So, after the newest finale of The Walking Dead, I decided to take the chance and write a fanfiction for the story. I haven't read much of the comics, so the characters (especially Negan) will be more like what we see in the show.
Anything in italics indicates a flashback. Also, the story (except for what is in italics) will probably be set some time in season 5/season 6.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. The only characters I own are the ones not recognized or seen in the show.
Yelling rippled throughout the home, shattering the peace they once built. Her father punched the wall, and the carved sign above the front door swayed slightly. The television was blaring, the volume turned to max, and Beatrice cradled her brother as if he was a child again, not the sixteen year old boy he was now. Her decorated hands covered his ears as a fiery fury brewed in her gut. Inhaling a deep breath, she climbed off the battered couch, helping her scaredbrother do the same.
"Go grab the bags, Tristan. The ones we stashed in the closet," she said.
He bolted upstairs, silent and swift, and Beatrice nervously drummedher fingers against her thighs, her rings trembling and clinking together. She heard the shrillscreamof her mother, the sound of a sharp slap against flesh. The stairs creaked as Tristan returned, both backpacks danglingfrom his slender arms. She quickly snagged one of the packs and approached the front door, her brother lingering behind her. His hand slipped into her's, his palm damp and warm. The door refused to make a soundas they stepped outside, car keys hooked around Beatrice's index finger.
Stoking the dancing fire, Tristan glanced back at his sister, his brow furrowed and his shoulders tense. She was pacing the length of their camp, her hands shoved into her pockets. There was a vicious gleam in her grey eyes, and sweat dampened her skin, her clothes glued to her body. Despite the short amount of time that passed, Beatrice had aged considerably. There was a permanent tension in her face, which had once retained a beautiful youthfulness, and her teeth were always digging into her lips, chewing on them until they bled and stung. She was like a cornered carnivore waiting for the moment she could run free and without restraint.
"Y'know, you're face will stay like that if-Bertie?"
She went still, eyes focused on the trees. They were terribly dark, an unfathomable shadow looming over their sad camp, and she felt the burning sensation of eyes peering back at her. The hairs on her neck and arms prickled as her stomach twisted with apprehension. A heavy silence weighed down the air, thickened the tension, and the forest was placid, a stolid creature surrounding the duo.
"Tristan, grab your gun."
He'd barely felt the weapon against his palm before a hoard of men emerged from the trees, their guns raised and ready to fire. The branches beneath their feet snapped like brittle bones, a sound that chilled his blood.
"Now, you don't need to be doin' that, little man," a mustachioed man said, his tone light yet malicious. He stared down at Beatrice with eyes like tar, his lips curled into a sneer. "Grab their guns, boys. Before the boss gets here."
The camp became a tornado of activity as the men overturned everything in their brutal search for weapons. Beatrice was huddled next to her brother, eyes frantically following each of the survivors that swept past.
"Bea...what are we going to do?" Tristan asked, a tremor in his tinny voice. There was a slur to his words, a show of his obvious fear of the invaders.
"Well, ain't this a fuckin' shit show!"
The grocery store was raided, the shelves toppled onto the linoleum floor. Clutching her brother's sweaty hand, Beatrice carefully examined the disasterthey found themselves in. She wasn'tsure how this happened or why the streets were so empty, but a part of her feared the discovery of the truth.
Somewherenearby, a wet soundresonated from a place she could not see, a sound that made her cringe. It brought about memories of watching her father stir a glass bowl filledwith macaroni salad for the family picnic. However, the stench seeping into every crackof crevice of the room was far more unpleasant. It was as if someone had tossed a mixtureof feces and laundry from a year ago into the quaint space, allowing it to fester in the scorching heat.
"Oh, God. What the hell is that?!" They'dturned the corner and immediately stopped, staring wide-eyed at the creature currently hunched over a corpse, flies nervouslybuzzing around its head. At the sound of the voice, the creature turned, its attention no longer on the feast placed before it. "Oh, shit! Tristan, run!"
They barreled out of the store, hands locked together, and flung themselves into the car Beatricehad stolen from their parents. The engine sputtered, belching out a cloud of black smoke, and the creature lumbered towards them, walking on a single leg as its other one was bent at a perverse angle, bones jutting out like rude spikes. The car barely made it out of the parking lot before a hoard of undead creatures discovered the source of the noise, their groans and wails forever echoing inside the siblings' minds.
The man with the baseball bat coiled in barbed wire was an anomaly to Beatrice. He sauntered out of the trees, a charismatic skip in his step. She understood that he held their lives in his hands, yet there was a charming quality to his expression. In any other situation, she would've enjoyed his presence. However, this wasn't a casual and accidental meeting at some clichéd coffee shop; this was Hell. Barely taking notice of the other survivors, the man approached the brother and sister duo and grinned, the bat slung over his shoulder.
"Sorry for the way my men have been treating you. They're fuckin' barbarians if you don't restrain 'em!" He said, a bit of laughter falling from his lips. "Now, I'm gonna be fuckin' polite and ask your names before the real storm hits."
Fidgeting, Tristan saw his sister roll her eyes and lean back, arms folded over her chest. It was a show of defiance he'd seen on multiple occasions, especially when she would have an unpalatable encounter with their heated parents. However, an argument with them wouldn't risk her life; it wouldn't result in having her head bashed in. Nonetheless, Beatrice simply ignored the man situated before them and continued to watch the multitude of survivors consuming what was left of their camp.
"Now, that's really not cool, sweetheart," the man teased, a clear frustration rooted deep in his voice, "I'm tryin' to be fuckin' polite, and you're going to act like a bitch. Let's try again. I'm Negan. What's your name?"