Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead or any of the characters associated with the franchise.
'You found yourself a new sensation
But baby, it's a jungle out there
The ones you counted on are all but gone
Baby, it's a jungle out there…'
- People In Planes. Last Man Standing.
-TWD-
For as long as Cal could remember she had always been good at running.
Way back when; before the world had gone well and truly to shit. It was just something that she did, that she enjoyed doing. Something that let her forget who she was. If only for a moment.
That was back then. That was before.
Before.
Before when things had been good, even if at the time they didn't seem like they were. Back before, when the dead didn't just suddenly get back up and start 'eating' anything and anyone in close proximity. Back when things were normal and all was right with her world.
That was back then. That was before.
Now though, now, she finds herself running again. Only this time she isn't running to pass the time or because she enjoys doing it. No, this time Cal finds herself running from something else entirely. Something that even her darkest nightmares she couldn't have even begun to imagine. Cal finds herself running from the new world. Something that just a few short weeks ago she would never have believed to have been real. Something that she doesn't want to be real.
But it is.
She can hear her ragged breathing and the heavy slap of her booted feet against the sidewalk. Every sound she makes appears amplified to her ears. The smallest of noises setting her on edge.
Her rucksack is banging against the small of her back and she grimaces with every stride she takes. She has to continue though, to push on, she cannot afford to stop even whilst her legs are turning to jelly and that ever present stitch in her side is becoming almost too unbearable to keep on.
She quickly braces herself as she trips over seemingly nothing; collapsing heavily onto the sidewalk. Her hands take the full brunt of the impact, clenches her teeth together stop herself from crying out, feels the jarring deep within her bones.
This was real. This was real. This wasn't a nightmare.
She breathes out the mantra over and over, turning onto her side watches almost transfixed as her breath condenses in front of her in the cool twilight air. The sidewalk feels cool against the side of her left cheek. She wants to get back up, somewhere deep down in her knows that she has to. But she can't seem to move. It's like her whole body is stuck in quicksand. Her mind feels foggy as though she's not quite there. But she is as she can feel the concrete under her fingertips, can feel the grainy texture and dust from the floor sticking to her face.
She has to calm down, has to calm her breathing and slow her racing heart. So she focuses on the throbbing pain in her head and the dusty gritty texture beneath her fingers. That ever present stitch in her side.
This was real. This was real.
She was alive when everyone else was….dead.
She blinks back the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes, lifts her head off of the floor and tries to take note of her surroundings. To pinpoint where she's at but she's not quite sure. All she knows is that she's far away from the 'safe zone' and that... That is a good thing.
There's destruction all around her. Shattered windows, broken down cars; evidence of looting of fighting, blood and decaying bodies. The ever present groans of the dead permeate the stillness of the evening.
They're close; she can't see them but she can hear the constant sound of their shuffling feet filling the air. It's repetitive. Almost hypnotic.
Shuffle, shuffle. Groan. She fears that she's going mad.
Shuffle, shuffle, groan. She has to be. This can't be real. It can't be. It can't.
Shuffle, shuffle, groan.
Her hands clamp over her ears. She draw her knees up into her chest, screws her eyes closed so tightly that a kaleidoscope of colours burst behind her eye lids. She can still hear them though. Can still see the swarm tearing at …
This was real. This was real.
She tries to swallow down the scream trapped in her throat. Sweat trickles from her forehead; down her face and over her chin before pooling in the hollow of her neck. The stickiness covers her body like a second skin. A panicked half strangled sob escapes her mouth and for a moment in the darkness she forgets just where she is.
Just for a moment.
She finds herself kneeling again but she's not sure how. She can't remember getting up off of the floor. Her hands are resting limply on her knees, her hands she notices are soot covered, blistered and slicked with drying blood.
She wipes them against her jeans but the blood doesn't budge. It's still there, a mocking reminder that she failed. That she's alone, once again.
She takes a deep breath, but she can still smell it. The smell of petrol and grease and something sweet that she can't quite place as the military had rounded them up. All of them; the sick, the old, the young, the dying. It didn't matter. They didn't matter, not anymore. That's what he'd said, that young Army boy. Barely nineteen and leading them to their deaths. But that didn't matter. They were all gonna die. All of them herded up like cattle. The air so thick and heavy that the fumes of the petrol and burning bodies made her dizzy and nauseous. She remembers hearing the shattering of glass and the sound of gunfire.
The explosions and screams echoing all around.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. BANG. Pop-pop-pop-pop. BANG. BANG. Pop-pop-pop-pop.
Patrick had been fighting, looking for an escape. Telling her to try, to get up, to just fucking move. "Cal? Callie?" A large warm hand on her shoulder, shaking her back into reality. "Snap out of it now. C'mon now snap outta it…" Alice who was suddenly bit; her thin pale arm covered in her own blood and that look of terror, that look that Cal will never forget as Patrick goes to pull the biter off of her. That one look as those wide terrified grey eyes latched onto hers as the swarm of biter's broke through the chain link fence.
All she can see is Alice's little sister Lottie struggling to breathe, hear her hysterical cries as she clutches that small battered teddy in her tiny hands. Tiny hands reaching out for her as smoke began to cover everything in a thick grey blanket.
They thought they'd been safe at the camp. Safe. They should have been safe. They should have been. She closes her eyes against the onslaught of images as bile crawls up her throat.
The acid burns her gullet. She gags unable to stop herself. Retching; vomit pours from her mouth splatters across her hands and knees. Her long hair gets in the way, matting the thick brown strands together. Tears pool at the corner of her eyes and she blinks wildly in a futile attempt to hold them back. She imagines her Mama behind her rubbing her back, holding her long hair away. Telling her that all would be well. Except her Mama... Her Mama had been dead for a long time. No point thinking about that now. She shakes away the thought as she staggers to her feet.
Turns to find herself staring at yet another body. Definitely dead. Head caved in. There's nothing left of the skull. She wonders who killed it?
Her. Killed her. Not it.
Not an it. It's not an it.
It's a her.
Her, her, her.
She wonders what they thought when it happened. Did they think of them as a person when they caved the skull in? Or just a thing? No longer a person, no longer someone who was vibrant and unique, with thoughts and dreams and hopes and fears. No longer them, no longer human.
Grey, rotten, bloated. Head caved in.
Just another thing left to rot in the hot Georgian sun along with all the other trash.
Gun fire explodes behind her and she wills herself to move; to run; to just get out of there. The screech of tires and the sporadic shouts of angry scared voices echo behind her as she ducks into an alleyway panting.
The stitch in her side she realises isn't a stitch at all.
Pulling away her hand she notices the fresh coating of warm blood. Her blood. It is here, in this brief stillness that she realises that she's been shot. Sweat pours from her skin, her breath condensing in front of her in the cool night air. She swallows down a moan of pain. The realisation that she has in fact been shot is seemingly lodged in the forefront of her mind. All she can think about, all she can feel is the burning sensation in her side.
Shadows of people run past her hiding place and she bites down her hand hard to stifle any sound. Blood pools in her mouth. The taste is thick on her tongue, it tastes like pennies. Her eyes droop, her head is pounding, she can't quite fight the exhaustion anymore.
She dozes.
Hours pass before she feels herself jerking back into her body and with that she finally allows herself to move.
The streets are quiet. It's been a while since they were. A week? No that doesn't seem right. Two weeks? She bites her thumbnail as she tries to think. But she has trouble remembering; she's lost all track of time since the things started to descend into chaos. The streets are quiet once again.
There's no more looting, no more rioting or fighting. No more terrified cries of women and children.
It's eerily quiet.
The sudden barking of dog in the distance makes her jump, her hand automatically going to the small knife strapped to her thigh. The slap of her boots echoes loudly across the street. Disturbing the unsettling peace. She stops again panting, presses her hand against the bullet hole in her side, she knows she has to fix this. Has to stop the bleeding, close up and clean the wound before infection sets in. She knows this. If only she could focus.
She glances upwards and watches as the clouds part momentarily allowing the stars to shine gloriously down.
Cal hears the helicopters before she sees them. High above like small insects; moving towards the centre of the city. Evacuation…? She thinks. Shakes her head at her foolishness. No, no that ain't right. It was too late for that. Not evacuation. The bright flashes light up the sky and she stands still watching as the bombs start to drop.
No not evacuation, more like extermination.
She's got a good vantage point to the city. Bombs are obliterating everything in their path, fires burning everywhere. Cleansing everything in its wake. It reminds her of the 4th of July and even further back when to a memory that she had long forgotten. Back when she was nine years old watching their neighbours home burn down to the ground.
His Mama's still in there; she'd heard someone say. Probably drunk as usual. Someone else had said.
She could still feel the heat from the fire on her face from where she was stood. Scrawny Daryl stood to the side of her watching his house burn down along with his Ma. "I'm sorry about your Mama Daryl…" She had whispered out her hand briefly reaching out to touch his before he jerked away. He looked at her then eyes hooded. But even beneath the guarded look she can see his pain, his sadness. Ca n see tear tracks streaked on his soot covered face even after he's tried to wipe them away. She bites her tongue from saying anything more. Josie Dixon might not have been the best Mama in the world; but she was still his Mama.
He nods, shifts his feet before he breaks eye contact and walks away.
She opens her mouth to call him back, wants to ask him where he'll go; but he's swallowed up in the crowd of people before she even call his name.
The highway she knows is behind her. If she can reach that she thinks then maybe she has a chance of making it.
She begins to run.
Cal remembers that she had always been good at running. Way back when, before the world went to shit. It was just something she did. It was something that she enjoyed doing back when things were good. When things were normal and all was right with her world.
She lets out a small wheezy laugh, she's getting so sick of running now.
