[OOM: Still in New York, Tom's saviors take him to the local safehouse . Or . . . safe-museum. Thing.] [ooc: With a thousand thanks to metaphor , madbonnycaptain , and camwyn for their help. :D]

[OOM: Tom hits Newark, and then New York . Things are not quite as he'd expected -- or, well, more truthfully, hoped.] [ooc: With a thousand thanks to quaere_verum_xi , metaphor , and madbonnycaptain for their help. :D]

[OOM: Tom begins his trip to New York , walking from Harrisburg to Philadelphia. Along the way, he has a few run-ins with locals -- some of them unfriendly, some of them downright weird .] [OOC: With a thousand thanks to bookelfe and rymenhild for their help. :D]

[OOM: Over a year ago, Tom got chased into Milliways by a shamble of zombies . Turns out they're still there -- but this time Tom's brought reinforcements . Some of the party isn't so thrilled to see...from above in a businesslike manner . It turns out, though, that just because the zombies are dead doesn't mean the drama's over .] [Warnings for language, some serious zombie-gore, and angst.]

So. Today's the day. Go time. D-Day. The final countdown. . . . you get the picture. Insert your own cliche here. Tom is at a table by the door, keeping an eye out for his compatriots. His backpack's on the floor beside him. He'd considered getting coffee, but judging from the way he's drumming his fingers incessantly, he doesn't really need the extra nervous energy. [ooc: Plot-locked.]

"--No, I'm fine. "No, seriously, I am perfectly happy with my current body. Form. Whatever. ". . . Well, okay, yeah, the big smashy claw is kind of awesome. --IBut  mean, no, I'm fine. "Well, okay,...for a table and sits down to flip through the book, distractedly. Saturday is -- not that far away. [OOC: This is Tom's last open entrance post for a while, so it's open for tags indefinitely .

The front door, apparently, is fascinating. No, really. Or at any rate, Tom apparently thinks so, because he's frowning at it like he's going to be tested on the grain pattern in an hour and he wants to get an A. He's seated at a table not too far from the Bar, pondering the door over a Mountain Dew. (Part of him is thinking I'm really gonna miss Mountain Dew, man .)

Tom's been out on the shooting range again, practicing. His aim's getting better -- the paper bullseyes at the end of the range are looking pretty tattered. As the light goes, though, he unloads his gun and takes down the targets, and eventually ends up wandering down to the lake shore and sitting, skipping rocks. It's the first of May. Nice night to be outside.

Tom finally has bullets . Which means finally -- finally -- he can get in some target practice without worrying about wasting ammunition. "Hey, Bar? I need some targets. For shooting practice." Beat...used for a year. BANG BANG BANG . ". . . Crap. I'm dead." Aim, apparently, isn't one of them. [ooc: Here for about two hours; slowtimes welcome! Man, could this post futz around with time any more?]

Nnngh. Coffee. Tom is not actually a zombie, he's just caffeine deprived. It's a fine distinction. Yawning, he shuffle through the bar towards the Bar herself to remedy this. [ooc: Plot-locked at the moment, sorry.]