op (maldito) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-03-31 17:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | !walking dead, *log, clementine murphy, graham ross, shane alexander |
Log, TWD, farmhouse: Clementine M, Graham R, & Shane A
Who: Clementine Murphy, Graham Ross, & Shane Alexander
What: drinkin' moonshine at the end of the world
Where: The Walking Dead, an abandoned farmhouse
When: just after this
Warnings/Rating: TBD, but warning for language and generic zombie gore.
You had to go outside, down a fucking path, through a thicket of sweet gum, bark wounded and bleeding copalm basalm where someone had been fucking hacking at it and where blood smeared congealed with resin, the smell of it ambergris-sweet and iron on the air, and push aside a stone that had to weigh a couple hundred pounds. It would scrape the fuck out of the old wood door, but after that, all you had to do was pull on rusted hinges, ignoring the scream of resistance. And, fucking voila, the root cellar.—Underground, close, and rank with dank, the space wasn't big. It was stone and earth and mud and wooden shelves built against the walls fifty fucking years ago. Most importantly, it was full of food, yeah? Some of it rotted, thick in the nose, carrots, beets, cabbage, but a fucking lot of it was canned, in mason jars and shit like Campbell's soup. It was a fucking jackpot. Shane had been touting a different aspect—the moonshine. He'd found the skeleton of a still outside, back even further among sycamores, shunted inside of the remains of an ancient spring house gone to fucking ruin. And when he found the root cellar, the door too it obscured by dirt and leaves—someone had tried hard to keep it hidden—he knew he'd find it in there. In earthen jugs, marked with the telltale series of X's, and that was fucking fantastic, yeah? A kid had been in there. Long dead, with the milky, starving eyes Shane knew well at this fucking point. Maybe 14. Jaw distended and a shelf broken on top of it, it hiss and snarled at him before he fucking put it out of its misery. That was in the air too, yeah? Clotted putrefaction. But it always was, so it was whatever. He cleared the kid. He put him out in that spring house and he flipped the blankets over in the cellar, the ones the kid had been using as a bed before he fucking went and got himself killed, after all the fucking trouble someone went to to keep him safe, and it was passable or whatever. It wasn't a fucking king-sized bed, but the quilts were thick-purled, handmade, afghans, down blankets, even a couple goose feather pillows. After the shit they'd seen, it was like a fucking five-star hotel. There was a trap in the corner for water. Someone had been fucking crafty, yeah? They cut through jigsaw bones of stone, the wormy dirt, creating some kind of sluice, a sheet of plasticwrap was loose and coned between clips, creating a funnel. The natural moisture came in, dripped down, went into a bottle, and the kid, Shane assumed, got it from there. There was a container of bleach and a little dutch oven for purifying the shit.—When he found it, the pail was overflowing, and the floor around it was soaked through. He got it fixed up before he got drunk, yeah? Because he was fucking nice like that. It had taken the three of them time, him, Clementine, and Graham, to clear the farmhouse of the stragglers who'd wandered in even in the span of hours it took for Shane to get back to that pharmacy, and for the trio to leg it. But, they did it. Trees caved in half of the house, but what was left was fucking usable—it was better than that. They had good, strong windows, plenty of blankets to keep the light in (and out) with. As long as they stayed in the one fucking room on the first floor, where doors locked at both entrances, the backdoor and the door that led off into the hallway, they were secure from whatever might pick among the wreckage. But this cellar was a good fucking find, and Shane was celebrating. He flung his journal somewhere as he waited for the other two, yeah? In a black hoodie and grimy, scabby jeans, with another carefully fucking saved cigarette between his fingers, he was a good couple of red solo cups in. On his back on the flannel blanket, he waited or whatever, and he blew smoke rings up at the low ceiling with a smirk. |