New chapter! I apologize for the delay. Some drama happened, but I wanted to get this put ad quickly as possible. I am so happy you all are enjoying it! Constructive criticism is welcome!
Disclaimers: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. The only thing I own are the characters not seen in the show.
Their already limited supply of food and water had vanished some few weeks after their journey into the new world. The car was on its last stretch as oil dripped an endless trail down the road. And, as the days grew longer, the heat intensified to unbearable levels. Slumped against his sister, Tristan was on the verge of blacking out as the sweat soaked through his thin shirt, doing little to cool his baking body. Time melted into a powerful adversary, a villain with the lives of the people in its slimy hands.
"Do you remember the party mom threw for you seventh birthday?" Tristan asked, his mouth akin to a desert. He smacked his lips, and he swore he saw flakes of flesh flutter to the cracked concrete.
"What 'bout it?" There was a tremor in Beatrice's voice, a shake she couldn't rid herself of.
"You shoved me off the slide because you were pissed that everyone was focused on me," he retorted, hoping the conversation would distract her from the cruel heat.
"Yeah. I was a bitch. Still hasn't changed, I guess." She attempted a laugh just seconds before her body gave out. They hit the ground hard, Tristan barely able to catch himself before his head slammed against the road."Well, I'm out."
Shaking, he scrambled to pull her beneath the shade of the trees, his hands roughly pushing away the hair that stuck to her face.
"Don't you give up like that, Bea. What would Uncle Rory say?"
The blindfold furiously scraped across her face as she stumbled onto the road, her foot catching the ledge on the van they had shoved her into. She managed to catch a few glimpses of the world through the thin fabric, but she was ignorant of the area. However, her main concern wasn't where she was; her main concern belonged to finding her brother. What the hell had they done to him?
"Home sweet fuckin' home!" Negan said with a flourish of his arms, waving Lucille like a flag of triumph. "Get her damn blindfold off!"
She grimaced as the fabric was ripped away from her eyes, exposing her to an intense light. Beatrice snarled and turned her head, eyes frantically searching for Tristan. Panic flared up in her belly as a sick realization settled in her mind: they'd taken him away. He was not walking amongst the older men, and she saw nothing that hinted at his presence. Which meant he was without her. He was alone and probably scared, and she couldn't protect him from the dark thoughts in his mind.
"What the hell did you do with my brother?!" She cried out, her eyes narrowed and fueled with an intense rage, "If you touch a hair on his head. I'll-!"
"You'll what? You're without a motherfucking weapon, and it's my fucking men who are carrying your ass around. So, cut the shit and realize you're fucked! Literally." A smirk sharpened the corner of his mouth as Negan faced her, more amused than angered by her words.
It was clear to Beatrice that she was outnumbered, and she had little choice in the matter. But she wasn't going to let this douchebag order her around. She was going to find her brother and get out of this shithole.
The house was in shambles as tiles fluttered from the rotting roof and the stairs nearly gave out when Tristan stepped onto the porch. His sister had her arms hooked around his waist in a weak attempt to remain standing, her face buried into the curve of his neck. Her breath was hot along his skin, a furnace of scorching heat, and she refused to loosen her crushing grip.
"Don't worry, Bea-Bea. I got you," he whispered, his voice sounding far different than what he was used to. He'd never dealt with his sister when she was like this, especially since she refused to show her weaknesses to him. To appear afraid was a sign of breaking down, and Beatrice Hawkins didn't break down.
A low creak sounded from beneath his tattered shoes, an explosion of noise in the otherwise silent home. Frozen, Tristan shifted his sister and lowered her into a moth-eaten chair, his eyes dancing along the eternity of space. He heard little indication of a Geek wandering around; nonetheless, he continued to hold his knife to his chest. Sparing Beatrice a glance to assure himself of her safety, he cautiously scoured the home for danger, listening to the quick breaths that sputtered past his sister's chapped lips. Her chest was moving quickly, a flurry of movement as if the air was being sucked from her lungs by some invisible creature.
"Don't worry, sis. I got you. I promise."
The room was consumed with darkness, a sliver of light beneath the door his only source of light. Rising from the concrete floor, he stood on unsteady legs, his knees knocking together like bells. Knowing the door would be locked, he approached the wall and dragged his fingers along the cracks and holes, hoping to find a form of escape. He felt the bumps and grooves in the paint, the chips that peeled away when his fingers grazed them. There was a distinct smell of something burned long ago, the remnants of the forgotten soul fluttering about the room like a lost butterfly. Tristan closed his eyes and listened the way his mother had told him to do a number of times when they walked outside at night. However, he wasn't listening for the song of the crickets or the pitter-patter of children outside. He was searching for his survival.
"Hey, I think the runt is up!" A voice chimed from outside the room just before Tristan heard the click of the lock. Rushing into the corner, he bunched his shirt up in his hands and paused, feigning innocence. A man of 40 years wandered into the room and flipped on a light, momentarily blinding the boy huddled in the corner. "Get yer ass up, kid. Boss has a few things to ask ya!" The man snarled, flashing a row of crooked and yellow teeth.
Hands grabbed at him, dragging him into the world he knew nothing of. He let himself relax as he carefully memorized the twists and turns they took through the maze of the building, the hands leaving bruises on his brown skin. They veered right and he was thrown forward, his slender body hitting the ground hard.
"Well, shit. He lasted longer than the last fucker we tossed in there!"
Biting his words, Tristan leaned back on his knees and sighed, awaiting his sentence from the Devil. The man towered above him, eyes gleaming beneath the shadow painted across his face. Reaching up, he smoothed down the stubble lining his strong jaw and smiled.
"Your sister has some real balls, kid. More than some of my own men! She's a fuckin' feisty one. Really going to enjoy havin' her around."
Bastard, he thought. But he didn't dare speak. One wrong word could result in something far worse than what his mind conjured up.
The boy was barely older than Tristan, yet he seemed much older than his face showed. He stumbled from the pantry, his clothes tattered and smeared with vomit and the blood of the Geeks. Blond hair was plastered across his forehead as sweat dampened his pale flesh. He'd barely taken a step forward when a shovel slammed into the back of his head, throwing him against the counter. He bounced his face off the cabinets, blood viciously pouring from the cut sliced across his forehead, and groaned.
Startled, Tristan turned just as his sister limped past him, anger written across her twisted face. She swung the rusty shovel she'd been carrying around, and it smacked into the boy's arm, a cry of pain falling like grace from his lips.
"Beatrice! Stop! He's not a Geek!" Tristan reached for her arm, but she tore away from him, his voice drowned out by the blur of thoughts in her head.
She swung again and again and again until the boy said no more. He was sprawled out across the tile floor, a pool of blood spreading like fire. His face was turned towards Tristan, eyes wide and mouth open, but he was silent. There was a moment in which Tristan wished he could be like the wizards in his books-the powerful ones that could change anything without saying a word-but this was reality. The boy before him wasn't going to disappear in a cloud of smoke, and Beatrice had just murdered an innocent survivor. Looking at his sister, he watched as her expression changed from violent to shocked, a flip that occurred in a minor second. She stumbled back and slumped against the counter, the shovel abandoned by the corpse. He heard her body hit the ground as the silence settled in, a callous and overwhelming silence.
Beatrice was turned away from the door, her long legs tucked beneath her. Eyes trained on the wall, she kept her attention off the footsteps behind her, yet she was ultimately aware of another presence in the room. Frowning, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The presence was far different from Negan; it was much softer and familiar, a welcome embrace she found herself yearning for. Shifting slightly, she uncurled her legs and stood, turning to face her unexpected guest.
And, in that very moment, her world came crashing down. She knew those grey eyes, the laugh lines wrinkling their corners, yet the permanent smile she was accustomed to had faded, leaving behind remnants of a past long forgotten. She heard the smooth slur of his words, recalled the feel of his hands in her's as they twirled across the neatly trimmed yard. However, the man before her was not the man she remembered.
This was not the Uncle Rory she'd grown up beside, the one who pushed her swing too high and let her stay up into the late hours of night.
"Hello, ma chérie. Been a long time," he whispered, his voice infused with guilt.
Without thinking, Beatrice took a fearsome swing at him, knocking his much larger being against the wall. He knocked his head on the concrete, black dots speckled like stars across his vision. He saw her fist some few inches away from his face when a gun slammed into the back of her head, rendering her unconscious. She collapsed, and Rory carefully picked her up, seeing the little girl he'd basically raised.
"I'm so sorry, Beatrice. For everything."