Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead in any way whatsoever.
Author's Note: Another rather INCREDIBLY delayed chapter. Meh. I'm letting you all know that this story has now become a secondary project. What does that mean? It means I will update this story even less than I have been doing so far. I apologize to all the people who have been keeping up but I am focusing most of my time and energies to a different project so, yeah... That's the current situation. Anyway, let me stop stealing your time. Here's the stuff you came for. Enjoy
Much love,
~Sayonara~
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*whirl*
*click*
*whirl*
*click*
Faith pulled the revolver away from her head and set it down next to her. She picked up the small rock beside her and scratched two more tallies into the wooden floor. She had forgotten how much time had passed and how long she had sat there. She had even forgotten how she had got into the house in the first place. All she remembered was she found a revolver in the parlor of the house and sat down in the foyer, testing fate, one pull of a trigger at a time.
*whirl*
*click*
That was the seventy-fifth etch on the floor.
The process had almost become mechanical. She spun the chamber of the revolver, held it to her head, and pulled the trigger. In the six chambers of the revolver, only one held a bullet. And every attempt so far, she eluded death... Perhaps death eluded her.
Her arm now aching, Faith set the gun down next to her. She was still sopping wet, water dripped from her face and onto the floor. The rain fell hard onto the roof above her head and the walls that surrounded her. The rain just didn't stop pouring.
The world seemed to be mourning.
Mourning in Faith's place.
The hours that had flew behind her were a haze.
All she could remember was the rain that slammed against her and the muddy ground beneath her feet. She fogot how she even got to ground from the top of the building... After Joanne...
Stop.
*whirl*
*click*
The only thing that remained clear in her mind was the very moment she turned her head as she was running away. She remembered the figure standing in the window. She remembered the grave expression that was drawn across that very face. She remembered how hard she ran away.
She remembered she left Joanne behind.
Faith felt a shiver crawl down her spine, amidst her own shviering. She was so preoccupied in her own head, she forgot to look after herself.
Her hair, which was dripping with water, stuck to her head. Her clothes were completely soaked and felt glued to her skin. Her boots were sopping wet and muddy. Mud had crusted to her pant legs.
Faith stood up weakly, her knees wobbling beneath her own weight. Perhaps even worse than her arm, her legs felt numb, weak, detatched. She clumsily leaned against the wall, her legs buckling. She put the revolver in her pocket, putting the safety on the gun before doing so. She took a good look around the room, still shivering.
The room was pretty big, furnished with several couches and many tables. The windows seemed to be hastily boarded up, the wooden boards now almost rotten, splintering away. The ground in front of the windows were laden with shattered glass and twisted metal pieces.
Faith painstakingly limped her way out of the room. She got to the door and pushed it open. There was a long and loud creak as the old rusted hinges of the door screamed from age and overuse. The hallway beyond the door was a long stretch with what seemed like several doors in it.
It was pitch black.
Faith sighed indifferently. It seemed lately that all she was going through these days was just another perpetual abyss after another. Not that it really bothered her altogether. She had hit rock bottom. There was no more going down.
Habitually, Faith reached for the light switch on the wall with peeling paint. And of course, the light switch was anything but wokring. Faith wondered why she even tried. Still, she flicked it on and off a several times before taking her hand off the switch. She faced the hallway before her.
She'd be walking blind if she continued her path. Faith had left her backpack in the other room, it would be a chore for her to go back and get it, the way she was. Faith wasn't even sure she could walk back and forth nor was she even certain she had a flashlight in the first place. She tried to think of something else.
The matches!
Faith's hand quickly went to her pocket to fumble for the small paper case. As her hand searched her pocket, all she felt was the cold wetness against her palm. Then she realized that if her pocket was that wet, so would the matches. And if the matches were that wet, they wouldn't light.
Faith cursed underneath her breath as she took her hand out. She stared down the hallway and looked back at the room she came out of. Turning back around, Faith started her way down the hall.
The hallway must have been smaller than Faith thought. Each footstep she took thundered throughout the peeling walls. The rain didn't help. It simply slapped the sides of the walls outside. And the walls must have been thin as well. When the wind blew from outside, Faith felt a deep chill embrace her. If she didn't change out of her current clothes, she'd freeze to death or hypothermia.
Deep inside, Faith wanted all of this to end. She did want to die but not while in pain. It had to be quick.
Faith rubbed her shivering arms as she trudged down the hallway, her boots spurting specks of water with each step. Faith felt the walls with one hand as she walked down. Her hand ran over peeling wallpaper, corroded wood, and soaked frames. She also felt hard wood. It felt sort of out of place.
Then Faith froze.
The hard wood, the sudden placement of that wood, its feeling of out-of-place-ness.
It was door.
Faith traced back her several steps and felt the door with her hand again. When she felt it over again, she confirmed her speculation. It definitely was a door. Feeling around a bit more, Faith found the door handle, wrapping her fingers around the cold, L-shaped door handle.
She turned it.
And to her surprise, the door opened.
The door creaked open and rays of faint light flowed into the hallway. The room had a window, allowing light to come in. Faith stepped into the room, observing it.
It was a typical bedroom. A bed was in corner along with a desk next to it. There was a sliding mirror closet as well although the glass was shattered. Faith walked on over to the desk, examining the contents that lined the top.
Whoever lived here left the room in hurry.
Faith noticed the subtle objects lain askew across the desk, an awkward fountain pen, without a cap, laying still, a tipped over coffee mug, the coffee already dried and sticky on the desk. And there was one more thing. It was a wooden picture frame. It must have fallen over in the owner's haste. Faith picked it up, the glass falling from the frame, and turned it over to herself.
It was a family portrait, albeit a bit small.
There was a young man, probably in his early-mid twenties, in a military uniform. He was cleanly shaven, no hair or facial hair visible. It appeared that this man was back from a tour of duty. Next to him was a petite and young woman. Faith could see the faint beauty the woman radiated from the photo, her warm smile, her flowing hair. She had her arms wrapped around the man's and they both looked at the camera with warm eyes, their jubilance clearly visible.
Faith set the photo down and sighed.
This apocalypse was really changed her. Before it all, she considered family and all the things that came along with it. And now, that was the last thing on her mind. If surviving was a daily chore, there would be no time to focus on other things. Faith looked back the photo sadly.
Despite what she thought, she was a tinge-bit jealous and sad. She was jealous that she had no one to confide in. She was sad that this family, the young and prospective family, was torn apart because all of the things that had happened. Faith wondered what had happened to them, seeing the current state of the house.
They could have escaped, seeing that the room had subtle signs of a rushed exit. But then again
Faith froze.
She heard the strained cry of wood behind her. The door behind her must have opened. But that wasn't all. Behind her, Faith could hear the floorboards creak from the weight of footsteps. Faith felt her heart pound in her chest. Her hand slowly went for the revolver grip. She felt the walnut grip within her hand when she heard a moan.
Whatever was behind her, it wasn't alive.
The shuffling steps came closer and closer.
Faith tried calming herself down as she slowly pulled the gun from her pocket. She felt the barrel slowly slide out from her pant leg pocket. It was soon free. Timing herself, Faith swung around, the gun in her hand, and lined it to her adversary's head. She pulled the trigger.
*click*
Faith felt as if someone had jammed a stake into her heart. She completely forgot that she only had one bullet in the chamber of the gun. Pulling back the hammer, she lined up the gun again. As she did however, the walker swiped at her hand. Faith yelped as the gun was broken free from her grasp and fired the only remaining bullet. Faith felt her ears ring from the gunshot, she recoiled briefly.
While taking a step back, Faith's foot caught on the leg of the desk. She lost her footing and fell backwards. She landed in the small space between the desk and the bed. There was no more room to run. Her back was to the wall and to either side of her were two immovable pieces of furniture. The desk was too heavy to push and the bed had no space to go underneath.
There was nowhere left to go.
Faith felt her blood run cold. Normally in life-pitting situtations, she would manage to find a way to escape. She would find a way to survive. But she couldn't think. Her brain and body refused to respond to her wishes. She strained as hard as she could but her body was dead weight, frozen with fear. She couldn't move.
Now, death seemed inevitable.
She took one last look at her killer who fixated his unyielding gaze upon her.
And everything went black.
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END OF CHAPTER