I do not own Boondock Saints, The Walking Dead, or any of the references I make. They belong to Troy Duffy and Robert Kirkman, respectively.
I own Alice and Red Donahue, and the men and women in the camp.
(Rated M for Language, Violence, Gore, and future smut.)
Connor MacManus was tired. The worst sort of tired when nothing seems to go right and in the end you don't care what happens. In his mind, he thought that tonight was the night that he was going to say goodbye to the world for the last time.
He rested, grounding himself against a tall maple tree while the results of his exhaustion laid around him in pools of infected blood. Sighing heavily against the strong tree, he took the time to survey the carnage; with a clear mind, noting the damaged he had inflicted.
Three thin, decaying bodies laid around him in various stages dismemberment. For one, he'd bashed its head in with an aluminum baseball bat, the remains of the infected brain matter scattered with fragments of crushed skull. Another he'd taken to beating its face against the very tree he leaned on for support, and after, had ripped off the arms and through them for more curious walkers to find.
The last one, the toughest and angrier of them all, he'd beaten with his fists, getting every pint of rage and guilt out with every bone cracking blow to the face. Even after brutally killing the undead, he still had a fire in his belly, an uncontrollable bloodlust more extreme than anything he'd felt before.
These things, the shells of the previous humans that once lived in that body, were the evil now. It wasn't evil men that this Saint was after; it wasn't Mafiosos, or child molesters; it wasn't rapists or even petty thieves. No, the blood that he craved, the blood that he wanted to spill, the blood that rather around his tightly wound fists and that began to dry around his wrists, was the black, dirty, infected blood of the walkers.
He reached over in his bag, a black gym bag of untold goodies for walker fighting. He'd packed it earlier in the day, taking the items from his group that he thought he'd need if he was to survive on his own, and storing it away for safe keeping. He'd pray that he'd never have to use it, but tonight was the night that Connor MacManus said goodbye to the world.
With his knuckles bleeding profusely, he opened the zipper of the duffle bag and pulled out a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels that he'd found during one of his groups raids. He hid it away from the group, hoping to save it for a special occasion. For him, that special occasion, be it birthday, Christmas, or just sharing it with someone special, would never come. He was alone, if for the first time in his life, and it was killing him.
He ripped the lid off of the bottle, tossing it beside him without a care as he downed the sweet amber liquor, taking one, two, three large gulps before setting the bottle down in his lap.
For the moment, he realized how dark it had gotten; the big bright moon shining high overhead, giving the Saint a light to see the damage he'd done. He could have felt remorse, pain, anger, sadness, or all of the above, but for him he just felt pity. Pity that these motherless fucks were the only ones that he'd found that night. He was convinced that tonight was the night when the lone Saint of South Boston would walk into the forest and disappear, leaving nothing but a memory to those out there that survived. But, where would be the justice? Where would be the outcry? Evil men still roamed the streets, only they wore a different mask now. It was his and his brothers job to rid the world of this evil so that the good and just should survive. Now there was more evil in the world and less of the Saints.
He craned his head back, taking one last beautiful sight before the smell of blood and flesh brought in his demise in a stumbling horde. The moon was beautiful, lighting up the dark world around him as she hung high in the sky. The stars too, were beautiful, having not remembered the last time he could look up and see the stars.
That night he cursed God three times, this would be the first.
Looking up at the sky, at what his creator had done, Connor began to feel something other than anger or pity: pain. He looked up at the millions of twinkling stars in the sky and cursed every one of them. God had enough time to make a bunch of twinkly dots in the sky, but not enough time to save his brother from his untimely fate? What sort of God does that to the two men that he set out to do his will? Why give them a mission, only to murder one of them before their mission was complete?
He took another swig of Jack, letting the smooth liquid run down his throat as it warmed him from the inside out.
It was times like that when Connor could see why people where giving up on God. He'd been taught to fear God, and that God was kind and just; the pain that you feel in this world being on your own sin and God punishing you for it. What sin could he have committed to earn such a damning fate?
Then, as the mind loves to do late at night, Connor's mind began to wonder, thinking of things that the sun would have scarred away to the darker corners of his mind.
He thought of his group. The people who'd been kind enough to take him and Murphy in when they had nowhere else to go. That taught them how to hunt and catch food, how to dress a wound, and how to kill the living dead. They'd been with the group of about thirty people for about six months, in that time they'd grown close with some of the families, they'd built friendships, for some of them, fallen in love (or what felt like love. Might have been a mild stroke or something)
Then, about a month ago, just over the Georgia/South Carolina border, they got attacked. The horde left the group in a bloody ruin killing over half of the group, including the darker-headed twin of Connor MacManus.
Connor can still smell the gun smoke in his nostrils, he can hear the sounds of shrieking in his ears, he can taste the blood in his mouth, and he can see the exact moment when Murphy MacManus, brother and Saint, left this earth.
The group had to have noticed that he was gone, he thought, trying to shake the memory of the light leaving Murphy's eyes out of his mind. They'd either accept that he was gone, or send out a search party to find him. Connor wished, more than anything, that these people would forget about him. More importantly, that he could forget about them. Her.
He can still see her ice cold blue eyes looking back at him, the innocent look making him feel guilty for leaving while justifying it at the same time. He needed to protect her, and the best way to do that was to leave. Everyone in Connor's life, living and deceased, was in danger from the beginning. Rocco was first, then Greenly, then his Da, then Dolly and Duffy, then Murphy – he didn't want Her to be another name in the list of his guilty subconscious.
He needed to get them out of his head. He shook his head from side to side, grabbing at his temples as he wished they'd just leave. The memories, the smiles, the laughs, the cheer, the joy – all of it! He didn't want any of this anymore. He didn't want to feel guilty for not being there to protect the people that he loved.
He took another drink.
He didn't want to feel the pain in his heart when the thought about Rocco's death, or his Da's, or Murphy's.
Another drink.
He didn't want to worry about whether or not anyone else close to him was going to die the same horrible way that his brother did.
Another.
He didn't want to worry or feel pain.
Another.
He didn't want to care.
Another.
He didn't want to feel.
He stopped himself from self-destructing any more than he had already. Since when did he not want to feel, since when did he not care? He scared himself with his thinking, the dark, depressive thoughts when you're by yourself in the middle of the woods.
Whether the gravity of what he was thinking was getting to him, or the buzz from the alcohol was finally kicking in, he thought about going back to the group. Maybe they hadn't noticed he was gone yet, maybe he could just sneak back into camp while they were all sleeping and pretend it never happened.
In his loneliest, Connor realized how much these people needed him. Since the attack last month, the number of shooters, never mind skill or rank, had dropped to five people in the eight person group.. If it was by skill alone, then the actual number would be two, maybe three. Most of them couldn't hit an oncoming car, much less a walker coming at them getting ready to attack.
Connor stood up, holding onto the tree trunk as his head rushed from standing up too fast / drinking a third of a bottle of Jack by himself. He grabbed the gym bag and slung the strap over his shoulders as he started in the direction of camp. They'd have to take him back. They'd never know he was gone.
They'd never know that tonight was supposed to be the night that Connor MacManus said goodbye to the world
It was morning before he actually found the camp again. The sight of pitched tents and parked cars a welcoming sign that they hadn't left yet, that they hadn't abandoned him. Trying to step high over the long field grass, Connor walked back to the camp, hoping that his disheveled appearance didn't give the guard on duty reason to shoot him. He was covered in blood, from his hands and arms, to the front of his chest; his hair was messed up and standing on end as he walked to camp with a sleep deprived stumble. If it was him on guard duty, he wouldn't hesitate to shoot.
He noticed the guard on top of the tallest vehicle, a Dodge pickup truck, sitting comfortably on the roof of the cabin with a rifle at his side. He almost wondered if they were asleep, or just terrible at their job before the guard waved to someone down below, alarming them that someone was coming.
"It's Connor!" echoed in the grass field as Connor groaned; his little announcement surely rallying up the previously dormant walkers in the field. Connor had to high tail it now, his muscular frame bouncing in the field as he broke out in a jog. Maybe they'd believe that he was just going for a morning jog, now that he couldn't just sneak into camp anymore.
At camp he saw most of the group standing near the 'entrance' to their little compound, all with looks of confusion, worry, and most prominent of all, anger. Connor knew that expression all too well.
He lifted the strap from over his shoulders, letting the gym bag fall to his side before he was confronted with the barrel of a Peacemaker in his face. Ah, home sweet home. Connor looked passed the barrel to the man holding the gun at him, smirking at the face of the man holding a gun to the Saint's head.
Red was the leader of the group now. His tanned skin wrinkled as he stared down the Irishman with intent to kill. His beady little eyes squinted in the morning sun, his thin lips drawn across into a hard line that practically cut his face in half. His eyes' quick darted down at Connor smirk, giving him more than enough reason to cock the hammer back on his Colt .45
"Where do you think you're going, Leprechaun?" He said, the hint of a repressed southern drawl on his lips. "You think you can just waltz back in here whenever the hell you feel like it?"
It quickly occurred to Connor that he hadn't come up with a good reason to be out so late last night and not come back until the morning. There weren't bars anymore, no all-night drugs stores, and he certainly couldn't use the excuse that he'd gone home with a girl. No, the old-world lies that might have worked on his mother, maybe the police, weren't going to work in this new age. He needed some fresh lies.
About that time, she rounded the corner; her curious nature taking over as she looked over the group to see what the fuss was about. Her eyes darted quickly to the bloodied man with a gun pointed at his face before her feet began to move.
"Connor!" She exclaimed, trying to keep her voice down before she ran to the saint, ignoring her own father's gun pointed at his face. Her short brown hair had been pulled back into cute, pixie-like, pig-tails behind her pale ears. As she got closer, Connor could see the heavy bags developing under her eyes, he could see the early signs of worry lines around her eyes, he could feel the sense of worry that seemed to hover over her like cloud.
She grabbed his hands quickly, looking over the cuts and scrapes on his knuckles. Her blue eyes carefully combed over him for any injury sever enough to cause panic – all of this blood had to have come from somewhere. It wasn't hard to imagine that he could have gotten bitten or scratched out there in the woods late last night - he'd never tell her that; the poor girl was worried as it was.
"You didn't answer my question." Red said, drawing out every syllable with a snarl on his wrinkled, war-torn face. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Back to camp."
"Bullshit. I don't let deserters back in my camp. You're gonna have to come up with something better than that."
"Dad..." She warned him, her tone getting just as ferocious as his. It was times like this that Connor could see the family resemblance.
Red wouldn't back down.
"Where the hell were you last night?"
"I was taking a piss, yah happy?"
"All night? What, you got a medical problem, boy?"
Connor gritted his teeth, wanting to explain himself to anyone besides this jackoff.
"No. I got chased by a couple walkers back t'ere, you can go check if yah like. T'ere's t'ree of 'em. They chase me into ta woods and I got lost. Is that good enough for yah?"
"You mean this is all walker blood?" She asked as she pulled her hands away from the dried blood on his arm, giving up the ghost on trying to find a bite on him until she got answer. Connor nodded his head in silence, rubbing his jaw as a result of a nervous tick he had. While Murph was always more fidgety, more prone to ticks, nervous and anxious all the time - Connor was more calm, level-headed of the two, he liked to believe.
She grabbed him by his hands, the dried blood now flaking from his skin. "I'm gonna fix him up, clean 'em up." She said to her father with an eyebrow raise and a smirk, defiantly calling her father's bluff. "You can come along too if you still want to shoot him."
For the first time, Red blinked, his eyes cutting over to his daughter before rebounding back to Connor, who now shared her look, smirking down the barrel of the gun. Slowly, and without so much as a noise, Red lowered the gun to his side, staring intently at the Irishman. Red' distrust for Connor had steadily been growing over the past month, ever since the attack, Red has gotten more and more strict, while Connor has gotten more and more brazen. For some reason or another, Connor just loved to piss that man off, knowing that it'll probably come back to bite him in the ass.
Connor followed behind her as she pulled him to the far side of the camp, a place out of the beating sun and away from prying eyes. She made him sit down with a command close to how you train your dog, before grabbing the medical supplies and the dwindling first aid kit. Connor sat on the grass, his back and head resting against the rubber tire of the group's blue sedan before she brought her little pouch of goodies beside him.
First thing she grabbed was a clean cotton ball and an unmarked plastic bottle. She dipped the cotton ball into the bottle and tipped them both over, getting some of the medicine on the cotton ball. He watched her move in silence, knowing exactly what to do before she pressed the cotton ball onto his wounded knuckles, sending an intense shock wave of pain up his whole arm.
"Fuck me!" He shouted, before having to actually cover his mouth with his free had to stop from screaming. His eyes cut over to her as she grin like the sadistic little fuck that she was before she pulled the cotton ball away again, this time using another clean cotton ball to clean up open wound.
"You really think your smart don't you?" She asked, messing with the wounds on his hands to help the, now fizzing, medicine deeper into the cuts. "Disappearing in the middle of the night, not telling anyone where you're going – do you really think I'm that stupid?"
Connor looked down at his hands in shame, wanting nothing more than to avoid her eyes for all eternity. He felt the breeze on his skin, if for the first time as she continued to work on his hand, before switching to the other.
Again she grabbed a cotton ball and the nameless medicine and began to work on the other hand, being gentler than the last time.
"I don't t'ink you're stupid." Connor said to her, causing her head to snap up from the tedious work on his hands. "Not by a long shot. You're one of t'e smartest people I know."
"Then why did you lie?" She asked. "Why tell the group that you were out on a piss run instead of the truth?"
"It was the truth!"
"Since when do you need a gym bag to go pee?" She asked, catching him in the lie as Connor's free hand grabbed at the black bag defensively. Connor was stumped; he knew that she'd see right through anything that he told her.
"Reading material." Connor joked, earning a scoff from the blue eyed girl as she lowered her head, getting back down to healing the stubborn Irishman.
It got quiet again. Connor just watched as she worked at his cuts and scrapes, if only she knew what had caused them; his rage that couldn't be controlled, his mind that wouldn't stop wondering, his memories that wouldn't go away.
"You think I don't know you want out?" She asked, cleaning the dried blood around his wrists. The black blood-stained cotton ball washed the dirty blood away from his Celtic cross tattoo on his forearm, giving him even more memories of his brother that he didn't want.
"What do you mean?"
"You're not the most subtle man in the world, Connor." She said, disposing of the dirty cotton ball beside her. "Every time you open your mouth you're talking about leaving the group alone, or how better off we'd be without you – you think that doesn't worry me? Last night you scared the hell outta me. I was afraid that you'd actually left me here."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry isn't good enough, Connor. You have to promise you'll never leave me again."
Connor's brows furrowed as he looked up at the young woman, her blue eyes staring back at him, pleading for an answer. She wanted a definite answer to a question that not even he knew the answer to. She reached out for his hands; his big, rough hands engulfed her tiny pale fingers – another plea not to go.
These hands had seen so much bloodshed, people he loved and people who deserved it. To be held by hands that never held blood before, that never held a loved one until their final breath, that never fired a pistol into the back of someone's head. Some people have all the luck.
"Promise me you won't leave me here." She repeated, looking him dead in the eye with a look that he himself had used in the past.
Connor sighed, deeply.
"I can't promise t'at, Alice."
He watched as he face fell, they innocent lines on her face turning downwards at the thought of losing her friend. Connor wasn't happy about it either, but he knew that he just couldn't make that promise. He'd always worked better with his brother, and now that he didn't have him anymore, he had to get used to being alone.
She nodded her head, mulling over the words as they ran through her mind a hundred words per second. "Okay. Okay. Okay – fine. Don't promise me that. It's cool. I understand." She said quickly, crossing her arms over her chest.
"But if you leave this group, I'm coming with you."
Connor quickly shook his head.
"No."
"Yes."
"No you're not."
"Why not?"
"I'm not going ta be responsible for your death out t'ere. I won't do it, you're not coming wit'."
"You don't have to be responsible for me. I can handle myself."
"I'm not havin' you follow me into t'e forest. It's too dangerous."
"Well then, don't think of it as me following." She said with a smile. "Think of it as me holding myself hostage. I only leave if you leave. If you stay, I stay."
Connor narrowed his eyes at the young woman, watching her smile back at him with a certain cockiness in her face. This woman would be the death of him, he knew it. He tried to stare her down, but to no avail; he broke the gaze first.
"Okay, fine. If I leave, you can come wit'." Connor said, breaking down. With the smile on her face, you'd think he'd told her some good news. "Thank you." She said before returning to his cuts, moving the thin cuts on his shoulders from the thorny trees in the forest.
Connor smirked briefly, wanting to mess with the young woman tending to his wounds.. "And stop that staring thing, you're just like your da."
Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped, all before she grabbed the unlabeled medicine bottle, pouring the bottles contents all over the open wounds on his knuckles as he screamed out in agony.
"Graah! You son-of-a-bitch!" Connor shouted, holding his hand wet with medicine as the wound fizzed, bubbled and festered. She sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. "Maybe now you won't mess with someone with hydrogen peroxide, hm?"
"And ta t'ink, I thought it was pure acid you were pourin' on me hand."
"Oh honey, I'd never to that to you." She said with a smirk. "I like you too much."
"You sure have a funny way of showin' it." Connor said as she wrapped up his hands, resembling a boxers hand with the tape around the knuckles.
Red came around the corner, peeking over his daughters shoulder with a strange curiosity. Connor was almost sure he was going to talk about his screaming and the torture that his daughter had put him through. With his dirty hands on his hips, Red walked around to face the two of them. His head down towards the ground as he took in a deep breath, like the next few words were going to be extremely hard to say.
"Connor, we have to talk." Red said before looking to his daughter. "Alice, you can leave."
Alice went to stand up when Connor grabbed her wrist, holding her right next to him. "No. She stays." Connor said. "Besides, I need a witness if you decide to try and shoot me again."
"Don't leave the camp again and you won't get shot."
"Is t'is what you wanted t'a talk to me 'bout? If so, then I really don't see a point in staying here any longer."
"That's exactly my point. We need to move."
"I actually agree wit' cha. We need to get on t'e road, get back on t'e highway and make our way to Atlanta before sun down. We're just wasting time here. We need ta be moving." Connor said quickly before diving into his gym bag.
His taped hands fumbled in the bag before grabbing onto the ragged and warn map of Georgia. Connor unfolded the map and laid it on the ground, black magic-marker circles littered the page, and a single 'X' marked the spot over Atlanta.
"See, 'ere's what I t'ink. We're here, on t'e other side of King County. We need to get 'ere, into Atlanta. I t'ink if we start moving now, we could make it just outside the Fulton county line before sun down."
"Yeah, we're not going to do that." Red said point blank, running his hand through his thinning hair.
"W'at? W'at do ya mean? It's a great plan. We'll be at the CDC before you know it." Connor was getting more irate with every passing second. To make believe that Red was the leader was laughable, Connor had no loyalty to him. With every second, Connor hated the man more and more.
Red rubbed his jaw, scratching the grey five o'clock shadow on his chin.
"We are gonna go here." Red said, pointing to some farm land three miles from where they were stationed now. "We need a place to relax, take a breather. Daphne is gonna have her baby any day, she doesn't need to be out on the road – "
"T'at's why if we go now we can get t'ere before t'e kid even comes."
"It's not safe."
"W'at's not safe about it? T'e possibly of doctors, medicine, survivors, a cure maybe?!"
"We are not going." Red said, pausing after every word as now both of them were getting tired of the other one.
"It's not safe. You want to run off to Atlanta like you ran off last night, fine, be my guest. But don't take my group down with you." Red and Connor were inches from each other, trying to stare the other man down.
"It's a suicide run. You leave the group, you're dead. Those walkers out there don't care about your fucking plan, they just want a tasty snack. And your skinny ass might just be what they need. If you're gonna go - go. But we're not going."
Connor gritted his teeth before Red smirked at his rage. As he continued to stare down the Irishman, he said quickly "Come one, Alice. We'll leave Mr. Lucky Charms to do some real thinkin'." Alice sighed heavily before standing up, eyeing to two men curiously as they both tried to intimidate the other.
"Dad." Alice called out. "Come on let's go."
Red smirked at Connor before following his daughter back to the main group, leaving the Irishman with a lot of questions.
Connor needed to go to the CDC in Atlanta. That had been the plan since the beginning. If there was anyone with a cure, it'd be them. It was a dangerous plan, to change direction in the middle of a mission, and he didn't like it at all. He looked back down at his map, and the little black marker circles that lined I-95, numerous places for a safe haven, a place to rest in between runs.
The group needed something to be hopeful for; what could be more hopeful than a cure?
Connor grabbed his map from the ground and picked up his gym bag, sending the strap around his shoulders. The next course of action was going to the CDC, he knew he had to go, with or without the group. Now, the real challenge would be sneaking out without Alice seeing.
So... This is my FOURTH time trying to write a Walking Dead fan fiction I can be proud of.
I wrote this a couple months ago, and I can actually say I'm proud of where the story is going.
I hope you enjoyed it.
~pure.
