It was getting on in the evening, but the party didn't show too many signs of slowing down. Marcus was pleasantly buzzed, leaning towards blasted. Over the evening, he'd been blessed with many offerings. From whiskey and plastic dick necklaces to a bowler hat someone had gifted him with (it was difficult to make out through the drunken slurs, but he was fairly certain the original owner was several weeks dead) in return for wrapping an old woman's ankle and giving her pain medications days before. A few of the revelers had actually learned his name from his time in the camp, so occasionally he'd hear it shouted above the general din, accompanied by a clap on the shoulder. Others opted to refer to him with a descriptive or nickname. It didn't bother him as much as it might have, given that he tended to do the same damn thing.
There were only a few names he knew. Rodeo, he recognized, playing the part of Pan; drinking and singing and carrying on like it was fucking Christmas. The Rattlesnake Lady, Teagan, who'd gone from enemy to friend in the span of one day with a matter of drinks. A couple of the loose women he'd spent a little time with, affectionately termed camp bitches by the residents... but Marcus hadn't come to embrace the dog metaphors yet. It was better than calling them whores, but not by much. He internally used his own pet names to keep them apart. Blancanieves was far too occupied to notice him, her dark hair obscuring the fact that she was plunging her tongue down some guy's throat while straddling his lap. The lawn chair beneath them was in the process of deciding between continuing the war against gravity or just buckling outright. He silently wished it luck as he passed.
Marcus had already made his decision. He'd meant what he said to the rattlesnake. Whatever else they were, these were good people, and there was nowhere better to fucking be. So he was going to stay. He'd find a fucking trailer and learn how to make that shit work. Maybe fix himself up a proper porch to sit on...
Shit. That reminded him of the shack. There'd been no reckoning for breaking in that door, and he didn't expect there to be one. The guy had been contaminated, and the frenzied rush to get him situated in his own home to wait out quarantine had taken precedence over a simple case of B&E. Still, Marcus felt a little bad about it. More, he had an idea what the guy had gone through in there. Waiting to die in a home -- even a modest one -- had to be better than waiting to die on the road, but it was still waiting to fucking die, and Marcus remembered that shit all too well. It wasn't something that just went away, and he wondered if the man whose party this was would be haunted by it.
Marcus made a promise to himself to seek that guy out when he sobered up. Meet him face to face and learn his fucking name. Ask how he was sleeping, and maybe make up for that damn door.
In the meantime, he was far too drunk for pathos, and figured the man of honor was probably busy, anyway. This much fanfare, the guy probably had a sea of congratulations to swim through, and probably a fair amount of pussy to boot. So Marcus didn't go seeking. Instead, he meandered over to a table of food, and stared for a moment at a rainbow of oversized, gelatinous bugs reflecting the firelight as they jiggled with the vibrations of the music, revelers and odd explosion.