So this is my first attempt at a Negan/TWD story (in honor of the season 6 finale that airs tonight.) I'm still working on whether or not I'm going to combine the comic with the show, but I assure you, characters like Daryl will make an appearance. This story starts about a year into the outbreak, so probably around the time Rick and co. are settling in to Herschel's farm. Hope you guys enjoy!
First Contact
Miracles were rare, nowadays, and it had taken some sort of miracle to keep Turtle's entire family alive this long.
Her father, her mother. Her little sister, heading towards her sixth birthday, and her brother - her twin. A year and a half after the dead began to walk, the neighborhood Turtle had once known - Pinecreek - was a desolate wasteland of vehicles and toppled homes and the rotting corpses of the fallen undead, dispatched by her father from an upstairs window.
Her brother and her father would go out and scavenge food. They'd been the first to stock up during the outbreak, allowing them to miss the initial panic as people flooded the streets in search for supplies and assistance, unknowingly drawing the attention of those already limping and biting. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. No military assistance came, no airstrike took out their neighborhood. It was just them, now, in their feebly gated community.
So, they'd lasted.
Until around…was it a Sunday? The Sabbath? A day of rest.
There wasn't such a thing as rest. Not anymore. They'd gotten too comfortable, too…adjusted to the world, but in all the wrong ways. Turtle had taught herself how to wield a kitchen knife, just for safety purposes. The small arsenal of weapons belonged to her father and brother, and occasionally, her mother. Turtle was mainly the babysitter.
Pinecreek was eerily silent, that day. The moaning of the roamers - as her brother had named them - was a low hum. Turtle had gotten used to it.
Her mother was cooking, and her father was outside, adjusting the wrought iron gate around their home, which had once been used to contain their dog. As one can imagine, the dog had become roamer lunch almost immediately. Dogs were too happy, too naive.
Turtle was reading. Her sister was doing the same, lips twisted into a grimace as she concentrated. Her brother? Lord knew where he was.
Turtle heard the shouting first. She reacted, tossing aside her book and starting towards the door, bypassing her brother as he began descending the staircase towards the living room.
"Was that dad?"
"Think so. May be a roamer - might want to get your gun."
The door swung open before Turtle could even extend her hand.
I should have run.
Her fathers body was face down in the grass, leaking blood. He had a knife in one hand. His killer towered over Turtle, brandishing his own weapon. As apposed to her fathers, this knife was drenched in crimson.
"He gave us a hard time," the man said. He was pale, with sunken eyes and a toothy smile, like a shark's. Unlike Turtle, his clothes were torn and ratty, yellowed from sweat. His stench filled the entire house.
Turtle backed away. She couldn't stop staring at her father - bloody and most certainly dead.
Turtle could only whimper. They had companions - three of them, all equally nasty and vicious looking. They reminded Turtle of the undead.
"Don't move, girl."
Turtle was in the middle of taking a step back. Behind her, dishes banged against each other as her mother continued to prepare dinner. Turtle's sister didn't seem too afraid, those she put down her book and sunk behind the couch, eyes wide.
The man stepped forward. The knife in his hand was suddenly very, very close to Turtle, closer than she was comfortable with. Her bones were stuck, rendered motionless by fear.
Her older brother chose that moment to stomp down the stairs. Whatever words he had were cut short when one of the brutes - a shorter man with a pair of glasses, raised his handgun and shot Turtle's brother dead.
Turtle's sister screamed. Her mother rushed towards the source of the gunshot stopping when she saw the corpse of her only son topple down the stairs.
She shrieked.
"Shut up!" the lead brute growled. He gestured for his three companions, and they sprang towards the three remaining females, fast as striking cobras. Strong hands grappled her neck and chest and arms, ultimately restraining her when she tried to fight back. Their disgusting scent acted almost like sensory deprivation. Turtle snarled and clawed at the arms wrapped around her.
They forced her to the ground, doing the same with her mother. Her sister didn't need to much convincing. She was sobbing.
"Let my girls go," Turtle's mother said with such malice that it made Turtle frightened. She was reaching a point of numbness, an almost zen-like experience. She could see the drops of blood pouring from the quarter sized hole in her brother's forehead. The bloody knife descending towards her seemed to be glistening.
"Kill the men, take the women," the head brute tapped his blade against Turtle's cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right. Make you…useful again. We've been watching you. You haven't had to fight much, have you? You thought you were the smart folks, stocking up on everything in the beginning."
Turtle's mother didn't reply. The head brute was speaking directly to her, crouched down so he could meet her eye.
"We've lasted."
"Lasted? You count this as lasting? Hope you haven't made yourself too comfortable here, cause once the res of my boys arrive, we're going for a ride."
Turtle's sister sobbed, louder this time. The head brute grimaced, gripping his pistol tighter. Hr just stared for a moment, brows furrowed, as if thinking of something.
"How old is she? Five? Six?'
Turtle glared.
"Whose going to arrest me? There's a market for girls her age out there."
Turtle strained against the strong arms keeping her grounded. The leader met her gaze, finally.
"And you…You look fresh out of college. My type of woman. You, I'll keep. For myself," he shook his head, addressing Turtle's mother. "But you…not a market for old hags."
Turtle heard a gunshot. Her mothers head jerked back wildly, bloody spraying. She no longer had a face, Turtle realized.
Turtle cried out. Her cool broke, and her hands began to shake.
The leader snorted, standing back up. "Run a train on them, boys. Show em' how we do business."
Turtle's clothes were missing. Her shirt was gone, her panties hanging onto her bruised, thin hips.
Her sister's body was shoved into the corner, next to the body of her mother. The man had strangled her to death. Of course, he'd apologized.
It's okay.
Turtle wished that the undead would bash down the walls of her home and devour them all. The emotions she felt no longer qualified as human.
God will surely damn you.
"I'm keeping her. Yes, good. Nice," the lead brute chuckled. His belt lay abandoned next to Turtle's leg. He was flushed, grinning as the final, small moments of euphoria passed.
Turtle heard three sharp thuds against the front door. The two men on the living room couch leaped up, while the third looked towards his leader for guidance. The lead brute's face fell, and he raised a hand.
"Could it be the biters?" one of the men asked. He hissed, revealing his front teeth, which were nonexistent. "I bet it's biters. Or the dad. We got him in the head, right?"
"Killed him myself," the lead brute said. "Locked that fancy little gate of his, too. The only thing that would be able to get in-"
A low, unmistakably male voice shouted from beyond the door, "Jahova's Witness! Open up!
Guns clicked. Turtle, lying on her kitchen floor, bruised and bloodied, managed to sit up and lean against a cabinet so to get a better view.
"Fuck off!" the lead brute shouted. "Fuck off, or we shoot!"
No reply. A few minutes passed.
Upstairs, something toppled over. Two of the men were up the stairs, disappearing around a corner.
They didn't come back. Their shrieks signaled their fate.
The man who leaped over the staircase railing was taller than all the me,n cleaner, and altogether menacing - his left hand gripped a knife while his other hand held a baseball bat, scratched and bloody, wrapped in links of barbed wire.
And it looked as if one swing hurt.
The man was rushed by one of Turtle's assailants. The bat flew in a wide arc, cracking the attacker across the skull. He staggered, groaned, and was downed by another blow. His head mimicked that of a smashed pumpkin.
The lead brute raised his gun. Turtle responded almost instinctively, lunging forward and smashing her body into the brute's back, throwing off his aim. The bullet sailed wide and shattered a window.
He was on her, now, gun abandoned, fingers gripping her throat and squeezing the life out of her.
Can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe
Turtle fell to the floor when the lead brute was forced to confront his massive, baseball bat wielding attacker. He lashed out with his knife, very nearly catching Turtle's rescuer in the ribs
The second swipe hit home. The blade dug into the man's shoulder, causing him to nearly drop his bat.
She had to help. This couldn't be one way battle. This couldn't be it.
Turtle hobbled across the floor and sunk her teeth into the lead brute's neck. Her teeth slid through muscle and sinew, the blood pumping like a water hose. Turtle's savior raised her bat swung, taking the lead brute's jaw with it.
Turtle released her hold on the lead brute. When he fell, she sunk of the floor with him.
Her once tidy kitchen was now a stream of death and blood, and she had taken part of it. There was a body in every corner, now.
Her savior crouched down next to her, shock by her topless form. She was gaunt, she knew. Bruised.
"Hey. What's your name."
"Turtle. It's not my real name. People call me that, I guess."
"You guess?" the man's voice was strong and hard. "Well, fuck, Turtle. Seem's like you got yourself into a lot of trouble. They're all dead, don't worry."
Turtle nodded. The shock was still there. Her mouth wouldn't move right and she felt like vomiting, but couldn't. The stench of blood was assaulting her nostrils.
"Your name…?" Turtle mumbled. Her rescuer, her savior, replied.
"Negan."