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it's a long time until february
It's supposed to be a three-day run. Supposed to. Jesus has lists as long as his arm and he knows he's only going to find the tiniest bit of it. He can't go out further yet; he has to stay close and they can't spare anyone else to go with him. That's not the problem: he's used to going alone. It's just that he hates coming back disappointing. Disappointed. There's nothing to be done for it.
He starts off with a pharmacy. Vitamins. Some powdered antibiotics: kid stuff, low-dose and bubblegum flavored and expired. Saline. No other medical supplies, no pain medications, no stronger antibiotics. Sometimes he runs his hand across his abdomen and feels guilty for how much they had to use to save him. Today he doesn't. Today he presses on. A supply store is just as bad. A few small pocket-knives hidden under a counter disappear into various pockets, slipped in deftly like a magic trick. So far, everything's fit on his person.
There's no food, not really, but he didn't expect any. Growing will have to do as it has so far.
After his mediocre haul Jesus stays off the roads. It's been two and a half days, holed up at night and eating apples and jerky as he moves. He presses through wilderness quick and quiet. A few groups of the dead but it's not much of a problem, silent dispatches, nothing too much. Nothing too much until it is too much. A group too large to take out on his own that he tries to sneak by. A group he almost gets away from before one under a pile of leaves snatches his boot and knocks him down.
Stupid. Reckless.
Lucky for him there's a small cabin - almost a shack really - that he's close to and he gets to it before he gets eaten alive. It looks like it might've been nice, some time ago. He thinks that as he passes through the front door, finds no good place to hole up, and back out the back. He sees that the back porch is rotted through. Closes the door again. There's no fucking thing in this place that can help him. At least they can only filter through the door a few at a time.
There's a bump in the tattered rug.
There's a bump and he rips up the damn thing and why is there a trap door in this shit-hole but he takes the opportunity and opens it. Nothing but darkness. Hopefully he won't be murdered by spiders. (How familiar a thought.) The slamming on the door is getting more insistent so he slips down, closes it behind him, turns on his flashlight. It's not a crawlspace, not a basement, not even a survivalist's cache--
No, it's definitely that last one. There's no food, no medical supplies, but there's, well. "God bless rednecks," he mutters, which is probably kind of hilarious, considering. He can't leave though. That's the problem. He's stuck under there another day and a half waiting for the dead to forget about him, to clear out. They do, eventually, except for a few. A few he can deal with. So he does, then drags two large military duffle bags out of the hole.
Jesus is small and fast but relies on those rather than outright strength. He's way more encumbered than he's been lately and he has to be silent - he can't be found by anyone whether they're dead or alive. It takes him longer than a day to get back. Almost five days total and the gates open for him almost immediately and someone is hugging him because they thought he was dead, you're never late, what happened, what did you find, and he's exhausted and hungry but all he gives is a hoarse mutter. Where's Daryl.
Turns out he's in a meeting with Rick. Rick, who's here at Hilltop, who isn't out doing something else. Even better. They're in the house proper and taking up Gregory's space pointedly. Jesus would move faster if he could but by now he just trudges to the house and inside. By the time he gets there someone's probably already told Rick and Daryl that Jesus hasn't been eaten or murdered but he pushes the door open anyway. He hasn't let anyone take any of his load from him, but he drop the bags on the floor there in the doorway of the room they're in even though they're filthy. Hell, he's filthy. He drags his half-mask down around his neck, finally remembering it.
"I found guns." Well, that's nice, but they don't have any-- "and ammo." Oh.
He starts off with a pharmacy. Vitamins. Some powdered antibiotics: kid stuff, low-dose and bubblegum flavored and expired. Saline. No other medical supplies, no pain medications, no stronger antibiotics. Sometimes he runs his hand across his abdomen and feels guilty for how much they had to use to save him. Today he doesn't. Today he presses on. A supply store is just as bad. A few small pocket-knives hidden under a counter disappear into various pockets, slipped in deftly like a magic trick. So far, everything's fit on his person.
There's no food, not really, but he didn't expect any. Growing will have to do as it has so far.
After his mediocre haul Jesus stays off the roads. It's been two and a half days, holed up at night and eating apples and jerky as he moves. He presses through wilderness quick and quiet. A few groups of the dead but it's not much of a problem, silent dispatches, nothing too much. Nothing too much until it is too much. A group too large to take out on his own that he tries to sneak by. A group he almost gets away from before one under a pile of leaves snatches his boot and knocks him down.
Stupid. Reckless.
Lucky for him there's a small cabin - almost a shack really - that he's close to and he gets to it before he gets eaten alive. It looks like it might've been nice, some time ago. He thinks that as he passes through the front door, finds no good place to hole up, and back out the back. He sees that the back porch is rotted through. Closes the door again. There's no fucking thing in this place that can help him. At least they can only filter through the door a few at a time.
There's a bump in the tattered rug.
There's a bump and he rips up the damn thing and why is there a trap door in this shit-hole but he takes the opportunity and opens it. Nothing but darkness. Hopefully he won't be murdered by spiders. (How familiar a thought.) The slamming on the door is getting more insistent so he slips down, closes it behind him, turns on his flashlight. It's not a crawlspace, not a basement, not even a survivalist's cache--
No, it's definitely that last one. There's no food, no medical supplies, but there's, well. "God bless rednecks," he mutters, which is probably kind of hilarious, considering. He can't leave though. That's the problem. He's stuck under there another day and a half waiting for the dead to forget about him, to clear out. They do, eventually, except for a few. A few he can deal with. So he does, then drags two large military duffle bags out of the hole.
Jesus is small and fast but relies on those rather than outright strength. He's way more encumbered than he's been lately and he has to be silent - he can't be found by anyone whether they're dead or alive. It takes him longer than a day to get back. Almost five days total and the gates open for him almost immediately and someone is hugging him because they thought he was dead, you're never late, what happened, what did you find, and he's exhausted and hungry but all he gives is a hoarse mutter. Where's Daryl.
Turns out he's in a meeting with Rick. Rick, who's here at Hilltop, who isn't out doing something else. Even better. They're in the house proper and taking up Gregory's space pointedly. Jesus would move faster if he could but by now he just trudges to the house and inside. By the time he gets there someone's probably already told Rick and Daryl that Jesus hasn't been eaten or murdered but he pushes the door open anyway. He hasn't let anyone take any of his load from him, but he drop the bags on the floor there in the doorway of the room they're in even though they're filthy. Hell, he's filthy. He drags his half-mask down around his neck, finally remembering it.
"I found guns." Well, that's nice, but they don't have any-- "and ammo." Oh.
no subject
Daryl reaches out and brushes his hand against Paul's hip, the small of his back, just a small bracing thing, before he moves to help clean up.
"Getting there."
The cold. Them. The war.
Everything.