Remnants

"Come on, Lady Luck," he mutters, hunching his shoulders. "Don't fail me now."

As if the fickle lady has heard him, he rounds a corner and stumbles, nearly falling headlong onto the street. Cursing, he regains his footing and looks around to see what it is.

"Oh, God." Jack turns away from the corpse, the sight of its half-eaten face making his empty belly churn, but not before the practical side of him notes the size of the unneeded clothing.

Feeling like a ghoul, he crouches down next to the dead man and starts to unbutton the shirt, a chambray job with pearl snaps that Jack's mother might have given him for Christmas. She'd always bought him the most awful shirts. A smile curves his dry lips at the thought.

"All I need is a big-ass belt buckle," he says, trying to get past the fact that he's pulling off the clothes of a corpse because if he doesn't do this odious thing, he will more than likely freeze to death once night falls. Although, he considers, that might be preferable to what this poor bastard went through.

It's surprisingly difficult to actually get the clothes off. The corpse seems to weigh much more than he should, especially since like everyone else, this guy is skin and bones. Literally.

Jack grimaces, noting the blood on the collar, but he has no choice. Cringing a little, he drops the sheet around his hips and shrugs into the cowboy shirt. It's a little tight across the shoulders, but nothing he can't live with. Or die with, ha ha.

Now the hard part. "God, I've turned into a ghoul," he mumbles, pulling down the zipper gingerly, trying not to touch anything on this dead guy that he sure as hell wouldn't touch on a living one. It seems to take forever, yanking and rocking the body onto its side so he can get the damn jeans off. And wouldn't you know it, he thinks, catching sight of the tag. Wrangler. Figures.

He draws the line at the underwear, deciding that he'll go commando before he wears someone else's tidy whities. Socks and then the boots, which pinch his feet and look like something a gay cowboy stripper would wear, and Jack's dressed.

Dressed in a dead man's clothes.

"Wonderful," Jack says, and starts walking toward the river again, but not before covering the mostly naked corpse with the sheet that saved his life. He'll have cause to wish he still had that bit of fabric, but for now, it's the least he can do.

He finds the river after only about an hour of walking, but it's not what he expected, although it is what he should have expected, given the world today.

It's stupid, but he can't help it, he has to get closer, has to see. And when he does see, it makes him want to puke, not that there's much in his belly.

The river is not a river of water any more. It's a river of corpses. They float side by side, head to toe, even on top of each other in a gross parody of love. There's dead fish and the stray dog interspersed with the gruesome spectacle. All of this answers the question as to what has happened to all the people who died and didn't turn rotter. And the smell--

Jack turns away, retching until what little he had in his stomach is gone (goodbye, noodles, it was nice knowing you). He wipes his mouth, wishing he'd thought to lift some water from the house of freaks. His mouth immediately dries out, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.

"I've got to get out of here," he mutters, glancing behind him at the shadows. But how? And where will he go?

Trusting in his luck, Jack heads toward the setting sun, hoping like hell he's going the right direction. He walks along the docks at first, despite the stench, despite the thirst that is rapidly becoming torturous. When he realizes he's contemplating drinking that foul brew, he knows he's got to get out of here, and walks faster, conscious of the approaching darkness. The pinching boots are a lovely counterpoint, and by the time he can see the edge of town, he's limping. Not a good thing.

But he keeps going, keeps walking as quickly as he can, his eyes constantly roving for danger, for anything that could help him (like water and water and water). He sees a few rotters staggering around and avoids them easily. Thank you, Lady Luck! Now if you could just provide a few bottles of water....

Again, luck seems to have abandoned him, or at least that's what it feels like until he's walking along the highway, looking for some place to hole up and finally decides on a Volkswagen Bug, upside down beside the road, partially hidden in long, brown grass.

After making sure the car is unoccupied, Jack slips inside, cracking the windows and engaging the locks.

"Wow. That's not something I ever want to do again," he mumbles, letting his breath out noisily. When he starts to glance around, he finds a blanket in the backseat and his mood lifts.

"Oh, Lady, you haven't left me after all!" Even better is the bottle of water, unopened, that falls out of the glove box when he opens it.

"And Jack scores a home run!" The water is the most delicious thing he's ever experienced and he drinks it all down, which is stupid, but now that he's sure luck is still with him, Jack is confident he'll find more water and whatever else he needs. Because he's lucky.