Occams Razor

Salvadore "Sally" Lautner grits his teeth and listens to the usually ignored 'voice of reason' somewhere in the back of his head. A good number of rank-and-file folk in respirators and cleansuits have very fine guns pointed and he and his fellow survivors, so, he of course has returned that sentiment in kind with his M249 LMG (a very fun light machine gun, indeed).

Behind him, the Sheriff is being good natured as he asks JD to surrender his sixgun. JD's less than inclined to hear that, from the sound of it.

In front of him, Deputy Marshal Fell is doing the same, appealing to reason and good sense, willing everyone to take a step back and lower their weapons. The fella from the Feeb had already dropped his own piece... what did, he have to say about "quarantine"?

Some folks are listening to Mason Fell's calm words, and Sally's going against his common nature when he does the same. He unshoulders the strap of his rifle and points the barrel to the floor. Mason, bound in chains or not, had been nothin' but on the up-and-up with he and his. If you can't trust a fellow Marine that hunts demons, well, shit, you can't really trust anything, huh?

As he slinks to the back of the bus to put his back to a wall, Sally pulls out his flask and takes the last swig of Adam Morsi's whiskey. Here's hopin' you made it onto the ride, Morsi. The liquor burns a bit- in the last hour or so, Sally'd had most of his insides blown out of either side of his body. That filling station where they nicked the diesel probably had more of his guts strewn across it than were left in his belly. One of the docs had stapled him back together after the third run for fuel, and Dr. Zinc had gave him another booster of that sweet, sweet mojo.

Slipping the empty flask back to his belt, Sally reaches into the back of his battle vest, fidgets some, and pulled out his spare canteen. It's not standard issue, and it's mostly empty, but it'll have to do. While he takes a big swig of some flat, stale gatorade, he shifts the Smith & Wesson .500 fiveshot from its place on his hip holster to where the canteen had been stashed.


When the revolver is snug against the small of his back, Sally plops down onto one of the bus seats and does his best to stay out of the way. He thinks back to when he was hobbling back into the rec hall. Jacob, another Bound, had literally dragged him away from that Butcher, kicking and screaming. Good sense had not prevailed in that mess. Somebody had said he'd been dropped six or seven times in those three go-rounds, but his count was more like eight or nine. Magic, medicine, Dr. Zinc's mojo, and the Good Lord had kept kicking him back up though. Kicking him back up to keep running circles around that monster, only to rush in, slug him in the back of the head, and dash back out.


So, for the sake of keepin' the peace, Sally set his rifle on the seat in front of him, tucked his hands into his vest (he could feel the surgical staples keep his belly inside his abdomen), and let the Feds do their thing. They might even bag and tag his rifle.

But, what was it his Gammy used to say back in coal country?

"Sallyboy, dere's more'n 'un way to skin a polecat."

Sally shifts on that bus seat, so that the butt of his revolver diggs into his back.

More 'n' un way, in deed.

The moment the bus's rebuilt engine roared to life, Henry felt like he was rushing to the surface of a terrible nightmare. He expected any second he would wake up back in a roadside hotel with a neighbor yelling for him to shut the hell up. He tilted his head back as hours of riding an adrenaline high left him feeling like his coat and bag would crush him into the seat. He had begun to close his eyes when the bus lurched to a sudden stop throwing him forward then back into his seat. The good sense he had left told him to get ready to come out swinging at what stopped the bus. After seeing that...thing at the fueling station he doubted stopping a bus was enough to make it breath heavy.

When the dozen or so mooks in white hazmat gear busted down the doors led by some official types, his good sense was knocked unconscious by common sense. It helped that he had next to no strength left either. He did not catch what most of them had to say. The fact they did not just start laying down lead allowed for a sliver of hope this was a good sign. That was until he caught the words "Quarantine" and "For the good" thrown around. He might never be a lawyer but he knew what they meant. This here shindig was over. If they were lucky they might see daylight sometime before New England becomes the next great tropic getaway.

The men in the trench coats and sunglasses had words with the Sheriff. The Sheriff seemed to have words with the people with the biggest hand cannons out. It sounded like where they were going had a lot of to-do with gun safety. Henry looked down at himself for a long minute. His cloths were once more in tatters. There was on means on Earth that would offer a means to return his cloths to whatever color they were before hand. Henry took his stick ball bat and propped it next to him as he closed up his bag. With any luck they would refrain from just snatching it from him while he slept. They might not like a hay maker below the belt much. Henry buttoned up his tattered trench coat and got comfortable.

He pulled down his cap over his eyes to help block out the lights dancing around the outside of the bus. Henry drifted to sleep with a lone thought giving him comfort. The look on his dear old pal's face when Henry got close enough to express his thoughts on his friends travel advice.

"Ladies and gentlemen! If I may have your attention please," the man waits for people to pay attention.

"I'd like to thank you again for your cooperation and patience. I'm sure that if we all pull together, the time spent in this place will pass quickly and peaceably, and, with luck, we can all look back at it later as a bonding experience. Almost like a retreat." He gives a genuine smile and claps his hands, once. "Now, if you'll all follow me, I can give you a tour of the grounds. Up here on the left..."

Head still aching from making full-face contact with the seat in front of him, Leslie pauses for a moment and looks around. The first thing he realizes is that he's not going to make it up to the campground in Maine like he and his friends had planned. The second thing he realizes is that he had a pack of cigarettes in the trunk of Fiona's now-abandoned car all along, and the third thing he realizes is that everything that happened just now was pretty much something out of the movies. He escaped the clutches of sudden death, saw some crazy magical malarky go down, got shot in the gut and lived, and stumbled right into the plot of some crazy G-man. Hell, he got mauled by a bear! That's something to write off the bucket list!

Also it's good to know where your cigarettes are. Also its good thing we fixed Phil's face before this happened. That'd have been kind of awkward. Well, slightly more awkward. Tonight was awesome. Is Fiona anywhere around here? I bet she's losing it. Those suits look funny I really wish I had one of those cigarettes right now. Or a clean shirt. Oh man I should probably pay attention.

His attention snaps to moments before Mr. White stops talking. Leslie sits up very highly in his seat and raises his hand as high as he can and waves it to and fro. At the slightest hint of acknowledgement, he blurts out "Okay! So- uhh.... Wait, what was that last part?"

Some hours after the bus rolled in, a rather ragged and dusty looking Gil is dropped off into the camp by a black SUV with FBI markings. Grumbling about never listening to Beatrice again about valid methods of getting onto and off of a vehicle, he grabs his duffel, gun case, and two practice swords and trumps down towards the medical tent.