#nomadical

( @nomadical​ said: “  that’s enough.  you’ve got your revenge.  let’s go.  ” / soft-ish angst prompts )

    John exhales a ragged, shaky breath — practically vibrating. He stands in the doorway, blood on his shoes, on his hands — spilled ten feet away where the crumpled body had taken its last breath ( john had used and used every group he’d slipped in and out of, but even his sins have nothing on the dead man ). Maybe there’s an aspect of it rooted in justice, somewhere deep buried in selfish revenge. Paul’s voice grounds him and slowly, he turns halfway until their eyes meet.

       ❝ They deserved worse, ❞    he replies, voice low, a whisper even though they’re the only living ears to hear it. He stares into Paul, desperate for him to agree. At the very least, he’s pulled him back to reality, back to the present. He knows they need to leave, before anyone comes back for the body, before the dead catch up with all the noise he’d made. He tries to shake it off, then nods. It’s not like there was anything to continue. His aggression doesn’t need to be wasted on a corpse.

The summer is brutally hot. Without a hint of wind the world seems almost stagnant. The black top scorches under the sun, damn near feels like the soles of his boots are gonna melt right to it and it’s a small blessing when his feet finally reach a clay road, the shade of trees on either side and though it’s filled with sporadic clouds of biting insects, it beats standing in the blistering heat. It’s not a long road, shortly turns into a driveway about quarter mile down. The farmhouse sits on the outskirts of the old town he’s returning from. It ain’t too far, not even a couple hours by walking. Unless he needs to scavenge, Rick prefers to stay a ways away from once populated areas, even if he’s yet to see a single soul, living or dead in the past five days.

He only lingers here because he had the food and resources to do so, thanks to the small town and the old well system out here, not far from the barn. It sits some distance out back of the house. Cicadas chirp insistently all around as he rounds the wrap around porch, taking his worn path through long, yellowing grass.  

The barn door is heavy, so old it usually creaks when he pulls it open so he gives himself just enough room to slip in. He could sleep in the house, but most people aren’t looking to raid a barn and the loft inside gives him a good vantage point, multiple exits and fresh air.

He locks the door in place from the inside then turns to hang up his hat on an old nail sticking crooked out of the wood. It’s out of his peripheral that he catches motion and last thing he expects when he glances in that direction is to see another person. The man is laying in his bed, which is nothing more than a glorified pile of blankets and a single pillow.

Instinctively, he’s quick to draw his gun from it’s holster and aim it at the stranger. He’s learned by now that there’s simply no trusting anyone on sight.

“Don’t you move or I will shoot you.” 

He isn’t looking too good, whoever he is, but’s he’s alive, no question about it. Those eyes are bluer than the midday sky and though his skin is a little pale it’s clear his heart is still beating. His gaze drifts over the prone body of the young man, noting injury, blood loss, exhaustion. Probably starving, too. Or not. It’s only then Rick notices the open cans of his food not sitting far from the bed. 

Lifting his pale gaze, it narrows on stranger’s face. It’s safe to say the guy probably doesn’t have the energy to fight, or move too quick, but he could have a weapon concealed. Even so, he moves forward with his colt still aimed. He gestures vaguely at his injuries with a jerk of his gun.

“You bit?” 

               ❝ Tell me that this isn’t the hottest summer we’ve had to endure yet. You know what we need? Those uh...those little neck fans. We’d have to get some batteries for them but I swear to god, they’d be awesome right now. ❞

truthful tuesday - or any other day as you see fit. but here is the chance to spill the truth. send a question for the author to answer truthfully. if you read the answers and you disagree, you either approach the author respectfully, or you continue about your day.

16. what’s your take on cancel culture/callout culture?

I’m not a fan of callout culture at all. I realize that there are reasons for it sometimes, but mostly, I feel all of it could be handled behind the scenes and shouldn’t involve people that isn’t involved in the issue. 

As for cancel culture, I’m so over it. People make mistakes and those that learn from them should be forgiven and given a second chance. I have a really good friend that was cancelled when I first showed up in this part of rpc, and all she needed was a friend and someone to give her that second chance. So no one deserves to be cancelled. 

Same with vague posting. There’s really no place for all that drama. 

(And with that there are always exceptions.)

19. what’s the most overrated plot?

Damsel in distress. Over it. 

30. what’s the hardest character type to interact with?

“ let’s set up camp here for tonight. we’re no good if we can’t keep our eyes open to see what’s coming for us. “

As if to agree with his words, a light yawn slowly escapes her, hand arising in an attempt to muffle it. She’s not sure how long they’ve been walking for, but it was certainly mere hours by now. Exhaustion slowly started seeping into her muscles, a slow nod of agreement made as she finds use of a nearby tree, letting herself lean against it.

“Yea, camp…sounds like a good idea.”

@nomadical liked THIS for the survivor.

"Dude, I don't like being out here during daylight hours. Being out here at night is making me wanna reverse chug-a-lug my guts all over my sneakers." It was his own fault really for admitting how well he could pick a lock, talk himself out of a bad situation, and often go unnoticed where many others could not. But he knew by word of mouth that Paul, too, was great at all that stuff. Which begged the question of why Eddie was out here with him when he'd be more inclined to run away the moment a goon popped up in front of them. Anyone might think he'd be used to them by now, but nope. Ever the sheep in wolves skin, they still scared the shit out of him.

After a few moments, he stepped in front of Paul, holding his ringed finger up in his face. "But, like, what if the food warehouse we're going to hit is overrun? We're gonna turn back, right?" Large doe's eyes, nicknamed the infamous Bambi eyes, stared at his companion. Eddie long accepted death as the new normal. But that didn't mean he wanted to go out screaming as he had witnessed for countless others, friends included, ones that he'd known since his childhood. Once upon a time, risks were the norm for him, all in the name of reckless hedonism for rock n' roll. That person no longer existed; he aligned with caution at the end of the world.