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@ProPro , @Charnobylisk
● Location: Hoganville, Troup County
● Time: Morning-Afternoon
The sun poured into the room from three separate directions, a modest symbolization of the three men that found their way to that house. That elegant white house. It was truly a jewel of the south, tucked between the grassy hills of Troup County. An icon of what was and what will never be again.
From the bay windows came rays of sunlight thick like honey that flowed in from each corner of the living room. The sunbeams were distinctively visible as long, abstract knives that cut through plumes of smoke and dust – shining brightly upon a figure slumped into the spine of a stark white sectional in the center of the room. The man didn't move from his awkward position, his head tilted upright towards a pair of the windows.
Half of his face was bathed fruitfully in a wide ribbon of light, the bright morning sun glinting off of the soft blue color of Dexter's eye. He blinked several times now as his eyes strained and protested under the brightness, tearing up from the presence of dust in the air. A fresh cigarette hung loosely from his cracked lips, the lit end smoldering angrily as thin wisps of smoke spilled slowly from his nostrils.
Dexter tilted his head faintly to one side now, the movement looking sluggish and almost painful. He glanced down the length of the couch, making out what looked like dried mud on the floor. There was a trail of dirt and grime that led right to his boots, and beside that was his jacket and backpack resting on one of the cushions.
The cigarette shifted crookedly between his lips as Dexter took a deep drag, holding his breath for a long few moments as he sat up with a wince. He closed his eyes as smoke cascaded from one corner of his mouth, swirling around his face in a dense grey-white column. He took another breath, this one more shallow, and the smoke dispersed around him reluctantly as he exhaled.
He lifted an arm above himself as if going to stretch, straightening his back and shoulders at the same time that he made the uncomfortable motion. After doing so he retracted his outstretched arm, bringing his hand to his head and running his fingers through his hair gently. Disgustingly, the corners of his knuckles and palm were caked in dry blood that cracked and peeled as he did so – further attributing to the unwashed filth that his hair had become.
Dexter opened his eyes finally, squinting tiredly in the sunlight as he picked the cigarette from his mouth. He was stiff, and with it being morning and all, it was in more ways than one. Almost instinctively, he reached over the frame of the sectional, wrapping his hand around the grip of a pistol resting on the end table; while he balanced his cigarette between his fingers in the other hand.
" Hey! " Dexter called out in a raspy, hoarse tone. There was a pause as he brought his gun 'round, resting it against his knee for a moment. " I–.. Fuckin'. I'm awake. It's my shift now, right? " His fingers danced around the empty handgun, testing the coarse feel of the grip panel, enjoying its touch against his skin. It was cold, but felt like the most natural part of his hand.
Dexter shook his head, bringing the burning cigarette to his lips for another long drag. He held it there shortly before the smoke fell out of his nostrils in streams. Subconsciously, his foot began tapping faintly, impatiently, and his thumb kept pushing the magazine release of his Sig Sauer to the rhythm of the beat.
Unsteadily, Dexter went to a stand, " We were supposed t-to take shifts last night, right? " He called out again, his voice not as hoarse as it was before but still not normal for Dexter. He felt strangely comfortable this morning. Like he could take the day off and just relax out in the sun, have a little picnic by the pool – no matter how disgusting it had gotten over the years.
There was silence though. Uneasy silence. The kind that makes your skin crawl and grow cold. Dexter swept the room carefully, tucking the empty pistol at his back and behind his belt as he did so. There wasn't much to see. The floor was hardwood with a dark walnut stain, elegant, which contrasted the expensive white furniture. It was all trashed though from when they came in, hollering and knocking shit over a little too excitedly to draw out the two walkers they had eliminated inside the home.
That's probably what drew the horde to them now, coming from the south. Nevertheless, Dexter didn't see anything off. There was a splintered end table thrown into one side of the room with two broken floor lamps, a chair overturned, and all kinds of dirt and mud trailing the floor. There was a light storm the night before that soaked them, and upon arriving at the house they tracked all kinds of grime into the old manor. Between the kitchen and the stairwell was a streak of deep red blood where Dexter had dragged one of the walkers corpses out of the house.
Dexter sighed, leaning down and lifting his red jacket from the couch cushion as he took a sharp drag on his cigarette. Another plume of smoke poured out of the corners of his mouth, diffusing around the living room. He pulled the jacket around one arm behind him, yanking it up to his shoulder before doing the same on his other arm.
Finally, he went to grab his boots when he froze up. Was he hearing something? " Richie? Is that you? S-stop fucking around. . . " He nearly yelled now, voice cracking unintentionally as he tried to suppress a cough. " I swear if you killed–. . . You can't hide his body from me, you can smell that Mexican shit from across the county. " That smell?
It was like the smell of iron, mixed with rotting flesh and soaked linen. Dexter could barely detect it at all beneath the musky air in the living room with all the smoke and kicked up dust. Not only that, with a couple of the bay windows open there was a mixture of fresh dew and weeds thick on the air. He stood still beside the white leather couch in the living room, listening for the others.
He shrugged, lowering his guard reluctantly as he knelt down to tie his boots on and go through the 'routine' of getting ready for the day.
