Day 400+
Lucas, you promised you wouldn't leave Brooklyn and me alone in this fight. You promised you'd come and rescue us. We've been holding onto that hope for over a year now. Where the hell are you? Food's scarce at best. Clean water? We haven't seen any for three weeks. Forget about sleep, we don't even bother trying anymore. Misha's leading us to the prison. Hopefully something good comes out of it. That damn dog has better judgment than anyone else these days. Where are you Luke? We need you...
When the world ends, looting, time, and survival are your only means. Kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest. My husband instilled those qualities in me since the day our daughter was born, over five years ago. Little did he know, that those very qualities would keep us alive, in a world with no rules. A world with no morals or stability.
When the outbreak began, Lucas rang us over the radio he always kept in the living room. An old police radio that he bought and fixed back before we met. Anyway, he told us it was bad – that people were dying all over. That there was no cure that they knew of. He and his company in the United States Army was working around the clock to find a way to contain it. A way to keep it from spreading. He told us to head to the CDC in Atlanta. He said if all else failed, find somewhere safe, where they couldn't get us. He told us, most importantly, do not, under any circumstances, get bit.
Then he promised to find us as soon as he could. That was the last we heard from him.
The last year and a half (or maybe, it's been even longer?) have been hell. And even that is putting it lightly. The last six months, even worse. Our truck was totaled, most of our supplies lost or destroyed, our rations ran dry, and we were slowly losing the fight. The only thing that kept us going, was Lucas's promise.
"Mommy, how much longer?" Brooklyn cried after a whole day of walking. I had her strapped to my back, our duffel strapped right up along with her. Our dog, Misha, trailed beside us, her fur matted with dried blood and decay.
"The jail isn't much farther, Brookie," I promised. After we had learned that the CDC was destroyed, and Atlanta was far from safe, we continued in whatever direction the dog felt was safe. After finding a prison on the map, I made a rash decision to see if it was safe. Anything was safer than the outside world.
"You said that yesterday," she whined. She was tired, hungry and scared. We hadn't stopped for more than a few hours in months. We hadn't eaten a real meal in weeks. We were running on fumes. Another attack like the last...we'd be done for.
Ignoring my young daughter's complaints, I kept pushing onwards. Misha stopped suddenly, her ears flat against her skull, a silent growl building in her chest. I knelt down, keeping my body firmly pressed to the dog's thinning side.
"Misha, what direction?" I asked her. The dog had come from a long line of K9 unit pups, and adapted to alerting us to oncoming danger, without giving away our location.
She sniffed the air, her tail low, her eyes barely open. I waited until she stepped forward, her shaggy fur standing on end. After checking the map, I realized why she stopped. We were only yards away from the prison gates.
"Brooke, stay very, very quiet," I told my daughter. I felt her nod, and cling tightly to my back. I took a deep breath and followed Misha through the trees and blood splattered grass, praying to every god under the sun that we'd make it to safety soon.
As we cleared the trees, I saw my prayers were not to be answered. I could see the gates easily enough, but surrounding them, were at least a hundred – if not more – of the walking dead. We nicknamed them the "Eaters" because they ate anything that moved. Well, anything that didn't smell like them. Early on, we realized that if we smelled as bad as they did, moved slowly enough, and made no noise, we could pass unnoticed. It was actually Misha who figured it out. After weeks on the run, her long fur became matted with dead flesh and blood. She smelled something horrible, but she served as a great decoy.
Inching forward, I kept as low to the ground as possible, a long hunting knife in one hand, a handgun with six rounds in the other. I took a deep breath, and followed as Misha led us to another tree, this time, her ears perked.
"Brooke, there are a pair of binoculars in the front pocket on the duffel, can you reach them?" I whispered.
"I think so," she said as she wiggled around as quietly as she could. A minute later, she handed me the binoculars, her tiny hands trembling.
"It's gonna be okay, babygirl," I promised. I took a moment to scan the fence. Only then, did I realize that there were survivors inside. A man with what looked like a very updated cross bow patrolled one side, while a female wielding a long iron rod watched the other.
I thought about what Lucas had said, during one of our annual hunting trips just before our daughter was born.
"If you ever find yourself in a rotten situation, and there are other people far off that can't see you, make your presence known. Out here, mistakes happen too quickly."
I grabbed the flashlight from my pocket, and flipped it on. It was early, just a few hours before sunrise. I knew I was taking a huge risk, but I hoped it would pay off. Otherwise, we'd be running. Again.
I pointed it at the man, who was closer to where we were. I flicked it on and off, then flicked it on again. I watched as it caught his attention. I flicked it off and on one final time, before sticking it back in my pocket. Misha stood stone still, her teeth bared as she took in the scents. I watched as the man and the woman exchanged words, then as the woman ran around the gate, clanging the rod against the metal. Drawing the Eaters away from where the man stood.
"Brooke, I'm gonna have to set you down. Misha won't leave your side, okay? Run with her, as fast as you can, up to the gate. I'll cover you," I said as I struggle to untie the straps that were holding her onto my back.
"I'm scared!" she wailed. I set her down and knelt, so I was looking right into her bright green eyes.
"Brooklyn Mariah Riley, what did daddy always say when you were scared?" I asked as I laid a hand on her shoulder.
"That angels will keep all the bad away," she whimpered.
"Exactly. Angels will keep the bad away," I said. "Now when I give the signal, you and Misha run as fast as you can, okay?"
"What about you?" she asked with wide eyes.
"I'll be right behind you," I promised.
"Okay," she whispered. She looked absolutely terrified, and I couldn't blame her.
I gave Brooke a few minutes to brace herself, then told her to run. She took off, running faster than I ever imagined she could. Misha was right beside her, offering a hand to keep her steady. I followed behind, slower, letting myself be the distraction between my daughter and the Eaters. I took aim at the one closest to us, my shot ringing loudly in the early morning air. Cursing, I found myself slowly growing impatient, and worse, surrounded.
"Brooke, faster!" I screamed as I kept my back to her, my knife stabbing at the flesh eating monsters. One grabbed hold on my arm, and would have floored me, had it not been for the arrow that put a quick end to it.
We were three fourths of the way to the gate by the time Brooke's short legs gave out. She collapsed, panting heavily for air. Reacting on instinct and nothing else, I scooped her up and pushed Misha ahead of us, making quick work on the remaining yards.
"Hurry up!" the man barked as he held the gate open, his eyes locking on the Eaters that were trailing behind.
With one last burst of energy, I threw myself into the gate, Brooke slipping from my arms. She landed on the ground with a soft thud, but thankfully, Misha was right there to calm her down. I fell to my knees, breathless and bloodied, but alive.
"Are you okay? Were you bit?" the man demanded after the gate was shut and we were out of harms way. I looked up at him, still struggling to catch my breath and gather my bearings. "Were you bit!" he screamed.
"No," I gasped, examining myself quickly, before turning my attention to Brooke, who sat wide eyed, clearly in shock. "Brookie, did they get you?" I demanded. She shook her head and crawled over to me, so I could see for myself. "Thank god," I whispered, then looked up at the man. The short haired woman was now at his side, her eyes showing nothing but concern, unlike her partners, whose eyes burned with both concern and hatred.
"Thank you," I whispered. Misha let out a low bark before pawing the ground, her ears pinned against her skull.
"Meesh, it's okay, they can't get in here," I told the dog. She whined, but sat down, her body relaxing ever so slightly. "Right?" I added, turning my attention to the pair in front of me.
"Right," the man said.
I took a few more minutes to gather my thoughts, before forcing myself to my feet. I let the duffel fall to the ground with a thud, overly aware that it had been the only thing keeping us alive for the last six months.
"So don't mind my asking, but who the hell are you people?" I asked. Brooke stood behind me, her tiny hands gripping at my legs. Misha paid no attention to the exchange, her tail thumping against the grass softly, her tongue lolling to the side, for once, completely relaxed.
"I'm Carol, and this is Daryl," the woman said softly. She smiled at Brooke and waved.
"Nice to meet you Carol and Daryl. I'm Kay and this here's Brooklyn," I said, smiling down at my daughter. "She's a little shy, we haven't seen any one in a long time," I added. "Well, aside from Eaters," I added as an after thought.
"How long have you been traveling like this?" Carol asked.
"'Bout six or seven months. We had a truck before then," I explained. "Only reason we managed to get this far, was 'cause of Misha here. She led the way," I added, running a hand through her thick fur. "She saved our lives," I whispered.
"How the hell did that dog not get bit?" Daryl challenged.
"She's fast," I shrugged. "And stinks as bad as the Eaters do."
"Mommy?" Brooke interrupted.
"Yeah babygirl?" I asked, knelling next to her.
"I'm sleepy," she sighed, rubbing her eyes.
"Come here," I smiled. She crawled into my lap, her head resting on my shoulder.
"I can't thank you both enough," I whispered, looking up at Carol and Daryl. "Are you two alone here?"
"No, there's about ten others," Carol said softly. "And no need to thank us, child."
"I owe my life to you two," I said softly. I hugged Brooklyn tightly. "My daughter's too."
"Come on, Rick's gonna want to see you," Daryl puffed, starting towards the prison.
"Is he always so grouchy?" I asked Carol as I threw the duffel over my shoulder, picked Brooke up, and followed the pair through the prison doors.
"Yes," she smiled softly.
Misha stopped at the doorway, her ears perked. She let out a low growl, sniffing the air. She sat down, growled again, then turned, so her back was to me. I walked over to her, letting my free hand rub her head. "Come on, old girl, let's get some sleep, you can keep watch inside," I told her. She looked up at me, growled again, this time, laying down, her head resting on her dirty paws. "Suit yourself," I sighed, too tired to fight with a dog.
We made our way through the twisting corridors. I couldn't help but be on edge. This group of people...these survivors, were the first living people we encountered in over a year and I was loosing hope that there were anymore out there. If it had taken this long to find survivors, what hope was there that there were more out there?
"Stay here," Daryl grunted as he walked over to a locked cell block. I made note that a young boy unlocked it and let Daryl pass. Carol stayed with me and Brooke.
"She looks exhausted," she said, nodding at Brooke.
"It's been a long, long year," I whispered, not having the heart to wake the sleeping child. "She's been through a lot."
"We all have," Carol said softly. She smiled and offered to take Brooke.
"It's okay, I've got her," I argued. "I'm so used to holding her, it doesn't even bother me anymore," I said honestly. More times than not, my young daughter was either in my arms or on my back. It made her feel safe, and made it a lot easier to stay quiet and out of sight of Eaters.
"You look ready to drop," Carol noted as I swayed from one foot to another.
"I'm beyond exhausted," I admitted. "When we had the truck, it was easy. We could sleep without too much fear. Ever since the accident, we've had to be on red alert all the time," I knelt down, letting my weight fall heavily against the wall. My spine connected with the hard stone, sending a shot of pain through my entire body. I shifted my weight so Brooke could rest easily in my arms, her tiny, thin frame fitting perfectly into my lap.
"You, get over here," Daryl called a few minutes later. As I was about to stand, I heard Misha let out a loud, panicked bark. Brooke woke up quickly, her tiny hands gripping at my shoulders.
"Brooke, stay here," I said after a moment's hesitation. Daryl was next to me in what seemed like seconds flat. I put Brooke on the floor, tossed the duffel to one side, and ran out of the door, my knife gripped tightly in my hands.
It didn't take long to find the frightened dog. She was stuck between two pieces of bent medal, her collar stuck on a piece sticking out. I sighed and quickly untangled her. She whined, pressed her head against my face, then proceeded to walk away, in the direction of the cell block.
"That dog of yours, how long have you had her?" Daryl asked.
"Three years, she was my husband's dog," I sighed. "I'm sorry about her. But I wasn't going to leave her behind."
"She seems smarter than most mutts," he grunted.
"She is. She was trained for search and rescue, hunting, and drug busts," I smiled. "Guess she's trained to track Eaters too now," I added.
"Eaters?" Daryl asked, momentarily confused. "Oh, you mean Walkers."
"Eaters, Walkers, Zombies, it's all the same," I sighed. We made it back to the cell in record time.
"Rick," Daryl called as soon as we closed the door behind us.
"This her?" the man asked. He was tall, with a desperate look on his face. In his arms, laid a young infant.
"How old's your baby?" I asked before Daryl could answer.
"A few weeks, why?" the man asked.
"I have something that'll help her," I said quickly. I knelt next to the duffel, ignoring Misha as she tried to stick her nose in the bag. After a few minutes of rummaging through what little we had left, I found what I was looking for. "Picked it up a few weeks back, when we hit a mini-mart that still had a few useful things left. Couldn't for the life of me figure out why," I said as I slowly walked towards him, carrying a small diaper bag filled with diapers, wipes, formula and bottles. "Figured worse comes worse, it'd keep Brooke going a few more days," I shrugged.
"Are you sure?" he looked surprised.
"Your friends took me in, the least I could do is repay the favor," I smiled. I glanced at my sleeping daughter and sighed. "I'll trade you the stuff for your baby, if you can spare a glass of water? My daughter..."
"Sure, sure," the man said with a sad smile. "I'm Rick," he quickly introduced himself.
"I'm Kay, and that there is Brooklyn," I said before walking back over to my sleeping daughter.
"Brookie, wake up baby," I said softly. She groaned and swatted at my hand. "Brooke, come on, just wake up long enough to have a drink of water."
"I'm sleepy," she mumbled. I sighed and picked her up. Misha pressed against my leg, helping me balance.
"Rick, you can't make them sleep out here," Carol said softly. She laid a hand on my back, her eyes sad.
"I wouldn't dare to. Come on," he said as he unlocked the cell block's bars, stepping aside so we could pass.
That night, for the first night in what seemed like a lifetime, both Brooke and myself managed to snatch up a handful of undisturbed sleep. I could vaguely remember Rick introducing us to the rest of the group, before offering us blankets and water. He was a nice enough man, far kinder than Daryl, but he was disturbed. Carol told me he recently lost his wife. That their daughter, Judy, and son, Carl, were the only things keeping him going.
I felt bad for the man, but in the same breath, I knew exactly what he was going through. I was beginning to believe that Lucas was dead. Or worse.
To think, now a days, there's something worse than being dead. Being alive again.
Lucas, I'm losing faith in you. I never thought that could happen. But I'm beginning to think you didn't make it. I hope I'm wrong. Prove me wrong.
A/N- I've never attempted to write a fan-fiction about The Walking Dead before, so any and all feedback is welcomed. Decided it was about time to give it a go, so here it is.
