Rooms

[Text to Shane Alexander]

Interesting news.

[Public]

we got something eating people now?

[Ford C]

I need a favor.

[Louis D]

found something yet? [ETA: after Ford] so skipping the bullshit. you want to meet Ford?

[Ink Anon]

second thoughts?

[During this.]

[Locked to Amelia T]
the fuck are you and the kid?

[Locked to Alexanders+]
we got out

[Locked to Maggie D]
okay?

ETA: [Locked to Joey A]
need you to find Cal

[Public to Walking Dead.]

Does anyone actually trust the man running this place?

[Solitary was in the dead center of the prison.

From the East, C Block led into offices before turning into the cafeteria and, then, the infirmary. The cafeteria was teeming, a result of officers holing up in the nearby kitchen, a trapped food supply for the undead that had lasted months into the endemic.

From the West, an unfenced and gaping A Block led to B Block, where the undead had been feasting on the bloated corpses of prisoners and corrections officers until weeks earlier, when their supply had run out.

Solitary was in the center, a long row with two locked gates at either end, and a breach in the stones that led to the infested area near the prison's center yard. From there, a near-herd of dead had poured in, and they were currently ramming a door that bent inward and inward with each slam of bodies. And it was clear why they were frenzied; the entire space smelled of copper and fresh blood, and there was a layer of it leading into the door that they were battering.

C Block's courtyard had, at some point during an evening filled with hotel madness, been breached. One small corner, just a fence bent in when the watch was relaxed overnight as a result of bodies being swapped. Slowly, as the sun rose, the undead that paced outside the courtyard moved closer and closer to that maw, and they opened it wide, and they lurched toward the door that opened onto C Block's common area.]

[Very late at night, on watch.]

[Locked to Alexanders]
how the fuck is the mob life going?

[Locked to Marina S]
hey, Trouble.

[Locked to Amelia T]
draw me something, Picasso

[Locked to The Walking Dead door]

[After this.]

I've a friend who's shown up recently who seems to be in our door, but a different place. Town called Woodbury, but he says there ain't nothing dead in town. Perhaps we want to investigate some?

Who: Beau & Amelia
What: Just an afternoon
Where: Courtyard at the prison
When: Recent
Warnings/Rating: None.
Status: Complete.

[Beau hadn't learned much from his mama before God took her up to heaven, but she had taught him a little bit of this and that. No, he hadn't liked sitting still while she taught him how to pull a thread through fabric, but he was grateful for her tutelage now as he sat there in the courtyard under the spring sun with a stack of things beside him. He had found a sewing kit in his bag, a little thing with only a couple of needles, and the thread was pulled from fabric too beat up to be worth saving, but it was enough to do a little patching, to pull together holes and clean up the things they had.

He was bent over a shirt as he worked, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, neat little stitches just like his mama taught him.]

[Public]

[A sketched smaller drawing of this with her pen]

Who: Open to everyone in TWD
What: Rain!
Where: Everywhere!
When: Now!
Warnings/Rating: Warn in comments if needed

[Late in the afternoon, the rain starts. It had been cloudy before, grey and dreary, but the clouds finally decide to open up, releasing the rain that had been building. For a while, it seems as though it's going to end as soon as it begins, but the sprinkles turn into a shower, and with the grey clouds, it seems like it's going to go on for hours.

Cool and refreshing, it dampens the dust of the land and perks the plants right back up. It brings with it cool air that almost invites people out to refresh themselves, body and soul. There is no thunder, no flashes of lightning, just a spring rain that lasts the afternoon and well into the evening hours.]

[Because he's in his cell and doesn't want to go find Graham, Locked to Graham R]
kid can talk. we need to fucking try to let him, yeah?

[Locked to Joey A]
got a fucking friend for you.

[Locked to Russ C]
you got a problem?

[Locked to Amelia]
hey, Picasso

[In the common area inside the prison, a room between the door outside and the bars that lead into C-block, denoted by a small sea of circular tables ringed by benches, Shane cleaned the crossbow with a rag made from an old prison uniform. They'd discovered a stash of the orange jumpsuits about a week ago, still clean and in all kinds of sizes. They'd been appropriated in various creative ways—rags, pillow cases, curtains, some people even wore them—like Shane. He didn't give a fuck. Since he hadn't gone out today, his usual vest was nowhere to be seen, and he sat in a grease and blood covered jumpsuit with an oil lamp lit nearby.

Every day the prison was settled into more. The little group there was getting better at getting along, though it was far from ideal.

It'd been quiet enough lately that tensions had eased some, in spite of the raging apocalypse outside. It was nearing dinnertime now and people would start coming in from their various jobs, shifts, and positions, in from the waning sun and stench of skin rotting. They'd mumble and complain about fuck, more canned corn, but they'd eat it.]

I feel like doing hard drugs would possibly less traumatic than this hotel.

There is no fucking TV in this house.

[After this.]

Need some help here. Closed up in a house full of dead people. Anyone out there?

( Log: Amelia and Shane, cut for slight length )

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