This story will likely be only a couple of chapters. More works may be to come if this one goes over well. Please criticize. This is my first piece, so kinks are likely. Thank you!
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Walking Dead," nor do I own any rights to "The Walking Dead." The title of this series is my own and not copied from any outside sources. All characters are original entities created to follow a plot which I have decided to pursue.
Brisk autumn air was ripe with the smell of decaying leaves and northerly winds. The road was bleak compared to the bounty of reds, yellows, oranges, and umbers adorning the trees lining the broken path. A healthy dose of mid-afternoon sunshine illuminated the bouquet laid around the wind-swept hills as the leaves sang a rousing, rustling symphony of peace and calm.
Bucks began to chase their does through the detritus only a few weeks ago, and squirrels were storing acorns as their ancestors had done for thousands and thousands of years in the faith that they would survive the coming months. Turkeys could be heard calling in their brothers and sisters from a distance to join the flock. Winter was coming, and it was coming fast.
Every now and then, the truck would hop and squeak: testament to the apocalyptic roadways where crevices and cracks abound. Around a year after the outbreak when things started to "stabilize:" a group of men and women from a large settlement began moving the dead vehicles from the road. Walkers came and went, the living came and took, and the elements had finished off the rest. All but one: Tacoma.
Tacoma was alone now. He had watched helplessly as one-by-one, his friends all perished by the Hell he now called home. The man reminisced about this and tightened his grip on the wheel. The knuckles of his hand gripping the wheel were white as his brow furrowed, jaw locked, and gaze fixated upon the empty, frigid road. Tacoma was losing his senses again, and quickly lifted his right hand to scratch behind the ear of his dog, Murphy.
"Such a good girl," whispered Tacoma. The furry soul seemed to approve of this compliment and began thudding her tail against the red vinyl bench seat: joining the symphony of road noise.
"Bap, bap, bap, bap, bap," and the tail was furiously setting the beat.
A grin had begun to spread across Tacoma's face. He had averted another mental disaster. Tacoma had seen death before, but the loss of so many people he held dear nearly killed him. Many times, Tacoma was close to the brink and many times, Tacoma had come back. There was no time for PTSD in the apocalypse. There were times when Tacoma had to refresh his memory of that law the hard way and relearn. Attacks from the dead, raids from the living, and numbness from his psyche were the worst things about the apocalypse, but were the best teachers for future defenses. The last few weeks, however, had seemingly become more and more surreal as Tacoma fought off his psyche to stay alive. Fighting the living and non-living was becoming easier while fighting the conscious was becoming nearly impossible.
"Nobody gives a damn if I live or die in this age," Tacoma thought to himself, "Sure didn't seem like it before shit hit the fan." Even if they did care, the people he loved were now dead or missing. He had watched them die. He had sat back and done nothing as death swept over them and-
Tacoma snapped back to the road and recognized he was slipping again. He swerved to avoid a gaggle of walkers hastily consuming a deer. Quickly, he began grounding again. The texture of his flannel, the ears of the dog, the drying heat from the engine block, the cool wisps of air from the quarter vent window, the bouquet of leaves, the feeling of being alive.
The feeling of being alive.
That last one always haunted Tacoma. Being alive: what a great way to recognize your meager existence yet not feel the least bit of elation at the fact that your consciousness exists. To exist is to suffer. Tacoma thanked Oedipus and the high school teacher who lectured to him that wonderful little nugget of hope.
"To live is to suffer," quipped Tacoma, "Seems like they should've just told us all to kill ourselves and get it over with, huh, Girl?" The beautiful animal seemed oblivious to the bleak conversation and continued a recital of some sort of canine-vinyl sonata: "bap, bap, bap."
"I wish you could've grown old in a more peaceful place. You've seen some shit, haven't you, Girl?"
The dog simply sat in the passenger seat with the tail beating as furiously as ever: "bap, bap, bap." Murphy represented a long line of life-lines Tacoma had often attributed to his continued existence on earth. Some people fight for family, for prosperity, power, hope, and even life. Tacoma lost all these things but one: life. This dog, aged only four years, was the only life he cared about.
Tacoma felt strongly about all creatures he came into contact with. A successful hunt often yielded more than just meat, pelts, feathers, and tool materials. Hunts also brought tears. Tears not for the fact that he had just killed an animal, but the deep-seeded respect Tacoma felt towards the creature. Tacoma had even gone so far as to pet a deer he had just shot: attempting to calm the blood-soaked animal and help guide it more peacefully to its end. This much respect was due, he believed, to the creatures which meant so much to his earth.
With all the respect he felt towards other creatures, it never made sense to Tacoma why he would disregard his own life in much the same way as a child feeding ducks at a pond excludes the weakest one who needs the nourishment the most. These were thoughts for later. For now, he had to get the duo home.
Tacoma headed back to his cabin in a holler between wooded hills from a supply storage he had excavated when the outbreak began. The four things Tacoma never left behind were his knife, his dog, his .45 1911, and ammunition. A backup 1911 could be found amongst the thousands of .45 ACP rounds along with several magazines, canned dog food, chocolate bars, combat knives, waterproof matches, pre-apocalyptic mementos, and various other necessities which he had accumulated over time. The hole was dug deep enough to preserve a stable temperature. Tacoma thanked a certain channel that once ran on TV for that little tidbit.
In all, the day could not be counted as a loss. Another hundred rounds of ammunition to bring back to the cabin, a whetstone, a chocolate bar, and an ice pick for the inevitable ice storms.
There wasn't a single walker in sight, and Tacoma began to feel lighter. Surroundings became more surreal: like the truck and its occupants were suddenly back in the days before the apocalypse. Caution was thrown to the wind and a deadly, numbing euphoria crept over. Tacoma felt his hand loosen from the wheel and knew the events which were about to unfold were likely to be his last. This was the time when Tacoma was not going to be able to ground himself.
"Just another mile. One more mile. Just-," and in that moment, Tacoma let go. He was done fighting. Tacoma was ready to face his end.
Tacoma felt and heard the road's growlers. Funny how they seemed so far away. The seatbelt tightened as the accident unfolded and before he went under, the last thing his body could think to do was grab the pup and hold her tight. With his last lifeline clutched beside his chest, Tacoma heard the wrenching of metal, felt a jolt, and was knocked out.
Darkness. Amid the beauty of autumn, darkness pervaded: the cold crept in.