Who: Marcus and (open) Where: The Dog Park, within the walls. What: Shelter from the storm. When: Monday, just as the weather takes a turn for the gross.
The raider camp outside of the city wasn't unimpressive. In the days since his arrival, Marcus had warmed up to the idea of fewer restrictions. Paperwork had always been a necessary evil in the system, but it had also been abused. Reports were ignored, complaints buried so deep that even if you were willing to play by the fucking book, it was easy to abuse. Here, Marcus was allowed to determine his role to an extent. More importantly, he had the agency to decide what happened to his things. It hadn't occurred to him how possessive he'd become of his supplies until he'd been faced with the idea of surrendering them, even it was for government shelter. So little of what had once been his had been salvaged that any feeling of loss was like a white-hot iron in his gut, searing his insides. He didn't want anything taken. He didn't want to be forced to meet any motherfucker's demands, no matter what title they carried.
What he gave freely was different, and while Marcus wasn't sure who could and couldn't be trusted in or around the city of Austin, he'd found no cause to doubt the man in charge here. Being a stranger, he didn't have free reign in the camp, but that wasn't something he needed, either. There were people here, and if his solo travels had taught him anything it was that he desperately, fervently needed to be around people. Without the distractions of their presence, his mind was too easily buried under dark thoughts. Marcus wasn't a suicidal man, but he also wasn't one who could suffer his own company long before he started looking for exits. Dying alone might not beat living alone, but survival seemed pointless without companionship. The warmth of human contact. Motherfucking accolades. All that shit.
That there were other options was considered. There was a hospital, a medical center somewhere, and that was a tantalizing thought. A brief text exchange with a faceless stranger had affirmed what he'd suspected. They needed supplies. They were in need of help.
But that was also the case of the people here. Hell, that was the case everywhere. And Marcus had read between the lines of that stranger's texts. Beneath the civility of language, there'd been almost as much edge there as there'd been from the rattlesnake woman who rode with the dogs here. She was looking out for herself, which was fair, but Marcus wasn't sure he wanted to go back to protocols and procedures just yet. It was all well and good to say they locked out the infected, pretend that hard lines never became hard decisions that were fudged in the name of human decency.
Pretend that a significant portion of the remaining populace wasn't immune.
Besides, he had been promised more than just food, water, and safety. Or less, in a way. Rodeo had made no promises of safety, which oddly sat better with Marcus. It felt more honest. The man had giant fucking walls and knew for a fact they weren't infallible. That nothing was. Maybe it had just been refreshing to meet someone who kept it that straight. There'd been other talk, as well, but what stuck with Marcus the most was the claim that there weren't just people here, it was people who had each other's backs. After the hell of Tucson, seeing people he knew trample over or shoot down their own friends in panic, that seemed worth sticking around for if only to witness.
What he witnessed was the bonfire. The camp wasn't just about survival. There was revelry. Not Duggar's insane, hysterical rampage to spit in the face of God and Man both for forsaking the fucking country. No. Here to be witnessed was camaraderie. A celebration of all things worth living for. The camp was violent, energetic, not grasping to the edge of life but actually alive. The people in it weren't just survivors, but residents... natives to the land, drinking and fucking and proving that they weren't ready to crawl into a mass grave. Not just yet. Maybe not ever.
It wasn't love. Not yet. But it was infatuation. Of that there was no doubt. Marcus had stayed readily. Eagerly. But he hadn't known that he was staying, and there hadn't been enough time to set up a permanent shelter. A part of him had still been tempted by the city, skeptical of a pack of men calling themselves dogs (why'd it have to be dogs? He'd always hated dogs), cynical enough to want to stay mobile.
At least that meant most of his shit was already together when the sky turned black and he had to move quickly. The tent he'd been sleeping in wasn't exactly a sound structure. The rain threatened by the incoming clouds could be toxic, acid, for all he knew. He didn't think to check the network thing, still unaccustomed to that even being an option, so he didn't read the warnings. Didn't know to expect the blobs.
The small, makeshift tent wasn't his to begin with, on loan from someone he'd met the day before, and Marcus didn't have any qualms leaving it behind to seek more useful refuge from the oncoming storm. Being immune to the virus didn't mean he couldn't get an infection of another sort, nor did it make him any more willing to touch the quivering bits of flesh coalescing in swirling pools of mud. Something the size of a small fist landed on a closed ice chest nearby, leaving a residue the consistency of snot and the color of blood as it slid off to plop into a growing puddle. Gravity reminding them all of its say.
Fuck that. Marcus backtracked to where the small tent was located, tearing it up from the ground to use as a shield against the weather. It was big enough to protect him and his bag while he moved through the chaos of people and toxic rain and blobs. He thought he saw someone who looked as ill-prepared for this shit as he'd been and Marcus called out, lifting a tented arm like a giant, protective wing against the onslaught. Hoping to be directed towards some kind of safe haven. "Hey! Ven aquí! I got you!"