Title: Occasio Ultima
Disclaimer: I don't own them, AMC and the character's that play them do…except for Fin, she's mine all mine! :)
Rating: M for language, some violence, mention of sexual assault, torture and well…its' me writing it so of course there will be some Sex. This is a Daryl and OC story, there will be some Daryl/Carol friendship stuff later, I AM a Carol fan...just not a Caryl fan. ;)
Notes: This is un-beta'd so any mistakes are mine, and I apologize in advance. I tried to catch them all but I'm not perfect. :) Revised/some typos fixed 2/27
Chapter One
(Fin's POV)
Someone is out there.
I pause by the tree one hand raised against it's trunk, the bark rough under my bare palms. I'm so close to the lake, there's so much to do still and not much time I'm tempted to continue on. I could slip away before anyone who's moved into the area knows I'm here. My worry that it might be the Peacocks; or someone they'll take in keeps my feet planted where they are.
I should go—avoiding people at all cost is how I've stayed alive. People are dangerous—especially when they're desperate to survive. And how can anyone left in this world be anything but?
Desperate for survival.
An excuse for so many atrocities.
"Come on, that's it." A boy.
In dirty jeans, and an oversized coat, wearing a cowboy hat. Guess I've seen stranger things.
He's walking backwards of all the dumbass things to do, and calling to two of the Dead as he does.
Damnit.
There's only one reason to move the Dead like that. When you're trying to re-direct them from someone who's injured or weak-worse off then you.
I watch the boy start to round the corner, still backpedaling slowly. He's near a privacy fence with its gate hanging open but still intact he turns his head I can practically see the plan forming in his mind. I'm guessing he means to get them inside the fence; double back and close the gate trapping them. The rotten wood won't hold them for long; but it will be enough for him to get away.
That's one good thing about the dead: by the time they get out they'll have forgotten where the meal was.
It's not a terrible idea; he's a quick thinker, good on his feet. That is until five more come lurching out from between two privacy fences behind him.
Shit.
I swing my bow around, slip the leather strap from my shoulder, hold one arrow between my teeth, grab another and nock it stepping out in the open and firing the first shot. It's silent but for the 'thrump' of string releasing. I reload as the first one falls 20 feet in front of him.
That will get his attention, make him take note of what's going on. I've taken down a second one-the closest behind him this time as he pulls a weapon from his side—a gun; I can't tell the kind at this distance but the thundering shot echoes in my ears and I'm grateful I haven't heard one in a while.
You don't realize just how jarringly loud a gunshot is until you hear it at close range.
I grab another two arrows, advance toward them shifting left. I need a better angle. I fire again, moving to get a shot at the eye, the temple is a much harder shot even with the compound bow I'm carrying. It might be the softest bone in the head but it's still bone—even if it's half rotten away. Roughly 100 yards doesn't improve the shot.
Humans are so much easier to take down I muse and fire again.
The boy has taken aim, fired again, another cracking report from the gun barrel echoes off the trees.
I'm close enough now that an arrow would be ridiculous. The more bullets the boy saves the more he'll have in the future. I drop my bow to the broken asphalt and slide my machete from its holder taking down the last two with quick slices. It takes mere moments.
Now the real danger starts.
I don't look at him yet, still holding a now disgusting blade in my hand, I trying to appear as unthreatening as possible now that I'm out in the open. I turn and walk the 20 feet back to my bow, pick it up and slide the leather strap back over one shoulder. I consider just walking away; back into the trees.
I've done more than most people would already.
I sigh. If I was going to walk away I'd have done it already.
I turn, he's watching me, he can't be more then 12. Dark shaggy bangs, hollow cheeks.
"I thought you were someone else."
So he's not alone. "Sorry to disappoint."
His hand rests on the holster strapped to his thigh, but he was kind enough not to point the gun at me. "No, Thank you. That would have been difficult without you."
"Who are you with?"
He tenses. Mouth turns grim, not ready to trust me with that kind of information even if I have just helped him; maybe saved his life.
Caution is a good thing, someone has taught him well.
"Are they injured? I've got herbs, I might be able to help."
Why am I offering to help this kid, am I so desperate for human interaction that I've lost my mind?
"Why?"
I'm wondering the same thing.
"Not many decent people left. I want to be one of them."
He nods. "Me too. It's my Dad, he's pretty bad."
"Well, let's go then"
:: Walking Dead ::
He wasn't kidding.
I almost stop to stare at the man laid out on the floor. I've seen road kill in better shape than this kid's Dad.
It's pretty clear the herbs I have on hand won't be enough. I need more...a lot more. But at least the house they picked to squat in has a gas stove—and has gas still in the tanks I note flicking the switch to light the pilot with a match from my bag when the click results in a soft hiss, but no flame.
I find a pot, am amazed that water still runs from the sink tap after a bit of groaning protest. I set water to boil so I can rinse, wash, wrap and make the poultice I'll need to medicate and take the severe inflammation from the man's face so he can breathe easier. He also seems to have a fever; if he was awake he'd most likely be delirious with dehydration or pain. His ribs have been pulverized his whole chest is a mass of deep bruising like someone took real joy in kicking him repeatedly. And that's not it; someone had to shoot him too.
Bullet's probably still in there too, because why not? What's life without a challenge?
Good lord. "No offense kid, but who the Hell did your Dad piss off? Looks like he lost a fight with the Hulk."
"Nah, it was a military tank."
He must be joking.
Then he elaborates and I'm surprised I have this much left to work with.
I listen to their story as I work; glad to give the kid something to focus on other then what I'm doing.
I know the town he speaks of, am well aware of the danger it posed. I'd encountered their 'enforcers' out on patrol a few times and had to quickly move to avoid detection. The one with the sword for a hand made my skin crawl...But he wasn't anything compared to their leader; he was cruel just because, I don't even think he enjoyed it exactly. Watching him it was like he just couldn't help himself; twisted psycho didn't even begin to cover it.
Woodberry was one of the reason's I'd moved east. I do what I can when I run across people that exist to do nothing but prey on those left in this world; but a town that big was beyond me, and best avoided.
I also knew for a fact the town was gone—burned out months ago. I'd assumed that psycho had finally lost it and burned his own place to the ground since I hadn't seen a larger group move in; I thought everyone in it was also gone. But as always seems to happen the worst of them somehow survived to continue spreading misery and death.
I'd ask myself what the world was coming too.
But that would be rhetorical.
It's good to know there's one less monster out there now, but it's sad he took so many people with him. My resolution returns to me.
I have not done enough.
It's probably a good thing Rick, I've learned his name is, remains unconscious for all this—not just because it would hurt as I dig for the bullet I remove. More because I imagine Carl is a lot more open than he would be; and I need to know what kind of people they are after living in this world—surviving in it any way they can.
I need to know how much evil they've touched, how much of it has curled deep inside them to rot-
Especially if they will be near me.