Greetings! This is my first attempt at a Walking Dead fic. Hope you enjoy and be sure to comment!
Side note: I went back and changed a few things in the first couple chapters, mainly character stuff to make them a little more IC. Hopefully it reads better now :)
My lungs were on fire. My throat was frozen from the icy winter air. I'd been running so hard and so far that I couldn't even feel my legs anymore. My skin prickled where the wind scratched its cold claws against it, but the rest of me was drowning in a feverish sweat. The heavy pack strapped to my back wasn't making matters easier, but I couldn't drop it. Everything I had was inside that pack. Luckily the growlers were slow, though the mob following me was massive.
The deserted, tree-lined street seemed to stretch on for miles before me and the growlers kept emerging from the sidelines. I felt like I was running from an avalanche that was nipping at my heels. One misstep and I was dead.
There was a lone growler on the pavement ahead of me. I gripped the handle of my machete tightly as we approached each other at vastly different speeds. One strong swing of my arm decapitated the monster and I kept running. I didn't even dare look over my shoulder. I might trip over something in that single moment of stupid curiosity. Even if I'd lost them miles back, the momentum from the pure adrenaline pumping through my veins pushed me onward and faster. I was starting to run not to escape certain death, but because I hadn't felt so free in a long time. I'd made it this far. I wasn't about to slow down now.
Or so I thought.
There was some sudden event missing from my immediate memory that would explain why I was sprawled out on the ground in the middle of a crossroad, the last second of my speed dragging quickly to a halt as the asphalt broke my fall. My machete had flown out of my hand in some direction or another and was now lying several feet away from me. I scrambled to get up, but the pain in my leg suddenly deadened all my other senses. I couldn't hear. My vision was getting cloudy. I dug my fingertips into the street to try to regain my sense of reality. I was dizzy. What on earth could I possibly have tripped over? I had been looking where I was going and there were no impending hazards in my way.
The tight grip on my upper arm snapped me back to full consciousness as I flailed instinctively in an effort to escape.
"Whoah, whoah, whoah!" The man standing over me tried to calm me down as I successfully wriggled free and fell back to the ground. I blinked through the dust in my eyes, trying desperately to see his face, but all I could see was the wrong end of a loaded crossbow.
"You okay?" he barked, a little out of breath and clearly not concerned for my wellbeing at all. I thought I could hear the distinct rumbling of a Harley nearby.
"I'm fine," I reacted without thinking. I was not fine. I was, in fact, so far from fine that I hadn't even realized the other crippling pain in my left palm. I looked down at my hand to see a jagged rock sticking halfway into my skin. "That's not supposed to be there," I mumbled.
"You tryin' to get yourself killed out here?" the stranger scolded me. He lowered his weapon, but only enough that I could see his face.
"What happened?" I replied as I looked around. There was a motorcycle parked on the side of the road, engine still running. The man in question looked as filthy as me, skin darkened by dirt and blood, greasy hair hanging in his eyes. The black leather vest he wore looked impeccable in comparison to the dirty, torn shirt he wore underneath it.
"Almost killed myself tryin' not to run you over," he answered.
"Sorry," I said, not fully comprehending the situation just yet. I must have hit my head at some point, either against the bike or the ground. Maybe both.
"Lemme see both your hands," he demanded. I held my hands up in surrender, painfully aware of how far out of reach my own weapon was. "That don't look good," he observed, eyeing the rock lodged in my palm.
"Doesn't feel good, either," I replied.
"You got any bandages?"
"In my bag," I said.
"Wrap yourself up and be on your way," he said, lowering his crossbow and turning back to his bike.
"Kinda need some help for that," I blurted out. "Do you mind?" I added when he turned back to me with a scowl.
After a moment's consideration, he gave in and kneeled down before me, holding out an expectant hand. Carefully, I slipped my bag from my shoulders and brought it around for him. He pulled it open and started rummaging through it. He found the tiny first aid kit somewhere in the bottom and unzipped it. There was a piece of gauze just big enough the cover my hand, a small roll of tape, tweezers, band-aids, and some disinfecting wipes.
"Why didn't you keep driving?" I asked as he tore open one of the wipe packets. I had learned the hard way not to trust anyone, no matter how kind and generous they might seem. A strange man with a crossbow ready to shoot me certainly did not fit the possibly-not-a-murderer description. The redneck twang he spoke with didn't help his case, but maybe that was just my liberal, west coast prejudice doing my thinking for me.
"Would you rather I left you as bait in the middle of the road?" he returned.
A sudden sharp pain shot from my palm up the rest of my arm and into my spine. I hadn't noticed him pick up the tweezers and go for the invading rock. I tried to pull my hand away again, but his grip was strong as he pressed the disinfecting wipe against my wound. It made me forget all about the pain in my leg.
"Is it just you?" I asked through gritted teeth, trying to distract myself. "Or do you have a group somewhere?"
"Do you have a group?" he countered.
"I asked first," I replied indignantly.
"What's it to you?"
"I wanna know if I should be worried about getting jumped later," I said.
"Don't worry about us," he replied. "You got nothin' useful in your bag." I must have made a face that projected my sudden fear. "Don't be so paranoid," he added. I couldn't tell if he was trying to reassure me.
"Can you blame me?" I asked.
"I guess you got a point," he surmised. "There," he added when he was done cleaning and wrapping my hand.
"Thanks," I muttered, wiggling my fingers to test the pain. Not too bad once the initial stabbing sensation had dulled to a stubborn throbbing.
"Can you stand?" he asked as he stood back up, offering a hand.
"I think so," I said, ignoring the hand to push myself up. I managed to straighten all the way up, but had to keep the majority of my weight on my right leg as I had fallen directly onto my left thigh and had most likely bruised it deeply. I limped over to where my machete lay and picked it up. There were still bits of rotten skin and spinal fluid from my last kill dripping from it.
"You can barely walk," the stranger commented.
"An astute observation," I replied as I wobbled back over to pick up my bag.
"Suit yourself," he said, turning back to his bike.
"Thanks for the help," I stated.
"See you 'round," he said, and kicked the bike into gear and sped off, leaving me alone again in the middle of the road. I suddenly felt a hint of regret. Would he have taken me in if I'd asked? Would he have let me join his group? No, that sort of thing didn't happen these days. Everyone was out to get everyone else, as if the walking corpses weren't enough of an enemy to deal with. If I had been in his place, I would have kept driving.
In all the dazed excitement I had failed to notice the fact that I had indeed outrun the mob that was after me. No doubt more were on their way, what with the deafening engine on that bike. I hoisted my bag back onto my shoulders and continued down my previous path. I'd have to take care not to limp too obviously in case someone else were to mistake me for a growler.
The pain was slowly starting to ease up. I wasn't limping quite so dramatically anymore. A few miles down the road I came across a group of dead growlers. That meant there were other people nearby. Maybe it was the stranger's group. Someone who had agreed to help me even though the predicament was mostly my fault couldn't have been that horrible. And horrible people don't usually stick to nice, welcoming groups. If I were to ever see him again, it might just be the luckiest day of my life.
I kept my eyes on the road ahead. It stretched on forever. It was one of those highways between cities that were basically just straight lines connecting point A to point B with several hundred miles of asphalt in between. There was nothing but trees and grass on either side of the road. Where there were no trees, the harsh sun beat down on my face. My skin burned despite the cold air. Nothing was comfortable anymore.
There was something in the road ahead. From my vantage point it was just a dark blob, but I knew that as my distance to it decreased, it would certainly turn into a pack of growlers. I kept walking. Straight ahead. Towards the blob. I knew I should probably take a detour through the trees or stop and rest out of sight for awhile, but something in me pushed me forward. I was angry. Angry at the world for what it had become; angry at my feet for hurting; angry at my hand for letting the rock pierce it; and quite honestly, I was angry at myself for not being a little nicer to the stranger who'd helped me.
I hated the growlers. I hated their absolute refusal to stay dead. I gripped the handle of my machete and drew it out of the holster on my belt. I was going to get some of my anger out.
The blob did indeed turn out to be a pack of growlers. Not only had the world become dangerous, it had become predictable. There were no more surprises. What didn't want to eat you wanted to kill you. I marched forward, the dull growl of the undead clearly audible now. I counted them. Seven. I could take seven growlers.
They were all aware of my approaching presence and had started their gimpy shuffling in my direction. Without a moment's hesitation, I sliced the head off of one, then another, then a third. I had to scramble back a few steps as they were all trying to get at me at once. One of them nearly scratched my face. I stuck the end of my blade directly between its eyes. The soft squish was oddly satisfying. The skull beneath the rotted skin seemed to have the consistency of an orange peel, not hard bone. In the beginning, that sort of thing made me gag. Now it was just like any other mundane fact about existence.
The last three were a bit more aggressive. I swung my blade through the air several times but only managed to knock one down and partially decapitate another. While my attention was on those two, the third locked its spindly fingers around my right forearm. I tried to struggle free but it had quite a strong grip for such a stupid thing. I switched the machete into my free hand and swung as hard as I could. I was right-handed, so my left didn't do much damage, but it knocked the thing off me and freed up my right arm. With one strong swing, number three was down. One and two were dragging themselves over their fallen comrades, trying to get a taste of my ankles. The heel of my boot broke right through the skull of one, and my blade took care of the last.
Out of breath and very much triumphant, I made my way into the trees so I could sit and drink some water. I leaned against a thick tree trunk, my bag on the ground beside me, and chugged as much water as I allowed myself for that day. I could hold off on the rest until tomorrow.
I shoved the bottle back into my bag and let my head fall back against the bark. I hadn't realized how tired I was or how badly swinging that heavy blade had hurt the fresh wound in my hand. Without thinking, I let sleep creep over me.
I wasn't sure if it was just half a dream, but I could have sworn I heard a familiar voice say, "Aw, shit," before everything went dark.