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 He's An Outlaw, [TAG: CLAY]
Posted: Mar 11 2012, 03:20 AM


He'd been busy for the last five months, tricking out the Loomis yard. It wasn't much to look at - from the outside resembling an abandoned warehouse - but it was relatively safe and he hadn't had too much trouble so far. Power was an issue, of course; the solar panel he'd tacked to the roof only eked out half a day if used conservatively. It was the only one he could find in the places he'd tried - likely there were others in the city who were picking them up, maybe even using them for trade.

Water was the other big problem. There was a small lake near the yard he'd been using as his supply, until a stray walker stumbled into it and contaminated the whole damn thing. He'd fished it out of course, and put up a warning sign for anyone else who might be tempted to use it for drinking, and was forced to filter everything from then on. It was hardly Evian, but the bottles had run down to almost nothing; Randall was working on an easier system gleaned from reading stolen library books, but it would involve a lot of materials he didn't have.

Scavenging for that sort of thing would have to wait. All Randall had left by way of edibles were the MREs he'd picked up from the local Army surplus store. The menus had come a long way since the "Wild Turkey Surprise" and "Four Fingers of Death" he'd eaten whilst serving in the Marines, but they still tasted like boiled ass. He'd decided the night before that a trip to the marina was in order; he could snag some fresh fish and have a poke around in the abandoned cargo crates for anything that might prove useful.

Having filled up his transport, Randall took a quick inventory of his supplies for the trip. He'd taken to talking to himself under the possibly-misguided fear that he'd forget how to hold a conversation if he didn't. 'Okay, so we got...water, food, ammo...tool kit. Chains and rope -' he touched each item as he listed it, making sure it was packed securely and not about to go bouncing around in the back of the armoured vehicle. 'Radio up front. Propane tank. Aaaand...something's missing -' Randall spun in a slow, lumbering circle, before a flash of dull metal peeped out from beneath his pack. 'Grapple. There you are, little bastard. Thought you could hide from me, didja?'

If anyone had been listening in, they probably would have suspected that he'd lost his mind. Randall wasn't so sure they'd be wrong. He hopped out of the back and bolted the truck doors, striding into the office directly afterwards to pick up his weapons. The warehouse had been fortuitously stocked, but ammunition was a little more difficult to find and he'd had to raid a few private residences before he got his hands on shotgun shells. With that slung over one shoulder, hunting knife and 9mm strapped to his legs, Randall already made quite the pretty picture. He'd also acquired a bow from a nearby highschool gym supply but it was proving tricky to master - Randall's thick fingers weren't exactly suitable for the task. He brought it along nevertheless; he operated under a "just in case" mentality.

Glancing at his reflection in the long mirror he'd propped up against the wall, he shook his head and let out a laugh. 'Well, don't you look like a regular action man?' he asked his image. 'Action man: Apocalypse edition. Old, fat, black man carryin' this King Arthur piece of shit.' Chuckling to himself, Randall headed back to the truck and strapped himself into the drivers side. Inside the cab, he had an open map of Houston with various places marked off for exploration. 'Seven-two-eight...Travis Street,' he muttered, circling the address in question. 'I Fly...I Fly? Seriously? Guess that's fish humour.' Randall rolled his eyes and started up the engine, popping his favourite Muddy Waters tape into the machine and pulling out to the strains of blues harmonica. Galveston Bay awaited.
Posted: Mar 13 2012, 08:29 PM


Clay had been sitting at the Bay for some time. It was where he liked to go and think. It was peaceful and allowed him the little comforts that amused him during this crappy time. Like fishing. Clay managed to pull a few worms out of the shore, where mud was dominant, and figured he could bait a few lines. Were there any fish in the location he currently sat? He didn’t really care. All he knew was that this pole he traded for at the Galleria, and the cigar that sat in his mouth were all he needed to make the afternoon enjoyable. His mind wandered to simple things, like the sky, and whether or not a zombie was going to sneak up on him and nom on his brain. Or more complex things, like what and how he was going to treat Lucy. She was on his mind a lot more these days, and the older man wasn’t sure if he could devote any more time to getting her to stay with him instead of Finch. The thought seemed terrible, and it wasn’t worth investing time into this woman who obviously didn’t want to be with him. His trusty shotgun lay on the ground next to him, and he thought if it would just be easier to shoot the fish, than to try and catch them. No, he said to himself, you are here to relax and get your bearings, and then go back to the plane and start fresh. The sun was bright and felt good on his skin, and the lack of zombie wails was relaxing. You got used to it after a while, but it still annoyed Clay to no end. What did they have to be so sad about, anyway? They were already dead and didn’t need to waste time on relationships or what they were going to have for breakfast the next morning. No, life was much simpler when you were a zombie. Clay shook his head as he glanced at his watch. A few more hours of daylight to waste away before he would head back to the marina. His motorcycle was parked closely, and if need be, he could hop on it and book it back. Times were tough, but living was much tougher.
Posted: Mar 14 2012, 09:49 AM


Typical. The place was locked up tighter than an Eskimos nutsack. It had to be the only place in Houston that hadn’t been ransacked, probably because nobody could find it. ’Security or morgue?’ Randall pondered as he stepped out of his truck and casually flicked a piece of zombie out of the grille. I Fly was the forgotten, retarded cousin to all the fancier shops catering to outdoor pursuits; if he hadn’t known it was there, even Randall would’ve driven right on by. He tapped a knuckle against the glass, peering into the darkness. ’Hey, somebody order the meat feast?’ he called, stifling a chuckle at his own joke.

With no apparent signs of life - or death - inside, Randall decided to take the pragmatic approach and rip the doors off. With the use of horror movie logic and a juvenile desire to cause chaos, he determined that the best way of ensuring his safety was to wrap chains around the metal door railings and attach them to his towbar - hoping all the while that some enterprising Houston citizen hadn’t sealed up a horde in there.

’Alvey..’ he murmured reverently, stumbling through the haze of black smoke and debris a few minutes later. ‘Shimano…holy shit - Abu Garcia -’ Randall all but fell to his knees in front of a display, hands raised up as if praying. ‘Santa, you cocksucker, where was all this twenty years ago?’ He took a moment to appreciate all the things he couldn’t afford, glimmering iridescently in the half-light, before grabbing as much of it as he could carry. It was on the third such trip, rods stacked under one arm, that he noticed the mannequin.

’Lookin’ pretty fly for a white guy,’ he told it, quirking a brow at the putrid green, nipple-high waders. Before he left, Randall swiped the sunglasses that perched precariously on his plastic friend and examined the tag. ’Huh. Ugly Fish. That sounds about right.’ And yet, in they went, a jumble of assorted goodies in the back of his truck.

Bright, midday sun shone brilliant red through the coating of blood on his windscreen as Randall pulled up to the marina. In the distance, he could see a figure that appeared to be fishing. ’Man,’ he wondered aloud, parking up a safe distance away. ’Or zombie with a hobby?’ He laughed to himself as he rummaged around in the back and loaded up for his afternoon adventures, putting on the ugly shades as an afterthought, and making his way down to the waters edge.

’They bitin’?’
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