[b]Ricky - Suburb, Old Jefferson - Anyone[/b]

It was a short walk off the highway, and through a ditch, into an unfenced suburb. Here, he found himself in a backyard, once well-tended and obviously loved, it was overgrown and ugly. Just like the rest of the world. The chef looked around and realized he had to be in a cul-de-sac, since there were yards to either side, that seemed to curve away, and he could see another similar situation on his left. Clearly this had once been a place full of life. Now it was full of the stench of death, and probably the undead too. Not liking that idea, the man moved slowly and quietly, creeping up on the closest house. The door was open, having been kicked in. He didn't anticipate finding anything, and decided not to look too hard if there were any zombies inside. His creeping was well-served, however, as the only ghoul in the house was too occupied with munching on a corpse to notice him. Someone had apparently killed themselves, and now what had probably been their significant other was feasting on their entrails. 

He'd never understood that part. Why were the zombies eating the digestive tract? It looked good in movies, obviously, since intestines are long and stringy and easy to make disgusting, but even in reality the monsters seemed content to dine on what was really little more than a vessel for excrement. He pushed the thought away, deciding he didn't need to throw up while the thing was still alive. Instead, he hacked off the zombie's head with a hard swing of his larger knife, and then stabbed it through the eye once the thing came to rest on the floor. From there, he checked on the corpse, but was disappointed. The man's revolver was a .44 special, not a .38, and it was rusted to shit regardless. On top of that, there had only been one round in the thing. Empty boxes he found in another room confirmed his suspicions, and Ricky thought no more of securing anything useful as far as weapons. Some people seemed inclined to grab whatever they could, but it was useless dead weight if it didn't get used. 

With that in mind, he managed to find a sealed bag of beef jerky that had been forgotten in a cupboard. He wondered at that, as he grabbed it, and hoped he had not just walked into a trap. He trusted to logic, though, and based on the way the house had been trashed, it was likely that looters had fled a zombie attack, which meant that the jerky was fair game. A pleasant thought, if ever there was one in this destroyed world. He tucked his loot into his bag, and decided to leave, poking his head out the front door. Then he realized he needed to make a decision. "Left or right?" he asked, and then nodded as he heard a zombie moan in the distance. "Right it is." he declared in a whisper, chuckling before he stepped onto the front porch and heading for the next house on the right. This one was very similar to the last, at least externally, and he expected its innards to be just as recognizable. Indeed, thanks to the suburbia mentality, looting this neighbourhood was going to be easy. Every corner, every hallway and door, they were all in the same places. Nothing changed. It was like running the same trapline over and over again in quick succession. Of course, he wasn't nearly as successful as he might have been had this been an actual trapline.

"Fuck. I should just go live in the swamp." he realized, knowing that he could probably live just fine out there. "I need another person, though..." he added, talking to himself like he was two people, just to alleviate the boredom. "Someone needs to work the boat... What about Greg? He can't be dead..." he knew Greg couldn't be dead because that man had lived through anything. He'd probably fought in every major conflict since the American Revolution. That man was as old as dirt and even harder to get rid of. He was also an impossible man to find, Ricky remembered with a frown. He was probably still running his traplines, just a little slower without help. And a little less since he only had to feed himself. 

"I should never have left the swamp." he concluded with a groan. A groan that was echoed behind him as he continued to sweep through the fourth house on the block. He spun effortlessly and shoved his knife through another undead eye socket. He shuddered. realizing how close he had just been to dying, and then continued with his search. This time he managed to find a bottle of water. It looked like it had been part of a much greater stash that had been removed for greener pastures, though this one hadn't managed to go along. That only made things easier, though, since it meant he now had a decent lunch. He wasn't really sure what time it was any more, but lunch sounded good, so he settled in the basement for a meal, figuring that he'd have the upper hand if someone else decided they wanted a piece of him.

With that in mind, the chef sat down under the stairs, and placed his revolver at his right side. It always went right next to his knee, a hand's breadth from the joint. His reflexes were so good at this point, that he couldn't miss it, and he'd have it pointed in the right direction faster than most people could realize what was going on in the room they had just kicked in the door of. Comfortable, he chowed down on his beef jerky and water, and then tossed the packaging. He might have a need for a plastic bottle, but wasn't going to carry it around for a "might". And beef jerky wrappers weren't much use to him. He holstered his piece once more as he stood, and took a deep breath. Now he needed to continue with his search.

[i]Stop. Just stop. You don't have to do this.[/i] a little voice said in his head. He knew it wasn't the crazy one, as he'd taken his meds not long ago. [i]I do, though. If I stop, I'll die.[/i] he thought back, exasperated. It was tempting, to just stop, but he couldn't do that. Not without dying. There was no other way to put it. If he gave in, he'd wind up prey to some other person who hadn't given up yet. But even with that voice discouraging him, he planned to keep going until his death at the hands of someone or something more unfortunate, or deadly than he. The voice seemed to quiet, though he knew it was still there. That feeling, that longing to stop, it was right there, waiting for him. All he had to do was sit back down. That wasn't an option now, though, he was already creeping from the basement, to the front door. He needed to get out of this place, and find somewhere with more supplies. He wondered if he might find a Wal-Mart or a Target with bikes, or even a gator still intact. Such a thing would make his trip much easier. He supposed he might as well keep moving for the moment, however...