Eric tossed the chair aside as they kept running. It was too heavy to keep carrying (something he noted with incredible disdain), and it was slowing him down.

The vampire moved into the storage room as Rose kept watch. They would need to be quick, since this room wasn't sturdy enough for to make a stand in.

There was a tool box on one of the shelves, and Eric opened it up to take a wrench from it. It didn't have much range, but it wasn't heavy and would stand up to a lot a punishment.

He really wished he had his sword.

There was also a first aid kit, and Eric pillaged it for some gauze and tape, shoving the items into his pockets.

Just in case.

Sherlock went right for the most viable piece of weaponry that he could find - a piece of PVC piping. Sure, it wasn't as ideal as a metal pipe and definitely wouldn't hold up nearly as well as metal ones would, but certainly would serve him well. Besides, judging from these things, there was no way in hell that he wanted to get close to the zombies. He'd prefer smacking them from a distance.

His eyes scanned the room and, ever the efficient, he grabbed a good bunch of rope. Never could tell when some good, old fashioned rope would come in handy. He looped it up carefully and tucked it down into his coat pocket, looking to Eric with an arched brow.

"Let's go." He said, gesturing to the door and stepping forward, ready to fight or die either way.

Unlike the other three, Sam had been running around in this hell for days. Dirty, freaked, and alone, he somehow made his way through the city and into the casino.

At first he thought it was a trick of the house - that he was only seeing things and that they weren't real. But when he tested this theory, he nearly wound up with a ripped out jugular; and so it was promptly traded in for "Yes. This is reality. I am about to die."

Along the same branch of though, he came to the conclusion that he needed to find his brother, the hotel, and a way back. There was no telling what was happening without him there as now would be the perfect time for Lucifer to make a move.

He skirted through the hallways, careful not to attract attention of the larger groups of undead. Sam wasn't sure how he had managed to get this far, but there was a decided lack of clues as to where he should go, and so the plan was to find someone, anyone, who hadn't gone under. Maybe Dean had noticed he was missing and come looking for him. Maybe there would be one lone survivor lest in this god forsaken place. given that most building's water and electricity still worked, the chances were pretty high that someone was still alive.

He rounded another corner, clutching a fire axe to his chest (his only weapon seeing as the gun he found was out of ammo) just in case he ran into trouble. And, not so surprisingly, he found it. Three dead employees were lumbering down the corridor, following the scent of the newest additions to Zombie-world.

Sam quickly judged the distance between him, the zombies, and the voices up ahead before jumping into action. After a few days of doing this (and a life of beheading much more dangerous creepy crawlies) it was easy enough to knock them down and smash their faces in. The last Zombie was just about to turn the corner up ahead before Sam charged it into the wall with his axe. It fell to the floor with a wet crunch and he turned squared his shoulders. Clearing his throat and glancing down the new hallway for the next obstacle.

And then saw Rose standing guard outside a supply room.

For real. Dirty, tired, and looking like shit, he took a breath.

"Rose?"

Sherlock weighed the pipe in his hands, slapping it lightly against his palm and getting a good feel for the weapon that could potentially save his life. Not very much trust went into that, exactly. But... He sighed and gripped onto that little piece of piping, ready to do whatever he could and he stepped out of the room, head held high, prepared to smack the living hell out of those undead things and then ---

Oh.

The large Winchester was here. Well. As opportune as this moment seemed to be... "You." He said with a narrow of his brows and a tight lipped frown. "Sam, we need to talk, once this is-" He glared off to the side, catching a glance of an approaching zombie and how dare one of these undead monsters try to interrupt his discussion. He scowled and held more forcefully onto the pipe, looking back up to Sam. "You're not going to beat up John, all right? End of problem."

At that being said, he charged at the approaching monster, smashing the PVC through its skull and holding his mouth shut tight as he watched the zombie crumple beneath the weapon and onto the ground in such a great, bloody pile. Well.

"Sam-" Rose started, before being predictably interrupted by Sherlock. She sighed heavily. Was the detective seriously bringing up John when they were about to get their brains gnawed out?

If ANYONE needed to talk to Sam, it was Rose. She hadn't seen the younger Winchester in days, and Lucifer had been in her head, and it was his fault, and he didn't even know because-

Then, a pause, as she looked him over.

...It clicked in her head, and Rose felt all sorts of stupid. Sam had been here. Trapped. His disheveled, scraped-up appearance explained it all. Smiling, she let her anger dissipate. The girl tuned out Sherlock's rambling to toss her arms about Sam's waist.

"Hi," Rose said, finding nothing else.

The sound of a zombie hitting the floor broke her out of the moment. She looked to see the detective was okay, followed by Eric. Lastly, forgetting how bloodshot her eyes were, she returned her focus to Sam. "Let's go," she said, as if he wouldn't notice.

Momentarily distracted by Sherlock, Sam looked up and was about to reply when the other man smashed the ever living shit out of another zombie.

"Hi" He answered Rose, instinctively wrapping his arms around her.

There was a far distant (thought not too far) roar, and having been there for a while he knew what it meant. There were a fuck ton of zombies on the way. A hoard, if you will. And they were in the worst possible position to defend themselves.

"This way." He instructed, nodding back to the direction from whence he had come. There were Black arrows painted on the walls in that direction anyway, left by previous survivors.

There was a safe house.

Sam had seen it, ducked in for more supplies, and come back out to look for anyone else alive. He knew if he was going to make it out alive, traveling with at least one other person increased the odds. And it was all he could to to keep going. That was his job, right? Kill bad things. Save people. The family business, if you will.

He pulled Rose along side him, turning to lead the way.

The hoard was getting closer, lead by a Tank from the sounds of it. He could also hear the distinctive sound of a hunter, snarling as it lept alongside it's less-mutated companions. They were out for blood, and now in a group of four, they were likely to get at least one of them.

"There's a room up ahead." He explained as they moved. "We'll be safe there."

And as they turned the corner, there it was, illuminated by a slap dash orange paint job around the door frame.

"C'mon, everybody in."

The Hoard was right behind them, nipping at their heels, twenty, no, thirty undead rushing down the hallway. The Tank crashing against the walls, roaring at the top of it's lungs.

The door closed, the bolt slid securely shut.

They were safe. For now.