[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=4682b4]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1][img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c3/2a/d5/c32ad53279d627f66861cb579e4b3fb8.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][color=steelblue][b]Location:[/b][/color] Headland: E. Main Street, E8 (inside Hordebuster)
[color=4682b4][b]Skills:[/b][/color] Leadership [/center][hr][hr]

	The rain continued to pound down on the land around them, making movement perilous and reducing visibility to a sliver of what it once was. It seemed almost folly to launch an ambush in this kind of weather, but stranger things had happened on Ash's watch, not the least of which was a tornado that tore through a horde and sucked up enough of the dead bastards to make life very interesting for the people it ran into next. Which, of course, were [i]his[/i] people. 

	The ferocity of the weather also served to drown out damn near every piece of hearing there was to be heard, from Ash's perspective. In truth, the only real service he was doing for anyone at that point was staying behind the wheel for a quick getaway. He was the most qualified guy to do it, but it still seemed like he was directing traffic from the most secure spot they had. When they hit the ground foraging, he resolved to throw himself into his tasks to compensate for his lack of effectiveness here. The women on the ground could handle themselves, Jack could get them back in okay, and he would ferry them away in safety. 

	Then he had questions for the drenched Nun. And speaking of drenched, the open window was getting the inside of his beloved truck rather soggy just then. The inconvenience alone was worth the silent supplication to whatever deity still looked down upon them to have the task over and done with. He could only hope that the rain's roar upon the earth was enough to mask their comings and going from the Dead at large. 




[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=dc143c]Thalia Carmichael[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/e4117d5f-65c8-4b8e-98df-5810a59267c5.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=crimson]Location:[/color][/b] Quincy: E10 -> E13
[b][color=dc143c]Skills:[/color][/b] Shield, Sharp Weapons [hr][hr][/center]

	Maybe it was pride. Pride had caused Thalia to make stupid decisions in the past. It sure as hell almost got her killed following the Outbreak. She got damned lucky to get picked up by the people she did, so close to death, who set her straight and turned her around. As fate would have it, she now carried the shield of one of them who helped her and trained her, all by happenstance. Sadly, that shield did not prove to be of much assistance. 

	Thalia sized up the corpse shambling at her. It was a young man. Large man too, or was before circumstances led to its demise, which from the relative solidity of his flesh was fairly recently. Also, by telltale signs around its eyes, nose and mouth, it had passed on by way of disease or infection. Thalia had a gun she could have used, though she did not want the dead, vaporized blood of a disease carrying cadaver wafting around the building in which they were taking shelter. 

	The safe thing to do would have been to use her shield to keep it back and call for Beatrice to bring her bow to bear on it. It was her first impulse. It was the right thing to do. Disease was a serious thing to mess around with, now more than ever before. A sickness took out Fairburn, when all they would have needed before was a clinic or a decent nursing staff before. Illness could give away your position when you needed to be quiet, and the price for noise was death. The bow was the best weapon for it. Minimal splatter, no atomized blood, and from a distance. They were a team now, not a collection of individuals. But something stopped her. Some impulse. Maybe pride, as mentioned. Some underlying piece of the blatantly independent woman she used to be peeking out from behind the wiser lady she had become in the last couple of years. As if a higher force had suggested that she take care of this simple task on her own and she just [i]agreed[/i] out of habit. Dama Muerte's price for the success she had at Eden a year ago, though she always figured that Death was the ultimate neutral arbiter, not a spiteful bitch. 

	[color=dc143c]"Zed Man Walking!"[/color] Thalia called out, her eyes staying on her target. She raised her shield and advanced on the dead man, certain that this would be a brief exercise in standard, Zed killing protocol. Nothing she hadn't done dozens, if not hundreds of times before. Breaking into a jog with the last two steps, she slammed into it with her shield, causing the body to hit the wall behind it even as she brought her knife up to embed in its temple. Than the unthinkable happened. The knife barely missed its mark, striking the side of the forehead instead. The recent death of the man meant that its skull had not softened as much as other, longer perished corpses. Her knife slid along the skull, opening a furrow underneath its hairline and putting her arm directly in the path of danger. 

	The bite landed on her forearm, just above the wrist. It wasn't much to look at, but a scratch was all it took. Fear jolted for an instant through Thalia in a way more visceral and mortal than it ever had before, threatening to turn to shock. This was it. She stumbled back, crying out, [color=dc143c]"Fucking bit! [i]I'm fucking bit[/i]!"[/color] Anger mixed into Thalia's fear, snapping her back from the brink of total panic. She wasn't dead yet. Yet. But she needed help fast; even took a millisecond's worth of prayer that the Doc wouldn't take it off too close below the elbow. Damnit. 


[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=deb887]Hank Wright[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://www.screamhorrormag.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/Stan-Against-Evil-e1529577006422-600x240.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=burlywood]Location:[/color][/b] Okefenokee: E14 
[b][color=deb887]Skills:[/color][/b] Club/Blunt Objects [hr][hr][/center]

	This was one of the wordier examples of mortal combat that Hank had the privilege of getting dragged into. The Roman was full of disdain for his elders, which was the cause of mild annoyance by Hank. If he was being honest with himself (and to his credit, he usually was; not being the type to suffer bullshit even from him), he hadn't exactly put his best beer forward. Hence the expression. Most people might put their best [i]foot[/i] forward, but that irked the hell out of Hank. Made no damn sense. Who wanted a big plate of callous, ingrown toenail (he should probably do something about that), and footmeat? If you wanted to leave a good impression with someone, you offer them a beer. A decent one. Your [i]best beer[/i], and [i]forward[/i]. In the event that they didn't like beer, you booted their worthless ass out of your home, because that kind of negativity wasn't appreciated. 

	...plus, more beer for you. 

	But back to business: Downing that one Asshole was fun and all, but it was still alive and kicking. Or just kicking. Yeah, he really had to rework some of his phrasing now that "above ground" didn't mean "alive" anymore. Anyway, the Roman Reenactor's sword - flew through the air with the greatest of ease, killing the Asshole he cut off at the knees - (I swear this stuff writes itself). Again, annoying. As was the advice about talking down to strangers. [i][b]He would get to that later.[/b][/i]

	[color=deb887]"It's been Five. [i]Goddamned[/i]. Years, Wayne. We're not holding hands and, oh, braiding each other's pube curlies, but I'm pretty sure we're partners."[/color] It was true; they knew each other before the Outbreak, being in similar fields of business. Him a Big City Detective, Hank a duly elected County Sheriff. The fact that their minds had both slipped a gear somewhere along the line was purely coincidence. Batshit crazy, but he could trust Wayne. That compensated for a boatload of crazy. 

	[color=deb887]"Everyone's a stranger, Maximus."[/color] he said, striding purposefully toward the dead guy behind his partner. [color=deb887]"Who else am I going to talk down to, huh?"[/color] He gave a sharp whistle and growled, [color=deb887]"C'mon, Sunnymuffins. Let's do this."[/color] prompting the walking corpse to begin to turn in his direction. As soon as he liked the angle, he dug the point of his shovel upward, into the thing's head from the jawline and moving north, effectively taking off its face and three inches of matter behind it. The front half of its head flipped end over end, splatting upon a nearby rock like some sort of putrefied jack-o-lantern. Hank then brought the flat of his mighty yard tool to bear, smooshing what was left back into its torso as it went down like a sack of disco. 

	Hank started walking back to the downed truck. As he walked, he addressed his new acquaintances starting with the man who was rapt with prayer. [color=deb887]"I don't see the big, awful hurry, them being dead and all. But hey, good job there, Sport."[/color] and turning to the Roman, [color=deb887]"And Sportacus."[/color] He wiped some of the gore off of his shovel on a bank of spongy moss as he strode along, continuing, [color=deb887]"Yeah, I'm getting my guns and shit. You boys do ...whatever you do."[/color] The dismissive wave seemed to mirror the nonchalant lack of care as he made his way to the road sculpture that used to be a motor vehicle.