Jack Wesson

@dxserter “A little further,” David called out as the pushed the wagons together.  He felt the satisfying, tell-tall whump as the wagon finally connected with the next, and he let out a “woah there.” The group of three ceased their pushing, and David brushed away some of the sweat beads that were rolling down his forehead. He flashed Jack a thumbs up, letting him know their wagon was in place. It’d been his idea, but without the decent strength of the larger man and the couple townsfolk who’d volunteered to help, he wasn’t sure they’d have made it work so well. They’d formed a bottleneck with the wagons, positioning them on either side of the back door and forming a cattle chute, so to speak, that grew smaller and smaller the further from the door it stretched. The idea was that one person would open the door, and the sick would only be able to come at them one or two at a time because of the narrow space they’d formed. David didn’t like the idea because he still wasn’t quite sure these folks weren’t dead, but he knew this had to be done to prevent more from fallin’ ill. “How’s your side lookin’?” He called to Jack, trying to keep his voice as low as he could but still be heard by his partner. “We’re all set here.”

"Bout as good as it’s like to get.” Jack wiped at his brow and looked over again at the back of the building.  Preacher’s idea to tunnel wedge the wagons just so, and granted Jack wasn’t sure it was the best use of their assets, but it was better than the alternative. And anything that put more obstacles between him and those that were a little chompy was a good thing. Sick, or dead, or something else he wasn’t sure. He just knew he’d prefer to stay away from them. 

Like the thought was a trigger glass shattered from the second floor sending a few of those they’d trapped inside tumbling to the ground. One landed square at the door, the next ricocheting off one of the wagons, a bone-breaking like a shot being fired. 

Of course this would be the moment. Jack pulled his pistol and looked back to the preacher. “It was good.” He gestured over to the pair who were pulling themselves to their feet. “Do you wanna, or is that me?”

❝ – don’t think the coin in your pocket amounts to much anymore and ‘free’ is whatever you manage to salvage. the only thing gold is good for is bein’ a real heavy lump to haul around, slowin’ y’down… makin’ y’easy pickins. ❞

he does, however… lift one brow in a lazy arc at the notion of tree-jack being on that last train.  he’s a little late into the party after all.  they’d been holed up in the sheriffs place for a long time since, and the train was definitely before that.  the last train out of st clements had rolled in well over a week ago… and there were plenty of casualties including their dearly departed sheriff… of course, jericho hadn’t been there - he’d already been idling in the jailhouse at that point.  a guest of the law in town.  

…so lets just say that he’s not 100% on trusting the words outta jacks mouth right now. where the hell had the guy been all this time?

he does, however, make a motion over one shoulder, that they should head back into town proper - at least into closer proximity to that bottle.

❝ – so… what happened to the ‘other folks’? ❞

“Good to know I guess.” Jack shrugged. “I was never what you’d call ‘well off’ to start.” Just Ma and the shop by the time he’d joined up and left. The thought that she might be dead already, or like those things welled up inside but he pushed it down. No time for that. Not now. Maybe not ever.  Besides. Ma was tough as nails. Had to be. 

When the other man gestured towards town proper Jack followed. Close enough not to be rude, far enough that he had room to maneuver. After the close quarters of the barracks he wanted all the air he could get. 

“They headed North I’d guess. Back home maybe.” He frowned. “Train ran outta fuel sometime this afternoon and stalled out on the damn tracks after it coasted a coupla miles. I don’t really have a place to go, and saw the sign for the town so I started walkin.”

Southby pulled his head from the beam & brushed off the shoulder he’d been leaning against it with. He looked the man over, looking for signs he’d been bitten or contracted the illness they were facing but saw none. “Definitely don’t want to be out there on your own.” Southby looked past the man, over his shoulder, in order to look for signs of another joining them; be it another survivor or one of the undead.  The night, however, appeared to be empty. 

“I take it you’ve seen those things?” Southby inquired, an eyebrow rising. “In any case, we ain’t discriminating on who we take in seeing as we’re sorely outnumbered. So long as you ain’t been bit or scratched by one of those things - & you ain’t here to cause trouble - we’re using the general store as a bit of a camp. You see, those things - they’ve already been here. We still got some holed up in odd places so don’t cause a racket & things’ll probably be just peachy. Given the circumstances.”

Jack resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck. More intent on keeping an eye on the other man. It was hard to tell who to trust. Who was worth trusting anymore. Charles had gone and fucked up all of his convictions and gut instincts to where he wanted facts not anything else. 

“Yeah I’ve seen ‘em.” Less detail the better. Folks would find out where he’d come from, but if he did it right they never needed to know why he’d left. Or who he’d been before he had. “No bites or scratches.” The one bit of luck he’d managed to hold onto and who knew how long it’d last. “I’m looking for a place that’s not..” Alone. Out there. With the army and the freaks. “well, alone I guess. I appreciate the kindness, but I can also help out.” He raised an eyebrow and touched the pistol at his hip. “Decent shot if not a marksman exactly.” 

Even with the threat of the undead lurking in the back of her mind, Risa felt a thousand times more comfortable outside than within the confines of the general store. Maybe “comfortable” wasn’t the right word for it seeing as how the second she stepped outside, she was on constant alert, keeping an eye out of shadows shifting out of the corner of her eye, her ear trained to hear any strange noise or the now familiar groaning of those things that had wandered into town.

Maybe the word that she was looking for was “familiar”. Being outside and being on alert was infinitely more familiar to her than making small talk with strangers that she only saw from a distance in the three years she had been living in Janestown. There was more that she could do outside anyways.

Recently, Risa had taken to scouring the outskirts of town near her home and walking clear around to the opposite side of town to the entrance in the hopes of possibly running into the undead or at the very least catch sight of her horse Clara. With Risa’s keen eyes, it didn’t take long for her to see someone making their way towards the her and the town’s entrance. Despite her sight, Risa wasn’t able to tell if this was the shambling motion of the undead, someone that was purely exhausted, or just walking funny. Either way Risa ducked behind some partial cover in case who ever this was wasn’t dead and decided to get trigger happy.

“Better give me a sign that you’re alive,” Risa called out, her voice firm and unwavering as she gracefully drew her bow, pulled back an arrow, and aimed it square at the man’s head. “I don’t do warning shots.”

He heard her voice before he saw her because of course, that was how this was gonna go. The urge to just drop his head and throw up his hands in exasperation was strong but he managed to hold it in. This time. For now.  “Alive!” He threw his hands up and looked around, searching for the woman whose voice he heard. “I’m alive! No bites! I’m just, you know trying to stay that way.” He shook his head and hoped that the joke wouldn’t get him shot. “Look I was on a train it ran outta fuel and now I’m just tryin’ to get somewhere less...open.” 

Jack took a look over one shoulder to make sure it was still just the two of them. None of those things that wanted to take a bite of out of them. Literally. Wouldn’t surprise him. Luck hadn’t ever been one of his strong suits and it seemed like it was only a matter of time until something went entirely sideways. As though it hadn’t already. 

he never knows what to make of things like that…

‘you can call me’ –           – are they granting him permission with the ‘you can’…?           – are they picking and choosing one name over another ( a name they’d rather not be known by, for fame or infamy reasons )           – is is simply a turn of phrase - jericho himself not exactly the most eloquent of speakers around…

…either way, as the idle question lingers in his brain, there’s some degree of relief that the tree didn’t automatically reach for a gun, or the rifle slung across his back.  some were just a might too trigger happy to be considered altogether ‘rational men’.  

though given the sorry state of things at the moment, he supposes most could be forgiven for being a little jumpier than usual.  – as long as that ‘jumpy’ didn’t end in accidental ‘dead’ then… yeah.

❝ – probably best that it did. ❞

referring to the train…

❝ – none have come through in a while - and the last one was pretty much full of… well… ❞

there’s a slight jerk of his head to one side to a lump of something fleshy and fly ridden off to the other side of the excuse for a road.  even in the aftermath there was still ample evidence of the towns most recent struggle with the infected.  blood stains… random limbs… slithery, festering entrails baking in the sun and causing no small stench where they lay.  and no amount of shifting with a shovel or trying to cover them with loose dirt had quite managed to remove all evidence of the recent gory and violent events.

❝ – where you headin’ in from?  just wanna get a gauge on how far this thing reaches and what direction we should - or should not - be aimin’ for.  got a bottle liquor that might help a parched throat - if’n you feel like sharin’. ❞

“Yeah?” 

Jack clamped his mouth shut. Unwilling to ask where it’d come from. If it’d been the train that Charles crammed full of sick and injured and then sent out of town. Another moment where he’d failed to stop the other man. To help the people who needed it. 

His eyes slide over to where the man jerks, sees the viscera. Half covered in dirt but still easy to spot once you know what you’re seeing. It’s been so long since he’s lived a world without bloodshed, violence, guns, and knives that he doesn’t even blink. Another body, another death, and he can’t remember what it was like to be shocked. Not even now when he should be. 

“Last train out of St. Clements.” Jack pauses tries to find the right words. Not about to tell him that he’s a deserter, that he and a dozen civilians had piled into the train locked the doors and hoped there was enough fuel to break past the army. Make it somewhere outside the city. Somewhere safe.  “The army was keeping folks locked in until they decided they’d prefer to shoot.” He clicked his tongue. “Me and some other folks made a run for it, best we could.” 

He cocked his head. “But I never say no to a free drink. Specially these days.”

he’s not the best ‘lookout’.  in fact, he’s not even close to it.  also he isn’t actually looking out….  which is probably a good thing.  a one eyed blacksmith is probably just about the worst option for well… most things.  other than gambling and pouring lead.  both of which he’s fucking amazing at.

which is why it’s surprising he catches the movement, but long shadows did the partially sighted a lot of favours.  and – hell, this shadow was… looooooong.  and it wasn’t just because the sun was getting low.  and for all jericho isn’t a man of small stature, the steely gent wandering this way was… a walking tree.  

so… it’d be real nice about now if mr tree could maybe, just possibly indicate that he’s not out for a mouthful of intestines and all eerily ravenous and rabid like the rest of the poor souls that had most recently… succumbed ( read: been massacred, but hey… ).  because so far - it didn’t seem like there was much in the way of conversation coming from the shambling infected.

❝ – be mighty obliged if y’all could holler out a name there, stranger. ❞

he’s standing to the side of the old stable, not overly far from the forge, but not a place he’d ventured as of yet.  one of the buildings on the edge of what could be excused as a town.

it might make him a slightly harder target to hit should there be any bullets involved ( and obviously, the best bullets were the ones from jerichos own hand, so therein’ lay the irony that he wasn’t exactly the best at using them )…

❝ – ain’t had the best of - luck - round these parts as of late. ❞

another irony.  but then again, it was entirely possible that he was still standing because of that very thing.  a little luck.

❝ – y’aint been bitten none?  and i ain’t talkin’ bout no snakebite or coyote. ❞

Shadows growing long and lean as the sun finished it’s descent down and past the horizon and Jack was tired of walking. Tired of thinking. Tired of wondering if there was anyone left alive out here now that the other inhabitants of the train were long gone in the opposite direction. He heard the man before he saw ‘em and paused. Stopped walking and watched instead. 

“You can call me Jack.” No point in leaning on niceties when things had gone to hell quite the way that they had. 

He scanned the buildings, looking for a figure. Glad that it was someone with a pulse calling out and not the other. God knew he didn’t have enough luck to rub two cents together and with the world seeming to fall apart he doubted it’d get any better. 

“Seems to be going round.” He chucked his thumb back over one shoulder. “My train ran out of fuel a ways back.” Probably because he’d stolen it out from under the army’s nose in the dead of night, but hey, nobody really needed to know that, right? 

“Nope. Managed to get away without a scratch.” No scratches or bites or wounds. Unless you called a moral dilemma and the fact that he’d turned tail and run and left his men behind a wound. Not the kind that would turn him into those things roaming the plain, but a canker nonetheless. 

Southby yawned an almighty yawn. Face washed in what little light the lantern above him was tossing down made him look all the more tired as he made an exaggerated sound & gave his head a shake. It wasn’t even that late, but days of staying up until dusk were beginning to take their toll. Nevertheless, the Deputy’s heels were dug into the dirt, his backside firmly planted on the front stoop of the bank, his gun glinting in the meager lantern-light just to his right.  

He’d made a task of counting the ants that marched resiliently around a bucket on the porch. It wasn’t entertaining by any means but even the most dull of tasks, like counting insects, was a good trick to stay alert. Another ten more & he’d look out across streets between the store & the saloon. Another ten & he’d scan the stretch of road where the sun had sank into further down the horizon. Another ten, another scan & so on until someone came to relieve him.

He carried on, eyes still open, still keeping count when one of those glances towards the street yielded something other than a still landscape. Someone, or something, was making its way into town. Southby only had to look at the shape for half a second before he was picking up his pistol & holding it out ready to fire.

If those damned things hadn’t been so keen to get riled up by gunfire, he might’ve shot it dead from that many paces but given the circumstance, Southby stood & darted for cover a building closer. Peaking around a support post, hammer already pulled, it was upon closer inspection that the person wasn’t limping our dragging. He murmured a curse under his breath, immediately pointing the worst end of his gun skyward. Southby let his forehead fall against the beme, letting out breath he hadn’t even noticed he was holding. “Well if ever there was a good way to get your goddamn block blown off. Scared the shit out of me, stranger.”

He’d sworn the town looked closer, but he’d trekked at least the better part of a mile before reaching the limits. Wherever the things that used to be people were, Jack hadn’t run across them. The merest whisper of good luck, though he wasn’t about to say as much out loud. Doing that would be as good as welcoming them in with open arms. 

Jack noticed the light before the man sitting next to it, sheathed in shadows. Signs of someone living in this town. Good call too since he wasn’t gonna be able to get much of anywhere else fast. If this place had been deserted (not out of the question all considered) he’d have been doomed. 

Luck had never been Jack’s strong suit though, and he knew it. 

Which is why when the figure bolted around behind a post, Jack stopped dead in his tracks. Well. In his tracks. Stopping dead might not be the kinda phrasing one used these days. 

“Not my intention. Didn’t quite see you until...” He gestured at the man running to take cover. “I came in on a train but it ran out of fuel some ways back. Seemed like this place was a better call than...out there.” 

Jonathan “Jack” Wesson. Thirty years old. The Deserter.

Jonathan Wesson was born to good god fearing parents in Southern Virginia. They lived on the outskirts of town, his father a struggling merchant who ran the town store while his mother tried to wrangle five children with varying degrees of success. For the first few years, Jack had a normal life. Days spent between school, helping with his younger siblings, and learning from his father how to run the shop.

It’s not easy to remember most of that anymore. By the time he turned twelve two of his siblings had died from fevers that swept through the town. Mama said it was the lord calling them home early, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. A few years after that his older brother left home and went south to work the plantations and help out with money, but after a few months the money dried up and he never showed back up.

The streak of bad luck that started when he was a kid didn’t let up. His younger sister managed to get out of dodge by marrying up. Jack spent the next few years helping his father out, and looking at a life in his small town. Just a few months before the war kicked off in earnest, Jack’s father died. It left only him and his mother to watch the store that his father spent his life building up.

Until the war. It was the one chance he had to get out of Marriott, send money home to Mama, maybe keep their heads above water. Maybe finally make something of himself because he hadn’t up until that point. When a family friend, Charles Montgomery told him his battalion was looking for good men it seemed like the chance he’d been waiting his whole life for.

Mama cried when she saw him in his uniform, told him she was proud. That he was doing the right thing. Serving under Charles meant that she’d be running the shop without him, but once the war was won they’d have enough to move into the town proper. Maybe find him a wife. It meant he wouldn’t have to hunt for their dinner, that the string of bad luck that had followed them since the twins got sick was finally over.

He was wrong.

Skills.