The old man appears from between two trees very early the next morning, before the sun has had a chance to warm into more than a soft glow that isn't quite strong enough to light the shadows cast by canopy of leaves overhead. His hair is almost white and pulled back into a pony-tail that rests at the nape of his neck and falls to just above his shoulders. He is thin, but looks spry enough as he approaches the structure where they'd spent the night.
"Looks like someone I used to know," Michonne whispers almost to herself, her eyes squinting at the man, sweeping over his soiled button down that looks like hemp, to Jane. She agrees, eyeing his grandfatherly, white beard that hugs his face in a way that is familiar from another lifetime. "Seems harmless enough," Michonne whispers, pushing herself to her feet.
Jane follows suit, trusting the other woman's instincts, though she still sets her hand on the blade of her machete. Together they pick their way from around the shrubbery that they had been using to conceal themselves, twigs and broken branches crunching under their feet. When they reach the platform the man has taken a seat on the edge of it, his aged hands folded in his lap.
"I was concerned you'd moved on," he tells them, his voice soft and thick with an English accent. Jane can't help but instantly fall for the gentle crinkles around his blue eyes. "My name is Jacob," he greets, extending his hand to Michonne first - who shakes it briefly – and then to Jane. His skin is like leather in her hand and warm to the touch.
"You have a place?" Michonne asks, straight to business, her voice belying a distant edge that Jane worries will scare the old man off. Her eyes sweep the woods, as though she is expecting some kind of an ambush.
Jacob turns, and for the first time Jane can see his age in his movements. His joints move more stiffly and his breathing is uneven as he climbs down the rock. When she moves to brace him, Michonne catches Jane's shoulder, holding her in place. She takes a careful step back when he has his feet on the ground, guiding Jane with her.
"So you just help people or something?"
Jacob nods. "Not too far, to answer your first question. And yes," he picks up what looks like a walking stick from beside the platform and points in the direction that he'd come from. "Or something," he adds with a slight twinkle in his eye.
He leads the way and Jane falls into step with Michonne. Jane is surprised by her hardened reaction to the man considering that she'd been the one to suggest they wait to see who would come, and then approved going with him. Watching the other woman's periphery she notices the downturn of her mouth and reaches out to touch her bare bicep, drawing her attention. Her companion eyes her for a moment before swallowing heavily and retuning her attention to Jacob's back. "Like I said, he reminds me of someone. He's dead now."
Jane nods her head, trying to convey her sympathy for the other woman. She knows how hard it is so lose people, it makes you feel like you've lost yourself.
They eventually come to a stop at the foot of a very old tree, its trunk thick enough that the three of them holding hands around it wouldn't be able to hug its circumference. She looks around confused, and then follows Jane to the other side where she finds a series of boards hammered into the trunk, straight up, way up. She follows them with her eyes as they disappear into a hole in a platform that has been built around the tree.
Jake begins to climb first, taking each board with one confident step at a time. Michonne follows him, leaving Jane on the ground. She spots a stony well a few feet away that is old and moss covered, its stony sides chipped and blackened with age. A long rope descends from the treetops and down into the center of the well, and Jane is impressed by the ingenuity.
She takes just a second more to admire it before following Michonne up.
The tree-house is visually stunning with rough wooden walls that are intertwined with the natural growth of the tree branches. She spots the top of the rope, secured with a metal bucket and a pulley system. She tests the structure with each step but it feels solid under her feet. The entire setup reminds her almost of something she'd see in Neverland, and she half expects the small cabin to be filled with hammocks for The Lost Boys.
Instead she finds a simple platform bed piled with blankets and furs, a table for two, and a fireplace that reminds her of the well at the base of the tree. The ceiling is low, barely a foot above her head and she realizes there are no windows that let any natural light in. The space is charming, but dark and small, and almost impossible to breathe in. Stepping back outside she crosses her arms over her roiling stomach and walks to the edge of the platform that is sealed off by a simple fence.
"Don't mind her," she hears Michonne say. "I think she has a thing about small spaces."
When Jake promises to leave the door open, Jane allows herself to be coaxed back indoors, though she avoids going much further than a few feet inside. Jake is fairly talkative and is clearly accustomed to having visitors as he moves easily around the additional bodies in the room, puttering with an iron kettle and pans. The wood floor is worn smooth under her hands as Jane lowers herself onto it, her palms splayed across the floor as she arches her back to stretch out her sore muscles. The oak planks beneath her shift and creak each time Jake shifts and she looks around the small space, it doesn't seem so bad when she is on the floor and the ceiling is no longer brushing the crown of her head. Michonne has taken a seat on one small bunk, her shoulders hunched, her forearms resting on her thighs.
"So you just leave here by yourself?" she asks, watching Jake carefully. Jane doesn't miss that she keeps her katana at her side, always within arms reach. Her own weapon is resting across her crossed legs. Jane lifts her head at the question and she tunes in more closely to their host.
"For a long time now," he answers, turning a crinkled smile towards Michonne first, and then towards the door. "Built this place a long time ago with my sons, as a hobby project – wasn't quite as elaborate as it is now," his stiff fingers worked over a tea towel in his hands, his thumbs tracing a worn rose pattern – a woman's touch. Moving her eyes around the room again she notes an oil painting above the hearth of a small clearing captured in spring, bursting with flowers. A pink throw blanket tossed across the foot of the bed beneath Michonne – a pewter hand-mirror on a shabby chest of drawers. A woman had lived here, and she wondered how long ago.
"Never thought," Jake laughs, a low high-brow chuckle that seemed born more from polite obligation than actual humour. "Never thought it'd end up as my home. But here I am." As his mouth lifts into a small smile, Jane sees a flash of his teeth for the first time, tinted yellow… looking towards the fireplace again she spots a blue tin with a rusted tea infuser resting on top. Jake, with his worn wool cardigan and his brown cords reminds her entirely of a classic English gentleman: almost grandfatherly.
Michonne gets to her feet and moves over to help the man with a large cast-iron pot as he moves it from next to the stove to the fireplace. Jane watches the two of them with interest as she guides her knees to her chest. The room seems much smaller with the two of them standing, looming over her. Edging backwards towards the door she feels her heart pick up speed when Michonne turns to her and takes a step in her direction, her figure too large for the low ceiling.
She is still in a lot of pain the first time she forces herself to get out of bed. Her abdomen aches straight through her as though she'd been impaled and she clings to it fiercely through the fabric of her shirt. She has to pee, desperately, and she peers around the small dark cell, her eyes barely adjusted to the low glow of the candle resting on the table in the thin hallway.
"I need to use the bathroom," she calls out, her voice is raw and her throat sore. She needs water and something to take the edge off the pain.
A chair squeaks around the corner of the left side of her cell, but she can't see the other space due to the thick wall, not even when she wraps her fingers of the iron bars that cage her in. He appears in her line of vision and she can hear his ragged breathing as he approaches the cell. "Taken care of it," he points towards the dark corner beside her, his thick forearm and fingers flickering shadows in the candle flame.
Squinting, she finds the vague shape of a bucket with her eyes before she uses her toe to prod the side of it. "I uh…" clearing her throat she turns back to his face, obscured by shadows. "There isn't a toilet," her voice falls flat on her question that sounds more like a disappointed statement.
"Go on then and I'll empty it for you." His voice, rough, but sincere, makes her skin crawl. She doesn't have pants or underwear and the shirt she is wearing smells faintly of body odour and barely touches the tops of her thighs. She runs her fingers over the hem, wondering how she'll manage to get down to the toilet and then back up again with her injuries.
When she turns back to him her predicament dies on her mouth as she sees him still standing there, his chest rising and falling, his meaty hands wrapped around the bars of her cell as he steps forward.
She can't see his face but she can feel his eyes on her, making her itch all over.
"Don't got all day, girl," he shifts in the shadows, his bulk settling as he leans forward his stomach presses into the bars.
Turning away she walks shakily back to her bunk and slowly settles onto it, her hand gripping her stomach. Reaching for the balled up sheet that she'd discarded at her feet she pulled the fabric over her bare legs, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. "I don't have to go after all," she mutters, withering away from his stare.
His chest heaves with a single syllable grunt as she moves back into the other room. "Shy, huh, pretty girl? That'll change," he tells her, his voice drawing further away. "I ain't offended, we aren't acquainted yet. We both just gotta give it a bit of time, that's all."
Her urge to pee forgotten, she lays down slowly, her cheek finding the blue and white, pinstripe bare mattress. Closing her eyes, she assures herself that it won't be too long until they find her and she'll be able to go home.
That is the first night he comes to her. She is exhausted and she can't stop the constant trembling of her limbs and the shuddering of her abdominal muscles as her stomach roils under her hand. She begs for sleep to claim her and it is just beginning to acquiesce with the dimming of the room as her eyes draw close, when her knees are pushed over as he takes a seat on the bed. The mattress dips and she groans, turning her face into it.
"Shh," he mutters and she feels his fingers in her hair, pulling it back clumsily to push it behind her ears. His fingers smell like canned meat as they trace her cheek and guide her face upwards again. "Let me see you," he whispers, his thumb pressing painfully into her jaw as he cups her cheek. His other hand on her shoulder forces her onto her back and before he can do anything she knows his intentions by she heat of his breath as his lips dip into the follow of her throat.
"Ugh," she groans, trying to push him away, her hands connecting with the side of his neck. "Get o-," her protest dies when his hand closes over her mouth, his palm moist against her face.
He shushes her again before releasing her mouth and her gasp for fresh air dies as his knee collides with her chest, a solid jab into her sternum when he climbs over her awkwardly until he is straddling her under her ribcage. The weight of him on her shredded abdomen has her gasping sobs that rob her of precious oxygen, and hot tears slide loosely over her temples to cool in her hairline. Her world explodes in bright fiery agony that overwhelms her senses until they short out. She is barely conscious for the rest as the room fades away into inky black that is punctuated by his heavy breathes and the crown of her head rhythmically thumping against the concrete wall.
He stands afterwards, his figure casting shadow across her face, darkening her world, and then fixes her blanket. When he shows no signs of leaving she turns her back to him, the process painstakingly slow. He doesn't move to touch her again, but she can feel him there, looming, watching, waiting for next time.
"It's okay," Michonne whispers, taking a step back, her hand motioning for Jane to calm down. "I was just going to give you some tea," she explains, her voice on edge, but confident.
At her words Jane realizes that she has clenched her fist around her machete and pushed herself back against the doorframe, ready to bolt. She has to force herself to uncoil, and she begins with her fingers, one at a time. Her body is reluctant and fights her, but eventually she sets her weapon down and seats herself – she can't look at Jake, so she lowers her eyes to her feet.
"Drink this up," Michonne urges, offering her a chipped tea cup. Its handle is torn half-away, leaving rough porcelain that she runs her thumb over as she takes a sip.
Jane spends the rest of the day listening to Jake and Michonne talk between themselves. Their conversations are shallow exchanges of information about survival tactics and the construction of the treehouse. "You have a lot of guests?" Michonne asks when silence falls over the dimming room as the sun sets.
Jake considers the question. "Some, mostly people passing through that are looking for a nudge in the right direction," he finally answers, tending to the stew that he has been simmering for most of the day.
"And which direction is that?" Michonne has settled back onto the hammock, her head resting against the wall behind her.
Digging into the depths of the pot with a long-handled wooden label to dish out the meal into hand-carved bowls. "South," he tells her, getting to his feet. "I heard as far south as Key West – you can catch a ferry there to take you to Cuba. The Cuban's closed their borders when the epidemic hit. It's safe there." Jane accepts her bowl from him easily, surprised when his approach doesn't set off her nerves. Nodding her appreciation she takes a spoon too and stirs the stew, taking her time to enjoy the smell and the hot steam rising up from the bowl. She considers his story and is sceptical, a quick glance at Michonne tells her that she isn't the only one.
"How do you know this?" she asks, sitting forward on the hammock until her feet connect with the wooden floor.
"I have a past," Jake answers, clearing his throat. "Further, could it be any worse than the way it is here? Dwindling resources? The dead eating their way through the forests, collapsing in the rivers and creeks, poisoning the water. There is nothing left here," he sits hands Michonne her bowl and sits back down on his stool. "It's not coming back."
Michonne cups the bowl in her hands, her mouth hardened into resistance as her eyes narrow. "You in the Government? Past… what does that even mean?"
Jake lowers his eyes to his bowl. "I was a diplomat, yes. I was supposed to go home when the virus began spreading, but my wife developed a fever. It was benign, a flu at best, but they wouldn't let us on the plane. When the city became over-run we went to our cabin, not too far from here, but we lost that too. She was bittin, it was horrendous, and she died," his eyes settled on the hammock where Michonne sat, and Jane caught the other woman's uncomfortable shift. "My sons too, not long after, and it has just been me for a long time – so yes, I have a past. Don't we all?"
Brow furrowed, Michonne set her bowl on her lap and took a breath deep enough that Jane could hear it. Her own food also forgotten, Jane looked between the two of them, wondering what to believe. Jake's story was tragic, though no more so than other's she had heard, no more so than her own.
"If it's so great, then why are you still here?" Michonne finally asked, and it struck Jane as as good a question as any.
Turning back to Jake, she found the old man's blue eyes settled on her, his gaze full of a sadness so deep that she felt it in her own heart. Swallowing, she broke contact, but not before she caught the wistful smile that conveyed a deep longing. "All of my ghosts are here," he lifted his eyes to sweep them over the ceiling and around the room. "They're still right here with me, and I can't bear to leave them."
"How do you propose we get to Key West?" Michonne asks, pulling Jane's attention back to her. Another good question.
"There is another group that I sent that way, not a day ahead of you. They're good people," Jake is standing now, his hands shoved into his pants pockets as he shuffles around the room. "You could catch up to them and travel together. I have…," he begins to dig through the drawers and eventually pulls out a stack of maps and he selects one before tossing the rest back into the drawer. "I've drawn it out, if you follow it you'll catch up to them, hopefully before they get to the car lot. You'll have to leave early in the morning, they have children with them, so they'll be slower."
"Why?" Michonne accepts the map, her eyes fixed on his face. "Why would you want to help people you don't even know."
"Wouldn't you?" Jake asks without hesitation.
