I do not own Boondock Saints, The Walking Dead, or any of the references I make. They belong to Troy Duffy and Robert Kirkman, respectively.
I own Alice and Red Donahue, and the men and women in the camp.
Silas's leg had begun to smell, the wound infected with any number of nasty bacteria. It had begun to full the cell and waft into the main cellblock before the medic came back to look at the wound. He poked and prodded a little, but said it was healing, despite the infection. He washed out most of the yellow pus with a water bottle, diluting the infection as best as he could. Silas said he was faint, tired after doing nothing and light headed. The old medic told him that he just lost a lot of blood; his body would not be up to full potential for a while.
Connor tried to stay to himself, gnawing on the callused skin on his palm to pass the time. He didn't want any more fights, he didn't want to get kicked out of the prison, forced to walk alongside the living dead; especially without anywhere to go. Atlanta was shot to shit, the idea of the CDC blowing up as Murph said was too much – he was too far into his plan to start back peddling.
Red still tried to get control of his little group while they lay in shambles. He'd be the first one up in the cell door opened, the last one to sit down after. He tried to consort with the leader of the prison group, only for his well thought out speech to fall on deaf ears. Not even Murphy came around the cell anymore. Red would still divide the portions from the food that the prison group gave them, handing it out accordingly. Worse off, he didn't sleep the entire night, he stayed up watching over his group, watching for any movement in the shadows. He was so paranoid; it made the rest of the group jumpy, which was his power over their group.
Connor watched from afar as the old medic stood back up again, and again Alice was there to help him on his feet. She was the only one thriving in this environment. While everyone decayed in the stagnant cellblock, she thrived, looking for some way, any way for them to liven up a little.
Red had given most of the group their food before he circled around to Connor, placing the empty plate in front of Connor's feet. Scraps, that's what he got - Two little baked beans and a thin strip of stale bread crust that no one else wanted. Red's features twisted into a deformed clown, his thin lips splitting and curling at the edges.
"Eat up. You're gonna need your strength." Red almost cackled, looking down as he towered over the sitting Irishman.
"Go fuck yourself, a'right?" Connor resorted, waving off the ex-leader.
"What's a matter, Cujo doesn't like his food?" He spoke softly, baby talking the already aggressive Irishman. "I'd figure a little mutt like you would love some dinner scraps—"
Connor jumped to his feet, chest to chest with the aging leader of the group. "Go fuck yourself."
"Oh, I see I must have hit a nerve with you, Paddy. Don't like being called out like the dog you are? Don't like licking the plate clean for your master?"
"I said fuck off."
"I wouldn't give you the pleasure. I'm gonna let you pay for your stupid mouth, just like your brother did –" Red didn't get to finish his sentence before Connor's balled up fist connected with Red's sunburnt cheek.
In the milliseconds it took for Connor's rage to boil over, he was on top of the former leader of the group, landing punch after punch to his aging, war torn face. Connor growled from deep within himself, giving Red with only confirmation that he was dealing with a hellhound instead of some common mutt. Left, right, and left again, Connor let out the anger that this man had brought to his group and his life since the beginning.
For ruining all his well laid-out plans, punch.
For mocking him and his brother even after Murphy's demise, punch.
For forgetting about Atlanta, punch.
For making his daughter feel like shit, punch.
For getting Silas shot, punch.
For holding Daphne hostage, punch.
For holding the group back, punch.
For holding him back, punch.
Connor would have continued punching the man if it wasn't for the sudden cavalry to the aging man's rescue. The prison group's leader came into the cell, his gun drawn at his side as he pulled Connor off by his shirt collar. Connor was blinded with rage, tunnel vision, as he could see that he was in fact lying on his back again, staring up at the concrete ceiling. The sound of heavy boots surrounded him, as he heard the southern draw of the leader, who had shown himself pointing a gun at both Connor and Red.
"What part of 'play nice' don't you two understand?" The leader said to the two of them, waving his gun from Connor to Red and the back to Connor again. Connor sat up, looking back at the cop quickly as he saw the fire burning in his eyes and his finger on the trigger. He was prepared to shoot.
"Now, I want you two to think long and hard why I shouldn't just kill you right now." He said as Connor felt something squeeze around his ankle. He turned to face Alice, who was in between both her father and Connor, comforting both of them as fear washed over her young face. No matter what happened, she would not be able to take it; she cared too much for these two, without a single reason to.
Red stared at down the barrel of the gun once more, his face had begun to swell and display muddy shades of purple, blue, and even green under his skin, but for an instant Red was as quiet as he had been his entire life. Connor thought that this man might have a death wish, maybe he wanted to die in the prison but someone else did not.
"We have supplies!" Daphne piped up from beside her passed out husband. She instinctively rubbed her belly as she moved to her feet with more motivation than she had had in months. She waddled over to the prison group's leader, looking him in the eye as she repeated herself. "We have supplies."
"Jesus girl!" Red shouted from beneath the pile of bruises he was currently suffering. "Why don't you just tell them where the nukes are too?"
"You have nukes?" The Asian kid said, not catching the redneck's joke.
"Where?" The leader said.
"Just off the highway in a farmhouse. We were going to camp there, but we got… Side tracked…" She stumbled over her words, wincing as soon as they left her head for how bad they sounded. "The same one that you and Connor were in, we saw that you'd cleaned out the bodies."
"How many supplies are we talkin'?"
"A couple bags of food, some water, not a lot of ammo, but enough; some clothes, a radio, a generator, though that would be too heavy…"
"Enough then?" The leader finished for her. She nodded sheepishly, looking down at her belly with a sigh. "Could you point it out on a map?" He asked as Daphne shook her head, tears lining the rim of her eyes. "No, I'm not good with maps." She sniffed heavily, pregnancy hormones kicking in at the worst time. "I used to use a GPS for everything and even then I get lost –"
"I'll do it." Alice said from the corner, her arm wrapped around her father as he groaned in distaste. "Connor and I were there a couple days ago. I could take you right there."
"Oh hell no." He father said, his cheek beginning to swell up. "No daughter of mine is going out there again, not without back up."
"I'll go to." Connor said, earning another groan from Red. "I need ta stretch me legs anyway."
"You think I'm gonna trust my daughter with some Irish psycho? No chance." Red said from within the comfort of his daughters arms. She let go, putting him down and leaving him alone on the cold concrete. "You don't have a choice." She said, turning to the leader. "I know where it is. Let me go and bring it here."
"I'm not letting you go alone." The leader said, holstering his gun. "No offence, but I don't trust your group."
"Neither do I." She said. "But give us a chance, you could be surprised."
The leader licked his lips, looking around the cell at the empty faces of their group. His eyes paused at Connor and Red, respectively, judging the two most volatile in their group. Connor could tell the wheels were turning in his head when he looked back to Alice, whose straightening back and level head made her look more like a leader than her father.
"Daryl," The leader called behind him, Murphy walking through the cell doors. He looked rougher than normal, exhausted and pissed at something. "You and Michonne are going to take these two out in the morning." Connor could see Alice's smile from where he stood.
She trusted these people more than he did. She needed to trust these people. It was the closest thing to a group she'd had in months, a real group with a real leader. To prove herself, earn herself and her group a spot in this new world among people who had there shit together, was the best that she could do.
The leader leaned in to her, his voice hovering above a whisper. "Don't make me regret this."
With a grin, she whispered back, "You won't."
The Georgia heat came over the four of them like a blanket, covering them all thick, sticky southern air. Connor, being from Ireland and then Boston, was copping worst of all, beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck and collecting on his black t-shirt.
Alice and Connor were out in front of the group, leading the four of them to the farmhouse they had cleared days earlier – it didn't seem that long ago to him. Daryl and the young woman with the swords, Michonne, stayed behind them, their weapons drawn as if to ease some sort of tension, only to create more of it. The leader of the group, Rick, insisted on Alice and Connor to go unarmed. He didn't trust these two, especially after Connor beat the shit out of one of his own group members - why would he trust him with a weapon and two of his best fighters in the middle of the woods.
Alice held the map in her hands, looking down at the waterlogged paper and bleeding ink every couple steps, as if she could tell exactly where they were on the map as they moved. Connor, on the other hands, was just glad to be out of that jail cell, away from Red, and closer to Murphy. The man didn't want to be seen with the Leprechaun, he didn't like the way that Connor was always staring at him, talking to him directly, and he was still a little touchy after the whole pulling-a-gun-on-him thing. The more Connor tried to get Daryl to talk to him, notice him in some way only seemed to backfire and leave him in more hot water than he wanted.
About an hour ago, Daryl had threatened to leave Connor in the middle of the woods.
Ten minutes later, he threated to shoot him in the ass with a crossbow bolt.
Now the two were on quiet terms, silently accepting their fates as the prisoner and the warden, in a sense as they made their way to the country road that ran right past the farmhouse, the exact one that Connor went out of his way to avoid. The road was wet from the morning dew, steam rose from the asphalt as the sun began to peak over the treetops, giving it almost a mystic feel to it. Most importantly, it was clear; no walkers, no obstacles, and a straight shot until the bend in the road that Connor had noted from the map.
The four of them made their way down the unmarked road, following the asphalt through the thick Georgian forest around them. Their heavy hiking boots clicked on the wet pavement as they made their way along the road, the two guardians spun around, looking for any hint of decaying flesh, their ears almost perked like a dog at even the faintest sound of a moan.
"How much farther?" The dark skinned woman said, narrowing her eyes at the back of Connor's head. He looked back at her with a charming smirk. "A little anxious, are ye?"
"I just don't like wondering out here with tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb." She said, looking over her shoulder. Connor and Alice shared a look, their grins matching as they enjoyed the idea of being Tweedle-dee/dumb. If only they knew some rhymes…
Connor took the map from Alice's limp hand, as he himself looked it over; checking to make sure that the young woman wasn't leading them in the wrong direction. According to this, they should be on the right track to the farmhouse and the supply caravan. They might actually be able to make it back to the prison by mid-day.
Alice looked nervous, the two guardians behind them surely not helping the situation by constantly looking over their shoulders. Connor walked alongside her, bumping into her with his shoulder to pull her from whatever fog that she'd been put under. He genuinely smiled at her, making the anxious young woman smile, if faintly. As soon as they got to the farmhouse, she would be a different person - happy, joking, and normal.
The farmhouse came up out of the woods, the trees acting as a curtain that someone had pulled away near the final act of a play. Where the two of them had left it relatively untouched, the group had made sure to make it known that someone was there, not bothering to hide the cars and left the doors open, leaving any one, a wondering raider perhaps, a perfect chance to get their supplies. Connor's chest fell at the idea of them coming out all this way for nothing, to have their items and supplies stolen by some country hick.
Alice walked out to the first blue sedan, looking in the dusty, dirty windows to see the fabric seats bare empty. Frantically, Alice moved to the large black dodge truck, opening the drivers' side door and finding as empty as the other. A little harder than she wanted to, she slammed the drivers' side door, earning her hiss from Daryl and Michonne as she found herself on the verge of tears.
"There's nothing here." She said, wiping away the stress tears before they had a chance to fall. "Everything is gone!"
Connor and Daryl made their way closer to the cars, looking in themselves, only to confirm what the young woman said with tears in her eyes. Daryl's eyes narrowed at Connor, his grip tightening on his crossbow as his finger absent-mindedly moved over the trigger. Connor spun around, turning away from the cars to the white farmhouse, the front storm door being held open by an empty box.
It gave him an idea.
"Didn't t'ey say t'at t'ey were gonna go inta the house? Hold up t'ere until t'e baby came?" Connor asked Alice with such conviction in his voice that it sounded less like a question and more like a statement. He scratched at his goatee, thinking over the plan in his head.
Two exit points, one at the front and another out the back. A campsite already set up in the front room where they'd blocked off the dining room, but that couldn't be guaranteed. Red had been there, he could have fucked any number of safety measures up from within.
Doors open, meaning that anyone could walk in and claim it. He only prayed that if someone had taken up the farmhouse that it was the living – he could deal with the living.
Connor walked up to the house, following the cement pavers that marked the front pathway to the white washed porch. He climbed the front steps as he had earlier, only to hear another pair of footsteps behind him, heavier than his previous shadow as he looked over his shoulder at Daryl. How much he looked like his brother…
"Ya nervous?" Connor asked over his shoulder. Daryl's eyes cut over to the Irishman, repositioning the crossbow on his shoulder. "Excited."
Connor smirked, his hand hovering over the brass doorknob where he prepped himself before opening the door into hell. "Good."
Connor's fingers wrapped around the cold metal, twisting his wrist before he pushed the door open. The heavy wooden door bounced off the back wall of the building as Connor moved in the house first, Daryl covering him from the back.
The living room, previously known to him as the makeshift camping area for him and Alice had been dismantled, the couches that had been used to block the living room from the dining room moved to the back window, thrown against the window as it laid in shambles. His group, the geniuses that they were had undone everything that Alice and him had worked hard on, making this place safe – that wasn't why he was there.
Connor made his way around the empty living room to the dining room, hoping that the group had stayed to the first level. He didn't want to find out what was on that second level if he could help it. Daryl followed closely behind, covering the unarmed man as they made their way around the first floor in vain. There wasn't a single bag of food, clothes, ammo – Connor's arms fell to his side in defeat as his mind whirled with the idea that maybe someone had stolen all their supplies.
"It's not here." Connor said carefully, whispering his words so just Murph could hear him.
"You think someone got here first?" Daryl asked.
Connor's eyes raised to the ceiling, resting among the popcorn ceiling texture as it his him like a ton of bricks.
"No." Connor said, his eyes not moving from the ceiling. Daryl's eyes followed his trail to the ceiling, sighing as it hit him as well.
"Shit."
"Looks like we're headed to the next floor." Connor sighed before making his way to the staircase.
The second floor would be a great spot to hold up, Connor thought, giving Red at least a little bit of credit. One way up, multiple ways down; it would be a great look out and everything. Connor made his way back to the front of the house when his eyes drew to an open closet door, swinging in the light breeze that ran through the broken window. The white washed door was opened wide, but no clothes hung within the closet. Daryl made his way around Connor to the door way, curiosity getting to the best of both of them as Daryl looked inside.
"Basement." He whispered, hearing the earthly groans from the undead below in the darkness.
With the faints sound of the undead groaning from hunger around them, Connor and Daryl slowly made their way into the dark basement. Connor held onto the large, police issue flashlight, heavy enough to knock a fucker out and bright enough to illuminate the sunless sky, he waved the flashlight around quickly, creating a light show and a headache for Daryl. Daryl hissed through his teeth at the Irishman, pointing with his chin deeper into the cleared basement.
Shelves lined the main hallway through the basement, bottlenecking traffic into one large room at the back of the house; there the plumbing and electric coexisted. The wire shelves were all but empty, the occasional empty can and glass bottle reflecting the flashlights beams, but empty nonetheless. What they were really looking for was at the end of the hallway.
Nuzzled in-between the water heater and an ancient washer machine where the duffle bags of food and ammo that Daphne had mentioned at the prison, stacked neatly on top of each other for optimal room. What she failed to mention was the security system that Red had put in place; and skinny and rather hungry walker on a chain leash.
The walkers eyes where milky, the only remains of the human that once inhabited the body gone as it lashed out at the strong beam of light, thrashing and gnawing at the air like a chained dog. Its fingers were bone, the flesh stripped away from the years of crawl and scratching it way to a decent meal, the bleached bone stuck out where the fingertips and nails would be, Connor shook from the chill racing up his spine.
Daryl noted it, his eyes darting to the Leprechaun. As far as the two of them could tell, this was the only walker in the basement. By the grace of God, this was the only one.
The only obstacle was this lone walker; Daryl was only too quick in putting a crossbow bolt between its eyes. The walker felt face first onto the concrete floor, pushing the bolt deeper into his head from the sheer weight of its scrawny body. While Daryl worked his way over to the walker, pulling the bolt out from the other side of the walkers weak skull, Connor made his way over to the bags, throwing one after the other over his shoulders to carry as much as he could.
The cans moved inside the back, its weight settling farthest from his spine before he grabbed another; the dense weight of clothes being next on his aching back before Daryl came up behind him. Connor didn't even waver, the familiar and friendly face of his brother gave him no reason not to trust the man with the crossbow as he started to hand him some of the bags.
The stairs leading to the dark basement began to creak, reminding him of those late nights watching scary movies on television. Connor just prayed that the ghost / monster / chainsaw wielding murder did not go after the pretty one first.
Daryl and Connor looked to the staircase, the light from the sunshine up stairs illuminating the silhouettes of the dead stumbling down the wooden stairs. It started with one, then multiplied into three, before Connor could flash the light in their direction, at least five walkers had made their way down into the basement, tripping over their own feet as they made their way into the basement.
Daryl only had four arrows.
Connor only had the flashlight.
The dead where growing in numbers.
Maybe you should have given me a fucking gun.
Daryl loaded up another crossbow bolt, grunting as he pulled back the string with a click. Connor swung the flashlight around his body to build momentum before the light connected with the side of the walker's face, its head exploding on contact before he moved onto the next one. Daryl shot at one walker, the crossbow bolt sticking from its eye before it fell to the ground. Connor then smashed the flashlight over the top of the head of a female walker, her blond hair now stained with her own blackened, diseased blood.
Three down, three to go.
Connor belt down and grabbed the crossbow bolt from the fallen walker's eye and jammed it through the bottom of the jaw of another one that was approaching fast.
Two to go.
He had lost his flashlight somewhere along the way, the strong beam of light muffled by the collection of bodies around it. With the bolt in the neck of another walker and his flashlight somewhere else, Connor had to fight off the next walker, an old, fat, bloated walker with its previous victim still fresh on his wife beater and flannel, Connor had to resort to the only thing that he knew he could trust, his fists.
Connor leapt up from a kneeling position, tackling the trucker walker into the wire shelves and knocking him to the ground. He straddled the chomping zombie, his gnarly teeth a little too close for comfort before his fists connected with the decaying tissue.
With each connection for fist to cheek, Connor's knuckled began to come away with a certain gritty quality. In the dark Connor couldn't see that the grit was actually layers of the putrefying flesh that had abandoned ship, so to speak, and peel away from its host and collecting on his rough hands. He just focused on the death of the evil below him. He was sent to rid the world of evil; Connor was only doing his job.
His fists began to get drenched in the infected blood; he prayed the he didn't have an open wound from the fight with Red earlier.
It was that moment that Connor considered that he might have a problem.
While the gurgled noises of moaning had stopped beneath him, a new challenger had approached from the doorway. This one hobbled from the doorway, one of its legs broken in two, while held only by the confused tendons that had not given up yet. He made his way closer to Connor as the bloodlust grew in his eyes, blocking out the world around him in his fit of rage.
The encroaching walker fell to the concrete floor, bouncing once before resting on his back, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his forehead.
The walkers were clear, but Connor hadn't stopped beating the one senseless.
Daryl watched from a far, collecting his bolts from the skulls of the permanently dead, as Connor continued on his tyrant. The man looked out of it, his eyes unfocused and wild as he laid fist to flesh to the deceased attacker. It must have been this way in the prison, when he attacked his own group member, just an empty vessel of fury and rage.
Without really realizing the magnitude of what he was doing, Daryl put his arm on Connor's shoulder, immediately snapping the crazed Paddy out of his daze. Connor looked around wild eyed, as if he had woken from an all-too real dream. Daryl shook his shoulder, not wanting to attract any more walkers with unnecessary words, pointing with his chin towards the exit.
Connor reached for Daryl's hand, forgetting for another moment that Daryl wasn't his brother, before standing on his own, hovering over the body that laid in shambles. That is when Connor noticed the dark blood on his hands.
Like Murphy had many times before, Daryl snapped Connor out of his rage inducted state, pulling him back to reality whether he liked it or not. Connor composed himself, clearing his throat and straightening his dark t-shirt before he backtracked, grabbing the still brightly shining flashlight under the pile of decaying bodies before making his way towards the steps, Daryl following close behind.
Connor and Daryl emerged from the farmhouse, both of them shielding their eyes from the blinding late-morning sun. It was a white-out, their view obscured by the sudden bright light that didn't come from Connor's flashlight twirling. Once their eyes adjusted, they noticed Michonne and Alice around on of the cars, the blue four-door sedan. Michonne was leaning against the driver's side door, her arms crossed over her chest while Alice hung out from under the hood of the vehicle, her feet barely touching the floor as she stretched to get deeper into the engine.
The two men began to walk towards the women before Connor grabbed for Daryl's shoulder, stopping him in place. Daryl spun on his heel, his angry narrow eyes glaring at him if for no other reason than to keep up a front.
"Don't tell Alice." Connor whispered, looking over at the young motor head. "She's paranoid enough for t'e two of us. I don't need ta give her a reason to, ya know?"
"Do what you want." Daryl snapped at him, backing away from the touchy leprechaun. "I'm not gonna tell on you, if that's what you're askin'."
"T'anks."
"Shut up."
The two boys walked over to Alice and Michonne, the bored young lady looking up from the ground at the approaching pair. Connor slipped his way behind Alice, peering over her shoulder as she dived further into the car's engine block.
"What happened in there?" Michonne asked, noting the dried blood around Connor's wrists and the black blood dripping from Daryl's arrows. Connor saw Alice seize under the hood of the car, pausing as she waited for an answer. "Uh… We just ran into a couple lame-brains up t'ere – nothing we couldn't handle." Connor said, puffing out his chest as he rested his dirty hands on his hips heroically. Daryl rolled his eyes at him, turning to more important matters.
"What is she doing?"
"She's fixing the car up. I think."
Alice pulled herself out of the block, her arms and face smudged with oil and grease. "I'm trying to see if I can't salvage some parts from the engine." She explained, wiping away beads of sweat on her forehead, only to replace it with crude oil. "Before all this, I was a mechanic. I know my way around and engine better than my own town."
"I'm so glad we took you on this scavenge with us then." Michonne resorted. Alice smirked at her, taking her remark in stride before diving back under again.
"I figure at least we could get the battery, maybe a couple of headlights? Give the people some light?" Alice said, her voice almost echoing off the steel and metal of the engine as she grunted, her arm coming back sharply as she was pulling on something within the machine. With a pop, the left headlight sprung out, jumping to freedom on the gravel driveway.
The gaggled moans collected from the tree line, the dead's animated grey bodies shifted through the green leaves, breaking the tree limbs as they searched in their afterlife for flesh. Daryl hoisted his crossbow to his shoulder, looking down the sight before the number of the dead had tripled. Two unarmed, one hand held and one mid ranged weapon were not going to be able to fight off the ever growing horde, which in the brief seconds it took to not the weapons, had multiplied to about thirty.
Connor's jaw dropped at the sight of them as they moved from the tree line, encroaching on the farmhouse. His hand moved absent-mindedly to Alice's hip, grabbing the young woman's attention quicker than any word from the mouth would have. She almost jumped out of the hood, full intention of punching the touchy leprechaun before her eyes were drawn to the tree line and the growing number of walkers.
"Fuck me..." Connor said breathlessly, rubbing his chin stubble. "I t'ink it's time ta go, now."
Abandoning the car battery, the four of them began to hightail it down the road. Connor looked behind him briefly to see the army of the undead spilling out into the country road, groaning as they made their way passed the blue sedan with its hood still up. He knew that he would catch hell from Alice for letting them get away without the battery.
The four of them made their way down the road, Connor's second choice for an escape route. There heavy boots clicked on the asphalt, the element of surprise or even stealth a distant memory as the plan was now to survive – maybe make it back to the prison if they were lucky.
Connor looked over the map while jogging behind Daryl and Alice, silently noting their pathways to make sure that they were headed the right way. Plans, in his experience, always had a problem with going wrong at the worst moment; he prayed that today was not going to be one of them.
Connor grabbed Alice's hand, Alice herself falling from the group as her lack of a cardio routine began to creep up on her. He pulled her along, making her run faster and harder as the moans of the dead got closer.
The four of them made it to I-85; the highway that lead into Atlanta: city of the dead, the highway that Connor and Alice where looking for only days ago, the highway that they lost Sophia on. Among the crowded, frozen highway, a tidal wave of walkers moved through the metallic field.
Two hundred walkers crossed the highway - nobody questioned their reason…
Connor watched as the maneuvered around the parked cars, making their way from the field on one side to the forest on the other, making their way in the very direction that the four of them where headed.
It hit Connor like a ton of bricks. The gunfight at the prison yesterday, the bullets ringing out over who knows how far – it was as if Red had rung the fucking dinner bell.
"T'ey're headed for t'e prison…" Connor said, breathlessly as he watched the decaying flesh walk into the forest.
Thanks for reading!
~pure.
