Chapter 2
The next morning, Lucy struck gold: a farmhouse, unscathed by scavenging, hidden back from a gravel road by a half mile. No other houses were nearby, the isolation had protected it from hungry eyes. It was an unexpected find when scouting for new trapping areas, the chimney only visible when she had climbed up a tree to get a better view of the area. The house was in fairly good shape, but had a slight sag to it, as if it was sighing out of relief.
She scouted around the outside, checking all possible points of entry. No signs of broken glass or boards- a good sign. The detached garage also appeared untouched, a rusty padlock still secured on a dry-rotted old door. She banged it carefully, enough to make noise but the damn thing looked like it would splinter at the slightest touch. The eerie quiet of the area seemed to amplify the noise, which made her nervous. She crouched with her knife ready, scanning the area and peeking around corners. Listening and waiting, waiting and listening. Silence…excellent.
A few moments after knocking on the door of the main house, Lucy heard a low gurgling.
Shit, I knew it was too good to be true.
She peeked through the porch window and spied a single walker shuffling towards the front door. It had been an old woman from the looks of the filthy, floral nightgown. The walker clawed weakly at the front door as she waited, but no others came. From the look of it, one strong breeze could have bested the old walker, the threat level still minimal. She tried the door handle and almost laughed- unlocked! She immediately kicked the door open, knocking the walker onto it's back. It was just sinew and bones with rotted paper-thin skin, so fragile that despite snarling and snapping, the walker could barely stand up. Lucy's knife slid easily into its head. Easy peasy.
She crouched in the doorway, listening for signs of more walkers. Her breathing was the only noise reverberating throughout the house. This was how she survived: stop, wait, listen. Repeat. Move slowly and carefully, take no risks unless absolutely unavoidable. She scanned the house: first opening all doors and searching each room to ensure no surprise walkers were stuck in a closet, or hidden in the basement.
Lessons learned from the scavenging life: check behind all doors. She had once found a walker bound up in an outwardly innocuous BDSM sex closet one time, sincerely hoping the departed had been both consenting and living at the time of containment. Being raised by a single, traditional father meant that embarrassing subjects were mainly broached via mysteriously appearing books in her bedroom about her growing body and how babies were made. Despite some more robust knowledge in her college sex ed classes (and life experiences) she returned from that sex closet trip red-faced, unable to explain to the others what had happened. It probably would make for a funny story now, if she had anyone else to share it with.
The others. She missed them so much. They were all dead by now, able only to haunt her memories. You failed them, whispered that voice inside her head, you failed them all.
"I know," she whispered to the empty house. That voice was growing louder every day. It was parasitic, feeding on loneliness and guilt.
After she was satisfied the house was clear, she began to rifle through room by room, making a pile by the front door of useful items. She found medicine, but had little need of it with her future plans. After rolling one of the bottles back and forth between her hands, she stuck them in a duffle bag she found. Just in case, she thought. In any case, someone might find them on her later.
The house was tempting. Besides the dead walker downstairs, and some mummified food in the kitchen, it was so ordinary looking. She passed through the sole bathroom one more time and tested the faucets. Rust-colored water sputtered out, but gradually cleared up. On a well, thank god. She stood over the sink for a minute, looking at the faint outline of herself in the dusty mirror. She wiped it off with a towel and looked at herself.
My god, I look so…
Tired? Exhausted? Hollow? A thousand words could fit snugly into that thought. If she was going to do this, if she was going to die soon, she wanted to look as good as possible under the circumstances. Make it a special occasion. Towels were located and smelly soaps lined up along the bath. In the old farmhouse, there was only one claw-footed porcelain tub in the bedroom upstairs. What's the point if I'm going to just get back into filthy clothes? Lucy wrinkled her nose.
An antique washer was jammed into the kitchen. She stripped down, ignoring the discomfort of being naked in an unfamiliar location (a familiar, yet still uncomfortable experience every time) and jammed her clothes in the washer. It shuddered for a few moments, and made some loud protests that indicated it was working.
The bath itself was less than ideal, shivering in cold water with wet hair sticking to her shoulders. It was the first real bath she'd been able to take though, taking to jumping in rivers or quick wipe-downs when nature's baths were not available. Sitting in the tepid water, she listened to the washing machine struggling downstairs, the drip drip of the faucet, her own heartbeat.
"Am I doing the right thing?" she whispered to herself.
Yes. You must do this. You have been preparing for months, you cannot back out now. We cannot back out now.
Her heart sunk. The bathwater seemed freezing now, trapping her inside a porcelain tomb. She pulled the drain and jumped out, drying herself off quickly. The washer had finished so she hung her clothes out to dry in the hot summer sun, now wrapped in a nearly hideous robe that had been hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
Lucy worked through the rest of the house, her knife tucked into the belt of the robe. Just in case. One of the bedrooms was plastered in posters of athletes and sultry women in bikinis. Bingo, she thought as she spied a rack of CDs. Tons of good music: Bowie, The Smiths, Queen, the works. Perfect music for a final blowout, she thought. She carefully wrapped the CDs in some spare towels and into the bags they went.
The kitchen pantry had almost-but-not-quite expired cans of food, most of which looked absolutely tasty after the sustenance-only regiment she'd been surviving on. The best was saved for last: the liquor cabinet yielded a boon of alcohol. Mainly whiskey and bourbon, which she greeted with a cheer and a kiss to the bottle. Grandma likes to party, she chuckled to herself. After passing through the rest of the house, she grabbed some god-awful clothes to make rags for the Molotovs later.
Speaking of rags, she thought, dashing outside to get her now crisply dry clothes.
She went outside to the garage to see if there was something of use that she could use to haul her loot. When she flipped on the light, she gasped. What the hell was this lady into?
Lined on the walls were bear traps, meat hooks, and long metal strips that looked suspiciously like the spiked things that cops threw out in car chases. Multiple police scanners were strewn about, some in various states of assembly. A small back room had what looked like some sort of moonshine still, coated in a layer of dust and silt. She spied a rickety cart in the corner near the entrance, full of cobwebs and in need of a good spray of WD-40, but usable. She located some grease to remedy a squeaky wheel, then hauled everything that possibly looked like it could cause damage.
She gathered all her supplies and surveyed her loot. She smiled. It's gonna be a helluva party.
In the distance, a pair of binoculars flashed in the sunlight, curiously watching. And waiting.
/ / / / /
A handful of sweaty, overtired men wandered out from a door of the converted abandoned factory, ready to help unload the supply truck. Negan's supply run caravan had been delayed overnight by an overturned tree in the road, which had made him extra ornery. A tall, skinny blonde man with burn scars on half of his face walked towards the group, shouldering his rifle. Negan hopped out of the truck with a cocky smile and sauntered over.
"Dwighty-boy! How is my fuckin' kingdom?" He clapped his big hand on Dwight's slender shoulder, causing him to jolt a bit from the impact. He muttered into Dwight's ear, "I've been stuck all fuckin' night listening to Limp Dick and the Dick Brigade try to out-dick each other, so I am not a ray of fuckin' sunshine, truth be told."
Dwight grunted non-committedly in response, his eyes unsmiling. "Uh, got it. Sanctuary's good. Your… wives aren't though. I had to pull Frankie off Amber. Something about using up all the hot water. Or maybe she's in hot water. Dunno." He sighed, and rubbed his jaw, still a little sore from Frankie's elbow. "Amber's pissed and has a black eye, Frankie possibly broke her pinky. Tanya was trying to break them up and got banged up in the process. Tensions are…high. Sherry's pissed too, I think just 'cause everyone else is," he said carefully.
"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ," Negan said, rubbing his eyes. I'm getting too old for this shit. "Unlimited access to whatever shit they fuckin' want, with ONE fucking rule, and they are having catfights over goddamn water?" Dwight shrugged.
He'd never admit it to the men, but his multiple marriages were slowly burning into a shitstorm of hellfire. Amber was in boiling hot fucking water for breaking that one fucking rule by cheating on Negan with her old boyfriend. Despite his punishment (involving a hot iron and the boyfriend's face), Negan was having a little trouble moving past it. Frankie and Tanya had lately been looking like Negan shit in their morning cereal, growing more and more stone-faced and tight-lipped as days wore on.
The past few weeks he had been avoiding his wives privately while publicly still maintaining face. The wives fought more and more over stupid fucking shit, especially time with him. And not a good time. It started off flirtatious and sugar-sweet, devolving into nagging him, or requests for stupid-ass shit from supply runs. Sanctuary residents were always in need of food, building materials, medicine, books, the list goes fucking on. Useful shit. Not goddamn texturizing hair spray.
What the shit was that saying about idle fuckin' hands? Negan thought.
Despite bragging otherwise, he had only slept with Sherry in the past week since she knew how to keep her goddamn mouth shut and get the fucking (heh) job done. Even then, her eyes were dead and unfeeling when they looked at him. That used to amuse him, once, but now it was just getting fucking annoying. They all looked miserable, there was no spark, no fire for him to play with anymore. He was hard-pressed to admit he made a mistake, but perhaps he needed to consider…restructuring. If he booted them all out, would it be viewed as strength or weakness? He needed to frame it carefully.
Dwight coughed, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Negan snapped back to the present moment. "Christ. I'm not in the fuckin' mood for this. Listen – I put Snake and Kevin on a fuckin' outpost about 40 miles or so out from here. If they call and report anything of use, come and get me. Fuckin' immediately. You hear?"
Dwight nodded. "And your wives? They were asking what time you'd be home…"
Negan groaned. "Tell 'em I'm here and to leave me the fuck alone… unless one of them can keep her goddamn mouth shut-" He smirked, and raised an eyebrow. "-or open, depending on the situation…then she's welcome to."
He paused for a moment. "Except Amber. She's still in the fuckin' doghouse. Send 'em up some nice...ish… booze and tell them I said to make the fuck up and stop fuckin' fighting. Unless they're greased up in their panties and I'm in the goddamn room." Satisfied, he turned away, twirling Lucille and whistling.
Once he got to his rooms, away from prying eyes, he gently set Lucille down in her armchair and slumped down at his desk, no more wind in his sails. The medium-sized office had a massive executive-type desk, a little sitting area and a bar that was always kept stocked with the best liquor found on supply runs. A set of double doors led to his bedroom and bathroom, probably coated in fine layer of dust by now. He had taken to sleeping on the sofa in the office more and more, the bedroom seemed to mock him most days. Not like he could sleep much, anyways.
It's fuckin' lonely at the top, he thought. Lucille agreed silently from her chair. "Don't fuckin' tell anyone, will you, darlin'?" he whispered in a low growl. He missed that companionship that he once had, fucked up countless times, and then lost forever. That person that just understands your shit, and vice fucking versa.
He sighed heavily and pulled a cigarette case out of his desk filled with hand-rolled cloves. He wasn't a smoker really, and didn't condone it in his people, but every so often the mood called for some brooding in the dark while smoking. Fuck, me, what a week. Weird ass mazes popping up, getting stuck in the fucking caravan overnight in a truck full of man stink and farts, fighting wives? I'm too fuckin' tired for this shit. He was exhausted, hadn't slept well in weeks. He'd never been much of a sleeper, able to function well on a few hard hours of sleep, but even now that was getting hard to catch. No rest for the wicked. After a moment or two, he stubbed out the barely-smoked cigarette. He just wanted to shower, drink, get a blowjob, then crash.
He knew it sounded too good to be true.
After a good soak and some fresh clothes, he was working his way down the list- pouring his second glass of a delightful scotch, the Rolling Stones jamming in the background on a gorgeous cherrywood record player Skinny Joey had found awhile back. Swaying to the music, he wondered which bitch-faced wife would saunter in, asking for some designer bullshit with his dick in her mouth.
A knock at the door. Amber? He thought, betting a drink on it. Knowing she was in the doghouse, she had been going above and beyond to get time with him, but spending most of it looking on the brink of crying. It was a fucking boner killer.
The knock persisted, louder this time.
"Yeah?" Negan grunted.
"It's Dwight. Can I come in?" Negan felt a wave of relief. Damn, lost my own fuckin' bet, Negan thought, taking a big swig. The scotch warmed his blood a little and quelled the gathering irritations that were snapping at his heels.
"Well sure, Dwighty-boy." Dwight walked in, a puzzled look on his face and a crumpled paper in his hand.
Negan feigned shock. "Excuse the fuck out of me with all these manners you got all of a fuckin' sudden, what with the door-knocking and shit."
Dwight shifted his weight but said nothing.
"Care to elaborate on the purpose of your visit, or are we just standing in fuckin' silence, staring at each other like two dickwads having a shit?"
Dwight cleared his throat. "It's Kevin. About that place they are staking out."
Negan rolled his eyes and poured a few more fingers of scotch. "Why the fuck didn't you start with that when you walk in?" He grabbed a glass, tinkling the ice cubes in the air suggestively. "Care to join?" Before Dwight could answer, he poured a glass and handed it to Dwight. "What'd ol' Limp Dick have to say about our freaky-deaky mall shit?"
Dwight took a sip, and nodded appreciably. "Thanks. They spotted someone at that- maze thing? This morning. A woman. She's been loading stuff into it, I guess, supplies and the like."
"A woman?" Negan let the words roll around, tasting them. This shit just got more interesting. It hadn't crossed his mind that a woman was behind it. Meaning no offense to the females, he had just been picturing a twitchy, nervous guy that hadn't bathed in years who talked about aliens. Basically Kevin, but dirtier. And crazier, if that was even possible.
"She with others, or alone?" he asked, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard.
"Alone. Well, she arrived alone and has been setting up more crazy shit since she got there. Snake swears he saw her haul out fucking bear traps." Dwight glanced down at the scribbled paper clutched in his hand. "She took out a few walkers gathering around and put up a tent in the middle part? One of those pop-up tents for like barbeques and shit? Kev said it the middle kinda looks kind of like a…" He glanced down again, embarrassed. "Like a command center?"
Negan sloshed scotch in his mouth, weighing this new information. It wasn't often he was rendered speechless, but luckily it was just Dwight here. "What the hell kind of Star fuckin' Trek bullshit is he talking about?"
Dwight shrugged. "Dunno. You know Kev, it's hard to get the fucking point out. He said there's levers and buttons, all kinds of electrical wiring and lights strung up. There's some generators too, I guess. And get this- he said she's been wiring up speakers. Big ol' fuckers like for a concert? She was testing them for a few minutes. They work. Nearly blasted out his eardrum with feedback, Kev says."
Negan laughed, the hardest he had in awhile. "Woo boy! What in the actual shit is going on out there?"
"Kev said she didn't look crazy. Looks alright, no tin foil hats. I believe he used the words 'wicked hot' at one point."
Negan raised his drink to Dwight, who half-heartedly made the gesture back. "Kev is too far away and too fuckin' pussy hungry to be a good judge of that, but let's drink to hot, crazy bitches anyway!"
Dwight hesitated for a moment but drank, Negan draining his glass and slamming it down with satisfaction. The alcohol was barely registering a buzz, but it had finally relaxed him a bit. His brain was swimming with Dwight's news, but he desperately needed to sleep.
He turned back to Dwight. "Alright, tell them to keep fuckin' watch and report if anyone else shows up. I'm going to get some goddamn shuteye. Wake me in a few hours and we'll head the fuck back out there. You ARE comin' with, I am NOT going to be stuck with Limp Dick tryin' to not piss himself for who knows how fuckin' long. Get the truck ready."
Dwight nodded. "Yes, sir." He turned and left the room, clicking the door shut behind him.
Negan chuckled as he hauled his ass to bed, barely finishing his thought before passing out. What. The Fuck
/ / / / /
AN: Please feel free to leave a review on your thoughts so far, and thanks to those that have already! My goal is to update the story on a weekly basis, so stay tuned! For anyone curious, the title comes from a beautiful song, "Asleep" by The Smiths.