How to Save a Life
Before, apocalypses had come in all shapes and sizes. Epidemics, financial crises, genocide, and war. Moe's personal apocalypse came in the form of a dead wife and a new baby girl in a crappy apartment in Melbourne, when he could still smell funeral flowers and didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do. She was worth it though, Belle made it worth it. They were years and worlds away from that now. They had made it together, him and his girl.
Moe heaved the refilled fuel canisters into the back of his van, the Game of Thorns logo faded and sporting a couple gooey stains. The results of another apocalypse, the biggest and strangest and goriest the world had seen. Like something out of the fevered brain of a paranoid shut-in. The dead rising, and all that. But not in the sweet way of Lazarus in his funeral clothes. No, this was fever and madness, a bloody death, then . . . then the corpse waking up with an ungodly appetite.
"You got that, darling?" Moe asked, watching Belle struggle with lifting two square ammunition cases. A narrow blue glare answered him through flyaway strands of chestnut hair.
"I've got it, Dad," Belle grunted and shoved the remainder of their ammo into the van's bed. Moe nodded, knowing better than trying to tell Belle what she could and couldn't do. He pushed back the bill of his sweat-stained Melbourne Renegades ball cap and squinted at the overcast sky. A brisk wind raked through skeletal trees, tearing through his worn coat and shirt. He saw Belle shudder and wished he had something better than a tattered hoodie to clothe her in. Her jeans were ripped and had holes at the knees—not on purpose—and the shirt had once been blue and now was a rusty sort of purple. Walker bloodstains were hard to get out.
"We'd best finish up here. It looks like rain." Moe caught up his shotgun and made his way to the wrecked Chevy smashed into a tree, smelling of pine resin and spilled gasoline. He heaped the boxes of cereal and cans of vegetables strewn in the trunk bed into a laundry basket. The former owners lay strewn across the street in similar states of grisly repose; one was a young woman who looked no older than Belle. The blood had dried into a gummy brownish mess, flies buzzing with alacrity. The walkers had moved on some time ago, by Moe's reckoning. The wind helped with the smell.
"Right." Belle's reply was soft and Moe looked back and found her gnawing on her lower lip and fiddling with the strap of her leather holster at her right hip.
"Shouldn't we bury them, at least?" she asked, eyes fixed on the eviscerated remnants of a boy no older than ten, his entrails peeking from beneath the oversized Def Leppard t-shirt.
"Bells, you know we can't do that. We have to keep moving. We told the others we'd be back before nightfall," Moe said gently. His sweet girl. She took care of everybody. Before, she was going to school to be a social worker. Much too busy to find the right guy before the world went to hell.
"Ok. Mei-Xing and Phil threatened to come after us if we were late again," she said with a weak smile, slinging an empty rucksack over her shoulder.
Moe snorted at the mention of Belle's two school friends. Mei-Xing, the Chinese exchange student, had majored in corporate law. Her father had been a famous kung fu and weapons master and taught his little girl everything he knew. Mei-Xing knew seven ways to kill a man with a Popsicle stick and had adapted to the zombie apocalypse remarkably well. The fucking sword she carried around helped too. Phil was a milder sort. He went into social work like Belle and was handy with machines, thanks to his mechanic daddy. He was a handsome, gallant lad, one Moe would have happily allowed to date Belle. Too bad Phil was crazy sick in love with some girl named Aurora.
It grew too dark to see by the time Moe and Belle had finished loading the last of the supplies from the destroyed Chevy. Belle had laid rags over the faces of the dead—those that still had faces, anyway, and murmured a few words. Rain pattered, first in cold little sprinkles, then a fine miserable drizzle, then a thundering downpour.
"We've lingered too long. Let's go!" Moe shouted over the rising din of rain. There was an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades. On the road like this, with dense Maine forest pressing in on each side, he felt claustrophobic, with the imagined press of eyes behind every tree. Walkers weren't their only worry. Moe winced as Belle slammed the rear door of the van shut and again as they both climbed into the van's open cab and turned the engine over. Noise attracted walkers.
"Seatbelts," he said, turning to grin at Belle.
"Dad, look out!"
Cold hands seized his arm and Moe turned to see the half-decomposed face of the boy snarling and snapping at him. The rapport of Belle's pistol echoed horribly in the metal box of the van. Brain splattered on Moe's arm and stuck, cold and sticky to his cheek. The walker slumped and Moe wasted no time, whipping the van into gear and stomping on the gas, ears ringing and blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue. He swiped the gunk from his face, praying none of it got in his mouth. Aside from bites and scratches, they still hadn't pinned down the exact mechanism of transmission. More and more were turning, and it scared him.
"Were you bitten? Scratched?" Her voice seemed to reach him from a long way off, and barely audible over the intense ringing. Dewed with rain and highlighted by the green dash, Belle's face looked like a ghoulish caricature of fear.
"I'm fine. I'm ok," Moe said hastily, his voice thick and slow to his ears. The van's wipers were slow, so much of his concentration was on the road, trying to navigate the abandoned vehicles strewn along the highway. That didn't stop him from hearing Belle's smothered sobs, or fail to glimpse her hand shake as she returned her pistol to its holster.
"That's why we never go out alone, Belle. Just think if it was you or Emma out there alone."
"I know. I just needed to get away, just for a moment. Nothing happened yesterday." Moe scowled at the windshield.
"But it could have, Bells. You know how fast it happens."
"Let's just drop it," Belle whispered, huddling under the wholly inadequate protection of her hoodie.
They rode in silence the rest of the way, and Moe regretted turning the incident into a fucking teaching moment. If he hadn't been sitting there with his thumb up his arse, he could have saved Belle from having to put down what had once been a child. Climbing out of their shelter to go read for an hour in peace wasn't the same thing. On a good day, one could barely see the dirt road that led to their camp. Squinting through the rain, Moe would have missed it if not for Belle's signal.
"There, Dad."
Moe uttered a curse, whipping the van onto the faint track. Navigating the booby traps and switchbacks took some time, but soon enough they were outside the cabin. By all outward appearances, it was burned out and abandoned. Belle swung down from the van's cab and cupped her hands to her mouth, shouting: "Paradise!" For a minute, it was silent except for the rain. Then a shout of the accompanying phrase: "Lost!" A heavy screech opened the cabin's fortified door. David emerged, M16 at the ready. The codes phrases corresponding to famous literature had been Belle's idea. Still, they had survived this long by being cautious. Upon seeing Belle, David relaxed.
"We were starting to worry about you guys. Any trouble?"
"Nothing we couldn't handle," Belle replied, brushing past David into the cabin. David arched one golden brow at Moe, slinging the gun along his back to help Moe unload.
"Something happen out there?" he asked, taking the ammo cases in one hand and slinging a water canister onto his shoulder. A farm-boy from upstate, David was as strong as an ox. Moe hunched his shoulders as a streamlet of water trickling from the van's bent frame wormed its icy fingers down the back of his coat.
"I said something stupid. No surprises there," he muttered. David grunted, but if it was in reply to Moe's words in a response to heaving his load onto the cabin's porch, Moe wasn't sure.
"Had to put down a child walker. It shook her up a bit," Moe elaborated as they sloshed through the mud and puddles to gather more from the van's bed.
"That's rough. My girls will talk to her." David said, blue eyes sincere, "She'll be alright, Moe. Belle's a tough cookie."
"All our cookies are tough," Moe said with a tired smile. David preened a little, scratching the golden stubble on his chin. His wife, Snow, was their master archer and a wicked cook to boot. Skills they could attribute to her hippie parents, along with her unusual name, Moe often joked. And Emma, their lanky teenage adopted daughter, was their best scavenger. 'Tough cookie,' didn't even begin to cover it.
"That's the truth," David replied. A chilly moment passed between them, ever-present worry darkening their eyes. No matter how tough they were, their group was still pathetically small, scrappy and under-armed. And more than half of them were very beautiful women. A fucking buffet to any passing group of marauders.
"Ooh, Cookie Crisp! I love this stuff," Emma said, snagging the waterlogged box from the laundry basket Moe held. David laughed, snagging her in a one-armed hug and kissing her wild blond curls.
"Let's get this stuff in. I'm sure Snow has supper ready."
"I'll pull the van around to the barn," Moe said, shoving the basket toward Emma, "Make yourself useful, Blondie." Emma tucked the Cookie Crisp under her arm, accepting the basket with a stuck-out tongue. Moe ruffled her hair with a chuckle and stepped back into the rain. The quicker he hid the van, the quicker he could get inside with warmth, food and safety.
"Hey Moe, hang on a sec," David called, stepping up the door as Moe sat in the cab. A cold ball settled in Moe's belly at the dark, serious look on David's face.
"We have a . . . a visitor in the barn." Moe's stomach dropped to his toes, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"A visitor? How did he find us?"
"Snow found him run up a tree just outside our perimeter. Walkers had killed his friends, but he'd put down six before he ran out of ammo."
"Six?" The man sounded dangerous.
"And you brought him back here?" Moe said incredulously.
"He'd already seen the fence and Snow from his tree. It was only a matter of time. We blindfolded him, tied him up. He won't tell us his name, or where he's from. Mei-Xing and I roughed him up pretty good." David's brawny shoulders twitched defensively beneath the damp red flannel of his shirt.
"So what's the plan? Keep him here until his people come looking for him?" Moe said.
"We could just turn him loose. He wouldn't survive long without this."
David pulled a modified Colt .45 from his shoulder holster. Moe muttered a low curse. Two years of scavenging had earned them an armory of weapons held together with duct tape and spit. This was a work of loving mastery, even to Moe's unschooled eyes. Phil would no doubt salivate over the thing with its gold grips and extended magazine.
"A man who can hold onto that for so long is either very lucky or-"
"Dangerous," David finished.
"We have to know what he knows," Moe said. The world was a darker, harsher place now. No room to be squeamish if it meant their group's safety.
"Mei-Xing and I will take care of it after supper," David said, nodding grimly. Moe yanked the van into gear.
"Belle won't agree," David said, stepping back onto the porch. Moe snorted.
"Understatement of the bloody century."
ZZZ
The space heater squealed in protest when Belle twisted it on. A sigh gusted from her as the heat seeped through her sodden clothing. She made a mental note to thank Phil for fixing the generator. It certainly was a godsend when one was soaked to the bone with a rainy Maine autumn creeping in. The cabin's only bedroom belonged to Belle, Mei-Xing and Emma, who slept crammed into a full bed. Snow and David snuggled in the attic, leaving Dad and Phil to bunk down on the floor of the main room. Belle shucked off her hoodie and shirt, huddling on the dusty floorboards in front of the space heater to untie her boots. The sodden laces defied her and she bit her lip, both to bite back a cry of frustration and to keep her teeth from chattering.
She understood, she did. These days, they were all paranoid and over-protective. But she was twenty-five fucking years old. Old enough to rent a car for God's sake. Finally free, Belle pried off first one boot, then the other. She could bloody well take care of herself. Shimmying out of her sodden jeans and socks, she huddled in her underwear under the protection of a threadbare towel. Belle scrubbed her head, knowing her hair would be unmanageable if she let it be. No one batted an eyelash when Mei-Xing wandered off alone!
"Luck was on my side. I found you some dry clothes. Emma forgot most of our laundry was still on the line when the rain came in," Mei-Xing said, shouldering open the cracked door. Upon seeing her friend, Belle could concede there was a reason for that. She was a study in lean, black lethality: black hair caught up in a topknot, clad in dark jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt with the battered black sheath of her sword across her back.
"Thanks," Belle said, giving up on finger-combing her hair in exchange for the clean-ish jeans and flannel shirt neatly folded in Mei-Xing's hands.
"Mei-Xing, what happened to your hands?" Belle asked, reaching for Mei-Xing's left hand, sporting spectacular bruises across the knuckles. Mei-Xing snatched her hand back, her face was inscrutable. Belle missed the times they had done homework together and giggled over each other's attempts to learn the other's language. A pang struck Belle's heart. She supposed the end of the world and knowing that she would never see her family again would make anyone grim.
"It's nothing, Belle. Get dressed. It's time for dinner."
"Mei-Xing-" the door shut with a crisp click behind the other woman. Belle sighed and reached for the jeans.
Dinner consisted of the rabbits Snow had shot, roasted over the fireplace, plus cans of green beans seasoned with rabbit grease and salt. A handful of Cookie Crisp made up dessert. Emma had already devoured her portion and some of David's with alacrity. If pressed, Belle would have said she missed forks and chairs. She missed not having to have a gun within arm's reach. But these people, sitting cross-legged in a half-circle before the fire, were the best in the world. She would kill or die for any of them, as they would for her. They ate in silence, save for the hiss of the fire and the drumming of the rain on the roof.
Belle nudged Phil from his narrow-eyed concentration on his green beans. His smile was quick and sweet, brown eyes soft behind the foggy lenses of his glasses. Belle was a sucker for brown eyes. Once there might have been something between them, after Phil had confided in her what had happened to Aurora. Now they were more brother and sister and they both were more comfortable in that place.
"What are you thinking about? Usually machines are the only ones to get such concentration," she said, spearing a green bean with the tiny prong of her plastic spork. She chased a dripping trail of juice into her mouth, waiting for her answer. Phil took in a breath to answer when Snow circumvented him.
"Belle, we have a guest in the barn," she said, tossing a strand of her black hair over her shoulder.
"A guest?" she repeated, watching Snow's face. A tiny line appeared between Snow's arched brows, distress evident in her posture. A cold, clawing feeling scraped down Belle's spine and settled in her belly.
"He wandered onto our camp. Killed six walkers on his own after they killed his buddies," Phil said, gnawing on a strip of rabbit meat. Belle digested this, turning to Mei-Xing.
"Did he attack you?"
Looking acutely uncomfortable, Mei-Xing glanced at David then back to Belle.
"No. He did not. We had to learn what he knew of us." Her face must have reflected her horror, because Phil patted her knee.
"And what did you learn?" she asked.
"He said nothing," Mei-Xing replied, eyes downcast.
"It's been decided, Belle. We have to take care of it," David said, gently.
"He's a threat. He knows about the cabin," Dad echoed, scowling. Belle's stomach turned. She looked from face to face, seeing expressions ranging from Mei-Xing's stony resolve to Emma's acute disquiet.
"So that's it? After dinner we just put a bullet in his head?"
"Belle . . ." Phil whispered, laying oil-rimmed fingers on her arm.
"No! This isn't us. We aren't like them. We're alive. We're human. We don't kill in cold blood!" Belle hissed, rising up onto her knees.
"He would have shot at me today, but his gun was empty," Snow said, beautiful face lined with an expression of extreme remorse. Emma huddled closer to her mother, stirring a green bean idly in her can. Horrified, Belle turned to Phil.
"You can't agree with this!" she said, pleading with him to side with her. Phil dragged his fingers through his collar-length brown hair.
"It isn't a matter of agreement, Bells. This guy, whoever he is, he isn't one of us. And he definitely isn't worth one of our lives. What happens if we let him go? He gets his buddies and brings 'em back here to take what we have. Or kill us, or worse." A shudder rippled through her. Belle could guess what 'worse' meant.
"It's what has to be done, darling." Belle lunged across the circle and grabbed her father's hand.
"Dad, please. L—Let me talk to him. Maybe if we explain our predicament, he'll-"
"What, Belle? Promise he won't seek revenge?" Mei-Xing's voice was cold and sharp as the steel of her sword and cut just as deeply.
"He wouldn't need revenge if you hadn't-" Belle began.
"Enough!" David snapped. Belle exhaled through her nose, sinking back onto her haunches. Tense silence stretched on, none of them meeting her eye. Belle swallowed twice and tried again.
"Can't you let me at least try? Please?" she begged.
"Come on, Pop. Let Belle try. What harm could it do?" Emma said, green eyes shining. David's square jaw clenched.
"Snow?" he asked, seeking her input and support, as always. Snow offered Belle a watery, apologetic smile.
"Let her try," she said quietly. Triumph glowed hot and brilliant in her chest. She could do this, she could save this man. David glanced from Moe to Mei-Xing to Phil. Finally, he heaved a sigh. His deep blue eyes held Belle's and in them, she saw the conflict weighing on him and forgave him for it.
"Fine. I don't see what good it will do, but I give you tonight to try and accomplish whatever you think you can. But at dawn . . ."
"You'll execute him, I get it," Belle said, rising to her feet. She understood their point. It didn't make it any less reprehensible or her any less determined to circumvent it, but she did understand.
But she had to try.
"I take it you haven't fed him today? Or tended his wounds?" Belle said scathingly. They all had the grace to look abashed. Belle snatched up the remnants of her own meal; she'd lost her appetite.
"I fed him a fiber bar through the slats of the barn," Emma piped up. David and Snow swiveled toward their daughter, pinning her with matching glares.
"What?" Emma said, toying with the end of her ponytail, "It's not like he could grab me or anything. He said, 'Thank you, lass.'" Emma giggled and gestured.
"Oh, don't forget his cane, Belle. That might help butter him up." Belle bit back several choice responses for depriving a crippled man from his aids, and instead said, "Thanks, Emma. That's a good idea." Belle hooked the gold-handled cane over her arm, gathering the food, Snow's first aid kit and a ratty flannel blanket.
Dad's voice followed her out into the rain: "Mei-Xing, go with her. If he tries anything funny, kill him."
The rain hadn't let up; in fact, it looked like it was coming down harder. Belle and Mei-Xing huddled under a raincoat as they sloshed through the puddles to the barn. The lone flashlight illuminated the rusty padlock barring the door. Mei-Xing produced the key and together they hauled the heavy door wide enough to slip inside. Dad's van and David's Honda sat idle.
"Phil took the master fuses. Even if our guest got out of his cell, he could not escape," Mei-Xing whispered in Belle's ear. Belle made a noncommittal sound. 'Guest' and 'cell' were words that should never be in the same sentence. On the barn's corrugated tin roof, the rain sounded more like a hurricane. Aside from their makeshift garage and Phil's workshop, the barn had a couple stalls where they stored supplies, mostly water and gas. Their guest supplanted the red gas cans in the farthest stall.
"Ah, the hour of my reckoning has come at last," drawled a raspy, Scottish-burred voice.
"Not quite," Mei-Xing said, lifting the flashlight to his face through the grill of welded rebar.
"Bloody Christ, you are a cruel wee bitch, eh?" he muttered, holding up a hand to shield his eyes.
"Oh, please." Belle said, taking the flashlight, and pointing it at the ceiling.
He didn't look dangerous and he didn't look like a cripple, she thought. On the uneven concrete floor of the stall, he sat leaning against the wall, one knee drawn up and one leg extended. He wore nondescript jeans and boots, a blue shirt spackled with bloodstains, and a black leather jacket. Brown hair threaded with grey hung all the way to his shoulders, tucked behind his ear to reveal a homely, pointed face. A homely face bearing the recent marks of a beating. His lip trickled blood in sticky trails, another cut wept blood high on his left cheek.
"I've brought you some food," she said. His smirk revealed the glint of a gold tooth. He waggled his bound hands in her direction.
"And how do you suggest I eat, dearie?" he said, arching a brow. Belle frowned.
"I suppose I'll have to feed you," she said, hauling at the chain locking the stall door. Mei-Xing's callus-roughened hand closed over Belle's elbow.
"This is foolish. If he's hungry, he'll find a way to eat what you're kind enough to give him." Her slanted black eyes flashed, nervy strength emanating from her. Mei-Xing was scared. Hordes of undead pawing clumsily at them, and she hadn't batted an eyelash. But this man, tied and beaten, scared her.
"He's not an animal," Belle said, shrugging off the grip and pushing open the stall door. Her bravery was a weak, quivering thing in her belly. She would not turn her back on this man. Belle brandished the first aid kit and his cane with a wobbly smile.
"Let me see if I can fix you up." The man's dark eyes flickered over her coolly, then smirked.
"Even if this is your version of 'good cop, bad cop,' I don't really care. Have at it, dearie."
Belle offered a hollow, breathless laugh, kneeling beside him gingerly and surveying the damage. Mei-Xing had really done a number on him. Aside from the obvious damage to his face, he was favoring his right side, bruised ribs, maybe? And his hand . . . with a gasp, she glanced quickly at Mei-Xing.
"Did you break his finger?" her tone was equal parts disbelief and horror, gesturing to the pinky finger of his left hand, hanging at an odd angle. The man's chuckle ended with a grunt of pain.
"No, that was the big, blond one. The other black-haired lass got me with an arrow, here." The man lifted both hands, wrists bound by zip-ties, and gestured toward his right shoulder. She gulped, trying and succeeding in envisioning David's strong, callused hands snapping the man's finger like a chicken bone.
"Here," she murmured, splinting the broken finger between two tongue depressors, securing it with black electrical tape. Belle peered at the leather-clad shoulder and saw the sluggish pulse of blood, slick and dark like oil in the low light, trickling from a neat hole in the meat of his deltoid. There was a hot knot in her throat, she felt like she was choking on it.
"The arrow knocked me on my arse. I hope you weren't killing rotters with those arrows," the man said, obligingly leaning forward so Belle could peel back the jacket and tend the wound.
"What color was the fletching?" Belle asked, to distract him, as her cold, shaking hands rummaged through the first aid kit.
"Blue, but not nearly as bright as your eyes, dearie." The soft tone was accompanied by a coy tilt of his chin and the velvet dark of his brown eyes that made her stomach flip. It had been two years since anyone had flirted with her. Beneath the leather and blood, there was quite a bit of wiry muscle on him . . . Fumbling, Belle poured the alcohol over his wound instead of the gauze she held and he howled something in a guttural tongue. Gaelic?
"Sorry, oh I'm so sorry!" Belle cried, slapping a waterproof bandage over the wound and scrambling back a pace. Her hand clapped on the rough grip of her pistol. Behind her, Belle heard Mei-Xing shift forward. The man grimaced, regarding her through the screen of damp brown hair, chest heaving.
"It's all right. Let's have some of that food instead, hmm? I'll manage with the rest just fine." Belle nodded, thankful the low light hid her fierce blush.
"We use the blue-feathered arrows to hunt food only. Prevents contamination." Belle felt like she was babbling as she cleaned his battered mouth with the damp hem of her sleeve. Then she speared a bite of rabbit meat and the man accepted without demur, stabilizing the wobbling spork with his fingers. His breath was a warm, tickling caress on the backs of her fingers.
"Smart," he said as he chewed. The tension relaxed a little as Belle speared him bites, the din of the rain the only sound.
"What's your name?" she asked, watching his long throat shiver as he drank from the water bottle she offered. The change was immediate. His dark eyes narrowed, fingers curling in the slightest of defensive gestures.
"Impressive. You almost had me, little Beauty." Belle heaved an exasperated sigh.
"Oh yes, my master plan. Ply you with cold meat and spilled rubbing alcohol all to learn that most vital piece of intel: your bloody name." The man chuckled, tapping the tip of her nose in a surprisingly fond gesture.
"Names have power, dearie. I'd be honored to have yours."
The wicked whisper of Mei-Xing's sword leaving its sheath made them both freeze. Belle glanced over her shoulder to find her friend radiating murder, sword glittering in the reflected light. The message was blindingly clear, and Belle swallowed hard at the blazing look arching between the two. All pretense of good humor had ebbed from the man's vulpine features.
"I don't think your friend likes me," he said. Upon hearing the icy, brittle anger in his tone, Belle realized she missed the warm, teasing burr.
"For God's sake! This is ridiculous. You," she stabbed a finger at Mei-Xing, "cool it! He hasn't done anything to merit that. And you," she grabbed a handful of his leather jacket and hauled him close, "If you don't want my friend to stab you, I suggest you start being a bit more cooperative."
The long, indulgent smirk was back, sleepy half-lidded dark eyes contemplating Belle.
"I do love a strong woman. Aye, an armistice, then?" the man offered, raising one brow in Mei-Xing's direction. In reply, the Chinese girl grunted, sheathing her sword with practiced ease.
"You have everyone spooked," Belle said, readying another bite.
"The feeling is entirely mutual, little Beauty," he said, accepting the proffered spork,
"And the name's Gold, by the way." Belle arched a brow, startled by his easy admission.
"What changed your tune?" she asked, oddly mesmerized by the languid way he licked the last of the rabbit grease from his lips.
"You earned it." Gold said, shrugging. The shrug earned a wince. Belle fussily gathered the empty tin can, soggy paper plate and empty water bottle.
"Just Gold? No first name?" His smile was more a grimace.
"Gold will do, little Beauty."
"My name is Belle." Gold rose onto his knees and made a ridiculously extravagant bow. Belle, who'd skittered into a nervous crouch, laughed softly.
"I am honored with your name, Belle. Thank you for the food and the tending, but this is where our little truce must end," Gold said, face creased with regret.
"Why?" she asked. His dark eyes met hers, bleak and bottomless.
"Because regardless of what you hope to accomplish, your people still plan on killing me. And as lovely as I find you, little Beauty, I will not reveal anything about my people. You have a name to carve on my burial marker, that is enough."
"But Mr. Gold-" Belle began. He lunged and Belle heard a harsh cry, the screech of steel. But mostly, she felt his chapped lips pressed against hers, fingers hard and warm as they framed her throat. For all his sudden movement, his mouth was gentle, teasing her with tender stroke of his tongue along her lower lip. The kiss lasted for a handful of seconds, and then Mei-Xing hauled Belle back and her booted foot caught Gold in the stomach. He crumpled into a fetal position, sucking in pathetic little breaths.
"Bitch," Gold wheezed. Mei-Xing's sword flashed, the tip resting at his chin.
"Speak again," she warned. The tip delicately grazed his throat, just over the throbbing pulse of an artery. Belle shook herself from her daze.
"Stop! Stop this! He didn't hurt me."
"He could have," Mei-Xing countered, resting her booted foot on Gold's heaving chest, "You heard him, Belle. He won't tell us anything. Best to just kill him now."
"No!" she shouted, lunging between them, "I was given tonight to talk to him. You have no right to cut that short!" She grasped for something, anything to stay his execution. He was human being, for God's sake! Belle opted for heartfelt sincerity.
"Please," she whispered. Mei-Xing scowled, but stepped back, yanking Belle up with her.
"Fine. But from now on, you talk outside his cell."
"The first aid kit!" Belle protested.
Cursing fluently in Chinese, Mei-Xing snatched up the kit, kicked the stall door closed, and locked it. In the hubbub, someone had knocked over the flashlight. Belle flailed in the dark to retrieve it, setting it pointing upward outside the stall. Peering through the screen of rebar, she watched Gold roll onto his hands and knees, the sound of his breathing harsh and ragged. He coughed and Belle watched flecks of blood spackle the concrete. Belle glared at Mei-Xing. The Chinese girl returned her stare with what Phil joked was her Terminator look: blank, cold, and calculating.
"Why did you do that?" Belle said, unsure of who she was talking to. Gold sank back onto his haunches, his hair obscuring his eyes, but not the smug grin.
"I'll be in the ground by morning, little Beauty. Your kiss to carry me into eternity? Sounds like a damn good way to go." Belle heard an aching depth of sincerity beneath the light tone. She chewed on her lower lip, at a loss for what to do or say.
"I would like to make a request."
"We owe you nothing," Mei-Xing said icily.
"Hear him out, at least," Belle whispered.
Gold grabbed his cane and climbed laboriously to his feet. He was a short, slender man, but even beaten and bound he carried authority. A flick of his chin brushed his hair from his eyes. He sucked blood from his lower lip and spat a globule of bloody spittle in Mei-Xing's direction.
"Deals are my trade, dearie. There is indeed a debt you owe me." Belle hugged herself, suddenly cold. That tone of restrained rage oddly made his voice lower and softer, so much so Belle had to strain to hear him over the rain. Some of her naiveté suffered a painful death. Gold wasn't just a charming older man that flirted with her, as harmless as an old lion languishing in a cage. He was dangerous, a killer in this world and probably the one before. Painting him as anything else was the height of stupidity.
"What is that?" Mei-Xing asked, a sneer in her tone. Gold's gaze did not waver from Mei-Xing, the two of them seemed to battle silently in cold, unmoving glares.
"My gun. Check the chamber. I had one bullet left. I could have killed your girl, as easily as I put down those rotters. I could have, but I didn't."
"What, and we just let you go? You are still a threat to us. What is to stop you from going back to your people and leading them back here to murder us all?"
"I suppose my word wouldn't suffice?" Gold drawled, tilting his head to one side. Mei-Xing snorted in reply.
"I thought not. Very well then. In that case . . ." Gold reached into a pocket on in the inner lining of his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
Limping over to the stall door, he pushed the damp wad of paper through the gap in the grill toward Belle. She accepted it, no longer seeing the snarling monster in the cage, or the flirting gentleman. Now, in his pleading brown eyes, she saw perhaps Gold at his truest self. He grasped at her fingers and they braided together in a trembling knot.
"If . . . if you ever come across a sixteen year old boy, my height with black hair and brown eyes by the name of Bailey, give this to him. Tell him . . ." Gold's voice wobbled and broke and Belle felt tears well up and spill down her cheeks.
"Tell him his father never stopped looking for him. Tell Bae his Papa died loving him." Belle squeezed his fingers, feeling a similar pressure around her heart. Oh God, how could they do this? Kill a man searching for his son for . . . for what? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
"I will, Gold. I promise," Belle croaked. A sheen of moisture glistened on his face, but if it was sweat or tears, Belle couldn't tell.
"Thank you, Belle." That fragile whisper would carve itself into her memory as would his look of unbearable tenderness.
"Give it to me," Mei-Xing said, holding out her hand for the letter. Gold's grip tightened, eyes suddenly wild.
"What are you going to do? Set it on fire before my eyes?" he snarled. An incredible softening settled over Mei-Xing's face and Belle saw the girl she had met in a college dorm, homesick but desperately hoping to fit in.
"No. I understand honor. And what a parent is willing to do for his child. I will keep it safe, I swear." Mei-Xing promised. Her bruised hands tenderly tucked the letter into the waterproof pocket of their raincoat and zipped it closed. Mollified, Gold pressed his forehead against the bars.
"Thank you," he whispered, his breath warm against Belle's captured hand. A long, nerve-wracking silence stretched on as they all stood frozen. Belle's heart was pounding; she knew she couldn't bear it now. She could never forgive this! Dimly, she noticed she hadn't relinquished her grip on his hand. No, she would hold his hand as Mei-Xing lifted her gun and . . .
"Belle, we should go," Mei-Xing said at last.
"What? Aren't you going to do it?" Gold's voice threatened to crack.
"Belle was promised tonight. Make peace with yourself in that time," Mei-Xing said with barely a quaver, burying the soft girl's heart behind the warrior's coldness with some visible effort. Belle grasped for composure. There was no answer. There was a forest of thorns determined to shred what was left of their humanity. They lived in a cruel world where mercy was weakness, and weakness was death. It hurt. It hurt so badly.
"I'm so sorry," Belle whispered, bent over their joined hands.
"Hey . . . it's alright, lass. At least I got a kiss out of the deal." Gold's low, Scottish voice spoke the words in a low croon, like a child's lullaby. The joke was feeble and unfair, but Belle choked out a laugh regardless.
His wobbly smile struck her heart hard and fast. Belle seized the brave, mad impulse that welled up and said: "Well here's another." She pressed her lips to his, catching his lower lip between hers. Gold made a low, inhuman sound of desperation, lunging toward her. Despite being pressed as they were against a solid stall wall, faces framed by cold, rusting rebar, they managed quite a kiss. Belle had been kissed before, she liked kissing. But kissing Gold, really kissing Gold, was another realm entirely. Soft pressure, warmth, and sweet, aching longing . . . She was ready for the teasing stroke of his tongue this time, sweetly opening to taste him. God, he tasted good. Belle framed his lean cheek with her palm, feeling the scrape of his stubble and the slick of his tears. All too soon, he was pulling away, leaning his forehead against hers and breathing in that sweet, humid space between them.
"Go now, little Beauty. And think of me every once in a while, hmm?" Belle uttered a tortured sound, tearing herself away from the stall, burying her burning face in her hands.
"Come on, Belle." Mei-Xing touched Belle's arm gently. She managed to nod, to stumble after Mei-Xing as they left Gold alone in the dark, to hold the raincoat over her head with its precious cargo as they moved toward the door. She barely heard his whispered: "Goodbye, Belle."
Outside, the rain was still coming down in buckets, cold wind plucking at their clothing and the mud doing its level best to swallow their boots. Belle's hands were numb, wooden things as she locked the padlock and pocketed the key. The slog back to the cabin took considerably longer. Dad was waiting on the porch with his shotgun slung across his lap, looking deliberately casual as dozed under the shade of his Renegades ball cap.
"How did it-"
"I don't want to talk about it," Belle said. Her voice sounded hollow. She felt hollow, as if she would ring like a bell if someone struck her.
"Belle, darling . . ." Dad said, thick, hoary palms clenching and unclenching in a heartbreakingly anxious gesture. Smote by painful affection, Belle flung her arms around her father, burying her face in his jacket.
"I love you, Dad," she whispered, feeling the tears well again.
"I love you too, Bells." They broke apart and Belle managed to smile.
The three of them filed inside the cabin and Belle found the Nolan family absorbed in evening tasks. Snow was inspecting each of her arrows, David was checking each of reinforced windows for their sturdiness and Emma squatted before a bucket of rainwater washing their few metal utensils. Phil sat hunched next to the weak light of their battery-powered lantern, pouring over a pistol: a formidable thing with gold grips that shone. The scene seemed a bit too practiced to Belle's eye, they had been waiting anxiously just like Dad had. Her hollow heart was flooded with a deep, powerful love for these people, tangled with an equally violent disgust. Somewhere in the world was a boy no older than Emma who would be without a father after tonight.
"I'm going to bed," Belle announced. Emma bounced over to Belle and flung her arms around her.
"It'll be ok, Belle. You'll see." Belle petted Emma's wild hair and squeezed her tight. Emma had been a wary, wounded little thing, passed from foster home to foster home until the Nolans found her. But underneath was a heart as brilliant and pure as diamond.
"I know, sweetie," Belle replied, stepping back.
"Snow, David . . . do you mind if I sleep in the attic tonight? I'd prefer to be alone for now."
"Of course," Snow replied with a smile.
"Look Belle, I'm . . ." David began, bracing a hand on her shoulder. She held up a hand to stall his words.
"No, David. It's ok. I'll be ok. I just . . . I just need to be alone for a while."
"We're here for you, just know that," Snow said.
"I know." Belle snatched a quick hug from both of them. Phil stood off to the side, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt.
"So you don't hate us?" he asked. Belle rolled her eyes and lightly punched his shoulder.
"Of course not. Just give me time. Right now, I need sleep." Phil's little smile was like an embrace itself.
"Ok. I'm taking first watch, so I'll wake you when it's your turn."
Belle nodded, bidding everyone goodnight as she climbed the ladder to the attic loft. The stones of the chimney kept the cramped space pleasantly warm as Belle shucked off her boots and shimmied out of her jeans. The Nolans had made a cozy little nest out of a sleeping bag and two tattered blankets. As she settled into the sleeping bag and let the warmth penetrate her numbed toes, a nagging thought, an insidious germ of an idea began to unfurl and grow. By the time Phil shook her awake in the wee hours of the morning, her mind was made up, and she was ready.
"In the man's gun, was there a bullet in the chamber?" she asked. Phil gave her a look fuddled by fatigue, but nodded, stretching out in the warm space Belle had just vacated.
"Yeah. He must have miscounted his shots. Lucky break, huh? Otherwise he could have got Snow," Phil said, yawning.
"Yeah, lucky," Belle echoed, donning her jeans. She tucked three extra magazines into her pockets, the leather holster snug against her right hip.
"Get some sleep, Phil. I'll take watch from the porch," she said, kissing his forehead.
"'Kay," he murmured, eyes already closing.
From there it was simple. Belle tucked her letter under her Dad's pillow, tiptoeing over his sleeping form as she loaded her rucksack. Lastly, Gold's pistol, reloaded with its single shot, she shoved unto her jeans at the small of her back. She locked the door behind her, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that the rain had stopped. There was no moonlight, and Belle couldn't risk a flashlight, so she moved carefully toward the barn. The puddles and mud might be a problem, she thought. A blind man could follow fresh tracks in this muck. Belle heaved open the barn door only wide enough to slip inside.
"Who's there?" Gold's voice was harsh and imperious, only barely covering the echo of fear underneath. Belle answered by unlocking the stall door and heaving it open.
"Belle? What the hell are you doing?" The relief in his voice almost made her cry. Belle grabbed his hand.
"Come on. I'm getting you out of here."
A/N: So this a strange little story, the demented result of too many Sundays spent watching OUAT and Walking Dead back to back. It is not a strict cross-over; I basically hijacked Walking Dead's zombie rules and twisted Storybrooke to my liking.
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