Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You're a bad dog, you always have been. You have lived life with your lip curled and teeth bared at the world. If you have ever trusted anyone else it was one person too many. Those who have attempted to get close to you only live to regret it. There is no break in the bars that surround you and fortify you in a cold steel cage. And it's for the best, in that you wholeheartedly believe, because you do bite. Even if sometimes you feign your snarl for a smile, it’s only the fault of those who believe such a lie.

This isolated world that you created for yourself came in handy though. When you were deployed on long missions, there was no one to miss, and no one to be missed by. Both good things, of that you constantly assured yourself of. Especially good when you laid alone in your bed at home with nothing but the sound of the old clock on the wall ticking away at the seconds. Yes, it was good. This came even more in handy when one day, suddenly, the world as you knew it (or more so society because the world itself is still in good shape) had reached its end.

It took nothing for the streets to become chaos, for the blaring alarm on the TV to become real, for you to come face to face with your new reality of a zombie infested world. But, there was something about that chaos that made the ache in your bones feel soothed. Somehow that loneliness that you had forced upon yourself was no longer forced, it was warranted, it came without saying. If there was ever a time for the guarded persona you had created it was then. It was instinct the way your hands wrapped around the familiar weight of a pistol. It took nothing for your finger to find the trigger and make out of the cold concave a new home, a new cage.

It’s that same pistol that now presses against your side, tucked under the waistband of your cargos. Like a familiar lover, you have held on tight to it from the start, despite the scratches and build up of unremovable grime. It might very well be the best cared for weapon in the whole apocalypse. At the moment though it is nearing on being useless. You can feel its unreliable lightness dragging your pants down ever so slightly reminding you of the nuisance of the empty magazine.

In your right hand you grip a large blade as you walk through a seemingly empty town. You’re somewhere in Kansas, that is if you haven’t crossed any of the borders. You’ve noticed that the air around here is less bitter, does not burn your nostrils with the smell of rot. Still, you don’t let your guard down, you make sure that despite the slick handle of your knife that it is held securely in your palm. There might not be any zombies but you can’t say the same for people.

You find a corner store, the windows long since shattered and the store half empty. No luck on finding ammo, only empty shell casings. You do however find some medical supplies: tampons, rubbing alcohol, over the counter painkillers. Stuff that people didn’t think to take when all hell broke loose. It’s kind of difficult to think about your period starting next week as a walking corpse tries to naw your face off. Not much of anything else though, all food having been ransacked prior to your arrival. Carefully, you trudge your way over the broken glass hoping to not attract any unnecessary attention.

There are a couple of houses lining the street and you decide that it’s at least worth a shot to check them. Looking up and down the road you make your way across to the first house right in front of the corner store. It has a nice wrap around porch with two rocking chairs sitting side by side next to the front door. Leaves coat the seat and what looks to have once been white painted wood is now an off putting dark brown with only slim streaks left of paint. Still the closeness of them makes it easy to imagine a couple sitting there, or a mother and her child. When a breeze causes them to sway you snap your heads towards them in full alert, rolling your eyes when you realize it’s nothing. Some image of a past life is captured there in the deteriorating rocking chairs. You pay it no more than a glance.

The front door whines from being pushed open for the first time in what has likely been years. You’re quick to slip in through the gap guiding the door shut behind you. First thing you do when you step inside is pull closed the thin curtains coated in dust. They don’t do much, the mid morning light spills through the sheer material, you do it more so out of habit. You walk through the house casually but your footsteps remain light, not causing a single floorboard to creak beneath you. Your head peaks into the living room and you find an inhabitant in the form of a decaying corpse, a hundred percent dead you can tell after noticing the bashed in skull. You raise your hand up silently as if apologizing to the corpse for intruding.

Checking the rest of the house goes swiftly, you don’t find much except a paperback copy of Frankenstein that catches your eye. You remember reading it back in highschool forever ago and perhaps this is what leads to you slipping it into your bag. After all, the road can get a bit boring at times (not lonely, never lonely).

In the kitchen you find a couple of cans of food, mainly dog food but nowadays that’s like finding gold; plenty of protein in them. So, you stuff most of them into your bag and keep two in hand. You sigh walking into the living room where the corpse is. The way he sits there – body slumped and legs spread open – almost makes it seem like he’s about to ask you for a beer. “Mind if I sit here?” You ask and your question is answered with silence.

With a nod to yourself you take a seat next to him. The couch heaves a puff of dust and dirt as it takes on your weight. The dead body next to you is long past decomposed. He is more bone than flesh and the smell of him has long since diminished into a wispy scent of death. The hair on his head is intact though and so is the mechanic uniform that he wears. Sure a few holes ripped through by bugs and the now red rusted splatter of what must have been his blood, but for the most part the blue cloth of the uniform is pristine. You can even make out the name tag that hangs on his sagged chest that reads ‘Greg’.

You rest one of the cans on the coffee table in front of you and hold the other one in your hand. Bringing up the end of your knife you draw the edge of your blade against the top of the can, easily slicing the tin with the sharp edge. “Long day huh?” You pop the top off setting your knife down on your knee, wary to never place your weapons far from reach. With a glance over at him you reiterate “Or long four years?” and you say this because he must have been turned and killed at the start of the outbreak. If the uniform didn’t give it away then the way his skull was broken did; broken with hesitation, not hit with the precision of anyone who's been dealing with undead freaks for almost half a decade. Probably killed by someone he knew, maybe someone who loved him and despite his snarls saw him as the person he had been. Hard to kill a monster with a familiar face.

You lean back into the couch and draw the can to your lips slurping up the dog food with utmost pleasure. Your eyes scan over the TV and land on the window behind it. It faces out towards the corner shop and you imagine that once this must have been a nice place to live at. “Wonder what you’ve seen Greg.” The curtains sit stiff against the window, and the thought is genuine in your mind. You envision all the people who, like you, have come across him in death. All the people who have seen him and who he has seen in return. You shake your head loose of all these nonsensical thoughts; the apocalypse has given you too much time to think.

Halfway through your can of slushed up meat, your ears perk up at the sound of a muffled voice and static. You’re certainly not the only one who hears it though and what had been a quiet town begins to rumble with a low and hungry growl. Your eyes stay focused on the window in front of you where the main road runs down, your brows drawing together in confusion. The voice only grows closer and with it comes the thunderous whirl of a car engine. You realize now from the clear distortion to the voice that it’s some sort of speaker with an announcement running on repeat and the volume on full blast to ensure no one misses the news.

Your head snaps towards a window behind you as a mix of sluggish limp footsteps echo on the back porch. “Shit,” You mutter to yourself, grabbing a hold of your knife and bag and swiftly making a break for the nearest hiding place. Running out the living room your eyes land on the pantry closet which although empty you noted it as being very spacious. Your maneuver is rushed but stealthy as you pull open the door and thank your lucky stars that it doesn’t creak. You have just enough time to shut the door right as a zombie breaks in through one of the kitchen windows.

With a steady breath you look through the ridges of the closet door. Heavy growls emit from the kitchen and you see a blur of rotting walking flesh pass you by, then another and one more. Each stumbling in after the other. They toss themselves around aimlessly, their bodies twitch, latching on only to the sound of the booming speakers. One of them is freshly turned by the looks of it; shoulder pads and knee pads still on, a gun hooked to its hip. You wonder if it has ammo inside. You barely have time to wonder though as the car emitting the broadcast finally reaches your end of the street and garners all attention. The zombies rush past and you hear the sound of another window breaking as they crawl out after the sound.

You sit in the pantry for a long while past the blare of the repeating broadcast. After it passes by a cluster of zombies can be heard chasing after it in the street. You can’t imagine the distance that car has traveled and how many of those freaks it has attracted. All that just to announce something about a shooting competition. Damn Midwesterners, outright ruined your half pleasant morning. When the streets finally grow quite enough for your liking you step out of the pantry. Making your way over to the broken window you take a look outside and are satisfied to see only a few stragglers that got left behind. What you find curious however are the pieces of what seem like paper thrown about the asphalt.

You open the door leading towards the main street, knowing this time how to open it just enough so you can fit through but so that it doesn’t make noise. Slipping outside, still too quiet to be spotted, your feet are immediately met with a crinkly texture. The whole front porch is covered with paper just like the street, which you realize as you bend down to grab one are flyers. Taking the flyer that you stepped on and now holds a perfect imprint of the sole of your shoe, you read over the sloppy handwritten words: Shoot’n Competition in West Fields gas station! Prizes for runner ups ranging from canned foods to meds. First place winner wins a box of 9mm ammo.

The word stands out to you in bold glittering letters, ‘ammo’, you can smell the gunpowder already. You look over the flyer a couple more times. You aren't one to trust these sort of survivalist meetups but, you can't ignore the empty weight of your cold pistol pressed to your skin. You grunt and slip the flyer into your back pocket. After all, when in Kansas.

Chapter Text

In this small Kansas town that you happen to find yourself in, West Fields gas station was and is still widely renowned. Standing desolate long before the fall it has an even more deteriorated look than the already crumbling landscape. The would be citizens of this town know that it used to be maintained by a small group of teenagers who would find refuge in it after long days at school or even longer mindless jobs. What exactly they got up to in there, well you have a couple of ideas based on the wafting smell of weed that surrounds the area.

All that information is given to you in a long rambling conversation with one of those said teenagers. She stands behind a makeshift bar that’s been laid out against the wall. Instead of a counter they have two long shelves that meet up at each end. From afar it almost does look like a bar adorned with empty liquor bottles (full ones have become a little harder to find) , they even have stools neatly lined up and occupied with willing customers. The young woman shrugs, busy-ing her hands by wiping clean a freshly rinsed cup, “We been huddled away here ever since ya know? Franky, he’s my boyfriend, well he’s the one who thought of starting doing events and what not.”

You nod enthusiastically, finally getting a chance to redirect the conversation, “The event, yes that’s what I’m here for.” maybe a bit too enthusiastically because a few of the other patriots nearby turn to look over at you.

She chuckles bending down to place the glass cup somewhere you can’t see, “Sorry we were having such a nice talk I almost forgot why we started talking.” You consider questioning the ‘we’ in her lengthy monologue but you decide against it and bite your tongue. As she straightens back up a hulking figure comes into view in your peripheral, unsettling in the way it casts a shadow over the bartender. Then another, smaller than the first but still massive, pair of shoulders settle in beside you. You’re not particularly fond of people and you are much less fond of people who come into your personal space. The young woman speaks, pushing away stray curls that have fallen over her face, “Everything on the flyer stands. First place gets a box of ammo,” she finally says.

You nod along as she speaks and carries onto another tangent, but what little focus you had on her has now shifted over to the men standing beside you. One of them cuts in, a voice deep and gravely torn out from his throat and coated in a Manchester accent. You spare him a glance, “Two glasses of moonshine,” He says and hands her a handful of loose bullets, you can’t help the way your eyes get caught on the shine of the golden casings.

She gives him a soft smile, “ ‘Course coming right up.” An impressive feat considering the fact that he looks like he could snap every bone in her body with nothing but a sharp stare and that he’s wearing what you’re almost certain is a human skull on his face. But, she must have seen worse by now, much worse. As have most people sitting around here. As have you, which is why although he is an odd man your attention doesn’t linger on him too long. If anything it gets drawn over to the brunette next to him whose bright blue eyes are currently burning holes into your skin.

You try to momentarily ignore it and start back up your conversation with the woman, “I don’t have a sniper rifle on me…or ammo.”

With her back turned to you she says “That’s alright darl’ you can rent one out with us,” she points over to a board with a bunch of scribbles that you hadn’t bothered deciphering. Renting out weapons? Now that’s ballsy. You squint as you make out the letters and numbers on the board, your eyes landing on the section titled rentals: 10 cans/ 20 bullets to rent a rifle.

Your lips tighten into a thin line; well you sure as hell don’t have enough ammo. You’re so caught up figuring out if you’ll have enough cans of food to spare and then enough to eat that when the man next to you speaks you almost jump, holding back the scare by gritting your teeth. “Aye, ye can borrow ma’ rifle Hen, only the big lad will be participating.” The brunette offers, paying no mind to the grunt his words elicit from the other man.

The bartender sets the two glasses of moonshine in front of them — the color of the liquid a questionable dull green — before walking over to someone on the other side of the bar. “I’m all good ye wee lad,” you say, making a point to horrendously replicate his Scottish accent, hoping it’ll offend him. Perhaps if he’s offended he’ll back off, or fight you, both seem just as well in your mind.

Neither of those happen though, instead the smirk on his lips deepens. “Right then, how about a drink?” You can’t remember how long it’s been since you had a drink, but today isn’t the day you start back up again.

This grants him a glare from his buddy, “Johnny,” he grovels out as a warning before downing the liquor in front of him in one swift swig. If he grimaces from the taste or potency you remain unaware, taking the brunette's momentary distraction as your way out of his advances.

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You soon find out that the bartender's name is Vinny and that her overly cheery personality is meant to overcompensate for the lack of a brain. She’s helpful enough though, something you hate to even partially admit. She points in the direction of where the rentals are, a small shed in the back of the gas station that you had noticed when you first arrived.

Rather ungracefully you rifle through your tattered bag searching for any cans of food that might be hiding in there. Eventually handing, in a jumbled mess, 10 cans to one of the young men who stands outside the shed. Food isn’t nearly as hard to find, you remind yourself of that as you give away almost all your provisions for the next 2 weeks. You’re a good hunter and the open midwest is still full of wandering animals as they use the autumn months to prepare for winter. Just two bullets and then you’ll keep going, once you can be comforted by the fact that your pistol has enough ammo for whatver fucker eventually turns you and for yourself.

You’re being handed the rifle – which has a chain with jingle bells wrapped around and no visible start or end ensuring that you neither could nor wanted to steal it – when your head snaps back at the sound of a shot being fired. You catch as a zombie who strayed a little too close falls limp against the dry, straw colored grass. Sniper on the roof; a fact that does nothing to ease the unsettling feeling you already have from being surrounded by so many strangers.

“Ten bullets for ten shots,” Says the man (of which calling a man is a stretch because you are certain that he is no older than 17 but has a certain gruffness to him that earns him the title). You give him a nod as you take in the subtle advisory against stealing any of the bullets. You couldn’t even if you tried; as is, you’re wondering if you’ll be able to pull the trigger around the dangling chains.

Lugging the rifle over your shoulder you make your way to where a crowd of people have begun to gather. There is chattering going on around and a part of you is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for these people to all pull out their weapons and turn the empty field scarlett with blood. A part of you would find that more comforting than the mundaneness of a bunch of survivors gathering to see a shooting competition.

You shove your way through the growing audience paying no mind to those that protest at your brutishness. The small crowd has created a divide between themselves and a long expanding line of people with sniper rifles in hand, only a few of them sporting ones with as much bling as yours. You walk down the line of people; some of them glance over at you assessing their competition and others focus on fiddling with their guns. You find yourself a nice spot at the end of the line next to a short older woman and you’re glad when she doesn’t try to make small talk.

While you’re looking down at the ground, making sure it’s even enough to lie on, you hear two sets of footsteps walking past behind you. You don’t have to look to know who the brooding presence belongs to as the two men stop right next to you, claiming that as their spot. The larger man takes no notice of you, beginning to similarly assess the ground. You notice then his stance, it stands out in your mind as belonging to that of your corporal and most high ranking officers in the army. Feet set firmly in the ground, shoulder width apart so that if in a moment's instance a shot must be fired he’s in perfect stance to do so.

Your eyes trail over to the other man next to him, taking in his attire; yes it’s a kevlar vest, nothing new in the apocalypse but you feel a little stupid for not having realized that he wears it like a man who has spent years being told how to wear equipment properly. It clicks abruptly in your mind: military.

But by now you’ve stared at the brunette for too long and what was in your mind an analysis came off to him as something more. He saunters over, thumbs gripping the straps of his vest, an air of bravado in his languid yet firm steps. “Ye nervous Hen?” a grin already plastered on his face. What was his name again- Johnny?

With a straight face you ask, “Should I be?” drawing out the words with disinterest.

“Nah, Ghost here's not nearly as good of ah’ shot as me.” And he’s humble too who would’ve thought.

Two shots get fired from the sniper on the roof and the three of you turn to watch as two rotters drop dead. Perhaps intentional perhaps not but that serves as the start of the shooting competition as one of the teenagers running the event begins to announce the rules. It’s simple enough: 10 targets, each 100 meters further out than the last. You miss one and you’re out.

Over his shoulder, as he steps back, Johnny says “Good luck to ye both,” sending a wink your way.

You don’t care much to busy your mind with thoughts of this strange man and his even stranger behavior. In any case, you’re certain you won’t be seeing him after today. Whether that be because you each go your own ways or he hits just the right nerve that leads you to strangling him, well that’s something that only time will tell.

You drop down to the ground your movements unintentionally replicating the giant man beside you, both of you defaulting to the way the army trains snipers. Although snipping wasn’t your strong suit back in the day, you were a half decent marksman and you’re sure as hell hoping that half will pull through. Dragging the butt of the rifle to press against your shoulder you do your best to work around the clinking chains. Your opposite hand grabs the underside of the rifle letting your index finger rest patiently on the trigger. Your face presses against the cold metal as you settle your sights on the scope, staring through it out into the wide grassfields. An array of targets is set up accordingly, targets made out of scrap metal. They sway ever so slightly as a gust of wind pulls through and just then you hear the word “fire” signaling you to pull the trigger.

It’s the gust of wind that gets most people on the first shot, very quickly weeding out the herd. A few of them get upset and one man in particular raises his rifle up in a way that makes your shoulders tense up. He doesn’t make much of a fuss though as he walks away and that thought at least helps you regain your focus. The next few meters are easy enough; you stay unmoving as more and more people fail to hit the improvised targets.

Slowly, the competition dwindles down until at the last three shots the only ones remaining are you and Ghost. In all honesty it’s kind of pissing you off. You’re so close to that box of ammo; you can feel the rounds in your fingers, hear the way they chime as they bump into each other, imagine the weight of the bullets in your empty magazine. And the only thing standing between you and your imagination is the colossal man beside you who refuses to back down.

As you’re readying your aim for your ninth, semi-final shot, you hear a voice shout out from atop the gas station, “Franky, it’s a 15 on 16!” the words aimed at the man who had been directing the competition.

He pulls his hat down to shelter from the high noon sun as he looks back down at the crowd. “Incoming herd of husks from down south,” shots from the same man on the roof interrupt Franky but he effortlessly starts back up again , “Gonna have to call this off early. Return all rentals and runner ups get your prize from me inside.” There's a pinch of frustration that flutters in the pit of your stomach at not having won (or lost) but, if you get even a quarter of the ammo in the box as a prize you wouldn't be complaining.

You try to be quick about returning your jingling rifle and then head back inside the gas station. As you’re making your way in, the two men –who you’ve been seeing more than your own reflection today– are making their way out. Your blood boils as the annoying brunette passes you by with a smug grin on his face, “ Just know ah’ was rooting for ya.” By the time you make it up to the bar where Vinny and Franky are, you're trying your damn hardest to not run out after, what's his face, to cuss out him and his whole lineage.

Franky takes off his hat, laying it flat against the shelf that serves as a countertop, sweat glistens on his forehead. Vinny shoots you a small smile and you give her a tight lipped one in return. He points at you, “Second place runner up right,” reaching down behind the counter as he speaks.

“Not quite,” You swipe your hand across your forehead, “sort of a draw I’d say.” You hear what seems to be the click of a lock and barely audible whine of an animal. There's an undeniable face of bewilderment that comes across you as the young man sets a small cat in front of you. “Uhm, what’s that?”

He thrusts the cat into your arms so that you have no choice but to grab it as it looks up at you with big green eyes, seeming nearly as confused as you are. “Your prize.” Franky affirms, “Oh this too,” he slides you a packet of salt and pepper.

Your eyes dart between the animal in your hands and the man “What about the ammo?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “Big lad took it.” and he punctuates his sentence by putting on his hat again.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter under your breath thinking about the burly man. You look back over to him, “What the hell am I even supposed to do with a cat?” Another nuisance in your hands. You aren’t about to drag around a cat waiting for it to meow at the worst possible second and get you both killed. And the other possibility…well you’ve never eaten a cat before and the thought of starting now isn’t pleasant.

“I’m sure you got some ideas up there.” His gaze drifts over to the others from his group who are starting to gather inside, “Come on, don't make this a hassle.” You hold back the insults that linger on the tip of your tongue, instead giving the poor cat in your arms a heated look. Exhaling a huff of air through flared nostrils you shake your head frustrated, but unwilling to anger the group that holds enough resources to blow you to shreds.

You stomp your way out of the gas station and once you’re outside you let the cat go, shooing him away when he tries to trail behind you. He tilts his head at you and opens his mouth as if to meow but nothing comes out. You motion for him to leave and then turn to do so yourself.

“Hey,” a voice calls from behind you. It's Vinny, jogging over to you while yelling something to the man inside about just taking a second. She gives you that charming smile, this time a little worn down, “Herds closing in,” she says glancing over her shoulder to the other survivors boarding up the gas station windows and the few who are still gathering their things before heading out in hopes of avoiding close encounters with any massive group of walkers. You silently nod unsure of where this is going.

Vinny leans in “There's a ladder on the other side of the gas station, leads up to the roof. Herd’s too close to make it back into town.” As her sentence ends, she looks at you, really looks at you. “You’re a good person,” she starts up again, “I don’t want any more good people dying.” If there are any good people dying in this wasteland you are certain you aren’t one of them. But there goes that snarl of yours, so much like a toothy grin that of course this stupid kid would fall for it.

“Oh and,” her fingers dig into one of her pockets and she pulls out a handful of varying bullets. Not giving you a chance to deny or accept them as she takes your hand and curls your fingers around them. Before you have a chance to say thank you or fuck off, (and you are leaning towards the latter because in your mind an unwarranted favor comes with an unwarranted request) her name gets shouted from inside and she’s scurrying out of view.

Chapter Text

The ladder, barely hanging off the side of the old gas station, has turned a dull oxidized brown with grime that peels off in chunks as your hands cling to the unreliable bars. Focusing your attention on carefully scaling the ladder you begin to hear, or more so feel, the drum of heavy footsteps. It resonates deep in your chest and when you chance a glance over your shoulder you see the wave of walking dead rising like a high tide over the horizon.

Reaching the top of the roof ledge you throw a leg over, landing softly on the gravely rooftop. Taking a moment to shiver at the image of the herd from atop you almost miss the calico cat sitting statuesque by the corner. But you catch the glint of multicolored fur and turn to face him. You give him a small nod, “She tell you to come up here too?” The cat stares at you wide eyed, he doesn't seem to know how to do much else. Like you, his socialization skills have grown rusty.

You make your way to the opposite corner from the cat and sit down, taking off your bag to rest it on your lap. Pulling the sage colored drawstrings you take out from within a leather bound notebook, its spine wrinkled from being bent and scraps aligning the cover. From the looks of the herd you're sure you’ll be here till morning and you figure you might as well work on filling out a few pages.

Your eyes momentarily trace over the words carefully carved into the caramel colored leather: ‘For When We See The World’. At the sound of crunching gravel you glance up, the cat closer than it was before. You eye him carefully, “Don’t think I won’t throw you down there.” you search your bag for a pen while watching the unblinking cat.

Flipping the pages of the notebook you stop on a half filled page, a splash of dried blood smearing the last two letters of the title Kansas. Your eyes trail down the bulletin list, letting your pen land beneath your last entry. Although it does not hold the same weight as many of the other landmarks written out in the thick pages you find yourself writing, ‘West Field Gas Station’ along with a couple notes of your visit (annoying brunette. should’ve thanked the stupid kid).

You stare at your writing for a minute as the hungry growls of rotters begins to surround the building. It reminds you of your own hunger, and seeing the sun lowering in the sky you think of half the meal of dog food that you had earlier this morning. Tucking your notebook back into your bag – your hands always gentle when handling it – you reach down to the bottom and grab one out of two cans that you still have left. You’re certain now that you’ll have to go hunting to find food, at least for the next week or so. You had hoped that you would be able to stop by the town again to search some of the houses you had skimmed over, but that seems to be exactly where the herd is headed. You tell yourself it’s worth the four bullets now held in the magazine of your beloved pistol.

Cracking the can open you look over at the cat expecting him to beg you for a portion of the canned tuna. He doesn’t though, not even as he watches you dig your fingers in to scoop the preserved fish into your mouth. Honestly you’d feel better if he did beg, but he has this patient look on his face like he’s hoping you’ll at least let him lick the tin clean when you’re done. Maybe you’re just imagining the saddened look in his eyes. In any case your imagination is enough to leave him a quarter of the tuna which he eats with cautious delight.

Even as the sky darkens into a jammy purple hue, the moon and the sun sharing a moment together as one sinks under and the other rises, the herd of zombies can still be heard stumbling about down below. The icy night breeze of late autumn makes your exposed skin prickle, you can tell it’s having the same effect on the cat who has curled up into a ball at arms length from you. It’ll get even colder soon, especially where you’re going. In the next town or city you come across you’ll have to be on the lookout for supplies: blankets, thick jackets, water heating pad, and especially food. No one wants to be caught in the winter without food, it's a safe way to an early grave.

But you have time, you assure yourself. At least a month until the first signs of snow and another month after that till you get to Arizona. The weight on your eyes slowly settles as your body drifts off to sleep, slouched against the roof's edge with your hand instinctively falling onto the handle of your knife.

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It’s the silence which wakes you.

Your eyes shoot open at the chirp of a bird that stands juxtaposed to the moans and groans of the undead. What startles you most is the purring coming from beside you, the incessant cat having curled up next to you at some point in the night. Your own shifting wakes him and he looks up at you, green eyes wide. “Let's not make a habit out of this,” you tell him, grabbing your bag and hauling it over your shoulder. However, if your intention was ever to push away the small cat that has become intent on trailing after you, you’ve already committed your first error. After all, what’s that saying about feeding a stray.

You make your way down the building and when you reach the plush grass it comes with little to no surprise to you that your newly assigned companion is also there having found his own way down. You don’t try to shoo him away again, having a feeling that even if you did he wouldn’t budge. So, you let him follow behind you, he’ll wader off in due time. The soft pitter patter of his footsteps fall in line next to the heavy thud of your boots as you both leave the gas station and its inhabitants behind.

Your path leads you straight through a large patch of forest. It alters between tight clusters of trees and stretched out areas of nothing but hills. You stick to the trees because although the open landscape lets you see out it also means being seen. Most dead heads stick to the city but you come across a couple wanderers here and there as you travel. For the most part the vast landscape is peaceful, at times you can almost pretend the world hasn’t gone to shit. With nothing but the sound of the forest dwelling creatures and the howling wind.

There are a couple of creeks that you come across, taking them as your opportunity to fill up your canteen and some spare bottles in your bag. Unfortunately, there are no fish in any of the creeks you come across. The first time it happens isn’t nearly as frustrating but the third time you almost break your fist punching the trunk of a tree. With a heavy sigh you turn to the cat, running a hand down your face you apologize, “Sorry about that, I’m sure you’re hungry too.” You had rationed your last can of food between the two of you but it has been three days since your last scraps and the wave of nausea sweeping your empty stomach only becomes more potent.

You take a seat by the edge of the creek, the shallow water flowing between rocks and twigs. Sunlight shimmers off the easy going current and with little hope you watch out for a glint of fish scales. Your head turns when you hear the subtle crunch of leaves, watching as the cat walks away into the forest, his ribs protruding through thin skin and fur. He must have realized that he made the wrong choice in following you out here, has decided that if he will die it won’t be next to the person who brought death to his doorstep.

It's hard to ignore the pang in your chest that leaves you rubbing your sternum like it's nothing more than heartburn. A couple days was all it took for you to get attached, it makes you feel a little stupid feeling so broken up about a cat. You sit by the creek for a while, partly because you’re still hoping you’ll get lucky. Your eyes, seeking the slick skin of a fish, get caught on the golden twinkle of light that streams down in long streaks only to be swept away by the water. The whooshing sound as it drifts down stream is nearly meditative. You sit there for a while, waiting, waiting.

A paw lands on your thigh making you jump out of your skin. Staring back up at you is the calico cat that has spent the last week following you around. In his mouth a limp pigeon hangs, a swift kill if the lack of blood is anything to go by. He drops it next to you, taking a step back and sitting. You laugh, a breathy laugh, “You caught this all by yourself ?” you ask, reaching out to pet the top of his head. He leans into your affection, something you have been reluctant to give him until now. With a smile aimed at the cat you pick up the bird, “We’re gonna eat good tonight boy.”

Autumn dwindles into winter as the two of you traverse from Kansas into Colorado. The bronze leaves which coat the land gain a coat of frost onto them. There's a growing appreciation within you as you get to know the midwest, it’s solemn, holds an air of tranquility which you hadn’t expected to find. When you come across towns they all lie still, seeming preserved in time if not for the overgrown greenery. Sometime by mid winter (late December you would like to believe) you arrive in Arizona, or more specifically the Grand Canyon.

The beige land is draped in a sterling shroud of snow, it stands presetine in nature, better off now that humanity has fallen. Every shade in the sky is reflected onto the snow, like a foggy mirror held up towards the passing clouds. The canyon's rise and fall is like that of a sepia colored wave held forever still. You sit at the edge of one of these rocky cliffs with your feet crossed and your eyes taking in the winterscape. With a shivering gloved hand you write under your new heading for Arizona.

There's something about the blanket of snow that has you enthralled. You had in your mind this specific idea of what the Grand Canyon would be like, – a place so hot you could see the heat radiating off the boiling ground, and every cliff just like the last in color, an oasis of rocks– an idea crushed beneath something as simple as snowflakes. You wonder why in all its beauty was the Grand Canyon only ever captured in its most simplest form; plastered onto postcards with the same sense of heat engraved into it as you had been forced to think it would have. A cold gust of wind sweeps around you, going against your preconceived notions.

In your lap sits the cat, wearing a purple baby sweater with holes cut out to fit him. He licks at his paws, lavishing in the fullness after having just had an entire can of cat food. Setting your notebook aside you bring your hands up to your mouth, heating them up with your breath; a puff of white air escapes past your fingers. You look down at the sleepy cat, “You bored dude? You might not know this but this used to be one of the great landmarks of this shit country.” he stretches out his legs, unbothered by your statement. You shrug, “Well I think it’s pretty cool,” your sentence is cut off by the clattering of your teeth, “if it weren’t so fucking cold.” and the words almost feel like an inside joke between you and the canyon.

The temperature quickly begins to drop as night approaches. Before the sun sets you’re able to find a small cave like crevice to reside in for the night. Using the last signs of light as cover for a fire you boil a pot of water; carefully pouring it into your heating pad when it starts bubbling. You lay out your self tailored sleeping bag, stuffed with extra blankets and place the heating pad under your thick winter jacket. Blowing out the last embers of the fire you tuck yourself in, your cat crawling in next to you to collect the warmth from the heating pad. “Still, gotta figure out a name for you.” He curls up close, the sound of his purring starting up. “Maybe if you like Vegas I’ll name you Casino or something.” You plant a kiss on his forehead and cover him to ensure he’s not cold.

When morning comes you pack up all your things. There is a sense of domesticity that you feel as you make yourself a cup of tea that you had scoured from some old decaying house. With your bag lying against one of the cold rock walls and the cat peeking over into your tattered mug filled with the warm liquid, you consider staying. This happens often. It’s nothing you’re not used to, this urgent sense to have a home somewhere. You felt it at the gas station and by the creek in the forest and a deep part of you feels it now, pulled in by the brittle comfort of the freezing canyon. You’re also used to ignoring this feeling, influenced by your dedication to filling out your notebook in hopes of finding some false sense of redemption amongst the words ‘For When We See The World’. Your cup runs empty drawing a close to your daydreams.

You’re hopeful that you’ll make it to Las Vegas in half a week. With minimal stops your wishful thinking holds true enough, your only delay being the heavy snowfall which increases day by day. Well, you think it holds true because once you arrive at what you think are the outskirts of Las Vegas there is nothing but the dark descent of a half split road. It looks as if the ground was shattered, and when you risk a glance over the uneven crumbling side you see the outline of squashed cars and houses swallowed whole. You quickly pick up the cat when he walks closer to the edge. You place him in your jacket, drawing the zipper up but leaving him enough room to look out. “Don’t want you falling into the depths of whatever happened here. Easier than you think to go tumbling down. ” He doesn't protest, letting his head fall over the zipper to keep a watchful eye.

The only point of reference that you have is the Eiffel Tower replica which at times you’re able to see peeking over buildings. With whole streets gone your map is rendered useless. The few streets that still hold are overflowing with snow. You toss your hood over your head, keeping your eyes peeled as you walk. Although your focus is on the ground beneath you (or what little there is left of it) your ears twitch at the sound of anything besides your footsteps. Walkers are less likely to roam in the cold but you’d rather that assumption not be the death of you.

Caution runs deep in your bones. But there’s truly nothing you can do when rounding the corner of a house you’re met by the open mouth of the earth patiently waiting for you. “Fuck!” is all you can get out as you try to ground your feet somewhere on stable ground only for the asphalt to further crumble at your struggle. The cat tucked close to your chest digs his claws into your skin, fear running swiftly through you both. It serves as a predecessor to the fall. Instinctually you curl into a ball around the cat. Nothing prepares you for the searing pain that ravages your shoulder as the hoarse edges of the broken earth extend to tear at you. You see before you feel the piece of harsh rock that bashes against your skull as you descend into nothingness.

Chapter Text

You’re running, but not fast enough, not as fast you need to. There's a weight on your body which holds you down. You want to rip off the gear which hinders your movements but there is no time. The sounds of echoing shouts over the intercom and the ones beyond the door refract off each other enveloping you in a shadow of dread. You know what will happen, you’ve relived this too many times. Still, you can’t help but scream her name out as you burst into the room. Just in time to see the fear in her eyes and hear the last tick of the timer before the explosion.

Your eyes shoot open as you feel the flames of your imagination setting your skin ablaze. Bright overhead lights illuminate the room you're in and you realize that you don’t know where you are. As panic sets in you go to reach for your knife only to be met by a throbbing pain in your shoulder that leaves you gritting your teeth in pain. With a groan you fall back onto the soft mattress you’re laying on.

Whispers erupt at your sudden movement. You lift your head to see an array of people lined at the edge of your bed and along the sides. The strangers gaze fall onto you like you’re some type of spectacle. You hold back the sudden urge to crawl up against the wall behind you feeling utterly exposed. Your skittering eyes land on a patch of colorful fur splayed out by your feet. Immediately your hands extend out to grab the cat, ripping him away from the unknown hands that pet him.

You ignore the pain that the action causes you as you cradle the cat in your arms hoping that if you can’t protect yourself — with all of your weapons stripped away and your bag nowhere to be seen— that at least you can protect him. Holding him with one arm, noticing the other one has been placed in a sling, you stare at the crowd before you. One face in particular catches your attention with searing blue eyes piercing right through you. The hint of a smile forms on his lips when he can tell that you’ve recognized him.

A voice comes from behind the blue privacy curtains in what seems to be some type of medical bay. “Alright, alright clear out you’re all gonna scare them away.” And whoever says that is damn right cause you’re itching to run. You can feel your heart drumming heavy in your chest and it takes all your willpower to stay seated, because realistically you know you won't get very far. With no idea of where you are, or how to get out, your best bet is playing lap dog to whoever the fuck these people are.

Your eyes are still caught on the familiar face– whose very presence irks you as a million possibilities come to mind as to how the two of you have come to meet again (stalking being your main conclusion) – when the thin curtain gets pulled aside to reveal a rather average looking man. It’s the best way you can describe him in your panicked state of mind. He looks like any other man you would've passed by on a busy street back when streets were busy. You wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line up if you wanted to.

The people seated around listen to him though, with deep sighs they get up off the floor and move away chairs. The last one to go is Johnny who gives one last glance before heading out. As his heavy footfalls move past the curtain and towards the door (which you’ve acknowledged as a possible escape route) your cat squirms in your arms. You try to hold him close, scared of him wandering where you can’t see, but your body is sore and he easily wiggles out of your grasp hoping down onto the linoleum floor tiles. “Hey!” you shout after him as he scampers off past the exit and away from your eye line.

Giving a huff you fall back onto the wall behind you; hopefully the cat doesn’t get into too much trouble, if not for his sake then for yours. “Not trained then is he,” the average man says around a breathy laugh.

You give him a blank stare, “He’s a cat.”

“Well, yeah I just meant…” His eyes skitter and he clears his throat, “I’m Wayne Kurt by the way.” He extends his hand and once he realizes that your slinged arm can’t give him a shake he drops it awkwardly by his side.

You skip over all the politeness having lost your manners long ago, “Where am I?”

“Right, I’m sure this must be very confusing.” he grabs one of the chairs that had been used by your previous guests and takes a seat. You notice the way he extends one of his legs as if it hurts to have it bent. “A group of ours went out to the Vegas Strip, we hadn’t been since the earthquake happened a couple of months ago. Lucky for you we were running low on supplies. As they were searching some of the buildings further off from the strip they found you stuck halfway down one of the faults-”

Without any finesse you cut him off, “Where am I?” you repeat.

“Of course, my apologies.” he stands up “How about I show you?”

It takes all your effort to get up, your body feeling utterly raw like one big wound. You don't want to be seen in pain, to be seen in this weakened state even though your limbs are on fire and any odd movement to your slinged arm leaves it throbbing. So with your back straightened and teeth gritted you walk beside average man Wayne.

“Care facility” he tells you as you walk through winding corridors all painted clinically white, the color slightly yellowed by time. The location adds up based on all the medical equipment they’ve been willing to use on you. The man beside you limps as he walks, “We are about half a day's walk from Vegas itself. My dad and I settled down here at the start,” he looks over at you stopping near a large window on the second floor, “our focus has been on helping out people like you.”

You nod slowly, cautiously. His gaze falls down to the ground outside. Gusts of cold wind pound against the arched window leaving snow to pile up on the outside edges. Below you can see zombies frozen in place by the low temperature. You’ve seen them like this in previous winters, standing as rotting statues amongst the rising snow. It never fails to unnerve you, it makes goosebumps rise across the skin of your forearms. “I’m leaving. Where’s my stuff?”

“What?” You mean for your words to surprise him, to see how he will react; because even though they patched you up, you have no clue who these people are and you’re still wondering if you’re a guest or a prisoner. Turning to leave, your movements are slower than you’d like. Your back is turned to him when his hand grips around your injured shoulder. A harsh gasp escapes your lips at the pain. His hand immediately falls off, “Sorry, I apologize.” you give him a sharp glare as he comes into view next to you. “Sorry,” he clears his throat, “there is a snowstorm that has been building up, it should dwindle down soon but stay till then. We love to have guests, we would love to have you.” The corners of his mouth tilt up ever so slightly and the outline of wrinkles form around his eyes.

Distinct colorful fur catches your eye taking your attention away from the present moment. Pandering down the hall with Johnny at his heels is your cat. You snap your fingers to catch his attention, a sense of relief washing over you knowing that he’s safe and sound. The cat is already nuzzling against the side of your leg by the time Johnny stops in front of you. The brunette's smile is toothy as he speaks, “The Bagel was lookin’ for ye.” you give him a questioning look “The Bagel,” he points down to the cat's back and at the round, brown patch with white in the center. You wouldn’t admit it but it did kind of look like a deformed bagel.

“Soap,” Wayne starts up, “why don’t you take them to the empty room next to yours and Ghost? You two can catch up on the way.” You eye him carefully searching for a crack in his eerie politeness. Receiving a nod from Johnny or Soap or whatever his name is, Wayne leaves you in the Scotmans hands.

Your eyes land on those searing blue irises, “Catch up?”

He starts leading the way towards wherever your empty room is. “Aye, ah told him that I know ye.” He’s nice enough to walk slow for your sake, matching your pace without you needing to ask. Albeit it you wouldn’t have asked. Your stare must be harsh because you hear him chuckle, “What’s that look for?”

You wonder if this is Johnny's own group, “You and Wayne close?” you try to not to be too outright about your questioning.

There is clear amusement in his voice and the undertones of a laugh itching up his throat, “Met him less than a week ago, I dinnae think he’ll be ma best man but ah might invite him to the wedding.” He raises a hand to scratch at his dark stubble almost as if to scratch away the smile that’s starting to get on your nerves. “Do ye think we followed ye Hen?”

That is exactly what you think. “I just think it’s odd that we happen to bump into each other again.” Four states away from where we originally met, you consider adding but decide against it.

He stops walking, the two of you having reached a hall with identical doors lined down it. With a smile still on his face he speaks, “If it makes ye feel better we got here a couple of days before ye.” His hand reaches for the door knob of the door next to you where the number 20 hangs off with the zero slightly askew. Pushing the door open he tilts his head, “Who’s ta’ say ye weren’t the one following us?”

You roll your eyes at his insinuation, making your way into the room, “Well I wasn’t the one incessantly flirting last time we met.” you say just loud enough for him to hear, eliciting a chuckle in turn. On the small bed pushed up against the wall your green bag sits along with a set of folded clothes and some other trinkets which do not belong to you. Your cat snakes around your feet and hops onto the mattress.

Turning to close the door in front of which Johnny stands he leans up against the doorframe, “Aye, I can tell ye dinnae trust me but if ye need anything Simon and I are rite’ next door.” With his head slightly turned to you, the thick outline of a scar is visible on the side of his head. He must have shaved his hair down since Kansas. It was a kind offer, but we already know how you feel about unwarranted kindness. As is, all the things the people at this place have given you has you on edge. Still, you give him a swift nod to assure him that you’ve heard. He seems like he’s about to leave when he says, “Oh and the showers are doun the second hall so if ye need company-” You shut the door in his face just as a smirk had begun to spread. “I’m joking by the way!” he says through laughter from behind the door.

Taking a seat next to the cat who has cozied up by the thin pillow, you let out a deep sigh. At least now you’re reassured that Johnny isn’t subtle enough to have followed you through four states without you having noticed. The question of why exactly he and his friend have come to Nevada leaves you curious though, as does the general atmosphere of this survivalist group you have stumbled upon. It is a curiosity that lies beneath your aching bones, something you can’t be bothered to give your attention to when every muscle in your body aches. Whatever the hell is going on, you don’t care much to entertain it.

Your hand reaches towards the folded out clothes, you run your fingers through the thick, clean material of a blue turtleneck. You already mapped out all the exits when Wayne showed you around; if you truly want to leave you could, you even have your bag now. But Wayne is right about the storm. The harsh temperatures with your current conditions are likely to be a fatal combination. So, you’ll stay for two nights till the storm dies down (two more nights that is, since you’re not sure how long you’ve been here already). Not much can go wrong in two nights.

Chapter Text

The warm water soothes you as it trickles out of the rusted shower head. You can’t remember the last time you had a proper shower, much less one with hot water. Thick droplets ripple down your skin as mist rises up from the heat. A mixture of blood and grime trails down and into the drain. You use your good arm to wash yourself, taking advantage of the toiletries that they gave you. You lather soap onto your skin, your own hands making their way down the length of your body. Your injured shoulder prickling with pain when you accidentally use the arm to wash yourself.

Bubbles gather around the healed over burns around your waist where your flesh rises and falls unevenly. Your hips and abdomen will forever be painted across in a mix matched hue of skin tones and although the ragged flesh doesn’t hurt anymore it does bring with it a flood of memories. You’re used to seeing it by now though; through the years the scars have faded significantly. The water eases your resurfacing nerves. Maybe this is their plan: to fix you up, give you comforts of a past life and then…and then what? That is the question, what do they plan on doing with you. Nothing in life is free and you are anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop. You are always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some might say it’s a bad habit, you say it’s the reason you’ve survived this long.

You turn the water off after considering masturbating and deciding not to. Even as you think about it, the dull aches in your body quickly push you against the idea, not to mention your uneasy mental state. Probably for the best; you don’t think you would have even enjoyed touching yourself, you would have done it just to do it. You shake the water out of your hair and dry yourself up with an off white towel. Slipping on the turtle neck that they gave you, you keep your thick cargo pants on; more practical in your mind. You don’t bother putting your sling back on. Your bag sits right next to the partially sheer shower curtain with all your items except your weapons inside which have been confiscated according to Wayne. “They’ll be returned to you when you leave, if you choose to leave.” You disliked his phrasing.

A PA announcement leads you towards the cafeteria for dinner. It's nothing special but hell of a lot more than you’re used to. You don’t return the smile given to you by one of the people serving food onto the green trays. At the end of the line they give you a fork and a butter knife which you eye with interest.

Many of the round and square tables are already occupied by people. They all seem to look up at you with curiosity as you pass them by in search of a seat. You have not missed interacting with people, you wish more than ever to be back in the wide empty landscape of the Grand Canyon alone.

Near the back of the cafeteria you see an isolated table with a few scattered seats around. On your way to it your cat (who has been parading around and soaking in all the attention) scampers over to join you. He takes a seat next to your foot like a protective guard dog and you pet the top of his head in appreciation. Even as you begin to eat you can feel people's eyes digging their way into your skin. You give a couple of mean glares which makes the majority of the people turn away from you. One little girl in particular seems to be staring right through you with curious wide eyes. You ignore her, at least she has the excuse of not knowing any better.

With your head buried in your tray, focused on eating instead of blowing a fuse, the two large shadows suddenly upon you catch you by surprise. Looking up slowly with your eyes narrowed you eye the two burly men before you. Soap wears a bright smile, with his own tray in hand. He’s no better than the little kid, except he ought to know better with his big blue eyes like spotlights directed at you.

“Hen,” he greets, “Thought ye’d enjoy the company.” He pulls out one of the seats across from you and his masked friend does the same if only with significantly less enthusiasm.

“Was actually enjoying the solitude but ok.” Looking up you catch another pair of stray eyes. “Do they always stare this much?”

Johnny does a full head turn towards where you’re looking and lifts his hand to wave, “Just abot, they don’t have guests often.” He seems to be reveling in the attention as much as your cat is. You notice that next to him Ghost is just as irritated by all the eyes as you are; he keeps his head down but shoulders up. The masked man shakes his head at Johnny, and you watch as his fingers catch on the bottom of his balaclava lifting the hem up and over his mouth. His gaze snaps over to you and you quickly look away.

“Aren’t they all just a little too…weird, too smiley?” All was probably a wide assessment, in reality you had the average man Wayne in mind.

Johnny sits back in his seat, “They’re just curious.” he scoops a spoonful of mashed potato into his mouth, “Ye haven’t even seen the weirdest part yet.”

You go to question that but Simon speaks, his harsh voice holding no less presence than the first time you heard him speak months ago, “Think they’re talking about Wayne.”

“Wayne?” The Scotsman questions, his voice far too loud for your liking. “Sure he’s an odd one but he’s just some schmuck.”

At the mention of him you can't help but find the average man across the room, standing by a group of seated people. “You know who else was just some schmuck?” You point your fork back and forth between the two men, “Ted Bundy, and we all know how that ended.”

“Who’s Ted Bundy?” You truly are on edge because even the sudden sound of the little girl's voice spikes your nerves. She pulls a chair out from beside you, the legs screeching as she does so. Then she plops down onto it, taking a similar position to yours.

Johnny smiles at you, “Just some schmuck.” And you roll your eyes in turn. The girl leans back and forth in the chair, swaying between the front and back legs in a way that makes you want to tell her to be careful. The brunette motions over to the kid, “Morgan here’s the one who was taking care of yer cat while ye were out.”

The kid next to you beams at the acknowledgement nodding, “I made sure to feed him three times a day and always left him a water bowl near your bed.” Well that explains why your cat looks rounder than he did before. You aren’t complaining, for all the walking you two do he definitely needs the extra food.

You give Morgan a tight lipped smile, “ ‘Preciate it,” and continue eating your food.

In your peripheral you see her stop her swaying to lean forward on to the square table. Mid way through a bite of mixed carrots and peas which taste awfully funny, you turn towards her persistent gaze. Having caught your eye she starts up again, “Is his name actually Bagel? I know that’s what Mr. Soap calls him but I just wanted to make sure. In case his name is something else. I don’t wanna call him by the wrong name.” She gives you a big grin at the end of her sentence, a few teeth missing.

“Uhm, he doesn’t really have a name.”

Her mouth falls open, “Really? Can I name him? Sorry,” she laughs to herself, “may I please name him?” What a surprise, kids got more manners than you.

Taking a glance over at the cat, who has moved to take up guard between you and the kid, you shrug, “Why not, what do you wanna name him?”

Her eyes skitter towards the Scotsman and she bites her knuckles with excitement, “Can we name him Bagel?” He doesn’t try to hide his influence on that being the first name suggested.

“Alright, we’ll name him Bagel.” You raise your eyebrows in Johnny's direction as if saying, are you happy now?

Morgan's name gets called out by a group of kids running around. She hops out of her chair, “Thank you for letting me name him!” and with a big smile she’s skipping over to where the other kids are, her tight curls bouncing along with as much jolliness as her.

Johnny's staring at you, “What?” you ask defensively.

He shrugs, “Dinnae think ye’d be so nice to her. Glad you were, obviously. She’s been obsessed with ye and the Bagel since you got here.”

You huff shoving your last fork full of food into your mouth, “I don’t usually go around being mean to little kids.”

“Right,” he looks over to the man beside him, “ye got a soft spot just like this lad.” and at that he leans up against Simon's shoulder in a way that makes the bigger man tense up. He doesn’t push the brunette off though. For a moment you wonder if they’re together. The thought is fleeting however as your attention is drawn over to the double doors of the cafeteria being pushed open. Average schmuck Wayne goes over to help roll in an older man being pushed in on a creaking wheel chair.

The chair seems to sink under the old man's weight, evidently being a hassle to push with Wayne on one side and a woman on the other in order to roll the wheel chair forward. This comes as no surprise when looking at the colossal man that sits on the chair. His large shoulders rest in an uneven manner, like most of his body semi slacked to the right. The lower part of him is basically spilling over the seat with the armrests constraining the rest of his overflowing parts. Laying half limp, his head rests against one of his boulder-sized shoulders.

They push him forward towards one of the many full tables around the cafeteria. You watch as people begin to scoop leftover food out of their trays and into a large bowl placed on the old man's lap. It resembles that of giving offerings to a deity. The wheels creak as the old man is pushed forward, weaving him between tables as food begins to pile up in the metal bowl.

You’re sure that the vague look of ‘what the actual fuck’ is more than evident by the time that the wheelchair stops beside your little guest table in the back of the cafeteria. Rolling to a halt, Wayne stops right next to you leaving the man only inches away. You can see from up close the slop of half eaten food in the bowl. “Here they are Dad,” Wayne nods over at you, “finally woke up after a week and they’re already eager to leave.” He laughs at his own words which seem to be more so addressed at you than at the comatose man.

Looking down at your empty tray, from which you ate even the questionable vegetable mix, you sigh, “I didn’t know we were supposed to leave leftovers.” Something halfway between a sentence and a gargle escapes the old man. It catches you off guard, like seeing a mannequin come to life.

Wayne places a hand on his fathers shoulder to settle him down, “Guests don’t have to give us anything, your presence is more than enough.” and then he gives you another smile. God these people love to smile about anything and everything.

He continues talking, bringing Johnny into the conversation while Ghost and you sit there reluctantly participating. You can’t help but watch the old man. In an effort to not be too much of a hypocrite and stare you catch yourself peeking over at him every other sentence. It’s difficult not to, each time you spot something different; the roundness of his swollen joints, the fingers on his left hand being longer than his right, one of his eyes seems to be sewn shut. And any time he tries to speak one of his gargled sentences, his dear average old son puts out a hand to quiet him.

You’re relieved when finally the conversation comes to a close and the creaking wheelchair gets hauled out of the cafeteria. It signals a close to dinner, with Wayne and his dad gone everyone begins to get up and slowly trickle out. Johnny nods over at you, “How’s that fer weird?”

----------------------------------

The room you’ve been given is pitch black, the lambent streaks of sunlight which were cast on the white walls are long gone having departed with the setting sun. You’re tucked under the blankets, lying on the hard mattress with your eyes wide open. When you came back into your room there was a pajama set on your bed. You don’t bother putting them on, you’ve grown used to sleeping fully clothed, ready to lunge teeth bared at any sound. The butter knife from the cafeteria that you slipped into your back pocket gives you some sense of comfort but not nearly enough to doze off.

Your cat on the other hand seems to be right at home having fallen fast asleep on the pillow which he has decided that two of you must now share. There’s an unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach that’s been setting in since dinner. That’s a lie, it’s been setting in since the second that you opened your eyes. Something weird is going on here, you can’t be the only one who realizes how odd giving leftovers to a sick man is. Even if Wayne tries to pass it off as being a way that the survivors here thank his dad, you’re not buying it.

A soft knock on your door makes your head shoot up off the pillow. You hear what you think is Johnny's voice behind the door before another knock comes through. With a frustrated sigh you roll out of bed, “Johnny for the love of-” yanking the door open you stop halfway through your sentence at the sight of not only the annoying brunette but also the wide eyed kid.

She looks down at the purple material in her hands and then back up at you, “I’m sorry. Were you sleeping? Mr. Soap said you’d be awake. I can give you this tomorrow if you were. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“Aye,” Johnny motions towards you, “look at them they’re wide awake ” Your gaze falls to the kid and their brown eyes look at you for approval. You aren’t sure what worth your approval has but you nod regardless. She fidgets with the material whose cable knit pattern seems awfully familiar “Go on,” Johnny nudges his foot against hers.

With a nervous smile she extends her arms out to you, unfurling what you realize is your cat's makeshift sweater. Except now the ragged holes cut into the baby sweater have been fixed up, it could actually pass as clothing made for a cat, tailored just for your feline companion. Wordlessly you take it from the girl, letting your eyes trace over the yellow stitching. Clearly done by a child but still better than what you could have done. “I noticed it could be fixed up a little and well Mom taught me how to stitch, nothing crazy,” she chuckles to herself, “but a running stitch is enough for anything, is what she used to tell me, so I thought why not. I didn’t have any purple thread so I had to use yellow. I hope that’s ok.”

Your ears perk up at ‘Mom’ and ‘used to’; not even cheery kids are spared from suffering in the apocalypse. You’re not good at the whole smiling thing, how big to smile or when to smile but you do your damn hardest to muster one up, “It’s perfect Morgan, he’ll love it.”

She beams at your words, “Really? I’m so glad, if any of the stitches come undone please tell me. I can fix it. I don't mind.”

Soap bites back the smallest of smiles, “Ye’ll tell er’ if any of the stitches come undone won’t ye Hen?”

You give the girl a nod, “You’re on the emergency call list if anything happens to this sweater.”

Morgan's hands come up to her face as she giggles. Soap ruffles her hair a bit, “Right then, let’s get ye to bed lass.” She nods firmly.

“Goodnight,” Morgan tells you before letting herself be led away by Johnny. “Mr. Soap, could you tell me a bedtime story again, the one about the soldier?”

You watch for a moment as the two recede down the hall, the small girl further dwarfed by Soaps wide shoulders and towering height. “Affirmative,” he responds, deeping his voice for dramatic effect. “I am wondering who’s ganne read ye stories when Ghost and I leave.”

Their voices begin to fade away and the last thing you hear is Morgan's voice, “Well…I could just go with you and then you could always tell me stories.”

When you go back into your room your cat, now known as Bagel, is awake peering over at you. He opens his mouth to give you one of his silent meows, “I think you have an admirer Bagel.” Gently, you grab a hold of him slipping his head and paws into the soft material. It fits him to a tee. He nuzzles up against the pillow and falls right back asleep once you let him go. Running your hand over his fur you talk quietly, “I feel bad for the kid, she seems sweet. Kind of reminds me of Vinny, you know Vinny.” At that he opens his eyes slightly, “Yeah you remember her.” leaning over you give him an array of head kisses. “I’m so glad I didn’t eat you back then.”

Chapter Text

As always, you sleep in spurts, your eyes only ever closing long enough to let you dream of darkness or to give you brief nightmares. Tossing the blankets off your clammy skin you sit at the edge of the bed with your shaking hands planted firmly on your thighs. It’s barely past dawn; the moon is visible beyond the frosted window and through the thick snow. Tying the laces of your boots you get up.

The care facility is dead quiet, too early for even the earliest risers. You wander down the halls, white linoleum and white walls surround you, the harsh colors are faintly dulled by darkness. You’re not sure where you’re going, all you know is that you need to move, you need to see something besides the inside of your eyelids and hear something besides your own thoughts.

Looking down a long corridor you see the outline of a person leaning against a barely propped open window with smoke trailing out through the gap. It’s not hard to distinguish who it is with not only his proportions but the glistening white of his skull mask. Ghost glances at you over his shoulder, it’s nothing more than an acknowledgment for your sake. You’re not much of a talker (besides the average conversation with a dead body or your cat) and from what you’ve noticed neither is he. Maybe that’s why you end up beside him, both of you silently looking out the window at the rising hills of snow and the unmoving walkers. He might dislike your presence but he makes no effort to shoo you away.

Through the open window a gust of cold air flows, only ever interrupted by Ghost blowing out a puff of smoke. His balaklava is raised just over the bridge of his nose to expose his lips. You notice the blonde stubble around his jaw and the deep scars on the pale tissue of his neck. After a while he reaches into his pocket and offers you a cigarette from a little red and white box. You raise up your hand to decline; you haven’t smoked in a while and you know that if you do now you’ll likely cough up a storm. “I don’t smoke.”

Another wispy cloud escapes his lips, “Thought everyone in the military smoked.” Of course he had clocked you as military, “What branch?”

Your response comes with unwanted memories, the cold sweat on the back of your neck a stark reminder of your dreams, but you say it anyways, “Army, EOD unit.” You clench your fists, the tender flesh of your palm denting against the pressure of your nails.

He nods, “Bomb squad, funny, Soap was in demolitions.”

Unclenching and clenching your fists you lean against the window sill, taking a deep breath of the morning chill. Snow is still falling but it’s much lighter now with the wind having lost most of its harshness. It flows in forming a small cluster of melting flakes on the floor around your feet. It seems to be dwindling compared to yesterday. “I’m leaving soon.”

Simon understands what you mean, leaving this place soon, “So are we.” He takes a drag of the cigarette before taping it on the outer edge of the window sill. The ash drifts away with the wind until it disappears into the air.

“Why are you guys here?” Maybe the question comes off as rude or blunt but you’re used to being seen as so. In any case, it doesn't take Simon aback, he’s likely used to Johnny's own straightforward manner.

“Johnny, he wanted to pay it forward.” You think he won’t say anything else. The silence holds for a long while and you watch him fiddle with the cigarette in his hand. When you’re about to ask him what they intend to repay, he starts up again. “We got cornered, didn't have nearly enough bullets for half the zombies around us. Then from thin air,” he blows out a puff of smoke, “they were there to save us.”

“Cornered by zombies?” He hums at your question, “Don’t see that often in winter.”

“No, you don’t.”

“So, are you stupid or are you turning a blind eye?”

There’s a hint of amusement on his face , “I told Johnny I’d give him a week.” He lifts the hem of his black shirt just so that you can see the silver outline of a gun handle, “ M‘not nearly as trusting as him though.” You’re reminded immediately of the empty weight on your side with no pistol to rely on. A part of you is tempted to reach over and take his weapon for yourself; although you are unlikely to succeed in such an act.

“Where-”

He cocks his head down the lengthy corridor, “Supply closet, two rights and then a left.” It doesn’t seem like he expects a ‘thank you’ and if he does you don’t plan on giving one. And although a part of you is screaming that he will want something in turn for the favor he’s given, you chose to ignore it, craving the sweet feeling of your finger on the handle of your blade or the cool sting of your pistol pressed against your side. You rap your fingers against the window sill like a harsh finality to your conversation. He says one last thing as you’re about to leave, “He told me they were beautiful,” his gaze is on the frozen corpses; their feet are buried so deep beneath the snow that it seems like they have been sown in the dirt only to flourish now amongst the winterscape with ice coating their rotting skin. “Said he likes to see them up close this time of year to admire them…I agree with you, Wayne is fucking weird.”

The sky begins to shine with the first light of morning but it brings no warmth to the chill running down your spine. He’s given you just another reason to go searching for your weapons.

----------------------------------

You plan on leaving tomorrow morning. The snow has settled well enough that besides being a hassle it shouldn’t impede your travels too much. Your beloved gun is tucked against the waist of your cargo pants, the handle rests covered by your thick turtleneck. You were even able to find your knife with its ever so distinct jagged blade in the mess that was the storage closet. While in there you considered taking some of the other weapons lining the metal shelves and scattered on the floor but decided it was best not to tempt the fates by taking more than your worth in weaponry.

Although you’re able to get in and out without being spotted, Wayne catches you just as you’re turning the corner. A bright smile extends across his face, “Hey, hey, you’re up early. Excited to get your day started huh?”

Unsure of how to respond, you give him a nod. He chuckles, “Hope you had a good night's rest. You know I try to put most of the guests together, which I’m sure you don’t mind since it means you get to be with your friends.” You almost laugh when he refers to Ghost and Soap as you’re friends, having forgotten that’s what Soap established you three as being. He starts walking, looking back at you to follow and you reluctantly do so. “Speaking of friends, I noticed you got Morgan attached to your hip.”

You shrug, “Wouldn’t say attached.”

He hums and gives a solemn nod, “Right, well she’s a good kid. When she first got here with her mom-”

You cut him off, “She got here with her mom?” You had assumed that her mom had died sometime before her getting picked up by this questionable group of survivors (which is still a better group for an eight year old to find themselves in than most you might stumble upon nowadays).

There's a pause before he starts up again, “Yes, a bit before you. Did Morgan tell you anything about that?” He sounds cautious now.

“No, not really…” You’re watching him from the corner of your eye as he speaks, still walking together side by side.

He sighs, “Well, it’s not a pretty story. They’d been here almost a month, when one day her mom decided to up and leave. We told her time and time again that they were welcome to stay as long as they liked, at least until winter passed, but she just wouldn’t have it. Eventually they did leave, and we found her and Morgan nearly frozen to death in the outskirts of the city.” You bite the inside of your cheek while listening to the story that he tells.

“At that point we brought them back but,” he shakes his head as if remembering the memory pains him, “she was insistent on leaving, with or without her daughter, disappeared into the night. We haven’t seen her since.” He lets that sit for a moment in the air, “That’s what everyone here will tell you at least. Sometimes it’s just more difficult for a kid to come to terms with that stuff.”

Your frown at what he says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh just that,” he bounces his head side to side in search of the right phrasing, “instead of the truth Morgan likes to spin little lies. She’s sweet, just don’t believe everything she says.”

After that the conversation becomes solely one sided. He’s rambling and as he speaks you wonder if back when there was a structured government he ever considered being a filibuster. You only half notice once the hallway becomes familiar that he’s been leading you to the medical bay.

“I’m sure you remember this place,” He tries to joke as you two walk into the room that you had first woken up in. You tighten your lips unsure of what to do when he expects laughter which you do not give. Clearing his throat he goes over to a woman who’s cleaning up some type of medical equipment laid out on a little metal tray. He tells her something and she gives him a smile before they both walk over to you. Resting a hand on her arms he informs you, “This is Shawna, she’s gonna check your shoulder and make sure that concussion of yours didn’t make your brain mush.”

The woman greets you politely and you give her a brief nod in recognition. She’s nice while she takes care of you making sure to clean the stitches on your shoulder with utmost care. It wouldn’t be nearly as bad of an experience if not for Wayne's ever constant presence. When you’re halfway through getting your wounds cleaned up he snaps his fingers, “Shoot, I almost forgot about the kids reading party.” he lets out a deep breath, “Well I have to go do that but, when you’re finished up here please feel free to join us.” As if you would willingly spend any more time near Mr.Creep-a-zoid.

You relish in the sound of his footsteps descending away from the medical bay. The tension in the room dies down significantly without him around, and maybe it’s all in your head but you swear that even Shawna lets out a breath of relief. You watch as she grabs a small unlabeled bottle and scoops out a minty smelling mixture. Some type of homemade salve you assume but that’s not what really catches your attention. What you notice then that you hadn’t noticed before though are her fingers, long and stretched out on one hand while on the other they are thicker and shorter.

She smoothes the salve over the stitches going up the blade of your shoulder. You watch for a moment longer to make sure you’re not mistaken and then you ask, “What’s wrong with your hands?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your hands, your fingers, what’s wrong with them?”

With her brows furrowed she cracks a smile, pleasantries soon replacing confusion, “That’s just arthritis sweetheart, can’t stay young forever.” She grabs a paper towel to clean her hands up but her half assed answer isn’t sitting right with you. “Ointment I put on there should heal you up quickly.” when she turns back to you she seems distant, “As for the dislocation most discomfort should be gone in about a week.”

You nod, moving your shoulder faintly and feeling the muscle ache beneath “Yeah, not the first time I’ve dislocated a shoulder.”

She gives you a small smile, “Didn’t think it was.” Shawna grabs a hold of your shirt which you had hung at the edge of the bed while she worked. She hesitates for just a moment before handing it to you. You put your top on, careful while slipping your arms into the sleeves. “You should get going, I’m sure they’re waiting for you.”

“Are you not going?”

Shawna shakes her head, already making her way back over to the equipment that she was cleaning up when you first arrived, “Wayne needs me to do some prepping for later.” She seems reluctant to meet your eye as if you’ve already left the room and she’s simply talking to your disembodied voice. With her back turned to you she resumes her work of meticulously cleaning medical equipment.

You decide not to ask any more questions (of which you feel you have more and more of every day that you’re here) and simply head back to your assigned room. As you’re walking down the empty hall with an array of numbered doors you hear the faint sound of voices. The voices only get louder as you approach your room until finally you find yourself just outside Johnny and Simons door with the soft murmur of their voices echoing out. You’re not one to eavesdrop … well that might be a lie, but you do pride yourself on usually not giving enough fucks to listen in on other peoples conversations.

Something about their words however, hold your feet to the ground as you stand right in front of their door. You hear the sound of something hitting the floor like that of a bag and then Ghosts voice, “One vial, that’s all we fuckin having Johnny. I don’t want four years of work down the bloody drain cause you let some kid into our room.”

Johnny's thick Scottish accent follows “I know, I dianne think she would find it. It’s been in the bag this whole time and nothing has happened.”

You hear someone blow out a huff of air, “I want it on you at all times, put it in your pocket or up your ass. I do not care as long as you have eyes on it all times. And try to keep this under wraps for Christ's sake.”

There’s a stifled laugh “Well if ye help me then I might put it up-”

“Johnny.”

“Aye, aye, I’m sorry LT it won’t happen again.” There's a moment of silence before you hear the heavy thud of footsteps approaching the door. That serves as your queue to scurry to your room right next door before being caught by an already upset Ghost.

You rush into your room, closing the door with utmost care to not let it slam. You’re still processing the conversation you just heard – a vast amount of questions are forming in your head accumulating to what is likely to be the prefix of a massive headache – when from behind you a shrill voice says, “Oh, hi! I was waiting for you to get here-” She’s still talking when you turn, your eyes wide at her surprise appearance.

Morgan sits on the edge of your bed with your cat sprawled out on her lap. She goes on blissfully unaware of the fact that you’ve just shit your pants from the jump scare that she gave you. “Mr.Soap said I should come over here since Mr.Ghost had to talk with him.” She pets Bagel's brown and white head, her mouth tilting to the side in thought, “I think he was upset at Mr.Soap because of me. I mean I didn’t do it on purpose. There was just a blue bottle on the floor and I grabbed it and then Mr.Ghost saw me and he looked really upset about it.”

She keeps her eyes on your cat who has fallen asleep on top of her, “I’m sure it’s nothing kid, those two seem like an old married couple anyways.” She laughs at that and her mood lightens up. Running a hand down your face you ask, “Are you just here cause of that? I mean I can take you to your room if you want.”

She shakes her head, “No, well, yes, I mean I came to ask you if you wanted to go to the reading party with me but, you weren’t here. So then I asked Mr.Soap if he knew where you were. He said we’d wait for you and all go together.” She furrows her brows, “But I guess he probably won't be coming if he got in trouble.” Then she looks up at you, “I’m sure he won’t mind if we go together though. If you want to come of course. Which you don’t have to of course, that would be fine too.” Her ear to ear grin doesn’t falter as she waits for your response.

You’re left gaping for a second searching for an excuse not to go, because frankly you planned on just waiting out the day in your room and making a break for it tomorrow morning. And hell so what if you do tell the girl no. She gave you an out anyways and it’s not like you’re particularly good company, you and your bluntness and cold shoulders and inability to show emotions. Johnny at least would be able to make her laugh. You can’t even lay belly up and be nice to the damn kid whose mom just died.

That’s what gets you though. Morgan isn’t crying and whining about her grief, if you didn’t know what had happened you would think she’s the happiest girl in the world. She’s buried that deep down in the same way that you have, except she hides it behind a smile while you hide it behind steel bars. That’s why as you look at her waiting for your response – almost buzzing with excitement as she sits kicking her feet– you can’t help but let out a sigh and tell her “Sure kid, I’ll join you.” After all, you’re known for picking up strays.

Chapter Text

Morgan doesn’t talk much on the way there, seeming to catch onto your dislike for unnecessary conversation. When you walk into the room – small but clearly intended for gatherings – she pulls you over to where most of the tables have been pushed off to the side to clear out the center. The cleared center is riddled with kids sitting cross legged on the floor and some having pulled up chairs to sit on the outskirts. There's a few adults standing around, most of them chit chatting amongst each other but it’s clear that this little activity is mainly meant for children. By the large windows on the opposite side of the room, Wayne stands bent over speaking to his father.

Morgan goes over to one of the tables where a man stands handing out plastic cups “Oo last two cups.” She thrusts one of the cups with dark liquid into your hand and grabs one for herself, “They have really good hot chocolate.” She takes a sip so as to prove herself before pulling it away from her mouth and scrunching up her nose, “Ugh, it’s usually better than this.”

You offer her the edge of a smile, “That’s alright,” you take a sip of your own and try your best not to cringe at the repugnant taste of chocolate and something else that leaves a bitter after taste. “It’s not too bad.” She seems mildly disappointed for a minute and then she’s all teeth again, beaming as she pulls you at your grown age to sit amongst the children on the floor.

The creaking of the wheelchair sounds throughout the room as Wayne pushes his father to be positioned in front of everyone, his one good eye skitters over the group until it lands on you. It seems to be the only thing besides his hands that he can move. He stirs, gargled moans coming deep from his throat as his one eye, with a white film over the iris, takes you in. This causes some people to turn to you, casting gazes in your direction and beginning to feed your anger.

Wayne gives you a smile and redirects everyone's attention, his hand lands on his fathers shoulder settling him down. “Thank you all for coming. We’re a pretty close knit community here and I know for some of you, things like this take you out of your daily routine.” He points a finger at someone and says, “I’m talking to you Mr. All Work No Play.” chuckles erupt throughout. “But it’s important to take time and be together, especially when we have guests.” His piercing eyes meet yours and you realize how oddly they resemble that of a hawk: an icy analytical blue (so unlike Johnny's own blue gaze; his big grin never giving his eyes a chance to be anything more than a nuisance ).

Morgan yawns beside you, placing her empty cup down. You ask her if she’s tired but she shakes her head. “Alright,” he limps over to grab a stool and places it beside his father, his evidently bad leg stretching out. “Let's start at the beginning.”

He clears his throat and so the tale begins, “At the start there was Adam and Eve, God's first attempt at creating the human race. They were what we should be: loyal, obedient, wise and immortal. They lived a life without pain, they had no knowledge of suffering. Unfortunately, they had that one innate trait that we all still have, curiosity. And so, Eve committed the first sin, she went against God's only rule and ate the forbidden fruit.” The children lean forward, their eyes wide with entrigue, although by the sound of it you are sure this isn’t the first time they have heard this story. The words fall off of Wayne's tongue with clear precise practice like he’s said this all time and time again.

“Their punishment became ours, we were given death and corruption and anguish. For a long time God turned his back on us. But we must remember that all that he does is with reason,” the man in the wheelchair gargles, Wayne laughs, “this is his favorite part.” and some people join in with his laughter. “In all his knowledge, he gave us Jesus. Since the garden of Eden we only grew more sinful and Jesus saw that, he knew he had to do something to change things. In the end he died for us, he allowed himself to be crucified all in the sake of rekindling humanity's relationship with God and absolving us of our sins.”

He pauses and shakes his head, “But humans continued to sin.” You hate the way his brows draw together as he tells his grand story. “We were greedy, lazy, envious, prideful, lustful, glutinous, and wrathful. However, Jesus had turned God back in our favor and a part of him still remembered his love for humanity. In one final act of kindness God brought the world down to its knees and gave us another shot at our long lost immortality.” He smiles and you feel your stomach turn. “God gave us the undead.”

Right…

You consider throwing up into the empty solo cup that you have begun to squeeze. When you thought of all the ways that this group of survivors unsettled you, a cult based off of a post-apocalyptic retelling of the bible wasn’t really the first thing that came to mind. It is now though. You’re thankful that at least they’re not chopping people up and turning them into stew but the overall ideology disgusts you to your core. This disgust is not based on your views of the Christian religion or anything of that sort but on the fact that these people think that deadheads are some type of heavenly gift.

The plastic cup crinkles loudly in your hands and it catches Morgan's attention. “Do you want more?” she asks with her cheerful politeness.

You shake your head, “No, that’s alright.” your words are distant as your brain slowly overflows with thoughts. You want to leave, now. Fuck leaving later, fuck waiting. You have stayed because of the mere fact of plausible deniability, willing to stay because of your injured shoulder and the ruthless snowfall. But now, you have no excuse in staying besides being stupid. Snow be damned.

Everything Wayne says after that goes in one ear and out the other. When people start to get up and the sound of chatter picks up, you break for the door, slipping around the small crowd with only one person noticing your escape. Morgan follows behind you, starting up a small jog to catch up. “Are you going back to your room? Can I come? Maybe, Mr. Soap can tell us one of his stories.” she struggles to match your purposeful strides. Your heavy steps thump against the linoleum floor.

You don’t bother looking down at her, “I’m leaving, kid.”

“Now?” She asks.

The words come out sharp, “Yes, now.”

You hear the sound of her heavy breath as she tries to keep up, “Wait I- I wanted to show you something.”

“Show Johnny.”

Morgan finally falls behind, her breathing harsh as she bends at her waist, “Please, it’s my mom- I want to show you my mom.”

This stops you in your tracks. She wants to show you her mom, her mom who Wayne told you ran away leaving Morgan behind and who is presumed to be dead. She’s still a few steps behind you as you turn to see her small figure heaving in an attempt to fill her empty lungs. There’s a chance that she’s making this up the way that Wayne told you she might. However, you haven’t believed a single word he has said since you met him so why would you start believing him now.

She straightens up, her gaze meeting yours. Her brows are furrowed, the overhead light casting deep shadows on her round childish features. This is the first time you can see her grief. It shows itself in deep lines beneath what should be innocent eyes, not eyes that have clearly seen the horrors of this crumbling world. This palpable grief could very well be the reason that you follow the young girl with the heavy weight of dread dragging behind you both. Or perhaps you follow because you see a reflection of yourself in her mournful gaze.

She leads you down a few long empty corridors. Only once or twice does somebody else pass you by. You feel bad when she turns to make sure you’re following and she sees you mid yawn, some odd exhaustion settling upon you. “We’re almost there.” she reassures with a small smile. All you can give in turn is a nod. Making your way down stained stairs you trail behind her all the way down to the first floor and eventually into a large room with empty shelves that must have once held books. Arm chairs sit askew, covered like most of the furniture in a thick layer of dust. Streaks of sunlight filter in through the gaps of the boarded up window.

Morgan stops near a dark corner of the room where a gust of cold air flows in through an air vent leading outside. She dips down and using the edge of her fingernails pulls up a single floor board retrieving from beneath a rusted screw driver. You watch as she works at taking off the screws that secure the vent. She gets one off before letting out a deep sigh and sitting back on her haunches. You bend down and reach out to grab the screwdriver which she places softly into your hand. “Sorry, I can usually do it on my own.” Balling her hands into fists she rubs the sleep out of her eyes.

“It’s ok.” you focus on diligently undoing each screw, pocketing each one as you take them off. Then as quietly as possible you place the metal vent up against the wall, leaving a square opening which leads outside. From what you can see a small track has been carved out only now beginning to be hidden by the thick snow. Morgan must have been out here recently. “I’ll go first, when I give the all clear you follow.” you instruct her.

The likelihood of there being any meat bags around is low but if anybody is going to get turned by a particularly hungry zombie you rather it be you than the kid. She gives you a small nod. You question initially if you’ll be able to fit through the narrow vent, and although it is a tight squeeze, you manage to squirm through. The snow sticks to your clothes as you crawl out, leaving a cold patch on your lower stomach. You emerge on the other side, eyes skittering over the semi fenced perimeter (a fence with large gaps, something that must have been put in place before the outbreak only to fall apart with time and thereafter never being given enough attention to be fixed). The only walkers around are further out, closer to the patch of rising trees and a street a couple of yards away. “We’re good, come on.”

Morgan crawls out with relatively more ease than you, the vent much more accommodating for her body size. You realize once she’s outside that she doesn’t have a jacket on and that you don’t have one to offer her. She seems unaffected though as her short legs step over the heaps of snow while guiding the two of you towards the leafless trees. Your mind latches onto the cold, ignoring for your own sanity what the girl may be leading you to.

She’s more careful than you would have thought an eight year old could be. Always looking left and right in case a person (besides you) or a walker suddenly appears. The end of the world may have derailed most people's life but for Morgan the end of the world has been almost her whole life. She stops somewhere in the middle of this cluster of withering trees with their thin branches twisting and turning over you both granting the slightest of shelter from the snow. It takes you a moment to see it – at first wondering if perhaps Wayne was right about Morgan – and then you spot the side of a person's face half caked in snow.

Your hand falls onto Morgan's shoulder as she begins to approach the body that could very well be a zombie in its semi state of hibernation. She looks over her shoulder at you, “Don’t worry, she’s dead dead.” She repeats the word to assure you. You’re surprised that she can even tell that it’s a woman with the decomposition setting in, only mildly delayed by the cold temperature. Morgan crouches down and begins to swipe her fingers over the icy face, removing the coat of snow. “This is my mom,” She gives you a hesitant glance. “I- I know you might not believe me cause I’m just a kid and nobody ever believes me but look, I can prove it.”

Her hands land on the woman's frozen neck. A neck which dips into the curve of her shoulder. And if you keep going down you can see the outline of her torso. The only thing you can't see are her arms and her legs. Not even a faint bump beneath the white blanket of snow. But when Morgan begins to remove the ice that covers the corpse's chest, exposing her collar bone and the end of her shoulder, you see where a surgical-like cut has left her armless with only the bone of her scapula and rotting flesh left behind. Perhaps you spoke too soon about them not cutting people up into stew.

“Look, here it is, you can’t see it as well anymore. But, it’s my name. My mom had my name tattooed on her chest,” Looking down, it’s actually on the woman's collarbone but it’s likely that Morgan doesn’t know that word. It’s there though, in curving cursive lettering you can see the “M” that twists into the “O” and the rest of the barely visible letters that spell out the girls’ name. You can even see the other name beneath; perhaps that of another child. “Do you believe me?” The question sounds like a plea.

Her wide eyes are on you, white flakes coating her lashes as she waits for your response. You can imagine her curled up in her mothers arms as the woman teaches her how to sew a running stitch. The image in your mind is corrupted by the present one of a child next to her slaughtered, decomposing mom. “Yes,” you swallow the thick lump of anxiety that has formed in your throat, “I believe you.”

The softest of smiles forms on her lips and if it were not for all the toothy grins she has given you, then you would believe that she is truly happy. This is a smile of relief though, not of joy but of ‘thank you for believing me when no one else would have’. You tighten your jaw, “Come on kid, let’s go back inside. Get your things and we’re leaving.”

Morgan cocks her head in mild surprise, “We?” she asks.

You give her a firm nod, “Yes.” this is impulsive, certainly you are not fit to drag a child around. You struggle simply taking care of yourself and Bagel. But what else are you supposed to do? If you don’t take Morgan with you then you’ll have to leave her, and that’s sure as hell not happening. Whatever weird shit Wayne is getting up to in that care facility you don’t care enough to find out or try and tie all these vague clues together.

Morgan gets up, she attempts to hide the growing smile on her face. She dusts off her pants, rubbing the snow off. Before she joins you, she presses two fingers to her lips and then the two fingers to her mothers frozen cheek. She whispers something that you can’t hear and then she’s at your side. You let your feelings – always so deep inside your chest that they only ever come out in the form of anger or bitter remarks – get the best of you and you wrap your arm around Morgan's shoulder. She starts up “You look a lot like her. She was always serious too.” Catching your eye she takes the opportunity to scrunch up her brows into a constipated expression, “Like this.” she says. You shake your head at what’s supposed to be an imitation of your scowl. When you get inside you’ll give her your jacket.

Chapter Text

The relief from the cold is subtle, it settles upon you slowly as you crawl back into the care facility. Morgan waits beside you as you place the metal vent over the exit and begin to place the screws. You find your hands oddly weak, your fingers struggling to keep a hold of the screw driver. It takes you longer than it should but the task gets done, the vent once again covered. The girl looks half asleep where she stands, “Hey, if we leave now we can find a shelter by nightfall. You can sleep then.”

She gives a delayed nod, “Yeah, I don’t know why I’m so tired. It just feels like everything is spinning.” her mouth opens to let out a big yawn.

Your brows scrunch together, you can feel the edge of your vision going out of focus. “Look at me for a second,” you tell her. Her drowsy eyes look up at you and she strains to open her eyelids any wider. You take your hand and lift up the edge of her brow to see her pupils clearly, pupils that have taken over her brown irises. Your mind wanders back to the bitter taste of hot chocolate. “Fuck,” you mutter.

“What’s wrong?” She questions, swaying in place.

You can feel it settling in as well, the effects of whatever drug you two were slipped. “Pay attention to me now Morgan,” You press your palm against the wall to hold yourself up right, “we need to go find Ghost and Soap ok? Don’t talk to anyone beside them, and don’t stop moving until we find them. Do you understand?”

She raises her eyebrows to open her eyes and gives you a short succession of nods. You grab a hold of her small hand and it wraps around yours weakly. You use your leverage to pull her to your pace, the shuffling of her footsteps following behind yours. It’s a long walk from this downstairs area to where the rooms are upstairs, this becomes more and more apparent as you feel your body grow slack. The child behind you is not fretting any better, every second you are dragging more and more of her dead weight.

Going up the old stairs she trips, her head hitting one of the steps. When she lifts her head up blood trickles down the side of her temple. “I’m sorry.” her voice is frail, hardly a whisper.

“It’s ok.” you grab the underside of her arm to help her up but she doesn’t budge. “Come on, we’re almost there.” there’s a buzzing in your head and your vision is starting to blur entirely.

“I can’t,” Her eyes are more closed than open, fluttering in a way that barely exposes the whites. “I… I can’t move.”

You can hardly keep yourself up but you use what energy you have left to pick up the girl. She’s small, half your size; right now, however, she weighs more than a bag of bricks. With her body completely limp and your own body failing you, every step feels like an odyssey of its own. You make it all the way to the hallway where your rooms are when you can’t walk anymore. Your legs simply won’t move. You would have fallen straight forward if it weren’t for Morgan being splayed out in your arms.

Dazed – with your eyesight fogging over and the white walls and white floors spinning– all you can do before your body stops working is press your back to the nearest wall letting your full weight and that of the body in your arms drag you down. Lifting your heavy arms, you press your hand to the deep cut where blood pools out from Morgan's forehead. You're too weak to even do that properly, unable to stop the flow and only managing to coat your fingers in the crimson liquid. “Johnny!” it’s hardly as loud as you want it to be, “Simon!” it’s like your mouth is full of cotton, the words stifled by the drug coursing through your veins. Your chest rises and falls as you try to gasp enough air to yell out. Your head lolls forward, your eyes barely open, “Ghost…Soap.”

Through your half lidded eyes you see a shadow expand across your stretched out legs, shrouding the girl's body –which lies like a corpse on your lap– in darkness. A hand lifts up your chin and your drowsy eyes set upon Waynes cold gaze. If it weren’t for the drugs in your system your heart would be beating out of your chest. It is an odd feeling to be in such a state of panic when your body is completely numb.

He gives you a smile, “Ghost and Soap are off to lunch. We have to make sure they’re well fed before the surgery.” He lets your head slip from his hand with little grace, “If you wouldn’t have been so eager Morgan and you could be with them in the cafeteria. But I saw the way you were itching to bolt,” your eyes are fluttering open and closed, all you want to do is scream but you simply can’t. Waynes words melt into each other, “I just couldn’t lose you, you have such perfect limbs.” and just like that, everything goes quiet.

----------------------------------

Your first breath feels like a burning fire in your chest. A gasp that quenches your need for air and simultaneously leaves you suffocating. You’re scared and for a split second you can’t remember why. Not until you hear the sound of snapping jaws and ever so distinct growls of the undead. Your head jolts up but your body is strapped down to a hospital bed. Leather cuffs wrap around your wrist and around your ankles. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust. You quickly take in the med bay that you had been in earlier today, the same one you had awoken in just two days ago. The dread flowing through you is similar to what you felt that day. A lack of power that makes you want to scream in fury. Just like on that first day you wonder where your cat is. And then you wonder where Morgan is.

You blink away the sharp sting of the fluorescent lights until you can make out the various figures around the room. People in blue surgical gowns swish around, speaking and laughing with each other. When you finally turn your head to peek over towards the door, you see three small bodies, children, twitching and biting the air. They stand lined up against the wall. It takes you a second to recognize the young girl, with a long deep cut along her forehead and her newly rotting skin. Her once dark brown eyes, now strikingly white, stare at you vacantly.

It makes you want to throw up. Bile that itches to make its way up your throat, attempting to expose the raw emotions inside you. She bites the air as she looks at you, she would eat you if she could. But for some reason she doesn’t. Something holds the three rotters in place and from what you can see (and you’re looking at everything, taking it all in because focusing on escaping is easier than focusing on your feelings, on the fact that Morgan is…) there is nothing physically holding them back.

Next to the zombie children the old man in his screeching wheelchair sits. When his gaze meets yours— his one good eye piercing right through you— he doesn’t let out his unsettling gargles, instead a deep voice in synchronization emits from the undead. The voice surprises not just you, but everyone in the room, including the array of seated people who you hadn’t noticed (seated as if they’re about to watch a performance). “They are awake,” you can’t help but watch as Morgan's jaw moves to speak words that aren’t hers. There is horror in your wide eyes. The old man who you had pitied, who you had thought needed saving, he watches you.

You think back to that day at the cafeteria, how everyone made way for him. Everyone gave him part of their food and it wasn’t out of disrespect, it was honor, maybe a tinge of fear. You see it now, in the ever so persistent aim of bright smiles; they knew what was planned for you, the old man knew better than anyone. You were someone to be fed and fixed and then…dealt the same fate as Morgan’s mother.

There is a conclusion forming at the edge of your thoughts; answers to a question you didn’t quite want answered.

Wayne pushes through the crowd and over to his father with a smile on his face, “Three at once, you get better at this everyday.” Then he looks over to you, and that joyful smile is still on his face. A smile you wish to tear off of. “Woke up faster than we would have liked. But that’s alright, it just means you get to see some behind the scenes.” Those around who are listening chuckle at his words. He parts from his father and those in medical gowns make way for him to stand in front of the small group of people all neatly seated in chairs. You recognize some of the faces from the hallways and from the cafeteria.

They listen when he speaks. “Thank you all for being here today. For most of you this is the first time that you are joining us for one of our procedures. As you may have just seen by my Dads incredible feat to control the undead, we are making steady progress on our route towards our god given gift of immortality.” Small whispers erupt through the crowd alongside the smallest of cheers. Slowly, very slowly so that the old man doesn’t notice, you attempt to reach for your knife at your side.

They didn't bother searching you and you can feel the pistol that is pressing into your side and your blade just inches away. If you could just reach the handle, if you could just be sly enough, you could cut off your restraints. Or at least you could cut off one of the restraints before anyone notices. And what then? What is your plan? Even with all the unbridled anger inside of you, there are only two bullets in your gun (2 out of the 4 that Vinny gave you months ago) and you are in a room full of people.

“We must remember that in the end our guests are doing us a favor.” Wayne turns towards you, he walks over to the side of one of the other hospital beds, one that sits besides yours. You can feel your heart against your ribs, every heavy thump shouts ‘WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?’. He begins undressing, unbuttoning his shirt, “They are moving the human race forward. We are not taking their life for granted, we are giving purpose to their life.” He folds his shirt methodically and then unzips his pants. The fabric falls down his legs till you see the reason that he has been limping; his right leg is not his own. You can see the rotting skin fusing with his where still fresh stitches are noticeable.

He’s still spewing his excuses for blatantly slaughtering people when you catch the blue shadow of one of the other people dressed in surgical gowns. You can’t see the person through the surgical mask that they wear but you see their hands shake as they pass the zombies and grab an empty syringe from a tray next to your death bed. You catch the unevenness of the shaky fingers, how on one hand the fingers are long and stretched out while on the other they are short and thick. “Shawna,” you whisper, your voice just audible enough for her to hear but not the others around. Her eyes meet yours but they skitter immediately.

Turning her back to you, she approaches the small zombies lined up against the wall. She keeps her distance as she extends her arm to stick the syringe into one of the freaks' necks. Once you would have called him a young boy but now as his jaw snaps up at the petrified woman, the word boy doesn't even come to mind. When the syringe is full of a rusted red liquid, too dark to still be considered human blood, she takes a step back. The room has gone quiet, even Wayne has stopped talking. He lays on the bed beside yours with only his scant boxers hanging off his hips and his rotting leg taunting you (you will be part of him too if you don’t get out). Another man comes up with an axe next to the walker from which Shawna drew blood. His arms pull back and then swing forward till the sharp blade of the axe meets the middle of the zombie's head.

There is a sense of ritual to this all. You swear you hear the soft mutter of prayers follow the sound of the limp body hitting the ground. Perhaps they are asking God to forgive them for the sins they must commit in order to obey his ‘plans’. But frankly, you don’t give a fuck what they’re praying about.

Shawna comes up next to you as some of the other –likely unqualified– surgeons begin to prep Wayne. Her hands are still shaking, and her mask expands and contracts with heavy breaths. “You don’t have to do this. I know you dont wanna do this-”

“You have no idea what I do or don’t want to do.”

“No, you’re right, I don’t know anything about you but I want to believe that you are smart enough to not fall for Wayne's bullshit.” She taps two fingers to the crook of your elbow where your vein juts with your heavy pulse. But she doesn’t press the needle in. The sound of her taking a deep breath to steady herself is interrupted by the loud sound of a gunshot.

She jumps, the needle slipping out of her hands and hitting the ground with a loud clatter. Commotion erupts in the med bay, those seated stand up looking towards Wayne for answers. He sits up from his own hospital bed assuring everyone that everything is alright. Shawna walks away from you and towards one of the other surgeons as they all begin to talk amongst each other. Wayne speaks to the man that had held the axe, “Just go out there and check, you know occasionally someone will get into the armoury. I doubt it’s anything too serious.” Wayne drags a hand down his face as the man complains, “Just check please.”

You take the commotion as your opportunity to reach for the handle of your knife. Everyone is focused on the gunshots giving you a chance to bend sideways to give yourself further reach. People are approaching Wayne now asking what's going on. Your fingers touch the tip of the handle and you pull it closer and closer until you can warp your fingers around it. Nobody notices your struggle to pull the knife out. It’s finally in your hand when the man opens the door to check outside. He barely gets a chance to peer into the hallway before a bullet meets the space between his eyes.

Panic. Immediate panic. Almost everyone is already darting for the only exit where the man’s dead body lays. The others are hiding behind chairs, frantic as they figure out what to do, how to survive. Because as it turns out being murdered is not all Wayne makes it out to be.

Your attention is on the knife. You can’t focus on anything but the way it slips from your clammy hands as you work to saw away at your leather restraints. Alas the leather falls away giving you an instant relief that you have no time to lavish in. Gunshots are still being fired outside and you can hear them grow closer along with a deep voice giving out military commands. You have only enough time to turn and cut the restraint on your other wrist before you see the blur of an open jaw coming straight at you.

Small hands reach out to grab a hold of you, to hold you down and feast on your flesh. You push against Morgans- the zombie's chest as it frantically bites the air in front of your face. Strengthening your grip on your knife you aim for her head where her dark curls rest. The knife drives through the center of its (‘its’not ‘hers’ this is no longer Morgan) neck as it attempts to sink its teeth into you. You reach for your gun, easier than pulling out the knife stuck between the little girls' tendons.

Your hand is on the trigger, and the gun is loaded and you are going to kill this zombie. But you hesitate. You hesitate because this is the first time that you have seen someone that you care for become an undead monster. In four long years since the outbreak you have not put a single thought into all the zombies that you’ve killed, they have all been unrecognizable beasts. This is not Morgan. But you hesitate. Because at the end of that day it’s hard to kill a monster with a familiar face.

Your guard is let down for just a split second too long allowing those rotting teeth to sink into the meat of your forearm. The deafening sound of your pistol echos out through the med bay. You hope that Morgan will see her mom again.

The hallway outside is scattered with corpses and people still waiting to die. The sound of blood gushing out of wounds can be heard. Ghost and Soap side step the bodies with ease, ignoring the ones that reach for their pant legs asking to be either saved or mercied. “They got weapons.” Ghost says as they approach the hallway. He slides the magazine out –checking how many rounds he has left – as the two approach the red coated door.

“Dinnae think so, they would have used them earlier.” Despite his words, Soap's grip tightens on the two knives that he holds. They both heard that gunshot.

Ghost goes in first, pistol in the air as he scans the room till his eyes land on you. He thinks you’re a zombie at first with the amount of blood clinging to the fabric of your clothes and tainting your hair. If it were not for your bloodshot eyes he would have pulled the trigger. He lets out a deep sigh and motions for Soap to step inside, “The bird’s in here, help them out and I’ll cover the hall. Be quick about it.”

You’re out of it as Soap approaches you, a warm expression on his face like he wants to comfort you. The blade of your knife drips with the blood of the old man who was stitched together. His limp corpse rests in the creaking wheelchair. The blood on you is partly his and partly the undeads. He was the only one left in the room besides the zombie children and although you would like to slice Wayne's throat you’re pretty sure you don’t have enough time to go searching for him before you turn. Turn, yes, you are going to turn.

You’ve been responsible for a lot of deaths and you wonder if this sinking feeling in your stomach is what they felt. Perhaps with the exception that your skin is turning clammy and you can feel the fever setting in. You would like to believe that you’ve been kinder in your killings than this virus will be in turning you into a feral starving animal. You’re finally on the receiving end of the barrel of your gun and you simply can’t shoot. The gun is shaking in your hand. This is your last bullet, the one you have always saved for yourself because you knew that this day would come. How desperate you’ve been to die and when your time finally comes you can’t let go of this god forsaken life.

“Aye Hen, ‘s alright. Nothing ye coulda’ done about it.” He’s noticed Morgan's dead body by now and the side of her skull that you shot through. Johnny goes to place his hands on your shoulders and you take a step back. “What’s wrong?” His thick brows draw together until a frown forms on his face.

Your eyes are steady on his, “Johnny, I need you to do this for me- I,” you swallow down the pride that tells you to not ask for help, “I just need this one favor. I can’t do it. Please, please.” You thrust your pistol into his hands until he has no choice but to take a hold of it. It’s already been too long, you could turn any minute now. He scans you up and down until his blue eyes land on the red dents of the bite mark on your forearm and the dark veins that have begun to protrude through your skin.

His eyes skitter between you and the pistol in his hand “Hen-”

“Please,” you squeeze your eyes tight. You refuse to cry, you’ve already begged, you will not cry. You wait for the cold barrel to press against your skin and you hope that the bullet will feel like a childhood Wednesday afternoon at the park when you were still unaware of what your life would become. The cold never comes though. If you had your eyes open you would be able to see why. You would see the shaking of Johnny's hand as he looks down at the gun. Only to reach for the syringe on the floor, still full of zombie blood, and empty it out. Pulling from his pocket the blue vile of opaque liquid and rushing to fill the syringe before plunging the needle into the side of your neck.

There is no Wednesday afternoon, no comfort of a bullet. Searing burning white pain expands beneath your skin, like it wants to crawl out from inside of you. You would rip your skin to let it out if you could. Your pulse drums out through every nerve in your body. You wish to apologize to those who have died at your hands if they too have had to feel their blood turn into boiling acid while inside of them. If this is death, it is a horrid and wretched thing which kills you before you have even died.

It is a good thing this is not death.

Chapter Text

There is nothing but pain for a long while. You’re used to pain but this is different. This feels like your insides getting turned out, every part of you being torn apart. It goes on and on and you have no clue of when it will end. Your focus shifts from the feeling of your blood boiling to that of something softly prickling your back. The pain subdues slowly till eventually all you can feel is the sting beneath you. It takes some time (you're not sure how long) till you’re able to peel your eyes open.

You stare up at a wooden ceiling, fresh air circles around you carrying the faint smell of hay; for a second, despite the pain that you have been in, you feel at peace. Then the rough tongue of a cat licks your arm and you remember it’s the end of the world. And you have nobody in this world besides this cat, and Morgan is dead, and you should be dead…but you aren’t.

You aren’t dead but you wish you were because now that the physical pain has passed the grief has decided to settle in. It’s been a while since you have felt it like this; so fresh, so raw, that you can smell the despair. You wonder, eyes closed, if this new grief will replace the previous one or if the death of those you get close to will simply stack upon each other until it pushes you to finally be able to pull the trigger.

A part of you wants to curl up and call it quits, let the earth consume you and be released from all the suffering of existing. But for some reason you’re alive and Bagel is waiting for you to get up. The only thing you have in this world is this cat and the guttural need to find redemption. So you sit up and ignore the throbbing pain in your head and the aches in your body and the rawness of your soul.

You’re in a barn, up on the second floor where stacks of hay bales shelter you. Looking down over the edge, Ghost is fiddling with a radio propped up against a pile of wooden logs. Soap is nowhere to be seen. You make your way down the propped up ladder, the creaking of it reminding you of an old wheelchair with a stitched up man in it. It’s not as cold out anymore; you must have been unconscious for a while. You're wearing a different pair of clothing and by the fact that you’re not full of piss and shit it means somebody has been cleaning you up. An embarrassing fact, but you can’t find it in yourself to care right now. Maybe later you’ll feel the heat of embarrassment when you aren’t so numb.

Reaching the ground floor Ghosts' dark eyes meet yours, he stares for a second before nodding over to a corner of the barn. “There’s food, eat.” and you can’t argue with that because you can feel how hollow your stomach is. Your cat rubs against your legs while you search through a small pile of canned food and what seems to be fresh beef jerky. You pop a can of corn open and guzzle it down, then you open a can of spam and take out the lump till you can bite into it like a bar of chocolate. You swallow it all down with water from a canteen near the food.

Swiping your hand across your mouth you stand still for a moment looking at Simon whose focus is back on the radio with cables sticking out every which way. You think of how to phrase your question: ‘Why am I alive?’, ‘Why can’t I die?’, ‘Why didn’t Johnny kill me?’.

In the end you settle with asking, “Why am I not dead?”

He rips out a long red cable from the radio, “Because Johnny would rather compromise our mission than put a bullet through someone's head.” Well at least you know where he stands on the premise of you being around. You should have asked Ghost to kill you, he would have gone through with it.

“What mission?” you ask. A series of knocks comes from the barn door interrupting your question.

Ghost takes his attention away from his radio and grabs a hold of his gun tucked away into his pants. He only drops his guard once he pulls aside the door and sees Johnny. You catch a glimpse outside, the ground a mixed slush of melted snow and mud. Johnny unhooks a bag from his shoulders, he’s about to say something to Simon when he sees you. Dropping his bag to the ground he takes long strides up to you until he can wrap you in an embrace. You don’t push him back and if they ask later you’ll say it was because you were too weak to do so. But quite frankly – despite your anger towards Soap for his inadequacy at killing you – you desperately need the comfort of somebody else's warmth. However, you don’t reciprocate the hug.

He pulls back his hands, placing them on your shoulders while he examines you. His face contronts into a grimace, “Yer eye-” then he shakes his head, “S’alright all that matters is that yer ok. Did ye eat? I’ve got a change clothes fer ye Hen, and ye can wash up-”

“Soap,” The brunette's attention shifts towards the masked man, “What did you find?”

“Sorry, right,” he walks over to where he dropped his bag and grabs a hold of it. “ Got ammo fer that shotgun we found last week and some more stock fer our food, as well as a new pair of boots fer ye. Nae luck finding electronics though. But now that they’re awake we dinnae have to worry about fixing up that piece of shite radio.” As he speaks he pulls out his items from his bag, moving around the barn to place everything where it goes, setting the boots next to the radio Ghost has been working on.

His gaze shifts towards you before turning back to Soap. “We still need to radio Price, tell him what happened.”

“Ye been trying to fix that damn thing fer a month now. Ah’m sure there’ll be a way to get in contact with Cap once we get tae the lab.” Soap grins at him, “Hen’s awake, we can start getting a move on. Everything will be alright.”

Even through his mask you notice Ghost's irritation. His clenched jaw is visible through the black material of his balaklava. He doesn’t say anything, only letting a huff of air out before grabbing the boots that Soap brought him.

----------------------------------

They have a bathroom-like area set up in what was once a tool room inside of the barn. There are two buckets: an empty one, and one with water. Sat up against one of the shelves is a dirty mirror. You look at yourself in it. The room is rather dim with only a flashlight that Soap gave you illuminating your reflection. You dip your hands into the water bucket and splash some onto your face. One of your eyes — the iris now a pale undead white — stares back at you. You were bit. By all accounts you are a deadhead, your eye and the bite mark on your forearm proves it. But you don’t crave human brains and you still don’t have an answer for why that is.

The barn door is open and just outside among an empty field is Soap starting up a fire. The sun still has a few hours before its sets, the sky beginning to turn a deep shade of persimmon. Its heat is a small comfort from the cool air of late winter. A flame sparks up in front of Johnny and he takes a step back to admire his work. You pick up your cat, who has been trailing behind you, just in case he gets any ideas of getting too close to the fire. Your feet sink into the mud and the sound alerts Johnny of your arrival.

He flashes you a small smile, “A’m going tae cook us some fresh fish, gotta get ye some protein.” He looks down at the cat in your arms before extending a hand out. Johnny pets Bagel's head since his body is still wrapped up in the purple sweater with its ever so distinct yellow stitching. You think of the young girl sewing up the jagged holes as she tries to remember what her mom taught her.

“Johnny,” your brows draw together, “what did you do to me?”

His head snaps up, “What dae ye mean Hen?”

“I mean, I got bit by a zombie and I’m not gnawing your face off. So either I’m the chosen one or you did something to me.”

A gust of wind threatens the fire and Soap bends down to throw more timber into the flames. He’s still thinking of a response when he turns back to you, “I…I saved ye.”

You shake your head, “I didn’t ask you to save me, I asked you to put a fucking bullet through my skull.” Turning his gaze towards the fire the light catches on the scar that hides beneath the shaved sides of his head, the healed over skin stretches out towards his temple.

He bites into his lip and gives you a nod “Aye…Ah’m sorry.” clearing his throat he goes on, his voice more distant now likes thinking about something else, “I dinnae know if Ghost told ye but we cannae let ye leave.”

Of course they can’t let you go, they haven’t kept you around while you’ve been comatose for a month just for shits and giggles; Ghost surely wouldn’t have allowed it. This is why you don’t take unwarranted favors, something is always required in return. “Is this cause of your mission?” He hums in response, “Care to tell what exactly this mission that you’ve dragged me into is?”

“It’s classified technically,” You’re about to argue with him, already close to blowing your short fuse, when he continues. “But yer right, Ah dragged you into this and ye have every right to know what’s going on.” A part of you wanted him to deny you the answers that you craved, a part of you wanted to argue. At least if you were angry and arguing you would feel something. You want to be mad at him because this is his fault, or at least it’s easier to think that it’s his fault.

He talks facing the fire, “Ah’m sure yer well aware of the fact that Ghost and I are military like ye, but I should clarify that we’re special forces. Unless ye’ve been privy to some high class information ye should nae have heard of us, Task Force 141 that is. Back when there was still clear government control we dealt with taking down terrorist operations across the globe. In due part tae that we were one of the first people to find out about the outbreak since initially it was believed tae be some sorta terrorist attack. We were still deployed on a mission when-”

“Get on with it Soap.” you let out through a sigh.

He smiles, the edges of his canines visible from his side profile, “Was trying tae give ye some exposition.” The sky is turning a deep auburn hue which makes the fire look even brighter. The last few hours before sunset always pass by so quickly, like the sun is rushing towards its end. Johnny starts up again, “Well in short, it was nae a terrorist attack. Although some people still think it was, we never found anything that proved that tae be the case. But it made finding a cure all the more difficult.” Your ears perk up at the word cure. “Everyone, everywhere was trying tae figure this thing out. Fer a while we thought they really would, and then after a longer while…
signs from research facilities and labs alike began tae dwindle.”

“Then, probably over a year ago by now, we picked up a radio frequency. It was only broadcasted on military channels, they meant for it tae reach us. Lotta disagreements on base about whether or not we should respond but fer the sake of yer patience Ah’ll simply tell ye that we did. Ended up being a small group of Uni students, no research lab or anything. They’d been collecting equipment and testing the precise effects of the virus on the body. Things like time till decay, impact of infection site, a whole heap of smart people stuff Ah couldnae tell ye about.” He chuckles and clears his throat.

“Well they had reached a dead end in their capabilities. They had created what they thought could be a cure or at least a big step towards one but with minimal equipment it was hard to properly know, that’s where 141 comes in. They needed somebody to transport this to the only other active research facility, almost 3,000 miles away. So Ghost and I were assigned our first mission in three years.”

Your cat pushes against your chest, trying to jump out of your arms, as if he’s sensed the end of the story and with it has come the end of his patience (he gets that from you). You move away from the fire to give him space to jump out of your arms. His little paws sink into the mud before he trots back into the barn. This gives you a moment to think about what Johnny has told you. A part of you can’t even fathom somebody trying to make a cure, the world has been a shit show too long to be fixed now. Who that has needed to kill to survive would want to go back to paying rent and buying groceries? A stupid question, that’s exactly what you used to have to do every time after deployment, what all three of you have had to do.

Johnny’s looking at you, he’s waiting for you to say something. You wish he would smile, you could be more angry at him if he did. But he looks somber, half lit by the fire and the sun. A question comes to you as your eyes land on the sharp indent of teeth on your forearm where the burgundy scab is beginning to peel, “How did you know it would work?”

“I dinnae.”

The words tumble out before you can stop them. “I wish it hadn’t”

You wish it hadn’t worked, that you wouldn’t have survived, that you wouldn’t have to deal with grieving the loss of a good person all over again. Good people die while little shits like you keep coming back like cockroaches. You meet Johnny's gaze, his dark brows are drawn together casting a dark shadow on his cobalt blue eyes. You want to be alone again, preferably forever, but that doesn’t seem like a choice anymore. So for now you’ll settle with returning to the isolation in the second floor of the barn where the hay bales can shelter you at least for a little while.

Johnny's eyes trail after you as you take the path that Bagels paws left behind. His voice is quiet, “Ah’ll tell ye when the fish’s ready.” You feel him watching you until you slip past the slightly ajar barn door.

Chapter Text

Through the sheer skin of your eyelids you see the long expanse of the morning rays breaking through the gaps in the old wooden planks that make up the barn. The barn smells like smoked fish from last night, the fish you could hardly eat, unwilling to feed the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach. You’re not sure where Ghost and Soap are, or if they’re awake; you hope they’re not, you’d prefer to avoid conversation.

Reaching the first floor you're disappointed to be met by Ghost who is stuffing a large black bag full of their scattered equipment. You try to make your way to the bathroom without catching his attention but he doesn’t need to turn around to know that you’re there. “We’re heading out in 20. Soap packed ya a bag.” His voice holds an even deeper gravel at this time of morning, sleep still lacing his thick accent.

You continue on your route, “Just give me my old bag, I don't need a new one.”

He scoffs, harshly zipping up his bag, “There are no old bags, we had to leave everything behind.”

This hits you hard, like a punch to your gut. You hadn’t thought about them leaving in a hurry, struggling to carry your limp body while trying not to get killed in retaliation. You can see your green bag, with your notebook still inside of it, leaning against the bed that you were given at that damn horrid facility. They just had to take everything from you. Any hope of redemption is now lost amongst white walls and white linoleum and that blood stained hallway full of dead bodies.

‘For When We See The World’, the words will haunt you even more now. You take in a sharp breath, hoping it’ll calm down the rippling waves of sorrow that expand against your skin. Everything has been lost. “Be a little nicer to him, will you?” The sound of his voice almost makes you jump.

You snap your head towards Simon, “What?”

“Johnny,” He catches your gaze, “don’t be so harsh on him.”

Shaking your head you grab a hold of the bathroom doorknob, “Sorry but I’ve no need to suck his dick the way that you do.”

His boots thump against the dirt floor, “Excuse me.”

When you turn around he’s standing right in front of you, arms crossed. He holds you down with a stare that would make most reconsider getting on his bad side. But you’re not most and you have a bit of a death wish at the moment, “You heard me.” Your heart beats hard against your sternum. You want to be angry. You want to blow a fuse. It’ll distract you.

“If anyone here should be sucking him off it’s you. Who the fuck do you think has been taking care of you this past month.” The darkness of his eyes is further amplified by the black paint around his eyelids.

Your lip twitches up and you speak with your teeth bared like you’re threatening to bite. Maybe you are more of a walker now, itching to sink your teeth into something, or maybe you’re just the same mutt you’ve always been. “I would have been more than happy to be part of the massacre that you left in that facility. I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t ask to be part of your mission.”

“None of us did.” He narrows his eyes, “You’re a real goddamn case.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

His chest rises and falls, “If you weren’t so far up your own ass you’d realize that you aren’t the only one grieving.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh don’t act like you’re so sad about having to kill people or even about the kid.”

Ghost looks like he would spit on you if his mask wasn’t covering his mouth, “I’m not talking about me.” Your brows furrow together in confusion. Had you really not noticed?

He stares at you as you come to your realization. It’s like his eyes are made out of burning coals, blistering your skin and sinking through till they meet bone. The barn door creaks open as Johnny saunters in, “Filled up a bottle with some of that instant coffee, Ah dinnae know if it’s good but-” He stops mid sentence noticing the two of you having a stare down. “Something wrong here?”

“Not at all.” Ghost responds.

“Just Dandy,” you say, turning your face away from the brooding man and finally going into the bathroom. You make sure to slam the door on Ghost's face once you’re inside.

You try not to look at yourself in the propped up mirror, seeing your own reflection will remind you of who Ghost's words were aimed at. You use the bucket set up as a toilet and splash some clean water on your face. You’re still angry when you step outside into the now empty barn (you’re not sure if you’re angry at Ghost or at Soap or at your damn self). Next to the door a sage green bag rests, you’d confuse it for your own if it weren’t for the absence of grime, scratches and most importantly your notebook.

Although you should be glad that you at least have a bag, you make a fuss when the only weapon you’re given is a rusty pocket knife, courtesy of Ghost. It’s the only weapon you have for what is estimated to be a five day trip to the research lab that is off the coast of San Diego. Ghost won’t budge on giving you a gun or even a slightly bigger knife, so you will simply have to deal.

The days are long and quiet with nothing but the sound of boots against gravel and dirt and pavement. Soap does most of the talking and occasionally Ghost will chime in with an awful joke or two before going silent again. Getting you to talk is like pulling teeth nowadays, you’re worse than you were before. When you do talk it’s only ever to pick a fight. You stop at least twice a day on breaks on which Ghost makes you all eat something and drink water. When you have to use the bathroom, one of them always goes with you, both of them having just enough decency to turn around. They’re scared that you’ll run away, but you’re not even sure where you would go anymore.

They always find shelter before nightfall, taking the last few minutes of light to search the perimeter and blockade doors and windows. On this particular night the three of you have found refuge in what was once a coffee shop, a rather cozy one if the half broken fairy lights and wooden floor boards with blood splatters is anything to go by. The type of place you would have come to back in the day to buy an overpriced drink and read a half decent book.

Luckily for you guys the glass windows by the main entrance door are boarded up by whoever previously took shelter here. Unluckily there are four dead bodies and the smell of death inside. Nothing you’re not used to. You help Ghost and Soap drag the bodies outside, tossing them into the dumpster. Once upon a time burial and death rituals were a sign of a species intelligence, you wonder what it means that you now dispose of corpses like they’re trash.

When you’re done the doors are locked and the tables are pushed up against them as an extra safety measure. Ghost double and triple checks everything before sitting down to eat. He takes a seat on one of the few chairs still left intact. A few days ago Simon threatened to kill Bagel if he so much as made a peep (to which you told him what you would do to him with your measly pocket knife if he even considered touching a hair on your cat's head; this got your knife privileges suspended for a bit). Now Bagel waits at his side to be given the scraps that Ghost thinks you haven’t noticed he has been feeding him.

Up on the front counter of the coffee shop sits Johnny, his feet barely dangling while he gulps down a can of clam chowder. He hums a song while he eats, the tune sounds familiar. You sit on the floor, with your back pressed against the wall eating a twinkie. You used to think twinkies never expired but every bite gets you closer to thinking that they do. As always Johnny's is the first one to speak, having that innate need to verbalize whatever persistent thought is on his mind, “What do ye two miss most about the real world? Well Ah guess Ah should say the pre-apocalypse world.” He pushes his can towards Ghost offering a switch between their foods, the masked man accepts the offer. “Personally Ah’d have to say a nice warm cup of coffee, this instant shite is getting on mah last nerve. I’d at least try tae make myself a drip if it weren’t cause everyone decided that the most important thing tae take with them was a damn coffee filter.” This adds up by the way he had been feverishly searching the coffee shop earlier.

He chews his food while he waits idly for one of you to chime in. At first you can’t even think of anything to say; your life wasn’t all that good before the outbreak anyhow. You would usually spend your time alone, avoiding people then the same way that you do now. And then you think of early mornings where you would wake up and see the sun out and decide to sleep till it went back down. You think about the sound of an ice cream truck and those ugly popsicles of cartoon characters. You think of the warm feeling of blankets pulled fresh out the dryer heavy with the scent of detergent. You think of children who still had mothers.

You get up from the floor, “I’m gonna go to sleep.” picking up your bag you head over to the back room with its lines of empty shelves and spilled coffee beans. The door won’t properly shut and through the opening you can still hear the two men.

“I’ll take first watch.” Ghost tells Soap.

“Did Ah say something wrong?” Soap questions.

You hear the chair screech as Ghost gets up, “You’re asking stupid questions, nobody wants to think about what was.”

Soaps jumps off the counter and his feet hit the wooden flooring, “Ah was just tryna make conversation.”

----------------------------------

You hear the door open and then shut, followed by the pitter patter of a cat's paws. The room is dark except for the light coming in from the crack in the door and the small space where it almost meets the floor. Bagel has no trouble finding you and curling up into your arms. As per usual he doesn’t purr when you start petting his head but he does nuzzle up against you.

Outside you hear them talking again. It’s Simon, “Ya know we’re gonna have to wake them soon.”

“Ah know, just thought the Hen could use a few more minutes.” it's quiet, you have no choice but to listen to them. “Ah’m worried abot them LT.”

You hear the sound of clanking bullets, “Don’t be, they’re not yours to worry about.”

“Cannae help it.”

Ghost sighs like he's thinking of what to say, “Everyone deals with grief differently. Plus being an emotionless bastard doesn’t seem too off character.” Ouch, you, emotionless? Never.

A chuckle follows, “Ye would know a thing or two about ‘emotionless bastards’.”

“Stop with the air quotes Johnny, what are you trying to insinuate?”

“Just saying, if ye two were nae butting heads all the time ye would realize how similar you are.”

The conversation shifts towards a petty argument between Johnny and Simon with the former laughing more the angrier that Ghost gets. A few minutes pass before Johnny is walking into the back room to wake you up, pleasantly surprised when he sees you awake.

According to Ghost, you should arrive at the lab by mid day. You’re already in a pretty populated area of California only a few miles away from San Diego and it’s only going to get worse from here. The route you’ve been taking to get to the coast has been longer than necessary but has for the most part prevented the unnecessary danger of highly populated cities. But now the only way to get to where you need to go is by passing through the heart of San Diego in order to reach the harbor and get to the small island off the coast of California. They’re betting on one of the boats being able to take you all to the island, and if the boat doesn’t work…you’ll have to take your chances on the bridge that goes across. But everyone knows that putting yourself on a bridge is the equivalent of backing yourself into a zombie infested corner.

You’re used to going through major cities on your search for landmarks to add to your notebook, but Ghost insists on avoiding them as much as possible. The fact that the trip has taken two days longer than it should have because of his avoidance is already pissing you off. You’ll be more than happy to be dropped of at this lab and poked and prodded till some semblance of a cure is extracted from you as long as it means not having to see that damn skull faced fucker again. You’d also rather not see Johnny again… although you’ve been a little nicer to him lately.

A small drizzle begins as the three of you walk in a tight line through the seemingly abandoned city. Or at least abandoned by the status of old times. The wide rows are covered in forgotten cars, doors left half open in such a way that you can vividly imagine the people running out of them. A few dead bodies lay sprawled out along the road, their bodies nothing more than bones now. You all stick to the sides of buildings, keeping your distance from the cars, unsure of what could be lurking in the shadows of a backseat.

All three heads snap at the sound of growls as you reach the corner of a building. Ghost raises up a fist, telling you and Johnny to stop. You sigh and do as you're told, pressing your back to the deteriorating building. You can tell it’s not zombie growls though, they’re too deep and not nearly ravenous enough. You wipe droplets of rain off of your skin while you wait for the sound to grow distant.

The realization hits you, “Sounds like-”

“Apes.” Ghost finishes for you, looking at you over his shoulder. You nod. “Means we’re headed in the right direction, the map shows a zoo close to the harbor.”

The sounds of wild animals follow as you walk through the city. Well perhaps not wild animals…but simply free ones. Bagel is on edge from the animalist growls and occasional howls, his ears are perked up and he twitches at nothing but the sound of the wind. He hangs out of Soaps duffle bag and you pet the top of the cat's head when you stop again. You’re getting closer to the harbor, you can smell the sea amongst the stench of rot and the smell of…smoke.

“What exactly is your plan?” You let your hand fall away from Bagel when Ghost deems the coast clear.

He leads the way, his light footsteps never betraying his heavy frame. “Find a boat, get to the Island.”

You watch the back of his head as it swivels from side to side. looking for death at every corner he passes, “What if we don’t find a boat, or say we find many boats but none of them start?”

He doesn’t look at you when he talks, “Then we’ll take the bridge.” His voice is monotone, but you’re sure you can find a way to tick him off.

You tut, “I see, so suicide is our next best choice.”

“You sure know how to twist my words.”

Johnny chimes in from behind you to ease the mood, “Could always swim.”

Ghost raises his fist again and you all stop, immediately falling silent. It’s the growls again, deep and guttural but aimless. And then the distinct sound of a snapping jaw, the clang of teeth against teeth hoping to meet flesh and only meeting themselves. You catch Ghosts eyes and a silent question lingers between the two of you. You nod: zombies.

A half crumbled building covers the three of you; the way it is crumbled makes it seem like somebody tried to take a bite out of the side of the building. You crouch next to the brick wall lined with thick greenery. You’re too far to see what’s down the street so you can only watch Ghost's face to assess what’s going on out of your line of sight. He sighs quietly before turning back to you and Soap. “Whole street going that way is crowded with face-huggers, they look interested in something down there. We should only have a few stragglers to worry about as long as we’re quiet.” He stares at you for that last part.

You blink at him,“Quiet as a mouse.”

“The Hen can come search with me-”

“No,” Ghost's gaze goes over your shoulder to Soap, there’s more behind that ‘no’ than you know of, a conversation between them that you must have missed. “No, they’ll come with me, we’ll search the right side and you’ll search the left.” He’s quiet for a minute, like he wants to say something else to the brunette. Whatever it is he doesn't say it. He grabs yours and Johnny's attention and points at a rickety wooden flight of stairs which rest under the shadow of an overgrown tree and just across the deadhead invested street. “Should lead us to the harbor. We’ll cross one at a time.”

You peer over at your cat and then at Johnny, “Make sure he doesn’t fall out.”

He smiles, “Ah’ll be protecting him with my life, dinnae worry.”

Ghost runs across first, crouching low the whole time through. His footsteps are light as ever, not a single leaf crunches beneath his feet. When it’s your turn Ghost tells you when to go since he has a better vantage point than you do. You hardly trust him enough to believe that he wouldn’t tell you to cross while all the walkers are pointed in your direction, but you know his faith in his mission is stronger than his dislike towards you. So you trust him – just enough –to let him guide you. When he says go, you go, keeping low. You’re fast on your feet, your hands itching for a gun that you don’t have, something to shoot if one of those rotters decides to look you dead in the eye. You chance a glance at the gathering of them down the street, you can see the faintest sign of smoke from far off. Nerves are set ablaze inside you suddenly: the feeling of fire on your skin, the scent of burnt hair and skin, the feeling of your healed over burns.

You meet Ghost at the other side, your heart beating heavy in your chest. Your heart pounds with the ferocity of life, it so desperately wants you not to die. Even your lungs expand with a gasp of air as you breathe now, once again hidden from the zombies, away from the smoke. Every part of you wants to live, every part of you fears the death that you crave.

The smell of smoke is heavy in the air. A hand lands on your shoulder, “Get behind me.” Ghost orders and you follow suit, too blinded by your onslaught of emotions to care to argue his commands. You try to swallow down the lump in your throat, the one that threatens to break into a sob if you so allow it.

Johnny waits on the other side of the street to be guided by Ghost. He’s crouched and ready to do whatever the masked man tells him to. Simon goes to motion for Johnny to cross, but right then you see Bagel's head tilt like he’s heard something; “Stop.”

Ghost glances over at you, “What?” Johnny’s about to cross.

“Tell him to stop.” And Ghost actually listens to you.

Johnny looks confused and when Ghost turns to you he looks furious, “I don’t need another pair of eyes and ea-”

A gunshot goes off by where the zombies had been grouping together. Ghost pushes you against the shrubbery next to you for cover, the shade of the tree aiding in this task. Simon does a hand motion for ‘regrouping’ that you can only hope Johnny has enough time to see before a stream of hungry rotters rush down the street. He and your cat are lost between the limping corpses.

“What now?” You let out through clenched teeth, clenched only in the hopes that it’ll prevent them from clattering .

“Now, we hope and pray one of those goddamn boats starts.” His shoulder shoves against yours, “Come on, Johnny will find us at the harbor.”

You can hear screams from where the gunshot was fired. You catch a glimpse of the deteriorated building between the groveling bodies of zombies. Soap and Bagel are no longer there, the brick wall shows no sign of their former presence. You follow Ghost down towards the harbor. Death lingers in the halls of your mind.

Chapter Text

The soft rain from earlier quickly becomes a downpour as you and Ghost search the boats on the harbor. He makes you stay close, looking over his shoulder every other second to make sure you’re still there. The two of you are in a small houseboat searching to find the key. Simon checked the motor and it should work well enough to get you all across and to the island that holds the research lab. The rain pounds against the shabby windows as if it were threatening to break the glass. The sound does not ease your nerves. It’s been too long since Soap and your cat have been gone.

You open another drawer and speak for the first time since you’ve been alone with Ghost, “Sure Johnny saw you telling him to regroup?” you push aside old mail and receipts inside.

“Yes.”

Finding nothing in that drawer, you move on to the next, “Hypothetically, say he didn't?” Your eyes catch the shine of metal beneath scattered items.

Ghost sighs, “Hypothetically, he’s smart enough to remember that we planned on checking the harbor. Could you stop worrying about your damn cat and focus?”

Moving aside a roll of duct tape you see that the metal isn’t the key you were looking for but the slick blade of a hunting knife, “Worrying is more of a contagious thing, think I’m getting it from you right now.” You slip the hunting knife into the waistband of your pants; better this than the shitty pocket knife that Simon had given you.

You turn around towards the masked man (he has decided to ignore your quip, if only for his own sanity) he’s crouched down finishing his search of the final cabinet. He groans as he stands up, “I’ll take a quick look in the bathroom, if it’s not there we’ll check the next boat over.” You give a huff in acknowledgement.

The boat is small enough that it only takes Ghost a step or two to reach the bathroom door with dark splotches of grime on it; it’s as wasted away as everything else. You watch him absentmindedly, your thoughts more on Bagel than on Simon. His hand is on the door – it’s one of those sliding ones that never quite shuts – when you feel something. It’s like the softest whisper of the sea, the slightest rocking of the boat. Something like the memory of a dream; and you only call it a dream because you know it’s not your own.

“Hey, uhm, be careful-”

Hands reachout between the gap, fingers grabbing at the air as they try to get a hold of Simon. He pushes hard against the zombies shoulders as he tries to avoid the filthy teeth that open and close in hopes of biting into him. “Little help here!” Ghost urges as he struggles to push the zombie off and simultaneously reach for his weapon.

You hardly need to move to be within striking distance. You hit the zombie on the side of the knee, the deteriorating flesh causing the bone to pop out. Then you draw your new hunting knife into the zombies skull, yanking it out by the handle once the walker stops thrashing. The lifeless husk hits the floor of the houseboat with a thud. A pool of blood verging on a deep shade of mahogany begins to expand from the side of its head. This is the first one you’ve killed since…

Simon's eyes meet the edge of your blade, “I’ll let you keep it.”

You look at him through your peripheral, giving a tired, “Thanks.”

There’s silence for a moment, the boat holding nothing but your heavy breaths. The door of the boat house creaks open making you snap your head towards it. In comes Soap, his duffle bag close to his chest with your cat's head still poking out. The downpour has left him soaked, his clothes clinging to his body and making his tactical vest look a darker shade of green. His mohawk lays slicked back on his head, he takes you and Ghost in with a grin. “What’re ye two getting up to in here? Saw the boat swaying from over at the pier.”You nod over to the corpse, sprawled out in front of Ghost. The brunette tilts his head, “That’ll do it.”

Simon steps over the body and goes into the bathroom to check as he had originally planned. You leave him to it, going over to Soap to inspect your cat. He helps you out by unzipping the duffle bag. “Kept him in mint condition I see.” you say as you use your hand to shake the water off of Bagels fur.

“More like he kept me in mint condition, those ears of his sure dinnae lie.” Soap takes a seat on the cramped sofa pressed between two counters and up against the thin boat walls.

Simon doesn’t bother greeting Johnny but you can tell he’s more relaxed now: you weren’t entirely joking about worry being contagious, you could feel it radiating off of him. “Key’s nowhere to be found, we'll have to check another boat.” He says, joining you two in what could be considered the main area.

Johnny scrunches his brows, “Ye couldnae find the key?”

“That’s what I just said.”

He looks up at you from his seat, a confused look on his face before he laughs, “Yer not joking.” He shakes his head while holding back laughter, “Aye, yer aff yer heid.”

Ghost rolls his eyes, “English Johnny.”

Soap presses a hand to his stomach and lifts a finger over towards the door where a pretty key hanger is mounted to the wall, the silver of the key twisting and turning with the swaying of the boat like it’s begging you to notice it.

He’s still laughing as you raise an eyebrow at Ghost, “So much for our extensive search.” Your cat nudges his head against your chest as you speak.

“You didn’t see it either, don’t start.”

Laughter only thickens the Scots accent, “Pair ah lavy heids the two of ye.”

----------------------------------

The boat starts up with a cough, the motor coming to life for the first in almost five years. You tap your foot against the shitty floorboards as the sound makes the boat rumble. You can imagine how it must echo out across the harbor. This is why you never use cars or boats: too damn loud. But this is Ghost’s plan and if it fails you’ll either wind up dead or have something to rub in his face later.

Soap is at the front of the boat where the steering wheel is, you wonder if you should ask him if he knows how to drive this thing. Ghost hangs off the side with his pistol in hand, ready to shoot anything that moves. And you…well you don’t have a gun and you most definitely do not know how to drive this boat. So you sit on the couch with your cat and wait patiently to see if the herd of zombies from earlier will join you all on the house boat or if you’ll make it to the research lab to start your new life as a guinea pig.

It’s clear that the boat has pulled away from the harbor by the speed that Soap immediately picks up. Ghost slips back inside, going over to the other man, “Turn the engine off when we get closer to the base.”

The boat sputters with Soap's words, “Should be secure right?”

“Lab may be secure but we can’t be too sure about the rest of the base or even the island.”

Your cat falls asleep in your arms while the boat rocks with the waves and the rain. This may be the shortest part of your journey so far. As quickly as the engine started, you hear it turn off. The boat drifts slowly with Johnny guiding it. Your body is rocked forward suddenly in unison with a loud thud and followed by Johnny's voice, “Well somebody's fishing trip may have been ruined, but here we are.”

You put on your jacket and zip it up to hold your cat safely against your chest. Getting off the boat is more of a hassle than it should have been with Johnny having rammed into a small boat on the little harbor stretching out from someone’s backyard. The boat sways with the loss of your weight. A large house sits up on top of the expanse of grass that runs up into a small hill. You can’t quite see beyond the hill and the houses which press together side by side. It’s quiet, only the sound of birds ruffling their feathers can be heard amongst the sprinkle of softening rain.

Ghosts shoulder bumps into yours, “Let's get a move on.”

Your footsteps glide against the wet sidewalk. You’re careful so that your boots don't squeak, weary of drawing any unnecessary attention. The front of the houses sit ideally as you pass each one by. The large windows seem to watch you, open front doors making it seem like the houses themselves are silently screaming. It must have once been a beautiful suburban area. Clearly military housing though, with the same clean cut structure to each house that gives them an unmistakably unnerving feeling; identical house next to identical house.

The houses begin to thin out as the street leads you further away from your little boat. Quickly the buildings go from suburban to blocky grey military complexes. The path that Simon leads takes you all through a landing strip with scattered planes and rusting parts. This reminds you of your own military days, when you really thought that there was something you could do for the world. Even then you felt like you had to make up for something, like you had to justify your very existence. There is no comfort in the familiarity of the landing strip and the dark shadows of the industrial buildings extending out towards you with the high noon sun.

Simon comes to a halt as you come under the shade of one of these buildings. At first it doesn’t stand out amongst all the other identical buildings, that is except for the reinforced door and slick keypad. The door is half raised, cool air flowing out from the gap beneath. You meet Simon's gaze, his eyes as unreadable as ever. Then you catch the twitch of his brow beneath his mask. He’s unsure.

“Si, what are we thinking?” Johnny asks

Simon pulls out his pistol, quickly checking the magazine, “We’ll take a look inside, this should be the building but they may have had to leave for some reason.”

“And what if there’s no one there?” You ask.

He hands Johnny the pistol and takes the sawed shotgun from his own backpack. He doesn’t answer your question as he motions for you and Johnny to go through the opening.

Inside, it's so eerily quiet that you become hyper aware of the rustling of your own clothes. The only light illuminating your path is that which creeps in through the gap that served as your entrance. As Ghost and Johnny walk beside you their outlines seem like walking shadows, as if they have peeled themselves from the walls to join you. Your cat presses himself in your chest, seeking reprieve from the darkness.

Up ahead you see the glow of a red light as it bounces off the tile floor and scatters itself in every direction. Perhaps there is caution to be had when approaching ominous lighting, a tale portrayed through countless horror movies but when you live in constant horror you tend to end up falling for all the cliches. Even if you didn’t want to go towards where the carefully curated light is, the passageway opens up into that area.

The first thing that comes to mind is that it looks like a front desk. A semi circle expands before you and as you walk around it, with a hue of crimson coated on everything, you see tipped over office chairs and scattered papers. There are computers lining the inside of the semi circle, but they’re all off. A few buttons on a control panel are lit; they must be important enough that the generator has kept them on but they don’t serve you much use.

Ghost leans down and picks up one of the many papers thrown about. He nudges Soap and shows it to him, holding the paper up to the red light. You don’t pay them much mind as you approach the computers and attempt to turn them on. Your efforts are to no avail. A hand lands on your shoulder, Ghost doesn’t talk above a whisper (something that always amazes you is how someone with such a deep voice can speak so softly), “I don’t think we’ll find anyone here. You asked what we’d do if that were the case, so here it is: find a radio, walkie talkie, any source of communication.”

He raises up to you the piece of crumbled up paper that he was reading, the red light hardly allows you make out the letters but you see do end up seeing it, ‘QUARANTINE CHAMBERS BREACHED: LOCKDOWN PROCEDURE COMMENCING’ and below it runs a rambling list. You are startled by the cold that suddenly intrudes upon the warmth of your hand. It’s your beloved pistol, and based on the weight the magazine is full.

You meet the shadow of Ghost's gaze hidden beneath his mask and further emphasized by the wash of crimson, “From here on, dead silence.” This is what you had seen in him the first time you met in Kansas, a man who could break you with nothing but a stare. You nod carefully and he lets the full weight of your pistol fall into your hand. First a hunting knife and now your pistol, you’ll have to start saving Ghost's life more often.