Fear and Desperation
Chapter 7
In the following days and weeks, Abigail had somewhat settled in and was eventually put to work with Dr. Carson, and, according to Sherry's calendar, had officially been at the Sanctuary for about a month. It wasn't exactly a difficult job by any stretch of the imagination; her daily tasks mostly consisted of completing the morning and afternoon supply count, reorganising the cupboards and supply boxes, as well as cleaning the surgical tools – the same type of tasks she had done whilst on student placement during her studies some years ago; and the slight pulse she felt in her chest as she had methodically cleaned and organised the tools on her first day had made her chest ache with nostalgia.
And while the Sanctuary's infirmary wasn't a bustling inner-city hospital E.R. with death at every possible turn, it kept her busy enough – if only for a short while. Her only other form of excitement was either when a patient was admitted or when the scavenging groups would return with new supplies; though these events were unfortunately far and few in between and Abigail quickly found herself growing bored as the days continued to pass on slowly. Sometimes, Dr. Carson would often quiz her on different symptoms, their possible diagnoses, and various types of medications as well as their characteristics; either from his own experiences or from the few medical textbooks that he had on hand.
Abigail flinched when Dr. Carson suddenly dropped a large box on the table in front of her; she must've zone out while reading his worn out copy of an Encyclopaedia of Common Medicine Volume II for what would have to be the sixth or seventh time now that, if things continued to go as slow as they were, she'd have the whole damn thing memorized word for word by the week's end.
"What's that?" Abigail asked, closing the book as she peered curiously at the box.
Dr. Carson removed his white lab coat and haphazardly tossed it onto the back of the chair before he sat down with a sigh.
"Patient records," he answered, removing the lid. "I'd never got the chance to create a thorough system for keeping a database of our residents, nor had I a safe place to store them. But now that we do," he said, gesturing to a beat-up rusted two-drawer filing cabinet by the door that had been brought in yesterday, "I don't see why not."
Abigail watched as he then reached in and grabbed the top half of the stack of papers and placed them in front of her while taking out the remaining half for himself and tossing the empty box onto the floor beside his chair. Meanwhile, Abigail grabbed a pen and a fresh notebook from the stationary drawer and sat back down.
She reached for the first piece of slightly wrinkled paper and skimmed over its contents and saw the standard procedure of name, age, gender and ethnicity scrawled at the top of the page, followed by brief notes that appeared to be taken during a quick physical with an added note of the date and condition in which the person had arrived at the Sanctuary. Down the bottom were more notes on how this person's wounds were treated, as well as the word allergies scrawled next to it with a hasty 'x' marked right beside it. According to this record, this patient had no known existing medical conditions either, and was brought in with a few minor cuts that required a couple of stitches. Other than that, this person had arrived to the Sanctuary in near perfect condition.
It was a simple system to say the least; nothing she hadn't seen before, though the layout left a lot to be desired in terms of structure.
"So, how do you want to do this?" Abigail asked as she opened her notebook, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips at the thought of feeling somewhat useful again. While updating and sorting patient records was often considered to be the most demeaning and menial task to an ambitious med student, Abigail was just happy to have something do to other than polishing the already clean tools. And judging by the surprisingly large stack of papers, this would surely take her a few days to do – perhaps even a week if she did it carefully.
"I was thinking that we first filter the records into piles of those who are still active and those who are no longer with us," he said, picking up the first piece of paper from his pile and discarding it to the side before reaching for a second. "From there, we can sketch up a few easy to follow templates for recording and updating patient information. Once that's done, we'll rewrite them all and then alphabetize the cabinet." He then stood and retrieved his own notebook from the bench. "Oh, there's also a few new additions in the drawer by the sink, including your own record, so be sure to add those in, too."
And so, for the next hour and a half, the two doctors sat in a companionable silence, the only interruption being when Abigail had asked Dr. Carson whether a patient was still active or not. It was a little saddening to see the pile of deceased grow so quickly, but she simply chalked it down to the neglect of keeping the system up to date. By the time they were done sorting, they'd managed to get through both piles just before eleven-thirty. He then departed for lunch, though Abigail opted to stay behind and get a head start of creating some new templates for the patient records.
After putting aside a third template sketch, Abigail stood from the chair and stretched, holding her arms high above her head and taking satisfaction in the way her joints cracked in appreciation. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she saw that Dr. Carson was a little early for lunch; a habit she'd noticed after starting to work with him. She supposed that he liked to get in early and didn't particularly enjoy eating around other people. She couldn't blame him, though – the mess hall could get rather rowdy from time to time.
She liked Dr. Carson, she decided. He was a quiet man with a frown that seemed to be permanently etched onto his weathered face and often kept to himself unless otherwise necessary, but was somewhat friendly. The man was not exactly nice to her after the incident with the woman's leg, but he had eventually moved past that. Perhaps it was out of respect for the profession, or maybe he was just glad to have a second set of hands, she supposed as she walked over to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. Out of respect, she never asked him about his past other than where he had studied medicine, to which she only gave as much as he did, and never asked anything personal. The two decided to leave that topic of conversation alone permanently and instead focused their energy elsewhere.
Sitting back down, Abigail began to sketch out more templates and winced at the brief, uncomfortable tingle in her leg as she adjusted position in the chair. There was some slight nerve damage since her leg had healed after being shot, and while it was nowhere near enough to cripple her, it often became agitated when using the stairs or lifting heavy objects. She knew that exercise was the only way to cope with the pain, but since their little chat, Negan had been keeping an annoyingly close watch on her.
Negan.
The thought of his name alone was enough to make her gut squirm uncomfortably. Placing her pen down, she pinched the bridge of her nose and sunk lower into the chair with a heavy sigh. Abigail had been on edge for days ever since that moment in his room, her hairs standing on the back of her neck every time she'd see him pass by. There was a look in his eyes, one that he seemed to reserve only for her and it was a painful reminder that no matter how much freedom she had within the Sanctuary, that she was still in his domain, under his control, and, more importantly, that she needed to be careful.
In short, it was damn near suffocating at times. Her only respite was the infirmary; the only place where things felt almost… normal again – all things considered. But in here, Abigail was in her element; the sharp sting of antiseptic and the cool balm of the tiled floor eased her mind and, for a brief moment, she would forget where she was – in here, there was no Negan; there was only Abigail.
And that, she realized, was something that he couldn't take away from her.
But no matter how much she tried to lose herself, there was still one thing for certain; Negan wasn't finished with her just yet. However, weeks had now passed since their last encounter so far had made absolutely no intention of following up on her little stunt from the first time they'd met, and she sincerely doubted that he would just let her continue to play doctor without any repercussions whatsoever; she knew that he was the type of man who didn't let a lot of things slide. At this point, it was not a matter of if, but when he would come for her. Abigail needed to be ready, to prepare herself; she needed to know anything and everything about Negan if she had any chance of holding her own against him – in whatever context she would need to. But he was exceedingly difficult to predict, and just as difficult to read.
She couldn't risk getting too close; he'd see straight through her in a heartbeat, and then where would that leave her? There had to be something – anything – that would give her an advantage over him when the time came.
But for now, the best Abigail could do was to just play it safe and do her job. And as much as it pained her to play nice, she would endure until she knew more about Negan and his motives. Other than that, there wasn't much else she could do, and she loathed the knot of helplessness that came with sitting around waiting for something to happen.
The next morning, Abigail had woken up a little earlier than usual. Glancing at Sherry's bedside clock, she saw that there was still another hour until breakfast, so she stood from her mattress on the floor and walked over to the small bookshelf by the window and scanned the titles, index finger running across the array of differently coloured spines until she finally decided on one whose blurb looked slightly interesting enough to pass the time. Sitting back down on her mattress, Abigail began to read and ended up so enthralled by the story that she'd accidentally missed breakfast.
Reluctant to put the book down, she folded the ear of the page and left the book on her pillow. Careful, as to not wake a sleeping Sherry, Abigail got dressed and headed for the infirmary, intent on continuing on with those patient records. As she crossed the main courtyard, she saw the same barrage of trucks and utility vehicles suddenly enter through the gate. Her gut tingled with excitement at the possibility of new texts or supplies. The watch crew immediately broke into a run as shouts could be heard coming from the gate. Abigail was about to walk over when she was suddenly approached by a short blonde woman with a neck tattoo and a hard expression.
"You Abigail?" she said as she slowed to a stop, breathing heavily.
Abigail's brows furrowed in confusion. "Uh, yeah, why?"
"You're needed in the infirmary," she huffed, tone thick with urgency. "Now."
But before Abigail could ask, the woman promptly turned on her heel and jogged back in the direction of the front gate as the men began stepping out and unloading supplies, and without a moment's hesitation, Abigail broke into a jog and headed straight for the infirmary, her heart racing with excitement. While it may be somewhat cruel to feel excited at the prospect of a possible horrific injury, as both a medically trained yet unqualified professional, it was finally a chance for Abigail to flex her muscles and do what she did best.
Abigail had arrived within the minute, skidding to a halt just shy of the threshold.
"Over here!" she heard Dr. Carson call out from behind the nearest curtain. Abigail marched forward and pulled back the fabric with a shrill clang to reveal him attempting to restrain a younger man with sandy blonde hair whom Abigail immediately recognised.
Tom.
His forehead was slick with sweat and dirt, and his eyes were screwed shut as he writhed atop the cot in agony. His groans were harsh and his breaths were shallow, and on his left shoulder was a frighteningly deep red stain. After a brief moment, Abigail collected herself and quickly moved to the opposite side of the cot, her hands coming up to keep his body still as Dr. Carson finally managed to restrain his other wrist to the side rail.
"Gunshot wound," he informed her as he used a nearby set of scissors to hurriedly cut open his t-shirt. He peeled back the fabric to reveal the extent of the damage. The entrance was clean, but the bullet had no exit wound which meant it was still lodged in his arm. Her own arm briefly tingled at the memory of being shot close to the same place not too long ago, but she quickly pushed those thoughts down as she ignored Tom's laboured breaths.
Without another word, Abigail quickly put on some gloves and gathered the appropriate supplies, including a syringe containing some morphine. Needle in hand, she wheeled the medical tray to Dr. Carson's side.
"This will sting a little," she warned as she poised the needle at the junction of his elbow.
Tom let out a strangled cry as Abigail slowly inserted the needle and let the clear liquid move into his veins. His whole body went tense at the foreign intrusion, but he stayed remarkably still throughout the short process. In a matter of moments, she saw signs of his body beginning to relax, though he still continued to breathe heavily. Once that was done and the needle was discarded, Abigail began prepping the surgical tools.
Abigail then went to hand the scalpel and forceps to Dr. Carson, who shook his head. It took her a moment to realize what he meant, and she quickly offered him a brief nod before taking a deep breath. It had been a long time since she'd been given the chance to lead in a professional environment, and had only ever been granted the opportunity thrice during her medical training. She swallowed thickly and after a moment to gain her composure, Abigail made the first incision to remove the bullet lodged deep in Tom's shoulder.
He cried out, and Abigail gently shushed him as she continued to work. And like a well-rehearsed dance, Dr. Carson handed Abigail each tool as she needed it, wiped away any blood that was obstructing her view, and held out a gloved hand for the bullet as she released for forceps and dropped it into his hand. And all the while, Abigail couldn't contain the swell of pride that burned in her chest. In a matter of minutes since the removal, the wound was thoroughly cleaned and stitched. Abigail began wrapping fresh gauze around the injury while Dr. Carson removed the sullied tools to the decontamination sink.
Dr. Carson then removed his gloves and tossed them into the bin. "I need to step out for a few minutes," he said. "Will you be all right on your own?"
Abigail nodded and watched as he exited the room before turning back to Tom, whom, to her surprise, had remained awake throughout the entire operation. However, his eyes were downcast, deliberately avoiding her gaze. His breathing had calmed down significantly, the morphine having completely made its way into his system.
She pursed her lips; Abigail hadn't spoken to Tom since he had stormed off on her that day. And ever since she returned, she had only seen him for fleeting moments throughout the sanctuary. She tried to get his attention on a few occasions when she had been him in the mess hall, but he ignored her each and every time; obviously still sore that Negan had chosen her instead of him.
Abigail held back a derisive snort. If only he knew…
The only people who had known about what had happened that day was herself, Negan, and Sherry – the latter in an absolute state at seeing Abigail return to her room after two days of not knowing if she was alive or dead. His men, however, had thankfully minded their own business regarding the situation, and few only nodded in her direction from time to time since the incident. Sherry had immediately forgiven Abigail for her brief absence after another stern lecture about Negan and his capabilities, but judging by the way Tom was still avoiding her gaze, it was clear that he wasn't quite ready to speak her just yet.
However, that didn't stop her. So, Abigail stood to her feet and walked over to the cupboard and retrieved a cup, a plastic sheet of painkillers and returned to his bedside, intent on getting him to speak to her again. She handed them over, but he made no move to take them. With a sigh, Abigail placed them on the tray table beside him.
"What happened to you?" she asked.
Tom didn't respond.
Abigail frowned. Looking for something to channel her frustration, she went over to the sink and began cleaning the surgical tools with some disinfectant and a rag and placed them in the drying rack.
"They'll help with the pain," she said over the rush of the tap after a beat of silence.
Nothing.
With a huff, Abigail tossed the tools back into the sink with a loud clatter and shut off the tap before turning on her heel.
"Look, I get that you're pissed off at me, but you could be a little more grateful, you know," she bit out coldly as she glared at his downcast expression. "I didn't have to patch up your sorry ass just now, and I certainly—"
"—you were gone."
Abigail stopped. "…What?"
Tom still hadn't lifted his gaze from his lap.
"You were gone," he repeated before finally looking up at her. "I mean, when the trucks pulled up, I was there… I was waiting for you and—" Tom cut himself off with a sigh, letting his head fall into the hand on his uninjured arm.
Abigail's glare dissipated as she walked over to him and pulled up the nearby chair to his cot.
"You were?" she asked softly, slightly taken aback. After the way he'd stormed off on her, she certainly didn't anticipate him waiting for her. "But I thought—"
"—I wanted to apologize," he said suddenly, momentarily shutting his eyes in pain. Quickly, Abigail handed Tom the cup of water and couple of painkillers. He downed them quickly, uncaring as some of the water dribbled down his chin and onto his bare chest.
Tom then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the cup in his lap. "I wanted to apologize for how things ended that day," he explained. "I was just… I don't know," he sighed, rubbing his face with his free hand. "I guess I was upset. And then when I saw that you hadn't come back, I just—"
"—but I did come back," Abigail interrupted. "And you still ignored me. Why?"
Tom let a heavy sigh pass by his lips. "I don't know," he replied honestly before turning to look at her. "I mean I saw you around, but I just… I'm sorry."
After a moment of silence, Abigail sighed and reach out to place her hand on his leg. "It's fine," she said. "Don't worry about it. So, how did this happen anyway?"
Tom's troubled expression softened. "Well, we were out on a run, and—" he began before Abigail cut him off.
"—they picked you?" she crowed in astonishment, and Tom shot her a playful glare.
Abigail snickered. "Right, sorry."
"Yeah, they did," he said. "Anyway, we were going to a nearby… area, and things… well, things for out of hand really fast. Next thing I know, I'm on the ground bleeding out."
"Ouch," Abigail grimaced, to which Tom mimicked. "Who shot you?"
"Don't remember," Tom replied. "I thought I was going to die," he added after a brief pause.
Abigail gave his leg a reassuring squeeze.
"Well then, it's lucky you have me here to patch you up."
Well, there it is! I apologize for the lack of Negan, but after what happened in the previous chapter, I thought it best to leave him out for now; I didn't want him to be appearing at every turn since it gets a little boring after a while, you know? Besides, I'm happy with how this one turned out because it shows more than just what's happening between Negan and Abigail, who is slowly becoming a part of the Sanctuary. But fret not, my lovelies; Negan will be returning in the next chapter, and he has some serious plans for our leading lady!
For now, let me know what you think. Also, be sure to enjoy the Season 8 premiere; I know I will! Be kind to one another and take care.
