Disclaimer: I own nothing remotely resembling The Walking Dead. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.
The idea for this story is to be a series of one-shots, drabbles, etc from different characters POV's (both alive and dead). This is my first Walking Dead story and I appreciate all feedback!
'Well do they know what it's like to have a graveyard as a friend? '
Cause that's where they are boy, all of them.
Don't seem likely I'll get friends like that again'
- Talking Old Soldiers, Elton John
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RICK
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It was in a bar like this one where he first met her.
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She's wearing red. Bright red. The contrast of it to her pale skin and dark hair makes her seem like some phantasm. Tall, slender, majestic, and completely at ease sitting and laughing with her friends at a small round table in the corner.
'Go talk to her', Shane had said, 'All ya gotta do is tell her you're a cop and she'll be all over you, man'
He can hear him and the other guys laughing at him now as he weaves through the other bar patrons. He's not sure what dementia possessed him to follow Shane's advice and approach.
His feet feel like lead, each step forward an effort. He half wishes he was in uniform just to absorb the confidence from having an air of authority. He's grasping for it now, but he's too far out at sea to back up. She's seen him coming, peering at him over the salted rim of her margarita glass.
He clears his throat, Shane's boisterous laughter ringing in his ears.
"Hi"
He clears his throat again.
"I'm Rick".
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There's a small hitch in the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a pale echo of what once before was a magnificent mixture of trepidation and excitement. A deja vu of a distant memory, that feeling. Seems like his heart only ever beats that way anymore when running for his life. Still, he supposes it's a good sign he's feeling anything at all.
Progress.
Sunlight guides their path across the tile floors, peeking through slats in the metal shutters barring the windows. Light reflects off surfaces of muted metal, the minimal dust kicked up by their careful footsteps hangs around them like a cloud. They make their way around overturned tables and piles of accumulated debris, taking special care not to accidentally step on anything that could cause unnecessary noise.
It's just the two of them who ventured inside the rundown hovel, Daryl and he. The rest of the group are waiting outside, surrounding the cars and keeping alert. He won't allow there to be less than two capable members left behind with the group. Glenn and T-Dog can handle themselves, at least for a little while while he and Daryl collect what they came for.
He's not planning to stay long here.
The wooden bar top is covered with a thick layer of dust, matted into a greying paste after so many months. Untouched, pristine. Lifting his hand, he signals for Daryl to move to the bar's right side while he moves to the left. Daryl nods, already on the move. They advance towards the bar in unison.
Silent, steady, standard.
Flanking techniques they've practiced and perfected almost to the point of telepathy. Gun leading the way, he pauses before taking that last step around the side.
Listens for any sounds.
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"Rick"
Her voice is muffled by the pillow wrapped around his head. He almost thinks it might be part of his dream until he feels her hand on his shoulder, lightly pushing.
"Rick, baby, I'm sorry but I gotta go get some more".
He understands. Eyes still closed, he rolls over and grasps her hand in his, placing a kiss to the inside of her wrist.
"I got it"
He drags himself to the kitchen, opening the cabinet over the sink with one hand and smothering a yawn with the other.
Second time this week. But cravings will pass.
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He hears nothing.
Looking to Daryl confirms the same, and they move as one around the sides. It's empty. No walkers, no hiders. Just more piles of junk from when people must have ransacked the place when the outbreak began. Back when they thought things like money and expensive booze would mean anything.
The coast clear, he crouches down and begins looking around the shelves, moving stacks of paper around with the point of his gun. Slight movement at his back lets him know that Daryl is doing the same, crossbow shouldered now that the immediate threat of danger has passed. Dust flies in his face as he pulls things out and he can't help but feel like he's desecrating the place even though it had been so far gone before they'd even shown up.
A grunt tells him Daryl's found what they're looking for, and when he rises to his feet the familiar dark container is waiting on the counter.
Morton's Salt.
He stares at it, clenches his jaw. Reaches out to grab it, finger brushing the metal tab on the top. He lets his fingers linger for a moment, and the present is overlapped by a thin layer of past.
Memories inspired by touch.
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She's yelling at him. Again. He knows why she's upset.
He's leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded over across his chest. She's telling him how she can't take this anymore, that the not knowing where he is and if he's going to come home is something she can't live with.
"And what about Carl? Do you think he would understand if something like that happened to you?"
A convenient store robbery went wrong the day before, the news running with a leading story of the off-duty cop who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was killed by accident, caught in the cross-fire between the robber and store clerk.
It's not the same, and she knows it. She's just scared.
And so he lets her yell.
She sits at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, deep sobs wracking her thin frame. His eyes flick to the clock on the wall. He's going to be late for his shift if he doesn't leave soon.
She stills when he reaches over her shoulder, arm passing the salt and pepper shakers with lopsided letters that Carl had made in kindergarten.
He grabs his duty-belt and straps it around his waist. He wants to say something to comfort her, to assure her that everything will be okay. But as he holsters his revolver, he knows he can't promise that.
So he leaves.
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He recoils his caress as if burned, then swiftly grabs the container and moves towards the door.
They step outside into the bright light of the Georgia sun and he sees the group right where he left them gathered around the caravan. They all look up when the door shuts, waiting for orders on what to do next.
She moves towards him slightly when he nears, hands resting around her growing belly.
The can is heavy in his hand, suddenly much heavier than the gun.
He needs to be able to use the gun, and they've already spent too much time here already.
He passes the can harshly to Daryl and doesn't look at her as he moves to the driver's side door.
"Let's go"