As soon as the tiniest sliver of the door creaked open, Tarzan shot out of it like a horse on the track. She sprinted down the hall and disappeared around the corner. A late-night surge of energy was not uncommon for the feline, so Garath dismissed it without a second thought and entered the room - leaving the door open just a crack so that she could come back in if she chose - and curled up on the marble floor on his side of the room. With his smelly old gym bag (only made even less comfortable by his 300% increased sense of smell) as a pillow and a spare hoodie as his blanket, Garath tried to sleep. He tossed and turned, struggling to get comfortable until, finally, he drifted into unconsciousness.
Chapter 26
Guild.
“What the FUCK is that noise?” Warrion shouted, waking Garath from his restless slumber early the following morning.
“Shut up,” moaned Garath, turning over on the gym bag. He tried to fall right back to sleep but the damage had already been done. He rolled back over to face Warrion, sat up, and let the sweatshirt he had been using as a blanket slide to the floor as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Why are you shouting? What time is it? What the FUCK is that noise?”
“Because of that FUCKING noise, early, I don’t know but I really wish it would stop, and I don't fucking know,” he said angrily. “Did I miss anything, sir Garath? ...and what is that smell?” asked Warrion, eyeing the shirt he had taken off and left on the floor before bed with a crinkled nose.
Neither of the two late-twenties gamers could be described as a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. The sound that had disrupted their peaceful dreaming was like a classroom of sugar-hyped children with cowbells all competing for eardrum shattering dominance - muffled only by the single wall between the room Garath had chosen and the main hall. The choice of rooms had made sense at the time, it was the only classroom located between the main hall and the restrooms, it was even close to the north exit – but maybe, he thought with his head throbbing, choosing a domicile next to the heaviest trafficked area in the entire building had been a poor decision.
Groggy, grumpy, and parched, Garath exited the classroom-turned-sleeping-quarters. He turned and plodded his way to the men’s room to empty his bladder and quench his thirst before investigating the source of the ruckus.
It was a wonder and a luxury that the indoor plumbing was still functional. Gary had explained to him that the plumbing system in an old building like their little stronghold depended mostly on pressure and gravity, not electricity. The entire Raid Group knew it wouldn’t last forever but, as Garath’s uncle Darren used to tell him, “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”
Garath willed his MENU panels into existence in front of him to check the time, then closed them. As he exited the restroom, Garath barely noticed Tarzan sitting demurely, waiting for him in the corridor. With bodily functions fresh in his mind and a cat that used to do her business in a box inside his old apartment sitting on the marble floor in front of him, something struck his curiosity.
“Tarzan, where have you been potty-ing for the last couple of days?” he asked.
“Meow,” she replied, then looked away, uninterested in what he had to say.
“Don’t give me that shit,” he chided her. “I know you understand me.”
*Ask your skinny friend,* came Tarzan’s reply into his mind. Garath didn’t know what to make of that and the fuzzy feline had already slunk off and slipped out the open doors of the north-side exit before he could ask.
Bladder relieved and thirst quenched, the Necrologist set off to identify the source of the ruckus that had so rudely stirred him from sleep so early in the morning. The glare from the sunlight pouring in through the east-side windows reflected off the marble flooring in the main hall as he entered, shooting daggers into his still-sleepy eyes. He had to squint to catch a glimpse of the culprit creating the copious cacophony.
It came as no surprise that no single person was responsible for the noise, but instead a herd of red-headed young men and their bearded, fearless leader were to blame. Gary was shouting instructions while loudly dragging a four-seater couch along the marble flooring toward the door single handedly. Garath wondered if the lumberjack looking Armoron had invested heavily into his Strength Attribute or if he had just always been freakishly strong, neither would surprise him. The two boys that Garath recognized as Gary’s sons, Brandon and Braden, appeared to be assembling some kind of grill with bars they had ripped off of the old school desks. Two of his nephews were assisting as well, though the younger of them seemed to be quite literally just banging one metal rod against another - in Garath’s mind, for the sole purpose of pissing him off.
“Gary!” he shouted, trying to get the bearded man’s attention over the commotion. “Hey!”
“Morning, neighbor!” Gary said cheerfully, setting down the end of the couch he had been pulling from and wiping sweat from his forehead with his red and blue plaid shirt sleeve.
“What in the shit are you doing?” asked Garath with his arms held out wide.
Gary looked confused. He eyed the Necrologist, then looked down slowly at the couch he had literally just set down for the sole purpose of answering the Raid leader's question. “Moving this couch.”
"Well..." started the Necrologist, feeling like the bearded man put just a little too much
