Graham Ross is a (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} hauntedsoul) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms, |
"Ain't whiny real similar to impossible?" It was cheeky, sure, but Graham didn't turn back to look and so his expression wasn't visible to read. Hammering nails into wood wasn't quiet work but the dead folk were already out there, being quiet wouldn't keep the door from being broken down and if it was, well, one zombie or twenty didn't matter; without a door, they were screwed. Better to buy themselves some more time. He tried not to be any louder than he needed to be, and he tried to be quick, but he tried to make damn sure he did a good job, too.
Waiting till morning sounded just fine to him. Gave them a chance to rest, at least. He kept on nailing the shutters while Shane talked, listening as best he could, mind half on what he'd have to do next; cover the windows, brace the doors a little more. That old survival instinct kicked in, like it did whenever he ended up here. Real familiar, and comforting in a way that made no damn sense.
"Somewhere better than this is good," he said, finally. "But we need a door to get out." They could be okay in the farmhouse for a while, though. Graham finally finished with the shutters and turned to face the other two, head tipped to the side, thoughtful. But he didn't say anything else; he went over to the closet and started sizing up the doors instead.