There's a man that talks to him. It happens in starts and stutters. He has dark hair, a handsome face, and worried dark eyes. Sometimes there's other movement out of the corners of his vision, but no face appears so often as the man. He's familiar, but not. Like a friend from childhood that's grown up the next town over, but still recognizable after so long.
Then there's darkness. And a sudden awareness making him gasp-and then choke. God, his mouth is so dry. He blinks hard against the bright tiles until his eyes adjust and realizes there's not actually much light coming through the blinds on the far window. Even his eyes feel dry, and sensitive against his eyelids. His hands tremble against the scratchy sheets; his head is killing him. With a groan, the now awakened man realizes he must be very dehydrated.
Pushing through the pain, breathing through his nose to save his throat, he takes in more about the room he's in. There's the flowers the concerned man showed him, dry as a bone. An empty fluids bag on an IV stand, the other machinery around him, makes him realize he must be in a hospital room. That makes sense. What doesn't is how quiet everything is.
Hospitals are noisy. Humming with people, electricity and the beeps of heart rate monitors. This is dead silence. He almost doesn't want to break it. But he can barely move.
"Hello?" he calls out hoarsely, then listens hard. Nothing. He tries again, "Hey!" His voice cracks and throat feels like it does the same, sending him into a coughing fit. When it subsides with steady breathes, he's pained, exhausted, and curled on his side. There's a burning soreness under his left shoulder that makes him think it was why he was in the hospital. And still just silence around him.
Resigned to the fact that he's alone, the thinly clad man pushes himself upright and gets used to his disorientation before setting his legs over the bed. They tremble so badly, he can feel it shake up his spine. He prays his muscles haven't totally atrophied. Gritting his teeth, he presses his feet to the floor to put a little weight on them. At first his knees won't bend, his legs won't lift him without severe effort, and he feels about 80 years old. He's panting hard and barely hunched forward before he can't take it anymore and falls back onto the bed, letting gravity take him horizontal across it. His whole body trembles with his quickened heart and he accepts that his muscles have at least atrophied somewhat. He can practically feel the blood rush to his limbs and they tingle all over.
When he's not panting anymore, he remembers the thin IV bag next to his bed from the lingering burn in the back of his right hand. "Shit," he breathes and looks down his body, barely able to lift his head through the throbbing pain. The needle is taped to his skin, but at least it's not directly into a vein. With trembling digits, he carefully tugs the needle out and puts pressure on the tiny hole. There's still general pain, but he realizes he can feel his limbs a little better, can feel every digit on his feet again.
Sighing, the stubborn man tries again, using his elbows to lift himself up despite the pain on his left side. If he wants to live, he'll have to make it to water. Eyeing the bathroom door across the room, he prays to any entity out there that despite the power being out the water pressure will still work. It takes an unpardonably long time to shuffle along the floor, using his bed as a support until he has to push himself upright and across the empty space ahead. He practically falls against the doorframe, digging his nails in to stop his momentum. Breathing hard again, thankfully the sink is barely a few feet from the door and he lets gravity assist him there too. His knees are weak and barely lock, forcing himself to bend over the porcelain.
The knobs turn easily though, and within a second the water pours clearly into the sink. If he weren't so dehydrated, he could cry with relief. Head hanging next to the faucet, he lets his curled hair soak, water dripping down his temple and cheek before he tilts his head and drinks. If he didn't have to breath so damn much he feels like he'd get more down. As it is, he still drinks too fast. His stomach revolts, making him hiccup, gag, and finally vomit the life-giving resource. With a frustrated sob, he stills his spine, not letting his body fall to the ground like it wants. His arms feel like iron the way they cling to the sides of the dusty surface. And he tries again, drinking slower and carefully breathing through any nausea that surfaces.
When he can feel his stomach start to slosh uncomfortably, he lets his head hang below the faucet until the cool water runs across the back of his neck and soaks his entire head. His body is still tired and pained, but the shaking has let off to occasional shivers. His head is but a dull ache rather than a roar and he can finally think clearly.
Must be why he suddenly realizes he doesn't even know his own name.
There's surprisingly little excitement around the thought. A mild curiosity maybe, he's not overly concerned. And why should he be, he remembers suddenly, there's a medical file at the end of his bed. That will tell him not only his name, but his address, what to do for his health, everything. It's quite convenient.
Turning off the water, not knowing how long it would truly last, he makes himself get upright by degrees. Sharp blue eyes study the face in the mirror as he does so. There's quite a bit of stubble to his cheeks, but not a full on beard. Maybe a little less than a week's growth. He doesn't know if they shaved patients everyday, but he had to of woken not long after the hospital shut down. Wet, his hair is a few inches in length and already curling wildly. He shakily drives his fingers through it until it slicks back the opposite way down his skull and out of his vision. Blinking down at his nails, he finds them a little long but clean. He didn't accumulate much dust in the time he was abandoned, and didn't have enough fluid in his body to soil himself, thankfully. Overall, he might be handsome if he didn't look like he was about to keel over. But he doesn't even recognize the face in the mirror. Time for the file.
It's less of a journey than the last time, but he still sits at the foot of the bed, unable to stay standing much longer. There's a name right at the top in bold: "Richard Grimes." It sounds too long in his mouth. He wonders if he's a Rich or Rick instead, and tries them both out. He likes "Rick Grimes" so much he says it twice, getting a feel for the middle class Southern accent on his tongue. Yes, that sounds right. His birthdate is there too, but until he finds the incident date that doesn't mean much to him. And he's married. Well.
Brows furrowing in confusion, he looks at his left ring finger and finds a tan line. He'd have noticed dropping a ring. Thumbing the skin, he finally brushes it off for the moment. His address and phone number are there, so he carefully pulls off the first page and folds it. But he has no pockets. Damn. New clothes make his mental agenda. Though before he sets aside the paperwork, he scans for his history and medications. Apparently he'd been in a coma, medically induced at first and then just didn't wake up. The gunshot to the lower shoulder explains the pain. Last update puts his sleeping beauty routine at just over a month long since the incident. That makes him… 38, he thinks? He's too tired to care about the math. He was on minimal medication it looks like: an antibiotic and anti-inflammatory, lots of fluids, mild pain reliever. Yeah, that sounds good about now.
Tossing the file haphazardly, the newly dubbed Rick tries his feet again. He probably needs to stretch, and definitely needs to eat, but for now he can handle the pain and the shakes. Instinct makes him cautious as he slowly opens the hall door. It's much darker through there, without lights or windows, but not impossible. There's a gurney blocking him in, the whole place seems to be in a general state of decay, while what looks like blood is puddled on the floor and sprayed across the walls. The air is stale, humid with rot and unmoving.
Lips setting tight, the grim-faced man pushes the bed aside and scans the area. There's bodies down the far left corridor, a little more light from each direction, and a nurses station to his right. He shuffles there first. It's mostly debris, papers a riot across the desk, computers cold and dead, a couple sets of keys he knows not what for hanging up. If he had pockets, he'd take them just in case. There's a large black purse on it's side that takes only a few steps to reach. Checking behind him in paranoia, Rick noisily upends the bag. There's a ladies wallet, feminine products, receipts, keys, a cell phone, and… a granola bar. Score.
Rick rips open the wrapping and eats despite the grimace on his face. Those things always tasted like crap to him, he thinks, despite not remembering his own past. Eyeing the Apple device, he half-heartedly tries the button and is surprised to find it only almost dead. But it's useless anyway. It's passcode locked.
With a sigh, the man wavers on with his address and granola, eating as slowly as he can stomach to hopefully avoid vomiting again. Around the nurses station there's either double doors or the entrance to the stairs. The minimalistic grey map on the wall tells him the elevators are behind him, but a small pharmacy is opposite the stairs.
Remembering his need for medication, Rick continues on and peeks through the windows of the doors. There's even more blood here, and his throat feels dry as he swallows thickly. A woman's body is in the center of the hall. She looks fucking pulled apart. Shivers not related to his atrophied muscles shake down his spine. Half the granola bar is left, but he can't finish it with this in his face. Ever so slowly, he slides through the door and picks the side with the most distance from the body. A glance he can't resist tells him she was shot in the head, maybe a mercy killing, he thinks. Whatever happened to this hospital, Rick can't believe it was human. It certainly doesn't scream terrorist, or even serial killers. If anything, the damage looks animalistic in nature. What the hell happened while he slept? An alien invasion?
Light alternates minimally across the hall, mostly coming from patient rooms' windows, but he can glimpse the pharmacy ahead. Another door gives him pause though. Employee locker room. Huh. He glances down at his undone shirt and boxers, and decides to give it a shot. The door opens easily at least, and from a glance he can see six locker doors hanging open. One's empty, three are women's, but he has luck with the other two, and another's got an unlocked combination hanging from it. From the selection, Rick manages to pull out jeans a bit too big, a belt to correct that, and a shirt that is a little tight, but fits. No socks, but a ragged pair of sneakers are found under a bench.
Before he can dress though, he spies the shower room. It's too good to pass up. He doesn't know what the damage is in his part of the country, doesn't know where the threats are locally, but so far this hospital is dead silent, and unpicked over by looters. The water's cold but without air conditioning the building is pretty warm, and he stands with the curtain open so he can see anyone coming in. All goes well, and he's feeling a little better when he finally gets out and gets dressed. Grimes doesn't bother wrapping his wound; the skin has long healed from what he can see, it's the muscles that pain him. He grabs a small shoulder bag, the ibuprofen from a woman's locker to take two while he finishes the stale snack bar, and finds nothing worthwhile to collect before heading towards the pharmacy again.
It's small, obviously meant for staff filling perscriptions, but the door was left partially open, and nothing is behind glass cases, all in easy access bottles and clearly labeled print. Rick takes a moment to think. He'll need his own medicines of course, but who knows what it's like outside those walls. Was the water really clean or would it make him sick? There's a whole multitude of questions he doesn't even know to ask, with answers he wouldn't understand.
He takes what he recognizes. Mild to severe pain relievers, anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxers, looks at the insulin but decides against it. He doesn't particularly want to carry needles around and the glass bottles were no longer refrigerated anyway, so he wasn't sure they were even viable. He doesn't know much about antipsychotics either and hopes that doesn't come back to bite him. The tired man grabs some of the best antibiotics he can locate, pops a pill from a bottle he remembered named on his medical sheet, and the bag is stuffed full. If he finds anymore food, he'll have to find another bag.
Satisfied with the haul, Rick shoulders the light burden and backtracks for the stairs. There's an itch of impatience under his skin, a desire to know what happened that makes him both paranoid and uncomfortable, but his exhaustion keeps him from moving too quickly. Despite the carnage, the utter silence is almost peaceful and Rick has to distract himself from locking up a room to go back to bed again. He'd probably wake up at night and that would be nerve-wracking enough.
Speaking of night, the door to the stairwell reveals a pitch black, echoing space ahead of him… He probably should've anticipated that. The uncirculated air is hot, sickly sweet with rot. Normally he's not afraid of the dark, but... Rick backtracks to the woman's abandoned purse and grabs the phone. It won't last long, but he's only on the second floor. Holding the lock screen up to the dark, the amnesiac thinks the space is untouched at the moment.
There's no blood on the walls or floors, which is something of a relief. It's slow going, edging down the stairs on his shaky legs and continuous tapping of the 'home' button to keep the light source. He wants to, but doesn't try the code. There's a vague memory of how cell phones work, and he's pretty sure it'd be useful to open it, but it would also vibrate to every wrong code, wasting energy.
The phone flashes a barely red power cell just as Grimes reaches the first floor door, and dies as he steps through it. Thank God. The exertion, the need for balance along the precarious steps, have made him even more exhausted than before and he gratefully takes a break. Seated and leaning against the wall, he sets down the dead cell and scans his surroundings. There's not much. Dim light, a grey map, and another T-shaped hall. Doors line the way, and a fireman's ax container lies broken and empty nearby. Too bad, he could probably use a weapon even if he couldn't swing it with any force.
A nearby bathroom sign gets him on his feet again. It's a women's room but completely empty, and Rick cares little about it while he takes another long drink from the sink then relieves himself. Following the simple map, the middle-aged man swings a right for the cafeteria only to find a strange warning. He squints. 'DONT DEAD; OPEN INSIDE'? His brain quickly rearranges it to make sense. Obviously the vandalizers meant 'don't open; dead inside', though that's kind of a dumb message. Rick's seen several dead already. Were they diseased? He hasn't touched them at least. And if the pathogen were airborne surely he'd be dead in his hospital bed?
Shuffling slowly closer, the cautious man finally hears a vague sound. Voices? It doesn't sound like words. More like groans, or maybe gurgles. Were there people actively sick inside? But why use the cafeteria when they had a whole hospital?...
He doesn't like it. The situation follows no logic he can tell, and he finds himself creeping closer despite his pinging danger sense. There's a board through the handles with a sturdy chain and padlock. Whatever was in there, wasn't getting out. When he's a yard from the double doors, the noise picks up. What the hell was in there?
To his disbelief, the doors shift, move as much as they are able and grey hands begin to reach through. The gurgles increase to growls, and he can hear the distinct sound of clacking teeth. Rick suddenly remembers the woman upstairs. Devoured. Swallowing down his nausea, he edges closer to peer into the dark crack. The beings seem tall, human shaped probably. Frowning in disgust, he studies their hands as the noise gets even louder. The board and chains hold easily. Several of the nails on various hands are dead and black with blood. There's a couple missing flesh from the digits, pearl white bone shining through.
Swallowing down bile, Rick clasps his mouth and suddenly decides to move on. Were those dead people? He may not remember himself, but he'd certainly remember if that was the norm. Thinking about fiction, the man can list several things that don't exist like vampires or magic. If the dead are walking around eating people was he even still awake? Had he died and gone to Hell for being a sinner? Or was this a coma dream?
The pain in his body certainly didn't feel like a dream. The dehydration had been pretty realistic, he thinks and scans the outer hospital through another small window. The sun was bright ahead, took some getting used to, but there's green land in the distance. Just above the green he could spy the rotary blades of a helicopter, with rows of white bags on the ground nearby. He could tell as soon as he opened the door though, that they were actually bodies. Sheet-wrapped bodies, some of them hastily done. All of them with dried blood across the skull. No coincidences there.
There were dead up and walking. And there were dead on the ground. Rick tilted his head and analyzed as well as his exhaustion would allow. He hadn't seen the skulls of the beings in the cafeteria, but he supposed it was likely they were intact. He thought basic motor function and desires like hunger were controlled in the base of the brain. Grimes walked on, finally reaching the border of cement around the asphalt. The grass hill was steep, but he liked the promise of a helicopter. What he saw at the top was disheartening. Here the military dead were left unattended, suggesting they were overrun, most likely. He frowns hard at the flesh torn off of a man's forearm, the likely friendly fire headshot, and then notices his nearby pistol.
In a movment of pure instinct, Rick crouches to pick it up, flicks the safety, checks the ammo, then pats the dead man's pockets for another magazine when he comes up empty. He's in luck. A single mag: fifteen bullets. Switching it from either hand comfortably, he concludes he might be ambidextrous and is certainly familiar with firearms. That's a Beretta he's shoving down the back of his pants. Given that he was in the hospital for a bullet wound, he supposes he probably got it in the line of duty. Either military or police.
With a sigh, the tired man re-shoulders the medicine and considers his chances. Would the vehicles have fuel and did he trust himself behind the wheel? He wasn't dizzy, but his lethargy would slow his reaction times. Given what he woke up to, it feels like it'd be just his luck to crash a car right after being shot. He doesn't even know where he'd be going anyway. Rick does try to look around for another weapon, but the couple he finds in the open are out of ammo. It feels… ominous. He supposes if he finds dead people walking around in uniform, he'll know where they came from. Especially considering there're very few bodies around him.
A duffle reveals a standard bed roll, flashlight, batteries, among other items that could be useful to a soldier stationed in a home base. It's a good find and there's probably more like it around, but he doesn't have the strength to carry much or the energy to check the entire camp for whatever could kill him. Feeling like he's pressing his luck sticking around as long as he has, Rick moves on down the road.
He walks quietly, and stays alert to hints of bodies. Just where the road meets an intersection is a sign for 'KING COUNTY GENERAL HOSPITAL', so at least he'll have something to look for on a map if he can find one. In front of him and to the left appear to be more road and more grass. Is this empty land or a park around him? To his distant right are buildings though, various store fronts or warehouses and at the far corner: a gas station. And hopefully a map to orientate himself.
There's no hum of electricity, rumble of vehicles, or even the soft murmur of far-away voices. This place he woke up in appears to be for all intents and purposes, a ghost town. Or a Dead Town, anyway. Rick can spy a number of inconspicuous corpses. Some torn apart until there's barely anything to be called remains, and some suspiciously whole, inside stores and leaning against the front windows. So he walks even slower, watching his footing and the bodies, and listening for even the slightest hint of movement.
It was unnerving, walking through something like a ghost town but not. Cars were abandoned there on the road, some of them hastily on curbs with the doors wide open, some of them outright crashed against poles, buildings or on their side from taking turns too fast. The gas station was surprisingly empty, but then Grimes notices a sign barely hanging off the double-door handles. 'NO GAS'. Looks like they ran out early. A peek through the glass is quick to reveal most of the stock is gone. Or at least, he can't spy any of the food or water.
Warily, Rick pushes against the door and finds it unlocked and before he opens it, he glances up. There's a bell and he reaches to silence it as he enters, scanning the racks and all the corners he can see. The practical mind in him doesn't want to waste the bullets, but he holds the Beretta out ahead of him anyway. Something in him instinctively knows he should 'clear' the room first so he walks silently, heel-toeing to each aisle before coming around the corner of the centrally located register. That's on a counter, with the left side open to pass through. The scent of death has been hanging over Rick as he walked the street, but it smells a little stronger here. He wasn't sure if that was because it was an enclosed space or not, but he's quick to discover there's another body to add to the scent.
It was a man, seated against the far wall next to an employee only door, dressed casually with a blue vest. Decay has set in, skin shrunk and hair falling out. But Rick can't tell what the damage is, or how he died. He doesn't particularly want to, but he's not planning on tiptoeing all day. That'd take more energy than he had right now. He also doesn't really want to waste bullets or ring the dinner bell to all the bodies outside if they're alert enough to come check out the gunshot.
Frowning, he glances around until he spies the tire iron at the man's feet. It's already bloody at one end, like he'd used it to defend himself. Rick edges closer, sideways to face the body and watch for any movement. His heart picks up, sweat sliding down his temples before he crouches to grab it. A sudden gurgle and the dead man's head begins to tilt up. Not wanting to be in arm's reach of the thing, the amnesiac gets one hand on the weapon and slides away before it can do more than reach out a clawed hand. Dead, bloodshot eyes stare at him and the body moves jerkily, like it's trying to stand to come after him. Rick's face goes still and he lands a quick blow to the temple of the skull, the bloodied end becoming moreso as it easily drives into the dead. The body more falls off the tire iron than Rick pulls away, so it collapses dead and still and silence once more reigns.
With a quick paranoid glance, the adrenaline-fueled man steps over the undead to test the door handle and can't decide if he's pleased it's unlocked. The back looks almost untouched, but he's not sure he wants two entrances those things could come through. Then again, he's not sure an escape route wouldn't be the better plan anyway. So Grimes sets the tool down, puts the safety on the Beretta and starts to case the place. He doesn't find much, the shelves almost entirely empty, even of the cooking or automotive supplies. Not that he'd have anything to carry them with anyway.
He is lucky enough to find a forgotten packet of pistachios on the floor, tucked under the bottom shelf. Helping himself as he swings around back to the counter, he's pleased to find several road maps of Georgia left and at the idea that his memory's not completely gone if he can remember his country and state. Opening one points him in the direction of King County but the area is small compared to the rest of the state, high north and abutting a National Forest. Only a couple of towns are named there, but thankfully another quick search reveals a single local map, misplaced between other state maps.
King County looks like nothing but a couple small towns and a lot of back roads. He finds the hospital fairly easily, there's only two in the entire area. Then he scans the streets for his address. It doesn't take long, but the little neighborhood he must live in is a couple miles from his current location. If he remembered how to get there he might know a shortcut, or if he wanted to risk going straight through the town he'd probably get there faster. As it is, Rick memorizes a more circular route to avoid the main thoroughfares and folds up his map. Armed with a gun and tire iron, map tucked in a back pocket and the nuts gone, he heads for the employee door. The milk crates looked promising.
There's several on the floor, already looted. A number of the ones stacked up are empty, but Rick is quick to spy that the ones below that are still packed with goods. People must've been in and out just grabbing what they could reach. But he took his time here, making sure not to make a lot of noise as he moved the crates, one eye on the door, the other scanning the small storage area. A desk and chair in the back appear untouched, a door to the bathrooms all that remains of a minimal employee lounge.
Without much care, the cautious man cracks open the first bottle he finds and drinks. He recognizes the taste of Gatorade actually and hopes it'll do him some good even if it's not at all cold. There's a roll-up door in the back, open by about a foot, but nothing has cast even a shadow in the sunlight since Rick got there. It's likely how people looted the back rather than go through the front doors. There's no more food to be found, the few crates still around bearing drinks of many kinds. The water's gone too. Probably sold off in the first few days of… whatever kind of hell on earth did this.
The Gatorade's too salty to help with his dehydration, though he hopes the advertised 'electrolytes', whatever those actually are, will help him. He moves on to a crate of juice, picks apple and drinks quickly. He doesn't really want to have one hand occupied when he wants both on a weapon, but in the Georgia sunshine, he'll need all the fluids he can get. Grabbing an orange juice to go, Rick shoulders open the door to go back to the front. That's been clear so far, and he hasn't seen that alley in back to take the risk.
Swinging the tire iron casually, Grimes gets a feel for the heavy tool while simultaneously drinking and scanning his surroundings. The middle of the road is the most open, so he keeps away from the buildings, checks over his shoulder frequently, and makes his way through his memorized route. He could really use a nap about now, but there's no guarantee of safety here. Hell, maybe even his house won't be safe. He kind of doubts his wife will still be there, after all this. He hopes she made it out alright, though he is curious about the lack of ring. Did he lose it at some point? He's hopeful it wasn't just taken off his finger while he slept, since what would gold do people when the end has come? Water, food, bullets and medicines would be the reigning currency for a long time it looked like.
It felt like the same scenery was being repeated around him as he wandered through the neighborhood. Life interrupted. A lawnmower left out, a kid's bike, a crashed car, a birthday party in the front yard. Oh, a bike. That might be helpful. He was pretty sure he could ride. Rick dropped his emptied juice bottle, hooked the tire iron into a belt loop and then righted the bright red metal. He almost fell over when a nearby half-corpse let out a gurgle and twitched.
"Jesus!" he breathed, grasping his chest as he watched the dead woman start to flip herself over onto her stomach. Her arms reach out grasping, but he can't stop staring at the trailing bits of spine and femur hanging from her torso. It's utterly grotesque, and Rick swallows down bile in an attempt not to gag. It's torso was so thin, he doubted the organs inside were at all viable, though logically he ought to check if these things could be killed by getting the heart… No. No, it's got to be the brain; the undead are all bloodless that he could tell. He kills the thing with a quick gesture half bent over his bike, and wincing in sympathy for the likely way that poor woman died. He turns his mind away from it, tries to stick to his goals. Getting a leg over the bike was surprisingly painful though, and he gritted his teeth and breathed. Fire flared across the muscles of his left side making his eyes water. But he had to stay alert.
Staying upright and looking around, the man checked his bags were still secured across his shoulders and finally made himself kick off. His balance was precarious and painful at first, but as he got the momentum up on the vehicle it wasn't too bad. It was lucky he was so damn close to his address in the first place though.
Just down the street, around the corner, and halfway down his number showed up. The destruction was less obvious here, and no more ominous for the simple fact that there were no people around. Unable to think of a non-painful way to dismount, Rick let the bike slow naturally then swung a leg back over to try and stop. He still noisily dropped the little bicycle when his gunshot flared, making him hunch over to try and breath through it.
His medicine bag dropped from his shoulder and hung off his wrist, but at least that reminded him that he carried pain relievers. Grimes moves slowly, trying to keep one eye on lookout while he searches for the ibuprofen he used earlier, pills shifting and making a small racket as he did so. When he found it, he waited for everything to still so he could listen hard. Nothing. It was more nerve racking here than it was in the town. At least there he could see the hint of bodies through storefront windows. Now the old houses gave no signs of life, though he couldn't quite convince himself he was actually alone.
Dry swallowing the pills, Rick zipped and swung the bag back over his shoulder, then headed towards his front door. He wasn't sure what he'd find, but no time like the present. Thankfully the entrance was unlocked, though that didn't exactly fill him with good thoughts. He didn't know what he was expecting, but the living room wasn't quite it. Or maybe it was less the blank walls and more the distinct lack of memory. He doesn't know this room. It could've been anyone's. Frowning at the blank walls and empty shelves, the tired man quietly lifts his tire iron again and starts to clear the house. Checking around furniture and in closets, peeking around doorframes and gliding through halls the best he was able took up more than a few minutes.
He ended his strange tour with a little boy's room. Sitting on the colorful blanket, he can't help but take in the notion. He had a son. No-no, he has a son. Conviction sang in his chest, and he didn't know why or where from, but he was absolutely sure. He has a son. The boy is alive somewhere out there. Then observations come to him, help him back up the thought. There were no photos anywhere, the empty shelves probably held family albums, and there were frames lying empty on their backs in almost every room.
No one would take another family's photos in desperate times. Why bother? Somewhere in this new dangerous world, he has a family surviving him. They probably think he's dead. Rick wonders if the danger happened so suddenly they couldn't retrieve him. Not that he thought it was practical anyway, collecting a comatose man to try and take care of on the run. They're probably guilt ridden, he thinks sadly and hopes that he can find them someday.
With a sigh, Grimes stands again though his eye catches a drawing left on the wall. A bright yellow star, the points bulbous little circles, and his last name etched in black through the middle. A Sheriff's star. A child's hopes and dreams, or a picture for his daddy, he wondered. The tips of his fingers touched the rough crayon before he could think about it, and he pulls himself away wistfully.
Rick returns to the master bedroom, taking in the details he'd missed before. The closet doors were open, and a few articles of women's clothing still hung up. The bed was immaculately made with a small mountain of pillows. A picture frame was on its face along the otherwise blank dresser top. It looked empty. A stark contrast to the child's room, which could've passed for a messy boy who needed a reminder to pick up after himself. He guesses they packed in a hurry, the woman probably pulling all the clothes she could without looking at them while the boy hastily grabbed his favorites and tossed what he didn't want on the floor.
Huffing through his nostrils, the tired man cracks his neck and gets started. He moves the sliding closet doors to find his own many clothes left there and picks out the sturdiest cotton shirts he can find. A couple long-sleeved plaids make it to the bed. Then a wool-lined leather jacket. It's goddamn hot out, but he'd like to keep winter supplies on hand. Besides, the leather would be good protection, he thinks. Below the shirts are a couple pairs of shoes. Well, a couple pairs of men's shoes, and many neat rows of women's. So at least whoever she is, she didn't take her entire wardrobe with her, Rick huffed a soft laugh. A good pair of hiking boots join his collection. He moves on to the dresser.
A couple of lighter cotton shirts are added to the bed, he doesn't seem to own any tank tops, just T-shirts in white or grey. Four pairs of rolled together socks. Skipping the woman's couple drawers, Rick finds his pants. Thank God he's not the kind of guy to wear shorts, he smirks. A number of sturdy and light denim jeans are for choice, not counting his slacks, and he tilts his head to think. He finally chooses three pairs: the thickest and thus warmest denim in black, a thin paint spattered pair obviously worn in, and a sturdy dark blue. The last drawer carries some thermal underwear, a couple rolled up belts and… his gun belt. He touches the attached holster, the number of different sized pockets attached to it. He remembers the boy's Sheriff star and concludes he definitely was a police officer.
He starts to put his loot together, shedding the stranger's clothes in favor of his own. He wears the thinner pants for now, too hot and weary to worry about protection over mobility. A T-shirt and plaid overshirt out of something that might be habit. He needs a belt to hold up his pants, having lost weight in his coma, and the gun belt receives his Beretta. The rest he folds and rolls up the best he can for when he hopefully finds a bag for them.
There's nothing of use in the bedside tables and the hall linen cupboard is obviously minus a few blankets and towels, but nothing he'd take with him. Finished with the upper floor, Rick retreats downstairs and starts looking through drawers and hidden nooks of the public rooms. The more he uncovers, especially the useless little knick-knacks he has no idea the stories behind, the more he becomes morose. The cheap little baseball trophy with no name: a t-ball season? A couple math worksheets, marked with 'good jobs' behind a table, forgotten. A woman's floral patterned hair clip, left in the junk drawer in the kitchen. At least he learned the boy's name was Carl. Carl, he thought hopefully. If wishes were horses.
Rick Grimes sighs, and decides to skip taking the kitchen knives. With no sheaths and plastic grips they were less useful than the tire iron when it came to the dead. The decades old rosette china displayed in the old fashioned cabinet made him miss more than just his immediate family. He had had parents at some point, maybe even siblings? Maybe they were from his wife's parents, passed down. Wherever they came from, they made it all the more evident that he'd lost his family histories as well.
An upper cabinet closest to the living room revealed something different. Hanging on the door were a set of keys, a mix from large to small, and a small metal keychain-a sheriff's badge. Rick considers them silently. They could just be to regular household things, the house, a car, a safe or safe deposit at a bank. But maybe they were his work keys. Something to open up the police station and then the gun cage. It was worth a shot.
Tucking them fully into a front pocket to keep the noise down, the man heads back into what passed as an office he supposed. Or a study room for the boy, since he finds more homework sheets on the desk. The laptop, printer, and various little things that ran on electricity were cold and dusty. Though a westward facing window heats up the room to stifling levels. He doesn't really want to, but he makes himself go through every book on the wood shelving unit. It's a little bit personality study, but mostly a practicality. Who knew what he could find?
There's a number of old cookbooks, a couple fiction and non-fiction he imagined a woman might prefer, based on the number of romantic looking covers, occupying one shelf. The shelf at about hip height held children's books, all fiction or coloring books. There was a trend towards the older reading levels, and Rick fingered a series of new Harry Potter novels. There were only three. He felt like it'd been a long time since the Prisoner of Azkaban came out, so he was pretty sure it was bought to challenge his young son. Maybe they were reading it together? In what could only be a fit of whimsy, he quickly collected the novel to set on the table for later.
An empty shelf on the bottom left only his own at the very top, right at his eye level. There were more fiction than non, largely of only a couple authors: James Patterson, Michael Connelly, and Dean Koontz. Mysteries and thrillers. A couple biographies about soldiers or cops. And then something more useful: an old U.S. Army Survival Manual. But Rick frowns as he tugs it out. There's a set of papers, folded and bulging the inner pages a little in the middle of the manual. He lets the book fall open, then coughs at the heavy cloud of dust. The page edges were dark with it and the cover looked like it had been through hell. Was this a family heirloom, kept around for memory rather than purpose?
The printed pages were much whiter, the ink newer. Holding the open book in one palm, Rick waves his free hand through the dust, trying to clear his vision to read. Blinking a couple times, he finally realizes what they were and his eyes water for a whole new reason. Oh.
They were 'Petition for Dissolution of Marriage' papers. Lorraine Grimes was the petitioner. His face falls and a small part of his heart breaks. He'd been so… Optimistic? He didn't even know what he was feeling really. Some part of him is bewildered, another morose, and a strange part indifferent. If he didn't have any memory of this woman, then why is he so sad? Yet, he knows he isn't as emotional as he could've been. He doesn't remember this woman, their marriage, if it'd highs or lows, fights or good times. He isn't devastated or enraged. So what is he so sad about?
Rick lets himself fall into the desk chair to think about it, ignoring the creaking and puff of dust in the setting sun. It takes him a few minutes. To wonder, and think about, to analyze his own feelings before realizing he'd been looking forward to being reunited with a family. His wife and son. Now-now, if he did find them, he'd find this Lorraine who'd wanted to be his ex-wife and son. He was allowed to be disappointed, he decided, then took another glance at the papers. The legalese wasn't too hard to work through, and he found this woman had sighted irreconcilable differences and was filing for custody of Carl.
It was signed 'Lori Grimes' on the second page. He's dismayed by a lack of date on anything, doesn't know why they were hidden, but hopes he didn't marry the kind of woman who would lay in wait for him to throw these in his face when he was down. Maybe his being shot and falling into a coma were the reason she set them aside? Shaking his head, Rick gives up for the moment, and lets the bad news fall where they would while he left the room to check the garage. He takes the manual and The Prisoner of Azkaban with him.
He moves heavier now, tread tired and lagging under the weight of rejection. The garage air is even more boiling than the office, uninsulated from the heat by the look of the unfinished walls. But there's quite a bit in storage here, mostly plastic bins holding holiday decorations, gardening instruments, or half-hearted tool containers. Obviously he hadn't been that handy on the house. A second look tells him a couple of the bins are probably missing. Winter clothes have been haphazardly tossed in a corner, incongruous to the rest of the fairly neat organization. Frowning a little, Rick pokes a toe at the snow jackets then looks away. He already has a coat picked out, and he can just hope his ex-wife thought ahead enough to grab appropriate ones.
There is one thing he was hoping to find. A large sports bag, half full of equipment like baseball gloves, a bat, football, and a deflated basketball. Carefully taking out the heavy steel bat, the drawn-faced survivor lets the rest of the items fall out before swinging his two smaller bags into the larger one. It doesn't even fill half the cavernous black space. Had he coached his son's sports team at some point, Grimes wondered with bemusement. He hefts the bag with some effort and throws it over his neck, across one shoulder. He gives the bat a twirl, liking it's heft, and decides to keep that as well.
Then he adds the rest of his items: the books, the clothes upstairs, puts the bat in so he can keep the tire iron handy instead. Wishes he'd found a first aid kit, or had the ability to grab more supplies from the hospital, but maybe he could pick up more later. He's just tapped the keys to check they remained in his front pocket when he hears the quick step shuffle of sneakers on concrete. Rick automatically reaches for the Beretta, but stills. Very faintly, he can hear the growl of the undead as well.
He peeks out the front window and is actually surprised by the sight. There is a walking dead man, but there's also two people out there. A man and a boy, and they look just fine, like survivors. It's his first glimpse of something living in this hard world. He doesn't even have memories of people that once were to fall back on. The dark skinned couple, probably father and son, hustle quietly down the street until they're halfway across his window on the far side of the street. And suddenly, the amnesiac can't let this moment pass him by. He doesn't even think of the risk. Can't when the reward is so needed.
The rotten corpse is shuffling faster than he's seen before, but it's quite obviously one of the dead, given it's smell and hungry sounds. It's also entirely occupied with following the males before it, paying no attention to the frail Rick Grimes coming up behind. Unlike the adult of the duo who quickly spies Rick and whips his gun over, obviously expecting a threat. Maybe he's expecting an opportunist, someone looking to loot their corpses after they're dead. Maybe he's just overly paranoid.
Either way, the thin man tries to win some leeway by whistling sharp, but low at the corpse. It stumbles to a stop and so do the man and boy. "C'mon," Rick mutters and it finally starts to turn. His swing makes the perfect arc into the soft spot of the human temple and it quickly falls over dead. Before the suspicious man can react, Grimes holds up both hands in surrender. He's probably not a very reassuring helper, looking as ill as he likely does.
"State your business," the black skinned man states coldly, dark eyes hardened to the world around him. The boy looks more weary than frightened, but he's also watching his guardian's back for more undead. They've been at this awhile.
The tired man holds his pose, despite his exhaustion climbing and making his arms tremble. "I'm just hoping for some help. I woke up in the hospital today."
"Today?" the other asks incredulously, "You expect me to believe you slept through the world being torn apart?"
Rick winces at the phrasing, it brings to mind quite recent events, "I've been in a coma for a month, according to my chart. I'm uh-having a hard time of it, needless to say," the boy gives a snort of a laugh, and he feels encouraged, "And I'd greatly appreciate a little help, really just information if that's all you can spare. And-" he suddenly remembers and reaches for his hopefully-work keys, carefully ignoring the way the gun becomes more fixed on him to show the man proof, "I think these keys go to the police station. I can try to pay you back in weapons."
His audience is still skeptical, though a bit more tempted, "You think?"
"Well, I can't rightly know," Rick tries to explain in a reasonable tone, "I didn't know my own name before I saw my medical sheet."
"You what?!"