They waited. And waited. And while they waited, they found new clothes to replaced soiled ones, ate a dinner of much-too-dry cereal, and waited some more.

A more thorough search of the baggage revealed a second Midnight Riders tee, a men's small– just how he liked them– and he had wasted no time in yanking his Bullshifters shirt off his head to don the new piece of clothing. It fit him like a glove, conforming to his pecs and showing off his muscles through the fabric– he gave a few flexes just to make sure. That'd scare those zombies into thinking twice about messing with him. Coach meanwhile, found new khakis and a polo as a replacement to his current ones, though Ellis did notice the big man seemed reluctant to part with his school uniform, eventually popping the seams around the FHS patch that had adorned the left breast to tuck safely into a pocket. And Nick, unsurprisingly, only sought clean boxers and socks. Ellis had to wonder if he'd ever see the gambling man in anything other than that pressed white suit. Goddamn, he'd bet a hundred dollars the man would look good in just a plain cotton t-shirt and a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans, and if he let his hair down…

Okay, he'd admit, it was a bit of a weird thought, but there wasn't a whole lot to do while they waited.

One thing he had done was he had tried, repeatedly, to get Coach on his side about checking out the green circles on the southeastern map. But like Nick, the older man was leery about the idea, if not more so, and seemed to avoid his dialogue on the subject. The gambler hadn't spoken a word about it since upstairs, staying on the sidelines so as to not get involved. And Rochelle hadn't voiced any strong opinions either.

Ellis drummed his fingers anxiously on the tabletop where the four of them sat. Besides the excursion to the armory on site, they didn't really have much of a game plan. Get out of the NAS. Head for New Orleans. Check Tallahassee and Mobile on the way. A continuation of the original plan back when they left Savannah. Yet they had been thrown this new map, a potential boon– this new source of information. And though none of them knew what it necessarily meant, he was desperate to find out. He spoke up again with a casual tone. "Cuz ya know, if they were internments, we could pretty much–"

"Boy, I told you," the football player rumbled, cutting him quickly off, "we'll look if we have time, but our priority is gettin' to Nawleans. We ain't need some wild goose-chase that's gonna land us knee-deep in shit."

Ellis frowned hard and hid behind the bill of his hat, a hint of animosity eating him up around the edges. The older man had never been this gruff with him before and rightly he wasn't used to it. In fact he was downright angry because it felt like Coach was just blowing him off rather than hearing him out. He swallowed and stubbornly continued. "M'jus' sayin', I dun see no harm in lookin', we wouldn't lose more than a couple'a days at the very most an'…"

"That's another couple days we fight not knowin' if we'll have ammo, another couple days we eat not knowin' if we'll have food. How many bodies we seen today, youngin'?" Coach laid into him, "You wanna end up as one of 'em?"

Ellis stared hard at the grooves in the table, jabbing his pocketknife into the wood absently, knowing he had been silenced. "No," he said, though the admittance was forced. Being reminded of the massacre and their helplessness only made his mood more bitter and brooding, and he drug the blade across the table's surface, watching it notch the wood. Coach had a good point about their supplies; circumstances had landed them where they were now, with little of each, and every consecutive day they spent out in the apocalypse was essentially a gamble. But going to one of the locations on the map could be a chance to learn… well, who knew all what! Maybe they'd learn why CEDA had abandoned so many evacs, maybe they'd learn why the military had gotten involved or what was happening with the rest of the country. There was just no telling.

Of course the one thing that stood out clearest in his mind was the possibility of learning the whereabouts of his family. He understood the desire for haste– especially after they'd lost a good day and a half here in Jacksonville when they could have detoured around the metropolis– every day was one more that New Orleans might not be open, when it too, like all the rest, became an ugly red X on the map. But he refused to settle for disregarding this. Those green circles had to mean something. He was sure of it. He tried to maintain an agreeable voice. "I know it could be dangerous," he prefaced, "but there's a lot we don't know, an' I… I have a good feelin' about this."

And then Coach laughed at him. It was a sardonic laugh, his lips pulled back into a toothy but sad grin, and he shook his head back and forth slowly. "Boy, when don't you have a good feelin' about things?" he asked, almost wearily.

Ellis recoiled, hurt by the words. He'd always tried his very best to maintain an optimistic outlook on life, even when things were rough or looked like they might never get better– the zombieapocalypse couldn't even change that. The hurt quickly became anger, sparking up inside him like someone had struck a match against his heart. He regarded the eldest man across the table with unwavering determination. "Mah family's out there somewhere," he said sternly. "And if there's any hope, any way at all fer me tuh find 'em, m'gonna."

Rochelle's hand came out to touch his forearm. "We'll find them, sweetie," she whispered. "Don't worry, it'll be okay."

But he didn't want to hear her patronizing words. Because they were empty; she was just saying them to get him to calm down, to make him forget about it. He leveled a glare at the reporter. "Well that's mighty easy fer you tuh say, now ain't it, Ro?" he snapped back.

She faltered, her face twisting with a mix of confusion and hurt. "I don't… what do you…?" she started.

"Cuz yer family's fine, now ain't they?" Ellis continued, unable to stop, his frame now coursing with ire as his jealousy spilled forth. "An' ya know it. Ya ain't got a thing tuh worry about, cuz they're waitin' for you jus' as safe as could be in an internment somewhere– hell, they even sent you a well-wishin' card!"

The football player rose to his full height, towering over them as he jabbed a finger into the table, voice booming. "This right here is what we got. You'd best accept that, the both of you."

The words struck him like a betrayal. Rochelle slunk back as well, her brown eyes falling to the floor. Ellis kept his own hard on Coach. Of all the things the big man might have said, he hadn't expected those. What happened to 'chin up, eyes forward' Coach? How could he even speak to them like that– tell them to forget their families? Ellis shook his head. "I can't believe what m'hearin'." He scoffed disbelievingly. "What the hell, Coach? What happened to yer faith, man?" His voice rose, volume increasing. "That we'd be a'right an' make it through this, see our families again? What the hell happened tuh the man I been followin'? Heck, that we all've been followin'?"

"El," the crystal clear conman's voice brought him out of his tirade. He peered at the man, lost and forgotten for his silence in watching things play out. The green eyes didn't waver or blink; there was warning in them– not a harsh warning, but a gentle one that reigned him in, told him he had gone too far. He looked back to Coach, who seemed visibly effected by his words, still standing, but speechless. Guilt rushed into him, embarrassed that he had lost his temper at his friends, that he had lashed out at Rochelle and then snapped at Coach. Damn, what sort of friend was he?

Ellis pushed himself from the table and mumbled an "M'sorry." as he stood. He began to head away from the table to give them some likely much needed space, pulling his hat from his head to run his fingers through the curled mess, hating himself for the way he had just acted.

He could remember a time years ago, back when Emma had been not more than seven years old, just a year after their Pa had passed away. She'd been playing on the sidewalk, and as kids always seemed to do, she rushed without looking to chase after a little toy race car that she'd rolled out into the street. And if he hadn't have been there to snatch her by the wrist and yank her back, she might just have been hit by the pickup rolling down the little residential street too fast for its own good. Instead of just scolding her, warning her to be more careful next time, he had yelled– and sure, he'd been under a lot of stress that first year without his Pa, but that didn't excuse the way he had acted… because he had practically screamed at her, about what could have happened to her, about how their Ma would feel if he had to bring her little limp crushed body home. He had made Emma cry so hard with the words, and it hadn't been meant to make her feel bad, it had been meant to let her know just how much she meant to their Ma, and to him…

In a lot of ways, what had just happened was similar. Not that he expected any of them to realize it. They all wanted to rush out to New Orleans without looking both ways– at all the options. He pressed his shoulder into the wall and took to staring at the laces of his boots.

Coach spoke up only a moment later. "Ellis," he said to the young man's turned back.

Ellis swallowed with a touch of anxiety and looked back at him.

"You got a good heart in you, boy," Coach delivered with sincerity. His large frame seemed to sag with weight as he sat, running a hand over the top of his bald head. "I think… I think this apocalypse is startin' to get to me…" he admitted.

Rochelle gave a small pained laugh. "I think it's getting to all of us…"

The big man nodded solemnly, as did Nick.

Ellis leaned against the wall and shut his eyes, feeling the weight of his words, but a moment later he opened them, noting the absence of something. "Is it... quiet?" he asked suddenly.

The other three survivors went silent, wide-eyed and listening. Sometime during their back-and-forth, the banging had stopped. Praise the dear Lord in Heaven, it had stopped.

"They're... gone?" Rochelle asked.

Well, there was really only one way to find out. He stooped to begin moving the blockade, and soon Nick and Coach and Rochelle got up from the table and joined him, all of them working together to push and pull the furniture and boxes away, haste and hope in their motions.

Ellis grabbed the handle and yanked it inward, breath held.

The airfield lie before them, the scattering of burnt corpses from the molotov, but no living infected remained; without the scent of bile to attract them, they had wandered off in search of food elsewhere.

They were alone at long last. They could finally get a move on. Though probably not towards Starke. He decided he wouldn't press the matter any further. Not yet anyway, not now.

"Pack up," Coach asserted.