Nick rolled up the two relevant maps they had found on the table and brought them with them on their way back down. His arches were fucking killing him by the time they hit the bottom step– there was no way in hell he was making that trip up and down again, what had it been? twenty, maybe twenty-five flights? On top of all the goddamn walking. He was developing callouses. He'd never had callouses. God, what he'd do for a pedicure. He sat and pulled off his dress shoes to give himself a foot rub, pushing his thumbs into the tendon of his foot with a grimace as he tried to work the muscle into relaxation.
"You youngins find anythin'?" Coach asked. The big man was still sitting where they had left him when they had gone upstairs, though he had dug out a bag of cereal and started munching, pouring mouthfuls out into his cupped hand to pop into his mouth. It was well after noon by now and none of them had eaten since breakfast at the boat shop… too preoccupied with zombies and everything else going on around them. Food was probably a good idea, not that Nick himself was feeling terribly hungry, but stress always did that to him.
And with all the events that had been playing out before them, he was plenty stressed.
Ellis stuck out a hand at him and Nick, understanding the wordless request, handed over the maps. The hillbilly took a seat next to Coach to fill him in on what all they had seen upstairs, rolling out the large sheets across the table's surface. Nick didn't pay too much attention to their exchanged words, more zoning out as he rubbed his feet and watched the hick's mouth move and the older man's face grow lined with deeper and deeper countenance.
Rochelle meanwhile began her search for new clothes to replace her vomit-soaked ones, rifling through the lost and discarded luggage against the wall, unzipping rolling bags and pawing through their contents to find something suitable for her person. He was glad because who knew how long it might take for the effect of the puke to wear off, even once the clothes were burned and no trace remained. If they had any hopes of leaving the NAS tonight, they needed to get on with it. On the other hand, they had already lost so much time… They had no clue how far out the next designated safe room was, and in a choice between losing ten miles of progress or getting caught out in the dark, Nick would readily chose the former.
Coach's gaze followed the reporter's motions with curiosity, temporarily pulling his attention away from the newly acquired diagrams Ellis had been discussing with him. "What'chu doin', baby girl?" the older man inquired gently, obviously still concerned about her.
"We're thinkin' the zombie puke on her clothin' is what's attractin' the horde," Ellis explained for her.
Nick chuckled at the mechanic's use of 'we' when it had been his own logical deduction, but it didn't surprise him El wasn't taking credit for it.
The football player stroked his chin thoughtfully at the news. "Well, now that you mention it, the banging did let up a little once you all went upstairs. Started up again just before you got here," he informed them, pretty much confirming the suspicion that it had something to do with the 'scent' of the bile. None of them could really smell it any more, but the zombies likely had finer-tuned olfactories than them.
"Sounds like you were right on the money, kiddo," Nick complimented the hick, awarding him the credit where it was due. Ellis gave a short-lived little grin, readjusting his hat and returning to the maps and filling Coach in. Nick moved his gaze to Rochelle, who was still questing for clothing, a pair of dark blue jeans much like her current ones now slung over an arm.
God was he glad he hadn't been the one to get barfed on though– despite what he had said upstairs, this was easily one of his favorite and most expensive suits, burning it would be a fucking shame. And yeah, it was looking a little worse for wear for all of the running around they were doing, but where was he going to find another hand-tailored outfit in an apocalypse? Or hell, after it, assuming they survived. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of his own socked feet wafting up at him. They probably all should see about changing at least some of their clothes if they could– at very least their undergarments. Nick wrinkled his nose. He couldn't decide which skeeved him out more… wearing the same pair of boxers for a week and a half, or wearing someone else's.
"You think black or brown is more my color?" Rochelle asked then, holding up two different tops she had pulled from a suitcase– one was a chocolatey color, a souvenir from the Hershey's factory in Pennsylvania as the embroidered front proclaimed, the other was a band tee apparently acquired on the 2009 tour of the Midnight Riders– whoever they were.
"Oh mah God– that is so cool!" Ellis exclaimed, eying the second shirt with delight and envy. "Man, I went to their show in '06 when they came to Atlanta– well, mah half-brother Dave took me since he's a fan of the Riders too an' he done managed tuh get the tickets on discount, two fer the price of one. But we didn't get no souvenirs– they really want too much fer some'a those things." His voice took on a slightly higher pitch as he switched gears, longing in his eyes. "Ro', kin I have it?"
The girl tittered. "I don't think it will fit you sweetie, it's a women's small," she said, fiddling with the tag on the inside.
"Aw…" Ellis' nose wrinkled with disappointment.
Well, Nick wouldn't mind watching the hick try to wriggle his way into the small shirt… even if he ended up ripping the sleeves with those biceps of his. Hell, maybe because he would. The gambler gave a surreptitious lick of his lips, imagining the way the fabric would stretch around his slender frame and muscles on the verge of tearing. Not that the current faded yellow t-shirt he was wearing didn't seem a good size too small for the kid and he'd been appreciating that ever since he met him, for better or for worse.
"That's a tough choice," Coach piped up. "The Riders may be a good band, but nothing beats a bar of solid milk chocolate." He seemed to pause at his own thought. "What I wouldn't do for one right now, or even some of those little foil-wrapped Kisses, mm mm…" his voice rumbled with longing.
Rochelle's brown eyes turned to him since the vote seemed to be tied.
Nick relaced his shoe and leaned back against the step, folding his hands behind his head. "You asked which color was better right?" he asked, getting back to her original question which the two other survivors seemed to have bypassed in lieu of personal preference on logo. "Hold them up."
She did so, putting the black tee to her chest first, then swapping it for the brown. She repeated the action a second time, just to remind him of the difference between the two. Yeah, so, he had an eye for this kind of thing– it was why he stuck to light cool colors that matched his skin and eyes, like blues and greens and greys, and the infrequent purple if it wasn't too vivid. Nick gave a nod, his decision made. "I like the black one," he concluded; the brown, though it was nice, was too close to her own skin tone and washed out her face, whereas the black both brought it out and complimented her hair.
Really, what did it matter in a fucking zombieapocalypse anyway, but it was a good distraction. Something to take his mind– all of their minds– off the lingering death.
"Alright, I'm going to go change," Rochelle informed them, her ensemble picked out, including a new belt and boots. She walked over towards him and Nick stood up so she could get around him to the little second floor room right above them.
She disappeared up the winding steps, and Nick sat back down, contemplating removing his other shoe to massage the other foot, only half satisfied with the job he'd done on the first.
Only moments later he heard Rochelle give a surprised yelp.
Coach and Ellis' eyes snapped up from the table, but Nick had already spun on his heels, tearing up the stairs two at a time, his magnum out and ready.
The reporter stood in the threshold, unharmed, a hand over her mouth, but she pointed a finger inside and Nick's gaze followed it.
He gave a little jump himself at the dangling body not four feet from them. A woman– formerly a nurse judging from her attire– hung lifelessly from the rafters, a small stool kicked out from under her legs.
Well that was fucking cheery.
Ellis pushed in close behind him, spying a glance in. His nose gave a violent wrinkle at the sight. "Aw man… that ain't right…" he mumbled with mild disgust. Coach meanwhile towered over his shoulder, bowing his head solemnly in reverence to the deceased.
Rochelle seemed to regain her composure, and Nick was a little surprised when she stepped forward boldly into the room, skirting to get around the body. But her eyes had spotted something, as she bent down towards the ground, snatching up a little bound book with a plain brown cover.
Nick lifted an eyebrow. She cracked it open, brown eyes exploring the insides. "A diary," she breathed, turning her gaze back to the woman. "I bet it was hers."
The gambler gave a shift on his feet, not particularly interested in the memoirs of a suicidal person. The whole thing was grim and morbid enough without added narrative. "You still going to change in here?" he asked. He sure as hell wouldn't want to share a dressing room with a corpse.
Her nose was in the book, distracted by her discovery. "Yeah, yeah," she nodded, giving the three of them a wave of her hand in dismissal.
Nick shrugged and turned to go back down the stairs.
"Thing's were so bad people was hangin' themselves…?" Ellis wondered aloud, taking the steps beside him as they three descended; he sounded incredulous and a little fearful besides.
"Eh," Nick gave another shrug, "you're always going to have people who crack under pressure like this. People who are weak-willed," he reasoned. That was the way of it, survival-of-the-fittest, and some people selected themselves right out of the picture.
Ellis seemed to accept the explanation with a slight hum, drawing subtly tighter to his side.
"She's with the Lord now, son," Coach rumbled in front of them, undermining his words; Nick frowned. The back of his bald head bobbed before them as he plodded heavily down the steps. "That's what matters."