The Walking Dead: Broken

The Walking Dead Game ©Telltale Games

Probably to no one's surprise, this is another Alternate Universe story of the Walking Dead game. Most of you will probably stop reading after the notice, but hopefully some of you will stick around long enough to reach the end.

Now this takes place in season 2 of the Walking Dead Game, starting up directly after the 16 month Timeskip. However, Clementine will be sharing the role of the protagonist with a woman named Ava, who serves as both a mentor and antithesis to Clementine. Another addition is the mysterious Black Death, who is constantly hunting Clementine for reasons unknown.

Now if I haven't completely driven you away, please enjoy the first chapter of The Walking Dead: Broken.


Episode One: Days Are Numbered

She was cold…she was tired…she was hungry…

But Clementine knew this was the way things had to be – the way things had become since the first days of "The Outbreak", as they called it.

It had been 843 days since the world went to hell. Clementine knew this because she had ticked the days away in her mind, mentally recording the events as a way of keeping her sane, as a way of making her remember how fucked up the world really was.

On Day 0, her babysitter had been bitten; she couldn't even remember the face or name of the woman anymore. Day 94 marked the first time she had unknowingly eaten human meat. Back then she thought she would never have touched the stuff again, but that before she realized the sacrifices needed to survive. Day 109 had been the point where everything fell apart – Lily, Carley, Duck, and Katjaa had left her one way or another. Day 111 was turning point of her life – the day she was forced to give up her innocent fantasy in favor of this unforgiving reality – the day she was forced to shoot Lee…

Lee…

Clementine shook her head, bringing herself back to the present.

There she was, eleven years of age, lost somewhere in the middle of the forests of North Carolina, staring dimly into the dying flames of their pathetic campfire. Sitting on a worm-rotted log in the thinnest shirt and jeans she could find did nothing to help against the chilly October showers. At this rate, the weasel she had spent hours catching and skinning would never cook. That would give Christa one more thing to blame her for.

Clementine turned her eyes on the dark-skinned woman sitting just a couple of feet from her. She knew that Christa was staring at the dying embers only as a reason to not look or speak to Clementine. She had expected that – it had been routine since Day 356, when Omid had died because of her.

Clementine had been careless and because of her, some stranger had snuck up on Clementine and snatched the gun she had left sitting on the sink. Omid had bravely tried to save her, but the noise of the bathroom door had spooked the assailant and she shot Omid without a second thought. Christa had gotten her revenge, shooting the assailant in the chest in spite of her apology, but she had been too late. Omid was dead and Clementine's gun had been the weapon that caused it.

Though she never said it out loud, she knew Christa blamed her and only tolerated Clementine because of her promise to Lee. A week after the incident, Clementine had thought there might be some hope of mending their relationship, but then her and Omid's baby died for reasons unknown and with it any hope of reconnecting with her guardian.

Clementine shook her head again. This was not the time to think about the past. It was over, everyone was dead. Right now, she needed to focus on the matter at hand.

"Christa, talk to me," Clementine asked for what seemed like the hundredth time that night.

Predictably, she ignored Clementine, even looked a little irritated as she stood up and walked over to the fire, purposely distancing herself. Clementine stared at her feet, sighing in annoyance. She knew she should feel sorry for Christa for losing Omid and the baby, but she wasn't the only one who lost everything. Clementine had lost her family, her friends, her home, and Lee and she had managed to get over it. Her sympathy was beginning to reach it limits.

"This'll never work," said Christa, stoking the tiny embers. "Look at this…it's pathetic. The wood's too wet to burn. There's more smoke and flame. At this rate, we'll be eating this for breakfast."

"What were you expecting?" Clementine said irritably. "It's raining in the middle of winter and there isn't a lot of wood that can burn properly without setting the forest on fire."

"I wasn't asking for excuses," said Christa. "We have to find something that can burn, anything. Won't be easy in the dark and in the rain. You should be doing this, not me. Tending a fire so you can cook and stay warm…it's something you have to be able to do, Clementine. Otherwise…"

"I've already done plenty," Clementine argued. "It wasn't magic that caught that weasel and skinned it so that we can have a meal. That was me."

"If this is a meal, they we might as well be dead," Christa mumbled under her breath.

The pair went silent again. Clementine could actually feel the tension building up between them, like a bomb waiting to go off.

"We can't stay in one place for too long," said Clementine. "It's too dangerous. We need to keep moving."

"All we do, all we've ever done is move," Christa said with a scowl. "But we never seem to get anywhere."

Clementine returned the glare and huddled her arms around herself as a particularly strong breeze blew by.

"I'm freezing."

"You think this is bad," said Christa, "wait until we get up to Wellington, then talk to me about cold. If we make it. We still have a couple hard months ahead of us. This rain will turn to sleet, then ice, then snow. It won't be easy."

"And what makes you think it'll be better at Wellington than anywhere else?" Clementine questioned. "We've heard about these 'sanctuaries' for months – Crawford, Woodbury, The Prison – they all ended the same way. How will Wellington be any different?"

"It just will, all right?" Christa snarled. Her fingers were flexing, looking very anxious to wrap themselves around Clementine's throat. "It has to. We have nothing else left. We just need to keep moving north."

Clementine thought it would be wise to stay quiet for a little while. Christa had already been on the edge for months and it looked like she was ready to crack at any moment. No need for push her any further. Though she knew Christa was desperately clinging to the small ray of hope that Wellington offered, Clementine was already prepared for disappointment. She had learned long ago that they were only avoiding the inevitable. No matter how long it took, the dead would always win – this was the last truth of this new, hellish world.

After trying, and failing, to fan the flames of the campfire, Christa stood up.

"I'm gonna look for more wood," she said. "You just keep the fire lit.

And just like that, Christa walked deeper into the dark forest, leaving Clementine alone with a skinned weasel and a dying pyre. Scratched that last part – the flames had finally gone out. Clementine groaned inwardly. If Christa came back with the fire was out, she really would kill Clementine. Better take care of it quick.

Clementine walked around to the hollow section of the log she had sat on, reaching inside for the backpack she had hidden inside. Since Omid's death, she had taken to hiding her possessions when they stopped to rest. She didn't want to take the chance of someone else turning her own gun against her again, especially if that person was Christa.

Clementine opened the backpack. She suddenly wished she hadn't. It was a horrible feeling when the first thing Clementine saw when she looked inside was a picture of Lee, the edges ripped from being torn from a larger picture. Why did she steal it from the Pharmacy that night in Macon? Or better yet, why did she still keep it after all these months? She knew it would have been better just to get rid of it after Lee died, but after trying fourteen different times, Clementine just couldn't bring herself to do it. No matter what she said about getting over Lee, there was still some part of her that missed him.

Clementine touched her D-Cap – that's what Omid had called it. It was a gift from her father back when she was very little; making it the only memento she had left to remember her family. Lee's blood had stained the cap when she had shot him in Savannah. No matter how hard she tried to rub it clean, the stain would never fade. It would always be there, haunting her.

Pocketing the photo, Clementine continued to dig through her backpack and found another picture, one made crudely out of crayons. It was a picture she had drawn of her of her old friend, Kenny, and his family, Katjaa and Duck. She remembered how she had drawn it the same day Katjaa and Duck had died, as if something that was predestined. She took a moment to remember them fondly: Kenny was loud and rude at time, but always kind and compassionate at others. Katjaa was every bit of a mother as Clementine thought her to be, though had a weak will in the end. Duck…Duck always annoyed Clementine with his pranks and loud mouth, but he meant well and that's what counts.

Pocketing the drawing, Clementine searched again and finally found the lighter at the bottom of the bag. She turned the spark wheel to test it – it still had some fuel left. Good. She zipped her backpack up and stashed it back in the hollow space of the log.

Clementine walked back over to the firewood and flicked the lighter again, igniting it. She took out one of the pieces of scrap paper that had littered her bag and touched the flame with its tip, setting the paper on fire. She carefully set the burning paper on of the few dry sticks of wood in the stack, sighing in relief when she heard the soft cackling of the embers.

"Better," said Clementine, "but still not enough. The flames are too low."

She needed more if the flames were going to stand a chance against this drizzle. She couldn't use anymore of the firewood she had collected – it was too wet to burn. And she highly doubted the North Carolina license plate in the grass would help much. She had no other choice left.

She pulled out the picture she had collected from her backpack, of Lee and Kenny's family. They would definitely burn. Tossing the picture of Kenny's family was easy. Though grateful for everything they did, their role in her life didn't have that heart wrenching effect on her when she lost them. Throwing away Lee's picture was another story. She owed that man for everything. Had it not been for him, she would have died in that tree house in her backyard, whether from starvation or if a Walker got lucky. Lee saved her, clothed her, fed her, and taught her how to make the difficult choices she needed to survive. And this was one of those choices.

Staring at that man's smiling face one last time, Clementine held her hand over the fire and, taking a deep breath, she let go.

Clementine felt something twist in her stomach; she felt like she was ready to throw up. No matter how much she wanted to look away, she knew that she couldn't ignore her problems. She needed to learn to let go. And so she sat back, watching the photograph curl and blacken in the blaze.

The forest was unnaturally quiet; even the crackling flames seemed to have gone silent in Clementine's ears. She was alone now. Truly alone. She had nothing left but to keep moving, hoping against hope that this Wellington place would turn out to be everything they hoped. But even if they manage to make it that far, what then? Everyone she knew was dead, the Walkers were growing by the hundreds every day, and her only companion hated her. It wouldn't surprise her if the Christa killed Clementine while she slept.

Maybe it wasn't worth it anymore…maybe she should just…give up. The world was already infected and there was no hope of restoring a world that was already dead. At this point, she was fighting a losing battle. Perhaps it was time to stop fighting and accept the truth: she was going to die, sooner or later. And, deep down, Clementine wanted it to be sooner – no point in dragging it out.

Clementine stared at the fire that was starting to build into a powerful blaze. She had never noticed before how beautiful the dancing flames looked, nor how invitingly warm they felt. It had been months since she felt warm. Clementine scooted closer to the fire, enjoying the heat washing over her numb body. It felt so wonderful…she wanted to get closer…she wanted to touch it. Her hands edged closer and closer to the fire; she could feel the embers licking against her palms.

Clementine leaned in closer…she wanted to feel warm…forever…

"Where the fuck is she?"

"I swear to God, I don't know!"

"Christa," Clementine gasped, snapping out of her trance.

She definitely heard Christa's voice and someone else too. It was coming from somewhere deep in the woods. Clementine slowly stood up and walked in the direction she heard the voices from. A bird cawed somewhere far away; Clementine jumped. Great. Paranoia was starting to get to her. She needed to find Christa and get the fuck out of this forest. She was done with nature.

Clementine pushed through the bushes and branches, following the voices of Christa and the other person.

"Don't you fucking lie to me! I know you're traveling with her! Tell me the fucking truth or I'll shove a bullet down your fucking throat!"

Clementine finally spotted Christa through the trees, standing opposite to the person holding her at gun point. Clementine quickly ducked behind the closest tree, observing the scene. It looked like there was only one person though Clementine couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman underneath that hooded black trench coat. Even the assailant's voice was indecipherable – he/she spoke in a monotone. The only thing that stood out to Clementine was the large cracked skull printed on the back of the coat.

"You have one last chance to tell me where she is," said the assailant.

"I - I'm telling you the truth," Christa stammered.

Wrong answer. The black-coated attacker showed no hesitation as he/she stomped on Christa's kneecap. Clementine winced; she could actually hear the bones shattering underneath Christa's painful wails. But the attacker didn't stop. He/she stomped on the kneecap again and again until Christa's leg bent into a position that should have been physically impossible. But despite all the pain, despite having her leg broken beyond repair, Christa did not say a word. The attacker wasn't happy.

"I am going to ask one last time, bitch," said the attacker, pressing the barrel of her gun to Christa's forehead. "That little girl you've been traveling with, the one with the baseball cap. I want to know where she is – right – this – second."

"I – don't – know!" Christa hissed.

Clementine choked on her own breath. Having believed she blamed her for Omid's death, she would have thought that Christa would sell her out at the drop of a hat. But she wasn't; she was trying to keep her safe, trying to protect her from the stranger that wanted her for some reason. Maybe Christa didn't hate her after all. And if that was the case, Clementine needed to help her.

Clementine looked around the forest floor, searching for something that might distract the attacker. There! A rock! Clementine picked it up, testing its weight in her hand. If she threw it at the attacker's head, maybe…

BANG!

Clementine froze as forest suddenly rang with the sound of a gunshot. She slowly turned around, drawn to the sound of something large hitting the smooth forest floor. Clementine clasped a hand over her mouth, keeping the bile from escaping her throat. Christa's wide, empty eyes were staring at her through the darkness, blood splattered across her forehead. The attacker holstered the gun in his/her coat pocket, kicking Christa in the head one last time for good measure.

Clementine was numb. Her mind kept saying 'move, move, move' over and over again, but her legs weren't listening. The image of Christa's dead eyes staring at her kept blocking out her other thoughts. The hooded killer shuffled around for a moment, seemingly at a loss of what to do next. Maybe if Clementine was lucky, the killer wouldn't notice her. If she just stood really still, she could get by unnoticed –

Something clattered at her feet – she dropped the rock.

BANG!

Clementine fell on her back, crying out to the fresh wave of pain coursing up and down her right arm. She pressed her free hand over her shoulder; the blood was starting to soak through her shirt and slip between her fingers. She heard the attacker's footsteps coming closer accompanied by the sound of a fresh magazine being inserted. She needed to get up, she needed to move now!

Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, Clementine stumbled to her feet and making a break for it through the gaps in the trees. Another gunshot rang; the bark of a nearby tree exploded in her face. But Clementine ignored the flying wood and kept on running, never daring to look back as the shooters footsteps echoed close behind her.

Day 843 – the day Christa died – and the day she might, too.


To any of you who actually made it this far, I commend you. Knowing how many stories there are like this, I'm not expecting a lot of positive responses, but being able to receive any response is good enough for me. If anyone is even remotely interested in seeing where this story goes and learning why the mystery shooter is after Clementine, please feel free to click the alert button, or even leave a review. Until next time!