Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of the Walking dead or any of it's original characters. I make no profit from this venture, and am writing it merely as an exercise of my own muse (who gets rabid and starts to bite when ignored) and hopefully for the enjoyment of others. So please don't sue! All you'd get is a used lab top and a subscription to Netflix!

Notes:This story and it's characters exist in the same 'TWD universe' as my other Two works "Occasio Ultima" and "Novissimo" But it is in no way necessary to read those two to understand this one. I will probably not be updating this story as frequently as those either. The muse kicked me in the face with these characters yesterday and I couldn't resist! Thanks! And I hope you enjoy! Reviews are always welcomed, and loved! ; )

This story is un-beta'd so any mistakes are mine.

The Girl Who Stood Between

By Kadyn

Preface

The world outside section six is bright. Too bright. It burns my eyes, sears them until tears track down my cheeks. Blinking seems to help; so does clenching my eyes very tight. But I cannot clench my eyes shut and run at the same time. So I blink.

There is also smells. Good smells. Bad smells. Section six has no smell. The people that come and go, the doctors and scientists and especially the soldiers they have smells. I do not. The little white bar of soap I am allowed to keep as mine, the one that I carry in my fist from my locker down the hallway to clean myself daily smells like I do. It smells like nothing.

The soldiers smell the most. They smell like many things that have earned classifications as I learn. I learn fast, or so they tell me. There are no other children to compare me too in section six, as far as I know there have never been any other children. So I am not sure how they know. Smells have names; names have meanings. Sweat. Dirt. Grease. Fear. They always smell of fear. I once found the scent odd. Griss says soldiers are strong, obedient. Soldiers follow orders; they are not afraid. For this reason I do not think Griss is very smart.

The scientist and doctors in section six do not smell like the soldiers, they smell like strong disinfectants and chemical compounds, and sometimes depending on the door they enter the hallway from they smell like death. I asked Dr. Patrice once why the soldiers smell like fear. She stared at me for a long time, so long I did not think she was going to answer. She simply told me, "It's their job." So I learned to be a soldier is to be afraid. I asked her later why there are so many soldiers here, it seems a waste. There is no fighting in section six. There is never even any yelling; unless Griss is here. Dr. Patrice said the soldiers are here because of me. That was the day I learned I am something to be feared.

I do not know what I did, it must have been something terrible, but I do not remember it. I have always been in section six. The doctors change, the scientist come and go, the soldiers too. Only I am constant.

Correction, I was. I am there no more.

I do not remember when exactly I learned the project was about to close. That is how the man in the dark blue suit decorated with little colored blocks on his chest termed it the very first time I heard the words; smelled fear on the scientists. Results he said, the weapon had to produce results. There were other words as well; resources, precious, wasted there were many other words I did not understand. I still do not. But I learned enough; enough to know that 'closing the project' meant I would not be there anymore. I did not know where I would go; but I knew if Griss or the man in the dark blue suit were sending me there it would not be good.

So I tried harder, and when I failed even I smelled like fear; but it was never enough. I could not please the man in blue. I could not please Griss, something I already knew. So I had to leave. I began to listen. I learned many things that way. With my ears, things I was not supposed to know. I learned what was behind doors that were never open, and the sound each number made on the little pads outside each door when it was pressed. I learned the patterns, made maps of things that I couldn't see from words overheard in my head, secret blueprints I hoped would lead to freedom. It took a long time, long enough that I no longer needed the two tiered steps to climb onto the cold metal tables in the lab. Long enough that my hair has been cut twelve times since I first learned I must escape. I know my hair is cut every four months; I learned this by listening too. Though it means little to me as I do not know what a month is. I only know days.

It hurts to run, but I have never done it before. New things often hurt, sometimes they get easier; and sometimes like the test with the little white wires they always hurt. I do not know if running will get easier. I do not know if I will be doing it long enough to find out. Running is not allowed in section six unless you are a soldier. Though I have never seen them do it, in theory they are the only ones allowed. My lungs are burning, my feet throb and ache, sharp spasms of pain stabbing blindly up my legs causing me to jerk my feet up faster; trying to avoid the ground. I run harder, faster with every painful step. Pain is a motivator, Griss says. Pain is weakness leaving your body behind. I am not allowed to be weak. They are bleeding heavily when I have to stop to climb down a steep gulley that is wet and slick at the bottom. I stumble and grunt scrambling up the other side. They are not the only part of me that is wounded now, I am cut and torn my shirt is ripped, but I cannot stop.

I run until I am dizzy, and then I stumble with painful hitching uneven steps until the light fades and I must contend with inky darkness. At least it no longer hurts my eyes. When the trees stop suddenly in a straight line I do not know what to make of the smooth concrete surface at its edge. I stoop to press my fingers against it testing its strength; it does not appear to give, but I know it does not belong. Concrete is for indoors; concrete makes walls, and ceilings, and floors. It does not belong in the forest, it does not grow. I press one hesitant aching foot to its surface then another when it does not move, it is easier to walk here. I am familiar with this surface even if it is not as smooth as I would like. The concrete floors of section six were like glass, and always cold.

I do not know what to make of the lights when I see them. I have never seen lights like these before. Lights are supposed to sit in the ceiling; or high on a wall. Here there is neither. These lights are evenly spaced, bright; they appear at the edge of the concrete floor and as I stop to watch them the lights move closer. I raise my arm to shield my eyes when they are close enough that I can hear them rattle. Certain I will go right between them. Then they screech. It is a painful sound, forces me to clap my hands over my ears to block it out.

When the lights stop I am inches from the rattle. I reach out with one hand press my fingertips to this new sound. A rusted metal grate that's hot to the touch. It burns my fingers and I hiss jerking them away press the new aching digits to my mouth to soothe the sting. A door opens behind the lights someone begins speaking; no yelling.

I realize they are yelling at me.

"What the Hell are you doing in the middle of the god damn road!? I thought you were a fucking geek! I almost hit you! Hey, I'm talking to you!"

"I realize that." Though I am not sure 'talking' is the appropriate term. A man is stepping around the light. He is loud whoever he is; and taller than me though that is normal in my experience. His hair is dark, his jaw broad and rough like some of the soldiers would get at the end of a long shift the kind that made them extra cranky.

"What the Hell are you doing in the middle of the road?" Road. Yes. That is the word for this stretch of concrete in the middle of the woods.

"I need a ride." He's staring at me but that's okay, people stare at me a lot. There is a word I have heard used, not often, but enough. "Please."

"You got any weapons on you?"

"No." Only soldiers carry weapons. I notice the gun holstered on his hip, the knife on his belt. Is he a soldier? He doesn't smell like fear. He smells like sweat, and dirt, and something else I have no name for.

"You're out here in the middle of the night in the woods without any weapons? I know this is the Valley but what the hell were you going to do if you ran into Geeks?"

"What is a Geek?" It's a funny sounding word, Geek. The end of it makes my tongue flick. I try it again.

"That's cute, real cute. Call them whatever the hell you want I don't care." He did not answer my question, so I am not sure what else to say. Neither of us move, the lights behind him continue to rattle; they do not sound entirely healthy.

"Where to?" He asks indicating with his arm that I should follow him.

"Anywhere but here." Is the only answer I can give.

Which is where my story starts.

It's how I escaped.

It is how I ended up in the cab of a truck with a man named Bryn Colt.

To be continued...