Hi y'all!
Sorry, I took this down and reposted because I thought it was stupid to start the next chappie with the same kind of format that I wanted for these scenes.
Also, I wanted to let you all know that if it's looking like I'm writing this too fast-It's because I am! Haha I'm trying to write this story in the pace of a TV show rather than a book. They wouldn't show every step of every day on Beth's journey, just little bits here and there. Soooo that's what I'm attempting. :)
And, since Beth is the Christ figure, I decided to bring in a Biblical bit to the story.
(Ahem it took her 40 days and 40 nights to find Daryl...:P)
Anyway, thanks for reading! The next few chapters will be a little longer, promise.
XOXO,
OceansAria :)
Beth had been stashing what she could, when she could, since the moment the urge to go to D.C. had hit her. Now that she had been collecting for several weeks, her borrowed police duffle bag was overflowing canned goods and bottled water. She knew, however, that the amount wouldn't last her but so long out there in the wild.
Getting out of the city was the hard part of her plan. Not only did she have to avoid the undead, but the very much alive officers who claimed her as their property. She had taken note of their morning patrol routes and, just to be safe, let the air out of the tires on the squad car before she left.
New Beth had yet to face an actual walker. So when the first one came stumbling around a street corner, snarling and moaning and reaching its hideous claws for her, Beth's first reaction was to charge it.
She learned quickly that sometimes charging an undead thing that wants to eat your flesh isn't the best idea.
Shooting said undead thing isn't a good idea either—that just draws more of them.
Beth learned a lot that first day, about the world and about herself. She learned that she was skilled with weapons and could make one out of just about anything. (One walker she took care of by slamming it's decaying skull in a car door.) She found out she could also hotwire a car, drive, and siphon gasoline from other abandoned vehicles.
Once she was far away from the city, she drove the car she'd taken into the woods and slept in the backseat. She wasn't hungry enough yet to dig into her stash from the hospital, but she did sip water to quiet the few grumblings her stomach gave. Halfway through the night she heard engines and tires squealing on the highway. The officers were searching for her.
As soon as morning light shone through the car's windows, she got up and took her bag and ran into the woods.
No way in hell was she going back to that damn hospital.
She learned that she liked to sing.
To pass the long silent hours as she followed the map she'd stolen from Shepard's office, Beth hummed random notes and sung nonsense words. She even tried to mimic the birds in the trees. She felt like she should know real songs with real words, but she couldn't dig any up from beneath the ashes in her mind.
She learned that she wasn't so good with directions.
More than once she went west instead of east, took a wrong turn at an intersection, or strayed through a part of the woods that she shouldn't have. More than once she gave up and sat down and screamed at the sky for help.
She learned that she was impatient.
Water took too long to boil so she could drink it. What fruit she could find was overripe and mostly smushed on the ground. Rabbits scampered off the minute she got too close.
She learned that she was stubborn.
Even if food and drink were hard to come by, and every night was colder than the last, she dismissed every little creeping voice that urged her to turn back and go home.
She learned that she didn't remember having a home.
Day 17.
Beth had found a permanent marker at the last house she'd squatted in. Before that, she'd only been able to keep count of the days passing by in her head—which she knew wasn't the most reliable source. Now, each day when her eyes opened and she rose to carry on, she made sure to pause a moment, get out the marker, and change the number on the back of her hand.
Day 18.
She didn't want to wake up that morning. She didn't even want to be alive.
Since Beth had gone off on her own, she'd only had one episode. It had been quick, just enough to take her breath and leave her reeling and inept in the middle of the highway.
That morning, however, while she was hunting for breakfast, the episode yet hit her like a tidal wave. She'd dropped her gun in the process, lost the bloodtrail on a rabbit she had shot, and knocked her head on a low tree branch.
If only she'd paid attention to the signs.
When she became conscious again later in the afternoon, Beth instantly reached to cushion her aching head and the deja vu hit her harder than the episode.
Blood on the ground. Blood on my hands. Blood pouring down my face.
She remembered walkers trying to grab onto her clothes, trying to take a chunk out of her flesh. She remembered screaming a stranger's name that felt more familiar than her own.
When her fingers came away splattered with red, Beth felt her pulse roar. Her breathing escalated and her throat felt all scratchy. Both her old and new head wounds throbbed to a crescendo. She tried and failed to get to her feet. What if a walker smelled her blood again? What if a walker came for her? What if she couldn't get away and one ate her whole?
Beth learned she wasn't afraid of death, but she was afraid of walkers.
Day 27.
She hadn't eaten in forty-seven hours. With the snow falling and the temperatures well below freezing, all of her normal prey had gone into hibernation. Wild fruit had disappeared from branch bushes weeks ago, and she hadn't come across a house to scavenge through in over nine miles.
While squatting in a rotting gas station, another episode happened. She was boiling water over a meager fire, hoping to at least make a weak root tea to settle her empty gut, when her vision promptly went dark and she toppled over without warning.
Usually they came with notice. Her arm would tremble, her vision would falter and go all spotty, but this time it just . . . happened.
This episode was also the first to bring her another memory.
At least, that's what Beth assumed it was. There was no other explanation for what she saw in the time she was unconscious.
A tiny fire, as to not draw unwanted visitors. A man. No, the man. That man with dark shaggy hair, naked arms, and a leather vest. That man with a scowl that didn't quite fit on his gentle face. He stared at her across the flames, sharp blue eyes wide open and questioning.
Eyes that were angry as hell.
Day 28.
Beth didn't come to completely till the smell of smoke startled her awake.
Her own fire had gone out sometime in the night, whilst she was dreaming about another fire, another time, another self.
"Who are you?"
Her whisper echoed through the vacant room, reminding her that she was alone. She ignored her spoiled tea and pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her aching head on her thighs. By closing her eyes, she could see that man clear as crystal once more. Dark hair hanging in his blue, blue, blue eyes. Bristle on his chin and upper lip. Strong, bare arms. Leather vest.
Why did she see him? Why was he the only person from before that had come back to her?
Why him?
"Who are you?" she voiced the same question aloud again. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and tighter, fighting frustrated tears, fighting off the constant replay of this newfound piece of her past.
Piercing, animalistic, hardened blue eyes that knew her even if she didn't know him.
"Why are you so important to me?"
Her whispers quickly turned to screams.
Day 37.
For six days, Beth had it good. She found a house with a cellar stocked top to bottom with preserves and wine. She hunted down a lone buck and ate her fill of roasted venison. She even got a little tipsy one night and stumbled around, enjoying the absolute bliss of being numb for a while.
She didn't think taking a break from traveling would affect her journey immensely. From what her map and the road signs said, she had already passed through North Carolina and was just past the state line of Virginia.
And if the car out back in the shed ran, she'd been in D.C. in a couple of hours.
Day 38.
That tan and white 89' Bronco got her all the way to Richmond before the gas tank gurgled empty and the wheels wouldn't budge another inch.
"Walking it is," Beth sighed, grabbing her backpack and slinging her shotgun over her shoulder as she slid out of the driver's seat and back into the outdoors.
She walked the edge of the highway until night fell and traveling was no longer safe.
Little did Beth know, as she laid down her head to rest briefly that night, that within hours she'd be bombarded by a herd and would have to run for her life. Little did she know that this herd would push her in the right direction, that in just several days, she'd be safe. Sound. A roof over her head and a bed to sleep in and a belly that no longer moaned constantly.
Little did she know.
Day 39 and 40.
Running. Hard, long, and far. Running, stabbing, shooting, blood and blackened brains splattered across her skin and tattered clothes. Running to get to her destination, running to get to that man with the insanely blue eyes and leather vest and dark, long hair.
She couldn't run forever. No, no one could, not even her. Not even the girl who looked death in the face and flipped him the bird. She soon collapsed in a pile of dead leaves and slept. Reenergized, she rose once more the next day, body heavy and fighting like hell for more sleep, but she couldn't risk that. She had to get to D.C., she had to find him.
She had to at least try.
Little did she know that she didn't have to go much further than through the underbrush to the road's edge.
There, exiting the woods on the other side, were two men.
The first man wore a clean flannel shirt and jeans, his hair combed nicely, binoculars hanging from his neck and shotgun over his shoulder much like her own. The second man wore jeans torn at the knees, an equally ragged shirt, and a leather vest. Unlike the first, he had more than his share of weapons. Two knives on his belt, a crossbow across his back, and a pistol on his leg.
This man, with the dirty clothing and messy hair, was the man from her memories.
