I'm 80 % sure that there's only two or three chapters left, and I wana post them very soon. The series is coming to an end. In fact, I wanna end it before or around February 10th, because that's the date when I published the very first chapter of Salvation and this entire serie. Back in 2012 on this site. (-four- years ago! Screeching!) Lost a lot of interest on here and most readers moved over to AO3, but I figure that I obviously need to end the series on here, too.
Anyway, just like with the previous chapters that had 'medical' content in them, please excuse medical inaccuracies and possible scientific nonsense here. I'm taking advantage of my creative freedom here. Just pretend that this is all logical and how the infection/virus/whatever can work and that's how doctors talk okay ;D (I'm a helpless video editor/ media person, not a doctor after all)
Contagion
Chapter 10 - Grady
He was ripped out of his unconscious state.
His awakening wasn't gentle, wasn't slow, it was traumatizing and fast, caused by the sudden uncomfortable pain somewhere in the back of his neck. At first, he couldn't really locate where the pain was coming from, or why it was happening. In fact, for the first couple of seconds, he was busy trying to make sense out where he was in the first place. White linen. That was the first thing he saw.
Murphy started panicking and tried to move, tried to flee, but that's when he noticed that apart from the pain in his neck, he also generally couldn't move at all. His head, his arms and his legs were tied up. It only made the panic worse and he struggled more, against the restraints, fighting the pain in his neck and whatever was happening to him. He tried to turn his head in panic but couldn't – he was still staring at the linen. It almost felt like he was buried in the linen.
Immediate flashbacks shot through his mind like a bullet, memories of a pillow almost suffocating him when that soldier in Boston had tried to kill him back in the day. He wondered if he was back to that now, people wanting to kill him, people holding him hostage, and it sent whatever had been left of his sanity and calm over the edge. He kicked and trashed mindlessly, as he frantically tried to turn his head away from the suffocating fabric below him and the pain behind him. A panicked and agonized scream escaped his mouth and was muffled by the pillow as he couldn't move.
"Pull it out, pull it out!" someone was shouting somewhere behind him as Murphy felt more and more hands on him. "He'll drive it in even further with his struggling and'll end up stabbing himself! What if he breaks the needle?!"
Needle.
Holy fucking shit. That's what was in the back of his neck.
A loud and horrified scream escaped his mouth once more and was partially muffled by the pillow that seemed to suffocate him, at least until he felt another even sharper and painful stab in the back of his neck, then it was gone and replaced with even more hands instead. Fingers were pressed against his neck where the stab had happened, another pair of hands was placed on the back of his head as the smell of alcohol or disinfectant filled the air.
He struggled more and more for what felt like hours until the restraints to his head were loosened and the hands slowly turned his head to the side a bit.
"LET GO OF ME!" he immediately yelled in horror, followed by another panicked scream when the restraints around his head were fastened once more. Murphy blinked and squeezed his eyes shut at the harsh sunlight that hit his face, tried to enter his eyes violently now that he was facing a window to his left. The moment the restraints were in place again he became even more aware of how he was completely immobile. He couldn't even move an inch and hands were still all over him, the light was still blinding him. After a few seconds he was finally able to see people around the bed he was tied to, could make out the interior of a hospital room, a burned city skyline outside the windows.
Although he was still terrified and disorientated, he was quickly beginning to make sense of everything. First of all, he was actually lying on his belly. That's why the pillow had nearly suffocated him before they had adjusted his position. Secondly, next to the hospital furniture. He could also make out white overalls and rubber gloves that were holding a syringe with strange liquid-ish matter in it.
Widening his eyes in shock, Murphy immediately managed to come up with the connection. This was the thing these people had stuck in the back of his neck somewhere. This was what had caused him that uncomfortable pain that had awoken him. That thing had been stuck in him just a moment ago. And they had only pulled it out of him because his thrashing about could've killed him. Although he was immediately back to the yelling and screaming and fighting when they put their hands on him again to soothe him, he actually took note of that important last part. They had stopped because it could've killed him. Meaning that they didn't want to kill him. But that was pretty much about it with the good news.
"Murphy, hey, Murphy, Mr MacManus, it's okay. Can you see me from there? You need to calm down" someone said to his right, and at first, Murphy seriously considered just ignoring the guy and keeping the fight up instead. But the man wouldn't shut up, and the younger MacManus got more and more distracted by how the fuck this man could know his name. Plus the stupid question made him angry. They had strapped stuff around his head to keep it fixated. How the fuck was he supposed to see the guy?
He struggled and fought angrily as he tried both to get free and look at the dumbass.
"Please, you need to stop struggling, you'll only hurt yourself! I know it's confusing and terrifying for you, but we had no other choice but to restrain you. Relax and try to focus on me alone if you can."
"Hey, he told you to look at him!" some other man to Murphy's left said and then actually grabbed him by his black hair to yank his head up more and that forcefully, which made the younger MacManus yelp and move his head frantically in the other direction as he tried to get rid of the bruising and aching grip.
"FUCK YOU! LET GO OF ME YOU PRICK!" he immediately roared but then eventually and finally managed to look at the man who had asked nicely and was now shouting at the other grabby guy. "HEY! I told you he isn't to be touched or harmed in any way! You know how important and valuable this man is! I fixated his head for a reason! He's supposed to stay still! I said focus, not look!"
Murphy just stared at the man in the white lab coat with wide eyes, now that he could finally see his face. He never would've thought that he'd really see this guy again. Not when he'd managed to get hundreds of miles away from them, not when months had separated them by now. He quickly looked outside the window once more, squinting against the sunlight. For a short, terrifying moment, he thought that maybe he'd been taken right back to Augusta. That these hundreds of miles separated him from everyone else yet again. But the skyline didn't fit. The buildings were too tall. There were too many skyscrapers. This wasn't Augusta.
He moved his eyes again to stare back at the man with a terrified look on his face, but there the guy was, unmistakable. The calm, competent and intelligent demeanor, the exhaustion that radiated him, the almost kind and fatherly eyes, if it weren't for what was behind all that. Professor Smith from Augusta. There was no mistaking him. There was no other guy who could look this normal and talk so reasonable but do this fucked up shit with needles –without permission- at the same time.
He was back.
"No!" he exclaimed and started fighting the restraints again.
This was all wrong.
It was all coming back to him now. Taken. That's what'd happened. He'd been kidnapped. One moment he'd been talking to Connor, talking to Daryl, watched them disappear inside the garage of that abandoned gas station, the next there had been screeching tires, the struggle and a stab to his neck, an emptied syringe, then the darkness. He had no idea for how long he'd been out because of that drugging bullshit. He had no idea where they'd taken him. He literally could be anywhere. The last he remembered was the scattering of glass, gunshots, a horrified "MURPH!" somewhere inside the gas station.
Connor.
Kicking and fighting, he stared at Smith as the realization truly hit him.
Behind the man, Murphy noticed a "Get well soon" poster on the wall. It was absolutely grotesque.
"Where the fuck am I?! Where's my brother?! Where's Connor?! Let me go right fuckin now or I swear I'll fockin kill yah! I don't wanna be here!" he yelled and hot, angry tears shot to his eyes because this was so fucked up.
"Give him a mild sedative, Elizabeth. You, gentlemen, please leave the room. You can keep watch in front of the door, you're only adding up to the stress and we can't have that right now" Smith said to the other people in the room and completely ignored Murphy instead, who was having yet another panicked fit of rage when the nurse approached him yet again with another syringe.
"Sir, are you.."
"Yes I'm sure. You've done your fair share of escalating the situation enough already."
"With all due respect, doc, we got our orders. After what happened last time we're not…"
"With all due respect, he's tied to a bed, we're 13 stories above ground, there's no river and plenty of your men and police officers outside that door. I think we can all agree that even he understands that there is no getting away from us this time. Now please. Leave. Your added stress messes with my patient's blood levels."
Murphy's breathing sped up and everything certainly added to his stress level, but he kept his mouth shut for now as he waited for most of the others to leave the room just like Smith had requested. It was good to hear that they were about to leave (especially the guy who'd grabbed him like that) when he was so vulnerable and trapped. It didn't exactly do anything about the general problem, but it was something to hold on to, at least.
And yet… Thirteen stories above ground. No river. Probably at least four times the men keeping watch - now that they had proper army men and police force on their team, as Murphy noticed when the men and women finally headed for the door. All in uniform, all official and real deal looking. He really seemed to be back to that shit. A Boston, part two. Proper military. Proper authority. Proper doctors and scientists. He'd really hoped and thought that any such thing had died by now. That this new world order had taken over, that Smith and his people - after losing him, after losing Connor - had simply given up or been killed by those thugs in Augusta. But here they were.
Of course they wouldn't let go. Of course they wouldn't let this slide.
Billions of people had died because of a disease and he and Connor carried something in them that could fight this whole mess after all.
Maybe it was the sedative kicking in. Because although most of them had done as Smith had wished, although they were gone and it was just him, the nurse Elizabeth and Smith in here, the fight somehow left Murphy and only the battle against the angry and harsh tears was left.
So many people. So many stories. So many restraints. The kidnapping and the unknown city. It was incredibly fucked.
Smith finally approached him and checked the back of his neck, until he eventually stopped, knelt down a bit and looked Murphy in the eye.
"Please excuse all this. You left us no other choice after what happened this summer."
"Where the fuck am I" Murphy asked yet again, glaring at Smith and just cautiously trying to get out of his restraints although he knew that it was completely useless. "Where's m'brother."
"You're in Atlanta. Grady Memorial Hospital. We moved our quarters little over a month ago when we made contact with the police force here." Smith explained and then pierced Murphy with yet another needle, only that this time, it was inserted into the fine veins of his hand to draw blood there. Murphy flinched and cursed, trying to get away, but he was left completely helpless and exposed to whatever they wanted to do to him.
"Your brother will be here, too. Soon enough."
"I'm gonna fuckin kill ye" Murphy breathed yet again, after a moment, because he felt incredibly exposed, felt incredible rage and hatred for these people who were doing these things against his will once more.
"You know, I'd have every right to the say the same thing to you" Smith said, calmly drawing the blood until he was finished, then he removed the syringe and rubbed Murphy's hand to stimulate the blood flow, warmth and closing of the tiny puncture. "My son lost a leg because you and your brother were too selfish to help find a cure" Smith added and then simply looked at Murphy. "God knows I could've spared him the trauma of an amputation without anesthesia and the right tools if you hadn't run. All I would've needed was more blood to stop the first event in time. But we didn't have any left after excessive testing of what we had of your blood after you ran away."
The younger MacManus just kept staring at the man, wondering if he was bluffing. But then again. Why the hell should he.
"My kid nearly died because of you, and yet here I am" Smith added, then moved above Murphy's figure…to open up the restraints.
"Daniel!" the nurse immediately shouted, but the Professor went ahead nevertheless.
"Please move cautiously. I just obtained some of your cerebrospinal fluid. You mustn't move your head in an abrupt manner or it could…"
Murphy moved on an instant, twirling around on the bed so he no longer had to lie in that uncomfortable position. At first, he instinctively thought about punching Smith to knock him out and flee. He knew the nurse would be no problem. He still knew her from Augusta. He knew how she was. He also knew that Smith deserved the punch, but for some reason, maybe because of the sedation, maybe because of things Smith was talking about, maybe because of his confusion, he wouldn't do any such thing.
Or maybe this was Connor finally rubbing of on him.
Fuckin think it through. What's it gonna do. 13 stories. Military and police. Yer outnumbered. You throw a punch and run now, what's it gonna do? Jump out the window – die for sure. Run for the door – get overwhelmed outside cos they're expecting ye. Get caught – additional security. More cuffs. Less opportunity. Play your cards right ye fuckin hothead. Wait fer the right opportunity to bolt.
He moved and turned around – to sit on the bed. No attack. He just sat there and glared at Smith. Ready for any occasion anyway, but listening to him. No more abruptness.
"Please, lie back down and try not to move your head too much. I removed your restraints. I'm not going to kill you" Smith said, looking back.
He actually seemed a bit surprised by the outcome. But he still remained calm and 'soothing' on the outside.
Murphy scoffed.
"Right. Yer just gonna open my head up and screw around with my brain. Stop bullshittin me. I still know what ye told me about this whole immunity bullshit."
"No. I don't have to operate on you. Not anymore.."
This actually left Murphy speechless and dumbfounded at first.
"….Wha?"
"All I need from you now is blood samples, samples from your cerebrospinal fluid and bone marrow. Just like I said. Not gonna kill you."
Murphy just continued to stare at Smith, really confused. It wasn't like he didn't know how the guy worked by now. That really was the most dangerous part about him. With him, everything sounded reasonable, everything sounded okay and doable. Until the great catch came. Back then, the catch had been that they could find a cure but they would have to operate on him. Open up his head to get to the infected part of his brain that had somehow managed to battle the dying and turning after a bite. Just like back then the catch was still the same now, too. He wouldn't be allowed to leave, it wasn't up to him to decide what he wanted to provide for that cure. No matter what, there would be needles stuck into him.
So it didn't really surprise him that his gut instinct told him not to trust the guy when he said that he wasn't going to operate and kill him with the risky procedure. But if it was really true and the operation was unnecessary, then he was really confused and maybe even a bit ashamed of himself. What if the guy had found something during these past couple of months, with the blood samples and all the notes he'd taken because of him and Connor? What if the procedure really was unnecessary now? But why? How did it work? What if he and Connor hadn't ran? Would the guy have been able to find something way earlier? Without any head sawing business? Maybe they could've spared the kid the whole amputation thing? If it was true?
"But..you said..back then ye said ye had ta operate and.."
"I've almost cracked the code. There's only very few elements missing. With all the samples I still had from you two, and all the samples I now have because of you, I'm really close to the final engineering process. We already had a prototype in testing to stop the primary event – the stage one and two blood poisoning, fever, general infection. That's what you've provided and are providing again now…"
"You told me that ta stop the dying and coming back, ye need the shit that's in our brains and that…" Murphy tried again, but Smith interrupted him once more.
"That is correct" he said and Murphy just stared at Smith again, blinking, trying to process this for a moment. But nope. He didn't get it.
"The fuck?" he asked, completely confused. It wasn't like he was stupid. But this was seriously beyond him now.
Smith took a deep breath and then released it with a sigh, looking down.
"You're here because we need your brother, Murphy" he eventually said.
"We need you both of course, but he's the last missing piece. We need the mutated and altered pathogen that is inside your brains, you're right. You need to understand this. When you both got infected, when the secondary event was supposed to take place, something else happened instead. From what I understand, you and your brother were both clinically dead for a short period. The primary event killed you just like everybody else. The fever, the poisoning, the blood loss. But your secondary event was different. Your reanimation period was extremely short. Your reanimation triggered an entirely different secondary event. Your entire brain was jump started. Not just the brain stem like with everybody else. This has never happened before because it should be scientifically impossible. But it still happened, your entire brain was restarted and altered the pathogen inside your stem along with it. It is extremely valuable and needs to be examined and tested so that we can reverse eng…"
"You already told me all this shit, so you do need ta fuckin open us up, stop fuckin around here!" Murphy yelled and finally tried to attack Smith but before he could do so, Smith had already wrapped one cuff around Murphy's wrist again and pulled it shut. A second later, Elizabeth was on him to take over that side, to keep Murphy from opening it up again while Smith jogged over to the other side to, after some wrestling and struggling, cuff his other arm to the bed again as well.
He let Murphy curse and fight and struggle for a while, until the younger MacManus eventually slowed down, seemed to give up, seemed to pay more attention to him again. Smith then finally started talking once more.
"Your brother, he found you, didn't you? He was with you, with that group? Was he the one who shot at our men when you were extracted?"
"Fuck you! I ain't gonna tell ye shit! There's no way yer getting him you fuckhead" Murphy exclaimed angrily and went right back to fighting his restraints like before, his previous trying to be smart about this instantly forgotten. But it wasn't like he needed to be smart to get information. Smith kept spilling it anyway in his desperate and stupid attempt to get him on their side, to get him to understand his fucked up views and ideas.
"Just try to understand this! If you both'd just cooperate with us then all of this could be over soon! The procedure may be risky, but that's exactly the reason why we won't perform it on you! We don't want you two to die, we don't want to risk it, you're simply too important and valuable to die. We're not the enemy here, we're on your side! We want the same thing! I understand how difficult this is for you and how fucked up and dangerous this seems. Your brain is too fragile and prone to complications after the trauma you sustained from the projectile. You were lucky enough to survive that intervention. There's little to no chance to perform brain stem surgery on you now and see you survive it without complications and permanent damage. You have every right to fear any of it. I get it, okay?"
"Then fuckin quit it! Even you say it's not fuckin worth it and too risky, so why the fuck am I still here?!" Murphy roared and Smith finally lost it, too.
"Because we need this cure, don't you understand?! That risk is for the greater fucking good! Our entire race, our future depends on it, so stop being so fuckin selfish you stupid prick!" he snapped back. Both fell silent and just glared at each other, until Smith slowly got rid of his glasses, looked down, and started cleaning them almost mechanically. But it was obvious that he was trying hard to get his calm demeanor back.
"Your brother is perfectly healthy. Unlike your case, his brain is not damaged and hasn't been operated on yet. He'd stand a good chance to provide samples for research and the cure all the while surviving it some way. We didn't get him along with you yet, so you're here to provide further samples until we get him on location, too. And now that we're here and two cases exist, now that we have electricity, the right equipment and a bigger, trained staff, we can pull this off without the risk of losing your case of immunity permanently."
Murphy was consumed by such an intense rage and sheer tidal wave of emotions he was pretty sure he was about to explode. The urgency of it all, the fuckedupness of it all was hitting him like a train at high speed. So many things were wrong with all this.
Of course he got it. Everything.
But he wasn't fucking selfish, and that made him so fucking mad. He would be willing to die for the greater good. He would be willing to die to provide a cure, to end all this, just like Connor. But he'd seen their country. He'd been through it fucking all. He'd seen it on television, seen the pictures in old newspapers, seen cities dead and burning. He'd seen hundreds and millions of undead people, seen maybe less than a hundred alive ones during an entire year. He'd seen at least half of them murder each other. Eat each other. Torture each other.
What was really the 'greater good' these days? Who the hell was left with enough credibility to make him actually believe, be certain that with his death, with Connor's death, a cure was actually going to be found, to be made and be useful? Because certainty was more important these days than just simple blind faith and nativity. Certainty kept people alive. Not possibilities. Religion and faith helped, but it was only a bonus now.
How was he of more use to Connor, to Samantha, to Suzie, to Rick and his child and all the others?
Dead and no cure? Protection from walkers? No. Protection from people, murder, rape, cannibalism, theft? No. Family, support, keeping them away from grief and depression? No. Connor had tried to commit suicide when he'd thought he'd lost him. Connor had tried to follow him in death. He knew how much it had damaged Connor. A death like that would NOT be for the greater good for any of his loved ones.
Dead but as a cure? Protection from walkers? Check. Protection from people? No. Still grief, still depression. Survivors guilt. Not really that good.
Alive? Protection from walkers? Check. Protection from people? Check. Family, support, no grief, no depression? Check. Definitely of use.
The so called greater good simply wasn't the cure and what was left of humanity any more. The greater good, back then, before the outbreak, hadn't been people either. It had been society. Morality. Justice. A life worth living. Culture. Principles. Working infrastructure and working organisms. The law. Religion. The Ten Commandments. ALL of that was gone. The country was dead. Society and civilization was dead.
The cure wasn't going to keep the law upright. It wasn't going to do anything about justice, morality, principles, religion, society, infrastructure. In fact, it was probably going to be used to worsen them even more, used as an advantage and privilege and for blackmail and even more murder and fighting over it. Hadn't it always been that way.
No, only if he and Connor were alive they could keep up their old promise, their work. Fighting for justice and morality and principles and basic law and civilization. Killing walkers and evil scumbags and every other threat to a life worth living. They could provide all that only by being alive.
The greater good now? Now that everything else had ceased to exist, was gone forever in that form ? Family was the greater good. Connor was the greater good. And Daryl. And Sam and Suzie and Rick and the group. Being alive to provide for them was more important and a greater good than a cure that was only going to eliminate one problem with the walkers. He wanted to be there to raise Suzie and teach her how to protect herself from alive scumbags. He wanted to be there to marry Samantha and have a child with her instead, to make sure that there were future generations. He wanted to be there to protect Connor from going through all that pain again.
And was that really so selfish? To not want to die to be there for his loved ones, to help them, protect them, keep them safe this way?
More importantly: Was it really so fucking selfish to not have his brother possibly die in a complicated and dangerous surgery that they wouldn't even perform on him because it was so risky? Connor was the only family, the only blood relative he had left from the time before the outbreak. He'd only just found him. There was no way he was losing him again. He was his twin brother, dear god.
Even if he didn't take all that into consideration – He'd already pretty much died once. Smith had said it. Dying had been fucking horrible. He was still traumatized by that. He didn't want to go through it again and for a final time this time, didn't want to put his brother through it either. He wanted to live. He wanted Connor to live.
He understood what Smith was all about. He really did. After all, Smith was applying the same principles. Smith wasn't doing it for the greater good either. He'd given it away earlier. He was doing it for his own community, his own family. He was doing it for his son. To protect him from possible future attacks, more amputations and horrifying events. He was doing it for his staff to keep them going and working, to save his own ass because he was only being protected and escorted around by heavy military because he was close to curing this thing.
No matter how much he hated it, no matter how much he wanted to see it differently…
Those were simply the new rules. And they all, the remaining survivors who were still here, had adapted to them.
To each their own. Or be a yet another unimportant, daily, simple +1 to the billion death toll. As sad as it was, that's the way it was now.
And this was exactly the reason why he felt such a turmoil of emotions. Of rage and frustration and depression and shame and panic and everything at once.
He still felt ashamed of himself and Connor, partially did agree that they had been and were selfish. He wanted to live in this lily-white perfect world where everything was magically going to work out as soon as a cure was found, that all remaining citizens of the United States were magically cured of the disease, that all the walking corpses dropped dead and stopped biting and eating people, that all remaining survivors would magically come together and form a new peaceful society and country. That they would find a cure, that he would get married, have children, that all the children would be safe and could grow up normally in the future, that he and Connor would grow old and grey together and die of natural causes instead of being murdered or chewed to death or starving to death sooner or later. He wanted to believe all that, that the cure really was so important and going to change so much.
But it wasn't true.
And that only added up to the rage.
He was just about to rant away at Smith again, to try and reason with the man, to bargain with him, give some blood and what else he wanted in exchange for being allowed to leave, to cooperate, to not have Connor killed, but he never got to speak any of that out.
Because then Smith's Walkie Talkie came to life with a crackling sound.
"Professor! We need you downstairs immediately!"
Smith frowned angrily and started at Murphy a moment longer, only to move and grab his walkie as he turned away.
"What's the matter? I'm in the middle of an examination, can't Pertwey deal with this?"
"Negative, Sir. We found them. One of them sustained severe injuries in a car crash. We need you. We got the info that he's immune."
Smith paled and tensed, just like Murphy when the true meaning of these words hit him.
"I'm on my way" Smith said and got on the move on an instant.
"Elizabeth, get the guards in here, secure him and come to the ICU immediately."
"Will do."
"Hey! Hey, please, no, tell me they're not talking 'bout 'im, TELL ME THIS ISN'T ABOUT MY BROTHER!" Murphy yelled, completely losing it as his mind replayed the info he'd caught.
Severe injuries. Car crash. ICU. Immunity.
Smith stormed outside the room. Three soldiers entered instead as Elizabeth fastened the handcuffs, while the other men proceeded to try to cuff his legs again as well. Murphy struggled and fought violently as he continued to scream for Smith, demanding answers and explanations, praying to god that the radio message hadn't been about his brother at all because he didn't know what was worse. The possibility that Connor was really injured, or that he was here after Smith had just told him he was going to open up his head to cut pieces out of his brain.
He fought and struggled and screamed but to no avail, for the cuffs and soldiers were unforgiving.
It almost felt like a sensory overload. The lights of passing cars were moving rapidly. Up and down the interstate, faster and faster, the red and white lightspots forming a blurry formation of glowing lines. The clouds were passing by like someone was fast forwarding a movie. Dark grey against blue, against orange, against bright yellow and white, the golden glow of the city lights below.
Atlanta was vibrantly alive.
He found himself standing on top of the hill, the last tree line of the woods left and right to his figure. The view was breathtaking. The cars were breezing by on the interstate, the crowds of people were a busy, equally fast blur on the streets, the shopping alleys and pedestrian zones. Laughter, joy, chatter, discussion, a soothing mess of carefree and safe everyday words.
Everything was moving, everything was alive and breathing like a rhythmic tidal wave. There he could see it, hear it, the distant roar of a blinking passenger plane in the night sky. The washed out symphony of car horns and howling, accelerating motors below.
There he could feel it, smell it. The fresh breeze blowing all the way up here from the meadow, the clearing.
He turned around, crossbow in hands. One swift motion – the flying, precise arrow next to a flying eagle above in the afternoon sky. He could hear it, the sharp and fast zap of the metal, the feathery end as his arrow flew through the air and then ZAP!
It landed in the neck of an unsuspecting rabbit.
He could feel it, the constant soft breeze of the hot summer air against his face, entangling and moving his outgrown black bangs, carrying the scent of nature close to him.
A sensory overload and the smell was oh so familiar, comforting. Fresh grass, autumn leaves, wet moss and mud, trails in the dirt, the soft smell of blood and copper from hunted game. There were deep green pines and the snowy Rocky Mountains in the distance, trails of red and white light trails and crowds of lively people in the clearing.
Here it was, a tap on his left shoulder, the shove to his right side while he's busy looking to his left. An amused chuckle, the hard shove and the sensation of falling backwards and he's just lying there in a sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling of his tent, breathing in deep, then out, slowly. Feeling comfortable, at peace. At home.
"Hey, so do tell me, how many lesbians does it take ta screw in a lightbulb?"
Daryl smirked whole heartedly, his eyes almost squinted shut because he was so happy at the sound of this voice. He turned his head and looked at Connor next to him in the tent.
"Takes two lesbians t'screw in a light bulb" the hunter answered, still smiling like that. "And you're not fuckin invited" he added, and Connor did what he'd been waiting for. An equally wholehearted smirk then laughter as he turned around a bit to hit him with an amused "Oh, shut it ye asshole."
And they scuffled and shoved and threw lazy insults at each other just like they always did, until Daryl pinned the Irishman to the ground, gently pressed him into the sleeping bag. He leaned forward with that stupid grin of his to kiss his friend, to tell him how much he loved him, mattered to him, how he would die for him.
Even though his jokes weren't even funny.
"So that's it, huh."
Snapped out of it, almost violently. Unforgivingly.
"Happily ever after. Well Halle-fuckin-luja."
Daryl moved upwards. Just sitting there, the sleeping bag covering his legs.
The tent, the scenery was gone. Instead, there it was. Campfire. Dancing, spiking red, orange flames against the dark. Connor was there, opposite him, opposite the fire, just standing there, face illuminated by the flames. He no longer carried that carefree and friendly, almost cocky smile. Instead, his features looked hardened, neutral, maybe even a bit grim.
"D'ye really think it's that easy?"
There it is again. A swirl of colors and fast forward motions- rapidly moving clouds above. White headlights. The sound of car engines.
The screeching of tires. The sharp and harsh ZAP-like impact. Like an arrow suddenly hitting a rabbit in the neck at full speed. The swaying of half burned tree in the wind, somewhere to the right, off center, distorted and skew, upside down. The falling sensation. Forward. Spinning, backward, fast forward. End.
Connor was standing there, across from him and the fire, staring at him, face bloodied, beat up, half dead, bloody shoulder. A glass shard buried deep in his thigh. Dripping blood. Bitten.White, cloudy eyes, turning.
"Get up."
Walking right through the fire. Everything started burning. His legs - everything was burning, and yet he still kept coming, right through the fire, slowly decaying, slowly turning.
"GET UP" he demanded and shoved him, hard , causing him to fall backward instead of getting up.
Daryl woke up with a start, ripped out of the dream with that strange sensation one had after dreaming of falling. He let out a shaky, weak croak when a wall of pain seemed to collapse on top of him right after, pulled him out of this dreamlike state even faster. The pain and burning in his entire body was excruciating, paralyzing. And he really couldn't move. Neither his legs because the pain was the worst there, because they seemed to be trapped somehow, nor his arms or torso because he had crippling stomach pains, chest pains, because everything simply burned and pulsated.
His breathing sped up and he started panicking, blinking rapidly, trying to move his head, but that was trapped, too. In in an incredibly uncomfortable tube like…thing, like a turtleneck that was made out of concrete.
"Hey, hey, hey, it's alright, it's alright, it's okay. Don't move, yer pretty messed up. Jesus fuckin Christ yer fuckin messed up."
A gentle hand on the top of his head, stroking the hair there, the soothing voice, the gentle, worried icy blue eyes that met his, here in this hellish place called reality, the here and now. His breathing was still going rapidly, close to hyperventilation, but the voice, the sight was doing its job.
Connor.
Connor was right there. His best friend was right there, talking to him, trying to calm him down. He had no idea where he was, what had happened, why the fuck he was so messed up, but at least he had something to hold on to now. He let out yet another croak, trying to form words, but it still needed too much sorting out. Wanting reach out but Connor seemed to read his mind because he reached out instead, grabbed his hand and moved and squeezed it hard, rhythmically, only adding up to the pain. But it was a good pain, a pain to hold on to, so Daryl squeezed back as hard as he could as well.
"You're in a hospital, alright. Proper deal. These motherfuckers hit ye with their car, but they tried ta fix ye up as good as they could fer now. Ye only just got outta surgery."
Car crash. Surgery. No wonder he felt high as a kite next to the very obvious and prominent pain. He only remembered bits and pieces. A flash of Connor's face here, cracking glass there, an awful lot of scraping, painful asphalt. Some screaming and weird excited chattering. A glimpse of the passing world outside the window of a moving car, wreckages, buildings, trees and clouds zapping by as he snapped in and out of consciousness.
The car crash.
The pain in his legs came back suddenly, twice as hard. He panicked once more and tried to look down, but the concrete turtleneck hardly made it possible to do so. He caught a glimpse of his naked toes sticking out of a cast that enclosed his entire left leg.
Broken. That's why it hurt like a bitch. That was the side the impact had probably happened on.
He instinctively tried moving his toes but they wouldn't respond. Panicked, he immediately thought that he was paralyzed, but then he noticed and remembered that he was holding on to Connor's hand, that all his fingers were moving, saw that the toes on his right foot were moving, too. But there was another sharp, even more intense pain shooting through that leg right then and there. Connor certainly was right. He was pretty messed up. He croaked again, his voice breaking as he tried to form words, until he eventually managed, moving, trying to get closer to his friend.
"…'bout..you?"
Connor scoffed and let go of Daryl's hair.
"I'm not the one who ran right inta a fuckin car. Jesus fuckin Christ, what were you thinking, man?" he said angrily, but when his gaze met Daryl's, he leaned back down again with an exasperated sigh and pressed his forehead to the hunter's.
"Fuck" he muttered, swallowing hard because even now he couldn't get the sight of that horrible crash out of his head. But he knew that he needed to focus. "I'm alright" he eventually added and scoffed yet again. "But ye nearly gave me a heart attack, you stupid cunt" he said then leaned down to kiss Daryl, trying to soothe him more. After a short moment he opened his eyes and moved his head a little, giving the other four people in the room a deadly, ice cold glare.
Their bodyguards were there. Of course they were after what had happened last time. They made it pretty clear that this was very different. As if they needed to be any clearer about this after all the violent takings. No getting away from them this time. Although the kiss was soothing and seemed to help Daryl, he hadn't even mainly done it for him. Everything was a game of chess now. And it was just another move. He eventually stopped kissing and stroking and soothing his friend to sit up a bit more and glare at the soldiers, nurse and Smith in the room.
"Bit of privacy?" he demanded and one of the soldiers, the one they both recognized from Augusta, scoffed.
"So you can pull another stunt? No way. You're not getting away this time."
"He's a pile of broken bones because of you. And I came along with ye willingly. So ye can give us five fockin minutes, can't you?"
His venomous words seemed to cut through the air like a razor. The soothing manner, the worry and slight panic was gone and Connor turned yet again into a very dangerous and intimidating man. He shot them a challenging angry, and yet calm and patient look, until it was Smith who eventually gave in.
"Let's give these gentlemen some space."
The soldier scoffed yet again.
"Gentlemen…queers's more like it."
He wouldn't move an inch and instead shot Connor a look, obviously challenging him, waiting for a reaction. But Connor wouldn't give him any other than that dangerous, ice cold glare. It actually surprised the soldier a bit and he got a little uncomfortable.
Daryl was aware of the happenings around him, wanted to react to the insult instead but couldn't. For the past couple of minutes, he'd been busy trying to move. To get rid of his confinement, to sit up, to no longer be miserable so he could check on the rest of his body. One of these simple, delicate movements put an end to all that, zapped him right back out of the here and now as the world around him seemed to slow down with the realization, the sudden and harsh memory. Dripping blood, burning, wild fire not in his broken but the other leg, Connor's mouth, the kiss, the bite.
Bitten.
He'd been bitten.
That was where all that pain was coming from. Apart from the broken bones. Apart from the car crash. That was why it had happened in the first place. That's why he felt so hot, so panicked, so trapped and sick, why this felt like half dying.
He was dying.
And Connor was still oblivious to it.
Smith simply got moving and gave Connor a little nod, and after a moment of looking at each other questioningly and then scoffing, the soldiers eventually left the room as well once the nurse had performed a final quick check on Daryl. The hunter didn't even respond to any of it. He just lay there, staring blankly into blurred space as the room seemed to wrap in on itself all around him, his grey, dull, sterile final cell he was going to die in.
There was the soft sound of a door closing. He only snapped out of the blank space when Connor suddenly and almost immediately got moving, buzzing around. The Irishman turned back around and started to feel Daryl up, tried to check on him and move him.
"Alright, on a scale of one ta ten, how fuckin bad is it?"
Twenty three.
"…six..?" Daryl retorted, gulping and blinking a bit until he finally came to again. He immediately grunted in pain, squeezed his eyes shut and muffled a yelp when the movement only made it worse. Connor let go of him and bit his lower lip hard, sucking it in and chewing even more on it as he tried to come up with a plan.
"Okay…alright. We can work with this. I haven't been able ta get t'Murph yet, but I know he's here and that he's alive. No surgeries so far. They were busy enough with you. Despite yer stupid car stunt, we can work with this. We infiltrated te place. So far so good. 's still the same guy, too, he's reasonable enough. We managed before. It's the same basic deal."
Daryl just looked at Connor, breathing harshly, his chest heaving as he tried to control the panic, the hyperventilation, the inevitable.
"You…jumped outta some window last time" Daryl managed to all but whisper-croak. "..you dumbass."
Trying to distract himself at least. Keeping Connor on the side of the not knowing.
"Well that nice cast ye got yerself will keep ye afloat even better this time."
Although he felt nowhere close to laughing, happy, laid back or any other indication that would give him any reason to do it, Daryl still suddenly started laughing. Almost soundlessly, miserably, the pain medication and other drugs he'd been given only amplified the reaction.
"Jesus, how much juice did they pump inta you? Yer high as a kite! Thank god 'm here ta sort this mess out and get ye two hotheads outta here" Connor retorted angrily, checked on Daryl some more, and then suddenly got up to stand on the bed. "Just gotta improvise then, come up with a different plan than what I had in mind before ye went carhoppin. "
He tried to reach the ceiling, exposing his bare slender hips when his shirt moved upwards along with him.
"This Noah kid told me all about this place" he grunted and then managed to gently tap on the tiles there. It sounded hollow. Connor smirked a bit. "Used the space up there ta store his stash and crawl around one night without them knowing. Like Shawshank Redemption? Murph and I did it before. Air vents, I tell ye" he said and observed the ceiling more.
"They got a garbage disposal system by the East corridor" he explained and then got back down from the bed. "They get rid of te bodies and everything else through an elevator shaft. Basement and lobby are wide open. All we gotta do is get down there, steal one of their cars and get the fuck outta here." He then quickly walked over to the window, observing the outside world, only to look back at the ceiling.
"I can get Murph up there easy, he'll make his way t'the elevator shaft first, get down and get everything ready. It's 's gonna be tougher with you, but yer tough too, yer gonna manage. As soon as they find out yer not really immune you're not safe here anymore..if they haven't found out already…All we gotta do now is figure out how ta get us two past all te guards."
Daryl was still chuckling and laughing in the background, through the whole thing, which annoyed Connor, until the sounds suddenly changed. Got huffy, more abrupt, more…choked.
Daryl wasn't laughing anymore.
He was actually sobbing. In a weird kind of way. It was half hyperventilation, half fighting it and trying to control his breathing, half sucking air in abruptly and trying to release it steadily and slow. The hunter was half sitting there, staring down on himself, looking even more pitiable, miserable like that, a battered heap of broken bones and mangled limbs and that silly cervical collar. It wasn't like he was properly crying. There was no harsh flow of tears. But the sobbing, the hyperventilation, the mild hysteria was still there. Because he knew he couldn't come with them.
Connor had never seen the guy like that, and it certainly freaked him out. He wanted to approach him and ask what was wrong but somehow couldn't, he was that surprised by the sudden change of events. Instead he just stood there, dumbfounded, until Daryl had collected himself enough to be able to speak again.
"I got an idea" he said and then moved, trying to get up with miserable grunts under heavy effort. But it was obvious that he couldn't move, that even if he was tough enough and really wanted to – he wasn't going to get out of this bed. After some trying he eventually simply fell back again and stared at the ceiling, swallowing once, until he calmed down again.
"Just go" he then said and Connor finally approached him with a frown.
"What? Don't be schtupid, I'm not gonna.."
"I said GO!" Daryl exclaimed, although it wasn't really loud. It just was yet another hoarse croak. "'m gonna rouse 'em up. Grab their attention. Soon they get over here, you two overwhelm the rest and bolt for it through your stupid vents. 'm just gonna slow yah down anyway."
"I've never heard that much bullshit in my life!" Connor yelled and actually wanted to punch Daryl for even suggesting that.
He was so offended by the sheer thought of leaving Daryl behind that he actually nearly punched him in his face, but he managed to control himself.
"Don't be such a fuckin pussy. It's just a few broken bones and bruises. Ye had worse. And ye got through the worst fer now. They did their magic on you. There's nothing more they can do about broken bones other than waiting fer them ta fuckin heal, and we sure as hell ain't gonna wait fer that here. Now stop talkin bullshit and help me come up with a plan that actually makes sense…unbelievable" Connor said, nudging Daryl again, almost playfully, a soothing and peaceful gesture to get him to come to his senses. But instead, the situation escalated even more.
Daryl shoved his arm away violently and as good as he could, glaring at Connor with mad eyes, almost like a wild dog.
"No! Fuck off, I don't want yah here."
Connor gave him a stubborn glare and tried to grab him again. But Daryl shoved him. Another grab, another shove. Another grab. Another shove.
"Just…"
"I said fuck off!"
"And I say fuck you with your childish bullshit! We don't have time fer this. Now get..."
"WHY THE HELL DID YOU EVEN LET THEM TAKE YAH, YOU PATHETIC PIECE OF SHIT?!" Daryl finally burst out, suddenly, shooting an insane look at Connor as he began fighting and struggling. "YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!"
"Fuck you! What the fuck was I sappossed ta do?! There's no way in fuckin hell I'm just gonna leave my best friend behind, so shut the fuck up! I ain't gonna let ye die. I'm gonna get yer ass out here even if I have ta fuckin drag ye along! We stick t'the plan and we're outta here in no time. Now..."
"I got fucking bit, alright?!" Daryl then blurted out,the anger slowly getting replaced with mild panic and realization.
Connor stopped moving, stopped trying to grab him and just stared at him with wide eyes.
Daryl fought hard, but the suffocating lump in his throat was back just like the intense, red burning in his eyes. He could feel it drumming away at his head, the urge to sob like a fucking baby, finally and really give in, amplified with each heartbeat that pumped the venomous, deadly infection through his body.
"I got bit" he repeated and swallowed hard, just staring at Connor.
"It ain't gonna matter if your stupid, bullshit plan is gonna work. It's done, alright. Now go. Don't want yah her no more."
"No" Connor eventually managed to answer.
The sheer magnitude of it all was already starting to take shape in the expression on his face. A dangerous, fragile façade that was about to collapse. Daryl tried to look away, tried to stay firm, hardened and cold to make Connor believe that he didn't fucking care about him anymore, wanted him to believe that he was mad at him because he considered all of this his fault, wanted to get him to leave this way, but his façade and attempt was equally fragile and useless.
"Don't waste the little time I got left and take your fuckin chances. I got it" he said.
Connor still wasn't saying anything, was just staring at him like that.
"I SAID FUCK OFF!" Daryl then yelled, shoving Connor again, but his voice finally broke and the mad tears started falling.
And Connor finally lost it, too. Only that he was angry.
"YOU'RE NOT FUCKIN BIT! I SAID STOP TALKING BULLSHIT!" he yelled right back, actually slapping Daryl this time, hard, right across his face. Daryl sobbed once and instinctively hid his face, trying to get away from the judging and blaming slap, but it was useless. A moment later, Connor moved and started yanking at Daryl's blanket, grabbing his arms and turning them, yanking his shirt up and trying to claw the cast on his right leg away until Daryl shoved his left leg up and kneed Connor in his kidney , harshly punching him back right in his face, too, to force him to stumble back and away from the bed. This gave Daryl enough time to shakily and angrily fumble about with the bandage on his lower left leg, until it got lose and slid down and revealed the deep and ugly scratches and cuts, the blood poisoning, the raging infection.
"THERE, YOU FUCKIN HAPPY NOW?!"
It was obvious that his self-inflicted wounds had done the deed. Those doctors had obviously believed them to be scrapes from the car crash. They had cleaned them some and wrapped them all up nicely, but there was no fighting this infection. Because of the lack of treatment, because of the lack of a proper healing method and cure, they'd given it sweet time to spread everywhere, in every single direction. Spreading the virus. Causing the fever. Getting him closer and closer to becoming a walker.
Connor stared at the injuries, the blackened veins and angry bleeding and suppurating wounds, knew the sight of it all too well after two bites. Even if there were other scrapes and cuts from the crash somewhat concealing them, he knew what the infection looked like. He knew how it worked and what it was doing.
Daryl Dixon.
His best friend.
His lover.
One of the only two people in the fucking world who mattered to him.
Unmistakably bitten.
Only that he wasn't immune.
"No" he said yet again because this couldn't be true, just staring at the wound while Daryl once again tried to calm himself. Shakily breathing in and out. In and out.
"When?" Connor asked after a while.
"Don't matter, just…" Daryl growled, shrugging shakily.
"Fucking when?!" Connor spat and turned his head to stare at Daryl. The latter stared right back, swallowing hard, barely keeping it together.
"Back at the overpass" he eventually managed to say.
And it all made sense.
Daryl's weird behavior. Why it had taken him so long to catch up to him. His friend had been bit while he'd been busy chasing the fucking kid.
"Just go, alright. What happened, happened. Ain't gonna change shit now and…"
Connor suddenly shifted forward and buried his face in both his hands, moving them up slowly until he managed to grasp his dirty blonde strands of hair, managed to move them between his fingers and pull. He leaned forward more and more, half curled up over Daryl's bed until he suddenly moved again, fast as lightening, punching the mattress hard with his fist and a half-choked, incredibly angry and devastated "-the fuck…!"
"Look, it ain't your fault, alright? I swear to your fuckin god, if yah lose your shit again now, I'll beat your ass into the ground. It don't matter, y'found your bro, so who fuckin cares, it ain't none of your concern. It's my problem, so just fuck off alright?...Just go" Daryl immediately tried to lessen the impact of the information, but he'd already screwed up anyway. He even tried to grasp Connor's tattooed hand, tried to grab him by his messy strands of blonde hair, too, to establish some sort of soothing contact that let him know that he was fine, more or less, but it didn't work.
Connor wouldn't even let him touch him. Instead he moved out of his reach, got up with his back turned on Daryl. He just stood there for a moment, completely still. The hunter was just about to finally give in, to let everything out, to tell the guy how fucking much he loved him, how grateful he was that he'd been his friend, that he'd been allowed to be part of his life and spent an entire year with him, how he was fucking happy for him that he'd found Murphy after the kidnapping, how he wouldn't change shit for the world, how he didn't want him to see him like that when it happened, that he wanted them to get out, that this was a dignified goodbye.
But it never got to that. Instead, Connor finally got out of his rigor, moved to the side, grabbed the chair next to the bed and threw it half way across the room with an incredibly loud and angry yell, losing it. The noise was deafening. The scattering of furniture, the yell, the rage that seemed to penetrate the air.
Not just Connor's eyes were fire-y red. His face was too.
Daryl had never seen his friend like that either, so beside himself, filled with that much rage and sheer heartbreak.
He wanted to say that he was sorry, wanted to yell and shout at the world, too, because it was so unfair, because it was so fucked up, because he felt like he'd betrayed Connor, too, after everything, but their private moment was already getting interrupted. Too soon, too inconsiderate. He couldn't say anything, couldn't even say goodbye because they were already all over Connor after the thing with the chair, trying to restrain him, stop his complete breakdown and terrifying mixture of unstoppable anger and grief.
In fact, Connor was taking it a whole lot worse than Daryl could've imagined.
He remembered his own outburst and turmoil of emotions and anger and heartbreak he'd gone through when Connor had told him about his first bite back in the day, in those godforsaken woods in the middle of the night. He remembered his own breakdown back at the golf club when he'd raged at the world and Murphy when he'd thought that he'd seen his best friend dead in Woodbury.
But this was nothing compared to what Connor was capable of.
He'd really thought that the Irishman would only ever lose it like that over Murphy. The way he'd done it back on the farm. He'd thought that maybe there would be a few tears, a few punches, some arguing but then accepting it. Maybe he'd even pictured and imagined a sillier outcome, given their new relationship. The real goodbyes. A proper fucking 'I love you, thank you, you changed my life' and all of that silly talk that always happened in the movies.
This however, was ugly. Ugly and raw and messy and fucked up and paralyzingly terrifying.
He didn't get to say goodbye, really wondered if he was going to ever see Connor after all when they dragged him out, stabbed a syringe into his thigh, but not before he had managed to brutally beat two of their soldiers in the face, obviously eager to blow off steam, to try to get rid of the emotions and information someway because they were so poisonous, so unbearable.
The door was slammed shut and Daryl was left to his own breakdown, the stifled messy sobs that he was trying to suppress, the panicked breathing and suffocating need to be with his friend. For a short moment, the prospect of dying alone in here, forgotten and unsuspected, seemed terrifyingly real. He didn't want it to be that way. Not without a goodbye. Not with the last word spoken. But at the same time, he really hoped that if it had to happen, his death, his turning alone and unguarded in this godforsaken room was going to help Connor and Murphy escape from here before it was too late for them, too.