He wants to run. He wants to go as far as his legs and lungs will take him and then push on farther than that because that is how he's survived.
It comes natural now, not like how it was years ago and he was a stupid kid and no idea what the fuck he was doing with himself. He'd stayed in too many places for much too long and he'd gotten his ass handed to him faster than he allowed it time to heal.
And then he had found the Mob and he'd been stupid enough to think that he'd found people he could trust, but the only person you can trust is yourself. He learned quickly that everything belongs to the Boss and you get absolutely nothing but the false sense of security in a brotherhood of blood.
By the time they had found out about the hit he had intentionally missed, he was half way across the country under a false name and pretenses. He looked a lot different than he had back then; there weren't as many worry lines around his eyes and forehead. His eyes were the hint of a shade brighter.
He'd settled down for a while, like the fool he was when he was younger and naive. He'd tried robbing an older couple in their diner. It was a hick town in the middle of no where: he should have figured they'd have an armory behind the counter. But they had take pity on the poor 23 year old. What reason could he possibly have for wanting to rob them?
He'd told them, figuring he'd be in a squad car any minute. But they had listened and understood. They knew what it was like to bite off more than they could chew.
Their names were Marie and Pierre Goudreau. They were immigrants from a southern province in France and had come to America 14 years ago to be with their son Rémi. Because of their age, they almost hadn't been approved to become citizens, but thanks to some special connections, they were admitted into the United States.
After years of saving they had opened up their dinky little diner in the small town. Their son occasionally stayed in the upstairs apartment when he was in between girlfriends, but he was more than welcome to stay there, they said.
Kindness. It was such a strange concept to him. How long had it been since anyone had showed him any without wanting to take advantage of him somehow? But he hadn't had any other options.
Fine then. Sorry about trying to rob you.
He worked there for 6 months and 14 days as a handy man, bus boy, and adopted Goudreau. Marie had taught him the fine art of French cuisine while Pierre had him tend to the herb garden behind the joint. They never asked too many questions, but when they asked, he told them what they wanted to know with little hesitation.
He told them about his mother's death when he was 7. Some sort of cancer whose name he could never remember. His father's brief dance with alcoholism that was never violent, but self-destructive. The countless nannies that tried to make that poor little boy smile again, even though he had so many toys and a large house to go with them. The step mother, who was kind enough, but could never come close to comparing to his real mother.
He hadn't seen them in years, not since before his mix up with the wrong crowd. Marie had smiled at him sweetly.
"You should call them. The past is the past. It is done with!" she said, her accent still prevalent despite all the years of living here, "You're not a bad man, despite what you'd like to think. People can and do love you, chère Nicolas. Remember that."
And of course, that was the night they finally found him. After so long and he had finally felt like himself again, they had came and barged through the front door while they had been sleeping and he had been finishing wiping down the counter from the day's patronage. He'd ducked behind the counter and he'd yelled at them "Marie, Pierre, you stay where you are and don't come down!" but they did anyways, those stupid French bastards came because they were worried about him and why the fuck would they do that for him, why would they go and get themselves brought down by a blaze of bullets that wasn't even meant for them.
He'd been furious. He'd been furious and crying and he went and he grabbed Pierre's shot gun and he didn't have to turn the safety off because Mr. Goudreau always left it off and he'd killed every single one of them just as the cops arrived.
He'd gotten a light sentence. It was self-defense, but the deaths of the Goudreaus had been a result of his mob activities months earlier. Involuntary Manslaughter. 2 years in a minimum security prison, reserved for thieves and arsonists and unintentional killers, just like him.
He was allowed to go to the funeral un-cuffed, but with an officer escorting him. It was the first time he got to meet Rémi in person, rather than awkward phone conversations. He looked more like his mother, surprisingly, with his father's strong-willed eyes. Neither of them cried, having done so privately. Rémi said a eulogy, he said a eulogy, and the only legacy of the sweet French couple that had taken him in introduced him to the rest of the Goudreau clan. He couldn't understand a word they were saying, but he could tell they were all heartbroken.
Rémi took him aside later, within view of the officer, and whispered that he didn't blame the strange young man for his parents' deaths.
He did though.
After the burial, he went to his cell and lived the remainder of those two years in isolation. Prison life was surprisingly comfortable. You got free meals, fresh air two times a day, and you didn't have to make friends. Petty criminals like him weren't out to get each other. They did their time and went on with their lives exactly as he did a couple years later. His probation was a year long. He called his father and let him know that he was okay after not talking to him in 3 and a half years. He was surprisingly calm about it. Upset, but calm.
"Stop by whenever you're ready, Nick. You're always welcome home."
He didn't have a home though. He learned that the hard way. He was estranged from his blood family and the only other people that had cared for him were now lying six feet underground, side by side for eternity.
He'd stayed within the state borders, going from motel to motel using the money that he'd had saved in his trust fund (the old man was good for something). He'd spent enough time on the streets to get a refresher on how everything worked in the real world, but not enough to get sucked back into the life that got him in this mess in the first place.
As soon as his probation was over, he hit the ground running. He reinvented himself once again. He bought himself his current suit and a knife, since he was no longer allowed to own or carry a firearm. He didn't think he was going to need it back then, so it wasn't even an inconvenience. He'd withdrawn all the savings he had and created a new account under another alias. All of his gambling money went there.
He knew how to cheat and not get caught. He knew how to leave a game when he needed to. He knew when it was time to leave town. No more than a week, no less than a few days.
He'd done that for God only knows how long. His years were spent mostly alone, his only company being an occasional stripper or promiscuous woman at a bar that insisted on going back to his room. Who was he to deny himself and these lovely women the pleasure? The booze was plentiful, the sex was good, and the pain of having been loved and having lost that love was becoming less hurtful by the day.
And then he'd met his ex-wife.
He'd been in Vegas, at one casino or the other, with a lot more cash in hand than he'd come to town with. He was getting ready to leave when he was stopped by her.
She was a bombshell. Tall, blonde, incredibly gorgeous. Smart too. Smart enough to have learned his trick of the cards.
"Nice to know you had the pleasure of looking at me for that long."
"Nice to know you have the pleasure of being cute, otherwise I would've turned you into security an hour ago."
Turned out, after a few drinks at the bar, her father owned the casino. He figured she came from money, considering how condescending and in-charge she was, but damn.
Needless to say, they'd gone back to his room and god, the sex was fantastic. Way better than he'd ever had before. And they talked afterwards about utter bullshit and he laughed and she laughed and it was great.
He was supposed to leave the next day, but he felt compelled to stay longer. 4 days turned into 7 which turned into 12. He'd broken his own sacred code, but she was worth it. They'd spent the mornings walking around the strip and the evenings in between his room and hers.
The last night they were in town, she confided in him. She hated Vegas. She'd never been anywhere outside of the American southwest and she knew from previous conversations that he was a wanderer. She wanted to get married and runaway together.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
She hit him with a pillow.
"No, Nick! C'mon, it's obvious that we're crazy about each other and what's the harm?"
There was a lot of harm. He was a convicted felon who cheated his way through life and she was a beautiful, although naive heiress.
But he'd been drinking a bit that night and honestly, those eyes she was giving him were impossible to say no to.
They packed their things and got hitched that night in a crappy Vegas church that shouldn't have been called such a sacred place, and they booked it to the other side of the country. The newlyweds went from town to town, state to state, gambling their money away and gaining it back threefold with their expertise of the cards. It seemed great, until the heiress got restless. Their relationship became strained. They began bickering, sleeping in separate beds, and barely speaking to each other.
8 months into their marriage, she came to him, complaining about how now that she'd been outside of Vegas for so long, she missed it. She wanted to settle down, have a serious marriage that didn't involve their main source of income coming from an illegal activity.
"You knew what you were signing up for when you wanted to get hitched."
"No, I didn't! I thought we'd go away for a while and then we'd get real jobs with a real house and have kids-"
"Woah! Who said anything about that? Babe, I told you how I lived and you were okay with it. You said you would be more than happy to live like that, as long as you got away from your father and that town!"
"Well I was wrong, Nick!"
They sat in silence for a long time before he asked her what they both were thinking.
"Do you want a divorce?"
She nodded, with some sort of sob escaping her throat. He went over and pulled her to him, stroking her hair as she began to cry into his chest.
She called her dad and he flew her back to Vegas. The divorce was quick and Mr. Heiress placed a restraining order on the conman after all the loose ends were tied up. He left the marriage with his money in tact, but his faith in trusting other human beings back to a rotting mess inside of him.
He went back to his old lifestyle, which suited him just fine. It was his fault, really.
And then the Flu came and now here is is, forced to have three relationships with complete strangers and all he wants to do is run. He wants to run as far away as he possibly can because these assholes are actually good people and they trust him for whatever stupid reason and he's starting to do the one thing he swore he would never do again in his entire life and that is to trust them as well.
He wants to run away from the zombies and mutated bastards and get back to running away from the bad memories and failed chances at happiness because it was what worked for him, god-dammit, and this isn't fucking fair. He's tried so fucking hard to keep to himself and not hurt himself or anyone else ever again and the fucking universe decides to be an asshole and make him start to give a shit about the people he's with and he hates it.
He hears a voice in the wind sometimes, above the sounds of bullets and cried of Infected. A voice with an accent that he grew so accustomed to hearing, speaking words that he hadn't heard in years.
"You're not a bad man, despite what you'd like to think. People can and do love you, chère Nicolas. Remember that."
That voice haunted him for a week before he finally started to listen to it subconsciously. He'd chuckle at jokes, quietly, of course. He'd actually listen to Hayseed's pathetic stories every once in a while. He'd converse in the safe rooms, he'd cover their backs when they needed it and even when they didn't need it and they weren't running from him. They were drawing him in and he wasn't going to get screwed over.
The past is the past.
Indeed it is.
When he had some time alone and when everyone else was asleep, he'd lie on his back, blocking out everything around him and focusing on the words that were on the tip of his tongue that he'd whisper to himself.
Merci, mes sauveurs.
He wasn't sure who those saviors were. Was it the Goudreaus, who loved him for him and taught him to trust again? Or perhaps the old Misses, who reminded him of what he though love was? Rochelle, Coach, Ellis? They seemed like they wanted to stick around for a while. Even if they were all focused on surviving, they seemed like they weren't going to fuck him over. He needed that, he realized. He needed people that weren't himself, to remind him of the decency that some human beings were capable of. To remind him that the world isn't always a place out to get him for doing absolutely nothing wrong but trying to survive on his own. To remind him that he was human.
Alors, merci, mes saveurs.
Merci beaucoup.