fucking thing doesn't press on his spine before his attention is back on Charles. "We should head back then," He murmurs as he heads toward the door they had came in, pistol lowered to point at the floor, both hands gripping firmly ready to take aim with a moments notice.
"I'm going to find somewhere inside to sleep-- not sleeping outside with that fuckin' animal, you can do as you like."
Reply
"If you are interested I can take you there. The other buildings around here, I've locked most of them, trapped them in one way or another." Weeks of terrifyingly close calls as he lured them in and trapped them within the buildings to starve, if they could even starve. He knew the science of decomposition; knew without a doubt that they had to deteriorate eventually. He clung to the hope that he could outlast them, but every day, more zombies appeared, and would there ever really be an end to it all? Someday there would be no more bullets, no more stores to raid for food. Just running, fear, and the stench of death on the air. Rotting, putrid and terrifying.
Reply
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