The door was open, which was weird, seeing as that the last time he’d passed the Karaoke bar, on his way into the newest town on his route, it had been closed.

He wondered if a fleshie had shoved it open or if it had been a survivor.

He wondered if they were still there.

Then he shook himself from his delusions and strode through the doors to look through rooms he had already checked, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything he told himself; it wasn’t because he wanted to sweep for anyone, he reassured himself.

It wasn’t because everything had become so unbearable over the last couple months that he needed someone to cling to, to attach to like a barnacle; no, of course it wasn’t.

There were trapped fleshies everywhere, he knew, trapped in rooms and hallways and only a few were actually loose in the club.  He himself had spent some time there, a few years prior, before deciding that he couldn’t sleep with the constant and groaning and clicking shoes.  So he knew just where to go to dig through junk while listening for anything out of the ordinary, as a precaution, though, not as a look-out.

Nothing, nothing, nothing…  The drawers were empty, of course; he already knew that.  Duh.

“Just admit it, Mark,” he said, running a thin hand through his hair before digging an energy bar out of his pocket.  “You’re desperate.”  The wrapper fell to the floor and he stepped on it as he grabbed another handle.  “You’re lonely.”  The granola tasted stale.  “And you’re too pathetic to blow your brains out.”

His search was cut short as something sounded from down the hall, something familiar.  “There’s no way,” he whispered, peeking out the room to stare down the grimy hallway.  Then it came again, wrapped up in a shout peppered with the same loneliness he felt.

A human voice.  An angry human voice, but it was something.

It came a third time, this time very loud, and Mark felt a jolt of fear.  Whoever it was, he was being too casual about the decibel of his voice.  There were fleshies everywhere, and who knew where the rumored crowd was.

An obnoxiously loud song began to drown out everything else in the bar, and he dashed down the hall, excitement and horror mixing into a cocktail of worry, and maybe just a little bit of anger.  He shot past grainy windows and muffled doors, and burst into an open space holding upturned chairs and dusty tables, and a staggered man who dropped his machete to the floor in a moment of shock.

Mark yelled at him, for lack of anything more to do, but marveled at the other’s facial expression, his open book of emotions.  He looked just as taken-aback as Mark was, and Mark thought in a moment of weakness, that maybe, God willing, this man was just as desperate for attention and companionship as he was, as he had been for the past five years.

God willing.

The silence that followed Jackson’s story was just about as thick as the hot air around them.  Mark had his head bent down and staring at the dirt that they were sitting on, the roof too hot again to deal with.  Jackson wondered if he didn’t know what to say, or if he didn’t want to say anything.

It felt weird, telling someone everything; he hadn’t even told Nam-what’s-his-name everything, even though their time together had been longer.

Maybe Mark’s just different, more worth telling, he told himself.  He’s quieter and nicer than the other one ever was.  He was kinder and a better listener, and Jackson liked that everything he said was being processed with the time it deserved; he liked how Mark nodded his head and bit his lips and wiped his eyes and swallowed at times; it gave his story soul, and a meaning, and something extra that felt good in his chest.

In his heart, because the way his companion responded made him feel like he had one.

“I’m sorry; I wish I could’ve been there for you in the beginning, during the-the difficult times,” he breathed quietly, and Jackson decided that he liked this meeker, respectful side a lot more than he liked the side that shouted and made him cry.

“Don’t say sorry; you didn’t do any of it.”

“No, but I’m sorry that you had to go through it all.  I had less crap to deal with, and I’m still a bit messed up too; I wouldn’t have made it through all that.”  He paused and looked ever, his light hair and light eyes blending with his slightly darker skin.  “I’m sorry that I made you say it all out loud, too.”

“It’s all for the better.”

“You say that, but I feel better on the days when I can forget her.”  Jackson rose an eyebrow in confusion, but didn’t ask.  He didn’t want to pry, despite his wanting to know, and uncharacteristically kept his mouth shut.

“It is for the better; promise.”  It felt wrong to promise, especially in their world, their situation: two guys forging a ty existence in a trailer, surrounded by the walking dead and no guarantees, besides the fact that death would always follow life.

“Okay.  How long are-”

“Hands up!  Don’t anyone move!”  Jackson and Mark shot up, the latter fumbling for his gun and the former already having his blade up and aimed at the nearing trio.  Unfortunately, three pistols against one machete was a poor match, and they held their arms up hesitantly.

“Are there anymore of you?” someone with white hair asked, slightly lowering his weapon.  The second, shortest one hadn’t even raised his gun, but was standing with his thumbs in his pocket.  The third, a thickly built man who was almost as tall as the first, yawned and rubbed his eyes childishly.  Mark was dead silent besides Jackson, taking cover behind him.

“Yah,” Jackson lied, “four more.  They’re around here somewhere.  They’re probably coming back from their sweep soon.”

“And wouldn’t making two blinkers outta their friends be a great welcome home gift?”

“Blinkers?  For real?”  Jackson couldn’t help but chuckle, only to feel Mark’s swift fist grip the back of his shirt and pinch him simultaneously.  “I mean, you don’t wanna do that.”

“You’re right, we don’t.  Shut up Zico,” said the shortest.  “I know it’s just you two, and we’re sorry to break up whatever you were up to…”  Mark’s shirtless-ness became apparent at that point.  “…but we need directions.  We were just afraid that if we asked nicely, you’d shoot us.”

“I wasn’t afraid.  I don’t ask nicely.  I actually wanted to shoot them; did you see all the ammunition in that trailer?  If we had half that amount we could-”  But the blonde was shushed again, this time by the second tallest one.

“Hyung, calm down,” he said quietly, patting his arm passively.  “It’s better to be nicer.  Remember what Kyung said.”

“Kyung isn’t here anymore, is he?  Look where being nice got him, P.O.”

“All we need is some directions to get to highway seventeen,” continued the short one; the other two bickered in the background as he stepped forward with a toothy grin.  Jackson hesitantly gestured toward the road.

“What’s up seventeen?” he asked.  The other looked back to the arguing pair behind him.

“There’s supposed to be a camp there; it’s said to be the most secure place in all the area.  We kind of need a break, you know?”  Jackson nodded and attempted at a smile.  He couldn’t see it himself, but from the other’s reaction, he chose to close his mouth again, looking at the ground instead.

“Seventeen’s two miles down Baystone road, and it should be the first interstate breakaway you see,” he instructed, pointing, all the while keeping an eye on the pair behind them all, still shoving each other and occasionally spitting out a curse.  He couldn’t help but feel weird, showing so much gentle generosity for a stranger who had shown up with a pointed gun.  To be fair, though, this one hadn’t been aiming at his face.  “Just to warn you, I’ve gone pretty far up seventeen and I haven’t seen anything important.”  The other grinned wider.

“Oh, it’s not close.  We’ve still got a month to walk before we’re there.  It’ll be worth it, though; you guys should pack up and head on out too.  Just,” he paused and sighed, bringing a sweaty, scarred hand to his forehead.  “Not with us.  Screw safety in numbers; we’re the loudest, grumpiest, tiest band of people you’re ever gonna meet.  Wait ‘til we’re gone and then leave.”  Jackson got the impression that by ‘we,’ he meant Zico.

“Sure thing,” he said in return, and felt fingers lessen their hold on his shirt.  “Hope the road is clear for you.”

“Thanks.  You too.  Come on guys; let’s move.”  They were clearing out, the atmosphere relaxing, when Mark spoke up, much to all of their surprise.

“Keep clear of the museum; there’s a crowd trapped in there and make sure to be quiet while passing ‘cause I’m pretty sure if they got riled up, they could bust down the door; just be careful and you should be fine.”

They (the unnamed mediator) nodded in appreciation and soon disappeared behind abandoned cars and trucks, dragging with him the annoying drone of a perpetual argument.  The two boys left behind felt the air in their lungs again, felt relieved to be left alone again.

“Keep your gun out at all times, not in your belt.  We’ll have to find another one for me, maybe even a couple extra, for precaution.  If they were really going to shoot us, we’d be dead right now.”  The moment for reflection and bonding was over, they could both see that, but Mark was still shaking with both the shock of his potential death and the fresh thought of Madelyn.

He was affected by a brief, pathetic wave of self-pity in which he just wanted to curl up in the dirt and hug himself, or better yet, enjoy being hugged by someone else, something he hadn’t been able to enjoy in years.  But Jackson’s own shaken countenance reminded him of who he was dealing with.  He held himself up respectfully.

“We’ve gotta hide away most of our provisions, make it less easy for someone passing to nab our stuff.  We can even tape a bag of ammo under the truck bed, if we need to, just in case.  We should probably start closing up the back too.  We can start with actually organizing things, though; yah, that’s what we should do,” Jackson was babbling, he knew, but he let it slip and let the shorter of them think that he didn’t see the look of fear on his face.  Mark turned with a nod and began to head for the boxes of useless junk, only to hear the other speak again.

“Thank you, for…”

“I know.”  Mark smiled to himself.  “If I wasn’t supposed to know, then they’re certainly not supposed to.”  He could almost feel the warmth radiating from his friend’s own smile.

“Thanks Mark.”

“Anytime Jackson.”

“What do you think about that place they were talking about?  Think it’s real?”

“Maybe; I don’t know if I’d risk it or not, though.”

“No, for real; I’m being serious.  If we pack some things up and start walking, we could just follow that other group until they get there and then see the reaction the camp has towards them.  If they’re accepted peacefully and safely, then why wouldn’t we get the same, if better, reaction.”

“What if it’s dangerous; like, what happens if it’s not salvation, but another screwed up hellhole?  What then?”

“Then we run; you’re good at that.  If those guys are killed or stripped down and sent back out, then we run, forget about it; come back here.  If they’re not, though,” Jackson paused to breathe.  “Then it’s probably safer than we’ll ever be here.”  Mark sanctioned his bottom lip in between his teeth and thought about it.

A camp sounded pretty nice, especially if they had walls; especially if they had people, guns, watchtowers.

Beds.  Beds sounded fantastic, and he actually slumped over on the spot, just thinking about them.  A good meal, that made him drool, and somewhere to shower or rinse off, that made his nostrils flare with a newly found hatred of their trailer’s stench.

Society.  Society made him shiver despite the temperature.  Organized people with provisions and protection, that made him actually take Jackson’s words into consideration.  It was a possibility; with the trio ahead and attracting attention and posing as guinea pigs for the compound, the two of them could just follow and mirror them.

It could work, and if it didn’t end up worth it, then they would just tuck tail and run.  Simple.

“What do you think?  If we wanted to follow them, then we’d have to head out in less than a day,” Jackson said, crossing his arms.  Mark could feel new sunburn start along the broad stretch of his shoulders.

“This, this is-”

“Abrupt?  Yah, I know.”  The trees were statues and the boys were statues, still as stone and just as grey in the face.  “What isn’t anymore?”  He had a point.

Mark’s face was contorted in thought, and Jackson knew he was taking it into serious consideration; so was he.  He knew the trailer was a good a place as any to hide away and just barely survive, but he knew that his companion needed a little more than that; he also knew that in due time, he’d need it too.

Mark was bound to have that effect on him, as seen through the already occurring alterations to his attitude, his personality.  And Jackson accepted that, almost looked forward to it, because he knew that he was creating a similar reaction in the other’s head as well.  He could see it in the way Mark stood, held himself tall; in the way he was actually considering their leaving.

“If we go in the morning, we could catch up with them by midday if we move fast enough.  They don’t seem very stealthy, or quiet, and I’d put money on their being slow to top it all off.”  He could see it in the way Mark spoke with conviction, like he believed he deserved to have a say, which he did.  “A month on the road sounds rough, so we should take at least three backpacks.  One for each of us to wear and one we’ll pass back and forth every other day or so.  In them we should take-”

“So, we’re going?” Jackson interceded.  His partner rubbed his jaw and nodded slowly.  “Tomorrow morning?”  Mark nodded again, if not more hesitantly.  “Are you sure?”  He blew out a frustrated breath and held his hands out in surrender.

“Do you want me to change my mind?  Want to stay here?  Let’s stay here; let’s forget about the camp and try surviving the apocalypse in a fricking’ tractor trailer.  Let’s do that, Jackson.”

“I was kidding,” Jackson said, grinning with the other’s reaction.  He ran a hand down his face to wipe it away, but with Mark smiling too, it was difficult.  “I was right when I spoke earlier.  You’re talking a lot more.”

“I’ll pack the bags; you should get more sleep.”

“Nah; we were up late last night; you should be the one taking a nap.  I’m used to skipping out on the clock.  I’ll ready the packs, and in the morning we’ll go.  Try laying out under the truck, it’s cooler under there,” Jackson insisted, feeling excited and somewhat drained.  Just the thought of leaving his residence of just over three years shook his determination, but he could only imagine the rewards of succeeding.

Imagining the dangers would set him back into his place, and they both needed a little excessive cockiness at the moment.  So he made sure Mark was safely tucked under the truck before dragging the best three backpacks they had from one of their many cardboard boxes.  Since banding together, they had become the apocalypse-version of hoarders, not that either would admit to it.

Bottles and bottles of water (all gathered from a deserted school cafeteria, in which Mark had been much jumpier than he usually was); kitchen knives (from a nearby house); canned food and packets of pre-seasoned tuna that were supposed to be great but tasted like (from all around; food could be found almost everywhere); three flashlights (the only three they’d ever been able to find, along with a couple packets of batteries); rolls of duct tape (from a store Jackson had since before their meeting); rounds and rounds and rounds of all bullet-types (Jackson had never been asked where he got them, and didn’t really remember anyways; he didn’t like guns).

Expectations (their dreams).

Resolve (their heads).

Hopes (their hearts).

They were going to do this.  He knew it; he knew Mark knew it.

He knew what he was going to have to do before they left.

He knew it would be worth it.

He knew it had to be worth it.

He knew they could never really come back.

He was determined to make it so that they didn’t have to.

Jackson was sure of that, and, regrettably, not much else.