The place he found was actually a little two-story motel on the side of the main road, back the way they had come in Lake City. Since everything was flooded a good one and a half feet high, it had a couple benefits– they'd have rooms above the water…
And they could have separate rooms to keep mechanic and football player from kicking one another's teeth in.
Thankfully, the ten-minute ride to the little lodge calmed both parties down to a low simmer– Coach with his head tipped back and nose pinched to stop the flow of blood, and Ellis cock-eyed in his seat, arms crossed and a boot stuffed up onto the dash.
Nick parked at the stairwell that led up to the second story as close as he could reasonably get, driving up onto the curb to get that much more out of the water. The car seemed to sigh with relief as he turned off the engine, finally getting some well-deserved rest for its stint. He pushed open the car door and popped his jacket up over his head to shield him from some of the brutal downpour as he went around back to open up the tailgate. Each of the survivors hurriedly and indiscriminately grabbed their supplies and Nick slammed it shut as they made their way upstairs, under the eaves that protected them from the majority of the storm. The doors of the rooms were locked– as one would expect, they required programmed key cards from the motel lobby– but Coach made short work of that with that impressive shoulder of his that never seemed to quit.
Ellis and Coach were more than happy to occupy rooms apart from one another. However, before he and Rochelle could naturally sort into their established watch groups, the big man placed a hand upon his shoulder. Nick frowned at its size and weight momentarily before flicking his gaze to the older man's face. "We need to talk, Nicholas," he delivered solemnly, thick lips pulled down into a frown.
"Yeah, we do," Nick agreed. It had been his full intention to go over and talk to Coach to hash out this bullshit, whether the eldest or youngest of their party liked it or not. But his invitation to speak would make the whole thing a hell of a lot easier. The football player bobbed his head and lifted his hand away so they could part for the meantime to settle in. Nick shut the door after himself.
The rooms were decent for shitty motel rooms, especially in the middle of a zombieapocalypse. The sheets weren't full of cigarette holes and the carpeting didn't smell like piss, and really, besides that what more could you ask for? He'd slept in worse pre-infection. Ellis plopped onto the singleton bed, still made and a mint on the pillow, which the hick was quick to pop in his mouth to suck on. Nick removed his coat and wrung it out into the bathtub before hanging it, though he had little hope it would actually dry, along with his goddamn shoes. He frowned at how limp and sad it looked; the garment could probably never be returned to its former glory.
Ellis must have noticed the way he was staring at it, because the southerner spoke up in a casual tone. "Ya want I kin try an' hook up the blow dryer an' iron tuh the inverter," he offered, inclining his head at the backpack beside him on the bed that held the jerry-rigged device.
Nick felt the corners of his mouth tug upward appreciatively. "You'd do that for me, sport?" he asked.
"Well sure, ain't got much else tuh be doin', may as well," the mechanic mused, swinging his feet a couple inches from the floor. That was true, Nick thought, considering they were mired in for God knew how long. Fucking storm. Fucking zombies. Ellis shrugged. "If Ro' wants any'a her things ironed, she kin bring 'em over too. An' I reckon all'a us'd like tuh get our feet dry." He lifted his foot momentarily to display his sopping steel-toed boots.
The gambler chuckled, noting Ellis' exclusion of their eldest party member from the picture. He sat beside the mechanic, regarding a picture frame mounted on the wall. "What if Coach wants to re-pleat his khakis?" he led in, trying some humor.
Ellis snorted and rolled his eyes. "Coach kin do whatever the heck he wants. I dun give a damn."
Nick let the statement hang a minute, doubting the kid really meant that. It must have been a pretty big disagreement between them however. Nick went on. "What's up with you two anyway?" he asked as off-handedly as possible.
The young man's face cracked with ready chagrin. "Knew I couldn't hide nothin' from ya," he said, shaking his head. "I was a mess the whole damn ride down tuh Starke. An' then back up too, only worse." He was flashed a small smile before Ellis bent to stare at the carpet, chin propped up in his palms, elbows on his knees. He gave a derisive snort. "Promised him I wouldn't tell though, so ya'll hafta be askin' him, I s'pose."
"Well, I intend to in a few minutes," Nick replied, leaning back.
Ellis merely nodded. "Good. He an' I ain't really on the greatest speakin' terms right now."
"I kind of noticed," the gambler chuckled gently.
They sat beside one another quietly, lost in their own thoughts and broodings. Outside the rain poured and the wind buffeted against the windowpanes, but it didn't eclipse the silence. He could hear the hard mint clacking against the southerner's teeth as he moved it around his mouth with his tongue absently. Nick clapped him gently on the back, rising to stand. "These any good?" he asked, nabbing the little plastic-wrapped mint off 'his' pillow, twirling the edges.
The mechanic stuck out his tongue, displaying the half-consumed candy to him in playful answer. Nick couldn't help but imagine pressing the younger man back against the bedspread and frenching the fuck out of that minty-fresh mouth, playing hockey with the sugar-striped puck.
He silenced the growl that threatened to rise in his throat, returning to reality. He tucked the mint away in a pocket and hooked his thumb at the door. "I'll be back in a tic, alright, kiddo?"
Ellis nodded. "Sure thing. I'll have yer stuff hooked up in a jiffy."
"Thanks, El," he smiled warmly and gave the dirty blonde locks a ruffle. He turned and headed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Nick paused, fixing his lapels before rapping the back of his knuckles against the adjacent suite. A moment later Rochelle opened the door. He and she exchanged glances, seeming to communicate unspoken that they were 'trading' rooms for at least a few minutes. She stepped aside to let him in, touching him briefly on the arm– he could read apology in her eyes– and then left herself. Nick folded his arms as the door clicked shut.
Coach was sitting in the supplied armchair, looking as stern as ever. At the gambler's entrance, his expression seemed to change to one of business, the brown eyes lifting to connect with green. "Nicholas, at first I weren't so sure about'chu, an' sometimes, I still ain't."
The cardshark allowed a single controlled eyebrow to lift, unmoving from the place he had chosen to stand within the room. "Thanks," he delivered sarcastically.
The bigger man went on without skipping a beat. "But Ellis and Rochelle both seem to think there's a good man in there," he said with a humbled rumble, bowing his head ever so slightly as he gave a nod. "I think the both'a 'em'll stick with ya to the end, no matter what."
His brow furrowed at the words, perceiving their implication. "Yeah, and what about you? Where are you going?" he accused.
"Well," Coach shifted in his seat, "I reckon that's what your boy is all in a fuss about." He placed a hand flat to the side of his nose in consideration. "Throws a damn good punch too, that boy does, I'm proud of him."
Nick scowled, all his features wrinkling. "Cut the crap, Coach."
The older man seemed to frown at his forwardness, but obliged him. "I been meanin' to have this conversation wit'chu for a while now, but no time ever quite seemed right to do it." Nick waited as Coach took a deep breath. "I ain't goin' with you all to N'awlins. I ain't goin' no further than Tallahassee."
He couldn't lie, he was slightly floored. But his expression didn't reflect it. "Tallahassee?" he repeated, "Florida?"
The football player nodded solemnly.
No wonder the kid had snapped the way he did, told the big man to stay out of the decisions from here on out. Now it made sense. It all fell into fucking place. "Well," he said shortly, still not bothering to unfold his arms, "I guess that's all I need to know then."
Coach looked up, eyes creasing at the corners, clearing having expected to be told to explain himself. But Nick wasn't going to ask what his motivation was. He was curious, sure. But ultimately, there was no reason to ask; it wouldn't change the fact that he wasn't continuing with them. It would be a major detriment to lose him– Christ, would they have even been able to get into these hotel rooms without him? (they better invest in a crowbar, asap)– mentioning nothing of the extra gun by their sides. He, El and Rochelle would just have to get along as best they could, and be thankful to have Coach as long as they did.
Honestly, it almost made him chuckle. Here he had been the one in the beginning threatening to leave the group and make out on his own. And now he would be the one leading the rag-tag group of survivors to the end. It was funny how things shook out.
"I'm leavin' 'em with you, Nick. You understand me? You better damn well take care of 'em," Coach rumbled.
"Yeah, sure," he shrugged, as if it were only of secondary concern. His mouth pulled into a pessimistic half-sided grin. "What's the worst that can happen?"
The eldest survivor didn't answer that question.
The conman turned on his heel, pausing as he took the doorknob in his grip. "Oh, El's setting up a blowdryer in the room, if there's anything you want to have dried we can send it over," he mentioned over his shoulder with as careless an air as he could muster. Because as sure as he was that he and the other two would miss Coach…
He was more sure that Coach would miss them.
