Author's Note: This is a new and revitalized version that I aim to continue. I'm hoping to make this story feel more realistic and more original than the route I was once taking it. I will however be following closely with the show up to a point, but it won't be for long. I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading! (I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters.)
Clutching the handle of the blood covered axe in my hand, I scan the devastating scene of the road in front of me. Cars lie dormant and crashed into houses and street lights, trash and lost sentiments are strewn in every which way, and bodies are sprinkled across this godforsaken sight. I clench my teeth, but my stomach has long since been trained to hold down the bile it so longs to excrete. It's been nearly three months since the world has gone to shit. I can vaguely remember worrying about such trivial things as what I was going to wear the next day. Now the struggle is if I'm going to survive long enough to see the next day. Cannibalistic, reanimated corpses roam the streets and haunt the lives they once lived as living human beings. Food is becoming scarce, clean water is becoming hard to find, and live people even more so. Chaos broke out and everyone was trying to escape, trying to outrun this disastrous plague. Everywhere I look, there's evidence for cases in which people failed against this pandemonium. Yet, here I stand in this hell of a world, trying to survive.
I glance down at the watch on my wrist and decide I need to head back to Morgan's house. I met Morgan Jones and his son, Duane, a few weeks back in this small town of King County, Georgia. They had been held up in an abandoned house here since this whole thing went down and I was passing through. They offered a bed if I could offer my help and a deal was made. To this day, that's where I've been. To ensure they don't get separated, I make runs to the stores in town and such for food and other items we might need. I've been out all day and I have a sprained ankle and a bag of goodies on my back to show for it.
As I walk, I feel the handle of my dad's Beretta bump against the small of my back. I keep my eyes moving back and forth for any sign of life. I think for a moment that it might not be quite as difficult to make it back today.
Something catches my eye, moving slightly in the distance. I stop for a split second and grip the wooden axe handle in my hand. I look around for anything else in the immediate area before I advance my attack. Nothing. I cautiously approach the feasting reanimate with my weapon raised. I can hear the scratchy moans and the ripping of flesh and bone get louder as I draw near. A pool of blood sits in the street around the walker and his meal. The walker crouches in his construction worker's attire, garnished in blood and guts, over his picnic that is too distorted to determine anything other than it was once human. I edge around a car with a broken windshield and a missing tire; glass liters the ground around it. I scrutinize the area once more, careful not to step on any of the broken glass. My eyes are locked on the devouring corpse. The thing stops it's noisy feast and focuses his yellowy, glazed eyes on me with human remains hanging from his torn jaw.
The construction worker scrambles to get off of his knees. I rush and plant my axe into his skull, slicing deep. As I'm trying to pry my weapon from the now lifeless form, I see more walkers appear from around the cars. I act more quickly now, placing my boot on the thing's face to help brace myself. The axe came free with a suction sound and I brought it up to meet my next opponent who was rapidly approaching. My first hit did hardly any damage and it continued my way. I tripped over a bumper I thought, I couldn't be sure, but I was sent falling backwards with the advancing walker falling on top of me. I hear my axe clang to the ground as I instinctively outstretched my arms. The thing bites its half exposed teeth and snarls as I press my forearm to its neck preventing it from biting me. She has only one arm lying limply to her side, thankfully. I gather all of my might and push the one armed walker off of me, knocking down another one in the process. I scurry around; trying to arm myself but my axe is too far away. I try to army crawl to it; feeling small shards of glass leave small scratches on my forearms. I reach for the handle but I gasp as a cold, scaly hand wraps its bony fingers around my sprained ankle.
Reacting quickly, I kick the thing in the face with my free foot; tearing its dangling nose completely off of its rotting skull. Its grip holds tight on my foot and it continues to snap at me. I try to wrench my foot out of its dead grasp to no avail. Without thinking, I grab a large shard of glass in my bare hand and embed it into my attacker's brain. However, the thing falls limply at my feet with three inches of glass sticking out of its eye socket. Two down. There's no way I can be absolutely sure about how many more there are because my body kicks into hyper drive. It all feels like a dream‒ like a nightmare.
I somehow manage to get to my feet and I reach for the Beretta, cock it, aim, and fire. Three corpses fall lifeless to the ground before me; as they should be. I'm alone now, but I know I need to move or I'll have company soon.
I shakily tuck my gun into the back of my beltline and retrieve my bag. My right hand stings as I lift the strap onto my back. I hiss in pain as I examine my palm. Two deep gashes run the width of my palm and the creases of my fingers. My own blood oozes out of my hand and into the street, joining that of the walkers. I tear a piece of cloth from the bottom of my shirt and wrap it tightly around my hand. I steady myself on my injured ankle and decide it can bear weight. I grab my axe off of the ground and use whatever energy I have left to hobble off in the direction of the Jones's house.
When I arrive a few houses away from the Jones's, I see Duane standing over a body, wielding a shovel, and screaming excitedly for his father to be aware that he took one down. I jog towards him, feeling a bit faint and keeping as much pressure as possible off of my ankle. There's a walker coming towards the thirteen year old boy and Morgan comes out from across the street to dislodge a slug in the walker's brain. It buckles to the ground immediately and Morgan keeps his focus on his son. The walker at Duane's feet begins to rock back and forth like he's trying to get up. I can see his pale figure now; the walker wears a hospital gown and a pair of boxers. Fresh blood drips from his nose and mouth. I can see a nearly soiled bandage attached to his side and his blue eyes look bewildered- but not dead.
"Did he say something? I thought I heard him say something," Morgan rushes over and pushes his boy backwards.
"He called me 'Carl'," Duane backs up, confused.
"Son, you know they don't talk," Morgan then changes his focus to the fallen man and raises his gun. "Hey, mister… what's that bandage for?"
"Wh-what?" the dazed man manages.
"What kinda wound?" Morgan waits but the man seems unable to answer. "You answer me, damn you. What's your wound? You tell me… or I will kill you."
"Morgan!" I say. The man looked to me and his head slowly falls back to the ground, unconsciousness consuming him. I rush and check his pulse and forehead for a fever. I look back to Morgan with one question in my eyes. He is reluctant, but he reaches for the unconscious man's legs. He knows we need to get off the streets and we can't just leave him out here to die. We hurry to the house as quickly as permitted carrying a 160 some-odd pound man along with my near utter exhaustion. I begin to feel pain in my ankle with every step I take and my arms and hand sting under the arms of this dormant stranger.
"What happened out there? I heard gunshots," Morgan asks in a hushed voice as we near the house.
"I know, I'm sorry," I huff. "I had to, but I'm fine. I got it taken care of."
"All this shooting is going to draw in a lot of walkers…" the African American man looks around the suburb street cautiously. I nod and we proceed into the house.
We carry the man inside and take him into the spare room on the first floor. We tie down his limbs just in case he turns.
"I'll take care of him," I nod to the man and then give them my pack. "Here, you guys can go through this. I grabbed you a little something Duane. Hope you like it."
Duane smiles and begins to pilfer through my bag. He finds a few thin glossy paper books and his face lights up.
"Comics! Thanks Abby," the boy smiles up at me and hands the pack to his father so he can go get lost in the world of the comics I brought him.
"Thank you, Abigail," Morgan repeats his son. "You need help?"
"Nah, I'll be fine. I call if I need anything or if he wakes up... or turns," he tenses but I change my tone quickly. "Don't worry, I got it."
Morgan nods and leaves me to my work. I shut the door and turn to the man lying unconscious on the bed.
"Okay then, let's get to work," I murmur to myself.
I take care of my hand first so I can work on the wounded stranger. The blood had clotted black around my own wounds underneath the scrap of cloth I'd wrapped around them; that of which was completely soaked in blood. I washed my hand and properly bandaged it to prevent infection. As soon as I was done, I turned to the man on the bed. Tearing off the dirty bandage on his side, I discover what looked like a bullet hole. As I clean and re-bandage his side, I try to come up with possible origins for the wound. As I looked at him, he starts to move and blink awake. His eyes find me, scared and confused.
"Calm down, I just changed your bandage. It was looking really bad," I turn my back to him trying to organize the medical supplies. "What was it? Your wound?"
"Gunshot," his accent is definitely Georgia based.
"Gunshot…What else? Anything?"
"Gunshot ain't enough?"
"You could just answer my question and we won't have any problems, okay?" I take mental note of the quantity of supplies we have left. "Did you get bit?"
"Bit?"
"Bit? Maybe scratched? Anything like that?"
"No. I got shot. Just shot. That's as far as I know," he stares at me as I finish my inventory. I sit down on the bed next to him and I extend my hand towards his head. He flinches backward.
"Hey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, just let me," I say and he stays still this time. I feel his forehead and his cheeks. "You seem cold enough now. Fever would have killed you by now."
"I don't think I have one," he says.
"No. Trust me, you'd know," I stand to walk towards the door, open it, and throw my head out. "He's awake."
The sounds of chairs scraping against the hard wood floor and footsteps emerge from outside. Before too long, Morgan appears, quickly heading our way with a determined expression plastered on his face. Duane trails his father, carrying a wooden baseball bat.
"It's a gunshot, nothing else," I report as they enter the room to examine him.
"Hmm, you sure?" Morgan pushes past me and comes to the side of the bed.
"Yeah, pretty sure. I was fairly thorough," I saw the man shift uncomfortably in response to my comment.
"She take care of you good, eh?" Morgan nods to me and the man nods slowly. Morgan pulls out his pocket knife and holds it in front of the wounded man's eyes. The man backs into his pillow and his breathing picks up. "Take a moment to look how sharp it is." He now points it at the man's face causing him to retreat even farther into the pillow. "You try anything, on my boy, on me, on that girl right there… I will kill you with it, and don't you think I won't."
Morgan stays quiet, threatening the man for a moment more and then cuts his bindings and stands at the foot of his bed.
"Come on out when you're able. There's some clothes for you on the dresser over there," Morgan instructs.
The man crosses his arms over his chest and Morgan grabs Duane and they leave without looking to me again. I look him over once more and then turn to take my exit. Joining the pair in the kitchen, I help them prepare a dinner of canned pork 'n' beans.
"We should have enough to last us a day or two if you wanted to rest up and get off that leg," Morgan nodded to my very minor injury and caught my subtle eye roll. "Yeah, I noticed it."
"It's really not that bad, I should be fine tomorrow," I insist.
Morgan looks up behind me and I turn to see the stranger dressed in Morgan's spare set of clothes, coming out of the room that acted as his cell. We all stare at him in silence as he walks through the doorway into the connecting living room. Duane sits down at the table and Morgan and I step into the living room to watch the man.
"This place…" the man looks around, from the floor to the ceiling. "Fred and Cindy Drake's."
"Never met 'em," Morgan says.
"I've been here, this is their place," the man keeps walking.
"It was empty when we got here," Morgan insists. The man nods and walks over to the window to look through the heavy blanket covering it.
"Don't do that," I say and he stops to look back at me. "They'll see the light. There are more of them out there than usual. I knew I shouldn't have used my gun today. The sound draws them, and now they're out all over the street. It was so stupid."
"You weren't the only one, but we need to be more careful now," Morgan addresses me like a child. "Hell, I shouldn't have shot. But it all happened so fast and I couldn't think."
"You shot that man today," the man's voice quivers slightly.
"Man?" Morgan shrugs.
"Weren't no man!" Duane corrects.
"What the hell was that, came out of your mouth just now?" his father demands.
"It wasn't a man," Duane corrects himself this time.
"You shot him, in the street, out front, a man," the man argues.
"A man? Seriously? You need glasses, it was a walker," I say with a teaspoon of sarcasm as I lean against the doorway. Now the man looks even more confused and Morgan points to the table, inviting him to sit.
"Sit down, before you fall down," Morgan begins to dish out the canned luxury. "Both of you."
I uncross my arms and make my way to my chair mumbling my unsupported protests under my breath. The man sat in the chair next to me.
"Blessin'!" Duane announces and we all look to one another. Duane grabs mine and his father's hands and I look to the newbie and nod at my vacant hand. He hesitantly places his hand in mine and Morgan continues with the prayer.
"Father, we thank thee for this food, thy blessings. We ask you to watch over us in these crazy days. Amen," Morgan finishes and Duane echoes his father's 'amen.' We all start to dig in but Morgan is still fixed on the strange man beside me. "Hey, Mister, you even know what's goin' on?"
"I woke up today… in the hospital," the man explains. "Came home, and that's all I know."
"But you know about the dead people, right?" Morgan asks.
"Yeah, I saw a lot of that. Out in the loading docks, piled into trucks."
"No. Not the ones they put down. The ones they didn't. The walkers. Like the one I shot today. 'Cause he'da ripped into you, try to eat you, take 'im some flesh at least. And you woulda been left for the others if it wasn't for that girl right there," Morgan points his finger at me while holding his spoon in his hand. The man looks to me and Morgan continues. "Well, I guess, if this is the first you're hearin' of this, I know how it must sound."
It's quiet for a moment.
"They're out there now? In the street?" the man nods toward the window.
"Yeah," Morgan says disconsolately.
"They get more active after dark, sometimes. That's why I always try to make it back from my runs so I don't get caught out there among them," I explain.
"Maybe it's the cool air, or hell, maybe it was just the gunfire today, but we'll be fine as long as we stay quiet," Morgan conveys. "One thing I do know, don't you get bit. I saw your bandage and that's what we were afraid of. Bites kill you. The fever burns you out, but then after a while… you come back."
All is silent once more.
"Seen it happen," Duane's voice breaks through the stillness. The man stops and Morgan reaches over to lend a comforting smile to his son and we continue our meal.
After dinner, I clean up and the men go sit down in the living room. That's basically our living quarters at the moment so we don't have to be far from one another. Three beds litter the floor and Morgan and Duane work to put one together for the new comer. I finish and sit down on my own bed, now able to somewhat relax. I close my eyes as I lean against the wall. Morgan sits on his bed next to the opposite wall while Duane lay next to him. The new guy sits propped up against the couch across from me.
"Carl," Morgan says through the peacefulness. My eyes snap open and focus on the newbie. "He your son? You… you said his name today."
"He's a little younger than your boy," the man explains.
"And he's with his mother?"
"I hope so."
"Dad," Duane says sleepily. "Did you ask him?"
"Your gunshot," Morgan laughs. "We all got a little bet. My son thinks you were a… bank robber."
"Yeah, that's me, deadliest Dillinger of Kapow," the man entertains the though then turns serious. "Sherriff's deputy."
"See, I was close," I laugh weakly. "I was thinking you were some kind of cop."
Morgan just nods and we sit there for a moment. I feel the threat of sleep coming to claim me and my eyes are forced open again as a car alarm goes off outside. Duane jumps up but his father calms him and tries to explain what happened without really knowing himself.
"It's nothing. One of them, probably just bumped a car or somethin'," Morgan says.
"You sure?" the man stands up.
"It's happened once before. It went on for a few minutes or so," I grab my gun from under my pillow and go to the window. "Kill the lights."
I peel back a part of the blanket covering the window and Morgan looks out.
"It's the blue one right there, same one as last time. I think we'll be okay," Morgan states.
"That noise… won't it bring more of them?" the man asks. Duane nears and looks through the parting in the blankets.
"Nothing we can do about it now," I shrug and place my gun back in its hiding spot. "Just have to wait it out 'til morning."
"She's here," Duane gasps.
"Don't look. Get away from the windows!" Morgan instructs. His son lingers. "I said go! Come on!"
The boy jumps onto the bed and burst into sobs. His father goes after him to comfort and quiet his boy. My heart aches for him. The man still stands at the window, watching the walkers. He moves to the door and looks through the peephole. I go and join him, standing close. As the man looks outside, the door handle begins to shake. The man looks to me slowly and finds that I'm just as frozen as him. We back away, staring at the turning knob, and return to our beds.
"She, uh… she died on that bed in there. In the other room," Morgan's voice is shaky. "There wasn't‒wasn't nothin' I could do about it. That fever, man. Her skin gave off a heat like a furnace. I shoulda‒I shoulda put her down, man‒ I shoulda put her down. I know that but I… You know what? I just didn't have it in me. She's the mother of my child."
The newbie and I sit there consumed in a lack of words. The knob continues to rattle behind me and then suddenly stops. It takes a few minutes, but we all lay back on our beds uncomfortably. Though my body had long since been accustomed to permanent soreness, it still ached as I lay still. For a long while, I can still hear Duane's quiet sobs, but they diminish as he drifts to sleep. Many hours must have passed before sleep finally claimed me even in my exhaustion, only to wake in the morning and try to survive another day.