Rochelle returned not too long later, fully dressed and looking nice. She had cleaned up the residual film on her skin with a few disinfectant wipes she must have snagged from someone's luggage as well, and now set all the dirtied things in a neat pile on an empty place on the floor, off in the far corner of the room.
Nick chewed at the hunk of cheese Ellis had cut him off of the larger wedge with his pocketknife. Each of them had decided to at least snack while they waited things out, and the mechanic had taken to a half-box of Wheat Thins, crunching the squares between his teeth noisily. The girl came over to grab the backpack from the table, unzipping it and setting down her acquisition from upstairs; Nick eyed the small book distrustfully. She dug the vodka out of the bag, rummaging around until she looked up. "Who's got the lighter?" she inquired.
Ellis yanked his thumb over at him wordlessly.
"That'd be me," Nick confirmed, flipping the little device out of his pocket. Ellis had hastily returned it after setting the front step ablaze, and he simply hadn't thought to put it back in the bag yet.
Rochelle extended a hand and he pressed it into her fingers. She started to move away, back to her pile, hips swaying but affect bitter. Nick watched her a moment longer before he decided to stand, pushing away from the table to join her, figuring his company couldn't hurt.
The reporter seemed a little anxious, needlessly moving strands of hair back onto her ear that weren't displaced, spying glances back at him.
"Sorry, am I–" he started, about to apologize.
"No, no. It's fine," she reassured quickly, setting him at ease. She bent down to pour the alcohol over her discarded clothes, not using too much of the flammable liquid, but making sure it was evenly distributed. Lighting a fire in an enclosed space wasn't the greatest of ideas, but it would mostly burn clean and likely not for too long. The reporter hesitated as she put the stopper back in the bottle. "I just…" she shook her head, closing her eyes that had threatened to tear. "This is stupid," she berated herself.
Nick gave a little grunt and shifted on his feet, moving to prop his back against the wall. He was just as tempted to leave it alone as ask, but he was still in some way hoping to make her feel better. "What?"
Rochelle gave a sigh. "I guess its just, these clothes were one of the last things I had left." She paused. "Does that make sense?" she half-laughed, obviously not sure of herself. But he understood. It was a sentimental value thing, belongings that had memory associations attached to them. Getting rid of those things was like getting rid of the memory itself, discarding it.
He should know what it was like to leave everything behind. After all, he'd already done it twice– in leaving 'home' on his eighteenth birthday… only thing he had kept was his 'stang… and in leaving his wife, though she had already technically 'left' him months before he packed his bags and hit the road. The apocalypse would be his third time saying 'sayonara!' to a former existence in order to forge a new one. Hell, who knew, just maybe it'd be the 'charm'. He lifted his eyes, peering across the room, his gaze settling on the mechanic still chewing on crackers with his back towards them. He re-hung his head.
"Yeah," Nick mumbled in response, "leaving things behind isn't easy."
Her brown eyes focused on him, seeming to catch the depth of his words. She laughed again now, more genuinely, but also sardonically. "Well, it is for some people," she sniped.
Nick lifted an eyebrow, confused by the comment, was it addressed to him? Sure, he was practically a drifter at this point in his life, but to say the lifestyle was 'easy' for him was an incorrect judgement, unless she was talking about someone else. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, indignation pricking at his vocal chords, not sure if he should be offended or not, but ready to become defensive.
"Oh, my dad was an asshole," she rolled her eyes, waving a hand at him with a smile of her plump lips.
Not him then. Nick gave a hum, backing off. He was a touch surprised Rochelle had chosen to share something quite so personal like that with him, of all the members of their group. But maybe he gave off 'bad dad' vibes. "Yeah, I had a dick for a father too," he chose to respond, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks and shrugging. No need to go into it any further than that.
Rochelle tittered and fiddled with the lighter. "Well, Mom picked right the second time at least."
The gambler considered her words, recalling the glimpse he had caught of her postcard that morning– he certainly didn't remember seeing another man on there besides what was obviously her brother. "Oh yeah? Where's he?" he asked conversationally.
"Germany," she readily supplied, then lifted a thin black eyebrow with curiosity, undoubtedly for the fact he had guessed he was in a different location than her other family members. "Month-long business trip."
"Good timing," Nick chuckled. As far as he knew, none of this had spread outside of the country… yet. All the airports had been canceling flights after the first thousand or so reported cases– he remembered that much from watching the news reports in his hotel bedroom, only to be stranded in Savannah with an non-refundable voided ticket back to Vegas and boy had he been pissed.
Considering how quickly things had degenerated around him in the Georgian town however, it had been for the best. He could only imagine the damage flying a 747 full of soon-to-be-zombies cross-country and releasing them into the casinos and bars would do. Shit, in the city of sin, it'd spread like wild-fire, there was no doubt in his mind about that. But perhaps this way it had been spared, the same going for the rest of the world.
Ha, yeah, what were the odds?
"Tell me about it," Rochelle laughed herself. "Some people have all the luck, huh?"
"Not us," he muttered before he could stop himself.
Her brown eyes fell away from him, melancholy once more settling over her like a dark cloud. It hadn't been his intention to bring her back down, just a symptom of his cynicism and he now cursed himself for letting it slip. Rochelle gave a long sigh and regarded her clothes again. She gave a flick of the lighter and the small flame sprung up past her thumb. "Well, here goes," she said forlornly. Nick nodded and she dropped the device to the pile.
The little flame leapt to the alcohol and took in a rush.
The reporter stood, sidling up next to him, so close he could feel the warmth of her proximity. He bit his lip and reached out the couple of inches between them to give her forearm a reassuring stroke. She flinched at first in reaction to his touch, but then relaxed, shifting to stand on one hip, and they both just stood and watched it burn.
"I should have listened to you…" she said suddenly, on the verge of a sob.
Nick quirked an eyebrow. Part of him was surprised to hear the words, figuring the girl was far too proud and stubborn to actually admit she might have been wrong. But another part of him was immediately apologetic himself, because though he had fought hard not to come down this way, something deep down in the pit of his stomach told him it had been the right decision and he had been the wrong one. Nick hesitated, not sure what to say, letting his hand fall away from her arm. The light of the fire began to burn purples and greens into his vision, his gaze so unwaveringly upon it.
He shook his head. "No, I think… it's important we came down here."
Her head turned, brown eyes blinking up at him. He didn't reciprocate the look, made a little awkward by it, and after a while she too returned her gaze back to the fire. "Thanks, Nick," she said in a small voice.
"Don't mention it, sweetheart," he returned with a careless shrug, and then there was silence once again. Nick stared down at the pink top as the last of it charred to black, swallowing up the figures on the front icon. "Depeche Mode, huh?" he commented, trying to alleviate some of the tension still strung between them.
She laughed gently, rubbing her arms. "Yeah…"
"I used to listen to them," he shared, not sure why.
Interest perked in her brown eyes. "Oh yeah? You have a favorite album?" she asked with immediacy.
Nick felt himself form an automatic chuckle to the question. He'd listened to a lot of songs, lots of artists, not just Depeche Mode, on those car rides back to Pomona; he just wasn't ever really the type to collect cassette tapes to fawn over a particular band and its works. "Nah, I was never that into them," he shrugged. The girl frowned slightly. He hurried to keep going so as not to disappoint her. "But 'Enjoy the Silence' really… struck a chord with me, I guess you could say." He swallowed, hating how much that seemingly small amount of information opened him up to her, as she was undoubtedly very familiar with the lyrics of the particular song.
The first time he'd heard it had been over the radio in Al's truck. It had been a huge hit and the stations did what they always did with a new popular song, they played it and played it and played it some more. But that very first time he could remember not paying too much attention when it came on, just barely hearing that first chorus before he leaned forward and turned up the volume to hear loud and clear the next lyrics that sent shivers down his spine: "Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm."
Al learned to turn up the radio for him when it came on after that, even though it was overplayed for easily a couple months. Nick just wished Al would have also figured out why he loved the song so much, that he was all he ever wanted, all he ever needed…
But Rochelle didn't pry. "I can see where it might," she said, keeping it at that; he was thankful.
They stood in continued silence as they watched the flames start to die down at last, their job of consuming the fabric complete, leaving nothing but charred remains. "Ellis was right about you," she murmured.
Nick felt his brow pull downward.
"You're not so bad of a guy," Rochelle said.
His poker face completely dropped, disarmed by the girl's sentiment. She paused for a beat, then grinned at him impishly. "Not that I'd ever date you."
He laughed, a smirk cracking across his maw. "The feeling is mutual," he shot back and she laughed all the harder.
But in the back of his mind, his thoughts raced because it had been an awful long time since he had been told he was a good person, since he had honestly felt like a good person.
Maybe the third time was the charm.