[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=4682b4]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1][img]https://68.media.tumblr.com/c6f0f86d13839f8542e4b754c251da73/tumblr_ojog8uNf9k1qdhps7o1_r1_500.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][color=steelblue][b]Location:[/b][/color] Headland: E. Main Street, E9, Car (Passenger side back seat)
[color=4682b4][b]Skills:[/b][/color] N/A [/center][hr][hr]

	It was a single word that Tatiana had used: Raid. 

	You did what was needed to survive. Ash got that as well as anybody. It had to be especially tough on a woman with a newborn baby. How she was able to keep herself and that tiny life going these months was nothing short of miraculous. But questions came with that praise. He was pretty certain that, when Tatiana said "we", she didn't mean herself and little Jamie. And it wasn't "they", either. It seemed as if she was a part of this group that she took a massive risk to escape. But pointed more to Ash's thoughts, she had said that they [i]raided[/i] a redneck hunting house. Not looted, not scavenged. Raided. 

	Ash passed no silent judgement on the woman. None. But he knew that there was a story involved with this turn of events; very likely one that Jack would not want to hear the entirety of. At least until these people were dead. So when she spoke up again to admonish the Captain for apologizing to her recently reunited husband, he went along with it and kept to the business at the immediate hand. [color=4682b4]"Yeah. I'm done with the maudlin crap anyway, Tati. I'm just glad you found us. Let's get this done."[/color] And not just because he had a bullet lodged in his shoulder, though it was a factor. This felt like something she needed to do, and could, now that they were with her. 

	The snatch of conversation between Jack and Tati was something that he had given the tiniest consideration toward commenting upon, which he thought twice about the second that he opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he directed his attention toward the back of the vehicle, where Amelia was locating and distributing firearms. [color=4682b4]"I'd be grateful if you'd pass me a loaded pistol and a spare mag. My favorite caliber is point-four-five, but I ain't picky right now."[/color] This was Tati's show and Ash was letting her call it. If she wanted him near her boy, fine. Inside of a vehicle with a injured shoulder was a bad situation if he needed to use his lever-action rifle. 

	Of course, a redneck hunting cabin could possibly mean that Ash could get his hands on a bow again. That meant quiet kills at range. That also meant food. Thinking about it, Ash could really go for a steak sometime soon. [color=4682b4]"Amelia? Could you give me a quick and dirty inventory back there? I'd give a shiny nickel for a good hunting bow for later."[/color] His voice was strained. It might have to be a lot later if he didn't get himself looked after fairly soon. 




[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=dc143c]Thalia Carmichael[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://t00.deviantart.net/dHHPOqAGNXgcsraMxhBAPNTzXh0=/500x250/filters:fixed_height(100,100):origin()/pre00/4e41/th/pre/i/2016/083/4/6/trubel_by_kmceci-d9wb3do.png[/img][hr][b][color=crimson]Location:[/color][/b] Quincy (in house, C8)
[b][color=dc143c]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][hr][/center]

	Being as she was a girl of uncomplicated tastes with a history of violence, sitting irregularly upon the floor while on an epic quest for a can opener, shirtless and hungry, she wasn't the happiest that she'd ever been. But that didn't stop the giggles from coming. There was a quiet part of her brain that realized that she was quite high. Perhaps that part existed because she was in the embryo stage of coming down from that high, but her body hadn't figured it out yet. Whatever the reason, that tiny holdout of hazy objectivity saw her, a once (and hopefully future) badass bitch, stymied in her efforts to merely open a can of SpaghettiOs by the raw audacity of circumstance. As if the gods above wished to teach her humility. Or that relying purely on herself was not how life was accomplished these days. 

	Case in point: A fairly like-minded woman stood over her as Thalia sat collecting herself, offering her the means to stand. The haze of her situation was apparent on her face as she looked up and blew a comma of dark hair from in front of her eyes. It was Beatrice, of course. As dark and outcast-y as herself, maybe even a little more, she had stuck around nonetheless. It meant a lot to her. They hadn't been as chummy as herself and Thana had, but bonding over a very necessary killing gave one another a sort of trust was hard to duplicate. Bea though? Thalia could see a different sort of friendship with her that just needed to develop properly. She blushed a little and debated saying something. 

	Then the dark and outcast-y woman asked if she needed a hand. [i]A HAND.[/i] Thalia looked down at her own hands (check that - [i]hand[/i]) and utterly failed to suppress the giggles once again with a sputter. She felt a little embarrassed about losing her composure around Beatrice and tried to cover her face, only to realize that she had half of the total number of appendages necessary for full coverage. This brought on a second or two of full laughter before she finally relented and gave Bea her good arm. Perhaps it was more endearing than it should have been thanks to the opiate, but Thalia felt truly grateful for the hand up. 

	The second that she was standing, Thalia wrapped Beatrice in a hug and held it for a moment, gathering her footing fully before attempting to move elsewhere. [color=dc143c]"Thank you."[/color] she whispered in Beatrice's ear. Thalia pushed her torso back just far enough to look her friend in the eyes and said in sleepy notes, [color=dc143c]"I just wanted a friggin' can openah, Bea. Then I'm on my ass and..."[/color] Thalia looked around and lowered her voice to a whisper once again, [color=dc143c]"...and I think someone took my shirt. No shit, yeah? I'm hungry Bea, and I'm in a stabbing mood now. Help me out? Us girls gotta stick togethah."[/color] Thalia held her gaze in a quiet, steadfast stare, even as her shirt was hanging off of her shoulder, obvious to everyone except for her. 



[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: C7
[b][color=deb887]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][hr][/center]

	Hank gave his shovel a quick swing to dislodge the gore that was on it from staving in that last Asshole's skull. It was amazing how simultaneously liberating and heartbreaking it still was to him, putting down a walking corpse. There was still a big piece of humanity left in the man, no matter how much he tried to keep it down and no matter what the world had thrown at him. It was necessary and he had no qualms about it. Killing these things was not something he hesitated about. Sometimes though, he remembered that they used to be people. [i]Used to be.[/i] They were dangerous now, and humans were an endangered species because of it. 

	He recovered his pack and began to slip it back over his shoulders, setting down his shovel to do so. The dead ones were actually dead this time, and the live ones... Well, there were difficulties. [color=deb887]The Apostle Bobbo? Is he hurt, or...?"[/color] No, not hurt. Probably worse. Hank was no medic. Dying in a totally unexpected, twitchy, frothing mess was not an altogether horrible way to go anymore. He shook his head. If someone could help him out, great. Otherwise, let the man have his peace however he could get it. Hank had even contemplated suicide a number of times. Many were before the world started eating them, but a couple of times afterward. Admittedly, those post-apocalyptic musings were more of a hypothetical question of pragmatism. No, if Hank was going to die, it was either going to mean something or because of simple misadventure. 

	He wasn't heartless, but he was a cynic. If help couldn't be given to that guy he just met, he was going to concentrate on what he could help. Namely, their continued survival. Something the new girl said about a fishing camp. [color=deb887]"Fishing Camp? Hold the phone there, Annie. A [i]touristy[/i] fishing camp? That means - Hey, Wayne!"[/color] he looked over to his friend, [color=deb887]"Good news! We're almost out of this goddamn swamp!"[/color] And it probably was good news, though somehow downplayed by the dying man laying in the road just down from him. Nonetheless, Hank's reasoning was sound. Hunting and Fishing Camps were commonly built just outside of state and national parks. They liked regulating things of that nature. It also meant that residences might be around it as well; locals living off of commerce brought to the Okefenokee. Which meant vehicles, maybe. Tools, medicine, supplies that could have been overlooked, if they were [i]very, very lucky[/i]. But he'd be satisfied with a place to rest his tired bones away from mosquitoes and maybe a can of scrapple. Bonus points for ketchup.  

	It was a small hope. Hank was going to take what he could get, though.