The St Mary's River loomed ahead, wide and looping back on itself in numerous near oxbows. The water, which Ellis had learned years ago from his 'local geography' class drained from the Okefenokee Swamp to the west, served to separate and designate Georgia from Florida, giving the latter state its famous 'boot' shape. Distractions of intermittent zombie attacks aside, Ellis couldn't help but gnaw his bottom lip in anticipation as they approached the long expanse of bridge that would carry them across the border– he kept looking back behind him and gradually he found himself falling further and further behind his compatriots. His footfalls became progressively fewer and at the bridge's commencement, he stopped dead in his tracks altogether, staring at the toes of his well-worn work boots. Coach and Rochelle had already gotten a good sixty feet or more across the trestles, not a hesitation or falter to their steps, but the gambler, who had seemed to be pacing him ever since the tank, noticed his pause and turned to look at him.
Ellis caught the green-eyed gaze. "This's it," he informed the man, motioning at the seam that divided asphalt and metal bridge. "Soon as we cross this bridge, I'll've finally been outta Georgia."
Nick chuckled, waving at him, magnum still in hand from the last thing he had shot down half a mile back. "C'mon, Dorothy."
Ellis stuck out his tongue at the man for associating him with the fictional Kansas female. "M'comin', hold yer horses." He licked his slightly chapped lips and turned to peer back one last time at the expanse of his home state that he was about to leave behind. He'd spent all his life there, all his twenty-three years in one place, and he'd never ever thought to leave in his whole time there. It had always been his home.
He couldn't help but wonder when he'd be back again. If he would.
Nick waited, patiently, some twelve feet onto the long bridge, unmoving; he was apparently scanning the landscape as well with partially squinted eyes. The water beneath them carried with it a light breeze oceanward, not more than a lazy five or ten miles an hour, he would've guessed, and Ellis noticed now the way it fluttered the man's jacket and swept at his greasy hair, attempting to free strands from the mass that was the rest. He looked rather brave standing there all alone like that, he realized, and for a fleeting instant he had to wonder what might be going on in that contained reserved mind, if any of his thoughts were on 'home' as well.
But that was probably silly.
Ellis peered around him; Rochelle and Coach's forms were shrinking with every delayed moment, getting ahead of them. Nick didn't look terribly concerned, but when did he ever really, besides earlier that morning? Since their triumph over the tank the conman had gone back to his typical aloof demeanor, calm but cautious. They couldn't stay standing here forever though. Ellis bit his lip. With a heavy heart, he took a deep breath and stepped onto the bridge. In a few quick strides, he had joined the conman and they both resumed southward together. "'Sides," he broke the silence, "this ain't much'uva yellow brick road," he quipped as he deposited his hands to the pockets of his coveralls, shrugging his shoulders as they walked side by side.
"And New Orleans probably won't be much of an Emerald City, either," Nick carried on semi-sarcastically, his eyes to the west, toward the mentioned destination.
Ellis scratched the stubble on his cheek. "Still dun think we'll make it in time?" he asked.
The gambler shrugged, which he supposed was the answer.
They spent the next few minutes at a slightly increased pace, closing the lost distance between them and the other two survivors. As they walked, Ellis couldn't help but glance over to his older compatriot. The way the conman walked, with such a purpose to each and every step… seemed so contradictory to his pessimistic notion that there was nothing waiting for them in New Orleans.
Everything about Nick still seemed like such a mystery… Sure, Ellis knew he must've lived a good portion of his adult life in Nevada, what with working at a casino and all, but was the silver state the only place he had lived, the place he would refer to as 'home'? Where else had he been? Had he travelled? For that matter, what had he been doing in Savannah when he had… to get himself into all this mess? As far as he had seen and heard, the west was clear of the infection, at least for now.
Ellis knew he should probably save the questions for later, but it was eating him up inside wanting to know at least something more about the man he was quickly beginning to so greatly admire. So he asked the one that seemed most relevant to his own thoughts. "Where'ju grow up?"
The older male didn't seem to be caught off guard by the sudden inquiry, instead eying him briefly, before turning his chin back to face front. "Cali," he said succinctly.
The answer didn't narrow it down all that much, but he supposed he wasn't going to get much more from the contemplative man at the moment. He fiddled with the safety on his pistol in its holster.
"Foothills," Nick added abruptly, and Ellis looked back to his profile. The man's voice dropped to a lower volume, partially mumbling. "North of LA. Hated it."
Ellis would have asked why– as it was he was bursting with inquisitiveness at the hint of information– but the gap was closing and Coach and Ro were now within earshot, and he knew Nick wouldn't be comfortable carrying on the dialogue any further. He shut his mouth, having respect for the man's privacy.
Rochelle noticed when they caught up and turned to flash them a smile. "How's about lunch?" she suggested. Ellis blinked and looked up toward the sun. It was a bit early in the day for their midday meal, but the bridge was literally abandoned; they hadn't seen a single infected across its length yet and they'd only need to cover the two angles– front and back– if anything did show up, so it made a good spot to stop, rest their legs, and refuel.
"A'right," Ellis agreed, pulling the provision sack from his back and handing it to her. She began to dole out the allotment she had packed to each of the men.
They all sat and dangled their legs out over the bridge, staring at the water of the St. Marys underneath them as they consumed their lunch, listening to its gentle churning.
"Would'ya look at that?" Coach said with slight wonder; he pointed a large arm south. Ellis followed it and felt his eyebrows raise.
They hadn't seen it before when they had been on the bridge proper, but their current positions nearly overhanging the ledge gave them a new perspective. A large freight boat was caught underneath the bridge; it hadn't made the clearance. Water flowed around its hull, eastward, towards the ocean, careless of its large intrusion, though various plant life had gotten stuck on it, the current not enough to sweep it away. Apparently, the bridge hadn't raised for the fleeing vessel, and the captain had decided to try and make it through anyway, only to wedge it into its current locked position. Ellis frowned. After that the ship must have been abandoned by its occupants and crew because it was very much desolate, no sign of anyone or anything on said craft, except for a message that looked like it had been blow-torched onto the side of the hull: Freedom or Bust.
"What were they trying to do…?" Rochelle wondered aloud at the spectacle. "Weren't they headed for evac?"
"Apparently they thought they could make it their own way…" Coach trailed off.
"Dumbshits," Nick imputed.
There was a silence between the four.
Ellis couldn't help but wonder what the heck would make the passengers even attempt their own form of evacuation, rather than that provided by CEDA.
One thing the display did make clear was that the power in Florida, unlike Georgia, was out, considering the control box sat on the Florida side of the border. Moreover, it signified that the two states had handled the news of the infection differently– the more northern state endeavoring to keep electricity flowing and available within its border, the southern cutting it off, whether on purpose or accident it was impossible to divine. What it meant for them was that things were undoubtedly going to be a little less easy from here on out, that they'd be roughing it for a good long while if they were planning on following their original route– shit, it'd be until they got out of Pensacola, in the very toe of Florida, which was quite a ways off… and nothing guaranteed Alabama, or Mississippi, or even Louisiana itself– their destination– would be any different.
"Y'know, maybe we oughta jus' keep goin' south an' go tuh the Keys," Ellis joked to his compatriots, sinking his teeth into the quarter-pounder with cheese.
"It would be lovely this time of year," Rochelle nodded, motioning with a french fry, "A balmy eighty degrees, as they put it in the biz."
"I forgot my swimsuit," the conman quipped sarcastically.
"That's alright, we can all just go skinny-dipping," Coach joked back through a full mouth.
"Dear Lord," Nick pinched the brim of his nose at the thought, no doubt imagining the suggestee with a lack of proper swimwear.
"No thanks," Rochelle laughed, understandably uninterested.
Ellis just chuckled. No doubt the older male, once a minor football star, had no qualms with seeing other grown men naked– frequent after-game showers would have done that for him. The prospect didn't bother Ellis much either– it wasn't like he hadn't gone 'skinny-dipping' before. He and Keith and some other friends had done so on a couple of occasions, back at the lake when the fishing boat got too warm and they needed a quick cool-off. Of course, Keith always wanted to make a big deal out of it, make it a race, saying the last one undressed got to do the gutting and scaling on the day's catches, and then he'd stand there at the bow of the boat in the full nude, hands on his hips in triumph because inevitably he was always first to be stripped.
Ellis nibbled his bottom lip with a touch of a frown. At least with Nick and Coach and Ro he wouldn't be stuck gutting fish all the time.
He stared down at the swirling, ebbing water, letting them sweep the unwanted memories away. "Y'think they kin swim?" he asked suddenly, compelled. All three of his fellows knew exactly who he meant by 'they'.
"I don't see why not," Nick reasoned, leaning back on a palm. "If they could before getting infected."
"I guess'so," Ellis stared hard at the flowing surface. "S'jus' you don't see zombies swimmin' in the movies, so…"
"I can think of one good way to find out," the conman said, filling his mouth with a large bite.
"What are you going to do?" Rochelle laughed, "find one and throw it in?"
Nick shrugged. "Sure."
"Sounds like sumthin' Keith'd do," Ellis contributed, unable to help himself. "This one time he was playin' with a rattler, trying to git it tuh swim, cuz I guess he'd seen this segment on the tv about water snakes not that long ago an' he was curious tuh see if they all could do that– they can't, by the way," he added, "an' anyway, he had this long stick– I didn't wanna git involved, cuz originally he wanted me tuh up an' distract it or sumthin' while he made a grab fer its head– an'…"
A coughing hack startled all four of them. Ellis jerked his head right, as did Nick; Coach and Ro both looked left. But they were still alone on the bridge.
"Damn echoes," Coach mumbled in dismissal, stuffing the remainder of his meal into his mouth.
Ellis peered over the edge uncertainly, feeling nervous, his story of his friend's resultingly swollen up, snake-bitten face long forgotten. Even if the water was causing an echo, that still meant whatever had made the noise was nearby. And it didn't sound like the typical infected they had been encountering. He eyed the northerly bank momentarily, and set down his food on its paper package to grab the hunting rifle from his back to use its scope to take a closer inspection.
"See anything?" Nick inquired calmly after the mechanic had spent a moment searching.
"Nothin'…" Ellis pulled his eye away, biting his lower lip.
"What about on the ship?" he inclined his shoulder, eyes not leaving his half-consumed burger. The guy was really digging in, which was good; Ellis was glad to see him properly filling his belly since his breakfast was sparse.
The hick swung the weapon around to access the threat, his left eye– his bad eye– squeezed shut. "No…" he murmured. There was another hack and then a slick whirling noise that reminded him of a loose fan belt.
The very next instant, something long, dark, and indistinguishable had wrapped itself around Nick's shin. "What the shit?!" the man got out. The appendage went taut and instantly he was pulled right from the ledge.
Ellis' fast reflexes caused him to abandon his rifle and seize ahold of the man's arm.
He only realized how stupid a thing it probably was to do when they were both tumbling from the bridge, through air, towards the quickly approaching water below.
He heard Rochelle shout out in alarm before the crash that was their bodies hitting the surface of the river and rushing into his eardrums. The water swallowed them up in its cold maw and the world became muffled; he forced his eyes open underwater to get his bearings, to determine which direction was up– seeking out the light of the sun through the murk. His fingers were still clutched around the gambler's bicep… the man was struggling with something, kicking his legs, likely trying to get free of whatever had snagged him, and Ellis pumped his own to get them above water, his lungs already pounding in his chest.
His head breeched the surface with a gasp and he was joined by two others–
Nick and something entirely else.
Its face was covered in boils, so much so that all that remained of the person's original face was a single glowing eye and a wide open mouth from which a long muscle protruded.
The thing hooked around Nick's leg was a tongue. A couple other tendrils coiled and curled about its head, moving to find targets to wrap themselves around– least of all the conman's neck. Ellis flailed to get them away from the advancing writhing, slimy muscles.
Next thing he knew there was a loud pop! and the air around them filled with a green smokey vapor– and the creature was gone, its body sinking beneath the surface. Rochelle must have picked it off from the bridge with her hunting rifle.
"Christ!" Ellis coughed, it stung his eyes– he was already having a hard enough time catching his breath and…
"It's still got–" Nick managed to get out before his head submerged again.
Ellis' eyes widened and he dove. The weight of the dead infected's body was what was dragging the man down, its tongue still tightly wrapped around his ankle. Nick was struggling at the now-lifeless bindings with his fingers, loosening them slowly but not nearly fast enough. Ellis yanked the machete from his hip and took a slow-motion swing through the water. The dull blade sliced the darkened appendage and released him from the anchor.
Both men resurfaced sputtering.
"Shit…!" Nick spat river water numerous times, understandably still shaken by the encounter.
Ellis re-secured his machete quickly, but next his hand jerked to his head because he realized what was missing from it. Frantically he scanned the surface and gasped when he located his hat, barely floating a bit off. He made a beeline for it and managed to snag it before it went under, plopping the wet headgear back over his hair with a quick prayer to the Lord– he probably would have never been able to retrieve it from the depths of the river. He gave a sweep of his arms, turning to face back upstream.
The river had managed to carry them quite a distance from the bridge. While it was by no means fast flowing, they were quickly losing sight of the far-off forms of Coach and Rochelle– dots of concerned pink and purple standing on the edge.
"North or south?" Ellis shouted to his comrade; they needed to decide quick before they lost visual contact altogether.
Nick grimaced as he buoyed. "We don't know what might be waiting for us on the south side," he cautioned over the rush of water.
Ellis nodded his understanding.
They paddled for the north bank. It made his arms and legs feel heavy as hell. Shit, he wouldn't have guessed swimming in full clothing would be so much damn harder, though the steel-toed boots were for sure weighing him down considerably. When they finally got there and crawled up onto land, he flopped down and rolled onto his back to take a breather, not caring how much dirt would be caking onto his wet shirt later.
Nick took a seat beside him in a patch of dried grass; he was already fussing over his damp magnum, draining the water from the barrel. Droplets drained out of his hair, dripping along his jawbone and off his chin and nose; he drug a soaked sleeve across his eyes. The dress shirt underneath the jacket clung to his chest and torso, some of its opacity lost, and Ellis couldn't help but notice just how toned the man was underneath all the formerly obscuring clothing. Especially in the abdomen– shit, did it look good… damn. He flushed a little and sat up.
Coach and Rochelle's shouts sounded to their rights; they were on their way to meet them. He cupped his hands to his mouth. "We're over here!" he sounded out to them, then waved his arms. They caught sight of them and hurried their pace; Ellis could see they had his hunting rifle– he was instantly glad he hadn't lost it to the river. Nick was probably lucky his thigh holster was so tight. Ellis looked back to the wet cardshark.
"Guess that answers your question," Nick flashed him a smirk as he slicked some of his loose hair back into place with chagrin.
"Yeah," Ellis laughed humorlessly, ringing water from his hat as he shook his head, "I guess'so."
